Hell Bay

by Kate Rhodes

  12

  Eddie is hunched over his laptop for most of the afternoon, hitting the keys like a fledgling journalist filing a late story. My old sidekick would laugh her head off if she could see me now. Clare was a hard-bitten Glaswegian with a black sense of humour, well-versed in every trick in the book. I’ve never believed in the afterlife, but if one exists, she must be tickled by the sight of me floundering, with only a well-mannered schoolboy to help. Eddie’s frown reveals that he’s got his own misgivings. Maybe murder investigation is less glamorous than he’d hoped.

  ‘Tell me about Laura’s phone,’ I say.

  ‘Most of her calls were local; to her mum, nan, sister and Danny Curnow. But I can’t see why she called Dean Miller three times in the week before she died. One call lasted half an hour. Why would a young girl phone some weirdo artist in his sixties?’

  ‘Let’s go and find out.’ The dusk is thickening outside the window. ‘Then it’s time you went home.’

  ‘I don’t mind staying.’

  When he reaches for his coat I have to stifle a laugh. It’s an old-fashioned gabardine like the ones primary school kids wear over their uniforms. We set off down the path with Shadow at our heels.

  ‘Do you want me to do anything else tomorrow, sir?’

  ‘Train yourself to stop calling me sir, then find out if any islanders have form.’

  ‘I’ve already put most of their names through the PNC.’

  ‘That must be testing your patience.’ The Police National Computer holds details of every arrest, but works at a snail’s pace, sometimes taking hours to spit out results.

  The old schoolhouse lies on the outskirts of the village – lights glow inside its windows, the door to Miller’s workshop hanging open. It’s a mystery why a single man would choose to live in such a big place, with so many rooms to accentuate his loneliness, but the artist doesn’t seem in a rush to accept company. We have time to read the school’s motto still engraved on a stone lintel: ‘per aspera ad astra’, before he answers the bell. Miller has swapped his paint-stained overalls for a dark blue apron, tied around his waist. His quick gaze darts from Eddie’s face to mine.

  ‘Here to see me, gentlemen? You’re welcome, but the dog stays outside. Those creatures give me allergies.’

  I leave Shadow whimpering in the porch, Miller’s house intriguing me as we follow him down the hall. My father was a pupil here in the sixties. I catch a glimpse of the high-ceilinged living room, with original floorboards and wood-burning stove still in place and some of the classrooms left intact. The kitchen has survived since Victorian times with few alterations; quarry tiles on the floor, a cast-iron range and a wide porcelain sink. Miller’s only concession to modern times is a trompe l’oeil painting on the wall, its wild swirl of blue making me feel like I’m trapped underwater at high tide. The artist must have been in the middle of cooking his dinner – red and yellow peppers lie on his chopping board, waiting to be sliced.

  ‘We won’t keep you long,’ I say. ‘Laura called you several times just before she died. Can you describe those conversations?’

  ‘She wanted to let off steam.’ Miller wipes one of his hands across his apron. ‘You know how teenage girls are. Emotions overwhelm them; she wasn’t having an easy ride.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Home, love, ambition, the whole nine yards.’ His penetrating gaze fixes on my face again. ‘Surely you remember the trials of growing up, Inspector?’

  ‘Of course, but I need specific information about Laura.’

  ‘My memory’s not that reliable, but her story never changed. She wanted to be with Danny, living a different life.’

  ‘Was she scared of anyone? Surely she gave you more details?’

  ‘We were pals, strange as it may seem. Often she just called to chat about something she’d seen on TV. It may surprise you, but the island’s young people gravitate here. They sit around the house, or in my studio, treating the place like a glorified youth club.’ He picks up one of the peppers and holds it to the light, inspecting the gloss on its skin. ‘They’re lucky to have somewhere to hide. My parents were so strait-laced, I had nowhere to hang out at their age, so I never turn them away.’

  ‘You sound like a social worker.’

  ‘Hardly, Inspector.’ Miller looks amused. ‘I’m more like a vampire. Being surrounded by all that youth and beauty stops me getting old.’

  I carry on asking questions, but meet with a wall of generalities. Eddie’s keen eyes inspect my face after we leave, clearly expecting me to unlock the old man’s riddles. The artist’s odd manner leaves me convinced he’s hiding something, but it will take more than one visit to unlock his secrets. I walk Eddie down to the quay, then wait on the jetty as the small craft heads across the sound for the five-minute journey to Tresco, leaving a reek of diesel. My new recruit has impressed me more than I expected, showing plenty of initiative. Maybe his optimism will stop getting on my nerves after a while. When I turn round, Ray is standing on the quay.

  ‘Hungry?’ he asks.

  ‘If you’ve got enough to spare.’

  I follow my uncle upstairs to his living quarters. His kitchen contains only the bare essentials: a wooden table he built himself, rudimentary cupboards, oilskins hanging behind the door. Ray’s food is basic too, a hunk of bread and beef stew, which he ladles into a bowl without saying a word. Shadow gives a loud bark of appreciation when my uncle sets another bowl on the floor. Ray nudges a glass of whisky towards me when we sit down.

  ‘You look in need of a pick-me-up,’ he says, the corners of his mouth twitching.

  We eat our meal in silence as the waves darken, but my appetite has deserted me. I swallow the food for Ray’s sake. When I look at him again, his eyes are a calm turquoise, as if nothing could unsettle him.

  ‘Did you see much of Laura, Ray?’

  He shrugs. ‘Not really. I showed her and Suzie how to catch crabs from the quay when they were small.’

  ‘And lately?’

  ‘I saw her sneaking into the boat sheds with the Curnow boy now and then.’ His smile appears then fades again.

  ‘Who’d want to harm her?’

  ‘No one, far as I know. But her dad’s got a temper, after a few drinks.’

  ‘You’ve seen him fighting?’

  Ray rises to his feet abruptly. ‘Maggie’s the one to ask. I never go to the pub on a Saturday night.’

  Out in the kitchen I hear him clattering plates in the sink. His living room is even more austere than I remembered, nothing on the walls except tide tables and a nautical map of the world, shipping lanes picked out in red. Maybe Ray keeps it as a reminder of his decade in the navy. My eyes drop to the table beside his rocking chair; it holds rolling tobacco, cigarette papers and a pair of binoculars. I feel a quick twitch of discomfort as I remember the distant figure on the cliff, peering down at Laura’s body. When Ray returns with two cups of vile-smelling coffee, I point at the spyglasses.

  ‘I didn’t know you were a birder.’

  He shakes his head. ‘Boats, not birds.’

  ‘Do you watch from Gweal Hill?’

  ‘No need, I can see them from here.’

  Ray studies the horizon while he sips his coffee. Silence returns as we watch the sea’s surface, flecked with moonlight. When I was Danny Curnow’s age, my uncle fascinated me; the only islander to have travelled the world, a naval officer, fighting battles in faraway countries. He never parted with his secrets, always keeping his cards close to his chest. These days I’d like to understand him better, to know why he’s always been alone, but direct questions never get past his defences.

  ‘Thanks for the meal, Ray.’

  ‘No problem.’ There’s a half-smile on his face. ‘Pay me back in labour tomorrow.’

  ‘That could be tricky. The case is keeping me pretty busy.’

  ‘One evening, then.’

  ‘God, you’re a slave driver. I’ll see what I can do.’

  The cottage i
s cold when I return. Shadow sits on his haunches, waiting expectantly while I pile kindling with dry logs onto the fire, but the warmth fails to relax me. It seems odd that Laura wrote to Danny in an age of digital communication, but it could have been a gimmick stolen from the heroes of the old-fashioned movies she loved. The chronology’s hard to follow when I leaf through her letters, most are undated, but themes emerge straight away. The girl was longing for escape. She describes both sets of parents as ‘monsters’, her only tender words reserved for her sister, who she seemed sad to leave behind. Each note begs for meetings, makes sexual promises, enticing him like a siren. They all carry the same hand-drawn picture at the end; a heart pierced with an arrow, like an old-fashioned tattoo. Given how she died, the symbol makes me wince. I gather the envelopes back into their pile. The memory of Laura’s autopsy triggers a dull pain at the base of my skull, my regular headache making a comeback.

  I drop another log onto the fire, sparks flying, and notice Shadow scratching at the door. A blast of sea air rushes in as he slinks outside. Hell Bay stretches out in a crescent, lights from the hotel glinting in the distance, no other sign of humanity. I close the door then warm my hands by the fire. It strikes me again that despite failing Clare in the worst way possible, it lies in my power to keep the island safe. This is my chance to clear the slate. The overhead light flickers wildly, announcing that another blackout is on its way. I grab my torch and carry on studying my notes, determined not to be distracted.

  13

  Rose is too agitated to focus on her herbal remedies tonight. She stands in the doorway of her son’s room, hands clasped. There’s a chance Sam has fled the island, like his father, who sailed away without looking back. But why would the boy leave so suddenly? She looks at a photo of her son after scoring his first goal for Plymouth. Other pictures from his brief sporting career are plastered across his wall; he loves to relive those moments of glory. The idea comforts her. Surely he will return soon, to claim his trophies? Rose returns to her kitchen, breathing deeper to steady herself. The air is sweetened by familiar smells of campion, lily of the valley and asphodel.

  She feels calmer as she stands at the sink to wash up. There’s nothing outside the blackened window except the sea retreating from the land. But suddenly something moves directly ahead. A man’s face appears from the dark, making her cry out in shock. Her heart is beating too fast when someone hammers on the door. Pete Moorcroft stands on the threshold, staring at her.

  ‘What do you want?’ she stammers.

  ‘Just a little conversation, Rose. You owe me that at least.’ Moorcroft barges past, then wastes no time dropping into a chair. ‘Someone on the island has a business proposition for you.’

  ‘I’m not interested.’

  ‘He’ll pay a hundred and fifty grand for this place and the land behind.’

  ‘Jay Curnow sent you, didn’t he? Tell him to get lost.’

  ‘The council want you out. Better sell while you can, buy yourself a little flat on St Mary’s.’

  ‘Does June know you do his dirty work?’

  ‘What choice do I have? He paid for our place to be refitted, after the flood last year.’ Moorcroft shifts awkwardly in his seat. ‘Remember we provide your food. How would you survive if our little arrangement ended?’

  ‘I want you out of here.’

  ‘Curnow says to keep away from Danny too. He doesn’t want his boy polluted by your mumbo-jumbo. It’s antidepressants the lad needs, not witchcraft.’

  Rose flings the front door open, waiting for him to go, her whole body trembling. She knows it’s important not to show weakness. Moorcroft buttons his coat slowly, his tone colder than before.

  ‘He won’t stop till he gets what he wants, Rose. I discovered that years ago. Do as he says, before you get hurt.’

  When he’s gone, she slumps onto a stool, head bowed. It’s a few minutes before she can reach for a remedy to soothe her anxiety: foxglove, lavendula and feverfew. She dabs the oil on her throat and temples, but her nerves refuse to steady.

  14

  Sleep eludes me when I finally go to bed. I read Of Mice and Men, feeling more like Lennie than George, slow and lumbering, none too smart. I’m just drifting off when a noise comes from outside. The wind must be rattling the door; Shadow is barking frantically. I switch the light back on to investigate, but nothing in the lounge has been disturbed. When I look outside, something is lying on the step; a plastic bag with a rock weighting it down. There’s no one in sight, but the dog is circling the house, refusing to come inside. When I shake out the bag onto the table, it contains fragments of paper. It doesn’t take long to reassemble the photo of Laura Trescothick, which has been cut into five jagged pieces. I rub my hand across the back of my neck. Someone has gone to the trouble of leaving me a gift, and the message is clear. Laura’s existence was torn to shreds, the killer reliving his moment of glory; or someone else wants to scare me away. He must have loved or hated her, to desecrate her image so viciously. I use the plastic bag to gather the fragments, taking care not to leave fingerprints.

  When morning comes, I leave Shadow and the sliced-up photo with Eddie at the hall, then head for Green Bay to see Rose Austell, to find out why she avoided the last public meeting. Smoke puffs from the tin chimney of her cabin as I drop down the path. The place stands on the cusp between beach and land, her garden a tangle of overgrown lavender bushes, beehives clustered round an apple tree. It’s a cross between a shack and a beach hut, with a corrugated-iron roof and woodwork daubed in a rainbow of colours, as if someone has been using up paint samples. The steps from the beach creak ominously, threatening to splinter under my weight. When I tap on the front door there’s a rustling sound inside. Eventually a dark brown eye inspects me through the inch-wide opening.

  ‘Can we talk, Rose?’

  ‘Not today, I’m busy.’

  ‘Don’t you remember me? My mother was a friend of yours.’

  The door opens another fraction. ‘Helen Kitto’s boy?’

  ‘Five minutes, please. That’s all I need.’

  Rose’s front room explains why some locals view her as a witch. Bundles of blackened roots, twigs and leaves are stacked to the ceiling on drying trays. The atmosphere is musty, as if the windows have been closed all winter, the cloying sweetness of honey and aniseed scenting the air. Bunches of bracken and grasses are suspended from the rafters, turning the walk to her kitchen table into an obstacle race. Rose is a thin woman in her fifties, wearing a woollen dress that looks home-made, dyed black hair pulled back from a face that must have been striking once, with a Roman nose and high aristocratic forehead. Her necklace is made from fragments of driftwood bound together by twine. I have a sudden memory of sitting at her table as a child, eating bread slathered with honey, while she drank tea with my mother. Rose’s serenity has been replaced by tension since then, hands shaking as she makes me a drink. I can see she’s afraid of something when her hawk-like gaze measures my face.

  ‘Turned out handsome, didn’t you? A true Cornishman.’

  I smile at her. ‘You’re looking well yourself, Rose.’

  ‘Helen was my friend. That’s the only reason I opened my door.’

  ‘I appreciate it. How’ve you been keeping?’

  ‘Not so bad.’ She seems to be growing more close-lipped with each statement.

  ‘Did you hear about Laura Trescothick?’

  She points at the radio on her windowsill. ‘It was on the news, and June told me about it, at the shop.’

  It sounds like Rose’s lifestyle is unchanged, bartering with the Moorcrofts in exchange for food. I’ve never been told who fathered her boy, only that she’s raised him alone. Her anxiety grows more obvious by the minute, the tremor in her hands worsening as she fiddles with her necklace.

  ‘Where’s your son today, Rose?’

  ‘I don’t answer for him, he’s his own master.’

  ‘What does Sam do for a living these days?’

  ‘O
dd jobs mostly. Last summer he worked in the pub kitchen with Billy, after the football club let him go.’

  ‘I could use his help. When’s the last time you saw him?’

  Her eyes narrow. ‘Days ago. He’ll be on St Mary’s, with his mates.’

  ‘He’s not left the island.’

  ‘Then he could be anywhere.’ Her face is blank with panic as she twists a lock of hair.

  ‘Something’s upset you, Rose. If you tell me, I promise to help.’

  ‘I fret about what the sea brings in, nothing else.’

  ‘Can I see his room? I could get a warrant, but it’s easier to do it now.’

  ‘He’s got nothing to hide.’

  ‘So you won’t mind me looking. You want to know where he is, don’t you?’

  It takes ten minutes of gentle persuasion, while Rose bridles, her hands fluttering in protest. Eventually she lets me inside her son’s bedroom. The space is smaller than a prison cell, a narrow bed pressed against the wall, no furniture except a single wardrobe and a wooden chair laden with discarded clothes. The boy’s only prized possession seems to be a row of football trophies, gathering dust on a high shelf. It doesn’t take long to check under his mattress and run my hands over the items in his wardrobe. There’s nothing here to implicate him in Laura’s disappearance, except his vanishing act on exactly the same day. My concern only rises when I see a phone on his bedside table, plugged into a charger, beside a lighter and a packet of Rizlas. When Rose confirms that the mobile is her son’s, it crosses my mind that Sam could have met the same fate as Laura, but I keep my suspicions to myself.

  ‘I appreciate your help, Rose. When Sam comes back, can you get him to call me?’ I pull a card from my pocket and leave it on her table, letting my eyes wander round her home again. There’s nowhere a grown man could hide; no cellar or attic in this tiny cabin. ‘How are the bees?’

  ‘Hibernating.’

  ‘Lucky them. Did your son ever bring Laura here?’