Hell Bay

by Kate Rhodes

  ‘There’s a couple of thousand here. Where would she get this kind of money?’

  Jenna bites her lip. ‘No idea. She’s been so secretive lately. Her gran would tell us if she gave the girls cash. Why the hell didn’t Laura say anything?’ The discovery seems to have renewed her fighting spirit, anger cutting through the Valium haze as we go back downstairs.

  ‘How’s Matt been coping, Jenna?’

  ‘Not great, he was closer to her than anyone.’

  ‘I heard he’s been having problems.’

  ‘Rumours flying, are they?’ Her face sets in a scowl. ‘I bet the scandalmongers are having a field day.’

  ‘People are bound to be concerned.’

  ‘Winters are tough here, you know that. A man like Matt wants to contribute to the community, but there are fewer chances every year. He’s been at a loose end for months.’

  ‘Sorry to probe, but you want Laura’s killer found, don’t you?’

  Her tone shifts from anger to misery. ‘It hits a nerve, that’s all. The gossips love destroying a man’s reputation.’

  My head’s pounding when I leave the house. The meeting has given me a new set of questions. Why would a young girl hide so much money from her parents, unless she was ashamed of how it was earned? Maybe she thought her mother would demand a portion, because she took half her wage? I pause outside Gweal Cottage. A shadow moves behind the curtains, and I remember Nina Jackson’s invitation. The idea of seeing her again is so tempting, I feel like marching up her path. Pain roots deeper into my muscles as I turn back towards the community hall. There’s no putting it off any longer; my deputy will be waiting to witness my interview with a man I still consider one of my closest friends.

  Eddie helps me set up the room for the interview, the Dictaphone ready to capture Jim Helyer’s words about his relationship with the victim. But when four o’clock arrives it’s his wife who enters the hall, her movements brittle with tension. She marches straight over, her eyes puffy and red-rimmed.

  ‘Jim’s ill, so I came instead.’ She perches on the edge of a table.

  ‘Is he okay?’

  ‘A migraine hit him after the service. His sensitive bloody nature always leaves me dealing with the crap he leaves behind.’ There’s no trace now of the pretty, delicate girl who married Jim Helyer. Her face is harder than before, the years suddenly catching up with her.

  ‘Is it okay to record you, Angie?’

  She gives an abrupt nod, then words stream from her mouth before I can ask another question. ‘He told me the truth, after he got back from yours last night. I couldn’t believe it at first. She was our babysitter, for Christ’s sake.’ A single tear rolls down her cheek. ‘He’s been a fucking idiot, but that doesn’t alter the facts. I heard him get up to do the milking, the day Laura died.’

  ‘You saw him in the field?’

  ‘I didn’t look, but his pattern never changes. He came in at the normal time.’ Maybe she doesn’t realise it, but she’s punctured her husband’s alibi. He could have risen at the same time as usual, walked to Gweal Hill to kill Laura, then rushed back to his chores without anyone noticing.

  ‘Did he ever behave strangely towards Laura?’

  ‘He went quiet when she was around. I didn’t take much notice at the time.’

  Her statement makes me remember Jim retreating into his shell when he fancied girls at school, shyness getting the better of him.

  ‘Has he ever been violent towards you?’

  ‘Of course he bloody hasn’t. He screwed up big time, that’s all,’ she mutters. ‘This is my reward for having his kids, and working like a slave. Trust him to have a mid-life crisis at thirty-four.’

  ‘Thanks for coming, Angie. Tell Jim to call us, as soon as he recovers.’

  After she leaves the hall, Eddie looks uncomfortable, as if he’s witnessed a scene he’d rather forget, but my concern about Jim’s involvement remains lower than the key suspects. My suspicions are still focused on her father and her boyfriend, but neither can be arrested without hard proof.

  I stay behind for hours after sending Eddie home, flicking through hand-written reports. It’s only as I walk back to Hell Bay that an odd sensation washes over me, like cold water trickling down my spine. I used to get that feeling a lot when I first worked undercover, as if a sniper had me in their sights. When I spin round, the beach is empty. I bury my hands in my pockets and keep walking, ashamed of myself for being paranoid.

  Shadow almost knocks me over in his desperation to exit the cottage. The first thing I do when I get inside is email Madron to inform him about the money in Laura’s room. Tomorrow morning another meeting will be called; everyone on the island will be fingerprinted, so forensics can check the banknotes. An email has arrived from my DCI in London, one of Sarah Goldman’s weekly bulletins; a covert reminder that I must make a decision soon. I delete the message before it can play on my mind. When I scan the internet it’s clear the press have flouted Madron’s instructions, buying photos from someone at the memorial service. There’s a picture of Jenna emerging from the church, white-faced and stricken, the ultimate intrusion into a mother’s grief. The image makes me angrier than before, my determination to find her daughter’s killer growing sharper all the time.

  18

  Desperation gives Rose new-found courage. When night falls, she sets off towards Shipman Head. Few stars are out tonight, the water matte black, occasional streaks of white when the clouds crack open. There’s nothing here to lift her soul – just a raw waste of shingle and the ocean’s endless questions. She waits behind the dunes, determined to discover the truth. An hour passes before an outboard motor buzzes across the water. There’s a grinding sound as the dinghy’s prow hits the shingle. One of the men jumps ashore, the other remaining in the boat, as he heads for the hiding place where she found the package. It’s too dark to see his face, apart from the glitter in his eyes. She ought to remain hidden and call the police, but the feeling bubbling in Rose’s chest is a mixture of fury and hysteria.

  ‘What have you done to my son?’ she yells out.

  The man turns in her direction, frowning deeply, before speaking in the harsh Eastern European accent she heard on the phone. ‘You must be Sam Austell’s mother.’

  ‘That’s why I’m here. Did you hurt Laura Trescothick too?’

  ‘You’re talking rubbish.’ He lunges forward, grabbing her arm, his eyes pitiless. ‘Did you know your son’s a thief?’

  ‘Where is he? I’ve looked everywhere.’

  ‘Sam owes us big money. Do you understand? When you find him, tell him I won’t wait forever.’

  Suddenly the man shoves her, sending Rose reeling backwards. She lands heavily on the shingle, a dull pain burning through her hip as the boat leaves the shore.

  19

  Sleeping past dawn is impossible while my thoughts churn like a tumble dryer, so I put myself through a brutal round of press-ups at 5 a.m. I’m not keen on exercise apart from outdoor swimming, but a frame like mine requires it; being muscle-bound is better than running to seed. A hard sweat normally releases my stress, but the thought of Sam Austell nags at me as I step into the shower. He’s hiding somewhere on an island two miles long. If he’s alive, he must have found shelter, and he could have valuable information. Somehow, he’s kept one step ahead of our searches, advantaged by knowing the island like the back of his hand.

  It’s still dark when I leave the cottage and turn inland. The dog treats the early morning walk like a grand escapade, gambolling across the grass, chasing seagulls.

  ‘Leave them alone, you bully.’

  Shadow pays no attention, jaws snapping as one of the birds takes flight just in the nick of time.

  The houses in the village are still shuttered. At any other time it would be a pleasure to have the island to myself, but today I’m too focused on my search. If Austell is still alive, he would have chosen the island’s sheltered side, avoiding the icy northern breeze. I peer through the windo
ws of a cabin on the outskirts of the village. Zoe’s family own it, birdwatchers renting the place each summer. There’s no sign of a recent visitor, the kitchenette clean and orderly, bed still made. It takes half an hour to check garden sheds and outbuildings, then I walk down to the quay. It still bothers me that there’s an outside chance that Austell killed Laura in a jealous rage. If he cast himself from the cliffs in a fit of guilt, who would know? The sea doesn’t always return its dead. My mother would have been relieved if the waves had carried my father’s body home for a proper funeral. All he got was his name in the local paper and a dozen white roses scattered at high tide.

  I stand on the quay to gaze across the sound. Tresco has vanished behind a wall of sea mist, pillowing the water in a thick white cloud. The fog could take hours to clear; it feels like the island is conspiring against me, keeping secrets to itself. Visibility ceases a couple of metres from shore, the atmosphere so dank that I’m keen to return to the cottage for breakfast, but Shadow dashes ahead, scratching at the doors of a boat hut. I swear under my breath, because Ray’s flat is close by. He won’t take kindly to being woken before sunrise by me yelling at a wayward dog.

  ‘Come here, you mongrel,’ I mutter. Shadow looks up expectantly, whining to be let in, so I twist the door handle to satisfy his curiosity.

  He streaks through once it swings open. The air inside the hut is tainted by seaweed and brine, the sour tang of fish blood. When my eyes adjust to the poor light, there are nets piled in the corner, balls of nylon twine and crab pots stacked in a pile. There’s a crashing sound, then I’m knocked sideways, gasping for breath. A man flails past, footsteps clattering on the concrete. I drag myself after him, yelling for Ray’s help as I pass the quay. The sea mist’s thicker now, swirling in front of my eyes, but his outline is still visible, thin limbs moving like pistons, ragged coat flapping in his wake. The gap’s closing as he sprints north towards Shipman Head, the dog snapping at his heels. We’ve been running for five minutes before he makes the mistake of glancing back, falling head first onto the shingle. I throw myself across him, hearing him choke on wet sand. It’s only when his arms are braced that my heart rate doubles; he could be carrying a weapon. I shift my weight to roll him onto his back. The dog is overjoyed by the drama, barking at full volume.

  ‘Empty your pockets,’ I snap.

  Sam Austell’s eyes are rolling, a thin beard covering his jaw. He’s no longer the muscular football star in Laura’s photo. He’s aged ten years since then, jabbering a stream of expletives, limbs twitching as I search him. His pockets yield only a cigarette lighter, loose change and a bar of chocolate. My guess is that he’s been waiting until the shop is unmanned to make occasional raids. Judging by his thinness, food isn’t his top priority.

  ‘Who were you hiding from, Sam?’

  ‘You can’t change it.’ His face spasms, eyelids fluttering. ‘Lost now, gone forever. The tide always steals your treasures.’

  It sounds like he’s reciting a poem, and I’m tempted to dunk him in the sea to bring him round. It’s too early to tell what drugs he’s swallowed, but I doubt whether shock tactics would help.

  ‘Did you hurt Laura?’

  ‘Beauty everywhere.’ A foolish grin crosses his face. ‘The sky, seashells, golden sand.’ His tone is full of wonder, eyes chasing details. I’m still holding him down when Ray and Arthur finally appear.

  ‘You took your bloody time,’ I mutter. ‘Help me get him to the hall.’

  The boy’s clothes are filthy as we march him inland. There’s a streak of tar on his mud-spattered jeans, wet hair sticking to his skull. By the time he’s handcuffed to the chair, Eddie has arrived, clearly thrilled by our first arrest.

  ‘He needs to go to St Mary’s hospital,’ I say. ‘Tell Madron I’m on my way.’

  ‘Can I come?’

  Eddie’s face is so full of longing that I give a reluctant yes, aware that I would be breaking every protocol by transferring Austell without a second officer to restrain him. When I whistle for Shadow he slinks out of the bushes by the quay. I leave him at the boatyard with Ray, then we lead Austell onto the ferry. The young man’s wrists are handcuffed, lips moving without pause, oblivious to his surroundings. Eddie asks me endless questions during the twenty-minute crossing, keen to know how I tracked him down, but it was perseverance, not detection skills, that won the day. Austell’s still mumbling to himself about the sea. If he’s pretending to have lost his senses, the guy deserves an Oscar; the boat heaves over choppy waves as we approach our destination, but neither the rocking motion nor the engine’s drone can break his reverie.

  We walk Austell to the small hospital where I attended Laura’s autopsy. The treatment room is staffed by a locum today, his consulting room too small for comfort. Through the open doorway there’s a hospital bed, oxygen tanks and enough kit to stabilise emergency cases before flying them to Penzance. Dr Gleeson is around my age, with a dark buzz cut, a badly cut suit and a gentle expression. He talks to Austell in a soft murmur.

  ‘Let’s get you comfortable, my friend.’ The boy’s monologue continues, a hiss of words too garbled to follow. ‘Can the cuffs come off while I examine him, please?’

  ‘They have to stay on, to restrain him.’

  Dr Gleeson shakes his head in disapproval before starting his examination. A stench of sweat fills the room when Austell’s shirt falls open, ribs protruding from his skin. He’s so malnourished, it must have been days since he’s eaten. The medic works with slow deliberation, like we’ve got all the time in the world, checking his breathing and shining a torch into his eyes. Austell’s response to his questions is a tuneless hum, followed by a jumble of mismatched phrases.

  ‘The ocean,’ he mumbles. ‘It drowns the past and future, wave after wave.’

  The doctor’s face is grave when we step outside. ‘Psychotic episodes can last hours, or months. It’s likely to be drug-induced. He needs emergency psychiatric care in Penzance; the toxicology report will tell us what he’s taken.’

  ‘Could he be faking it?’

  ‘His pulse is galloping, his pupils are blown and I can smell the chemicals coming through his skin.’ My frustration must be showing; the doctor leans over to touch my arm. ‘Mental illness requires patience from all of us, Inspector.’

  I keep my temper under wraps and thank him for his help. When I finally emerge, Madron is in the waiting area, wearing a congratulatory smile. I listen to his praise for tracking down the victim’s ex-boyfriend, even though there’s no hard proof that Austell laid a finger on Laura.

  ‘It’s all guesswork so far, sir. He’s not under arrest.’

  The DCI shakes his head. ‘Her old flame vanishes the day she’s killed, then you find him babbling like a lunatic. He’s obviously a drug addict. I’d say that was conclusive, wouldn’t you?’

  I don’t have an answer, but the only aggression Austell has shown so far is barging me out of the way, to make his escape. Eddie seems to agree with our superior officer. His grin indicates that he expects promotion on the back of the arrest. He’s keen to accompany our suspect to the mainland, but I send him back to Bryher, to collect fingerprints and inform Rose that her son has been arrested before the island ignites with gossip.

  I would prefer to use the Sky Bus to Land’s End, but Austell would be a liability on a small aircraft. My only option is to take him across on the Scillonian, the ferry almost empty as it leaves harbour. A crew member finds us a room below deck, furnished with two easy chairs. I feel a pulse of concern as Austell begins to weep again, even though he’s been sedated. I need to get him to the hospital before he has a complete meltdown.

  ‘She slipped away,’ he says. ‘Now the sea’s falling from the sky.’

  I handcuff him to the chair, tired of his riddles. ‘Sleep now, Sam. You need to rest.’

  Austell’s eyes close immediately. I stand by the porthole, hoping for a last sight of land, but finding only a swirl of sea mist. He sleeps through the journey, giv
ing me time to observe him. His ticks and twitches continue, even when he’s asleep, as if his brain can’t shut down. He keeps calling out, then lapsing back into unconsciousness. When the boat docks in Penzance he’s still babbling nonsense, unable to answer basic questions.

  It’s early afternoon when a squad car drives us to the hospital. Austell reacts fiercely to every noise, giving an ear-splitting scream as a motorbike passes, gunning its engine. It’s a relief to deliver him to the experts. The consultant is an attractive middle-aged brunette, with a world-weary smile, her name badge informing me that she’s called Dr Jen Lucas. Something about her calm manner makes me believe that she’s a safe pair of hands. Her voice is sober when she fills out his admittance form.

  ‘A third of psychosis cases are cannabis-related, but violence is rare, they’re normally quite passive. We’ll keep him in a secure room until he stabilises.’

  Dr Lucas echoes the medical viewpoint I’ve already heard. The length of a psychotic episode can’t be prejudged. She raises her hand in a tired salute, before hurrying back to her duties, leaving me free to board the last Sky Bus of the day from Land’s End, the journey to St Mary’s taking just fifteen minutes, the sea below us boiling with dark grey waves. I should feel relieved, but the sensation never arrives. I don’t believe in easy answers, even though my DCI seems convinced that Laura’s killer is under lock and key in the psychiatric unit of Penzance Hospital. We have no proof that Austell has committed a crime. All we know for sure is that his football dream collapsed, yet he’s had money to throw around in the pubs, convincing me that he’s been running drugs around the islands. It’s frustrating that no answers will be found until he can communicate. If he and Laura fell foul of the same islander, he might know the killer’s name.