Hell Bay

by Kate Rhodes

  ‘I thought she’d speak to her sister, or Danny. She would never have upset my wife deliberately.’

  It takes Jim fifteen minutes to vent his feelings. He had fantasies about the pair of them fleeing the island, like his family didn’t exist, but he claims that Laura’s rejection ended it in its tracks. Her phone and email records support his statements. There’s no evidence that he sent her a single message in the last three months. Eventually, my friend runs out of steam, his gaze flitting back to my face while he waits for my verdict.

  ‘You had a motive to hurt her, Jim. An infatuation gone sour.’

  His expression is imploring. ‘Why would I be here now? I could have kept quiet and you’d be none the wiser. I just needed it off my chest.’

  ‘Don’t leave the island without my permission. We may want to speak to you again.’

  Jim gives a curt nod before leaving the hall. Our thirty-year friendship may never recover from my accusations, just like his damaged marriage. When I look at Eddie again, he’s shaking his head.

  ‘That bloke’s got the perfect life; a farm, a lovely wife, kids. Some people don’t know when they’re lucky,’ he says quietly.

  My deputy’s expression is too serious for his boyish features, like a child pretending to be grown-up. I spend the next half-hour completing my case log, aware that every step will have to be justified to the DCI at the meeting I’ve arranged for ten o’clock.

  Alan Madron arrives precisely on time, dressed in chinos and a sleek oilskin jacket, not a hair out of place. ‘What’s this about?’ he asks coolly. ‘You could have updated me yesterday.’

  ‘We’ve been busy, sir. I needed to complete my report.’

  ‘Go on then, I haven’t got all day.’

  ‘The press are baying for information. I’m giving them a briefing at Penzance station at noon; I’ll catch the Sky Bus from St Mary’s.’

  Madron stares at me. ‘You invited the media, without my permission?’

  ‘As SIO, I decide when to involve the press.’ Most of the journalists I’ve met are chancers and fantasists, paying their rent by flogging lies to the tabloids, but staying silent will result in outlandish stories flooding the internet. At least this way I can control the information.

  ‘We’ll discuss your actions later. Just give me your update, Kitto.’

  ‘We’ve ruled out most of the islanders. Some have cast-iron alibis, others are too frail to harm anyone. Matt Trescothick relies on his wife financially, ego struggling with being unemployed. There’s no hard evidence yet that he killed his daughter, despite his anger-management problems, but it’s a strong possibility. They were seen arguing on the beach days before she died. Danny Curnow has kept a low profile since finding her body. We only have his mother’s word that he was at home when Laura was killed. For all we know, she rejected him and he killed her in a fit of rage.’

  Madron peers up from his notes. ‘So the boyfriend, father and the ex are still suspects?’

  ‘There are more distant ones too. Dean Miller spent time with her, and I’m certain he knows more than he’s saying, but he’s got no clear motive.’ I hesitate before adding the last name. ‘Jim Helyer’s admitted to fancying Laura, but his wife’s given him an alibi.’

  ‘Are either of those two serious possibilities?’

  ‘They can’t be ruled out, but it’s more likely to be someone closer to home. Families are so interconnected here, relationships can feel incestuous. I’ll be taking Rose Austell over to the mainland later. She’s been complaining about her son’s treatment.’

  ‘Sam Austell’s still your main suspect, from my point of view.’

  ‘He may know who hurt Laura, but they split up a year ago. That’s a long time to wait for revenge.’

  ‘The boy was out of his head on drugs.’

  ‘It’s more likely he was hiding from Laura’s killer. I think both of them were running contraband round the island.’

  ‘Don’t go throwing accusations around without hard evidence. Her family have suffered enough already. When this case finishes, the islanders will have to put their lives back together and carry on, just like before.’

  I check my watch. ‘I should go, sir. Rose Austell is meeting me on the quayside.’

  ‘Not on your own,’ Madron says, rising to his feet. ‘I’ll lead the press conference.’

  The DCI’s intervention bothers me, but there’s nothing I can do. He seems irritated by my desire to treat Sam Austell as innocent until proven guilty, just like all the other men who hovered around Laura like bees to a honeypot. At least Madron’s presence could defuse some of Rose Austell’s anger with me for admitting her son to hospital. I’d rather not share the boat and plane journey to Penzance with the boy’s mother while she’s in a state of rage, but it’s par for the course. Nothing about the investigation has been ideal so far.

  ‘What should I do while you’re away, boss?’ Eddie asks.

  ‘Find out if anyone else has been seen wandering round the island at night.’

  Madron wastes no time in haranguing me once we get outside, still furious that I contacted the media without his agreement. I hold my tongue until his tirade ends, his voice finally calming as we head for the quay. He asks how Eddie is performing, offering to bring a more experienced officer over from the mainland, but I reject the idea immediately. An enthusiastic sixth-former is better than a jaded old-timer who knows nothing about island culture.

  Rose Austell’s dyed black hair looks brittle in the winter sunlight, patchwork coat several sizes too big, a bitter look on her face. Maybe she thinks that Sam could have avoided hospital if I’d left him alone. She cowers in the wheelhouse as the ferry sets off and Bryher recedes into the distance, and is still shivering when we arrive at the minute airport on St Mary’s. The hangar resembles a motorway service station, hunkered by the runway, covered in dull-brown roof tiles. The Sky Bus waiting to carry us to the mainland is little bigger than a helicopter. Madron marches onboard first, leaving me to deal with Rose. She leans towards me, releasing a waft of scented air, the aromas of mint and dried rose petals trapped in the folds of her coat.

  ‘Sam’s never hurt anyone in his life. Why did you arrest him?’

  ‘He’s not under arrest, Rose. I just need to speak to him. He was in contact with Laura before she died; we need to know why.’

  ‘What’s wrong with talking to your ex?’ She tosses back her hair. ‘People often stay friendly after a relationship ends.’

  ‘Your son took some serious drugs. Do you know where they came from?’

  ‘My boy would never harm himself deliberately.’

  ‘He couldn’t even say his name when I found him.’ Her face is growing paler by the minute. ‘When’s the last time you flew to the mainland?’

  Rose doesn’t reply, but I’m certain this is her first time on a plane. Her eyes are wide with fear when it taxis down the runway, engine buzzing like an irate mosquito. Panic makes her forget our differences as it takes off, fingers clutching my wrist until the mainland appears on the horizon twenty minutes later. Even under these conditions the outlook is stunning. Cornwall’s granite coastline is indented by hundreds of minute coves, perfect hiding places for smugglers.

  DCI Madron stalks away when we reach Penzance, leaving me to deliver Rose to the hospital by taxi. Her frown deepens as Dr Lucas describes Sam’s condition.

  ‘He’s responding to anti-psychotic drugs, but his condition’s delicate. Any more stress could undo his progress.’

  ‘Is he able to communicate now?’ I ask.

  ‘He still struggles with direct questions.’

  ‘When can I interview him for the murder inquiry?’

  ‘Not today, I’m afraid.’ The consultant’s eyes are calm as she holds my gaze. ‘You’ll have to take it gently, Inspector. Further trauma could jeopardise his recovery.’

  A uniformed officer is still guarding his room, but Austell looks too weak to mount an escape bid. He’s sitting by the window, d
ressed in an ill-fitting tracksuit, keeping his pinched face averted. I stay in the background while he answers Rose’s questions in slow monosyllables; his physical gestures are sluggish too, as if invisible weights burden his limbs. I wait until his mother has covered his bedside cabinet with packets of home-made medicine, before drawing my chair closer.

  ‘Remember me, Sam? I’m DI Kitto.’ I can’t tell if he’s listening as he rocks back and forth in his seat. ‘Can you tell me what scared you, the day Laura died?’

  ‘I’m next on the list. The tide changes everything,’ he whispers.

  ‘Who sold you the drugs?’

  His face splits into a grin. ‘Friends in high places, over the sea and far away.’

  ‘Listen to me, Sam. I know you were hiding from someone. You understand Laura’s dead, don’t you?’ I lean forwards to catch his reply but Rose grabs my sleeve.

  ‘Stop persecuting him,’ she snaps. ‘You’ve done enough damage.’

  She stands by her son’s chair, cradling his head against her chest. Sam carries on rocking while Rose strokes his hair. I stay for another quarter of an hour then slip away.

  It’s a relief to get outside, even though the sky is misting the town with fine grey drizzle. I turn up my collar and head for Penzance police station – a drab municipal building, one street back from the quay. A pack of journalists has travelled down from London, including faces I recognise from other murder investigations. They look like a funeral party, milling on the pavement, dressed in the black clothes that media types wear like a self-imposed uniform. The sight of them makes me choose the back entrance, to avoid the cameramen.

  I make an attempt to smarten my appearance before the briefing, but it’s a losing battle; I was born scruffy. All I can do is fasten the top button of my shirt, then smooth my ragged hair, as it dawns on me that I should have worn a suit. The story will open the one o’clock news. The room is already prepared, a table with two microphones, two dozen chairs laid out in rows.

  ‘You’ve got a full house,’ Madron says. ‘The BBC are here, Channel 4, and all the local press. Why request that much coverage, without an arrest to announce?’

  ‘Damage limitation, sir. It’ll stop them paying the islanders for gossip, and printing any more rubbish.’

  A flicker of disapproval crosses the DCI’s impassive face. This must be his biggest case since taking over the island force; a world away from the petty crimes he deals with all year. ‘Don’t let them bait you, Kitto. I’ll answer any difficult questions.’

  Madron takes the seat beside me as the cameras roll. I’ve sat through enough press calls to know that you can never relax; even a small slip-up makes you look clueless. My new boss seems to understand the rules of engagement. He sits motionless, his expression grave. The first question comes from a BBC reporter, the woman’s calm gaze assessing me.

  ‘Can you describe your progress in finding Laura Trescothick’s killer, Inspector Kitto?’

  ‘We’ve been pursuing some strong lines of enquiry. The murderer was on Bryher, on Monday the first of March. That’s why islanders can only leave with our permission and all visitors are barred.’

  ‘Less than a hundred people live on the island. Why’s it taking so long to solve the case?’ The questioner’s voice is an unpleasant nasal whine. It’s one of the sleazeballs from the tabloids, Steve Hilliard, inspecting me with distaste, as another camera flashes. His brown hair sticks up in uneven clumps, leather jacket stretched tight over his paunch.

  ‘At the time of Laura’s death, seventy-two people were on the island. We’re interviewing them systematically.’

  I explain that Bryher has been crime-free for years; the kind of place where people leave their doors unlocked and kids play in safety. A handful of journalists ask easy questions for the next ten minutes, allowing me to pretend the case is making progress. Hilliard begins talking again before I can gather my thoughts.

  ‘You’re on extended leave from your job in London, Inspector. Your colleagues say you burnt out and tried to resign. Are you really the right man to lead the investigation?’

  The DCI delivers a sharp kick under the table to silence me. ‘Inspector Kitto’s seniors at the Met have authorised his role here. I’m pleased to have someone of his calibre in charge. His inside knowledge of the islands is valuable too. Now, ladies and gentlemen, we have a murder investigation to run. Thanks for your time.’

  My respect for Madron increases as he refuses further questions with a firm head shake. In the staff room afterwards, he eyes me warily, as if I’m a loose cannon, capable of misfiring at any time. It’s clear that his patience will wear out fast if I put another foot wrong. The police cameraman is replaying our interview on a computer nearby. We look like chalk and cheese: the DCI small and contained, me sprawling and chaotic. I make a mental note to get my hair cut before facing another interrogation.

  Rose Austell weeps silently during the short plane ride back to St Mary’s, but her tears have dried by the time the launch drops us on Bryher Quay. When I look at her more closely, her face is pale, hands trembling as I help her out of the boat.

  ‘You should be ashamed,’ she snaps. ‘Sam’s too ill for your bullying.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Rose, but a girl’s been killed. I think he knows who did it.’

  She stares up at me. ‘My boy would have told you who hurt her, if you’d stayed to listen.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Ask him yourself. You can do your own dirty work from now on.’

  Rose’s frown feels like a witch’s curse. I doubt that Sam made a single rational statement today, but pretending she knows the facts must give her a sense of control. I stand at the waterside with the day’s events flooding my mind. It’s only five thirty, but dusk has already fallen. The island’s darkness is thickening rapidly as I stumble down the path, wishing I’d brought my torch.

  24

  Rose still can’t believe the change in her son. Sam has become unrecognisable, no sign now of the free-spirited child that tore across the beach, kicking a football all day long. Toxic chemicals in his system have made him retreat too far inside himself for her to reach. She comes to a halt on the sand at Green Bay, hoping to inhale the sea’s calmness. She’s too distracted to notice a difference in the air when she unlocks the cabin, until a faint sound sets her nerves on edge. Shock almost makes her lose her balance when she sees Jay Curnow sitting at her kitchen table, watching her take off her coat.

  ‘How did you get in?’

  He gives a fake smile. ‘Your back door needs fixing, Rose, like the rest of this hovel.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I’ve got some papers for you to sign. It’s time you found somewhere decent to live, isn’t it?’

  ‘I’ll never leave my home.’

  ‘It’s a breeding ground for rats. Environmental health would throw you out in minutes. Put your name on this transfer form, and you’ll have enough money for a nice bedsit on the mainland.’

  Rose shoves the folder back at him, the gesture bringing Curnow to his feet.

  ‘Sooner or later you’ll give in, so why play hard to get?’ Suddenly he lashes out, fist banging against the wooden wall. ‘This place is falling apart. It won’t need a wrecking ball, just a few blokes with sledgehammers.’

  ‘Leave me alone.’

  ‘No one’s protecting you, Rose.’ His hard face is inches from hers. ‘I only have to call in some favours; Pete Moorcroft owes me a small fortune and so does Jim Helyer. Half the men on the island will do whatever I say.’

  ‘I’ll tell the police.’

  Curnow gives a grating laugh. ‘We’re just two neighbours, passing the time of day. I haven’t put a mark on you.’ His hand hovers above her face, as if he plans to smother her. ‘Sign the papers and no one will get hurt, if you keep away from my son. He doesn’t need your old wives’ tales poisoning his mind.’

  The smell of the man’s anger curdles with his expensive cologne after he lea
ves. Rose stares at the folder he has left behind, too agitated to sit down.

  25

  My mood must be affecting Shadow, who prowls from room to room as if he’s looking for something valuable. The day’s drama is still in my mind when I cook dinner: Dean Miller’s disturbing pictures of Laura, followed by the awkwardness of interviewing Jim, and Sam Austell’s drug-addled nonsense. But the simple actions of throwing a fish pie together and chopping salad help to calm me, while Scott Matthews plays in the background. He’s been my favourite singer for years, his soulful voice and poetic lyrics helping me unwind. A fire is roaring in the grate when Nina taps on the door.

  She’s bundled in scarves and a long coat, clutching a box of chocolates. I watch her peel off layers until she stands before me in skinny jeans and a wide-necked jumper that’s slipped down to expose one pale-skinned shoulder. For a moment I’m lost for words, so I kiss her cheek instead. She returns the gesture, then leans down to lavish attention on the dog.

  ‘You prefer him to me, don’t you?’

  ‘Obviously.’ Her smile flickers. ‘You were on the news just now. Don’t you get any media training? You looked like Heathcliff on a bad day.’

  ‘It’s not my job to placate journalists.’

  She angles her head to one side. ‘Want me to come back another day?’

  ‘You’re not leaving. I need you here to distract me.’

  Nina seems at ease in my lacklustre kitchen. She stands at the Butler sink, rinsing wine glasses, then roots in the drawer for cutlery. By the time I take the pie from the oven, she’s lit the candles I unearthed from the sideboard. When I carry plates through to the living room, she’s inspecting my bookshelves.

  ‘Hundreds of novels, poetry collections and one hell of a vinyl collection,’ she comments.

  ‘My parents were jazz fans, the books are mine. My brother and I spent our summers swimming, but in the winter we read, or made up games. Not having a TV made us pretty inventive.’

  ‘I was a telly addict. I can recite whole passages of Grey’s Anatomy.’