Hell Bay

by Kate Rhodes

  ‘Lucky you, I had to watch Match of the Day at a mate’s house. By eighteen I was climbing the walls, so I moved to London. The city was like a giant shot of adrenalin after so much quiet.’

  Her eyes are tarnished gold, not missing a trick. ‘What made you become a cop?’

  ‘I considered boatbuilding, but police work won the day.’ I study her again. ‘Where did you grow up, anyway?’

  ‘Bath; a refined city, full of retirees taking the waters.’

  ‘Are your family still there?’

  ‘Just my parents; I’m an only child.’ She drops her gaze. ‘To be honest, I’m more of a listener than a talker.’

  When I lean over to touch the tips of her hair, she freezes. ‘If you’re expecting witty banter you’re in the wrong place.’

  The conversation gradually finds a rhythm as we linger over the meal. Our talk is light and impersonal, until she relaxes again. She teases me about my musical taste, which veers from gloomy northern rock to Motown and R&B, but the rules of the game are frustrating.

  ‘Aren’t you going to say anything about yourself? You could explain the wedding ring for a start.’

  ‘That’s off limits.’

  ‘It’ll be tough getting to know you if you don’t open up.’

  ‘Why not admit defeat?’

  ‘It’s not in my nature. A challenge only whets my appetite.’

  I cart the dishes through to the kitchen for some breathing space. Our conversation is so finely balanced, one word could send her marching out the door. When I turn round, she’s standing a few feet away.

  ‘Why did you invite me here, Ben?’

  Her insistent tone makes it impossible to lie. ‘Because I fancy you, obviously.’

  She holds my gaze. ‘You still haven’t explained why you left London.’

  ‘It’s a long story.’

  ‘That’s okay. I’m in no rush.’

  The idea of opening up sets my teeth on edge, but Nina has already settled on the sheepskin rug by the fire, her face expectant, Shadow curling at her side. I’ve never felt less willing to expose my mistakes. ‘I came back to fix this place up as a holiday home, and I wanted to work with Ray again, too.’

  ‘But there’s another reason, isn’t there?’ The lack of judgement on her face makes me carry on.

  ‘When I joined the Murder Squad ten years ago, they paired me with a detective called Clare Kirkbride. She’d spent her career working undercover; a chain-smoking Glaswegian, unmarried, cynical as they come, twenty years older than me. The chemistry shouldn’t have worked, but it did, from day one. She was a brilliant mentor and put up with my mistakes when we became work partners. Last year we worked on our hardest undercover case ever: sex trafficking, three women burned alive in a car, dozens more tortured. I knew it was getting to her, but missed the signs. I thought she could handle anything.’ My voice runs out abruptly, forcing me to take a breath.

  ‘What happened to Clare?’

  ‘She was due to retire. After living for her job, it must have felt like stepping into a void. I got this message one night, six weeks ago, too garbled to understand. I thought she was out with mates, getting pissed. When another one came, I knew something was wrong. I broke into her flat too late. She’d taken an overdose.’

  Nina studies my face in silence before speaking again. ‘I’m sorry, Ben. Suicide’s a brutal thing to do.’

  ‘It’s me that let her down. She’d been dropping hints about feeling low, wrapped up in her usual jokes. It was easier to laugh than take it seriously.’ I rub my hands across my face, wishing the whole mess could be wiped away. ‘Her note didn’t say much, except asking me to look after Shadow.’

  ‘If he was Clare’s dog, no wonder you resent him.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Shadow must remind you she’s not here, every day.’ The dog’s ears prick up at the mention of his name.

  ‘It felt wrong to work with a new partner, but my boss wouldn’t accept my resignation.’

  ‘She must value you.’

  ‘There aren’t enough idiots to do the job.’ I attempt a smile. ‘What about you? It’s my turn to listen.’

  ‘One revelation’s enough for tonight. I should go, I’ve got a client for cranial massage early tomorrow.’

  ‘Is that what you gave me?’

  She nods. ‘Dean Miller thinks it frees up his creativity, but I have my doubts.’ She rises to her feet in a graceful movement that makes me want to touch her again.

  It’s only ten thirty, the evening soured by talk of the past. The bitter aftertaste reminds me of the night I found Shadow barking his head off in Clare’s hall, sirens blaring from the street below. When I force myself back into the present, Nina is already fastening her coat, wrapping her scarf around her throat.

  ‘I’ll walk you home.’

  ‘No need.’

  ‘There’s a curfew, remember? You shouldn’t be out alone.’ I pick up my jacket before she can argue.

  The dog vanishes across the dunes as Nina puts her hand through my arm, but I know my chances are blown. What kind of woman would let a man with so much baggage within a mile? She seems oblivious to my bad mood as we head down the path.

  ‘You were lucky, growing up here. My childhood was horribly suburban.’

  ‘It wasn’t all picnics and wild swimming. Kids don’t notice beautiful scenery.’

  ‘But you do now?’

  ‘It keeps pulling me back. The place is in my DNA.’

  We complete the walk in silence. I wait on the porch while she unlocks Gweal Cottage, then stands on the threshold.

  ‘I won’t invite you in, Ben.’

  ‘Pity.’

  I’m about to say goodnight when her hands rise to my face and she’s on her toes, kissing me. It’s not some halfhearted peck on the cheek either. Her teeth graze my lip, fingers snagging in my hair. The kiss is so thorough that all I can do is go along for the ride, clutching the slim curve of her waist. I’m speechless by the time she finally pulls back, her eyes a shade darker than before.

  ‘I fancy you too, by the way.’

  ‘No kidding.’ I run my fingertip over the curve of her cheek. ‘Lucky me.’

  ‘I’ve always liked honest men.’

  ‘I’ll never tell another lie.’

  She backs inside then shuts the door, leaving me alone on her step. The pain from talking about Clare has ebbed away; sooner or later I had to tell someone. The walk home seems to take seconds, wind scattering dry leaves across the shingle. Elation is still buzzing round my system, but Shadow is far ahead, howling loud enough to wake the dead. When I reach the house, his barking alternates with pitiful whimpering.

  ‘Pipe down, monster. What’s the fuss about?’

  I circle the house, scanning the overgrown garden with my torch, until a glint of metal catches my eye. Shock makes me reel backwards at the sight of a knife with a nine-inch blade lying on my doorstep, gleaming in the moonlight. I yank my phone from my pocket and dial Nina’s number, to warn her to stay indoors.

  26

  Rose is still fretting about Curnow’s threats when someone taps on her door, the sound almost too quiet to hear.

  Suzanne Trescothick is waiting in the dark. The child’s face is as pale as candle wax, her eyes shadowed by adult suffering. Rose is so used to the girl’s night-time visits that she welcomes her without hesitation.

  ‘Come inside, sweetheart,’ she murmurs.

  The girl huddles by the kitchen window, weeping into her cupped hands. Rose keeps busy making her a drink of hot milk and honey. She understands that the child must cry out her sorrow; painful emotions need to be released, not held inside. It’s only when she notices a mark on the girl’s wrist that she feels concerned.

  ‘That looks sore. How did you hurt yourself, Suzie?’

  The girl fumbles with her sleeve. ‘Please don’t tell anyone.’

  ‘It’s your story to tell, but it’s been going on too long. This arnica cream wi
ll help you heal.’

  Suzanne slips the jar into her pocket. ‘What should I do? I can’t stand it at home without Laura.’

  ‘Tell someone the truth. You could talk to me, or Dean, or the police.’

  ‘I can’t, Rose. I’d be in so much trouble.’

  The girl seems calmer when she finally leaves, but Rose’s thoughts are in turmoil. Someone on the island is preying on the young and vulnerable. Anger sends her outside with her torch. Removing the flint marker, she digs up the package she retrieved from the beach. Sam has never disclosed what the boatmen trade, but when she unwraps it, hundreds of transparent sachets are filled with a pale, chalky substance.

  Rose yanks up the lid of her wood burner, without pausing to consider, then throws the sachets inside. When the chemicals vaporise in blue and yellow flares, she understands the consequences of her rash gesture. Her chance to return the package has burned away. The one thing protecting her from the smugglers’ demands no longer exists, but she can’t let another young life be ruined.

  27

  I stand outside the cottage making calls, reminding people to lock their doors. The idea of the killer stalking me across the island makes me angry enough to let rip.

  ‘You fucking coward!’

  The wind dilutes my words, but it feels good to yell the frustration out of my system. I use an evidence bag to collect the knife and dump it on the table. There are scrapes on the handle, the long blade scarred from repeated sharpening. Whether or not it’s the murder weapon, the killer has upped the ante since leaving the chopped-up photograph. Tonight’s unwelcome visitor might not be connected with Laura’s death at all, but why would someone else threaten me? This guy’s a game player, taunting me that he’s out of reach. My gut tells me that the gesture puts Sam Austell in the clear, despite the DCI’s certainty that’s he’s our only credible suspect. When I stare at the knife again, a memory surfaces of Billy Reese in the pub kitchen, chopping herbs with a red-handled knife.

  It takes me less than ten minutes to jog to the Rock, with Shadow in hot pursuit. At midnight, light is still leaking through the curtains of Maggie’s living room above the entrance. My godmother appears in a vivid green dressing gown, anxiety behind her smile of greeting.

  ‘Can you unlock downstairs for me, Maggie? Shadow can stay here.’

  My godmother looks bemused, but follows my instructions, the dog whining at being left behind. She stands in the doorway while strip lights cast a stark glare over the kitchen’s industrial ovens and steel tables.

  ‘What on earth are you looking for, Ben?’

  ‘Billy’s knives,’ I reply, yanking open a cutlery drawer.

  ‘They’re on the wall, ahead of you.’

  Red-handled knives hang from a metallic strip, organised by size. I can tell straight away that tonight’s offering belongs to the set; there’s a gap between a vegetable knife and a cleaver with a foot-long blade, handles worn from heavy usage.

  ‘Is Billy upstairs?’

  Maggie shakes her head. ‘He’s in his flat packing his stuff, so he can move in tomorrow. Aren’t you going to say what this is about?’

  ‘Soon, I promise. Now go back up and lock your doors. Keep Shadow with you till morning.’

  Maggie asks another question, but I’m already jogging towards the two-storey block fifty metres away, used for staff accommodation. Billy has lived in the ground-floor flat for the past ten years. When he lets me in, he’s leaning on his stick, the radio droning in the background, his books and CDs crammed into dozens of cardboard boxes. The chef is dressed in a tatty black T-shirt, jeans and biker boots, jaw rimed with grey five o’clock shadow. It strikes me again that this ageing Hells Angel is Maggie’s new love interest, and his injured foot might be a convenient lie. The guy could easily have left his knife on my doorstep then returned home without anyone noticing.

  ‘It’s late for beer and a chat, Ben.’

  ‘Someone left this on my doorstep just now.’ I lay the knife on his table, still wrapped in its evidence bag. ‘Recognise it?’

  He turns it over in his hands. ‘It went missing from the pub kitchen a few months ago; Sabatiers don’t come cheap, so it pissed me off. Chefs get attached to their knives. They become like family members.’ He gives an uneasy smile.

  ‘You think someone stole it?’

  ‘They must have. The kitchen door’s always open when I cook, for ventilation. Someone must have walked in when I was on a fag break.’

  According to his story, any islander could have entered the pub’s kitchen and helped themselves from his collection of cutting implements, but something doesn’t ring true. His arms are folded too tightly across his chest, his direct stare making him look defensive.

  ‘Did you spend much time alone with Laura Trescothick?’

  ‘Not that I remember. The kid came in the pub with her mum and dad, but that’s it.’

  ‘Listen, I’ll be putting your name through the police computer system again tomorrow. If there are skeletons in your closet, tell me now.’

  His fingers tug the shoulder seam of his T-shirt. ‘Do you want a beer first?’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘I bloody well do. This type of thing is exactly why I left the mainland.’

  ‘What were you running from?’

  ‘Nothing serious, just some trouble from the past.’

  ‘You don’t have a record, Billy.’

  ‘I changed my name by deed poll twelve years ago, from Sutton to Reese. I decided to turn over a new leaf and use my mum’s maiden name.’ His gaze slips away. ‘I hung out with the wrong people for too long when I lived in Plymouth.’

  ‘How long were you inside?’

  ‘Three months for handling stolen goods, after wasting years with arseholes who turned out not to be friends. Coming here put my life back on track, thank God. I’ve got a brilliant job, people accept me, and Maggie’s been amazing.’ His gruff voice tails away, as if his sudden show of emotion has embarrassed him.

  ‘Anything else I should know, Billy?’

  ‘That’s the lot.’ His gaze drops to the knife. ‘Can I have my knife back when you’re done? It’ll save me buying a replacement.’

  ‘When it stops being police evidence, I’ll let you know.’

  I consider calling Madron to explain the turn of events, but it’s too late. The tension swilling round my system won’t let me relax, so I check Billy’s story on my computer. The chef hasn’t broken any laws by reinventing himself, but his past worries me, even when I discover that he was telling the truth. Billy could easily have left the knife on my step, but so could one of the other suspects. The killer must be loving his new-found power. Thanks to him the island is on red alert, people afraid to leave their homes, viewing every member of the community with suspicion. The man who killed Laura Trescothick seems to be an adrenalin junkie, prepared to risk being spotted, to leave his tribute. He drifts around my head as I fall asleep, his features refusing to take shape.

  I wake to the bawls of Atlantic gulls. The sound stopped registering when I lived here, but now their calls sound raw as an infant’s, guaranteed to penetrate my dreams. I make myself exercise before my eyes are fully open: press-ups, lunges and star jumps until my muscles burn. I hate every minute, but the discipline vents my frustration. Shadow appears when I step outside, looking pleased with himself, as if a night at Maggie’s has set him up for greater mischief. He’s swift enough to evade my attempts to lock him inside.

  ‘You’re a royal pain in the arse,’ I say, but he’s already flying across the beach like a speeding bullet as I head for the shop.

  June is standing by her counter, lining up bottles of olive oil and salad dressing, then ticking items from her checklist. Her clothes are so immaculate, she looks more like a solicitor than a shopkeeper, silver hair perfectly groomed. She looks up from her flip chart with a smile of greeting.

  ‘Come to help me count stock, Ben?’

  I sit on a stool as she finishes scrib
bling. ‘I need to ask you about Laura. We’ve spoken to just about everyone, except you.’

  Her hands fall still. ‘She used to buy sweets with her sister, a little blonde chatterbox. She grew into such a lovely, confident young woman. We worked some of the same shifts at the hotel, but didn’t get much time together.’

  ‘Had you spoken recently?’

  ‘She seemed thrilled about going to drama college.’ She shakes her head. ‘To be honest, I think Sam’s story’s almost as tragic.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Life should be easy for kids, growing up in a peaceful place like this, yet some still go off the rails. Sam’s been struggling all year. I told Rose he needed help.’

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘Nothing, she can’t accept that he’s an addict.’ June raises the palms of her hands. ‘Things have been hard for her since Sam was born. She met his dad at a dance on St Mary’s, but their fling only lasted a few weeks. He never sent her a penny after he left.’

  ‘Where do you think Sam gets his money?’

  ‘Not from Rose, certainly. We give her food each week, in exchange for her honey and remedies.’

  ‘Does that work out even?’

  ‘Not always.’ She gives me a steady look. ‘She’s a friend, Ben. Who’s counting?’

  ‘You’re not a typical shopkeeper, June.’

  She gives a quick smile. ‘Certainly not, I’m a classically trained chef.’

  Her comments confirm my picture of Laura as a popular young woman, ready to break her ties with the island. June describes Sam Austell’s erratic behaviour, the look on her face sober when I leave her to complete her inventory. I’m starting to understand the fragility of Rose Austell’s lifestyle. Maybe it’s not surprising that after growing up poor, Sam couldn’t handle the sudden influx of money from his football career, the pressure of his new situation tearing him apart.

  For once I reach the hall before Eddie. He arrives at 9 a.m., looking sheepish.

  ‘Sorry I’m late, boss. My fiancée was off colour.’

  ‘Is she okay now?’ We’ve never exchanged personal details, his choirboy looks making me assume he still lives with his mum.