by Kate Rhodes
When my torch finally clicks on, Zoe’s face is shiny with panic. She looks like an actor from Scream, eyes staring, while words babble from her mouth. I rest my hands on her shoulders.
‘Breathe, Zoe.’
‘Someone was breaking down the door. I couldn’t see a damn thing; the outside lights didn’t work. When the banging started again, I ran out the back way.’
‘Did you see who it was?’
‘Just a shape through the glass.’ She exhales a ragged breath. ‘Jesus, I can’t stop shaking.’
‘You’re safe now. Do you want to stay at mine while I take a look?’
‘No way, I want to see what the bastard’s done to my place.’
We walk back to the hotel, Shadow chasing in circles like the whole thing’s a glorious adventure. Zoe stays close as I check the site. Someone has severed the cable for the outdoor lights and a long crack zigzags through the safety glass in her external door. I carry on walking, to check the other entrances.
‘Has anyone been hanging around today?’ I ask.
‘Only Angie. She helped me get ready for the decorators next week.’
‘She’s not likely to stage a break-in.’ My mind flicks through my list of suspects, before I put through a call to the pub. ‘Who’s in the bar right now, Maggie?’
‘Most of my regulars. Why?’
‘Matt Trescothick, Danny Curnow and Dean Miller?’
‘Dean’s been here a few hours, reading his paper. I haven’t seen the other two.’
I say a swift goodbye, then put through more calls. Patty Curnow tells me that Danny is taking a night-time walk, and Gwen Trescothick says that Matt left earlier, to go to the pub. I stuff my phone into my pocket, rage still bubbling inside my chest. This is scare tactics, like the knife outside my door. There’s no way to prove which suspect came here in a state of rage, but after today’s display of emotion, Laura’s boyfriend seems most likely. The killer’s conversation is gathering speed, proving that the people around me are all in danger. Zoe looks upset when I insist she stays at mine instead of braving the empty hotel. I’ve always wondered how she copes there out of season. The corridors remind me of The Shining: all they need is a kid on a tricycle, and Jack Nicholson with a manic glint in his eye.
Zoe parks herself by my fire, her resilience soon reviving when she tells me about a new song, convinced it’s the best she’s written. She sings a few bars, the melody slow and haunting enough to etch itself on my memory, but the peace doesn’t last long. Around midnight the wind chucks fistfuls of sand at the windows, reminding me that someone on the island is causing mayhem, the attacks getting closer all the time. With luck, the bastard will keep on taking risks to goad me, and I’ll be there when he trips up.
29
Rose sits at her kitchen table, suppressing her worries with simple tasks. Her mind is focused on the medicinal oils she’s distilling: feverfew for migraines, herb of Jupiter to heal burns and stings, bitter orange for pain relief. She pours each essence into bottles then seals the caps with wax.
When the phone rings at midnight, her tongue sticks to the roof of her mouth. She’s afraid it could be the hospital, to say that Sam is sicker than before, but all she hears is someone breathing, slow and loud, into the receiver. Soon the sound is replaced by a hiss of white noise. When the phone rings again fifteen minutes later, she takes it off the hook. The calls came every half-hour last night, wrenching her from sleep, like the slow drip of water torture. Rose considers running to Ben Kitto’s cottage to confess her secrets, but night-time has wrapped the cabin in a grey shroud that conceals too many unseen dangers.
It’s only when she looks up again that Jay Curnow’s face appears outside her kitchen window. The sight of him makes her take a panicked step backwards, his features forming a narrow smile. He raps on the glass pane, but she refuses to open the door. There’s no knowing what the man will do if she lets him inside. She has always been able to read people’s intentions, and knows that he intends to harm her for getting in his way. She can hear his voice rising to a shout, behind the thin glass.
‘Sign the papers, Rose. You don’t want to make me angry, do you?’
The man stares at her again. He could easily break the window, or force the door, the cabin’s protection gossamer-thin as she backs away.
30
Zoe is still out for the count when I peer into my brother’s old room in the morning. It’s unsettling to see a Marilyn Monroe lookalike asleep in a teenage boy’s sanctuary, wardrobe door plastered with ancient Glastonbury memorabilia, a faded Plymouth Argyle poster on the wall. The dog lazes at her feet, trying to look innocent. I dump a mug of coffee on the bedside table, singing ‘Sweet Child o’ Mine’ tunelessly until she wakes up.
‘Only Ryan Gosling gets to serenade me this early.’ Her voice is gritty with irritation.
‘Be thankful I brought you coffee.’
She gives a cat-like stretch. When her dark eyes focus on my face, it’s too late for evasion; she’s always been able to read my thoughts. ‘Did Nina Jackson put that scowl on your face?’
‘She’s a minor obsession, that’s all.’ I hold up my hands in defeat. ‘She could use a friend. Why not invite her to the pub sometime?’
‘That’s a classic piece of deflection. You should use your legendary charm, have sex, then see how you feel.’
I suppress a laugh. ‘If only her world view was that simple.’
‘Maybe you’re the complicated one.’ She’s already drifting back to sleep.
‘Keep those eyes open.’ I give her shoulders a shake. ‘You’re staying at the pub till this is sorted. Maggie’s giving you her best room, free of charge.’
‘There’s no way I’m leaving home.’
‘If you argue, you’ll end up in Penzance jail.’
She protests, but I refuse to listen. The walk back to the hotel gives me a chance to inspect the damage by daylight, while she packs a bag. A crack jagged as a lightning bolt runs through the door’s safety glass. Whoever did it must have a powerful kick, or know how to swing a sledgehammer. So much boldness reveals that it’s someone in a state of fury, with luck on their side. The night’s rain has left the path slick with water, footprints and evidence washed away.
It’s a quick, bad-tempered stroll to the Rock. Zoe is so annoyed about being bossed around that she can hardly speak when I deliver her to the kitchen door. Billy is at his workstation, chopping onions, the fumes making my eyes water. He glowers at me, but produces a smile for Zoe. The knife clutched in his hand is a smaller version of the one left on my doorstep, its red handle riveted to a thin, tapering blade. For a second I picture him as the killer, before remembering Maggie’s alibi that he spent the morning of Laura’s death in her bed. He looks like a throwback to the eighties today – dressed in a Springsteen T-shirt, bald head covered in a baseball cap worn back to front. He limps over to peer at Zoe’s face.
‘What’s wrong, darling?’
His sympathy triggers the anxiety she’s been bottling. ‘God, Billy. Someone tried to hurt me; anything could have happened.’
Billy wraps her in a hug, expression tense as he meets my eye; Zoe’s always been one of his favourites. I steal out of the kitchen, confident that he’s better equipped to comfort her than I’ll ever be.
It’s not yet nine, so I walk Shadow round the island’s perimeter, past the Curnows’ glass palace. There’s no categorical proof that Danny has been leaving calling cards and damaging property, or that he killed the girlfriend he professes to love, despite his night-time walks. I’m almost sure the killer’s steering me in the wrong direction. But which members of the island community are angry enough to kick through a solid glass door? Matt Trescothick remains close to the top of my dwindling list of suspects. The last time I saw him, frustration was eating him alive. I can’t prove he’s beating his wife or daughter, but the bruises on Suzanne’s arm are my main concern. Many murder cases begin with a father attacking his child in a fit of madness. But why would Matt te
rrorise Zoe? Maybe his marriage breakdown has sent his emotions out of control.
I spot something moving on Badplace Hill as I leave the beach. The figure is too distant to identify, but I can see his raised arms and that telltale black coat. I’m almost certain it’s the man who was on the cliff when Laura’s body was found. Shadow chases past as I run up the incline. At the top of the hill I’m heaving for breath, scanning the rocky summit. The man’s back is turned, face obscured by a woollen cap, but I recognise Pete Moorcroft’s profile. His binoculars are raised to the sky. I watch him pull a notebook from his pocket before I step into the open, but the dog is misbehaving. He gives a low growl, jaws snapping. The shopkeeper swings round, gasping in shock.
‘You almost gave me a heart attack.’ He looks down at Shadow warily. ‘Does he bite?’
‘Not often, he’s just highly strung.’
Pete gives a shaky laugh. ‘Aren’t we all? This is my first time up here for weeks.’
‘You’re a birdwatcher?’
‘It’s a little-known fact. June calls me a world-class geek.’ His bland face suddenly brightens. ‘There’s a Sabine’s gull down on the ledge. Want to take a look?’
There’s a sheer hundred-foot drop below us. I accept the binoculars and step out of his range before looking. The gull is smaller than the Atlantic variety, with a sleek grey head, beak tipped with yellow.
‘Beautiful, isn’t she?’ His face is animated.
‘Do you ever watch from Gweal Hill?’
‘Not in winter. More varieties nest here; firecrests and green-winged teals.’
‘Funny, I saw someone with binoculars there the other day. He looked just like you.’
‘People watch boats from that side of the island. It’s closer to the shipping channel.’
Shadow snaps at him again. ‘Pack it in,’ I hiss, grabbing his collar.
‘How’s the investigation going? June’s been having nightmares.’ He drops his notebook back into his pocket. ‘She’s scared someone else will get hurt.’
‘Try and reassure her. We’re doing all we can.’
‘Everyone’s grateful you’re working so hard.’ His face is solemn. ‘Let me know if I can help.’
‘Thanks, Pete. I will.’
Shadow seems relieved to say goodbye as I head back down the hill. The dog’s reaction surprises me; normally he accepts every friendly overture. Pete’s black coat flapping in the wind must have spooked him, just like he baulked at the sight of Jim emerging from the shadows outside the community hall. It’s possible that other islanders climb the hills to birdwatch, and it’s hard to imagine someone so mild-mannered harming anyone. Discomfort nags at me again as I trudge down the steep incline: the investigation is making me doubt people who’ve lived here peacefully ever since I was a child.
I pore over Laura’s mobile phone record again in the hall. She called the same numbers every day: Danny, her mum, Suzanne, a couple of girlfriends on Tresco. There was a flurry of brief calls to Sam Austell two weeks before she died, and several long conversations with Dean Miller. I need to find out who she was afraid of while I’ve still got teeth left to grind.
By the time my uncle arrives, I’ve almost forgotten last night’s tense conversation. Ray’s expression is neutral as Eddie leads him to the table. He’s dressed in work overalls, a smudge of varnish on his forearm, blue eyes steady as he sits down. Maybe it’s just me feeling uncomfortable about making him account for himself.
‘How often did Laura visit the yard, Ray?’
‘Every few weeks, I suppose. She’d sit in the corner, chatting away. Most times she was with her sister.’
‘Did she ever come to your flat alone?’
‘Not that I remember. She liked seeing the boats.’
‘What did you talk about?’
‘Countries I’d seen, mainly. She wanted to travel the world.’
‘Is that why you gave her money?’
He shrugs. ‘I help all the kids. Someone has to, don’t they?’
My uncle’s face is impassive. It disturbs me that he’s still so mysterious, after all these years. I had no idea that he routinely gave gifts to the island’s young, as if his hard-earned cash had no personal value. When the interview wraps up, I’m none the wiser. Ray has no confirmed alibi for the morning of Laura’s death. It’s possible that he killed her, then returned to the yard, knocking on Arthur Penwithick’s door at 9 a.m., yet instinct tells me he’d never hurt a soul.
Eddie looks thoughtful as he packs the digital recorder away. ‘Your uncle’s not exactly an open book, is he?’
‘Tell me about it.’
I know Ray’s preferences almost as well as my own. He favours single malt whisky, action movies with an intelligent twist, classical music, Old Holborn tobacco. But I could count the personal statements he’s made over the years on the fingers of one hand.
31
‘Dinner? Eight thirty.’
The message arrives on my walk home, Nina’s texting style is as clipped as her conversation, and it strikes me again that she’s the opposite of the easy-going women I normally choose. I send back a quick acceptance then head for the shower. Ten minutes under the jet fail to dilute the day’s frustrations. Someone is running rings round me, exploiting their knowledge of the island. I’m still brooding when I hunt for something to take round as a gift. Luckily, Maggie has left two bottles of good red wine lurking at the back of a cupboard. I grab one then set off, while Shadow races ahead, pausing every hundred metres to release a pointless but ear-splitting howl. He’s sitting in the porch when I arrive, ears pinned back from running into the wind.
Nina crouches down to greet him, and for once I don’t mind playing second fiddle. It gives me time to admire her. She’s wearing a simple white blouse and leggings, chocolate-brown hair swinging back as she kisses my cheek. I can’t explain why the fact that she seems to have made no effort at all seems sexy. The ghost of her scent lingers in my airways.
‘Do you believe in telepathy?’
She looks bemused. ‘Not since primary school. Why?’
‘The dog always knows where I’m going, before I do.’
‘That’s his job. He’s your shadow, isn’t he?’
‘More’s the pity.’
Nina beckons me down the hall, where garlic, oregano and the pungent smell of cheese browning waft through the kitchen door. I watch her move round, movements languid as she pours the wine then puts down a bowl of water for Shadow. My mouth waters when she lifts a huge pizza from the oven.
‘If you made that, I’m seriously impressed.’
‘Food’s a big deal in my house. My mum’s Italian.’
‘She must be missing you.’
Her voice cools as she slices the pizza. ‘I came here to avoid thinking about my home life.’
‘There’s this thing called conversation, Nina. It’s a popular social ritual. Fancy giving it a try?’
‘It’s not my best skill. When I’m out with friends, I’m always the quiet one.’
‘I’ve only got one serious question.’
Her smile vanishes. ‘What?’
‘Do we have to use cutlery, or can I just dive in?’
The pizza is the best I’ve tasted in years, loaded with sundried tomatoes, black olives and serrano ham. Nina lets a few personal details slip as the wine bottle empties. She considered studying music at college, but surprised her family by opting for medicine instead.
‘How come you like touching people, but not talking?’
She shrugs. ‘Communication’s physical as well as verbal.’
‘I’ll drink to that.’ I lift my glass in her direction. ‘It’s your turn to spill the beans tonight. You still haven’t told me why you’re here.’
She studies her empty plate. ‘It would spoil the evening.’
‘You know I’ll keep on asking.’
‘Wait in the living room then. I’ll make coffee.’
Nina’s lounge is cooler than the kitchen, t
he fire low in the grate. Her bookshelves hold manuals on caring for joint and back problems alongside a few novels by Dickens and Jane Austen. She reappears before I can check out her CDs, movements grinding to a standstill as she puts down the coffee tray.
‘I wasn’t planning to do this. I’m not even sure I can.’
‘You can stop any time, take a breather.’
‘I got married at twenty-one.’ Her arms are folded across her body as she stands by the hearth. ‘Simon was training to be an architect. We were too young, but that didn’t bother us. We had a big church ceremony, fancy reception, then a honeymoon in Paris.’ She perches on an armchair, Shadow curling at her feet. ‘Everything was fine until he had a seizure, five years ago.’ Her voice has fallen to a whisper. I’d like to comfort her, but she’s so pent-up, it would do more harm than good.
‘Don’t go on, if it’s too hard.’
‘The doctors said it was an aneurism, too big to repair.’ She buries her fingers in the softness of Shadow’s fur. ‘We lived as normally as we could, knowing the next haemorrhage could be fatal. His bravery was amazing, but last spring it happened again, and this time he was paralysed. I cared for him at home until he died in June. After the funeral I felt hollow, some days I still do.’
‘That’s why you left Bristol?’
‘It was too painful seeing his stuff everywhere, but I can’t throw anything away. I planned to come here and read, play my violin, find my balance again.’
‘Until I started pestering you?’
‘You’ve been a good distraction.’ She looks apologetic. ‘In your shoes, I’d run for the hills.’
‘That’s not my style.’ Comforting words would be pointless, but she accepts my embrace when I kneel by her chair, her cheek cool against mine.
‘The island’s stopped feeling peaceful. Death seems to follow me around.’
‘Bad timing, that’s all. It’s just me pursuing you.’
‘I noticed.’ She manages a smile. ‘You must be crazy.’
Suddenly Nina’s mood changes. She tugs at my hands, pulling me to my feet. Her fingers chase across my back, desperate for human contact, but something’s cooling already behind all that frantic touch. When I draw back, tears are welling in her eyes. She weeps in silence, with her face pressed to my shoulder, then she draws away.
