by Kate Rhodes
‘I’m not convinced, Kitto. You’ve got till tonight, then travel restrictions will be lifted. The commissioner wants the island back to normal.’
‘You can’t do that, sir. The killer could strike again.’
Madron’s stare hardens. ‘It’s obvious the boy killed his girlfriend then took his own life. You’ve worked hard, but you’re too close to the case. I’ll handle the wind-down.’ He checks his task list again. ‘Contact the coroner again, can you? See how fast they can release Laura Trescothick’s body for burial.’
‘It’ll be the end of the week, at the earliest. What about the press?’
‘Once the case closes, they can do as they please.’
The news is like a direct kick in the guts. Bryher will be open for business again from tomorrow, as if no threat exists. Journalists will flood the island once the embargo lifts, selling the story as Romeo and Juliet, star-crossed lovers from warring families who met the same tragic fate.
When I get back to Bryher, Eddie is keeping watch by the pool.
‘No news,’ he says quietly. ‘The divers are just finishing.’
He looks stunned when I explain that the DCI is pressing for a quick conclusion, despite having no proof that Danny Curnow committed suicide.
‘It’s too soon,’ he says. ‘It took us days to find Sam Austell; Danny could still be hiding somewhere.’
We stand together in silence, watching the divers appear then vanish again, like performing seals. Eddie is starting to feel like an ally, now that he’s stopped accepting Madron’s edicts as the word of God. The two divers look exhausted when they blow water from their breathing gear, then peel off their wetsuits. Swimming is a passion of mine, but I wouldn’t trade jobs with them for the world. Their best day’s work involves hauling corpses from the water. Judging by their bleak expressions, they would rather deliver the boy’s body to us than go home empty-handed. I leave Eddie to thank them and return to the community hall, more certain than ever that the killer is teasing us. He left Danny’s coat floating on the pool’s surface to give himself a head start, while the real clues went cold.
Someone is crouched by the side entrance to Hell Bay Hotel as I walk back. When I get closer, Jim Helyer is battening wood over the broken glass door. He looks startled when he swings round, the smile I remember from our schooldays slow to appear.
‘Did Zoe ask you to fix that, Jim?’
‘She moved back just now. I’m making the place secure for her.’
I curse under my breath then jog upstairs. The door to Zoe’s flat hangs open, I can see her through the gap, hunched over her computer, humming along to a song playing on her headphones.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’
‘Choosing songs from my backlist. An agency in London might put me on their books, if I send them a wider selection.’
‘Why are you so bloody keen to leave? I thought you were happy here.’
She blinks at me. ‘You only live once, big man. This place is beautiful, but I have to spread my wings.’
‘That’s not relevant right now. You should stay at the pub till I give you the all-clear.’
‘I’m perfectly safe here. Danny’s been a lost soul ever since Laura died. He took his own life, didn’t he?’
Hearing Madron’s argument repeated makes me grit my teeth. ‘Someone could have murdered them both.’
‘It was a lover’s tiff that got out of control, and now it’s over.’ Zoe’s fixed expression shows that she’ll never back down.
‘Don’t blame me if you get hurt. I’ll be round later to check the place is safe.’
‘Love you too, sweetie.’
She blows me a mocking kiss before returning to her music. Jim’s gone by the time I get back downstairs, leaving the door neatly fixed. He’s installed a new mortise lock and nailed sheets of wood over the broken glass, but the extra security doesn’t reassure me.
I channel all my frustration into organising another search this afternoon. People’s voices sound jaded on the phone, as if they’re sick of constant worry, but a group of around twenty is milling outside the pub when we set off at two o’clock. The tide is so far out, Cromwell’s castle seems within touching distance, battlements and turrets charcoal grey against the pale sky.
‘Thanks for helping us again,’ I tell the group. ‘Search the high-water mark, please, for anything that could belong to Danny.’
Everyone on my suspect list is along for the ride. Dean Miller is wearing a bandage over one eye, still looking frail, while Matt Trescothick and Jay Curnow stay at separate ends of the crowd. Patty is clinging to her husband’s arm, her face pinched. It’s Pete Moorcroft who trots over as I lead the group down to the beach, his anxious voice droning in my ears.
‘Sad, isn’t it?’ he says. ‘As if losing Laura wasn’t awful enough.’
‘We don’t know what’s happened to Danny yet.’
‘But we can guess. The kid was heartbroken, wasn’t he?’
‘There’s no evidence, Pete. That’s why we’re here.’
He recedes into the crowd, leaving me to scan the tideline. My eyes keep being drawn to Tresco’s inlets as we pass Frenchman’s Point. Under different circumstances I’d love to stroll round the bigger island alone, calling at the pub later for a quiet beer. We sweep the curve of Green Bay, our boots crunching across gravel, passing Rose Austell’s dilapidated cabin. We’ve been searching half an hour before a shout goes up. Billy Reese is with Maggie at the high-water mark, holding something aloft, like a trophy winner. The item in his hands is a grey trainer, bearing the Adidas logo. There’s no need to ask if it belongs to Danny; Patty Curnow is already in floods of tears. Matt remains at the edge of the circle, head down, his expression bleak. If he’s the killer, seeming concerned is a wise strategy, even though the missing boy’s father is his arch-enemy.
Billy’s find brings a new energy to the search, people fanning across the beach, checking the shingle. My uncle catches up with me as the group edges forwards.
‘If Danny went into the sea last night, he’ll have been dragged south.’
‘How come?’
‘Full moon,’ he replies. ‘The riptide was at its strongest, his body could be miles from here.’
Ray walks on slowly, still scanning the ground. The investigation may have added him to my list of suspects, but I still trust his judgement. After decades spent designing boats for local waters, no one understands the tides better.
Patty and Jay Curnow have gone home, but the dozen islanders in my team carry on searching until dusk falls. We meet up with Eddie at the foot of Samson Hill. The rest of the party traipse away, weary from the slow trudge across familiar terrain. When my deputy speaks again, for once his face is bleak.
‘We’re no further on, are we?’ he asks.
‘At least we know that he may have walked into the sea, or someone dragged him there.’
‘What do we tell his parents, boss? We’ve covered the whole island, but the boy may never be found.’
Eddie seems embarrassed by the words escaping from his mouth. He probably knows that my father was lost at sea, his body never recovered. Family tragedies are always public knowledge in a place this small. He heads away, but I stay on the beach, watching the tide turn. The waves are racing in with a vengeance, making me step back to avoid a soaking. When I look up, Bonfire Carn is a black pinnacle against the sky. Someone is standing on Samson Hill, light glinting from his binoculars, coat flailing in the wind. I race up the incline, sending loose pieces of slate skittering down to the beach, but when I reach the top, only the carn is waiting for me, its stones piled three metres high. Whoever was on the summit five minutes ago must be thrilled to watch me floundering in the dark.
39
The Curnows are in no state for visitors, but it’s my job to warn them that the DCI is closing the case tomorrow. Patty looks exhausted as we sit in their state-of-the-art kitchen, long hair ragged from searching the windswept beach. Jay’s voice
is gruff with anger when he finally speaks.
‘There’s no way my son topped himself.’
Tears ooze from Patty’s eyes. ‘Danny wouldn’t be that cruel. He’d have left us a note.’
‘It’s possible your son caused Laura’s death, then ended his own, out of guilt.’
Jay rocks forward in his seat. ‘People are saying that?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘Idiots, the lot of them,’ he snaps. ‘Danny’s as gentle as they come. That’s half his trouble.’
‘Can you think of anyone he’d argued with recently?’
His temper cools slightly. ‘Matt Trescothick made snide remarks a few months back outside the pub, but my son walked away. That bloke’s always looking for trouble.’
‘No one else?’
‘He doesn’t like Dean Miller, but never said why.’ Patty’s voice falls to a whisper.
It’s easy to see why Danny would have resented the artist’s intimate paintings of his girlfriend, but there are no other reports of tension between them. I spend the next half-hour trying to find out who could have followed their son, but Patty retreats into her shell, dabbing her eyes with a screwed-up tissue. She only speaks again as I get up to leave.
‘He could still be alive, couldn’t he? There’s no proof he’s dead.’
The look on her face reminds me of my mother’s expression, weeks after my father’s boat sank, still clinging to the idea that one day he’d be found.
‘He’s been missing nearly forty-eight hours, Patty.’
She’s doesn’t seem to hear, hope still glowing on her face as I say goodbye. Jay is monosyllabic; he’s hardly met my eye during the interview, and now he’s rushing me out of the door. He fits the stereotype for a cold-blooded killer perfectly – ruthless and lacking in empathy, desperate to retain control. He even tried to implicate Matt during our brief conversation, yet there’s nothing tangible linking him to Laura’s death or his son’s absence.
For once I could use Shadow’s company on the walk home, to cancel the tension that’s hung over me all day. Music floats from an open window when I reach the cottage; there’s a wildness to it, like a storm spinning inland. When I peer through the living room curtains, Nina is playing her violin, slim body swaying with the tempo, the dog lazing by the fire. The sight of her conjuring that pure sound keeps me rooted to the spot for a long time, but the music falls silent as I walk through the door.
‘Don’t stop on my account. I could use some harmony.’
‘I should practise more. I keep hitting wrong notes.’
It calms me to see her face, tawny eyes watching me take off my coat. She follows me into the kitchen while I pour a glass of wine, then raid the fridge for bread and cheese, suddenly remembering how little I’ve eaten. My normal pattern is to isolate myself after a lousy day at work, but she’s waiting for an explanation.
‘Everything’ll be wasted at this rate.’
‘How do you mean?’ she asks.
‘Logic doesn’t always produce the right result. I know the killer’s still out there, getting away with double murder.’
‘You could be right. Danny didn’t seem broken, last time I saw him. He looked like someone on a mission.’
Gratitude washes over me. Apart from Eddie, she’s the first person to believe my theory. She returns to the living room to let me eat in peace, the lilting sound of her violin drifting through the closed door. I’m about to give up on work for the night when the Skype symbol on my computer begins to flash. DCI Sarah Goldman’s gaunt features appear on the screen; she’s wearing a professional smile, grey hair scraped back from her face. My line manager has never skyped me before, preferring to send emails. She’s calling from Hammersmith, her office so recently decorated the white walls look like a hospital waiting room.
‘This is unexpected, ma’am.’
‘Just a quick call, Ben. How’s your busman’s holiday going?’
‘It’s frustrating right now. The case isn’t going to plan.’
‘That’s murder investigation for you,’ she replies. ‘I thought you’d want to know the results of Clare’s inquest.’
The screen blanks, and time passes too slowly until Goldman reappears, her face dividing into abstract squares of colour. I pull in a long breath as her image sharpens again. ‘Sorry, boss, I lost you. The signal’s terrible down here. Can you repeat that?’
‘Clare had end-stage pancreatic cancer. She took matters into her own hands, rather than facing months of palliative care. I’m amazed she carried on working for so long.’
‘Why didn’t she say anything?’
‘I think it was a brave decision on her part, and no one was to blame. I want you back here whenever you’re ready, Ben. You’re a key member of my team.’
‘Thanks for contacting me, ma’am.’
‘We’ll speak again soon.’
When I close my computer, my heart’s beating like a snare drum and Nina has slipped into the chair next to mine.
‘That sounded like a tough conversation,’ she says.
Knowing the truth doesn’t excuse me. Why the hell didn’t Clare explain? ‘The daft cow probably thought she was protecting me.’
‘Have you talked to anyone about it?’
‘The police counsellor told me not to dwell on it and get more exercise. The Met aren’t great with anything touchy-feely.’ I rub my hand across the back of my neck.
Nina studies me again. ‘No wonder you’re in pain. Your injury’s emotional, not physical.’
‘It’s a trapped nerve, that’s all.’
‘That’s a stupid piece of denial.’
‘Thanks for the diagnosis, Dr Jackson.’
Her hand settles on my wrist. ‘I’m going to see Zoe. Want to come?’
‘Not tonight, but I’ll walk you there. I need to check the hotel’s secure.’
The wind picks up while we cross Hell Bay, Shadow barking at full volume as he races between the dunes. When Nina slips her arm through mine I feel a quick jolt of pleasure and realise that I’m on dangerous ground. I don’t just fancy her, I like her too, and we’re facing the same challenge; both struggling to make sense of a missing element. My secrets spill out whenever she’s around, drawn by that half-formed smile that only appears when she’s genuinely amused.
‘Call me when you’re ready to come back.’
‘I can cross the beach alone, Ben. The dog’ll be with me.’
‘Someone attacked me half a mile from here, remember? I’ll collect you.’
She gives a grudging nod, the look on her face half grateful, half irritated. When I whistle for Shadow he follows her up the steps, tongue lolling. I circle the hotel grounds after they’ve gone inside, checking windows and doors. It still annoys me that Zoe moved back before I can guarantee the island’s safe, but at least the access points to her building are secure.
Back at the cottage I pour the rest of my wine down the sink, the puritanical streak in me rejecting easy comfort. I sit by the fire, remembering Sarah Goldman’s words, the guilt I’ve carried for weeks gradually fading. I’m still so revved when Nina sends her text, it’s a relief to stride across the beach again, the exercise allowing me to switch off my thoughts.
40
Rose stands alone on the beach below Gweal Hill. The sea has always been her refuge, but tonight its magic can’t protect her. When she was a child she slept with her bedroom window open, the ocean’s song lulling her to sleep. It’s a harsher sound tonight, pebbles scraping over granite, a cacophony of waves pounding the cliff.
She glances over her shoulder again, too afraid to return home. Moonlight pools on the water, great orbs of white floating on the dark. She stares at the waves until her eyes glaze, fantasy and reality starting to blur. Wreckers’ voices echo down through the centuries, calling for blood, before killing the lawmen who stand in their way. On the horizon, she glimpses a tall ship listing on the rocks, drawn by the beacons on Badplace Hill. The taste of gunpowder, d
ry and acrid, catches the back of her throat, but the beach is empty.
‘Wake up,’ she murmurs. ‘There’s no one here.’
Rose knows that she must find shelter. It’s too cold to spend the night outside, but pleading for help from another islander feels impossible, until she remembers the one person who never asks questions.
Dean Miller looks disappointed when she arrives at his door, as if he was hoping to see someone else. The artist listens in silence to her request. She’s grateful that he doesn’t press for details, simply leading her to his untidy living room. He rummages in a cupboard for blankets and a pillow then leaves her to sleep.
Rose stretches out on Miller’s sofa, but her body refuses to unwind. She longs to be back in her cabin, surrounded by familiar aromas; she tries to conjure the marine smells of wireweed and sea kale without success. Her only company is the wind gusting down the chimney, raw as an infant’s cry.
41
There’s no sign of Nina or Shadow in the kitchen when I get up in the morning. She must have taken him for an early walk, so I drag on tracksuit bottoms and put myself through a punishing round of exercises. My body complains with the first sit-up, but my head feels clearer after dozens of squats, jumps and lunges. I’m so focused on completing my last set of press-ups that I don’t hear Nina return, a cold blast of air announcing her presence. I finish the set fast, then rise to my feet, aware that a sweaty, bare-chested man might put her off breakfast. By contrast, she looks good enough to eat in one swallow, pink-cheeked from the cold, hair ruffled by the breeze.
‘I’ve never seen anyone do one-handed press-ups before.’ Her eyes trail across my shoulders, then back to my face.
‘They satisfy my masochistic streak.’
I’m about to head for the shower, but she blocks my way, expression determined. ‘I could take a room at the hotel if you prefer, Ben.’
‘Why? I’d rather you stayed.’
‘Having me around seems to put you on edge.’ That clear gold stare is impossible to avoid. ‘I wish you’d explain why.’
‘Let’s talk tonight. I’ll organise some food.’
