by Kate Rhodes
‘You won’t tell mum and dad?’
‘I’ll try, but I can’t promise.’
Her gaze drifts to the stony ground. ‘Laura was calling in the boats, with a flashlight. She got paid for doing it.’
‘She was working for the smugglers?’
‘Laura shone the light from the cliff, or Badplace Hill, when the coast was clear. They left messages for her on the beaches.’
‘And you’ve taken over since she died?’ The girl’s face is so strained, it’s hard to feel angry. ‘Sam Austell was the collector, wasn’t he? Running their supplies to the mainland. That’s why she phoned him.’
‘Laura said I should do it, if she couldn’t.’ The girl is shaking now, fear of punishment making her whole body tremble. ‘She said they’d hurt us all if she stopped.’
‘It ends here. You can give me the flashlight now.’
‘I’m sorry.’ She hands it over without meeting my eye.
‘Now tell me about those bruises your dad put on your arm.’
She ignores my words, turning her face to the sea. ‘Laura was desperate to leave the island. I’ll have to go travelling now, for her sake, see everything she wanted to see.’
‘Where do you think Danny’s gone?’
More tears slip down her face. ‘Maybe people are right about him killing himself.’ Her shivering’s worse now, thin coat flapping in the breeze. She still looks burdened, even though she’s finally revealed how her sister acquired her stash of money.
‘How’s your mum coping?’
‘She wants the funeral soon, so we can say goodbye.’
Her answer doesn’t surprise me. Jenna seems less volatile than Matt, more able to face emotional pain. ‘Don’t come here again, Suzie. Sam Austell could be facing charges for drug dealing when he leaves hospital.’
The girl still looks pale as she heads back down the path, but at least the facts are clear. Now I’ve got definitive proof that smugglers are using the island as a stop-off point. They could be running their supplies in on dinghies, from bigger boats moored at sea, making use of Bryher’s deserted beaches. At present, I’ve got no hard evidence Sam Austell was their delivery boy. It’s possible that Laura took packages over to the mainland too; she must have been desperate, to take such risks.
I walk back down the hill slowly, trying to make sense of what I’ve heard. Laura played a small part in the smuggling ring that the NCA are monitoring. I place a call to regional headquarters and speak to the same officer as before, asking him to send more patrol boats to guard Bryher’s shores, his voice non-committal as the conversation ends. Dean Miller’s words about Rose Austell keep coming back to me too. If Sam was involved in the operation, she might be under threat.
I pick up my pace as I head for Green Bay, hoping for more than Rose’s usual vague answers. Her cabin is in a terrible state when I arrive. One of the window frames has splintered apart, as if the harsh weather has taken its toll, but when I peer inside, the place has been comprehensively trashed, most of her furniture smashed apart. I hold my breath as I look through the other windows, afraid that Rose might be lying injured on the floor, but all I can see is more damage to her property.
My first impulse is to call Eddie, until I remember Madron’s warning to leave the case alone. My concern for Rose is another matter; she guards her solitude so fiercely, I can’t imagine her sleeping on Dean Miller’s sofa for one more night. She could be hiding in a cave somewhere, or out collecting herbs, steering clear of whoever did the damage. All I can do is call back later to check she’s safe.
Ray is on his knees beside the lapstrake when I reach the boatyard, and I’m amazed by how much he’s completed in the past week; only the gunwale and deck waiting to be finished. He’s made a fine job of the lapping without my help, the pieces dovetailed in a seamless line.
‘Come to admire my craftsmanship, Ben?’
‘I’ve got a question, about Danny. Can you spare a minute?’
My uncle watches me steadily. ‘I thought the case was closed.’
‘Where would the currents take his body, if it went in at Green Bay?’
‘I’ll show you.’ He wipes his hands on a rag. ‘Come up then, I haven’t got all day.’
It’s clear he’s irritated by my interruption. Only ancient loyalties make him lead me to his living room, where we stand together, peering at his tide map. Each island is ringed by a frenzy of arrows and a circumference of pale blue sea. To a mariner like Ray, the picture must be easy to interpret; he consults his calendar, then traces lines on the paper with his index finger.
‘The night Danny went missing there was a full moon, like I said. The riptide drags everything southwest. Boats have to find harbour instead of anchoring at sea.’
‘So his body would have been carried down by the tide?’
‘I dropped a barrel off the quay on a moon tide once, when I was young. It washed up on Samson Beach the next morning. He could have been carried further west into the Atlantic stream, but there’s a chance he’d end up there.’
When I stare down at the map, Samson lies due south of Bryher, the smaller island’s outline forming a thin figure of eight. ‘Thanks, Ray. I’ll be back soon to give you a hand.’
‘That’s what you always say.’
‘It’s a promise this time.’
I step out of the yard, then freeze on the spot. The ferry is mooring on the quay, most of the passengers green-faced from the rough crossing. Steve Hilliard, the sleazeball journalist, is first off the boat. He’s walking with renewed energy, like he’s planning to squeeze every ounce of scandal from the granite landscape. A thin-faced blonde is at his side, a heavy-duty camera slung over her shoulder. I duck back into the doorway until they’ve passed. Steve and his crony will be the advanced guard, more hacks on their way. They must be staying at the pub while the hotel’s closed, forcing me to avoid it like the plague.
I tap on Jenna’s door when I reach the village, to warn her about the invasion. She seems calm when she answers the door, but her eyes are hollow. We stand in the hallway as she listens to my news about the influx of journalists.
‘I’ll send them packing if they come here.’
‘Suzanne should take care too. Pumping kids for information is their speciality.’
‘My girl’s not stupid. She won’t give them the time of day.’
‘I saw her on Gweal Hill this morning. Is she okay?’
She glowers at me. ‘She needs answers about her sister, Ben. You promised not to stop looking.’
‘The decision was taken out of my hands. I’m sorry.’
Jenna’s aquamarine stare freezes me to the bone, no words required to damn me, and I understand how she feels. After Clare died I felt the same, passing on my fury to every uniform that arrived at my flat. Anger always feels better than admitting you carry part of the blame.
An unwelcome visitor is waiting outside my cottage. Steve Hilliard must have raced across the island to find me. There’s a sour look on his face, as if he’s still bilious from the crossing.
‘I’d like a word, Inspector.’
‘The case is over. Didn’t you hear?’
He edges in front of me. ‘You screwed up, didn’t you? This is your chance to set the record straight.’
I keep my mouth shut, while the skinny blonde points the foot-long lens of her Pentax at my face, shutter clicking madly, capturing my scowl. It’s a relief to get indoors and lock the door behind me.
I spend the afternoon riffling through boxes of evidence at the cottage, looking for missing clues, but Eddie has been admirably thorough. The vast majority of islanders have an alibi for both Laura’s attack and the night Danny went missing. I’ve got no way of proving which of the remaining suspects is capable of violence. But by the time Nina returns with Shadow, I’ve converted my frustration into action, preparing for my boat trip tomorrow. The clothes she’s borrowed from Zoe are a size too big, yet she still looks stunning. Right now, that feels like anoth
er good reason to punch the wall.
‘Where’ve you been?’ I ask.
‘Treating Angie’s sciatica, the poor thing’s in agony. Did you know there’s a photographer outside?’
When I twitch back the curtain, the blonde woman is still perched on the garden wall. It’s tempting to hurl stones and send her scurrying into the dark like an unwelcome cat. God knows what stories Hilliard will concoct by morning. I go from room to room, pulling down blinds, making sure there are no gaps. Nina seems oblivious to the intrusion, lighting the fire as the dog curls in an armchair. Once the kindling’s blazing, she rocks back on her heels.
‘Want to tell me what’s wrong, Ben?’
‘Not really. I’m taking a holiday from problem-solving.’ I don’t want to admit that this is my first professional failure in years; walking away feels like a dereliction of duty. ‘I should take a long bath, instead of sharing my lousy mood.’
‘It’s never a good sign when you rub the back of your neck.’ Her gaze holds mine. ‘I could give you a massage.’
‘Sounds tempting.’
‘Or we could go to bed.’
‘Sorry?’
‘You heard me.’
‘Are you sure?’ Despite my words, I’m reaching for her already, unable to stop myself.
Her hand settles on my arm. ‘It was going to happen, sooner or later.’
‘Sooner works for me.’
Her invitation makes me stumble from my chair, thoughts spinning. She laughs at me when I lift her off her feet, but her arms hook round my neck as I carry her down the hall. The bedroom’s so dark I light the candle on the bedside table, reminding myself that I’m the first man to touch her since her husband died; she’s more fragile than she seems. My hands feel clumsy as a giant’s when I unbutton her blouse, soft light accenting her pale-gold skin. She’s ridiculously beautiful, a rapt look on her face as her fingers travel across my torso. Then instinct takes over and there’s no need to think any more; she’s tugging at my belt as I pull away the clothes that separate us. There’s no trace of coolness now, her head flung back across the pillow as I explore those slim curves, with my hands, then my mouth. I don’t know if she’s laughing or crying when she finally loses control, but I wait until her eyes focus again before moving deeper inside her. The next time she calls my name, I let myself follow.
44
Rose spends the night in an outbuilding. After fifty-five years of independence, it feels wrong to rely on the mercy of others. Exhaustion hits her when she returns to Green Bay at dawn, senses so dulled that the footsteps trailing behind her go unnoticed. Someone grabs her before she has time to fight, an arm tightening around her throat. Her vision clouds as the heavily accented voice mutters in her ear.
‘Tell me where the package is, Rose.’
‘I don’t know.’ A sharp pain pierces her shoulder, making her cry out.
‘Who’s hiding it for you?’
‘I burned it, so no one else gets damaged.’
‘It’s worth thousands. You wouldn’t be that stupid.’
Now he’s dragging her across the shore. All she sees is a flicker of winter sunlight before she’s plunged under the waves. Brine fills her airways, memories surfacing as she loses consciousness: Sam built sandcastles here, long afternoons hunting for vetch and mermaid’s purse. Now there’s nothing except the freezing cold, and the waves crashing in her ears.
Rose’s eyes blink open again when rain pelts her skin, her teeth chattering. She moves her limbs slowly, testing their strength, thoughts slow to arrive. She’s still lying on the sand when a face looms over her. Laura’s long hair brushes her cheek.
‘Thank God, you’re alive,’ she murmurs.
The girl looks different when her features come into focus, brown-eyed instead of blue. It’s Suzanne touching her arm, not Laura.
‘Who attacked you, Rose?’
‘They’ll do worse, before they’re finished. Will you help me back to the cabin?’
Rose leans on Suzanne’s shoulder as the cold freezes her wet clothes to her skin. Less than fifty yards away she can see the colourful outline of her cabin, overlooking the beach. She walks slowly, the child’s arm supporting her waist.
‘You’ve always been a kind one, haven’t you?’
‘I’m so scared, Rose. I can’t go home again.’
The girl’s panic is visible, her face older than her years. Rose’s distress burns more sharply behind her bruised ribs. She wishes she could offer the child sanctuary, but the men attacked her as a warning. Next time she won’t be so lucky.
‘Go to the schoolhouse, sweetheart,’ she whispers. ‘Dean will take care of you.’
45
I’m warm instead of cold when my eyes open at 5 a.m. Nina’s face is inches from mine, chocolate-brown hair spilling across my pillow, her arm draped over my ribcage. I pull back the duvet as the dawn light filters through the curtains. Her body’s beautiful, long legs tangled with mine, lithe as a dancer.
‘Peeping Tom,’ she murmurs.
‘I thought you were asleep.’
‘That’s no excuse for ogling a naked woman.’
She drops a kiss on my shoulder and it’s tempting to touch her again, even though I’ve kept her awake most of the night. But I need to leave early to avoid rousing the other islanders’ attention.
‘Where are you going?’ she asks.
‘Boat trip, no need to get up.’
I expect her to snuggle back under the covers, but she’s drinking coffee in the kitchen when I finish my shower. I steal the mug from her hands and take a long swallow.
‘There’s more in the pot, Ben.’
‘I haven’t got time.’
She rises to her feet. ‘I’ll come along for the ride.’
‘You’re better off here, with Shadow. The water can be choppy between the islands.’
Nina ignores my advice, even though my chances of finding Danny are worse than locating a needle in a haystack. She keeps pace with me as we cut inland, Shadow leaping ahead.
No one’s stirring when we reach the quay, even Ray and the ferryman’s windows are in darkness, pink light blooming over Tresco’s hills. My uncle has left his dinghy moored to the jetty and the dog jumps onto the bow confidently, as if boat rides are a daily occurrence. The water is uneven as I row through New Grimsby Sound, cold air chilling my face, waves slowing my progress. Once we’re a hundred metres offshore, I yank the cord to start the outboard motor, hoping not to alert the journalists staying at the Rock. The wind’s battering my face as we approach Samson. It’s so near, you can wade over from Bryher at the lowest summer tide, but the place still looks ghostly.
‘Does anyone live there?’ Nina asks.
‘Not for two hundred years. There’s no fresh water supply.’
Anthracite clouds are gathering as we moor on the landing quay, North Hill rising above us. Samson is less than half the size of Bryher, but it still attracts plenty of visitors. People flock here in high season to photograph the deserted beaches and ancient tombs chiselled into the cliffs. My arm slips round Nina’s waist. We must look like any other couple, strolling in a renowned beauty spot, the dog gambolling across the sandy beach.
‘We need to circle the island, checking the tidemark.’
‘Suits me. I like an early walk.’
When I glance down, her hair is swept back from that clean oval face, her smile relaxed. ‘You survived a night with me then. No visible trauma.’
‘Are you digging for compliments?’
‘A few wouldn’t hurt.’
Her smile widens into a grin. ‘I’m just glad everything’s in working order.’
‘I can check again later, to make sure.’
‘Kind of you to volunteer.’
We walk on in silence. Shadow is pawing through seaweed, chewing every stick he finds, but there’s nothing on the tideline except razor shells, slivers of fishing net and the Coke cans yachtsmen lob overboard. We circle the island in half an hou
r without seeing anything suspicious, apart from an Atlantic squall brewing in the distance. If Danny’s body went into the sea, it must have been dragged further south.
I nod at the boat. ‘Want to go back?’
‘Can I see the ruins first?’
It’s a long time since I visited these deserted fields. The island fascinated me as a kid; its perfectly symmetrical, conical hills marking either end, prehistoric farmland edged by crumbling drystone walls. It’s easy to imagine Bronze Age families huddled around their fires. Nina takes her time studying the abandoned homes; their structures still stand proud, door frames splintered away, windows gaping like startled eyes.
It’s at the top of South Hill that I notice something unexpected. There’s a white patch on the sea’s surface twenty metres out from shore; gulls are landing and diving, wings forming a pale cloud.
‘They’ve found something.’
‘What?’ Nina screens her eyes with her hands.
‘Fish, probably. Let’s take a look.’
We walk back down the hill, leaving the granite carn behind, passing the open mouths of rock tombs. Once we reach West Par Sands, my pulse quickens. The birds are squealing in protest as they fight over a new food source. I can’t use the boat in such shallow water; it would run aground and damage the motor. I take off my coat then drop my shoes on the sand, Nina’s eyes widening.
‘You can’t skinny-dip in sub-zero temperatures, Ben.’
‘There’s no other choice.’
I strip down to my boxers, then wade into the sea, with the dog splashing after me. It feels like stepping into a bath full of ice cubes, the chill fierce enough to hurt. By the time I’m thigh-deep, my feet are numb and the gulls are massing overhead, sizing me up as a potential meal. At first I see only the birds surfacing, black-tipped wings in constant motion. The water’s waist-high when I glimpse his hair, waving like the tentacles of anemones. The smell of brine is replaced by the stench of human decay, but it must be imaginary. Danny’s body lies under four feet of water. Shock and cold have frozen my movements, waves slapping my chest, as the tide rises. I turn back to the beach and call out to Nina that I’ve found him, watch her press her hands to her mouth, then fumble for her phone. My teeth chatter when I dive below the surface, hands catching his wrist. It takes effort to pull the boy’s body clear of the seaweed that snares his limbs. I try not to look too closely, but my empty stomach churns as the advancing waves push me ashore.
