Hell Bay

by Kate Rhodes

  Nina is pacing across the shingle, phone pressed to her ear. I remember the official advice on dealing with the drowned: leave them in the water until the police surgeon arrives. Oxygen speeds up decomposition, saturated skin peeling from water-logged flesh. I let Danny’s body lie at the tidemark, waves nudging him further up the beach, and it’s only now that I realise that the sea has treated him less kindly than Laura. Birds have feasted on his face, cheeks a tattered mass of sinew, his eye sockets stripped bare. They’ve damaged his torso too, surface wounds across his abdomen. But when I look more closely, the cause of death is obvious; there’s a puncture mark in the centre of his chest that matches Laura’s, too neat to be self-inflicted.

  ‘Get dry, Ben, you’re turning blue.’ Nina hands me the woollen jumper she borrowed from my drawer.

  My body is still aching when I’m dressed again, huddled inside my padded coat. When I turn round, Nina is on her knees beside the boy’s body. I want to yell at her to stay away and avoid nightmares, before remembering that her medical training would have exposed her to plenty of corpses. Her expression is intense as she makes me walk up and down the beach, warm blood spreading through my veins, diluting the shock. I’d never confess to my mates in the murder squad how much I hate fatalities. Everyone in the MIT prides themselves on being macho, including the women. Nina has caught me at a moment of weakness, teeth chattering from the shock of seeing the damaged body of a seventeen-year-old boy I should have protected.

  I phone Eddie to keep myself occupied. His voice is upbeat, while a boat’s engine grinds in the background; discovering the body will liberate him from tedious duties on Tresco. He’s persuaded one of the local fishermen to drop him at the landing quay. Fifteen minutes later he’s scurrying towards us over the dunes. I can imagine what kind of father he’ll make, attending every sports day with that same hopeful expression. His smile of greeting vanishes when he leans down to inspect the body.

  ‘Someone’s gone to work on him, haven’t they?’

  ‘Seabirds,’ I reply. ‘He was in the water a long time. But you can see he’s been stabbed, through the heart by the look of it. Same killer, same MO.’

  It’s another half-hour before the police launch delivers Madron from St Mary’s. He’s brought Dr Keillor, the elderly pathologist who carried out Laura’s autopsy. Both of their faces are sombre, as if neither man can believe that a second corpse has been fished from the sea. Nina keeps Shadow occupied while the pathologist kneels on plastic sheeting to complete his examination. The tension on the DCI’s face reveals that he’s hoping Danny committed suicide. He looks more like an ageing librarian than a police chief today, dressed in a duffel coat, black trousers grimed with sand.

  ‘What brought you here on a winter day, Kitto?’ he asks.

  ‘Nina wanted to see the ruins, sir. We borrowed my uncle’s boat.’

  ‘You were searching for the boy, weren’t you?’ His frown deepens. ‘At least he’s been found. That’s something to be grateful for.’

  The pathologist walks over, yanking off his plastic gloves. ‘He was killed before he hit the water.’

  ‘You’re sure?’ Madron asks.

  ‘The stab wound would have caused massive internal bleeding.’

  The anger on the DCI’s face warns me that he’s not planning to eat humble pie, no matter that he’s been proved wrong. The sound of another engine whines in the distance – paramedics sent from St Mary’s to deliver Danny’s body to the mortuary. Madron’s tone is severe when he addresses me again.

  ‘You’re back on the case, Kitto. This time I expect a quick result.’

  I give a nod of assent, but even if he’d refused to make me SIO, I would still have felt obliged to deliver my promise to Jenna. ‘What about the press?’

  ‘Give them a briefing, before the rumour mill starts churning.’

  I consider arguing, but his grey stare is as chilly as the brine. Now that the embargo has been lifted, journalists are free to turn over every stone.

  It’s 2 p.m. when I meet the Curnows outside St Mary’s Hospital. Danny’s parents have insisted on seeing him, despite the severity of his wounds. I’d have preferred to ID him through dental records, but a teenager’s death is so hard to accept, they need to see the evidence for themselves. The sky is overcast, but Patty’s opaque sunglasses would suit a movie star. When she removes them, her eyes are so swollen she can hardly blink. Jay looks almost as bad, a sheen of sweat forming on his upper lip.

  ‘You can still change your minds,’ I say quietly.

  Patty shakes her head. ‘We need this, for Danny’s sake.’

  The temporary mortuary is so small, my back presses against the wall when we’re shown into the tiny room where their son’s body lies on a gurney. The duty doctor asks whether the couple are ready for the identification, then draws the sheet back from Danny’s face. Patty remains standing while her husband’s legs buckle. I have to move fast to stop him hitting the floor, half carrying him out into the corridor. His voice is groggy when he finally speaks. There’s no sign now of the man who thought he could buy the whole island for a song.

  ‘That can’t be Danny,’ he murmurs.

  ‘I’m afraid we think it is.’

  I leave him to recover. When I get back inside, Patty is holding her son’s hand, and it occurs to me that Danny’s TAG Heuer watch is missing. The sea has taken the one possession that marked him out as a millionaire’s child.

  ‘My beautiful boy.’ She keeps on repeating the words.

  From her glazed expression, I can tell she’s superimposed how he used to look over that raw mess of wounds.

  We travel back to Bryher on the police launch, sitting in silence in the cabin. Jay’s reaction is the opposite of his relief when Laura was found. All his face shows today is a numb resistance to the truth.

  46

  I chuck an armful of logs on the fire back at the cottage, hard rain battering the windows. The sea’s chill has entered my bones, leaving my skin sticky with salt. I’m longing for a shower, but Eddie sits opposite me at the kitchen table, pencil hovering over a sheet of paper. He looks expectant, as if I might be about to dictate the correct answer.

  ‘Whoever killed Danny left home late Sunday night, without being spotted.’

  ‘So it’s someone who lives alone?’ he asks.

  ‘Not necessarily. Matt’s mum’s deaf, she wouldn’t have heard him leave. It has to be someone with strong feelings for Laura and Danny. Smugglers have been running drugs through the island, and Laura was mixed up in it. There’s a chance Danny was too, but I’ve never heard of drug runners being killed round here. Suppliers want to stay invisible; they hate taking risks. I’m still sure both victims knew their killer well.’

  ‘You think it’s Matt Trescothick?’

  A pulse of heat passes through my chest. ‘Jenna was on the beach alone, on Sunday night. She’s been under stress for months, just like Matt. Maybe she resented her daughter leaving Bryher badly enough to kill her.’

  Eddie gapes at me. ‘That’s pretty far-fetched, boss. Jenna seems desperate for the killer to be found.’

  ‘It’s the perfect smokescreen.’

  ‘You’re going to walk in there and accuse her of murder?’

  ‘I’ll talk to Suzanne first. She can give us more details of the trouble Laura was facing.’

  We’re still poring over the suspect list when I remember the press briefing Madron insisted on. Journalists have been arriving from the mainland on each ferry since the embargo lifted. Maggie has already corralled them at the pub; with luck, my formal update will stop them hassling the islanders.

  Seven reporters are waiting when I arrive at the Rock. The function room Maggie keeps for private parties smells of stale air, the ceiling stained by a history of tobacco. Steve Hilliard and his emaciated sidekick look sceptical when I start the meeting.

  ‘You’ll have heard that Danny Curnow’s body was found on the island of Samson this morning. We’ll need a post-
mortem to understand how he died.’

  ‘But you think it’s suicide?’ Hilliard watches my reactions like a hawk.

  ‘The pathologist will determine cause of death. Right now, we need to find out why Danny left home on Sunday evening, or the early hours of Monday morning.’

  A dark-haired woman raises her eyebrows. ‘Laura Trescothick’s case has been reopened, so you must think the two deaths are linked.’

  ‘I’ll be checking for any connections.’

  ‘You’re such a professional, Inspector.’ Hilliard gives a rasping laugh. ‘We’ve heard about your whirlwind romance. It’s amazing you’ve found time to work on the case at all.’

  ‘My private life is irrelevant.’

  The terse reply shuts him up for an instant, letting me focus on the job in hand. I offer only the bare facts and warn them not to doorstep Laura or Danny’s families. My teeth are still on edge when I leave the pub, half expecting to be followed.

  Jenna’s cottage is in darkness when I arrive. She listens to me say my piece without responding. Any trace of softness seems to have vanished since my last visit, anger written across her features.

  ‘Can I come in, Jenna?’

  ‘Not now. Suzanne’s ill, I don’t want her disturbed.’

  ‘What’s wrong with her?’

  ‘Exhaustion, she just needs to rest.’ Clearly she’s cast me as the villain, until the killer is brought to book.

  ‘You must be relieved that Laura’s case has been reopened.’

  Jenna folds her arms. ‘It’s disgusting that it was ever closed. I don’t want you hassling Suzie again; you’ll give her a breakdown. She’s told you everything she knows.’

  The door shuts in my face before I can ask another question. An irrational part of me considers shouldering it down, to check on Suzanne’s welfare, but I walk to the back of the building instead. The light is on in the girl’s room. When her outline appears behind the curtain, my heart rate calms. Jenna’s reactions to Laura’s death have veered from one extreme to another, shifting from hysterical grief to drug-induced calm, then hostility. The likelihood of a mother killing her daughter is thousands to one, but her behaviour increases my need to speak to Suzanne again.

  My next port of call is Rose Austell’s cabin, but there’s still no sign of her. My concern is rising; between us, Danny and I have contacted every household on the island, but there have been no sightings of her today. The beach is deserted as I head through the dark, sea wind attacking me as I reach Hell Bay. There’s a surprise waiting for me at the cottage, something glittering on my doorstep. When I crouch down, the object is easy to identify: Danny’s TAG Heuer watch, absolute proof at last that the killer is leaving the calling cards, not someone else getting in on the act. I scan the outside of the building with my torch, but my visitor has vanished into thin air. My only welcoming committee is Shadow, who stirs himself to follow me into the kitchen. He stands by his bowl, ears pricked, waiting for food. Once I’ve packed the watch in an evidence bag I drop a handful of biscuits into his bowl, disappointed that Nina has gone to bed early, when I could use her calm intellect. The light’s already out in her room and it feels wrong to wake her. Maybe last night was a one-off, to prove that she’s recovering, after months of grief.

  I take my time in the bathroom, showering away the salt from that morning’s freezing dip, then find a second surprise waiting for me, but this time I’m not complaining. Nina is curled up asleep in my bed. Her breathing changes as I settle beside her, moonlight filtering through the curtains as she touches me. The sex is gentler this time, moving together like night swimmers with a distance to travel, pacing ourselves. Afterwards she rests against me, her hand on my chest. My body’s glowing, but the case won’t leave me alone; there’s no way to forget the killer’s taunts.

  47

  Madron drops a copy of the Mail in front of me at the community hall on Saturday morning. The headline shrieks SCILLY ISLAND MURDER MAYHEM. They’ve taken pictures of me and Nina, guaranteed to end our relationship before it’s begun, the story written in comic-book language. Nina is described as a ‘tragic beauty’, and I’m the ‘rugged island cop’ tasked with finding Laura’s killer. Steve Hilliard must have grown tired of chasing facts, settling for fantasy instead. He’s magnified the one low point in my career a hundredfold. They’ve even found pictures of Nina on her wedding day, her face glossy with happiness. My first impulse is to track the lying scumbag down then chuck him off the quay.

  ‘You played right into their hands,’ Madron snaps. ‘A murder investigation isn’t the time for flirtations.’ Argument would be pointless, my only choice to hear him out. ‘You’ve resisted orders from the start. Do you even remember who’s in charge?’

  ‘You are, sir.’

  ‘We’ll do it my way from now on.’ The strain of keeping my mouth shut while the DCI barks out his lecture makes my jaw ache. ‘Jenna Trescothick says her daughter’s mental health’s suffering. Don’t question that child again.’

  ‘If anyone knows what happened to Laura, it’s Suzie. Those girls were inseparable.’

  ‘Disobey me and I’ll have you replaced. Do you understand?’

  I give a slow nod of agreement, before pulling Danny’s watch from my pocket. The DCI peers at it through the evidence bag, the rest of the meeting passing without incident. He marches away after my update, shoulders back like a general inspecting his troops. It’s only when he’s gone that I kick my chair across the room. Why would Jenna suddenly raise her defences, unless she’s got something to hide? The meeting with Madron confirms the need to interview her daughter again, even though she’s out of reach.

  I decide to clear my head before Eddie arrives. To kill two birds with one stone, I set off for the shop, to collect groceries and get some exercise. June and Pete Moorcroft are busy stacking their shelves. The shopkeeper’s grey hair is neatly combed, his wife decked out in a floral shirt, Radio Four playing in the background. The place is the epitome of calmness, smelling of fresh bread and lavender soap, everything so orderly I can feel my blood pressure dropping. June gives a nod of greeting as I pack a cardboard box with bread, cheese, oranges and cartons of cereal.

  She looks amused by my purchases. ‘Shopping for two these days?’

  ‘Just restocking my kitchen.’

  ‘In a big way, my friend.’

  I’m about to reply when my own face stares back at me from the newspaper rack, windswept and harassed, reminding me to warn Nina that she’s front-page news. I’m so preoccupied that I miss the tension in Pete’s manner until he follows me outside.

  ‘A quick word before you go,’ he murmurs as we stand in the porch. ‘I remembered something about Danny. I saw him with Arthur the night he went missing, around nine o’clock. They were talking on the quay. It didn’t strike me as odd at the time.’

  ‘But it does now?’

  ‘Our ferryman’s not the chatty type, is he? Sometimes he hardly says a word when he comes here to shop.’

  ‘Thanks, Pete, that’s useful.’

  He gives a gentle shrug. ‘Could be nothing.’

  I’m torn in two directions when I leave. My first impulse is to protect Nina from the scandalmongers, but duty wins by a hair’s breadth. Arthur Penwithick’s ferry is returning to the quay. It doesn’t take long for the Bryher Maid to chug back across New Grimsby Sound, releasing a plume of smoke. I dump my box of groceries on the slipway and wait for him to moor. Penwithick is still wearing his skipper’s cap, yellow oilskins protecting him from the cold, his small eyes wary.

  ‘Have you got a minute, Arthur?’

  ‘Not now. I’m due at St Mary’s.’

  ‘It won’t take long. You spoke to Danny Curnow on Sunday night, didn’t you? Can you remember what he said?’

  A look of distress crosses his face. ‘I was fixing a lamp on the boat and he started telling me his woes. The lad wasn’t making sense. He kept ranting about who could have hurt Laura. Most of it went over my head, he spoke
so fast.’

  ‘It could have been his last conversation. Can you write down anything you remember for me today, please?’

  He gives a slow nod. ‘I’ll do my best.’

  I thank him, then hurry away. There’s no movement when I pass Jenna’s house again, curtains still drawn, a light glowing in the kitchen behind lowered blinds. I wait a few minutes, hoping Suzanne might emerge, but there’s no sign. Sooner or later I’ll have to break through Jenna’s layer of protection to get the information I need. All the islanders have given me so far are hints and half-truths. The longer their smokescreen clouds the air, the harder it will be to find the killer. Frustration makes me head for the boatyard: Ray is one of the few islanders I can trust for a direct answer. Maybe that clear-sighted gaze of his can spot something I’ve missed.

  A sound picks up when I reach the boatyard, almost as high and keening as Shadow’s howl. Suzanne Trescothick is hunched on the bench inside Ray’s workshop. My uncle looks oddly calm, as if comforting distressed teenagers is part of his normal routine. He beckons for me to enter, so I pull up a stool, digging in my pocket for a tissue. When the girl’s weeping quiets, Ray slips away, to let me speak to her alone.

  ‘Try and tell me what’s wrong, Suzie.’

  ‘There’s no point. No one can help me.’ She wipes her face with the tissue, exposing a fresh bruise on her wrist.

  ‘You could say who’s been hurting you, for a start.’

  She shakes her head vehemently. ‘That’s not why I’m here.’

  I rest my hand on hers. ‘I promise to keep you safe.’

  ‘Laura’s the only one I could trust.’

  ‘Your mum’s been hitting you, hasn’t she?’