Hell Bay

by Kate Rhodes

The girl keeps her face averted, a wall of silence surrounding her. Logic tells me that Jenna must be responsible for the new marks on her daughter’s skin; the kid’s been locked inside for days, with no contact from anyone else.

  ‘It only happens if I do something wrong.’ Her voice is a dry whisper. ‘She’s been worse since Laura died.’

  ‘Did she punish your sister too?’

  ‘Once, for staying out late. The next time, Laura hit her back.’

  The statement fits my image of the older girl; a free spirit, feisty and confident. It also explains why Suzie stuck to her side, hoping for protection. It’s hard to accept that the golden girl of my youth has been raining abuse on her youngest child.

  ‘Does your dad know?’

  ‘Mum made us promise to keep quiet. I knew she’d lose it if I told him.’

  ‘What kind of things set her off?’

  Suzanne gives a tired shrug. ‘Talking back, not helping her enough, leaving my room messy. Pretty much anything.’

  ‘Where do you go to escape?’

  ‘Dean’s studio sometimes, or Rose’s cabin.’

  ‘Can I see your arm?’

  She doesn’t move at first, then slowly pulls back the sleeve of her jumper. Large red welts mark her inner arms, already turning blue. It looks like she’s been beaten recently with something straight and solid, the bruises big enough to make me angry with myself for not springing her out of there sooner.

  ‘That looks painful. You’ll need to see a doctor, Suzie.’

  The girl’s eyes are terrified. ‘Don’t tell Mum, please. She’ll be so angry.’

  ‘I can’t let her hurt you again. You can stay at your gran’s tonight.’

  More tears leak from her eyes, then she’s on her feet, running outside. I call after her, but it’s too late. The kid is probably desperate for comfort from her grandmother. If Jenna’s angry enough to wound her youngest daughter, she could have stabbed Laura in a fit of rage. The older girl wasn’t passive and accepting like her sister; her defiance might have been the catalyst that flipped Jenna from domestic abuser to murderer in a few short seconds.

  Eddie is waiting for me in the freezing community hall, fiddling with a radiator. ‘The system’s buggered, boss. I’ll ring round for a portable heater.’

  ‘Not now, I need you with me. I’m about to make an arrest.’

  He stares at me open-mouthed as I tell him that Suzanne’s mother hits her regularly, and Laura was beaten too. He calls the station on St Mary’s to request a boat immediately, then follows me to Jenna’s cottage, his non-stop chatter quiet for once, as if the gravity of the situation is taking its toll.

  Jenna opens the door by a crack when we arrive, clear blue eyes judging us through the gap. I can feel Eddie hanging back, reluctant to get involved.

  ‘This is harassment,’ she says. ‘I’ve already made a complaint.’

  ‘It’s an urgent police matter, Jenna. You need to let us in.’

  Her kitchen is a mess, dishes stacked high in the sink, empty tins and soup cartons strewn across the counter, but Jenna doesn’t seem to care. She’s wearing worn-out jeans and a black roll-neck jumper, staring at us like we’re the wrongdoers as I explain her rights.

  ‘I’m arresting you for assaulting Suzanne. You’re also being arrested on suspicion of murdering Laura.’

  She gapes at me as I explain that she’ll be detained on St Mary’s. Her eyes glow with outrage, but she doesn’t move a muscle. It’s growing easier every minute to see her as a potential killer. She has stored her anger behind that blank mask so effectively, it never revealed itself fully until now.

  ‘My daughter’s been murdered, and you’re wasting time with this nonsense.’

  ‘Physical abuse of a child is serious, Jenna. You could get a prison sentence.’

  ‘What rubbish has she been telling you? I should see her before this goes any further.’

  ‘That won’t be possible for a while. Pack some clothes, please, then we’ll get moving.’

  It’s a brief but choppy ride to St Mary’s. Jenna sits in the small cabin, posture rigid as a figurehead. It’s too late for a solicitor to travel from the mainland, so she’ll spend the night in one of the tiny holding cells. It’s eight feet by six, holding only a narrow bunk, toilet and sink, a window too high to see through. My pity evaporates when I remember the bruises on her daughter’s arm – so much violence directed at a fourteen-year-old child. There’s no sign of Madron, but I can imagine his reaction to the news. He warned me not to harass Suzanne, yet I’ve taken the radical step of arresting her mother.

  Things don’t improve when I return to Bryher. Steve Hilliard is waiting by the quay, swaddled in a thick coat. It crosses my mind to tell him exactly what I thought of the story he concocted, but I keep my mouth shut, ignoring his flurry of questions.

  It’s already dark when I visit Gwen Trescothick’s house to check on Suzanne. The girl is huddled on her grandmother’s settee, pale-faced with distress, the TV burbling in the background. Her dad stands with me in the kitchen when I inform him of Jenna’s arrest.

  ‘You think she killed Laura?’ Matt’s voice is flatlining.

  ‘She’ll be questioned tomorrow. Did you know she’d been hitting Suzanne?’

  ‘Of course not. I’d have brought her to Mum’s straight away.’

  ‘You didn’t see the bruises?’

  He winces. ‘She told me she’d fallen on the stairs.’

  ‘Her mum may have given her more serious injuries, Matt. She’ll need a medical.’

  I explain that a doctor will examine Suzanne tomorrow, before saying goodbye. Mrs Trescothick appears to have aged several years, shoulders so stooped that an invisible weight seems to be resting on her. Shock has wiped Matt’s expression clean, as if he can’t believe the information he’s been given.

  48

  There should be a sense of elation after an arrest, but too many questions nag at me as I follow the inland path towards Hell Bay. The walk feels peaceful at first, stars pulsing overhead, the moon playing hide-and-seek behind a bank of cloud. Then I feel it again, someone’s gaze slithering up my spine. I yank my torch from my pocket and spin 360 degrees, trailing the beam over trees and bushes, tall patches of wild grass. No one’s there, yet the sensation grows stronger all the time.

  ‘Show yourself, for fuck’s sake.’ The words blast from my mouth at full volume.

  Right now, I’m in such a foul mood I’d happily smash my torch into the face of my invisible companion, but nothing stirs. The noise of waves scattering shingle across the beach whispers in the background. It should be soothing, but it has the opposite effect. I’m certain another set of footsteps was echoing mine, even though the sound has fallen silent.

  My spirits improve when I reach Hell Bay. The lights are on at home, smoke pouring from the chimney. I still haven’t figured out why it feels so good to know Nina’s waiting there, the dog keeping her company. My last attempt at cohabitation was a disaster. I was twenty-six, way too selfish to accommodate anyone else’s needs; after a few months she grated on me, even though we limped on for another year. Since then I’ve lived solo, tolerating bouts of loneliness rather than facing another mistake. My happiness soon fades when I find Nina poring over a copy of the Mail.

  ‘I wanted to tell you about that first.’

  Her calm eyes scan my face. ‘Maggie came by to drop off your groceries, so we went through it together. Most of it’s nonsense.’

  ‘You’re not upset?’

  ‘I hate personal information being made public, but I can handle it.’ She drops the paper on her chair. ‘Someone delivered a letter for you earlier.’

  She points at an envelope on the sideboard. It contains a sheet of A4 paper, half covered in dense scrawl. It looks like ants have rolled themselves in ink then marched across the page. Only the signature is legible: Arthur Penwithick. I’m guessing that it’s a transcript of Danny’s last conversation.

  ‘A graphologist woul
d have a field day.’ Nina peers over my shoulder. ‘Want to try some of Maggie’s emergency rations?’

  Her cool expression twists the knot in my gut even tighter. I was expecting tears and soul-searching about the newspaper story, but all I see on her face is the battle-worn strength that attracted me from the start. We sit in the kitchen, eating lamb tagine with hunks of fresh bread. Nina has already heard about Jenna’s arrest; the news crossing the island like wildfire. By tomorrow the tabloids will have decided she’s guilty, before she’s even been interviewed.

  Nina meets my eye. ‘You really hate the press, don’t you?’

  ‘I don’t mind people in war zones posting films on YouTube. Professional freelancers don’t give a shit about the truth.’

  ‘And you do?’

  ‘Of course, it’s why I do my job.’

  She shakes her head. ‘I’ve never met anyone so convinced they’re right. I spend most of my time sitting on the fence.’

  ‘You like fixing people. We’re not so different.’ I’m on the verge of explaining why we’re compatible when her expression changes. She shifts back in her chair, shoulders tensing.

  ‘I’ve decided to go home early, Ben.’

  ‘Because of that rubbish in the paper?’

  ‘I have to face reality sooner or later. My parents need me, and so do my friends.’

  I suppress my urge to beg. ‘When do you leave?’

  ‘Next week, I’ll move back to Gweal Cottage tomorrow.’

  ‘One goodbye after another.’ The statement comes out tinged with bitterness.

  ‘What did you expect? Your flat’s in London, mine’s in Bristol. We knew it was only temporary.’

  ‘Why are you leaving straight after we slept together?’

  ‘That’s not the reason.’

  ‘No?’ I put down my glass. ‘Do you want my opinion?’

  Her face is glazed with anger. ‘You’ll give it, no matter what I say.’

  ‘You’re protecting yourself, because you felt something. Why not follow your instincts, instead of running away?’

  ‘Are you calling me a coward?’

  ‘That’s not what I said.’

  ‘But it’s what you meant.’

  She turns away before I can build another line of defence. The door to the spare room slams shut, leaving Shadow confused. He stands in the corridor, whimpering. It takes most of my willpower not to drop to my knees and follow suit. I wait all evening for her to emerge, tempted to barge in and convince her she’s wrong. In the end, I slope off to bed alone, too distracted to sleep.

  The doctor who arrives from the mainland in the morning is called Holly Portman. She’s around my age, and so petite I have to stoop to meet her eye. Her streaked blonde hair is drawn back from her face in a severe bun, but her expression is gentle as she addresses Suzanne. The girl is reluctant at first, but eventually agrees to be examined in the living room, with her grandmother present. The doctor’s face is tense when she joins me in the kitchen afterwards. She passes me a sheet of paper, carrying an injury diagram. I’ve seen hundreds over the years; they show an outline of the human physique, with individual wounds from an assault marked by a cross. Over a dozen injuries are scattered across the girl’s body.

  ‘There’s moderate to severe bruising on her arms, back and torso, no broken bones. She’s been attacked over a sustained period. Wounds like this are typical of domestic abuse.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘They’re hidden by her clothes, so no one spots them.’

  ‘It’s that well planned?’

  ‘Abusers enjoy the power, DI Kitto. They hate being stopped.’

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘My thoughts exactly.’ She gives a narrow smile. ‘I’ll email my report today. I hope there’s a restraining order to protect Suzanne.’

  ‘Her attacker’s in custody.’

  Dr Portman gives a brisk nod. ‘There’s a high incidence of self-harm in these cases. The child often feels guilty about blowing the whistle, especially on a parent. She’ll need long-term counselling. Don’t let Suzanne spend time alone until her emotions stabilise.’

  The doctor’s words stay with me when I catch the ferry an hour later. Steve Hilliard and his photographer step on board, just as the boat casts off. In an ideal world I could tell them to get lost, but it’s better to keep my distance, even when they trail me along the harbour to the police station. I have to remind myself that they haven’t yet crossed the line into harassment.

  Madron’s expression is thunderous when I arrive. He’s halfway through his lecture on obeying orders when I slap Dr Portman’s diagram on the table.

  ‘Jenna’s been beating Suzanne for months. Now I need to find out if her violence drove her to kill Laura, too.’

  My statement removes the wind from the DCI’s sails, his mouth flapping. He waits in silence when Jenna is brought from her cell. Her solicitor looks little older than Eddie, dressed in a sleek grey suit that must have cost several months’ wages. His smile indicates high excitement about representing a client on a case that’s making international news. Jenna looks like she’s been starved of sleep for days, deep hollows under her eyes, her hard-edged beauty fading. No one says a word until I hit the button to record the interview.

  ‘My client is requesting immediate release,’ the solicitor says. ‘She’s been wrongfully detained.’

  I turn to Jenna. ‘A doctor examined Suzanne today; her injuries are consistent with regular beatings. Your daughter says you tried the same on Laura, until she turned on you. We’ll submit the evidence to the Crown Prosecution Service, but the most important question is whether you killed your older daughter, on Monday the first of March.’

  The lawyer whispers something to Jenna, but she ignores him, her eyes chilly with contempt. ‘I never touched Laura. Suzie self-harms; she’s got emotional issues, it’s been a problem for years.’

  ‘The doctor says none of her injuries are self-inflicted. What’s wrong, Jenna? Physical abuse is nothing compared to killing Laura.’

  Her anger suddenly crumbles into tears. ‘Don’t talk to me like that, everyone knows I love my girls.’

  ‘You’ve been under strain.’ I try to soften my tone. ‘Losing the house, Matt out of work, money worries. It’s been a bad year, hasn’t it?’

  Her fingers are shielding her eyes. ‘It’s always me, carrying everyone.’

  ‘Why not explain what happened, in your own words?’

  I wish Clare was with me now. She taught me that the gentle approach works best in interviews. Make someone believe you sympathise and they’ll open up twice as fast. Judgement only makes a suspect pull up the drawbridge. I keep my eyes on Jenna’s as she talks, coaxing her to reveal more, until she’s a rabbit in the headlights. She confesses to the beatings, but denies responsibility.

  ‘I do everything for my family, working myself to the bone. But one time, Suzie stood there, hands on hips, yelling at me. She had to be taught a lesson.’

  I don’t know if she realises that she’s sleepwalked into a confession of assaulting a vulnerable minor, but her lawyer does. In a loud stage whisper, he counsels her to say ‘no comment’.

  ‘What about Laura?’ I ask. ‘With two strong women under the same roof, there must have been conflict.’

  ‘I loved her more than anything. I never laid a finger on her.’

  Maybe Jenna has finally realised that she’s given too much away. I call the interview to a close, saying that she’ll be interviewed again tomorrow. The excitement has vanished from the young solicitor’s face as he withdraws his bail application. Madron gives a slow nod of approval after they leave, complimenting me on my interview technique, but he keeps me in his sights like I’m a dangerous reptile, curled in the corner of his room, ready to strike. His face remains tense when we say goodbye.

  Jenna stays in my mind as I head for the harbour. Her voice was chilling as she spoke of punishing Suzanne to teach her right from wrong. For a second, I pictu
re her and Matt two decades ago; young, beautiful, carefree. Broken dreams might have made her vicious, repeated disappointments piling on top of one another. But would all that loss make her kill her daughter? I’m so preoccupied that I almost trip over Steve Hilliard at the harbour. He’s sitting on the jetty, tapping on his iPad.

  ‘Ready to talk yet, Inspector?’

  ‘There’s nothing to say.’

  ‘This story will keep me busy for weeks anyway.’ He gives a leering grin. ‘Mothers don’t often kill their daughters in cold blood, do they?’

  It’s clear he’s made up his mind, even though Jenna’s arrest hasn’t been formally announced. I keep my mouth shut and step onto the boat, to check a dozen texts that have arrived on my phone. Most of them are from Eddie, but Nina’s silence makes me feel like chucking the handset overboard.

  49

  It’s dusk when Rose arrives at Dean Miller’s home. She has brought a thank-you gift, for her night of shelter: two pots of wildflower honey and a tea infusion made from spearmint and camomile. When she peers through the window of his studio, he’s standing at his easel, dashing paint onto a wide canvas. His movements are quick and uncontrolled, a wild ocean rising before him to a blackened sky. He swigs from a bottle of vodka on his work table, then carries on, his movements frantic.

  Rose waits in silence, unwilling to break his concentration. When she finally opens the door, the creaking hinge makes him swing round, his expression filled with fury and pain. It crosses her mind to run away; she has known him for thirty years, but never feared him until now.

  ‘I brought you this, Dean, for letting me stay the other night.’

  ‘There’s no need for gifts.’

  ‘I’m grateful anyway.’ She puts the package on his table. ‘Have you seen Suzanne?’

  Miller’s gaze sharpens. ‘Not since Laura’s memorial. Why?’

  ‘She’s having a bad time. I thought she might come here.’

  ‘I’ll help her, if she needs it.’ He nods rapidly, but his frown lingers. ‘Now you’d better leave, Rose. You shouldn’t be around me in this mood.’

  Rose quickly slips away. The artist’s temperament has always been mercurial, but she has never seen so many raw emotions on his face before. The thought slips from her mind as she focuses on where to hide now darkness has fallen. She will have to sleep in one of the boat sheds, because the smugglers will never tire of hunting her down. She may be forced to sell her cabin to Jay Curnow after all, the prospect of leaving the island making her feet drag across the sand.