by Kate Rhodes
50
Arthur Penwithick looks more like a scarecrow than a ferryman when we dock on the quay at Bryher. His frizzy hair spills from his cap, gangling arms reaching for the mooring rope, rabbity teeth protruding from his lip. Kids used to tell cruel jokes, calling him the village idiot, but he’s been savvy enough to run the island’s only taxi service successfully for thirty years. He gives a grudging smile of thanks when I help him tie up on the jetty.
‘Can I have a word, Arthur?’
He checks his watch then gives a slow nod. ‘I’ve got half an hour.’
I follow him up the slipway to his narrow house. He’s been Ray’s neighbour for decades, but it’s years since I last visited. The lounge is unchanged since his mother died; doilies on the coffee table, lamps fringed with tassels, a row of china figurines filling his mantelpiece. The room looks more suitable for an ancient spinster than a man of fifty, but Arthur seems oblivious, dropping his cap on a hook behind the door. When he returns from the kitchen, Scillonian hospitality has triumphed over suspicion. His tray is loaded with biscuits, a coffee pot, and two mugs bearing the face of Princess Diana.
‘There was no need to go to any trouble, Arthur.’ I produce his letter from my pocket and explain that his handwriting defeated me. ‘Can you talk me through what you remember?’
‘Danny kept ranting about blokes that fancied Laura. Jim Helyer, Dean, and he even mentioned Pete Moorcroft.’
‘Try and be specific, please.’
Arthur frowns in concentration. ‘He said something about Jim trying his luck with her all the time.’
‘Danny thought Jim Helyer had approached her more than once?’
The ferryman nods. ‘Couldn’t keep his hands to himself, apparently. There was stuff about Dean and Pete looking at her too.’
‘What did he mean?’
‘How would I know? The boy was beside himself.’
The ferryman can offer no more details, so we finish our coffee in silence.
Eddie is working on St Mary’s while I trudge home. He’s busy processing Jenna’s case for the Crown Prosecution Service, which gives me the last hours of the afternoon to consider the remaining suspects, but concentration deserts me once I open the door. Shadow almost knocks me over in his desire for escape. He bowls away without a backwards glance, in the direction of Gweal Cottage. Nina has tidied the kitchen as a farewell gesture, scrubbing the table clean, dishes stowed away. The place smells sterile, no sign of her anywhere, the picture of me and Clare staring down from the shelf. I’ve never needed my old colleague’s advice more, but it dawns on me that she would be thrilled if I closed the case successfully. Missing her only increases my determination to discover who killed Laura and Danny.
I sit at the kitchen table, clearing everything else from my mind. Jenna’s the first name on my list. I’m convinced that the killer knew both teenagers intimately, aware of their patterns and secrets. Her relationship with Laura was volatile, and now she seems to be in the grip of a breakdown, unwilling to accept that assaulting a child is a criminal offence. Her violence lasted months, but could it have caused a double murder? Jenna seemed detached this afternoon, unwilling to accept responsibility. I’ve seen that disconnection on killers’ faces before; it allows them to commit monstrous violence. Mothers often turn on their daughters in a tense relationship, but why would she harm Danny? Maybe Jenna carries so much resentment towards Jay Curnow for stealing her home, she targeted the boy through no fault of his own.
The other names on the ferryman’s list are less convincing. It’s understandable that Danny would resent Dean Miller’s closeness to his girlfriend, particularly when he heard about the paintings, but he must have known that the American would never obsess over a teenage girl. Pete Moorcroft seems just as unlikely to harm anyone. His awkward manner appears to stem from shyness, his relationship with his wife quietly affectionate. Thinking about Jim Helyer makes me more uneasy. If Danny and Arthur are correct, my friend lied about approaching Laura just once. He may have attacked her boyfriend for stealing the one thing he coveted.
I’m still staring at my notes when I notice that dusk has fallen, and there’s still no sign of Shadow. A few weeks ago, I’d have been glad to lose him, but his boundless enthusiasm has grown on me. He’s probably asleep on Nina’s bed, exactly where I’d like to be. There’s little I can do about the case until tomorrow. The killer is probably already behind bars on St Mary’s, even though she’s refusing to confess. Suddenly the prospect of an evening alone feels impossible, so I grab my phone and fire off a text.
Zoe arrives in double-quick time. It reminds me of childhood summers, when we shuttled back and forth between the cottage and hotel, playing elaborate games on the beach, or daring each other to swim to Merrick Island. She’s wearing the same look of curiosity she wore then, always ready for new adventures. She drops into an armchair by the fire, her keen gaze assessing me.
‘Start talking, big man. It’s time you spilled the beans about whatever’s getting you down.’
I take a gulp of water. ‘Me and Nina had a misunderstanding.’
‘A row, you mean?’
‘She moved out today.’
Zoe shakes her head. ‘If you’ve got feelings, you’ll have to tell her. She’s not clairvoyant. Women need words as well as sex.’
‘She only lost her husband six months ago. Maybe I’m rushing things.’
‘What do you want from her anyway?’
‘I’m not sure, but I don’t want her to leave.’
‘She’s going home on Wednesday. You’ll have to act fast.’
I gaze down at my clenched fists. ‘Brilliant.’
‘Where’s Shadow, anyway?’
‘At hers. She’s his new soulmate.’
She beams at me. ‘That’s the perfect excuse. I’m going to Tresco for film night, and you’re collecting your wolfhound.’
Zoe is already on her feet. She waits while I pull on my trainers, then hands me my coat. I give her a hug before heading outside, the wind as sobering as a slap in the face. Courage deserts me within ten paces. I’ve dated plenty of women in my time, slept with more than my fair share, but rarely said how I feel. This time Nina has left me with no choice. More than anything, I’d like to get to know her properly, away from the pressure of the case.
I stand at the high-tide mark, watching the sea reposition itself against the land. At the end of the bay I drop down onto the sand, protected by the breakwater, to gather my thoughts, until a man’s raw cry rings across the bay. I’m on my feet in seconds, racing towards the inlet where Laura’s body was found. There’s nothing here except waves pushing further inland. I hear another moan and vault over a granite wall to the next cove.
Matt Trescothick is doubled over on the shingle. His eyes clear when he sees me, as if he’s been waiting for me to arrive.
‘Suzie’s gone,’ he says. ‘I can’t lose them both.’
I crouch beside him. ‘Tell me what’s happened.’
‘She’s been taken, just like Laura, hasn’t she?’
‘Maybe she had cabin fever. Come on, we need to find her.’
A rush of panic hits me. Now a third teenager is missing; I can’t let her meet the same fate as Laura and Danny. When I call Eddie, he promises to come over immediately. There’s a clattering sound as he exits his house at speed, too flustered to switch off his phone.
51
Matt goes back to his mother’s cottage reluctantly, following my instruction to call round the island for sightings of his daughter. My first port of call is Gweal Hill, hoping to find Suzanne on the cliff with her flashlight. But there’s nothing except a thousand-mile view, and lights from cargo ships threading the horizon. My heart sinks when I turn back to scan the valley. Most of the islanders have taken the ferry to Tresco for a film screening at the Abbey Hotel, their houses in darkness. On the far side of the island, Arthur Penwithick’s boat is missing. I head towards the boatyard, remembering that the girl sees it as a
safe haven.
The doors are open as usual. My uncle is in his armchair, reading a book on maritime history, glancing up when he sees me.
‘Good timing. I was about to pour myself a whisky.’
‘Suzie Trescothick’s missing, Ray. Have you seen her?’
His pale gaze sharpens. ‘Not today. How long’s she been gone?’
‘An hour or so.’
‘We can’t let it happen again,’ he says quietly, already on his feet, reaching for his oilskins. ‘I’ll check the beaches.’
He’s gone before there’s time to remind him to take care. His heavy boots thump down the stairs, the radio still pouring Mozart into his spartan living room.
Few lights are on in the village, but I knock on every door. The islanders react with shock, followed by offers of help. But the truth is, I’d prefer everyone to stay at home – just me and the killer roaming the island until he’s caught.
I head north towards Gwen Trescothick’s cottage, passing half a dozen unlit homes. It feels like the island is in lockdown, guarding its secrets too closely. To find the girl, I’ll have to rely on my wits alone. A flare of light appears in the distance, coming from Jim’s farm, encouraging me to make a detour. The doors of the chicken shed are wide open, and my friend is inside, raking straw across the ground, weariness evident in the set of his shoulders. I stand in the doorway, wondering how our childhoods have vanished so fast.
‘You look busy, Jim.’
He turns round, offering his tense smile. ‘No rest for the wicked.’
‘Been here all evening?’
‘Most of it. Why?’
‘Suzie Trescothick’s missing.’
His eyes blink rapidly. ‘I saw her leave her nan’s by the back door, around seven. She was heading towards the village, running at full pelt.’ He walks over to join me. ‘You don’t think she’s been taken?’
‘Let’s hope not.’ I turn to him again. ‘Why did you lie about Laura? She told Danny you hassled her loads of times.’
His face blanks. ‘I was an idiot for a few weeks, that’s all. I wanted to protect Angie.’
Jim’s voice hits the wrong key. My alarm bells are ringing so loudly that I scan the barn for evidence of Suzanne’s presence. But all I see are sacks of maize, the roosting house closed for the night, straw crunching underfoot as I walk away. Angie seems oblivious when I find her in the farm kitchen. She’s rocking the baby, pink-cheeked from the open fire.
‘There you are, Ben. You’ve been avoiding us again,’ she says, smiling.
‘Life’s been busy, that’s all.’
‘Tell me about it.’ She nods at the baby, gurgling in her arms. ‘I can’t remember the last time I had a full night’s sleep.’
‘Have you seen Suzie Trescothick today?’
‘Is she missing?’ She looks concerned. ‘I’ve been indoors all day. All I’ve seen are Lego bricks, nappies and ironing.’
I head back into the dark, my frustration coming to the boil. It takes less than a minute to reach Gwen Trescothick’s cottage. The tiny proportions of the place make me feel like a giant, her sitting room airless when the three of us sit down. The mantelpiece carries the same photos of Laura, votive candles flickering between the images. A dry lump forms in my throat when I realise that her sister’s face could be added to the shrine unless I act fast. It’s clear that Gwen is feeling the strain, hands bunched tight in her lap. She almost jumps out of her skin when the phone rings on the coffee table. Matt utters a few gruff monosyllables before dropping the receiver back onto its cradle.
‘Eddie says Rose Austell’s seen Suzie on Green Bay.’
‘How long ago?’ I ask.
‘Half an hour.’
They both scramble for the door before I can insist that one of them should wait at home, in case the girl returns. The look on the old woman’s face is so determined, I keep my mouth shut. If anyone had told me to stay indoors when Clare didn’t show up at work, my reply would have seared the paint from the walls. We set off at a brisk march, the sea glittering like onyx. All I can hope is that the girl hasn’t met the same fate as Laura and Danny, the retreating tide dragging her body far from shore.
When we reach Green Bay, Matt and his mother begin combing the long sweep of sand. Rose Austell is standing on the beach, close to her cabin. She looks more witch-like than ever in a long grey coat, scarves billowing in the wind, black hair drawn back from her bird-like face. I can tell at a glance that she’s in a bad way, movements jittery, shifting her weight from foot to foot.
‘You should be indoors, Rose. It’s cold.’
She shakes her head. ‘I’m better off out here.’
‘Someone broke into your cabin, didn’t they? I saw the mess. Who do you think did it?’
‘Not an islander, that’s for sure.’
‘Why not let me help you?’
‘I brought it on myself.’ Tears well in her eyes. ‘It can’t be changed.’
‘We’ll get this mess sorted out, then I’ll come back, I promise. Tell me where you saw Suzanne.’
‘On the tideline, alone, about nine o’clock. She had binoculars in her hand.’
‘Did you talk?’
‘Just a few words. It’s not the first time I’ve seen her upset.’
‘Where was she headed?’
‘Inland, along the path.’
‘Can you think where she’d go?’
Rose hesitates; I can almost see her fear of authority warring with her conscience. ‘Try Dean Miller’s house.’
I leave her on the shore, clearly afraid to return to her empire of potions and herbal cures, the honey-scented air of her kitchen. Matt and his mother are still patrolling the beach with Eddie when I walk inland. It crosses my mind that Suzanne may have run home, now that her mother’s under arrest.
It doesn’t take me long to get inside Tide Cottage. I clamber up a drainpipe then jemmy a bedroom window, but the place is empty when I turn on the lights. I’m desperate for clues by the time I enter Laura’s room. My eyes catch on a photo of her and Danny. It must have been taken last summer, their skin tanned, smiles warming their faces. But when I study it again, the girl looks strained, her boyfriend’s arm tight round her shoulder, protecting her from danger. Danny may have known that Laura had problems at home, increasing his desire to escape to Falmouth. I stare at the photo again: two infatuated teenagers, dreaming of a shared future. Danny’s looks were almost as perfect as the girl’s, with the type of classic bone structure that improves with time. My thoughts click into place with unexpected clarity.
Maybe I’ve been looking in the wrong direction all along; the killer’s main focus may not have been Laura after all.
52
My ideas race as I march through the deserted village. What if the killer was obsessed by Danny, not Laura? Killing his girlfriend would be the worst punishment imaginable. I jog through Dean Miller’s garden to his studio. The space is lit up, but no one’s inside. The air smells of turpentine, paraffin and linseed oil. Tubes of paint lie open on the artist’s table, pigment staining the surface, screwed-up paper mounded on the floor. A huge canvas propped in the corner shows a new seascape. Even I can see that it’s arresting. The colours are so vivid, I can almost smell the ozone. He’s caught the aftermath of a storm, the sky empty, tide quieter than before. I close my eyes to absorb the silence. What did Laura gain from coming here, apart from pocket money and an old man’s tales of Hollywood?
It’s only when I scan the room again that I realise the paintings have been reorganised. Fewer canvases are stacked against the wall, more hanging in long rows, as if he’s been tidying the place. They vary in size, from small sketches to paintings several metres wide. Some are incomplete, while others are awash with colour. Dean has pictured the ocean in every season, as a stripe of winter grey, or azure blazing with sunlight. The damaged paintings of Laura still lie on his table, despite Matt’s attempt to destroy them, the girl hard-eyed and mysterious as a mermaid. I flick throu
gh a pile of seascapes, but don’t find what I’m seeking, until a new portrait confronts me. Danny Curnow stares out from the canvas. Miller has pictured him sitting on a stool, dressed casually in jeans and a sweatshirt, scuffed trainers on his feet. Another shows a close-up of his face, tense with boyish determination, uncannily lifelike. The next shows him lying naked on a chaise longue, face averted, impossible to guess how he felt about the artist’s gaze caressing his skin.
‘How did I miss it?’ I mutter, under my breath.
Footsteps startle me while I’m still studying the image. When I stumble to my feet, Dean Miller is standing there, in his paint-spattered uniform, holding a glass bottle full of white spirit. His expression is so tense, it looks like he’s deciding whether to attack me with it or run away.
‘Are you leaving, Dean? I’ve never seen the place so tidy.’
‘I’m thinking of taking a vacation, that’s all.’
‘I found your pictures of Danny.’
‘So I see.’ He stands beside me, still clutching the bottle, staring at the boy’s image.
‘I like them better than your seascapes. There’s so much emotion on his face: anger, excitement, longing.’
‘He was perfect. Like a young Leonardo DiCaprio.’ Miller’s voice is loaded with sadness.
‘Did he know how you felt?’
‘Of course not, he’d have been disgusted,’ he says quietly. ‘The boy came here for money, so I paid him well, to keep him coming back.’
‘That explains the cash in Laura’s room.’
‘It was their escape fund.’
‘You didn’t want to be left behind?’
