Hell Bay

by Kate Rhodes

  ‘Meaning what?’

  ‘When symptoms stem from the patient’s environment. It could be PTSD, because of the violence she’s suffered.’

  The news strengthens the link between Suzanne’s fate and her mother’s. Jenna’s regime has taught her to use violence to control her feelings. Even though Suzanne’s below the age of responsibility, she could spend years in residential care until she’s judged fit to return to society. It seems wrong that Jenna will serve a much shorter sentence for assaulting her child. With good behaviour, she’ll walk free in two years. The fact that her child will suffer so much more makes me question our judicial system.

  There’s no sign of Nina or the dog when I get back to Bryher, mist still drifting past the windows of my cottage. I loved this kind of weather as a kid; ideal conditions for playing hide-and-seek, but today I’d rather be found.

  I’m halfway to Gweal Hill when Shadow bounds out of the mist, soon followed by Nina, wrapped in her dark red coat and carrying a suitcase.

  ‘Coming to say goodbye?’

  ‘That sounds too final.’ She comes to a halt, several metres away. ‘I need to go home, Ben. If I stay much longer, it would be a disaster. I’d fall for you when I’ve got nothing to give.’

  ‘You’re just saying that to numb the pain.’ I attempt a smile even though there’s a void where my stomach used to be. ‘At least let me carry your bag.’

  We head back to the quay, with the dog trotting ahead, nose to the ground, as if nothing bad was happening.

  ‘How come he knows where he’s going, even in a pea-souper?’

  ‘Canine intuition. It’s his best virtue.’ I look down at that perfect oval face of hers, and realise she’s been crying. ‘Want to take him with you?’

  ‘I’d love to, but he’s yours.’

  ‘He’s more of a ladies’ man. We should let him choose.’

  When we reach the quay, she looks up at me. ‘Visit me in Bristol, Ben. The timing’s wrong, that’s all. I want us to be friends.’

  I kiss her instead of replying, because we’re unlikely to meet again. Real life will take over when she gets home: friends, patients, new boyfriends as she heals herself. The ferryman is emerging from his house, ready to skipper the Bryher Maid back to St Mary’s. I look down at Shadow as the boat prepares to leave.

  ‘Are you going or staying?’

  He whimpers loudly, chasing in a wild circle before finally jumping onto the boat. My heart sinks a couple of notches lower, but I can’t blame him; in his position, I’d do the same. Nina gives my cheek an abrupt kiss then steps on board. I turn away immediately. I’ve got no intention of watching them vanish into the distance.

  I march through the doors of the boatyard without greeting my uncle. He’s on his knees painting duck varnish onto the boat’s keel. It’s lucky that he gauges my mood with a single glance, silently passing me a brush. It’s a relief to have something to do with my hands, even though my guts feel like water spinning too fast down a plughole. After a couple of hours, I make my excuses and leave. What I need now is a long walk to steady myself. I’ve been trudging along the beach for ten minutes before I hear a sound on the shingle. When I look back, Shadow is running to catch up. His coat is saturated and his heart’s kicking like a snare drum when I touch his chest. He must have jumped from the boat then swum back to shore, imagining he’s Lassie.

  ‘How many miles before you changed your mind?’

  I rub brine from his lean face, those glacial eyes observing me. There must be some kind of affection behind that cool stare after all. My mood lifts as the Atlantic breeze rises. It’s warmer than before, but its force reminds me of childhood winters, when it could knock me off my feet. Cromwell’s Castle appears then vanishes again in the fog, proving that nothing stays the same. At least the dog chose me, the case is solved and a month’s hard labour in Ray’s workshop will put my head in order. I’ve got two jobs to choose between, but right now, I don’t care. Maggie will serve me a dose of island philosophy with my cranberry juice at the Rock tonight. Chin up, she’ll say; whatever life chucks at us, we mustn’t weaken.

  Acknowledgements

  Many thanks are due to the highly encouraging and supportive team at Simon & Schuster, particularly my brilliant editor, Jo Dickinson, and Carla Josephson for her excellent support. Teresa Chris, my agent of many years, you continue to be an inspiration, a kind friend and the ideal lunch companion. Thanks to Miranda Doyle and Penny Hancock for excellent feedback at different points as the book came together. I am also grateful to constant support from all of my Killer Women writing pals. The friendly staff of the Hell Bay Hotel are owed my gratitude, for giving me so much useful information about the island’s smuggling history, and its flora and fauna, as well as several perfect holidays on the beautiful island of Bryher. Twitter pals, particularly Julie Boon and Peggy Breckin, I salute you! Your encouragement really does keep me writing, on winter days when instinct tells me to stay in bed, eating chocolate. And finally, my husband, Dave Pescod, deserves heartfelt thanks for helping me at every step. Without your encouragement, Dave, this story would still be a few garbled words on the back of a menu in a Cornish hotel.

  Love DI Ben Kitto?

  Read on for an exclusive extract from the new thriller by Kate Rhodes, coming 2019 . . .

  RUIN

  BEACH

  PART ONE

  ‘How that personage haunted my dreams, I need scarcely tell you. On stormy nights, when the wind shook the four corners of the house, and the surf roared along the cove and up the cliffs, I would see him in a thousand forms, and with a thousand diabolical expressions.’

  TREASURE ISLAND,

  ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON, 1883

  Sunday, 10 May

  It’s midnight when the woman begins her steep descent down Tregarthen Hill. Excitement washes through her system as she follows the rocky path, with the breeze warm against her skin, a kitbag slung across her shoulders. She pauses halfway to catch her breath, staring up at the granite carn that glowers over the bay like a giant’s silhouette. When she drops down to the beach she can feel someone’s eyes travel across her skin, but the sensation must be imaginary; if she had been followed, she would have heard footsteps pursuing her through the dark. The woman takes a calming breath as moonlight glances from the Atlantic’s surface, remembering why she must take this risk. Her family need her help, there’s no other choice, and the tide is drawing closer. If she works fast there will be time to complete her task before the returning surge floods the cave.

  She presses sideways through a chink in the granite, the temperature dropping with each step. A sense of awe overtakes her as the cave expands. Her torch traces a line of brightness over sea-scoured walls that soar like a cathedral’s nave. The smell of the place intoxicates her; reeking of seaweed, brine and ancient secrets. When she catches sight of the black water at her feet, the cave’s history fills her mind. Pirates were slaughtered here, for stealing smugglers’ cargo, their ghosts resonating from the walls. She has to suppress a shiver before retrieving the wetsuit, mask and headlamp she hid here days ago, hooked to the wall of the cave, to prevent the tide from carrying them away. The woman checks the oxygen gauge on her aqualung, before clamping the regulator between her teeth. She takes the package from her kitbag then lets herself fall backwards into the water. After diving alone hundreds of times, she knows how to avoid unnecessary risks. Nothing can disturb her now, except the measured rasp of her own breathing, and lamplight distorting the velvety blackness. She lets herself float for a minute, enjoying the solitude. Few other divers have experienced the beauty of this hidden fracture in the earth’s surface, extending far below sea level.

  The woman understands that losing focus would be dangerous. She stops to check her pressure gauge at twenty metres, the beam from her headlamp catching grains of mica in the granite, glittering like stardust. She locates the familiar opening in the rock, then places the package in the crevice where it will be easy to find, her
fingers gliding through clear water. She’s about to swim back to the surface when a light shines beneath her, then disappears again. It must have been a reflection; the depths seem to extend forever, the water a dense, unyielding black.

  She kicks to the surface fast, relief powering each forceful stroke. It will be days before she must dive here again, and tonight she can rest easily, knowing she’s done the right thing. The woman is about to clamber back onto the rocks when something hits her so forcefully, there’s no time for panic. The regulator is yanked from her mouth, a hand ripping away her mask. Her headlamp falls into the water, piercing the dark as it plunges. She lashes out, but someone has gripped her shoulders, her arms flailing as she’s pushed under again. A face looms closer, its familiarity too shocking to register. She fights hard, but the breathing control techniques she has practised for years are useless while her lungs are empty. The woman’s fists break the surface again, before something cold is rammed between her lips. Terror is replaced by a rush of memories. She pictures her daughter’s face, until a last flare of pain stuns her senses, and her body floats motionless on the water’s surface.

  1

  Monday, 11 May

  My day off begins with a canine wake-up call. Something rough scrapes my cheek at 6 a.m., and when my eyes blink open Shadow is sprawled across my pillow, his paw heavy on my chest.

  ‘Get off me, you hellhound.’

  I jerk upright to escape his slobber, wondering how he broke into my room again when the door was closed. Shadow skulks away to avoid my temper, a sleek grey wolfhound with glacial blue eyes. A stream of curses slips from my mouth as I emerge from bed, my lie-in ruined by an unwelcome pet, inherited from my old work partner. Loyalty would never allow me to leave him at a dogs’ home but it crosses my mind occasionally, depending on how many rules he breaks. When I open the front door it’s impossible to stay angry. The dog bowls across the dunes, the cottage filling with the cleanest air on the planet.

  Bryher is at its best in early May, before the beaches are invaded by day-trippers, keen to photograph every bird, flower and stone. This morning there’s not a soul around. Sabine’s gulls spiral overhead, the Atlantic a calm azure, no sign of the storms that thrashed the western coastline all winter long. This is the view that summoned me home from my job as a murder investigator in London. I took the quality of light for granted as a kid; it’s only now that I appreciate the way it makes the landscape shine. There are no houses to spoil the scenery, except the square outline of the hotel on the far side of Hell Bay, ten minutes’ walk away. My own home is much humbler, a one-storey granite box built by my grandfather, with extra rooms added to the sides as his children arrived. The slate roof needs repairs since last month’s gales played havoc with the tiles, but my DIY plans will have to wait. I owe my uncle Ray a day’s labour in return for hours of dog-sitting, and an early start will give me time for a swim afterwards. I glance at the letter that lies unopened on my kitchen table before I leave. My name and title are printed in block capitals on the envelope: DETECTIVE INSPECTOR BENESEK KITTO and I already know what it contains. It’s a summons from head office in Penzance, telling me to report for a review meeting, to decide whether I can continue as Deputy Commander of the Isles of Scilly Police, now that my probation period is ending. I’ve spent three months fulfilling every obligation, but the judgement is out of my hands.

  Shadow traipses behind when I take the quickest route through the centre of the island, my walk leading me eastwards over Shipman Head Down. The land is a wild expanse of ferns and heather, the fields ringed by drystone walls, with flowers rioting among the grass. If my mother were alive, she could have named each one, but I only remember those that are good to eat: wild garlic, parsley and samphire. No one’s stirring when I cut through the village, passing the Community Centre with its ugly yellow walls, stone cottages clustered together like old women gossiping. When I reach the eastern shore the sign above my uncle’s boatyard has been repainted. Ray Kitto’s name stands out in no-nonsense black letters, as clear and uncompromising as the man himself. I can hear him at work already, hammer blows ringing through the walls. The smell of the place turns the clock back to my childhood when I dreamed of becoming a shipwright, the air loaded with white spirits, tar and linseed oil.

  ‘Reporting for duty, Ray,’ I call out.

  My uncle emerges from the upturned frame of a racing gig, dressed in paint-stained overalls. It’s like seeing myself three decades from now, when I hit my sixties. Ray almost matches my six feet four, his hard-boned face the same shape as mine, thick hair faded from black to silver. He looks less austere than normal, as if he might break the habit of a lifetime and let himself grin.

  ‘You’re early, Ben. Prepared to get your hands dirty for once?’

  ‘If I must. What happened to the boat?’ Its prow looks battered, elm timbers splintering, but its narrow helm is still a thing of beauty, just wide enough for two rowers to sit side by side. Gig racing has been a tradition in the Scillies for centuries, the vessels unchanged since the Vikings invaded.

  ‘It needs repairs and varnish before the racing season starts.’ He gives me a considering look. ‘Ready to start work?’

  ‘I’d rather have a full English.’

  ‘You can eat later. Bring the delivery in, can you?’

  A shipment of materials has been dumped on the quay that runs straight from the boatyard’s back door into the sea. Three crates stand together, waiting to be carried into Ray’s stockroom. It takes muscle as well as patience to heft tubs of paint and liquid silicone onto a trolley, then shelve them in the storeroom, but the physical labour clears my mind. I stopped clock-watching weeks ago, no longer measuring hours by London time. Days pass at a different pace here, each activity taking as long as it takes, the sun warming my skin as I collect another load. My stomach’s grumbling with hunger, but the view is a fine distraction. Fishing boats are returning from their dawn outings, holds loaded with crab pots and lobster creels. Many were built by Ray years ago, when he used to employ shipwrights to help him construct vessels with heavy oak frames and larch planking, strong enough to withstand the toughest gales. I shield my eyes to watch them battling the currents that race through New Grimsby Sound, and an odd feeling travels up my spine. One of the fleet is approaching the quay at full speed, black smoke spewing from its engine, while the rest head for St Mary’s to sell their catch. The boat is a traditional fishing smack called the Tresco Lass, with red paint peeling from its sides, skippered by Denny Cardew. The islands’ permanent population is so small I can name almost every inhabitant, despite my decade on the mainland. I don’t know Cardew well, but the fisherman’s son was a classmate of mine twenty years ago. I remember Denny as a quiet man, watching football at the New Inn, where his wife Sylvia worked as a barmaid, but his composure is missing today. He’s signalling frantically from a hundred metres as his boat approaches. As it draws nearer I can see that the decking is in need of varnish, a crack in the wheelhouse’s side window.

  When I jog down the quay to help him moor, Cardew stumbles on to the jetty. He’s in his fifties with a heavy build, light-brown hair touching his collar, skin leathered by a lifetime of ocean breezes. I can’t tell whether the man is breathless from excitement or because of the extra weight he’s carrying, banded round his waist like a lifebelt. Words gush from his mouth in a rapid mumble.

  ‘There’s something in the water, north of here. I saw it when I was collecting my lobster pots.’ His mud-brown eyes are wide with panic. ‘A body, by Piper’s Hole.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Positive. I went so close, I almost hit the rocks.’

  His tone is urgent, but I’m not convinced. Last week a woman on St Agnes reported seeing a corpse on an offshore rock. It turned out to be a grey seal, happily sunning himself, but the tension on Denny’s face proves that he’s convinced. The coastguard would take an hour to get here, my day off already a thing of the past.

  ‘Come on then,’
I reply. ‘You’d better show me.’

  Ray is standing on the jetty as I climb over bait boxes strewn across the deck. The dog tries to jump on board but I leave him on the quay, whimpering. My uncle watches the boat chug away, with Shadow at his feet, his expression resigned. He’s grown used to our time together being cancelled at short notice, even though I’d like to repay him for his support since I came home.

  Denny Cardew’s skin is pale beneath his year-round tan, as he focuses on completing the return journey, the fisherman’s silence giving me time to watch the scenery from the wheelhouse as we sail through the narrow passage between Bryher and Tresco. Cromwell’s Castle hangs above us as the boat chases Tresco’s western shoreline, its circular stone walls still intact after five centuries. The bigger island has a hard-edged beauty; its fields are full of ripening wheat running down to its shores, but the coastline is roughened by outcrops of granite, Braiden Steps plunging into the sea like a staircase built for giants.

  Cardew steers between pillars of rock at the island’s northernmost point, waves pummelling the boat as we reach open water, nothing sheltering us now from the Atlantic breeze. A few hundred yards away, Kettle Island rears from the sea. It earned its name from the furious currents that boil around it, gannets and razorbills launching themselves into the sky, then winging back to settle on its rocky surface.

  ‘Over there,’ Cardew says, as we approach Piper’s Hole. ‘I’ll get as close as I can.’

  The fishing smack edges towards the cliff, with the shadow of Tregarthen Hill blocking out the light. From this distance the entrance to Piper’s Hole is just a fold in the rock. No one would guess that the cave existed without local knowledge; it’s only accessible at low tide, when you can scramble down the hillside, or land a boat on the shore. Right now the cavernous space will be flooded to the ceiling, and suddenly my thoughts shift back to a local woman who died there last year, stranded by a freak tide.