by Kate Rhodes
‘Long time no see, Nina.’
‘I was planning to contact you. I’m sorry to hear about the girl that died.’
I give a slow nod. ‘You picked a bad time to visit the islands. Excuse me, I need to get moving. We’ve got plenty to do.’
Shadow looks torn when I walk away, dashing back and forth between us, unable to decide where his loyalties lie, which makes me feel like grabbing his collar. I could tether him to a tree for the rest of the afternoon, but his howling would cause a public nuisance. He catches up with me eventually, but seeing Nina has put me on edge. She could have chosen a thousand holiday destinations instead of coming back to haunt me. By now Shadow is fifty metres ahead, always certain that he knows my destination better than I do myself, and this time he’s correct. I follow him along the Strand, where the Church of Our Lady Star of the Sea is set back from the road. It looks more like a modest Victorian home than a place of worship, but the whitewashed building houses the island’s only Catholic place of worship. It overlooks Town Beach, where St Mary’s gig-racing boats line the road on trailers, and two old men are sitting on a bench, watching the sea in amicable silence.
Shadow sets off to pester the OAPs for food, while I try to banish thoughts of Nina from my head. The odours of candlewax and incense waft down the stairwell when I open the church door. A pinboard on the wall is crammed with notices, inviting people to join the choir, or do a sponsored walk for the Red Cross. The building is unnaturally silent, making me assume that Father Michael Trevellyan is elsewhere, tending his flock. He’s the only Catholic priest in Scilly, spreading his time between the five inhabited islands.
I only catch sight of Father Michael when I reach the top of the stairs. He’s kneeling by the altar, head bowed in prayer, so I drop onto a pew to wait. A murmur of Latin words streams from his lips. The attic space only contains a simple altar, and enough seating for around thirty worshippers. Two stained-glass windows provide a reminder of the islands’ relationship with the sea. One depicts rowers in a lifeboat, thrashing through the waves, from the days before rescue boats were equipped with powerful engines. The other shows Christ’s disciples hauling a weighty fishing net from the ocean. I don’t have a religious bone in my body, yet the images still resonate. I came here sometimes as a boy to watch light flooding through the coloured glass, after my father drowned. The designs are perfect for a community that has lost more than it’s gained from the ocean over the centuries.
Father Michael looks exhausted as he rises to his feet, and it’s clear he’s heard about the murder. The priest is dressed for his next mass in a plain white chasuble. Up close it’s easy to see evidence of the varied life he led on St Mary’s before training for the priesthood. People say that he loved to fight before finding religion; his broken nose and uneven jaw are relics from an earlier time. He’s in his forties, with the wiry build of a long-distance runner, pepper and salt hair, and features that only come alive when he smiles. The priest has given the island police plenty of help in the past, and I may need his support again. He’s a special constable like the Keast brothers, always ready to assist whenever a crisis hits.
‘There you are, Ben. I’ve been expecting you.’ The man’s voice is a low Cornish burr, with sadness resonating behind each syllable.
‘Is it okay to talk here, Father?’
‘God won’t evict us, whatever we say.’ His smile quickly fades. ‘I imagine you’re here about Sabine.’
‘I’m hoping for some background information.’
‘She was a lovely, kind-spirited girl.’ His gaze drops to the floor, as if he’s trying to recall every detail. ‘Sabine was honest to a fault. She told me she doubted her faith; I think she attended mass purely for the comfort it gave, while she was away from home.’
‘Did you talk much, one to one?’
‘Sabine only came to confession twice.’ His lips close tightly, like a book shutting.
‘You can’t keep her secrets now, Father. I need details, before someone else gets hurt.’
His frown deepens. ‘She seemed fine the first time we spoke, then something changed.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘She’d met someone new. The girl seemed frightened by the strength of her feelings; she’d kept it secret, even from her closest friend.’
‘Was the bloke married?’
‘I’m afraid she never mentioned a name.’ The priest shivers slightly, as if a cold breeze has rushed in through the window, even though the place is stifling. ‘I hope you find the killer soon. Sabine’s an unquiet soul. I can feel her presence, even though I’ve prayed for a peaceful transition. She must have suffered terribly.’
‘We’ll catch whoever did it, don’t worry. Do you remember anything else from her confession?’
‘Only that the relationship troubled her. I told her to avoid doing anything she might regret.’
‘Nothing else?’
‘Sabine seemed to believe that having a few short affairs was liberating. Life at home had been stifling her.’
‘She had more than one partner while she was here?’
‘I think she was learning about herself, before returning to her parent’s strict rules.’ He holds up his hands, in a gesture of defeat. ‘My bishop takes a hard line on young people with active sex lives, but times are changing. I could only advise her to take care and pray for forgiveness.’
‘Can I ask how you spent last night? We’re checking everyone’s whereabouts.’
‘The answer’s not very exciting, Ben. I led our weekly prayer meeting, which ended around half past nine. After that I went home for an early night.’
When the priest reaches out to shake my hand, his skin is clammy against my palm. There’s a haunted look in his eyes when he turns away, as if Sabine’s death has left him too upset to face his parishioners. Shadow’s high-pitched bark summons me downstairs, but when I pause in the doorway Father Michael is on his knees again, eyes closed, sending up a fresh prayer for Sabine Bertans’ soul.
9
Lily has collapsed on her bed at the Star Castle, her pillow wet with tears. Her room has been her sanctuary until now, but since the briefing at the church hall nowhere feels safe. Harry’s black temper lingers in her mind; it makes him punch walls and go on the attack for the smallest of reasons. No one was surprised when their father went to prison for manslaughter, after injuring a man so badly in a fight that he died of his wounds. Their mother brought them to St Mary’s for a fresh start but Harry’s anger has worsened over the years. Lily can’t understand why girls still adore him, despite his recklessness. The note he left for Sabine is still on her dressing table, and she’s read the texts they exchanged. Why didn’t her friend admit that they had been stealing moments together for several weeks? Now she’ll never know why. Lily can’t believe that Harry would attack Sabine, but he’s out of reach while his temper runs so near the surface.
The girl splashes her face with cold water, and when she checks her reflection in the bathroom mirror, her skin is blotchy, hazel eyes bloodshot, her mousy hair in need of restyling. Suddenly a loud noise makes her jump out of her skin. Someone is rapping on her door, and Rhianna Polkerris is waiting outside when she opens it. The manager’s appearance is perfectly groomed, her face expressionless.
‘It’s six o’clock, Lily. Why aren’t you in the bar?’
‘Sorry, I went to the meeting about Sabine…’
The manager silences her with a quick shake of her head. ‘It’s sad news of course, but she was a risk-taker. She probably stumbled into danger.’
‘Sabine wasn’t like that.’
‘I happen to know better, but let’s not argue. Guests are waiting to be served.’ She drums her long fingernails against the door surround. ‘Can I come inside for a minute?’
Lily is embarrassed by her cluttered room, but her manager doesn’t seem to notice.
‘Stand over here, Lily.’ Rhianna positions her directly in front of the mirror, appraising her appear
ance. ‘I checked your CV the other day; you got good A levels. Why didn’t you apply to university?’
‘The student loan put me off,’ the girl mumbles.
‘You could climb the ladder without a degree, but your appearance needs work.’ The older woman brushes Lily’s hair back from her forehead. ‘You’ve got decent bone structure. Put on some make-up and get some highlights, so people will give you a chance. It’s important to make the best of ourselves, isn’t it?’
Lily nods her head in miserable silence. Rhianna’s glossy hair looks golden in the mirror, her own a lifeless beige.
‘Good girl, now get ready for work. You need some blusher, you’re awfully pale.’ Rhianna’s cupid’s bow mouth curves into a smile. ‘I’m glad we had our little chat.’
Lily hears the door click shut before crumpling back onto her bed. The manager’s critique of her appearance was a slap in the face, hard enough to dry her tears. She gazes at a photo on Sabine’s phone to give herself courage before leaving her room. It shows her friend, young and carefree on the beach, her smile inviting everyone to share her happiness.
‘What should I do?’ Lily whispers, but Sabine’s face only lingers on the screen, unchanged.
She drops the phone back into her pocket, like a good luck charm, before confronting the mirror again.
10
Shadow settles under my desk back at the station, ignoring the frenzy of activity, his tail folded neatly against his body. Madron’s office feels packed when my trio of officers arrive for the day’s final updates at 7 p.m. Eddie’s eagerness shows in every movement, even though he’s worked flat out since we found Sabine’s corpse this morning. He spent the afternoon doing a satellite trace on her phone, while Lawrie and Isla cross names off our list of potential suspects. Statistics tell us that murders are normally committed by men between eighteen and forty-five, with previous convictions for violence, but there are few obvious candidates on St Mary’s. If Sabine had a boyfriend, as Father Michael claimed, the relationship was well-concealed. The way her body was presented as a bride, with make-up applied to her face, makes me wonder if the killer is female, with a passion for detail. The attack was highly organised and intricate. Whoever committed the crime risked stealing from a tiny museum on 3 August last year – as confirmed by our slim file on the theft – then waited exactly a year to murder Sabine. The date must be significant, but I can’t figure out why.
Excitement shows on Eddie’s face when he shows us a map on his laptop. He’s used the mobile networks’ satellite software to hunt for the signal from Sabine’s phone, the details triangulated from masts at either end of the island.
‘It must be switched on, or we couldn’t pick it up. Her phone’s definitely on the Garrison, but the location finder’s not pinpoint-accurate. It could be in the hotel or the grounds; she may have dropped it when she left the building. We need to find it before the battery goes flat.’
The young sergeant sounds elated as he reels off details, as if the murder hunt is an all-time career high. I ask him to gather some trusted helpers to search the Garrison area tonight, before the light fades. It’s a task we can’t delay: once the phone’s battery fails, it’s beyond our reach.
Lawrie Deane’s speech sounds leaden when he gives his update. He delivers each sentence at a snail’s pace, his Cornish accent so thick it sounds like he’s been gargling clotted cream. The guy took twenty years to achieve the rank of sergeant, his physical movements as slow-moving as his career, but Deane has a gift for logistics. He’s already found accommodation for me, Eddie and Liz Gannick. Tom and Rhianna Polkerris have plenty of vacancies at the Star Castle due to a cancelled wedding party, and they’re providing rooms free of charge. I’m glad we’ll be based at Sabine’s place of work; I still need to find out exactly how she spent her time there.
Isla has brought a sheaf of papers to the meeting, as if she’s spent the whole day scribbling notes. She joined the force straight after finishing a law degree, opting to return to Scilly rather than completing her training, even though it meant sacrificing bigger wages as a solicitor in future. She observes the proceedings in silence, like she’s attending a masterclass. The day’s events seem to have taken their toll; her face looks strained when I request an update.
‘The dress is from a shop called Bridal Harmony in Truro. It was made three years ago, so the killer must have bought it second-hand. If it was from eBay, I should be able to track the buyer down.’ She skims through her papers. ‘I had more luck with the earrings. They’re plate gold – a man called Liam Trewin paid for them by credit card at the Abbey Gardens giftshop on Tresco, three days ago.’
‘Is he still here?’
She nods in reply. ‘Staying at the Star Castle. A bit of an idiot, by all accounts.’
‘Says who?’
‘The manager at the gift shop described him as a sleazebag. He was all over the waitresses in the café, bragging about his island blood.’
‘Good work, Isla. I’ll track him down today. You and Sabine were close, weren’t you?’
Her gaze drops to the polished surface of Madron’s desk. ‘We met up a few times at the Atlantic for a drink; her suggestion, not mine. She was studying languages at uni in Riga, so she liked practising her English with native speakers.’
‘What about boyfriends?’
‘She wasn’t looking,’ Isla’s voice falters. ‘Sabine just wanted to have fun.’
‘Didn’t she open up to you at all?’
‘Some guy was hassling her at the hotel, but she never said his name.’
‘Maybe it was Trewin. Tom Polkerris didn’t know about her friends. Was she close to anyone at work?’
‘Sabine really liked Lily Jago, even though they’re opposites. Sabine was the life and soul, but Lily wouldn’t say boo to a goose.’
I’ve had to deal with Lily’s brother Harry plenty of times. The boy has few fans on the island; he’s often in trouble for drunk and disorderly, but his sister seems more mature. Isla’s posture is still stiff with tension, convincing me that she knows something that might emerge in private, so I ask her to stay behind after the briefing. She shifts uneasily in her chair, while I wait for the door to close.
‘You and Sabine must have talked about personal stuff, Isla. Can’t you remember what she said?’
‘It was mainly chit-chat about life back home, and places she’d been. She wanted the low down on jobs in the UK too.’
‘She never seemed scared?’
Isla shakes her head vehemently. ‘Sabine was happy-go-lucky; I think she made friends easily, wherever she went.’
‘If anything comes to mind, let’s talk in the morning. It’s time you went home. You’ve worked twelve hours straight.’
The constable rises to her feet reluctantly, as if she’d like to carry on hunting for her friend’s killer, but the evening light is fading outside the window.
‘How are you getting back to Old Town?’
Isla’s family lives half a mile further up the coast, but she gives me a puzzled look. ‘On foot, as usual.’
‘I’ll give you a lift.’
‘No thanks, sir. I could use the exercise.’
‘It’s an instruction, not an offer. Sabine’s killer is still out there, and it’ll soon be dark.’
‘I’ve done three self-defence courses.’ She’s looking at me like I’m the worst dad ever.
‘Great, but we’re still going in the van. You can drive, if that helps.’
She gives a reluctant nod. ‘You think it’ll happen again, don’t you, sir?’
Sabine’s terrified face in the Polaroid photo is etched on my memory, like a bad tattoo. ‘It’s possible, if we don’t figure it out soon. For all we know, the killer’s looking for a groom, to match his bride.’
‘So men are at risk too?’
‘Everyone needs to watch their back till we find the killer.’
Isla still looks uneasy when we leave the building. I’d feel the same in her shoes, but
allowing a young female officer to walk home alone after a brutal murder would be negligent. She stays silent while we follow the lane towards Old Town, and I resist asking more questions. I’ll have to wait until she chooses to share whatever’s on her mind. Stubbornness is an island trait; old habits of self-reliance make us reluctant to give up secrets before we’re ready.
I feel a pang of envy when she pulls up outside her home. Isla’s parents own a beautiful semi-detached house by Old Town beach. It’s a typical piece of Scillonian architecture, built from local stone, with painted shutters and a slate roof, in far better repair than my home on Bryher. Their front garden is a cascade of flowers, spilling down to the footpath. The bench beside Isla’s front door is an ideal place for gazing at the ocean and people-watching in summer, when hundreds of walkers stop for lunch at the local café, before following the coastline north.
Isla mutters a terse goodbye and I’m about to drive away when her mother appears on the steps. I should head back to the station to plan tomorrow’s workload, but good manners force me out of the van. Ginny Tremayne looks puzzled when her daughter barges past without saying a word, but Isla is sure to talk to her mother tonight. Ginny’s good at comforting people, not just in her job as a doctor, but everyone she meets. She looks far more relaxed than her daughter, a plump figure with greying hair pinned back from her face, wearing a faded sundress, her skin tanned from hours of gardening. Her expression is apologetic when she asks about the case.