by Kate Rhodes
‘Sorry I missed your meeting, I was stuck at the hospital.’ Ginny has led the island’s small team of medics ever since I can remember.
I mention that Isla is doing well. She takes the job seriously, her attention to detail making her an ideal police officer. Ginny looks proud to hear that her daughter is coping well with her new duties. Her engineer husband is working away for the next few weeks, but she plans to call him later to share the news. I’m about to say goodbye when a familiar face peers at me from a downstairs window in the house next door. Jeff Pendelow has lived there for decades, alone since his wife went to the mainland for hospital care three months ago; he was a consultant psychologist until he retired earlier this year, and a lifelong friend of my father’s. The man raises his hand to wave, then returns to scribbling in his notebook.
‘Jeff would love to see you,’ Ginny says. ‘The poor soul’s stuck at home; he can’t even drive himself about. He’s been low since his wife’s illness, and now he’s got the worst kind of back pain.’
‘When’s Val coming home?’
There’s a pause before she replies. ‘She’s got early onset Alzheimer’s. Jeff fought to keep her with him, but she needs specialist care. Val will stay in a residential centre in Penzance permanently.’
I’d rather not pay sick calls tonight, but the news makes it hard to walk away. Courtesy is the islands’ lifeblood, keeping neighbourly relationships functional ninety per cent of the time. I cross the path between the two properties after saying goodbye to Ginny, noticing that Jeff’s front garden is overrun with weeds, a line of tamarisk bushes turning into trees. When I tap on his door it swings open immediately. Like most islanders, he never bothers with security, because burglary here is practically non-existent. Pendelow’s hallway reveals the schism between his personal and professional lives. Academic certificates hang on the wall, proving his credentials as a psychologist, beside a cluster of photos taken on sea-fishing trips. The man has been a keen angler ever since I was a boy. He spent years commuting to the mainland, where he worked at Plymouth Hospital, spending weekdays away from home. The largest photos are of his wife, and memories of the house engulf me suddenly. Valerie Pendelow was a favourite of mine as a kid. She worked as a chef at Old Town Inn and spoiled me and my brother rotten, always producing the best cakes and biscuits. I spent plenty of afternoons here with my father. The two men would drink beer and play chess while my brother and I flew kites on the beach, or booted a football around their garden. I feel a stab of guilt that I didn’t even know Val had left the island for good.
Jeff is a native of St Mary’s, his roots deep in island soil. He’s a member of the community choir, but his voice quavers today when he calls out from the living room. I find him lying back on the settee, with his notebook on his lap. The man has aged since we last met. I remember Jeff as a big, strapping bloke, always taking long walks, but pain has drawn deep lines on his face, his hair and beard completely white, even though he can’t be much more than sixty. My father often spoke about his brilliant sense of humour, but there’s no sign of it now. The half-moon glasses perched on his nose make him look like a retired librarian.
‘No need to get up, Jeff. It’s just a quick hello.’
‘Did Ginny send you on a sympathy call? You’d laugh if you could see me going up the stairs. It takes me ten minutes to reach the landing.’ There’s a tired smile on his face, as if his condition is no more than a sick joke.
‘I hear you’ve been stuck at home.’
‘Val was the driver, not me; I don’t even have a license.’ He winces as he shifts position.
‘Have you got anything for the pain?’
‘Ginny’s given me three different types of tablets, but it’s probably psychosomatic.’
‘Because you’re missing Val?’
‘I can’t even travel to the mainland to see her until this sciatica improves.’ His eyes grow misty, but he blinks the moisture away. ‘At least there’s plenty for me to do. I’ve got to rest here for a month, so I can finish my book.’
‘What’s it about?’
‘Psychosis. I spent years treating patients with complex personality disorders and delusions. The NHS gave me a parting gift when I retired; they’ve commissioned me to write a manual for mental health professionals dealing with psychotic illnesses for the first time.’
‘Do those patients ever recover?’
‘The conditions are pretty intractable, but they can learn to regulate their symptoms, with the right support and medication.’ His tone is sober when he speaks again. ‘I heard the announcement on the radio, about a young girl being killed. Was it you that found her this morning?’
‘My team were with me.’
‘That must have been tough, for all of you.’ The psychologist’s calm gaze assesses me for signs of nervous strain.
‘I saw worse during my time in London.’
‘You’re good at denying your feelings, like all the Kitto family.’ He laughs, then studies me again. ‘It’s uncanny how much you resemble your dad. He’s been in my thoughts often recently.’
We spend the next ten minutes exchanging news. Jeff manages to conceal his sadness about Val’s absence, and his quiet wisdom undoes some of the day’s tension. When my gaze wanders to his open window, the sun is setting. The arc of Old Town bay gives way to miles of open sea, with nothing to obstruct the waves until they reach Land’s End. The view allows Pendelow to study every tide, but the sea’s beauty must seem hollow, now he’s alone. When I glance through a window on the far side of the room, his back garden is thick with shoulder-high brambles, the space reclaimed by wild nature. He must have been too busy caring for his wife to spend time outside.
‘I’d better go, Jeff. There’s stuff to wrap up before I can stop tonight.’
‘Don’t work too hard,’ he says. ‘Remember I’m here, if anyone on your team needs support.’
‘Thanks, Jeff. I may take you up on that.’
‘Even full-grown men like you can buckle without proper counselling. Plenty of police and servicemen experience work-related stress.’
‘I’ll take care, don’t worry.’
His worn face finally relaxes. ‘Your dad would be proud of you, Ben. You know that, don’t you?’
The man’s praise catches me off guard, silencing me for a moment. My gaze settles on a wooden crucifix above the mantelpiece. I never noticed it as a kid but the symbol makes perfect sense: Pendelow’s faith must lie behind his desire to help people in desperate circumstances. I feel calmer after our conversation, but reality catches up with me when I see some holidaymakers on the sandy beach, as the sun drops behind the horizon. The island’s peace is illusory. Any of the day’s sunbathers who are currently packing away towels and flip-flops could become the killer’s next victim, if I fail to do my job.
11
It’s fully dark by the time I lock the station door and walk uphill to the Star Castle. I haven’t eaten much since grabbing a few sandwiches at lunchtime, but I need to see Liz Gannick before getting dinner. The forensics chief has spent hours working alone and will have news from the crime scene. Shadow races ahead, coming to a halt by the castle’s entrance. I leave him tethered to a post outside, hoping he won’t howl in protest all night long.
The hotel staff must have heard about Sabine’s death, but it looks like they’ve been told to put on a brave face, in case the murder spooks their guests. The porter greets me with a relaxed smile. He asks about luggage but I don’t even have a toothbrush, let alone fresh clothes. Ray has promised to bring the basics over for me and Eddie tomorrow, as neither of us can leave St Mary’s until the killer’s found. The porter says little as he leads me down a stone-walled corridor. My room on the first floor is decorated in grand style, with a four-poster bed, antique furniture, and miles of ocean outside the window, already glinting with starlight. Guards would have slept under these rafters centuries ago, on bare stone floors. They were paid to defend the island from external threats,
but my job involves a different kind of navigation. It won’t be easy to make the islanders share their secrets, but I’ll have to break through their reticence to expose the killer. When I look through the window again, Hugh Town’s harbour lights are shining, a dozen lobster boats adrift on the tide. People pay high prices to enjoy such perfect views of the picturesque fishing town, yet someone is hellbent on destroying the island’s calm.
A blast of Motown bursts through the wall, reminding me that Liz Gannick is next door, paying no respect whatsoever to the hotel’s peaceful atmosphere. I often play music when I’m at home, from the nineties rock I grew up with, to jazz and classical, but Gannick’s got good taste. Stevie Wonder is belting out ‘Uptight’, which seems fitting when she appears in the doorway. She’s leaning heavily on her crutches, but her gaze is still bright with questions. The forensics chief has converted her suite into a science lab, complete with workbench, microscope and vials full of powder and liquids. The smell of chemicals permeates the air, reminding me of school chemistry lessons that always bored me to tears.
‘You like your music loud, Liz. I bet you’re a Northern Soul fan.’
‘Isn’t everyone?’ She gives me an arch look, before turning down the volume. ‘I can name every obscure backing singer Motown ever exploited.’
‘That’s quite a skill.’
‘Where have you been all day? Behind your desk, smoking cigars?’
‘The small matter of a murder investigation has kept me busy. It’s been slow going. Eddie spent the whole afternoon with a band of volunteers scouring the Garrison for the missing phone, but they had no luck.’ I drop into a chair by the window. ‘What did you find?’
She passes me an evidence bag. ‘It took me a while to get this off the girl’s wedding ring finger; her knuckle was badly swollen.’
The bag contains a gold wedding band, with hallmarks stamped inside.
‘It must be old, like the locket,’ Gannick says. ‘It’s covered in scratches and dents. He’s been a clever boy and kept his operation clean. I’ve gone over every centimetre of the dress with UV light and found nothing. It’s drenched in dry cleaning chemicals, and there’s no hair, or stray fibres from his clothes. He probably wore overalls and a mask when he went to work. I need the lab in Penzance to check that the blood on the sleeves of the wedding dress belongs to Sabine, from friction burns, but there are hardly any other marks.’
‘Was there much evidence at the crime scene?’
She shakes her head. ‘I’m hoping the lab will get more from my samples. I want the dress flown over for analysis tomorrow; we can pick up fingerprints on fabric these days, but not with the basic kit I’ve got here.’
‘How does that work?’
‘We use iodine fuming. The chemical’s heated to form a vapour that sticks to the oily residue of fingerprints, so we can photograph them.’
‘If the killer’s that careful there won’t be any, will there?’
‘No one’s that neat and tidy.’
I look out at the night sky, glittering above us. ‘The bastard’s determined to stay out of reach, and I bet Sabine’s phone has been buried somewhere.’
Gannick is too preoccupied to respond. ‘There’s one other stain on the dress. It’s a solid line of car oil.’
‘Meaning what?’
‘She was put in the boot of a vehicle. I imagine it was lined with plastic, but the hem got caught under the lid.’
‘He was waiting for her by the lighthouse?’
‘I can’t prove that yet. It looks like the killer worked on her in a clean environment – I couldn’t find any soil or grass stains on the dress.’
Now there’s a new element to Sabine’s suffering. Was she dead or alive when that lid slammed down, inches from her face? She may have screamed for help for hours. I piece details together as Gannick shows me some blurred footprints photographed at the scene, which could be valuable evidence, or from tourists following the coastal path during the last few days. It looks like the murderer captured Sabine, then found somewhere clean and tidy to dress her in bridal clothes. Whoever did it is working hard to keep their identity secret, but aspects of their personality are already clear. The killer is skilled at eradicating every clue. No one has reported any suspicious behaviour among islanders or hotel guests. I can’t tell whether the murderer was fixated with Sabine, or happy to use any female victim to perform the warped ritual.
Gannick is hunched over her microscope again, examining specks of soil from the crime scene. Her teeth are gritted with determination while the Supremes belt out another tune. The music’s tempo normally makes me want to lumber to my feet and dance, preferably while no one’s looking, but tonight it’s just a reminder that Sabine Bertans has missed out on a lifetime of celebrations.
It’s 10 p.m. when I walk back downstairs to the bar in the hotel’s basement. The low-ceilinged space bears little resemblance to a dungeon today, but prisoners would have languished here in Elizabethan times, waiting for summary justice. The underground space feels cooler than the oppressive heat outside. It’s filled with sofas and armchairs, and about twenty guests are clustered around tables, drinking nightcaps. Their chatter drops in volume when they catch sight of me. I recognise faces from my briefing, their expressions wary, as if they expect more bad news. The restaurant stopped serving dinner an hour ago, but a barmaid brings me ciabatta, olives, and slices of cold meat, neatly arranged on a platter. It’s a far cry from the fish and chips served at the Mermaid, my normal haunt on St Mary’s, but once I’m settled at a corner table, my camouflage is complete. I’m just another punter enjoying a late-night meal, free to eavesdrop on conversations. The murder is mentioned a few times, but most guests seem content to have their stay extended, apart from a few whose insurance companies are dragging their feet to cover their costs. They’re all blissfully unaware of the violence that ended Sabine’s life.
My gaze catches on a blond guy of around forty, on the far side of bar. He’s pretending to read a newspaper, to disguise his interest in the waitresses. The man strikes up a conversation with one young girl, who soon hurries back to the kitchen, but rejection doesn’t faze him. He makes another attempt with the next waitress to approach his table, delivering a glass of brandy. My technique is the opposite of his. I’m confident with women, but prefer to be genuinely attracted before making a move, while he believes every girl that crosses his path is fair game. I’m willing to bet that he’s the sleazeball Isla mentioned, so I pick up my beer and head for his table.
‘Mind if I join you?’ I ask. ‘I hate drinking alone.’
‘Feel free, my friend, but I’m about to call it a night.’
His accent is a refined American drawl, with a British inflection, as if he’s got divided loyalties. The man’s short hair lacks any sign of grey, so clean it glistens. It’s only when I glance at him again that his plastic surgery shows; his skin is pulled taut over his cheekbones, no lines visible on his forehead.
‘I’m DI Ben Kitto, and you’re Mr Trewin, aren’t you?’
He looks startled. ‘Liam, please. I was very sorry to hear about Sabine’s death.’
‘But you didn’t attend my meeting?’
‘I was driving round the island. Another guest gave me the news this afternoon.’
‘How well did you know Sabine?’
‘No better than the rest.’ The man’s grip on his brandy glass tightens, his fingertips turning white. ‘I’m on first name terms with most of the staff. I stayed here this time last year too – love the place.’
‘She was wearing the earrings you gave her when her body was found.’
‘What a horrible image.’ His eyes blink rapidly. ‘She mentioned it was her birthday soon after I arrived. I like to leave gifts instead of tips sometimes – it feels more personal.’
‘Did you give her anything else?’
‘Nothing of value.’ He looks even more uncomfortable when he speaks again. ‘Just some flowers and a bottle of champagne.’
‘Are you married, Liam?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘I can easily check.’
His face grows sullen. ‘I got divorced last year.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that. Just one more question, then I’ll leave you in peace. When did you collect your hire car?’
‘Yesterday, I took it back this afternoon.’ His gaze finally meets mine. ‘This might sound callous, but do you know when I can fly home? Business is waiting for me back in Florida.’
‘A young woman you showered with gifts just got murdered, Mr Trewin. I’m afraid I can’t give you a specific timeframe.’
The man keeps his mouth shut, but a line of perspiration has gathered on his upper lip. He barely responds when I say goodnight, and his body language has changed when I look back. Trewin is keeping his head down, no longer bothering the waitresses. I can’t guess why a relatively young man would have a facelift, unless he hates his appearance. Too many rejections may have triggered a fit of violence, but how would a tourist carry out a ritualised murder, without leaving clues?
I catch sight of Lily Jago when I leave the bar. She’s sitting on a low wall outside the hotel’s entrance, dressed in her uniform, her face illuminated by the light of her mobile phone. The girl’s thin shoulders are hunched, light brown hair hanging down in a messy bob. There’s a look of misery on her face while she checks her messages. Lily almost drops her phone when she sees me, but manages to fumble it back into her pocket. I remember how anxious she seemed when her brother attended his first probation meeting, after leaving prison. She seemed so concerned about his welfare, I asked the island’s only full-time social worker to visit the pair’s home, but she still looks vulnerable. Her tense body language fills me with pity. She’s had a bad year since losing her mother to cancer: her father is serving a long jail sentence on the mainland, Harry can’t be trusted, and now a close friend has been killed. She rises to her feet in a hurry when she sees me, like a startled deer.