by Kate Rhodes
‘Any new information would be useful.’
Shadow is still misbehaving when I tie him to a railing; the creature howling with outrage for no obvious reason. I know little about Power, except that he’s a second-generation islander, and one of the island’s richest men. He bought the Isles of Scilly Travel Company a decade ago, acting as broker for all mainland ferry and flight services. I can tell immediately that his interest in collecting extends beyond local jewellery. Antique seascapes fill the walls of his hallway, all painted in the same realist style, galleons fighting to stay afloat in harsh typhoons. His living room has shelves loaded with glassware, and decorative plates cover his French dresser.
‘How long have you been collecting?’
He gives an awkward smile. ‘Ever since I can remember. It started with stamps and coins, then spiralled out of control. It’s my only addiction.’
‘It beats drugs or booze.’
‘True, but it can be expensive. A Roman coin I bought last week cost me eight hundred pounds.’
‘Is it made of gold?’
‘Good Lord, no. Most of those are in the British Museum. It’s a bronze aureus; I’ve wanted one for years.’
The man’s new purchase animates him at last, his eyes glowing with pleasure. He produces a wooden box then hands it to me. It contains a dozen pieces of jewellery, glittering against their black velvet lining.
‘These are Cornish gold like the ones taken from the museum. Fishermen bought them here on St Mary’s over a hundred years ago, as talismans for their new brides. Jewellers called them “sailors’ charms”, but they didn’t always bring good luck.’
I pick out a locket with a date engraved on the back, a lock of hair pressed behind the glass. I can see why fishermen gave such intimate mementoes to their wives as wedding gifts, in case they perished at sea.
‘Was much gold mined in Cornwall?’
Power shakes his head. ‘Mostly tin and copper; it’s very scarce. It’s a shame that the thief took some of the museum’s most important pieces. I can’t understand why there’s no mention of them in the record book, but they could have been donated a hundred years ago. Heirlooms like that rarely come up for sale. I only know from hearsay that the locket you found at Pulpit Rock has a tragic history. Apparently the man who gave it to his wife drowned soon after they married.’
His words silence me for a moment. Many families in Scilly have lost relatives to the sea, including mine. My father often gave my mother flowers before his fishing trips, until his trawler went down on the Atlantic Strait. The same storm killed the Keast brothers’ father too, making us members of a club that no one wants to join.
‘We found the locket on the victim’s body,’ I say.
Power shakes his head, frowning. ‘The sailors’ charms contain so much hope and tenderness; it’s a pity the killer’s tarnished them.’
‘Three rings went missing too, didn’t they?’
‘I think they were just simple Cornish gold wedding bands made locally, but they’re not listed in the museum’s record book either.’
‘Elaine mentioned that you’re creating an online catalogue.’
He winces. ‘It won’t be easy; the record book goes back a hundred and fifty years. I wish I’d never volunteered.’
‘Would you check the record again, to see if there’s any mention at all of which family left the stolen pieces to the museum? I think they have a special meaning for the killer.’
‘When do you need to know?’
‘As soon as possible, please.’
‘I’ll do my best.’
‘How long will you need?’
‘I can’t promise miracles. The records are pretty impenetrable, but I’ll start today.’
‘Can you call me when you find out?’
I show Power the wedding band found on Sabine’s finger, and he confirms from the hallmark that it’s likely to be one of the stolen items. The man’s solemn manner strikes me as odd; his face is so expressionless, he seems to believe that smiling might cause him pain.
‘Would you mind telling me how you spent yesterday, Julian?’
He looks puzzled. ‘I never met the young girl that died. You realise that, don’t you?’
‘It’s my job to ask questions anyway, I’m afraid.’
‘I was wrestling with my computer at home. Our booking system broke down last week, so I was trying to fix it. Then I went to the museum in the evening; I borrowed the key from Elaine Rawle at about 8 p.m. I got home in time for the ten o’clock news.’
‘You were alone?’
‘I’ve lived by myself for years.’
‘Do you mind saying why?’
He folds his arms tighter across his chest. ‘I got divorced five years ago, but the local gossip mill never stops churning, especially in winter when there’s little to keep people busy. I prefer being alone to having my love life dissected in the pub.’
‘You must get lonely sometimes.’
‘Not at all. My house is peaceful, and I never have to placate anyone. I can do as I please.’
The man’s precise speech reminds me of the killer’s systematic approach, despite finding no concrete evidence to link him to Sabine’s death. He seems determined to put collecting at the centre of his life, instead of other human beings. I remember the make-up so carefully applied to Sabine’s face, and flowers threaded through her hair, before thanking him for his help. There seem to be two sides to the killer’s personality. Whoever completed the crime is capable of the delicacy Power showed when handling his rare items, yet Sabine’s body was hoisted from the ground with brutal strength, then displayed like a broken doll. My mind circles back to the sailors’ charms, aware that the killer stole more than one item for a reason. I’m already braced for a phone call, telling me another victim’s been taken.
14
My next visit will be a lot more challenging than a lesson on antique jewellery. I have to be present at 11 a.m. when Dr Keillor examines Sabine’s body in the mortuary. Despite my long stint in the Murder Squad, corpses bother me more than I care to admit. Shadow bares his teeth when I untie his leash, clearly in no mood to forget being held captive for the past half hour. The morning heat is rising to boiling point when I follow Church Road towards the hospital, and Shadow vanishes from sight, filling me with envy. This is one duty I would happily skip, in favour of sunbathing with a cold drink in my hand.
High Town is so small that its amenities all lie close together, but it’s home to half of St Mary’s permanent residents. The hospital looks like a couple of modest dwellings, carefully whitewashed, with a garden area outside. It stands at the top of Carn Gwaval, where Hugh Town gives way to the untamed moors of Peninnis Head, giving patients a long view over the island’s allotment site to the pale sand of Porthcressa Beach. I cut across the car park to the mortuary behind the hospital. The pre-fabricated building has frosted glass windows, to protect the privacy of the dead. Gareth Keillor has arrived already, and is dressed in blue surgical scrubs, arranging scalpels, surgical knives and bowls on a trolley. He gives me a nod of greeting before turning on his recorder, then announcing the start of his examination to the microphone that hangs over the operating table.
When he pulls back the sheet, the air is tainted with chemicals and decay. Sabine’s neck is circled by dark red bruising, yet her make-up is still intact, grey shadow marking her closed eyelids, lips still frosted with pale pink lipstick. The garland in her hair has shrivelled; only the cornflowers have retained their colour. They could have been picked from any hedgerow on St Mary’s. When I glance at the rest of her body, there are few visible injuries. It feels wrong to stare at her exposed breasts and hips, but her physique is athletic, the muscles she developed from distance swimming still in evidence. Keillor takes his time, using a pin to scrape dirt from under her nails into plastic specimen tubes. His voice is measured when he murmurs his findings into the recorder. Sabine’s family haven’t agreed to a full post-mortem yet, but he inser
ts a suction tube into her mouth, then eases her onto her side to examine her neck.
‘Cervical vertebrae fracture, between C6 and C7, oedema around ruptured spinal column,’ he tells the microphone, then turns to face me. ‘You need to see this, Ben.’
When I step forward, new odours hit me; ammonia and something sharper and more acidic, emanating from the girl’s body.
‘What do you make of the discoloration, above her collarbone?’ he asks. ‘See anything odd about it?’
A line of scarlet rope burns circles her throat, but some smaller purple marks don’t make sense.
‘Where do the round bruises come from?’
‘They’re consistent with strangulation; the killer’s fingertips press so hard, they often leave a bruise. It only takes light pressure on the carotid artery to prevent blood reaching the brain, but most stranglers don’t realise. They aim to cut off their victim’s air supply through the windpipe.’
The pathologist completes his work without further conversation, until he strips off his surgical gloves fifteen minutes later, then lathers his hands with soap that turns his skin a virulent yellow. His expression is weary when he speaks again.
‘I should give up my consultancy duties and retire properly, Ben. Cases like this test my faith in humanity.’
‘And mine. Did you learn anything new?’
He gives a slow nod. ‘The bruising at the base of her skull is from a blunt instrument. She was hit from behind, with a crowbar or a club. The blow would have knocked her out for several hours. Apart from that, her body is almost unmarked, until the strangulation.’
‘You think Sabine was already dead when she was hung from Pulpit Rock?’
‘She was beaten, then strangled to death. After that he took her back to Pulpit Rock. Her neck broke when he hung her body from the cliff.’
‘Why not just dump her on a beach for the tide to carry away?’
‘Motives are your domain, Ben.’ He looks down at the girl’s face again. ‘But I’d say the killer’s showing off. Her body was left hanging at one of our most famous beauty spots. It’s always been popular for wedding photos too; my wife and I had our pictures taken there thirty years ago.’
‘I still don’t see why she was dressed as a bride. The killer seems to love the costume, flowers and lipstick, like a kid with a dressing-up box.’
‘It could be some kind of fetish, but there’s no overtly sexual element, or physical clues on the girl’s body. Your best chance of a DNA match is from under her nails. She was young, fit and no doubt desperate to survive. If she fought her attacker, the lab will find skin samples.’
‘Thanks for your help, Gareth.’
‘Good luck hunting him down.’ He studies me again. ‘This one’s getting to you, isn’t it? When it’s over, you should take up golf. A walk round the fairway is a great stress buster; I’d be happy to coach you.’
‘I could use a game right now, Gareth, but it’ll have to wait.’
By the time I leave the mortuary, another hour has passed, and a clean white sheet has hidden Sabine Bertans’ body once more, her short life already slipping from view.
15
Lily can’t decide how to spend her afternoon off. Her feelings are still so numb, the warm breeze barely registers when she leaves the staff accommodation block. She’s dressed like a tourist in a T-shirt, denim cut-offs and espadrilles, but she’s too upset to sunbathe on Porthcressa Beach. Sabine’s phone is still tucked inside her pocket. It presses against her skin, reminding her to keep searching for her friend’s killer.
The air smells of cooking oil and stale coffee as she passes the kitchen. One of the chefs is taking a cigarette break, leaning against the wall. The middle-aged man calls out as she walks past.
‘Sorry to hear about your friend, Lily.’
‘It doesn’t seem real,’ she says, coming to a halt beside him. ‘I keep thinking she’ll walk back through the gates.’
‘How old was Sabine?’
‘Nineteen a few weeks ago.’
‘Jesus, she was still a kid.’ He uses his heel to grind the stub of his cigarette into the gravel. ‘It’s always the boyfriend, isn’t it? Who was she seeing?’
‘No one.’
The chef’s eyebrows shoot towards his hairline. ‘There were several, most likely.’
Lily stares back at him. ‘What do you mean?’
‘She always flirted with the lads in the kitchen.’ He gives an awkward shrug. ‘Girls like that draw the wrong kind of attention.’
‘It’s wrong to judge her; she’s not here to defend herself.’
‘Sorry, love, but everyone thinks the same.’ He holds up his hands, like she’s holding a loaded gun.
‘Sabine was friendly, that’s all, and kinder than all of you.’ She spits out the words.
The man’s smile remains on his face when he gives a low whistle of admiration. ‘I thought you were a mouse, but you’re a tough little nut, aren’t you?’
‘No one knew her like me. The rest of you can shut up.’
Lily is trembling when she walks away. She exits the hotel grounds fast, before anyone else can pass judgement. The midday heat is so stifling, she’s struggling to breathe. Her walk takes her past the police station, and she considers handing in Sabine’s phone, but it’s the last link to her friend’s memory. Lily returns to the house where she once lived on the Strand; the modest two-storey building has seen better days. Its only beautiful feature now is the view through the ginnel to Porth Minick Beach, and its acres of pristine sand.
The front door is unlocked, the hallway reeking of spilled beer. When she enters the living room, Lily calls her brother’s name, but gets no reply. She shakes her head in disgust. Her mother always kept the place clean and tidy, with wildflowers in a vase on the table. Harry has neglected it for months. Dishes are heaped in the kitchen sink, and stains mark the worn-out lino, discarded clothes and newspapers piled on the furniture. She sinks into an armchair, too upset to move, until she notices that something has fallen from her brother’s jacket, thrown haphazardly over the arm of the chair. It’s a Polaroid picture of Sabine, gazing at the camera, her expression beseeching. There’s so much terror in her eyes, Lily blinks hard, to avoid seeing it again.
‘What have you done, Harry?’ She mutters the words, then presses her hand across her mouth.
16
The police station reeks of coffee and stress. Five takeaway cups and half a dozen baguettes from Strudel’s café have been left in Madron’s office, the smell of espresso lifting my spirits. The DCI would be appalled to see his gleaming mahogany desk being used as a picnic table, but it’s the only space large enough for the whole team. Liz Gannick is last to arrive, abandoning her crutches by the door when my briefing starts. The chief forensics officer’s frown reminds me that she prefers running her own operation, and hates taking orders. Outside the window, Shadow is oblivious to internal power struggles; he’s dozing in a patch of sunlight in the backyard, his muzzle resting on his paws, minding his own business for once. Eddie and Isla watch expectantly while I thumb through my notes, expecting me to unlock the case instantly. Lawrie Deane and Liz Gannick have been in the game long enough to know that murder cases take time, even on a small island, unless luck is on your side. Their expressions only become animated when they hear that Sabine was strangled to death before being hung from Pulpit Rock.
‘The bastard wanted to watch her die at close range,’ Gannick mutters. ‘Only men commit crimes that violent; women hardly ever strangle their victims.’
‘But what’s the motive?’ Eddie says. ‘The Cornish wedding ring on her finger has to mean something. I’ve been asking round about the phrase on the back of the photo too, but no one recognises it. It sounds like the start of a poem to me.’
‘Any luck with the date, Lawrie?’
The sergeant shakes his head. ‘The registrar’s records were useless. Two female islanders were born on the third of August, but they’re both over seven
ty.’
‘We’ll have to use the sailors’ charms. By putting that locket round Sabine’s neck, she’s become a true Cornish bride. Maybe the killer didn’t want her to leave, even though she never intended to stay.’ I look at each of them in turn. ‘Let’s start sending tourists home today, if their alibis are sound. We know the killer has access to a car, which rules most of them out. We need to thin the population down, so he’s got nowhere to hide. The Scillonian’s waiting by the quay; it can take up to five hundred people back to Penzance this afternoon and sail back empty tomorrow morning to collect the rest. Remember the island’s still closed to everyone except authorised visitors.’
Eddie catches my eye again. ‘The rope around Sabine’s neck was stolen. A coil was left outside the lifeboat house last week, and by morning it was gone. The RNLI use exactly the same gauge as the one at the murder scene.’
‘So our killer gets a kick from nicking stuff. Ask around and see if people in Hugh Town saw anyone prowling round the lifeboat house at night.’ I turn to Isla next. ‘Any luck tracing the wedding dress?’
She looks apologetic. ‘I’ve sent out loads of emails, but none of the second-hand shops can identify it.’
‘Keep trying, you may still get a result.’ I stare down at my scribbled notes. ‘Liam Trewin has admitted to giving Sabine the earrings she was wearing when she died, but so far we’ve got nothing else against him. The killer must be feeling pretty smug. We still can’t prove whether they’re male or female, but they’ve carried out a complex murder in a small community, with an MO that’s weird enough for the true crime books. We need a better understanding of our victim too. Sabine was bright enough to win a place at Latvia’s top university, and arrange a summer job at the Star Castle to improve her English. Her family are Catholic, but she attended church here more out of habit than belief, according to Father Michael.’