by Kate Rhodes
The killer seems to make a habit of following women to the island’s margins. Toll’s Island is a rocky outcrop on the north-eastern coast, with no houses in sight. It holds the ruins of an ancient battery, built during the English Civil War. Hannah may have wanted to report on the island’s ancient sites, endangering herself by going there alone.
Eddie lets out a whoop of excitement when I pass his desk, then grins up at me. ‘Liam Trewin’s got form. He harassed a woman in Florida last year, but got off with a hefty fine, according to the Federal Investigation Service.’
‘Was it his ex-wife?’
‘The victim’s a waitress at a café near the haulage company he runs.’
‘What a scumbag,’ Isla says, peering over Eddie’s shoulder. ‘He targets women who have to accept his shitty behaviour.’
‘Is there anything else?’
‘There’s stuff about his family on Wikipedia. His dad’s from Cornwall; the bloke made millions as a financial guru in New York, but his youngest son never joined his business. It looks like he’s the black sheep of the family.’
‘Liz Gannick can check Trewin’s hotel room tomorrow morning. She may find evidence we missed.’
‘His hire car’s clean. She says there’s no sign of blood anywhere.’
‘I still want to interview him. Get him here by ten tomorrow morning, please. I’m going back to the hospital. Gannick can start checking vehicles owned by the islanders we haven’t ruled out, but it’s time the rest of you went home.’ I look out of the window at the empty yard behind the station. ‘Has anyone seen Shadow?’
‘Sorry, boss, he slipped his lead down by the quay,’ Isla says. ‘I tried to catch him, but he ran off across the beach.’
‘He’ll come back when he’s hungry.’ I meet her eye again. ‘Can we have a quick chat, Isla?’
The constable follows me into Madron’s office. She appears relaxed when I quiz her more deeply about Saturday evening. I ask how long she spent outside after her mother went to bed, and she claims it was less than ten minutes. It’s been her habit since childhood to walk down to the shore for a final glimpse of the sea before going to bed. I feel reassured when our conversation ends; her story tallies directly with her mother’s, giving me another bargaining chip to use in my next phone call to Madron. She agrees to let Eddie drive her home, even though she seems to resent our attempts to keep her safe.
Shadow is nowhere in sight when I lock up the station at nine o’clock. I’ll probably get a call tomorrow from one of the island’s farmers, telling me he’s been chasing sheep. The evening’s heat has mellowed when I turn the corner into Church Street. It’s hard to imagine anyone committing a crime when I pass St Mary’s Hall Hotel, where half a dozen couples are sitting under an acacia tree, enjoying a late dinner and a glass of wine.
The hospital is quiet when I arrive, the evening shift winding down as my lungs fill with the odours of iodine, sickness and floor polish. I’m eager for news that Hannah Weber’s condition is improving : I haven’t forgiven myself for arriving too late to help Sabine, but the second victim may yet recover. When I peer through the glass panel into Hannah’s room, a man is sitting beside her bed. Father Michael appears startled by my arrival, a Bible lying open on his lap. The strain on his face disappears when I greet him.
‘I’m glad to see you here, Father.’
His smile reveals a set of yellowing teeth, as if endless cups of tea from his parishioners have stained the enamel. ‘I drop by most evenings, to check if patients need anything. One of the nurses told me this young lady was attacked.’
‘Her name’s Hannah; it happened this afternoon.’
‘The poor girl must have been terrified.’ His expression sobers. ‘When I spoke to her yesterday she seemed happy here.’
‘Where did you meet her?’
‘Near Toll’s Island; I was taking my morning walk.’
I try to keep my expression neutral when I realise that it could have been the priest who scared Hannah. ‘She mentioned visiting there in her diary. Did you talk for long?’
The priest looks confused. ‘Just a few minutes. I told her about our coffee morning on Saturday; it’s a fundraiser for the church roof. She said that she was travelling alone, so I thought she’d enjoy some company.’
‘That was a kind offer. Did you see anyone else there?’
‘Not that I remember, but I had to get back. Some parishioners were expecting me to visit.’ His attention has already returned to the unconscious woman, allowing me to study him more closely. Father Michael has always seemed content with his pastoral role, his manner open and friendly, but the language barrier could have made Hannah Weber misunderstand his invitation.
‘I wish I could do more to help,’ he murmurs.
‘Company is all she needs right now. Were you saying a prayer?’
‘Just reading some psalms. Patients say it brings them peace. Maybe it’s hearing a calm voice that soothes them, but I think the message helps too.’ He looks into my eyes more deeply. ‘Would you like to hear Psalm twenty-eight?’
‘I’m not a believer, Father.’
‘That doesn’t matter.’ His shrewd gaze connects with mine again. ‘It might give you comfort.’
I drop down on the seat opposite. ‘Go ahead.’
The priest must know the words by heart, because his gaze drifts from his Bible to Hannah’s face. ‘The Lord is my strength and my shield; my heart trusted in him, and I am helped: therefore my heart greatly rejoices; and with my song I will praise him.’
I can’t tell whether Hannah Weber is listening, or too deeply unconscious to hear, but his conviction makes me envy his faith. His words stay with me as I return to the corridor, where Ginny Tremayne is waiting to give me an update. She explains that Hannah’s vital signs and reflexes haven’t improved since she arrived.
‘It could go either way,’ she says. ‘I’m glad Michael’s with her; patients always respond well to his kindness.’
Ginny’s gone before I can ask another question, but when I peer into the room again the priest shows no sign of going home, even though it’s approaching 10 p.m. He’s still performing his incantation, and I can only hope that his faith will work miracles. Hannah Weber is still hovering between life and death, her skin as pale as candlewax, while his psalms fill the room.
21
Tuesday 6 August
I spend the first hour of my day dealing with the Cornish Constabulary. The DCI in Penzance has received a phone call from Madron, asking her to send a team of senior officers over to St Mary’s to support the investigation. She explains that her patch is under-staffed with many officers taking annual leave; it won’t be possible to help out. Her statement leaves me with mixed feelings: the islanders are edgy enough without a dozen uniformed officers raising the level of panic even higher. I thank her for contacting me then release a few swear words after I hang up. I could use some extra manpower, but it’s my boss’s intervention that leaves me gritting my teeth; I can’t believe he contacted the mainland force behind my back.
I’ve regained my calm by the time Liam Trewin arrives at the station by 10 a.m. The temperature inside the building is rising as the sun beats down on the roof, but the American’s appearance is immaculate, his navy shorts and polo shirt freshly ironed. I have to remind myself that the only hint that he could be involved in Sabine’s death is his tendency to pester waitresses, and a few nasty details from his divorce case. Trewin’s body language stiffens when Eddie joins us at the table and I notice again how unnatural the man’s face looks, his skin stretched tight across his cheekbones. I pause before asking the first question; working as a murder investigator taught me the value of silence in interviews. It can create a gap in the conversation that suspects feel obliged to fill.
‘What’s this about?’ he blusters. ‘I should be outside enjoying my vacation.’
‘Apologies, Mr Trewin. We just need to know about your movements in the last few days.’
‘Don’t I get to see a lawyer?’
‘You’re not under arrest, it’s just a routine part of our inquiry. Can you tell us how you spent yesterday?’
‘I had breakfast in my room at nine.’ The man replies, his skin reddening. ‘I left the hotel about an hour later. The sky was clear, so I took a walk to Pelistry Bay for a swim. I spent the morning there. I returned to Old Town in time for a late lunch, then strolled back to the hotel.’
‘You never explored the island’s east coast?’
‘It was too warm. Maybe I’ll do that another day.’
Pelistry lies several miles from Halangy Beach, but Trewin may have fabricated the whole story.
‘Did you see anyone?’
‘There was no one around when I left the hotel grounds.’
‘How about photos? Did you take any on your walk?’
He hesitates before shaking his head. ‘All I had with me was a bottle of water, my wallet and swimming gear.’
‘That’s a shame, the pictures would have proved your story. Did you speak to anyone?’
‘I wasn’t looking for company. I didn’t notice many people on Porthcressa Beach or the coastal path.’
‘Did you visit the museum in Hugh Town while you were here last year?’
‘Several times, actually. I like their exhibits about the old way of life, when my ancestors lived here. It’s incredible that the islanders made such a remote place thrive simply by growing flowers and catching fish.’
‘And smuggling,’ Eddie adds. ‘It was our main trade for three centuries.’
‘I hope my relatives were law-abiding.’ He forces a smile.
‘You’ve had your own brush with the law, haven’t you? Can you tell us why the Federal Investigation Service took you to court last year?’
Trewin’s lips flap open, like a fish gasping for air. ‘A girl I was seeing blackmailed me. She even denied we’d had a relationship.’
‘The court believed her, didn’t they? You repeatedly followed her home from work at night. That sounds like stalking to me.’
‘She’s a fantasist.’
‘Did you think Sabine Bertans would be easier to control?’
He rears back in his seat. ‘I don’t have to listen to this bullshit.’
‘We found some strong painkillers in your room. Why do you use them?’
‘For migraines. I get the kind that lay you out for days.’
‘Three of those pills would render a woman of Sabine’s build unconscious. Tell us how you spent Saturday night, please.’
‘I had a nightcap in the hotel bar, then went to bed.’
I glance down at my notes. ‘My colleague tell me the night porter saw you in the car park, around midnight.’
Trewin’s eyes blink rapidly. ‘I took one last stroll around the grounds to help me sleep.’
‘It’s a big coincidence that a woman in Florida accused you of harassment, then days after you pester Sabine she turns up dead.’
‘I was just being courteous.’
‘Your gifts didn’t work, did they? She still turned you down.’ He chooses to remain silent. ‘That’s all for today, Mr Trewin. You’re free to go back to the hotel. Sorry if your room was untidy yesterday; we examined it for forensic evidence, but it may be necessary to look again.’
Trewin’s voice is cold with anger. ‘Sabine cleaned it most days; she must have touched every damn surface.’
The American looks tempted to throw a punch, but his confidence has vanished. Trewin no longer seems certain that everything will go his way. He mutters something about making a complaint then leaves the room with his head bowed. Once he’s gone, the team assembles to compare notes. Our suspect’s isolated hotel room would have enabled him to leave the grounds in his hire car on the night Sabine died, without being spotted. I can see frustration on Isla’s face when she looks up from her pile of reports.
‘Two other girls at the hotel say he flirted with them, straight after Sabine died. If he’s guilty, he didn’t waste long looking for a new target.’
‘We’ve got no proof,’ Eddie says. ‘Maybe he’s just lonely.’
The sergeant’s comment is a reminder that some of Trewin’s behaviour is uncomfortably like mine. I’ve lived alone for the past five years, often walking to my godmother’s pub on Bryher to avoid eating another solitary meal, but at least I don’t stalk the waitresses.
‘The bloke’s a world class creep,’ Isla mutters.
‘Agreed, but gut instincts won’t deliver a conviction. Eddie, can you find out if anyone saw Trewin yesterday morning? If he crossed Porthcressa Beach around 10 a.m., Linda Thomas may have spotted him as she was opening the library. She’s pretty canny; I bet she’ll remember him if he’s telling the truth.’
Lawrie Deane is busy going through Hannah’s notebook, looking for details about her activities in the last few days. He’s so busy thumbing through pages, he barely looks up when he passes on some news.
‘Your uncle rang earlier, boss. He asked if you’d go down to the quay.’
My uncle has been given permission to travel, because his alibi is sound: his small boat was seen harboured at Church Quay on Bryher, the night Sabine died. I’m glad of an excuse to leave the station. Frustration combined with the midday heat has turned the building into a pressure cooker. There are few people around when I follow the High Street, now most tourists have gone home. The killer must be feeling exposed since the island’s population has dwindled, leaving fewer places to hide.
Ray is on board his boat once I reach the harbour, a two-berth cabin cruiser that I helped him build in my teens. My uncle’s capacity for stillness is visible, even from a distance. While other people fiddle with their phones, Ray can stay immobile for hours, watching the sea. He only shifts position when I near the boat, angling his head in my direction, eyes obscured by his sunglasses. I can’t imagine what’s brought him over from Bryher when there’s a lapstrake boat in his yard, in need of varnish.
‘Maggie’s sent you some supplies,’ he says.
‘There was no need. The station’s surrounded by cafés.’
‘The woman’s afraid you’ll starve without home-cooked food.’ He assesses my face again. ‘How’s the case going?’
‘Not great, to be honest.’
My uncle hands over two carrier bags loaded with food parcels. My godmother Maggie runs the pub on Bryher, always convinced that a man of my size is in constant need of sustenance. She’s sent over enough provisions for a small army.
‘I can’t stay long, Ray. We’re working flat out.’
‘Stop for a minute to clear your head.’
When Ray beckons me onto his boat, I step off the quay without argument; his quiet authority is hard to ignore, even when his instructions go against the grain. My uncle is in no hurry to talk, his gaze fixed once more on the sea. The horizon is a pale line of turquoise, waves flatlining as the ocean merges with the sky. When I tip my head back, the air is clear too, apart from a solitary tern riding a thermal far above us. After five minutes of silence, some of the day’s tension drains from my system.
‘Better?’ Ray asks.
‘Definitely,’ I reply, climbing back onto the quay.
My uncle is on his feet now, shifting a few lobster creels into the hatch. ‘Did you know Nina was down here on holiday?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘She came by the boatyard a few days ago. I made her a bite to eat then ran her back to Watermill Cove.’
I stare at him, dumbfounded. ‘How long did she stay?’
‘All afternoon.’
My amazement deepens. Ray’s conversations are always short and monosyllabic, unless he’s with an old friend or relative. Nina must have magical powers.
‘It never occurred to you to tip me off?’
‘That’s her business, not mine.’ He coils his mooring rope, then restarts the engine. ‘Keep an eye on the weather for the next few days. Heavy rain’s coming.’
‘The sky’s
clear as a bell.’
‘Not for long. Don’t let it catch you out.’
My uncle’s slow-dawning smile arrives at last, then he casts off without another word. I stand on the quay for five minutes watching his small craft leave the harbour, heading for Bryher, across a carpet of blue. Ray’s announcement is a typical piece of island behaviour. People here are secretive by nature, reminding me what I’m up against. Someone must know the killer’s identity in a place this small, but they’re not willing to share his name.
22
Lily returns to her room at the hotel in time for the afternoon shift, glad to escape her brother’s company. She’s afraid he’ll take the law into his own hands, but knows there’s no point in trying to stop him. Now she’s standing in front of the mirror, trying to follow Rhianna Polkerris’s advice, before reporting for kitchen duty at 2 p.m.
The girl has brought her mother’s make-up bag back from the house, but emotions surface when she undoes the zip. The scent of lily of the valley brings her mother’s image to mind, standing in the hallway, dabbing perfume behind her ears then applying dark pink lipstick. When Lily does the same, the effect is clownish. The vivid tone accentuates her pallor, making her look plainer than before.
Lily gazes down at the beauty kit her mother used every day. When she opens the old-fashioned powder compact, the make-up is crumbling. She closes her eyes and inhales deeply, hoping to picture her mother again, but Sabine appears instead. Her friend is haunting her, demanding the justice she deserves.
Suddenly the heat feels so overwhelming, Lily throws open the window, her hands clutching the sill, while she gasps for air. Her legs are still shaking when she forces herself out of the room.
23
Isla meets me by the gateway to the Star Castle Hotel at 2.30 p.m. The young constable’s expression is curious when she stands beside me.
‘I need your help to interview Lily Jago. She’ll be back at work by now.’
Her shoulders stiffen. ‘Won’t that be awkward if she knows about me and Sabine, sir?’