by Kate Rhodes
‘You’re my only female officer. She’ll be more open with you around, no matter what she’s heard.’
The situation isn’t ideal, but in a tiny community the police’s lives blend with every island family through blood or friendship. Isla marches at a brisk pace as we head for the hotel. Despite her reluctance, her manner is calm under pressure.
The Star Castle’s managers are both behind the reception desk when we arrive. Tom Polkerris offers a smile of welcome, but his wife’s gaze remains cold, as if she’d rather ban us from the premises. When I ask where Lily’s working, Tom points us towards the kitchen, but Rhianna keeps her mouth shut.
The hotel’s kitchen is tucked away at the back of the building. It has the atmosphere of a dungeon, even though its metre-thick walls are whitewashed to maximise light. Staff are toiling over industrial ranges, scrubbing them until they gleam. There are so few guests left to feed, the head chef is keeping them busy, cleaning every surface.
‘How should I play it, sir?’ Isla murmurs.
‘I’ll ask the questions, don’t worry. Lily’s been cagey so far; we just need to put her at ease.’
I catch sight of the young woman on the far side of the room. Lily Jago’s movements are mechanical as she polishes cutlery, then drops each item back into a wooden box. The girl’s white coat is several sizes too big as she hunches over the counter. She seems anxious about being singled out, as if she’d rather bolt through the fire exit. It seems strange that an outgoing young woman like Sabine chose such a shy creature for her ally. Lily blinks rapidly in the sunlight when we step outside, like a mole coming up for air. There’s no sound in the deserted gardens, except the hiss of a sprinkler, keeping the lawn emerald green. The girl perches on a bench, gazing down at her clasped hands. I notice that her lips are painted a vivid pink, which clashes with her girl-next-door appearance.
‘Tell us more about your friendship with Sabine, please, Lily.’
‘Why ask me? She was popular with everyone.’
‘But someone hated her enough to want her dead.’
Lily gives an awkward shrug. ‘I keep going over it, but none of it makes sense. She’d have told me if anything was wrong.’
‘Can you describe Sabine for us, in your own words?’
‘She was kind and funny. Sabine joked around at work, so the boring stuff felt easy. That was one of the things I liked most…’ Her voice tails into silence.
‘We know she’d begun a relationship recently. You’re not in any trouble, but tell us now if you know that person’s identity.’
The girl gives Isla a questioning look, then drops her gaze. ‘I don’t think she fancied anyone at the hotel. Mr Trewin gave her presents, but she tried to return them.’
Isla leans forward in her seat. ‘We know about the earrings, but was there anything else?’
‘Perfume, I think, and huge tips. She left the stuff outside his room, but he gave them back, even though she couldn’t stand him.’
‘How did Sabine spend her free time the day before she died?’
‘I’m not sure; we were on different shifts.’ Her tense body language makes her look so fragile, as if the first strong wind could carry her away.
‘We’ve been searching for Sabine’s phone. Do you know where it is?’ When she shakes her head, tears pool in her eyes. ‘We have to find out why she died. Did your brother get to know her at all?’
‘They only met a few times.’
When Isla touches Lily’s arm in a gesture of comfort, the girl collapses on her shoulder, crying silently. I’m glad my new recruit has the human touch. I don’t have much skill in comforting the bereaved, always wary of overstepping the mark. The girl’s face is flushed when she finally pulls back, but her emotions are back under control. She answers my next questions calmly, claiming that Sabine never discussed her love life, which is hard to believe. A young traveller so far from home would need great resilience not to confide her secrets. I want to know why Lily Jago is being so tight-lipped, but can’t push her any further today. I’m about to give her permission to return to her duties when she finally speaks again.
‘A man did invite Sabine out to dinner straight after she arrived. She thought he seemed angry when she said no.’
‘Who was that?’ I ask.
‘My brother’s boss.’
‘Paul Keast?’ I know that my friend renovated the old speedboat Harry Jago uses to ferry passengers around local bays.
Lily nods her head and I have to swallow my surprise. Paul never mentioned fancying Sabine, even though we’ve all spent plenty of time together, training for the swimathon. I can’t remember his last serious relationship. I always assumed that he preferred his own company, but it’s my job to suspect everyone, including old friends.
Isla asks questions about the case as we walk back to the station, keen to understand how murder investigation works. She absorbs my comments like litmus paper, while I explain that techniques need to adapt, according to each situation. Her hunger for information makes me certain she’ll be a good cop, but I’m too preoccupied to offer much detail. I’m too busy trying to remember Paul’s behaviour around Sabine, but his shyness often makes him seem ill-at-ease in female company. My concern increases as I leave Isla at the station, making phone calls to check all the islanders are safe. Interrogating Liam Trewin was easy, but quizzing an old friend about a brutal murder will take me way outside my comfort zone.
24
There’s still no sign of Shadow when I set off for the Keast brothers’ farm, hoping the walk will clear my thoughts. The tide’s out, so I drop down onto the beach once I reach the High Street, keen to avoid questions from the islanders. I walk close to the harbour wall to avoid tripping over the mooring ropes strung out across the wet sand. I’ve only been walking five minutes when a tall figure jogs towards me across the shore, dressed in a smart tracksuit. My old headmaster, Frank Rawle, is taking his Labrador for an afternoon run, the dog splashing through puddles of seawater. The man is in his mid-sixties, but his vigorous pace proves that he’s in great shape; the clear sunlight making his face look so craggy and weather-beaten it could have been chipped from the side of Mount Rushmore. I can tell he’s hoping for information by the avid look in his eye.
‘There you are, Ben,’ he calls out. ‘How’s the investigation going?’
‘Well, thanks, but don’t let me slow you down.’
‘I’m glad to take a breather. Are you off to interview somebody?’ Curiosity burns in his eyes, or maybe he’s so used to being in charge, he just wants to control the situation.
‘It’s a routine house call, but we’re making progress.’
‘My offers stands if you need help. By the way, your dog was up by Shooters’ Pool earlier. Did you know he’s on the loose?’
‘He broke free yesterday. Shadow hates being kept indoors.’
‘Training’s the key.’ Rawle bears down on me as if he plans to wield his cane. ‘Show him who’s boss or he’ll undermine your authority.’
‘I never had any. I inherited him, after a friend died. She encouraged his independent streak.’
‘Mistakes can always be corrected. Remember I’m here if you need anything.’
He’s standing so close I can see a network of broken capillaries in the whites of his eyes. There’s something odd about the man’s repeated offers of assistance. Maybe Sabine’s death has triggered memories of losing his daughter at the same age. I acknowledge his offer before he continues his jog, but Rawle’s controlling behaviour lingers in my head as I follow the coastline north.
My walk takes me past tourist sites that are normally buzzing during the summer, but now stand deserted. No one is queuing to see Harry’s Walls, the remains of a sixteenth century fort, and even the artists’ studios at Porth Mellon are quiet now that summer visitors have gone. The islanders must be following my advice and seeking safety in numbers, instead of taking solitary walks; when I cross the sand there’s no one in sight, even though
the sun’s still hot enough to burn. The Keast brothers’ farmhouse stands directly above Porthloo Bay, overlooking the granite boulders that litter the shore. The farmyard looks like a storybook version of country life, complete with chickens pecking the hay-strewn ground, half a dozen pigs in a pen, and a dappled horse peering through the stable door. One of the brothers emerges from the barn as I arrive, a lanky figure with collar-length brown hair, carrying buckets of feed. I can tell them apart from the way they move after so long. Steve’s confidence shows in his bold stride, while Paul’s movements are slower and more tentative.
‘Steve,’ I call out.
He dumps the buckets by the wall and offers a grin. ‘Hello, stranger. What are you doing here?’
‘I need a quick chat. Is Paul about?’
‘He’s testing soil in the top field. The pasture needs some nitrogen.’
‘That makes no sense to me whatsoever.’
‘Stick to policing, mate. You’d make a crap farmer, but come in anyway.’
Steve takes his time, discarding his filthy wellingtons in the porch, and my pulse rate drops once I cross the threshold. I’ve spent so much time in the brothers’ old-fashioned kitchen, after school rugby matches and as an adult, every item is familiar. The pine table, worn floor tiles and cast-iron range are unchanged since their mother retired to the mainland, leaving her sons to run the farm. The framed picture of their father Pat is a reminder of the worst side of our shared history. Our fathers drowned on the same fishing trip, and the Keast brothers’ loss was crueller than mine because it could have been avoided. My dad was a professional trawlerman, but theirs only made occasional fishing trips when money was tight. He lost his life on the first voyage he’d taken all year. My brother and I visited the Keasts so often after it happened, they became more like cousins than friends. It helped to know that we were all trapped inside the same bubble, numb with shock for months, the grief that united us reflected in each other’s faces.
Steve dumps two mugs of coffee on the table, then relaxes in the chair opposite. He’s thirty-seven, only two years older than me, but outdoor work has aged his skin prematurely, with crows’ feet winging from the corners of his eyes, laughter lines bracketing his mouth. Steve’s default reaction is to smile at everything that comes his way, including my unexpected arrival. I’ve seen less of him recently, because he’s started a relationship with a woman in Plymouth, but she hasn’t visited St Mary’s yet.
‘When’s the new girlfriend coming over?’
‘Find one of your own, mate.’ His eyes glitter with amusement. ‘Want me to fix you up?’
‘How do I know she’s real?’
‘You’ve seen her photo. I want her to fly over, but she doesn’t get much time off her nursing job.’ His face grows serious. ‘If Paul knew I was considering leaving the farm to live on the mainland he’d lose the plot.’
‘He’s tougher than he seems.’ I swallow a mouthful of coffee.
‘I don’t agree. He’s never been the same since dad died.’
‘It affected us all differently.’ My brother became the man of the house, looking after mum and striving for the best grades, while I retreated into the long American novels I’ve been addicted to ever since.
‘We’re drifting apart,’ Steve mutters. ‘I keep saying he should see a counsellor, but he always refuses.’
‘You think he’s depressed?’
‘God knows what’s wrong. Some days he hardly speaks.’
‘Maybe it’s just a passing thing. Is Harry Jago doing okay, piloting his boat?’
‘Is that why you’re here? Paul only gave him work because his mum cleaned for us. He’s a soft touch.’
‘That’s not the reason. I need to speak to you both about Sabine: you knew her pretty well, didn’t you?’
‘We trained with her, like you, but that was about it.’
‘Someone must know why she died.’
‘Not me, that’s for sure. I can’t get my head round it, but Paul’s taken it worst.’
‘How come?’
‘Like I say, he’s delicate, isn’t he?’
I was closest to Paul when we were boys, but there’s no denying he’s withdrawn deeper into his shell as the years have passed. ‘Someone told me he asked her out.’
‘You’re kidding? He wouldn’t have the nerve.’
Paul walks through the door before Steve can elaborate. I don’t know whether they wear matching clothes by instinct or design, but the trick highlights their similarities. The brothers’ facial expressions mirror each other too, with smiles that bring their angular features to life. It’s only when Paul sits beside his brother that differences show. His frame is thinner, making him look more like a poet than a farmer, deep-set eyes closer to black than brown. The two men sit so close together, they’re almost rubbing shoulders, like they’re connected by an umbilical cord.
‘Ben’s been asking about Sabine,’ Steve says. ‘He wants to know if we saw much of her.’
‘Only through swimming.’
‘That’s what I said.’
I lean forward to catch Paul’s eye. ‘But you had a soft spot for her, didn’t you?’
‘I bet every bloke on the island did.’ His skin flushes with embarrassment; he’s always hated being put on the spot. ‘She was too young for me.’
‘But you asked her out anyway.’
‘That was back in June, a lot’s happened since then.’ He turns his head away. ‘I didn’t know it was common knowledge.’
‘That’s a surprise, bro,’ Steve interrupts. ‘You never mentioned it.’
‘I don’t need your fucking seal of approval,’ Paul snaps, anger coming off him in waves. ‘It wouldn’t have worked, even if she’d agreed. She was just passing through.’
‘How did you take it, after she said no?’
‘I kept my distance, I suppose.’
‘When’s the last time you had a relationship?’
‘What’s this about, Ben? I’m not looking for romantic advice.’ Paul hates talking about himself, always happier to bat the conversation on to someone else.
‘His ex is dating the island’s weirdo,’ says Steve. ‘His heart was well and truly broken a few years back.’
‘That’s ancient history,’ Paul replies, his voice fiercer than before. ‘Let me speak for myself.’
He gives his brother a look of fury, suggesting a conflict that’s lasted years, and my discomfort grows. The flipside of Paul’s social anxiety might be rage at his own limitations, and the girls who stay out of reach.
The grandfather clock in the corner is ticking too loudly. It’s a reminder that Hannah Weber is fighting for her life, while the killer is free to enjoy the sunshine.
‘How did you both spend Saturday night?’
‘Are you serious?’ Steve asks. ‘You can’t think we hurt her.’
Paul’s voice sounds bitter when he speaks again. ‘You don’t have much faith in us, do you?’
‘I have to investigate everyone. Believe me, it’s not personal.’
‘You’ve known us since you were born, for Christ’s sake.’ Paul’s anger burns brighter, until Steve places a restraining hand on his arm.
‘We had dinner at the Atlantic on Saturday,’ Steve explains. ‘We walked back here around 11 p.m. I went to bed straight away; it was my turn to look after the livestock in the morning.’
‘Did you see anyone on the beach?’
‘No one.’ Paul’s voice is a sullen drone. ‘I went to bed soon after Steve.’
‘Can I take a look around? We’re searching every property on St Mary’s.’
The brothers’ faces are solemn when they nod in agreement, the trust between us fraying at the edges. I feel awkward searching their home for clues; it’s another reminder that islanders’ lives are connected by invisible glue, whether we like it or not. I can hear them talking downstairs in lowered voices, while I poke through their bedrooms, checking cupboards and peering under beds. Old fashioned wallpap
er is peeling from the walls, but there’s no evidence of violence. The two men’s rooms lie adjacent to each other, decorated with the same pale-blue paint I remember from our schooldays, and football memorabilia from trips to see Plymouth Argyle. I understand at last why Steve is keeping his new relationship quiet. The brothers’ lives are so closely aligned, it would be cruel to parade his happiness in front of his fragile counterpart. If he left for the mainland, the farm might have to be sold.
I take my time searching their barns and outbuildings, but find only well-fed livestock, a rusting tractor, and ploughshares propped against the wall. Again there’s no evidence of violence, yet my discomfort lingers. Lily Jago claimed that Paul was angry about Sabine’s rejection. He’s always lived on St Mary’s; if he wanted to hurt someone, he knows every cave the winter winds have hollowed into the cliffs. Hannah Weber was attacked close to their farm – Paul could easily have strolled to Halangy Down and back to the farm in less than half an hour, without his absence being noticed.
25
Lily is still working in the hotel’s kitchen as evening comes, preparing food for the few remaining guests. She prefers kitchen duties to waiting on tables: when the dinner service gathers speed it’s like watching a ballet. Sous chefs move between the ovens, fridges and stainless-steel tables, as graceful as dancers. It’s her job to make side salads, so that each plate looks fresh and tempting. She’s glad to forget the police interview, but still feels guilty for lying about the phone. She can’t let them find out about Harry and Sabine. Her brother’s so afraid of going back to jail, she doesn’t want to leave him vulnerable. No one else will protect him from the danger he chases.
Dusk is falling when Lily looks up from the chopping board. She lays down her knife for a moment, to admire the hotel gardens. Strings of coloured lights and Japanese lanterns hang from the trees, roses weeping petals onto the lawn. The grounds look like an enchanted kingdom, until she spots a man walking along the path towards her, wearing a scowl. Liam Trewin pauses outside the window, staring at her, like she’s his worst enemy. Lily wants to back away, but the head chef will be angry if she stops working. She lowers her gaze and when she glances outside again, the man has gone, leaving her nerves jangling.