by Kate Rhodes
He picked another of the island’s beauty spots to display Finbury’s body. A friend of mine had his wedding pictures taken in Holy Vale last summer; the dappled light and woodland setting looked romantic in the pictures, but the location has lost its innocence now. I’ll never forget that bridal figure swaying in the breeze. But why is he turning his victims into dead brides, while no men have been transformed into grooms? Plenty of male tourists and overseas workers visit the Scillies, without attracting his wrath. Hatred mingles with reverence when he transforms his victims, dressing them in traditional white.
I need to see Harry Jago before making any decisions. He’s the only person on St Mary’s with a history of stealing: he could have taken the items from the museum to sell to another islander. He’s not answering his mobile, so I set off for his rented home again on foot. Hugh Town is eerily silent, like it’s trapped in the eye of a storm. The only human activity I can see is a pair of canoeists paddling between vessels moored in the harbour, their movements slow and languid, like they have all the time in the world.
Jago is dressed in boxer shorts and a ripped T-shirt when he finally opens his door. The boy’s face is less swollen than yesterday, but still covered in ugly scrapes and bruises, his expression groggy. His drink problem must be more serious than I thought, his hands trembling at his sides.
‘You should have been at the station first thing. Didn’t Lily pass on my message?’
‘She’s not here.’
I step past him into the hallway. ‘Get dressed, please; we need a chat.’
The boy traipses upstairs with all the enthusiasm of a schoolboy being sent to do his homework. He’s still sulking when he returns to his untidy kitchen. The fridge contains little except a six pack of beer, but I empty a carton of orange juice into a pint glass then shunt it across the table.
‘They say Vitamin C cures hangovers.’
He swallows a mouthful, then grimaces. ‘You’re wasting your time. I told you, I don’t know anything.’
The boy’s sullen expression proves that his trust in the police expired when his dad went to jail, his own sentence providing the final nail in the coffin. He looks wary, as if another brutal beating could start at any minute.
‘When did your drinking start, Harry?’
‘What’s it to you?’
‘I’m sitting here; we may as well have a conversation.’
Jago’s story arrives in broken sentences. He didn’t want to leave Plymouth after his dad’s conviction. His drinking began at fourteen to impress his new schoolmates in Hugh Town. Knocking back cider behind the bike sheds became a badge of honour, making him seem harder than the rest. His mother tried to stop him, but it was a losing battle. He’d steal money from her purse then get older friends to buy his booze. The craving triggered his shoplifting too. When the boy finally stops talking, his expression is stunned, like he’s amazed to have spilled his secrets to a policeman. I was exactly the same after my father died, lost and afraid, hiding it all behind a show of bravado. There’s no way this kid’s got the concentration skills to carry out such sophisticated attacks.
‘School didn’t work for me either,’ I admit. ‘Playing rugby gave me an outlet.’
‘I’m shit at ball games.’
‘Run or swim then; burn off some energy. It’ll help you make better choices.’
The boy stares back at me, but I know he’s listening. He’s not stupid, just vulnerable, and his life will fall apart if he carries on drowning his sorrows.
‘Another woman’s been killed, Harry. It’s time to explain, if you know about any threats Sabine was facing.’
‘It’s not my fault.’ A tear rolls down his cheek. ‘She was kinder than everyone here, except Lily.’
‘Did you nick that jewellery from the museum?’
The boy flinches. ‘Why do I get blamed for everything?’
‘You’re not in trouble, but I know you were seeing Sabine. I just need the truth so no one else gets hurt.’
‘This is bullshit.’ His voice is raw with strain, like he’s been caught red-handed. ‘You’d arrest me if you had any proof.’
‘The bloke prefers killing women, but you’re in danger too, if you know anything. Did he beat you up for getting too close?’ Jago carries on studying the table’s worn surface. ‘Where’s Lily? I thought she was taking today off to look after you.’
‘My sister’s given up on me. She prefers her cushy hotel job.’
‘How do you pay the rent? Your wages can’t cover it.’
‘Some of the islanders are helping me.’
‘Such as?’
His answer is slow to arrive. ‘Father Michael, Julian Power and the Rawles. Mum cleaned their houses, so it’s for her sake, not mine. That’s why Paul Keast gives me work too.’
‘What happens when their charity ends?’
‘Mum left some savings.’
‘And when that’s gone?’
‘I don’t look that far ahead.’
The boy slumps in his chair, eyes closed. Instinct tells me he stole the items to cover his overheads, but there’s no proof. If he’s got information about the killer, he’s too scared to say.
I can’t waste more time on an interview that’s going nowhere, so I tell him to contact me if he remembers anything relevant. Harry doesn’t bother to show me to the door, and frustration makes me feel like yelling curses at the sky. It’s filled with dark ridges of cloud while I’ve been inside, chasing in circles.
I’m about to return to the station when I spot an envelope sticking out of the dustbin. Something shifts inside my chest when I pick it up. Harry’s name is scrawled across the front, in the same forward-sloping handwriting I saw in Jade Finbury’s kitchen. The photo inside is nothing like the ones displayed in Leo Kernick’s studio. It’s an extreme close-up, revealing terror and fury in the pilot’s expression. The bastard forced Jade to address the envelope before killing her, just like Sabine. When I turn it over, Jade has scrawled another phrase on the back: Come winter or summer, no queen can compare. Why hand-deliver that cryptic message to the boy’s home, if he’s not involved? I hammer on his door again, but he must have been watching. He’s locked it from the inside.
‘You stupid little shit,’ I mutter.
I take a few steps back then ram the door open with my bodyweight, in time to see Jago sprinting across Porth Mellon beach from the back window. The boy is already too far away to catch. There are a dozen paths he could follow, and the island’s coves and woodland make ideal hiding places, but he must know more than he revealed, and his sister probably shares his secret. Anger washes over me as I leave the house, still clutching the envelope. Whoever posted it through Harry’s door has scared him so badly he’s running from the one person who could keep him safe.
40
Lily can’t see anything when she opens her eyes. A blindfold blocks her vision, and a sharp pain is jabbing at her side. The air smells of mildew, its dampness lingering on her skin. There’s blood in her mouth when she swallows, but she feels no sense of panic. Her mind is too numb to register emotions. She needs to stand upright, and stretch her aching limbs, but her arms and legs are tightly bound.
When she lifts her hands, her wrist scrapes over a rough wooden surface. Nails hold the planks together, inches above her face. The air is growing heavier with each breath. She’s always hated the dark, but her fears have been imaginary until now: if no one finds her soon, she’ll suffocate. Lily yells for help, but her voice is a cracked whisper. She’s locked inside a home-made coffin. Panic squeezes the oxygen from her lungs, her breathing so rapid she loses consciousness.
The next time Lily comes round, there’s a moment of clarity: at least she’ll get to see Sabine’s killer face to face. She concentrates on slowing her breathing, until her ribcage rises and falls more steadily. She wants to be fully conscious when the man returns. Her brother’s name is the last word Lily whispers before blackness smothers her again.
41
‘Let me see Jade, to say goodbye.’
The photographer’s voice is guttural, his body language so aggressive, I keep a space between us, despite having a four stone weight advantage. I’ve seen every type of grief reaction over the years, but one hundred per cent of Kernick’s rage is centred on me, as if I’d killed his girlfriend with my bare hands. The man’s anger intensifies when I explain that Jade’s body still hasn’t been brought to the mortuary. He throws a punch that fails to connect, but I grab his wrists, bracing his arms at his sides.
‘Calm down, Leo. I don’t want to arrest you for assault.’
The guy breaks down suddenly, sobbing on my shoulder, his fury melting into tears. He’s in such a raw state, I can’t send him home alone. I flick through names in my head, trying to decide which islander would provide the best support. Kernick mentioned that Frank Rawle was a friend, and my old headmaster has been offering his help since the case began. The photographer’s weeping has been replaced by a whispered mantra as he repeats his girlfriend’s name. Kernick appears beyond reach, but allows me to lead him to the Rawles’ home.
Church Street is quiet when we arrive, the inhabitants unaware of the pilot’s death. Elaine Rawle is trimming the hedges in her front garden, at home for once, instead of toiling at the museum. Her Labrador is relaxing in the sticky heat, tongue lolling. The woman’s movements are graceful when she walks towards us, her expression anxious. I can see shock registering when she hears of Jade’s death. It seems cruel to burden her with it, when her own painful memories have resurfaced. Elaine’s movements are gentle when she touches Leo’s arm.
‘Come in, sweetheart. I’ll call Frank. He’s only gone to the shops.’
‘No need,’ I tell her. ‘Just keep Leo here while he recovers, please.’
Elaine murmurs quiet words of comfort to the photographer, before leading him inside. The house reflects the couple’s personalities perfectly. The hallway is panelled with sombre dark wood, the floorboards gleaming. Their living room contains old-fashioned Chippendale-style furniture, and even the artworks look respectable: oil paintings of local beauty spots, so accurately drawn they could be photographs. The Rawles’ kitchen is a throwback from a previous era, with a butler sink, oak table and ladder-backed chairs.
Elaine helps Leo Kernick into a seat, but he seems oblivious to his surroundings, his eyes glazed while she busies herself making tea.
‘How on earth did it happen?’ she asks. When I explain about Jade’s death, her eyes glisten with tears. ‘What kind of monster would do that?’
Her words echo every islander’s opinion, except the killer, who is sure to be enjoying his latest success. I can tell it was the right decision to bring Kernick here; the peaceful atmosphere should restore his calm. I notice some framed photographs by the front door when I leave, their colours faded from long exposure to daylight: they show a fair-haired young woman smiling at the camera, sitting in a flower garden. Elaine pauses beside me, her voice calmer than before.
‘That’s our Leah, a few months before she died.’
‘She’s beautiful. It must have been tough on both of you.’
‘Frank’s been an amazing support, and talking to Nina helped this morning. She gave me some new insights. Would you thank her for me?’
‘Of course.’
‘All this violence has plunged me back into the past, but I’m sure it will fade, once it’s over…’ Her speech dulls into silence, as if exposing her frailty to one of her husband’s former pupils embarrasses her. ‘Grief’s a strange emotion. You think you’ve dealt with it, then it comes back to hurt you again.’
‘Are you sure you don’t mind taking care of Leo?’
‘I want to, Ben. He’s a friend of ours.’
‘Don’t leave him alone, please. He’s still in shock.’
‘Frank will be back soon. We’ll both keep watch, don’t worry.’
The Rawles’ dog has wandered back inside, stationing himself by Kernick’s chair, as if he too intends to offer comfort. Elaine looks pensive when she opens the front door for me.
‘Did Julian know about the sailor’s charms?’ she asks.
‘He tried his best, but they’re not mentioned anywhere in the archive. I still don’t know who donated them.’
She shakes her head. ‘That’s odd, when we’ve got details about everything else. Do you want me to do some phoning round when Frank gets back? Someone must know which family they come from.’
‘That would be great.’
I can still hear Leo Kernick weeping when she hurries back to her kitchen to care for him.
Once I’m back outside I notice the hospital has left me a new message, saying that Hannah Weber has had a seizure, her condition critical. The news rocks me back on my heels. I’m not prepared for the killer to claim a third victim, my breathing ragged as I leave Church Street and jog up the hill. Visiting Hannah Weber’s bedside won’t improve her chances of survival, but something forces me to see her again before continuing my search for her attacker.
Ginny Tremayne looks grave when I reach the hospital, the medical terms she uses flying over my head. All I can gather is that Hannah’s life hangs in the balance. When I peer through the glass panel in the door, the priest is at her bedside once more.
‘I asked Michael to come, so she’s not alone,’ Ginny says. ‘We should know in the next twenty-four hours whether she’ll survive. If there’s significant brain damage, her vital functions may start shutting down.’
‘Are you sure she can’t be airlifted to the mainland?’
‘The flight would cause more trauma. I doubt she’d survive.’
The atmosphere has changed when I enter Hannah Weber’s room. This time the priest doesn’t notice my presence. He’s holding the woman’s hand, head bowed as he whispers his incantation. I recognise enough Latin words to know he’s reciting a mass. Hannah’s face is as pale as her hospital-issue pillowcase, a drip feeding saline into her veins, while her oxygen mask clouds with each ragged breath. I’d like to offer up a prayer of my own, but I’ve always been quietly certain that God doesn’t exist. All I can do is promise to catch whoever tried to kill her on Halangy Beach.
42
Eddie is at the station when I get back in the early afternoon; the others are still with Gannick, stopping walkers from entering Holy Vale. He listens in silence to my explanation of finding the envelope addressed to Harry Jago, and the boy running away, afraid to confess what he knows. My deputy studies Jade’s picture at length, but the image reveals nothing about where she died. The new line of verse written on the back seems to follow on from the one on Sabine’s photo:
The bride in her glory will ever be fair,
Come winter or summer no queen can compare.
Stuart Helyer may have been right about the lines coming from a wedding ballad, but even the island’s oldest resident can’t remember all the lyrics. The song will die with him, like the lobstermen’s knowledge of the sea.
‘Why would the killer send Harry the photo?’ Eddie asks.
‘It’s a reminder not to talk if he witnessed something. I think he scarpered because he’s terrified of giving secrets away.’
‘So it’s someone Jago knows well?’
‘It’s time we arrested Paul Keast. He gave Harry his summer job on the boat, and two of the victims rejected him. Maybe he’s angry enough to destroy lives, under that quiet surface. He’s the only name on our list with links to more than one victim, except Leo Kernick, who photographed them all.’
Eddie looks relieved. ‘I know he’s your friend, but there’s something weird about him, isn’t there? Paul’s always been the secretive type. Plenty of women seem to fancy him, but he’s too wrapped up in his own world to notice.’
‘I’ll bring him in straight after the
meeting.’
‘The islanders are arriving at three o’clock. I don’t envy you, announcing Jade’s death. She was popular with everyone.’
‘My job’s easier when things go well, that’s for sure.’
Madron’s threat to replace me as SIO is still ringing in my ears, but I keep my mouth shut. The team needs to stay focused on the investigation, not be distracted by my failure to close the case.
The streets are quiet when I walk to Church Street, with just a few islanders hurrying to the meeting. St Mary’s community has arrived in force, and the atmosphere inside the hall feels stifling. My audience needs to believe we’re making progress, even though the killer has struck again. A sea of blank faces stares back at me. People resent the threat to their safety, and the disruption to island life, shocked whispers circulating the room when I announce Jade’s death. Many of her closest friends are in the audience, although Leo Kernick and Frank Rawle are absent; I’m relieved the photographer has stayed in his friend’s care. When I look for the Keast brothers, only Paul is present, his arms folded tightly across his chest. Steve and five other members of the lifeboat crew are still at sea, towing a stricken yacht back to harbour.
I’m hit by a barrage of questions when I finish speaking. Public opinion is turning against us, even when I provide clear answers. Elaine Rawle is in floods of tears. She’s sitting beside Rhianna Polkerris. The hotel manager looks stunned, as if she can’t believe another woman has died. The only person who appears content is Liam Trewin. The satisfaction on his face proves that the American is enjoying my discomfort. He may not have perpetrated the attacks, but our last conversation has left its mark, and he remains a suspect. Nina is at the back of the hall with Shadow at her side. The expression on her face could be sympathy or pity, but I’d rather not have her present while I battle for the community’s trust.
‘We need your help, now more than ever,’ I tell the crowd. ‘I want to speak to Harry Jago urgently. If you see him, please report it to us immediately. Take care of yourselves and your neighbours, whether it’s day- or night-time. Don’t go walking alone, and keep your properties secure.’