by Kate Rhodes
I ask for information about Jade’s last movements, telling everyone to speak to my team after the meeting. The atmosphere in the hall remains hostile, raised voices criticising us for failing to find the killer. Shopkeepers and hoteliers are still furious about cancelled bookings, and the ferrymen are out of pocket, with no tourists travelling between the islands.
Eddie stands by the door when the meeting ends, placating the islanders who have remained behind. My deputy’s people skills have always outstripped mine. He sends the group away reassured, his polite manner keeping everyone on side.
‘Good work, Eddie. You handled that perfectly.’
He glows like he’s been awarded a medal. ‘Paul Keast’s waiting, boss. I told him you need a word.’
‘Send him in, then wait here, please. I need you as a witness.’
Most of the islanders left in a hurry, scattering chairs in their race to the exit, but Paul doesn’t seem to notice the mess. His face is void of emotion when he leans against the platform’s edge, facing a jumble of empty seats. My old friend’s air of detachment is even stronger today. I’ve trusted him since childhood, but since my return to Scilly there’s been a distance between us, putting the relationship under strain.
‘Are you okay, Paul?’
‘I should have seen she was in danger. Maybe I could have done something.’
‘How come you never told me about you and Jade?’
‘Getting dumped by an amazing woman isn’t my favourite topic.’ His eyes blink shut for a moment.
‘When did it end?’
‘Two and a half years ago.’ There’s a hard edge to his voice, as if the memory prompts anger, as well as regret. ‘Steve was doing a contract farming job on the mainland to get us out of a financial hole. I was working so hard Jade got neglected. She deserved more of my time.’
‘Did you try to win her back?’
‘She accused me of being married to my job, and she was right.’ He carries on staring into the middle distance. ‘Farming can take over your existence, but I won’t let it happen again.’
‘The break-up must have been painful.’
‘I hated bumping into her for a while, that’s for sure.’ The misery in his voice is mixed with the kind of anger that causes serious damage.
‘Why didn’t you talk to someone?’
He barks out a dry laugh. ‘Can you imagine me on a therapist’s couch?’
‘There’s no shame in it.’
He shakes his head. ‘It’s tragic she’s dead, but my life’s moved on. I’ve met someone else. The situation’s messy, but we’ll figure it out.’
Paul’s tentative speech doesn’t convince me. Steve would know if he’d found a girlfriend, or the other islanders would be gossiping about an illicit romance. He seems like a different person from the good-natured lad I played rugby with twenty years ago, his brother’s shy sidekick, the butt of many affectionate jokes. His face is taut with strain, but it still takes effort to set aside old loyalties, even though Paul is the only islander with a clear link to both murder victims. He’s Harry Jago’s boss too, which could explain why the boy’s so twitchy. Paul is fit enough to deal out the brutal beating Jago received. I can’t prove that he followed Hannah Weber before she was attacked, but his farm is the closest property to her rented cottage in Juliet’s Garden. So many factors link him to the attacks, I have to take action, even though it will end our friendship once and for all.
‘I can understand you targeting Jade and Sabine, but why Hannah Weber?’ I ask.
‘Sorry?’
‘Why go to all that fuss with the dresses and make-up?’
His eyes widen. ‘You’re not making sense.’
‘Paul Keast, I’m arresting you on suspicion of murdering Sabine Bertans and Jade Finbury, and attacking Hannah Weber. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something you later rely on in court.’
‘Are you serious?’ he says, gaping at me. ‘I’ve never hurt anyone.’
‘We’ll discuss that at the station.’
My old friend’s expression is chilling. I’ve only witnessed that much repressed fury a few times before, on the faces of convicted murderers.
43
Eddie acts as custody sergeant when I escort Paul back to the station. There’s an uncomfortable wait while my deputy completes the custody paperwork, then makes our suspect empty his pockets. Paul asks a stream of questions, still protesting his innocence, but my time on the Murder Squad taught me that even prolific killers rarely confess at point of arrest. Once his possessions have been bagged and recorded, he’s led to the holding cells. The station’s internal walls are so thin, I know the exact moment when Paul Keast loses his liberty, the cell door clanking shut, followed by a key twisting in the lock, but he’ll have a long wait before our interview, because he’s entitled to legal representation. Solicitors are hard to find in such a remote place. There are just three in Scilly, and one is currently on maternity leave, the other two on holiday abroad. Keast will remain in his minute cell, with only a mattress and barred windows for company, until a lawyer can be flown over from the mainland.
I’ve called a team briefing for 5 p.m. this afternoon, leaving just a couple of hours to review crime scene evidence and answer messages. Dozens of islanders are reporting last sightings of Jade Finbury, while others just want to vent their frustrations. Paul Keast’s arrest nags at me. Even though he fits the stereotype for a killer perfectly – quiet and obsessive, with limited social skills – we still need hard proof. The farmhouse he shares with Steve has been searched thoroughly, but no clear evidence has come to light.
Lawrie Deane looks jaded when the team file into Madron’s office for the briefing at five. The sergeant seems disgruntled after chaperoning Liz Gannick at the crime scene, then organising the public meeting. Isla is still so bright-eyed it’s easy to forget she’s been working since dawn, while Gannick scrolls through notes on her tablet, too distracted by forensic details to pay full attention. Eddie is last to arrive, his expression pensive. The Keast brothers are respected members of the community; it will shock the entire island if Paul turns out to be the murderer.
I have the whole team’s attention when I announce Keast’s arrest, but other names remain on our suspect list. We need to find Harry Jago urgently. The boy may have been dragged into the killer’s slipstream, stealing the items from the museum and receiving a photo of Jade Finbury as a warning to keep his mouth shut. Liam Trewin’s name has been struck from the suspect list. The American has only visited St Mary’s twice, and his hotel room is too pristine for a murder scene. All of the staff at the Star Castle have sound alibis, with no previous criminal records. Serial killers normally have a record of violence before embarking on a murder spree, but no one on the island has committed a serious crime.
I turn to face Liz Gannick. ‘Can you give us an update?’
She abandons her tablet at last. ‘I’ve just had a result from the lab. The blood on Jade Finbury’s floor doesn’t match her DNA, which explains why there’s so much around her sink. If she grabbed a knife and wounded her attacker, he’d have washed the blood away.’
‘You think she hurt him?’ The idea makes sense; the pilot was tough and independent. She would have fought hard to defend herself.
‘A flesh wound can shed plenty of blood without being life-threatening. It looks like he dressed it himself, to avoid seeking medical help, and removed the weapon from the scene.’
‘So our killer’s injured, and a blood sample would prove his guilt.’
‘You only need a mouth swab for a DNA match.’
‘Let’s take one from Paul Keast now; that’ll decide it for us.’
‘You’ll have to wait twenty-four hours for results, but there was more evidence at Jade’s murder scene. I found a footprint right beside her body. It’s from a size ten trainer.’ Gannick drops a sheet of paper in the middle of the table. ‘I used an adhesive gel sh
eet to lift it.’
The monochrome image shows every nick and scratch on the sole, the details as incriminating as a fingerprint.
‘That’s great, Liz. Can you get over to the Keasts’ farm to check Paul’s shoes and his van straight away?’
‘Let me finish what I was saying.’ Gannick gives me a withering look. ‘The killer left a trail through the forest; he hauled her fifty yards to the clearing. This was on the ground near Jade’s body.’
She passes me an evidence bag, which contains a small gold locket with a broken chain. It’s a simpler design than the other two, bearing the engraved outline of a ship, like the others stolen from the museum. A date is inscribed on the back, from the early 1900s. It looks just like the other sailors’ charms, made of Cornish gold, to remind a new bride to pray for her husband while he toiled at sea.
‘The chain must have broken when he carried her into the wood,’ says Eddie. ‘I haven’t had as much luck tracing Jade’s dress. It’s from the UK’s biggest online bridal store.’
Isla frowns as she peers down at the locket. ‘They’d be beautiful gifts if the women were alive,’ she mutters. ‘Why does he love and hate them at the same time?’
Our new constable blushes when the words slip from her mouth, but I’ve been asking myself the same question. The tenderness he shows towards his victims, by adorning their bodies with jewellery and weaving flowers through their hair, doesn’t match the violence of their deaths. It’s possible we’re looking for two killers. At least Gannick’s news has dragged the case forwards: we’ve got the killer’s DNA and his footprint, but if he’s got an accomplice, it won’t be long before another victim is targeted.
44
Lily’s blindfold has been removed when she wakes again, and her surroundings have changed. She’s inside a fisherman’s shack; the air tastes of salt, decaying fish, and seaweed. It’s getting dark, the gaps in the wooden walls admitting little light. Someone has lain her on her side, ribs aching with every breath. The ropes around her wrists and ankles keep her tethered in place. She’s so thirsty her tongue sticks to the roof of her mouth, but her senses are working overtime. The sea must be close by, because the sound of waves hauling shingle up the beach murmurs through the walls.
The darkness is thickening, leaving only the shapes of objects behind. She can just make out a net hanging from the wall, and a pile of lobster creels. When she tries to move again, her clothes feel different; silk caresses her legs, the texture far smoother than the rough fabric of her jeans.
Something shifts in the dark, triggering a new spurt of panic. Has the killer been sitting there, watching her sleep? It’s only when Lily looks again that she understands the room is empty. Her own movements have caught her eye, a mirror reflecting her attempts to squirm free: she’s swathed in white from head to toe, the dress immaculate against the darkness. The killer has turned her into a ghost already, even though her heart is still beating.
45
I spend most of my evening digging through evidence forms, hunting for the missing element, until Madron calls at 9 p.m. The DCI’s voice is scratchy with irritation when he explains that he’s still stuck in Brittany, unable to return for twenty-four hours. My boss’s negativity rings in my ears, even when I tell him about the team’s hard work and Paul Keast’s arrest. He reminds me to follow the murder case protocol accurately before ending our conversation. I’d love to have the kind of boss I could consult about strategies, but danger always sends Madron into a head-spin, leaving me to make every decision alone. The responsibility weighs heavily tonight, like the memory of Jade Finbury’s body hanging from the oak tree. The pilot was a little younger than me; there’s no knowing what she could have achieved, if she’d survived.
When I check on Paul Keast in his holding cell, he’s on his feet, clearly expecting an immediate release. I explain that a solicitor will fly over from Penzance tomorrow, but Keast kicks the wall, too furious to meet my eye. Innocent or guilty, his arrest has terminated our thirty-year friendship, just as I predicted, and his brother feels the same. Steve marched into the station after the lifeboat rescue to call me every name under the sun, forcing me to caution him for abusing an officer.
I’m returning to my desk when someone knocks on the station door. Elaine Rawle is standing in the porch, giving me a tired smile.
‘I thought you’d like an update on Leo. He’s staying with us tonight, but he’s in a wretched state. Frank’s comforting him, but I needed a minute on my own. I can’t bear listening to him crying his heart out.’
‘Someone else can give him a bed, if you’d prefer?’
‘We’ll look after him. That’s how things work here, isn’t it? He’d do the same for us.’ Her gentle gaze settles on my face. ‘I’ve had no luck with the sailors’ charms yet, but I’ll keep trying.’
‘Thanks so much for your help.’
Elaine’s attitude echoes the rule most islanders live by, often putting others’ needs above their own. The Scillies may be marooned in the Atlantic, far from the mainland, but no one gets abandoned when a crisis hits. After she’s gone, I linger in the doorway, watching storm clouds race across the night sky.
I scan the incident board again when I get inside, tiredness blurring the photos and diagrams. Twenty islanders still have no watertight alibis, because they live alone, but the only ones with a clear motive to hurt any of the victims are Paul Keast, Leo Kernick and Harry Jago. I still don’t understand why someone would go to such lengths to dress the women as brides. Pulpit Rock, Halangy Beach and Holy Vale are all popular sites for wedding photos. The killer must be physically fit to overpower his victims then place them in a vehicle we can’t locate. I still feel certain that the sailors’ charms are important, because the killer went to great lengths to get them. It’s frustrating that Julian Power has had no luck finding out which family donated them to the museum.
Eddie returns to the station just before 10 p.m. He’s offered to guard Keast in his holding cell tonight, because we can’t leave a prisoner unsupervised on police premises. It’s a relief that he’s volunteered, giving me time to clear my head. Finbury’s death – and my failure to find her killer – has nagged at me all day. I need time alone to consider the evidence. Lily Jago still isn’t answering her phone, and I can guess why: her brother may have told her where he’s hiding, leaving her reluctant to be interrogated. I’ll have to track her down at the hotel first thing tomorrow.
The young sergeant settles into his chair after dumping a takeaway box from the fish and chip van by Porthcressa Beach on his desk, but he doesn’t seem interested in his meal. He’s already scrolling through this morning’s crime scene report from Liz Gannick. His passion for his job is obvious, despite the latest murder. He barely notices me preparing to leave.
‘Don’t work all night, will you, Eddie?’
‘I’ll take breaks, don’t worry.’
His statement doesn’t convince me. Eddie is motivated by finishing any race first, no matter how much effort is required. He hasn’t realised yet that murder investigations require time to reflect – and a helping of good luck.
The temperature is lower when I go outside, the sea’s cool breath a welcome relief after weeks of oppressive heat. I’m glad to let the investigation slip to the back of my mind, but reluctant to return to the hotel. I’m heading for the quay when someone walks towards me down the hill. His back is bent over, as if he’s carrying the world’s burdens on his shoulders, the street light too dim to reveal his features. It’s only when he crosses the street that I recognise Father Michael.
‘Have you been with Hannah all this time, Father?’ I call out.
He comes to a halt beside me, his face drained. ‘She’s so ill, I couldn’t walk away.’
‘Is she any better?’
‘No change, but they say hearing is the last sense we lose. I hope she got comfort from my readings.’
‘I’m sure she did. The words are beautiful, aren’t they?’
‘The psalms are my favourite. Most of them are pure poetry.’
‘Are you heading home?’
‘After I’ve had a drink at the Mermaid. I rarely indulge, but tonight’s an exception.’
‘Mind if I join you?’
‘Please do, I’d enjoy the company.’
The priest’s gaze remains locked on the pavement, oblivious to the sea widening in front of us, and the off-islands glittering like distant stars. He only seems to relax when we reach the Mermaid. It’s the smallest, rowdiest pub on St Mary’s and was my favourite drinking den in my teens. The bar area is tiny, with old wooden floorboards and walls lined with nautical memorabilia, including ships’ compasses, sharks’ teeth and scrimshaw, from the days before whaling was banned. It’s packed solid at the weekends, but the place is quiet tonight, just a few old boys perched on bar stools, grumbling among themselves.
Father Michael looks grateful for the pint of bitter I place in front of him. ‘That’s just what I need.’
‘I’ve never seen you drink before, Father.’
‘Call me Michael, please. I don’t suppose you remember my hellraising days.’
‘You grew up in Scilly, didn’t you?’
‘My parents ran a flower farm here on St Mary’s, but labouring outdoors didn’t suit my ambitions. I planned to get rich quick, as a businessman on the mainland, and anyone that said different got a pasting.’ He gives a wry laugh. ‘You can imagine the misery I caused my poor family.’
‘You seem pretty calm now.’
‘Because I got it out of my system. I fought so much as a teenager people told me to take up boxing.’
‘But you found God instead?’
‘It was the other way round.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘He came for me, before I was ready. I woke up in the middle of the night and his presence filled the room. It was terrifying and beautiful at the same time.’ Fervour makes the priest look young again. ‘I had no faith at all, but suddenly I was lit up like a Christmas tree, glowing with certainty.’