by Kate Rhodes
I follow Tom Polkerris back inside the hotel, my thoughts buzzing as we climb the stairs. Why have the victims’ photos been hand-delivered to me and Harry Jago? Is the killer flaunting his power, or proving that we face the same danger? I can only be sure of one thing: Paul Keast didn’t deliver the photo, because he was locked inside a holding cell. He could be working with a partner. If I’m right, his sidekick will go on attacking victims, even though the farmer is locked away. Either that or I’ve blundered down the wrong path, destroying two friendships in the process.
Rhianna fails to open her door, so Polkerris uses his master key. The smell of cigarette smoke taints the air, despite notices inside every hotel room warning guests not to light up, proving that she’s a rule-breaker at heart. Rhianna has chosen a bigger suite than the one she shared with Tom, and its contents are more organised. The clothes in her wardrobe are arranged by colour; her shoes stand in neat rows, many still wrapped in tissue paper. But her sitting room reveals a side of her personality that fills me with discomfort. Dozens of magazines are heaped on her sofa, all dedicated to the wedding industry, with items ringed in red felt tip. Brides and grooms gaze out from the glossy pages, improbably good-looking, with blue-white smiles.
‘She’s still obsessed by bloody weddings even though I wasted all my savings on ours,’ Tom says. ‘You wouldn’t believe how long she took planning it.’
‘Rhianna could have dropped an envelope through the letterbox last night.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘She may know something about the murders.’
Polkerris looks shocked, unable to believe his ex is involved, but I can see how the killer might have exploited her obsession until anger about her failed marriage simmered to the boil. Maybe she resents other women’s chances of romance now her own relationship is broken. I put my thoughts about the hotel manager’s motives aside to focus on practicalities, aware that time is running out to bring Lily Jago home alive.
It’s 9 a.m., and the island’s perfect summer has been interrupted. Strong gusts of wind slow my progress down to the station, drizzle spitting at my face. I usher everyone into Madron’s office to share the news that Lily has been taken. She could have been targeted because the killer knows she’s been hiding information, including her possession of Sabine’s phone.
‘Rhianna could be involved in some way, but we have to find Harry Jago too. If he knows the killer’s identity, he’ll talk when he hears Lily’s in danger.’
‘What do you want us to do?’ Lawrie Deane asks. Tension resonates in his voice – another young woman of his daughter’s age has been abducted from streets that have been safe for decades.
‘Use trusted volunteers to check every building, shed and barn again, to look for Rhianna and Harry. I want boats docked in the harbour searched too. If the killer’s following his usual pattern he’ll keep Lily hidden until nightfall, then leave her body in a location that’s used for wedding photos.’
‘I still don’t get why he picked her,’ Isla says. ‘She’s different from the other victims. Maybe that’s why the photo’s nothing like the earlier ones.’
‘Lily’s less confident, but she wasn’t born here and she’s single. He seems to hate women who remain separate from men.’ I study each face in turn. ‘I want to know who’s spent time with Harry Jago. Start with our suspect list, but remember it could be some pillar of the community we haven’t considered until now, and it looks like someone’s helping him. That would explain the touches of romance, alongside all that crude violence. I’m going to see Jeff Pendelow for some advice. The rest of you can divide the island into sections; keep a list of properties you search. I want Rhianna and Harry Jago brought in this morning.’
‘What happens to Paul Keast?’ Eddie asks.
‘Gannick’s at the farmhouse now, looking for proof. He could have taken Lily before his arrest, if he’s got a helper. Let his lawyer have a preliminary meeting, but delay the interview until this afternoon. It’s more important we find his accomplice.’
‘That solicitor’s high maintenance; I bet she puts in a complaint,’ Deane mutters.
‘Book her a table at St Mary’s Hall for lunch and cover her expenses. A high-class meal and plenty of gin and tonic should keep her sweet. We can hold Keast until early tomorrow morning, and we may need her input again.’
Isla and Eddie look upbeat about our chances of success, but Deane’s face remains sullen. The old-timer seems to doubt my approach, remaining silent when I leave the team to organise the search. There are less than five hundred dwellings on St Mary’s, but the open farmland is littered with caves, byres and sheep barns, making our lives complicated. The weather is worsening too; rain pelts the back of my neck as I leave the station, the sky darker than before.
The motorbike’s engine coughs out a protest when I kick the starter pedal, as if it’s feeling the strain, like me. I remember the anxiety on Lily Jago’s face when I questioned her. She looked like a schoolkid being told off by a brutal teacher. I’ve seen her tough side too, when she defended her brother. She’ll need to rely on that reserve of courage in order to survive.
The five-minute journey to Old Town passes in a flurry of low stone cottages and flower fields, the sea appearing and vanishing between stands of trees. I’ll need all the help at my disposal to track the killer down, including the islanders’ expertise. I park the bike outside Jeff Pendelow’s house, by Old Town Bay. The view doesn’t calm me today; the sea is battleship grey, breakers cresting as far as the eye can see. The psychologist doesn’t answer his doorbell so I walk inside like last time, calling his name. I find him stretched out on his settee, his skin blanched with pain.
‘Sorry to disturb you, Jeff. I’m after some advice.’
‘You’re soaked, Ben. Let’s sit in the kitchen, it’s warmer there.’ When he hauls himself upright, his movements are laboured as we walk down the hallway. ‘Forgive the mess. Bending down’s tricky right now, which is a great excuse to let things slide. Val would be appalled by the state of the place.’
The psychologist’s kitchen looks cluttered but tidier than his unruly garden; the shelves are packed with utensils, which must be a daily reminder of his wife’s passion for cooking, before her illness advanced. Jeff seems more comfortable once we’re seated, with a pot of coffee between us. His gaze is curious as he studies me over the top of his glasses, as if he expects me to outline my fears and phobias so he can make his diagnosis.
‘Another girl’s been taken, Jeff. It should be easy to track the killer down – he’s following the same pattern, but I know we’re missing something.’
‘Give me a quick overview. It’s details about his methods that could expose him.’ The psychologist nods thoughtfully while I describe the killer’s MO, scribbling notes on a foolscap pad.
‘He captures his victims at night, removing them from the scene in a vehicle we can’t identify. We’ve received photos of the women dressed as perfect brides, apart from the one he failed to capture and his latest victim. The attacks have happened at Pulpit Rock, Halangy Beach and Holy Vale. He transforms the women into idealised brides then strangles them, before displaying their bodies at beauty spots that are often used in wedding portraits. He seems passionate about the region. Historic items of jewellery made of Cornish gold, called sailors’ charms, have been found on the victims’ bodies. He gets them to write a line from an old wedding song on the back of their photos.’
‘What’s the connection between the victims?’
‘They’re all unmarried and leading independent lives; that’s where the similarity ends. One was a Latvian student trying to improve her English by working in Scilly, then a German journalist, a pilot, and now another worker from the Star Castle.’
Jeff’s frowning with concentration when he scans his notes. ‘You say there’s no sexual element, but he seems to love rituals. He’s not just claiming them for himself, but for the Scillies too, by using locally crafted jewellery. I’d say you’re looking for so
meone with a dissociative personality disorder. He can cause pain without experiencing guilt, and he’s likely to be a skilled congenital liar or you’d have spotted him by now. Part of his pleasure comes from deception. Most serial killers enjoy power as much as violence.’
‘What about his method?’
‘I’m still thinking about the locations. They’re all on the ancient pilgrim trail that cuts through the heart of St Mary’s, aren’t they? That’s how Holy Vale got its name.’
‘I’ll look into that.’
‘Strangulation’s a horribly intimate way to kill someone. The killer can stare into his victims’ eyes as life drains from their bodies. I imagine that makes him feel all-powerful.’
‘Is there a specific trigger for this type of killing spree?’
‘It could be a sudden spike in psychotic symptoms, or a resurgence of past trauma. A buried memory may have resurfaced, but this kind of violence never comes unannounced. He’ll have hurt people before.’
‘The guy lives on the island. We’ve probably chatted to him in the Co-op.’
‘That’s sobering, but not unusual. Two per cent of the world population has psychopathic tendencies,’ he replies. ‘He may be hiding his illness behind a mask of respectability, doing a high-status job. People with personality disorders are great at concealment.’
‘Do you think he could have recruited a helper?’
‘Psychopaths often prey on the most vulnerable.’ He peers at me over the top of his glasses again. ‘The objects he’s leaving could unlock it for you. He believes those sailors’ charms are sacred in some way.’
‘I’ve thought that right from the start.’ Jeff’s words remind me of Julian Power, and his passion for collecting.
‘I’m worried about your safety, Ben. He’s on a mission and you’re in his way. Guard yourself and the people around you. All of you need high-level protection.’
‘Rhianna may be in danger as well.’
‘The manager from the Star Castle?’
I nod in reply. ‘There’s a chance she’s involved.’
‘You know she’s Catholic, don’t you? She comes to mass occasionally.’
‘Is that relevant?’
‘There could be a religious element to the murders. Has it occurred to you that he may see his victims as impure?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘The white gown symbolised virginity years ago, didn’t it? His victims are all mature enough to have a sexual history.’
‘That’s really helpful, Jeff. Thanks for your time.’
‘Come back if you want to talk again.’ He gets up slowly, with a fresh tremor of pain crossing his face. ‘You know where to find me until this bloody back mends, but don’t take my suggestions too literally. I was just trying to interpret his mindset based on the facts you gave me.’
‘It’s made me see it from a different angle.’
When I get outside, rain forces me to shelter under a tree, where I fire off a text to Nina, warning her to stay at the hotel. Breakers hammer the shore, the sound thunderous while I check my messages. Eddie’s voice is so jubilant I can hear it above the tumult, telling me that Rhianna has been found wandering across Porth Minick Beach and brought to the station.
* * *
My ride back to Hugh Town leaves me drenched. No one else is braving the storm, only a few huddled sheep observing my journey. I’m soaked to the skin when I get back to Hugh Town, and the hotel manager’s appearance is less polished than normal too. Rhianna’s elegant clothes have been replaced by jeans and a T-shirt, with sand clinging to her trainers, blonde hair hanging down in rats’ tails.
‘We’ve been looking for you, Rhianna.’
‘I was planning to come here, but I needed a walk to sort my head out.’
‘Can you tell us how you’ve been spending your spare time?’
‘There hasn’t been much lately. I’ve worked non-stop, but it was pointless.’ She keeps her gaze on the door, like she’s longing to escape.
‘Tom mentioned you’re getting a divorce.’
‘He wanted it kept quiet, but I should have refused. It’s been a strain, pretending everything’s fine.’ She frowns back at me. ‘His ego can’t handle me walking away.’
‘It was your decision?’
She nods her head. ‘A month ago I finally met someone who cares about me. I need to know why he’s been arrested. There’s no way Paul’s involved in Sabine’s death.’
‘You’ve been seeing Paul Keast?’ My thoughts spin in a hectic circle.
‘I bumped into him on the beach when I was taking a quick break from that bloody hotel. We’ve seen each other or talked on the phone every day since. He’s so kind and gentle, the opposite of Tom. We’re not going public as a couple until I leave the castle.’
‘Even Steve doesn’t know.’
‘It’s no one’s business but ours. We’ve been stealing minutes together, late at night or early in the morning.’
‘What made you buy all those bridal magazines?’
‘I’m setting up a website for couples organising their weddings on a tight budget. It’s a business I can run from the farm in my spare time, when I move in with Paul.’
‘Your marriage ended because of him?’
‘He’s not to blame,’ she snaps, her expression turning sour. ‘Tom brought this on himself.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘He was unfaithful. My self-respect’s been on the floor, but Paul’s been amazing.’
‘When did you find out Tom was seeing other women?’
Rhianna no longer resembles a china doll. Her cheeks are flushed with emotion, eyes red from crying, like a normal human. ‘He can give you the grubby details. I’m not reliving it again.’
‘Did you tell Father Michael about the break-up?’
‘I don’t need anyone’s blessing to start a new life.’
Rhianna’s tears have dried, the determination on her face convincing me that she would be hard to brainwash. She’s upset, but not broken. I can tell she’s ready to move on, with no lasting damage.
‘We found your fingerprints in Sabine’s room. How do you account for that?’
Her face blanks. ‘I keep an eye on the staff from abroad, to make sure they’re not homesick. I dropped by the day before she was killed.’
The story sounds credible, and I can’t arrest her for buying two dozen bridal magazines or having an affair, but discomfort nags at me after she leaves. I ask Eddie to track her movements until we find Lily Jago. No matter which way I twist the information, the killer’s obsession with brides remains a mystery.
50
I’d like to interview Paul Keast straight away after hearing Rhianna’s claims about their relationship, but Jeff Pendelow’s words linger in my head. The killer believes the calling cards have a powerful symbolism, and the only islander with such a reverence for objects from the past is Julian Power. I need to strike his name off my list of suspects before doing anything else, but when I walk to the travel company’s office, the quay is deserted apart from a few seagulls fighting a vicious turf war. I pause outside the building, sheltering from the gusty wind coming off the sea. The location of Power’s office is ideal for the killer’s purposes: it allows him to watch female visitors arriving every time the ferry disembarks.
Power is at home when I call at his property beside Tregarthen’s Hotel. He looks irritated when I explain that a further search is needed.
‘Your officers ransacked the place two days ago.’
‘It won’t take long, I promise. Then I’d like a quick word about the museum’s records, please.’
‘What if I refuse?’
‘I’ll arrange a warrant over the phone.’
He gives an irritable sigh. ‘Every room holds items of great historic value. Many of them are fragile.’
‘I understand, Mr Power. I won’t break anything.’
The man seems to expect me to hurl his treasures across the room. He hovers b
y my shoulder, proving his reputation as an oddball, but I remind myself that he’s always been law-abiding. His spiky, condescending manner doesn’t make him a murderer.
The scale of Power’s obsession with collecting comes into focus when I climb to the first floor. His spare bedrooms are piled high with cardboard boxes, but when I peer inside a couple, they only contain tarnished silverware, pieces of china and Art Deco lamps. Power has run out of space, but his appetite for antiques is unquenched.
I’d need weeks to conduct a full search, so I limit myself to hunting for spaces where a victim could be hidden, but Power’s hoarding makes it unlikely. The master bedroom is so packed with items, he must have to clamber over boxes every night to reach his bed. He seems reluctant to meet my eye when we get back downstairs, anger or embarrassment making him look away.
‘Are you absolutely sure there’s no mention in the museum’s records of the family that donated the stolen items, Mr Power?’
‘I told you, I’ve checked the ledger twice.’
‘Can I see it, please?’
He chunters under his breath before leading me to his office. My eyes linger on a wall display of quills and inkpots, until I see a dusty leather-bound book, held together with ribbon. Its bindings are falling apart from age and overuse.
‘It took me hours to read it cover to cover,’ he complains.
The scale of the challenge hits me when I look inside. The handwriting is so small, it takes me several minutes to decipher one entry, which describes a gift of carved whalebone to the museum in 1932.
‘Can I borrow it for a while?’
Power looks horrified. ‘That ledger’s irreplaceable.’
‘I’ll take care of it. Sorry to trouble you again, I didn’t realise you had such a large collection.’
His shoulders relax by a fraction. ‘It will all go on show eventually; the museum is the sole beneficiary in my will.’
Power gives the first heartfelt smile I’ve ever seen him produce. The man’s passion for his collection runs so deep, he seems to welcome the prospect of dying so it can be viewed by the public at last.