by Kate Rhodes
Lawrie Deane is placating the solicitor we invited from the mainland to advise Paul Keast when I return to the station. Mary Tunstall looks close to retirement age, and she’s ignoring the islands’ relaxed dress code. She’s wearing a pinstripe suit, her dyed auburn hair scraped back to reveal a sour expression. Tunstall shares her frustration about the interview being delayed the minute I arrive. Apparently the Met Office are predicting record-breaking rainfall over the next twelve hours; she needs to get back to the mainland before the predicted deluge arrives. Her mood shifts from irritation to outrage when she hears that Liz Gannick is conducting a forensic search of the Keasts’ farmhouse, even though the brothers signed a consent form.
When Paul is finally brought to Madron’s office he looks more vulnerable than before. He’s unshaven, the shadows under his eyes proving that his night in custody was sleepless. Tunstall looks pleased when he answers all my initial questions with a terse ‘no comment’. His expression only changes when I ask about his relationship with Rhianna Polkerris.
‘She believes in me,’ he says. ‘Steve can move to the mainland, and we’ll stay together on the farm.’
‘I found dozens of bridal magazines in her room. She could have helped you to hurt those women.’
‘Tom Polkerris would do that, not me. He treats women like dirt: that idiot humiliated Rhianna for years.’
The contempt on my old friend’s face could be for show, but his anger seems real. It could be because his killing spree has been halted, or that he’s felt overlooked for years. Until now he’s been eclipsed by his brother’s confidence. Gannick has found no hard evidence at the farmhouse that he was involved, and his role in the murders is looking less certain.
Our meeting ends with a reminder from the solicitor that her client must be released after thirty-six hours in custody unless the CPS agrees a special dispensation, or the arresting officer will be in breach of the law.
Tunstall’s high heels tap out a victory march on the lino as she leaves, reminding me that lawyers inhabit a strange moral universe. They will defend anyone for money, even when the counter-evidence is overwhelming. I look Paul in the eye before he’s returned to his holding cell, but I can’t tell whether he’s glad or ashamed to have stonewalled most of my questions about the women’s deaths. Madron’s office has never felt emptier when I’m left alone by the window, watching rain clouds race across the sky.
51
Lily can’t tell how long she’s been locked in the boot of the car, her throat parched with thirst. She’s exhausted when the killer hauls her into his arms again. He’s panting for breath as he carries her down a flight of stairs, then lays her on a hard surface that’s covered with plastic. It sounds like he’s shifting furniture, something heavy dragging across the floor. When her gag is finally removed, she’s too afraid to scream, her voice a dry whisper.
‘If you let me go, I won’t talk to anyone, I promise.’
He makes a hushing sound, but more words spill from her mouth.
‘My brother needs me. Please, you can’t do this—’
Suddenly a hand covers her nose and mouth. It presses down so hard, she can’t breathe. Lily is on the verge of blacking out when the pressure finally lifts, allowing her to inhale. She’s too terrified to speak when the hands touch her again: this time she’s hauled into a chair. After lying down for so long, the sudden change of position makes her head spin. She can feel him loosening the bindings around her wrists, then a heavy chain tethers her ankles to the chair leg.
The footsteps retreat, followed by a door slamming, before she can breathe freely again. She’s afraid to move, but the rope is so loose it only takes minutes to free her hands – the chafed skin on her wrists burns, yet she’s too relieved to care. When she pulls back her blindfold a brilliant square of light sears her retinas. Lily gazes around at a huge vaulted room with brick walls and no windows. The only source of illumination comes from a mirror directly in front of her. It’s circled by small lightbulbs that cast a savage glare, like in an actor’s dressing room. A tray of make-up lies on the table, containing mascara, eye shadow and foundation. A young girl’s photograph is propped against the mirror, her face unfamiliar. Lily normally avoids studying her own appearance; it’s too homely to celebrate, but now she has no choice. Her face looks thinner than before, blanched by fear, with hollows under her eyes. She looks down at a sheet of paper that lies on the dressing table, to avoid staring at her own reflection.
It contains a single sentence, printed in bold handwriting.
IF YOU CAN BECOME THE GIRL IN THE PHOTO, I’LL LET YOU LIVE.
Lily’s heart beats too fast when she read the words again. She has always hated the oily texture of make-up on her skin, but now she must learn how to use it. She must abandon her own image to stay alive.
52
It’s 2 p.m. by the time I catch up with Eddie; the young sergeant’s upbeat mood seems to have vanished.
‘Gannick just called,’ he says. ‘There are no trainers matching the print in Holy Vale at the farmhouse, and the blood at Jade’s house isn’t Paul Keast’s.’
‘His arrest warrant will lapse by 10 p.m. tonight if no new evidence is found.’ Paul may have hated Jade and Sabine for rejecting him, but there’s no solid proof he hurt them, and the news about his new relationship undermines his motive for going on a killing spree.
I stare at our suspect list again, with Eddie at my shoulder. Tom Polkerris is still a suspect. He seemed to have a jaded view of white weddings, but his obsession may run even deeper than his ex’s, and he had the perfect opportunity to watch Sabine and Lily at the hotel. The cruelty he showed as a boy may still be driving him.
‘What do we do now, boss?’ Eddie asks.
‘Let’s speak to Polkerris first.’
Isla stays behind, sifting through Liz Gannick’s latest report. Lawrie Deane is still with the forensics chief at the Keasts’ farm, but I’ll need to bring the team together soon to plan tonight’s safety arrangements. Everyone on St Mary’s needs our protection, including Lily Jago. If the girl’s still alive the killer will be preparing to display her body tomorrow morning.
There’s no sign of Tom Polkerris in the Star Castle’s reception area so Eddie and I march down the narrow corridor. I rap once on the door of his office, before barging inside to find the hotel manager kissing one of the hotel’s waitresses, his hand inside her blouse. She blushes furiously, before scurrying away. I can hardly believe that we’ve found evidence of his infidelity so soon, but it may happen all the time. After she’s gone, Polkerris stands by the window, glowering at us. The situation would be laughable under different circumstances, but my sense of humour has taken a nosedive.
‘How old is she, Tom?’ I ask. ‘Seventeen?’
‘Old enough to know her own mind,’ he says. ‘One minute we’re having an appraisal meeting, the next she’s all over me.’
‘It must be nice, being irresistible,’ Eddie mutters.
Polkerris shows us the palms of his hands. ‘It was a mistake, all right? I’ve been under pressure. You can’t arrest me for that.’
He lowers himself onto a plush sofa, his smooth facade back in place, no visible creases in his expensive suit.
‘How many times has it happened?’
‘What do you mean?
‘You employ temporary staff, mostly female, young and easily impressed. It’s an abuse of power.’
‘I haven’t broken any laws.’
‘Your fingerprints are all over Sabine’s bedroom. Did you sleep with Lily Jago too?’
‘You’re loving this, aren’t you?’ he sneers. ‘It’s a personal attack.’
‘I bet your staff know all about your antics.’
Polkerris’s body language is changing, his shoulders hunched in self-defence. ‘I slept with Sabine once, that’s all.’
‘Hannah Weber was fascinated by the history of this place. She visited twice, describing the castle as “magical” in her journal. Is she a
nother of your conquests?’
‘We never even met.’ The look on his face contains pure hatred. ‘You can’t forgive and forget, can you?’
‘No one likes a bully; the only difference now is how it’s described. We call it coercive control. If a female employees rejects you, she could lose her job. You’ll get the sack when this goes public.’
‘The owners won’t believe you.’
‘Trust me, they will.’
I take a good deal of pleasure from arresting Tom Polkerris. The solicitor is bound to advise her new client to answer every question with ‘no comment’, just like Paul Keast, but at least we can hold him overnight. If he’s the killer, he can’t harm Lily again, if she’s still alive.
Lawrie Deane calls me soon after the paperwork is completed and Polkerris is placed in a holding cell at 4 p.m. The sergeant explains that he forgot to mention that the Rawles’ house hasn’t been fully searched. Frank was out during his visit, and Elaine claimed that her husband had the only key to the attic.
‘I can’t see why they’d lock it, when it’s just those two living there.’
‘I’ll pay them a call, Lawrie. I should check on Leo Kernick anyway.’
I can’t imagine the Rawles marring their respectable image, let alone going on a killing spree, but Jeff Pendelow’s suggestion that the killer might be a pillar of the community is still ringing in my ears.
The rain is steady when I set off, but getting soaked again is the least of my worries. I’m digesting the clashes between Rhianna’s story and Tom Polkerris’s. It still seems possible that the killings sprang from the collapse of their marriage, but I need to carry on checking every detail, until evidence is confirmed.
Frank Rawle’s appearance is pristine when I reach his house. The razor-sharp creases in his shirtsleeves contrast with my sopping-wet windcheater. His Labrador trots out to greet me once the door opens, begging to be stroked.
‘I was about to call you, Ben. I’m afraid Leo’s gone,’ Rawle announces. ‘We hoped he’d stay longer, but he left before we woke up.’
‘Was he any calmer by the time he went to bed?’
‘He’s still in shock. It’ll take him months to recover.’
‘Could you drive to his studio later to check he’s okay?
‘We sold our car years ago, but I can take a walk there now.’
‘Thanks, Frank. Could we have a quick chat first?’
I send Lawrie a message on my phone to let him know that Kernick’s on his own, before following Rawle inside. A grandfather clock ticks loudly as he leads me through to his living room. I’d like to fire out questions then hurry back to the station, but the situation requires delicacy. The man’s shirtsleeve pulls back as he gestures for me to sit down, revealing a thick surgical bandage.
‘How did you hurt your wrist, Frank?’
He looks embarrassed. ‘I tripped in the back garden. Elaine insisted on dressing it for me as a precaution. It’s just a sprain.’
‘Your house has already been searched, but I hear you keep the attic locked. Would it be okay to look inside?’
I feel awkward hunting for evidence linking Rawle to the murders, when he’s been a respected community member for decades, but his dominating personality singles him out. The rooms on the first floor have the same dark panelling as the hallway, making them feel claustrophobic. When I climb the final flight of stairs to the attic, Rawle takes his time producing a key.
‘My wife would hate this,’ he says. ‘She treats this room as sacred territory.’
‘I won’t take long, I promise.’
Time shifts into reverse when the door finally swings open. The loft has never been modernised, with bare rafters overhead, the years receding to the late nineties. The musicians in Primal Scream, Nirvana and the Fugees look fresh-faced in the posters above the girl’s narrow bed. The duvet cover has faded from red to pink, the musty smell proving that the window is rarely opened. Old-fashioned cans of hairspray and tubes of lipstick lie on the dressing table. Leah Rawle beams down at me from the wall. The young man beside her in the photo looks familiar; his arm is draped around her shoulder, a cigarette dangling from his lip. A guitar stands propped against the wall.
‘It looks like your daughter was keen on music.’
‘Leah dreamed of teaching it, once she qualified.’ Frank Rawle is still standing in the doorway, reluctant to cross the threshold. ‘We should have given everything to charity long ago, but Elaine won’t hear of it.’
Leah’s possessions have been treated like priceless artefacts. The air tastes of dust and old memories, my breath catching when I walk further inside. A wedding dress hangs from the wardrobe door, its lace turning yellow. Twenty years have passed, but there’s still a dull sheen on the silk, the bodice covered in embroidery.
‘Was your daughter due to get married?’
‘The ceremony was just a week away. They’d booked the church and planned their honeymoon.’
‘She was engaged to an islander?’
‘Didn’t anyone tell you the story? Her fiancé was Michael Trevellyan.’
‘The priest?’
Rawle nods in reply. ‘He was working on his parents’ flower farm back then. They were far too young, but we relented in the end. It was obvious they were in love.’
I stare back at him. ‘I had no idea.’
‘Mike’s life fell apart afterwards. I know his religion brings him solace, and his ministry’s been exceptional, but his life would have been happier if Leah had survived.’
I’d like to know how the girl died, but the question seems insensitive. My old headmaster appears keen to escape his memories. Leah Rawle’s death has impacted on everyone she knew down the years: her mother’s spirit was broken, while her fiancé has allowed religion to replace love. It bothers me that the priest spoke to Hannah Weber just before she was attacked. It crosses my mind that he could be staying at her bedside to watch her die, rather then helping her survive, but the idea seems ridiculous. Why would a respected man of the cloth go on a killing spree, twenty years after his fiancé died? But anyone can commit violence under the right circumstances. I call the priest’s mobile number straight after leaving the Rawles’ home, but get no reply.
53
Lily’s hips ache from spending so long in the same position, but it’s impossible to stand. When she concentrates hard, voices whisper through the walls, the sound impossibly distant. She screams for help, but her throat is so dry she can only produce a guttural moan. Lily shouts louder the second time, but there’s no response.
She stares at the photograph again, hands shaking as she lifts it closer to the light. The girl looks about her own age in the close-up, her features lovely. The breeze has swept back her hair as she smiles for the camera. The colours have faded, but her make-up still looks perfect, her lips frosted pink, grey shadow and mascara making her eyes look huge. Lily rubs foundation into her skin, but her freckles are still visible, scattered across the bridge of her nose. Sabine must have sat in the same chair, dazzled by the lights, hands shaking as she applied mascara.
‘I won’t do it,’ Lily whispers out loud.
She wipes off the make-up, her decision restoring her calm. At least her reflection is one hundred per cent true, with a spark in her eyes that could signal hope or despair. She tugs at the chains around her legs, the metal’s cold weight biting into her flesh. When she works her fingers between the links, the pressure makes her cry out in pain, but it’s her only option. Sabine tried to follow the killer’s instructions but died anyway. She must free herself before he returns, then run past him through the open door.
54
It’s still raining in the late afternoon, when I head back to the station and start the motorbike, keen to reach Father Michael. It feels like the islands are trapped in a tropical storm, the atmosphere thick with humidity as I ride past Town Beach, where the shore is deserted. The sky looks like a length of pale grey cloth, smeared with charcoal. The priest takes a
long time to answer my knock, his expression distracted. This time he’s blocking the doorway, denying me entrance, despite the foul weather.
‘I was just speaking to a parishioner, Ben. How can I help?’
‘I’d like a quick talk, if possible.’
He lingers on the threshold. ‘The hospital’s expecting me.’
‘This won’t take long.’
Father Michael’s pace is slow when he leads me into his living room. He takes the chair opposite, but our roles have been reversed. The priest looks weighed down by sins that need to be confessed.
‘You had contact with all the victims, didn’t you, Father?’
His body language is heavy with exhaustion. ‘I knew you’d want this conversation sooner or later.’
‘It’s quite a coincidence that you spent time with each of the women.’
‘I didn’t know any of them well.’
‘You heard Sabine’s confession, you spoke to Hannah Weber, Jade Finbury sometimes attended mass, and then there’s—’
He cuts through my speech. ‘What are you saying, Ben?’
‘It can’t be easy living alone for so many years.’
‘I’m human, like you. It gets lonely sometimes.’
‘It’s worse for priests. You have to carry out wedding ceremonies all summer long.’
‘The ritual is a joyous union between people who love each other. Why would that cause me pain?’
‘You keep saying your life’s got a bigger purpose, but you’ve never recovered from Leah’s death, have you?’
‘My work gives me comfort.’ The man’s sadness echoes in his voice. ‘I’d have lashed out years ago, when the grief was raw, if I wanted to get even. Why would anyone wait so long to punish other women just for being alive?’
‘You tell me.’
‘Leah made me see things differently. I felt trapped here, but she showed me the islands’ beauty. She loved their history, and how the light refreshes the landscape every day so you never tire of it.’ He stares down at his hands. ‘I lost myself after she died, but that’s part of the gift she left behind. I had to be tested to find my faith.’