by Kate Rhodes
‘I should never have let her come here,’ he murmurs.
‘Are you all right, Mike?’ His face is ashen in the light from my torch. ‘Keep your head down and take some deep breaths.’
He’s soon strong enough to stand, but it was a mistake to let him accompany me. There’s a difference between wanting to help an investigation and being robust enough to visit the site where your child was murdered. When I scan the cave again, an expanse of mirror-smooth water is circled by rocks. I walk to the pool’s edge, but can’t see past my own reflection: a messy-looking giant, black hair in need of a cut, eyes straining for information. When I straighten up again, I climb deeper into the cave. The ceiling drops suddenly, then I see a fissure in the wall ahead, just wide enough to squeeze through. When my torch beam scans the narrow chamber, something is snagged on a piece of rock. It’s an old rubber kitbag, with a drawstring top. The item must have been forced into the cave’s furthest recess by the tide. One more sweep of the rocks reveals nothing else, so I return to the main cave to help Mike back along the passage.
I’m so busy making sure he doesn’t fall, I don’t notice a figure blocking my way until he almost topples me. Will Dawlish from the New Inn stands by the entrance to the cave, wearing a shocked look that must mirror my own. It seems bizarre that both of the men who have lost loved ones would arrive here in unison. The hotelier is clutching two white roses wrapped in cellophane.
‘I visit this place each month,’ he says quietly. ‘It’s normally empty.’
‘Watch out for the tide, Will. It’s coming in fast.’
Dawlish gives an absent nod. ‘I won’t take long. I just want to leave these where I found my wife.’
Mike is leaning against the sheer wall of the cliff, colour still missing from his face. The innkeeper lays a hand on his shoulder, before offering a few words of sympathy, then disappears inside the cave. When I look up at the cliff, the rock face is so sheer and uncompromising, it’s easy to see why two islanders lost their lives here. The path we took down the hillside is already cut off by the rising tide. If we stay much longer, our only means of escape will be to swim round the headland, with breakers forcing us onto the jagged rocks.
Mike lets out a sigh as he straightens up. ‘Some sick bastard followed my daughter in there. I can’t believe it was an islander.’ His eyes catch on the bag dangling from my hand. ‘That was Jude’s, she used it for her diving gear.’
‘I’ll need it for a few days, then you can have it back. Let’s wait for Will, then we can walk round the headland together.’
It takes five minutes for Dawlish to lay his memorial flowers. He seems surprised that we’ve waited for him, but I want to make sure that both men return home safely. The cave can’t be allowed to claim another life. Shadow still seems spooked as we leave, muzzle pressed against my thigh as the three of us turn away. We walk in silence; both men appear drained by visiting Piper’s Hole, scarcely looking each other in the eye. I lead them back to safety at a rapid pace to escape the encroaching tide, with the cave’s saline breath still clinging to my clothes.
14
Tom takes a fifteen-minute break mid-morning, to escape the cloying smells of coffee and fried food. Waitresses are talking about Jude’s death like it’s no more than a piece of gossip. Two of them stand by the hatch, speculating about why she was killed, sharing their stupid theories. He wants to tell them to shut up, but instead he pulls on his sweatshirt and leaves via the fire escape. It’s drizzling as the boy makes his getaway. He pulls up his hood, then jogs south across the beach, not caring if the damp penetrates his clothes. He hunkers down to shelter from the breeze. The horizon is a flat grey pencil line today, no ships in sight. He’s still studying the water’s blank face when footsteps crunch across the shingle. Before he can move, a hand covers his mouth, and he’s struggling to breathe, his shoulders thudding against the breakwater.
‘You little shit,’ Shane’s voice hisses. ‘I bet you’re heartbroken. You can’t follow Jude around anymore, like a lovesick puppy.’
‘I never did,’ Tom replies, jerking his face clear. ‘Leave me alone.’
‘My sister confided in you, didn’t she?’ The man’s grip on his arm is tight enough to burn.
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Jude gave you the whole story, on those long boat trips. You were her little disciple.’ Shane jerks him closer, until their faces are inches are apart. By now Tom is shaking uncontrollably. ‘How come she told you her secret, but not me? If you blab details to anyone, I’ll fucking kill you.’
Shane releases him, then swings back over the breakwater, leaving Tom shivering. The drizzle is thicker now, rainwater running down his neck, his shoulder blades aching from being pounded against the groyne. He blinks his eyes shut, because tears would be pointless. There’s no one to listen to his fears, and telling his mum or Gemma is out of the question. It would only put them in danger too.
15
There’s no sign of Eddie when I get back to the incident room at noon. I assume that he’s still out, gathering witness statements from islanders who were in the pub on the night of Jude’s death. A voice drifts up the stairs soon after I return, the sound bringing a smile to my face. It belongs to my godmother, Maggie Nancarrow, light as birdsong, with a strong Cornish accent. She bounces in without invitation, her small figure clad in jeans and a red T-shirt, face framed by a cloud of grey ringlets. The carrier bag at her side bears the Rock’s logo, the pub she’s run on Bryher since I was a kid. Her face lights up as she bustles over to kiss my cheek. When she goes back to close the door, I feel certain she’s here to pump me for information.
‘I’ve brought you some supplies. Pasta, garlic bread and some really great coffee cake for afters.’
‘This place feeds us fine, Maggie. You’re just touting for gossip.’
‘What a nasty, suspicious mind you have. Why not let me help you?’
‘How, exactly?’
‘I’m a fountain of local knowledge.’
‘Tell me about the history of Piper’s Hole, then.’
‘The place is cursed, by all accounts.’ My godmother’s eyes are brimming with excitement. ‘There are hundreds of myths about that place from its tin mining days. People say the tunnel runs under the sea, all the way back to St Mary’s. When I was a girl, my grandmother said mermaids lured sailors to their deaths there.’
‘Old wives’ tales can’t explain why Jude Trellon drowned.’
Maggie continues, undeterred. ‘Smugglers hid contraband from the customs men in the pool; they slaughtered pirates who stole from them there. The place is haunted.’
I roll my eyes. ‘Are you still putting your faith in spirits and séances?’
‘Cynicism’s so unattractive, Ben.’ Maggie prods my ribs. ‘You can’t prove I’m wrong.’
‘What about recent history? Has anyone else been hurt there?’
‘Only poor Anna Dawlish last November.’
‘Keep your voice down, Maggie. This is Will’s place, remember? You never know who’s lurking in corridors.’
She replies in a dramatic stage whisper. ‘Anna’s death was one of the worst tragedies we’ve seen on the islands – two lives lost instead of one.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘She was pregnant at the time. Poor Will was inconsolable.’
‘I didn’t know.’ My thoughts churn as I gaze down at her. The double loss explains why the innkeeper carried two roses to Piper’s Hole this morning, instead of one. ‘It’s amazing he’s kept going.’
‘It’s lucky he’s got a business to run; it must keep his mind occupied.’
‘Thanks for the grub, Maggie. I should get back to work.’
‘Dismissing me, are you?’ She wags her finger at me. ‘Come and have dinner soon, before I forget your name.’
‘I promise.’
‘Famous last words.’
Maggie gives me a wave, then vanishes in a blaze of energy. It still amazes me that
so much vigour can be locked inside a sixty-five-year-old woman’s bird-like frame. My godmother has planted a seed in my brain that will keep on growing until I find the answer.
I call Eddie’s mobile to let him know that lunch has arrived, but there’s no reply, so I use my spare time to request Anna Dawlish’s post-mortem report from the coroner’s office. Six months ago, the pathologist was confident she met her death in a tragic accident, but I need to reassure myself that there’s no link between the two deaths at Piper’s Hole. Curiosity has spoiled my appetite, so I investigate Jude Trellon’s kitbag instead of tucking into lunch. I empty its contents onto a piece of newspaper, but find only a spare diving mask, a snorkel and a handful of sand. When I shake the bag more vigorously, a metal disc drops onto the table, covered in the same dark green verdigris as the mermaid figurine. It looks like a coin, with a pattern scratched on it. I’m just dropping the piece of metal into an evidence bag when my phone buzzes in my pocket. It’s Elinor Jago, but the line keeps breaking up. She must be outside, the wind seizing every other word, but the gist of her message is clear. She says Eddie’s name, then summons me to Lizard Point, her tone of voice so urgent that I leave in a hurry, chasing the edges of fields at a rapid jog, with the dog running behind. When I break through the stand of pine trees that separates the beach from solid land, Eddie is lying on the sand with waves breaking over his feet. My deputy looks smaller than I remembered, his face raw white, while blood drips from his temple. Elinor Jago is crouching at his side. The contents of the woman’s postbag lie scattered across the sand as I drop to my knees, beside a debris of letters and envelopes. I touch Eddie’s neck, feeling for a pulse. Relief surges through me when the steady beat drums under my fingertips.
‘How did you find him?’
‘I had to pull him out. I was on my round when I saw his body in the water.’
‘Thank God you were nearby. Have you called the nurse?’
‘She’s on her way.’
The next few minutes are a flurry of activity. I give Eddie’s shoulders a shake, trying to bring him round, and it’s a relief to hear him groan. By the time Sophie Browarth runs across the beach, he’s blinking at the sunlight, already trying to speak. I stand back to let the nurse examine him, concerned that my deputy still looks far too pale. Sophie shines a light into Eddie’s eyes, checking his breathing, then helps him to sit upright. Her manner is so gentle, I feel a pulse of guilt for believing that she could have hurt her best friend, but it’s my job to be suspicious.
‘You’ll need an ice pack on that head wound straight away,’ she tells Eddie. ‘If you start feeling sick, your fiancée should call emergency services.’
It’s only when he finally stands up that I notice the plastic bottle dangling from his wrist, and my heartbeat quickens.
‘Do you remember what happened, Eddie?’
His gaze is unfocused when he looks back at me. ‘I went to Rowesfield Cottage, to interview the couple renting it. I don’t remember much else.’
‘You had a lucky escape.’
Eddie’s jaw drops open when I point at the bottle hanging from his wrist. I remove the garden twine and stow the thin wire in my pocket.
‘What does the message say?’ he asks. It’s reassuring that his usual excitement comes over in his voice, even though it’s weaker than before.
‘Don’t worry about it now. We need to get you home.’
‘I can give him a ride to St Agnes,’ Elinor volunteers. ‘My boat’s just across the bay.’
Eddie leans on me heavily as I help him across 200 metres of sand and shingle to the postmistress’s old-fashioned white cabin cruiser, with an outboard motor hanging from the bow at a precarious angle, deep scrapes along its fibreglass side. The small boat reminds me of one my father gave me and my brother to mess around in, with just two portholes admitting light to the galley. Elinor’s boat has the same windows just above the waterline, but I’m too busy helping Eddie aboard to look inside. My mouth is still dry with panic as the small craft recedes into the distance. It would have been tough living with myself if my deputy had been killed while his fiancée is heavily pregnant with their first child. I stare down at the bottle the killer attached to his wrist. It’s made of clear plastic, revealing phrases written on the paper inside.
WE THEREFORE COMMIT HIS BODY TO THE DEEP, TO BE TURNED INTO CORRUPTION, LOOKING FOR THE RESURRECTION OF THE BODY, WHEN THE SEA SHALL GIVE UP HER DEAD.
The message is scrawled more loosely than before, and this time I don’t need the internet to understand its meaning. It’s the prayer used for burials at sea, when a corpse is cast into the ocean because the distance to land is too great for a conventional ceremony. The killer may be indulging a private joke about religion, but his attempt to end Eddie’s life almost succeeded. If Elinor hadn’t spotted his body floating out to sea while doing her postal round, he would have been the second victim in less than a week. Eddie’s attacker has established a firm MO; he seems to like a degree of order that conflicts with his violence. Which islander would have enough physical strength to level a man with a single blow, then drag his body across the beach and into the sea? They must be physically fit and strong, unless two people are working together. They would have to be fearless, too. Although this remote beach is often deserted, a passing dog walker could have seen Eddie’s body being cast into the sea. The message in the bottle proves that the assault was more than opportunism. He followed the young sergeant during his house calls, waiting for the best moment to launch his attack.
While I’m mulling over possibilities, Shadow appears with a stick clamped between his teeth, expecting a game of catch. I shake my head at him, but the creature ignores my disapproval, laying the stick at my feet like a peace offering. I brush the sand from my jeans, then walk north across the beach as the breeze cools. Changes in the weather are a fact of life here, even as spring edges into summer, the Atlantic delivering constant shifts in temperature. By the time I reach Smuggler’s Cottage, the drizzle has turned to rain, and I’m wondering whether Shane Trellon could have ambushed Eddie and left him to float out to sea. His cottage on Cradle Point is only a ten-minute walk from where my deputy was found.
Shane gives a monosyllabic greeting when I arrive to search his place, explaining that I’ve got a warrant.
‘What have you been doing today, Shane?’
‘Paperwork.’ He delivers the word with a frown, then stomps upstairs.
He vanishes before I can ask another question about how he’s entertained himself since his abortive visit to Sophie Browarth’s house earlier this morning. When I glance around the living room, my curiosity surfaces. The place could reveal the reason for Jude Trellon’s death, the decor almost as basic as it would have been in the smugglers’ day, with bare wooden floorboards, oak beams and a stone fireplace. Three paintings on the wall show the sea mounting a vicious attack on Cradle Point during a winter storm.
I pull sterile gloves from my pocket and set to work. Shane seems to lead a spartan lifestyle, with few ornaments clogging his shelves. His DVD collection shows a taste for action movies, with a smattering of travel documentaries about Australia and New Zealand, the man clearly dreaming of bigger landscapes. The cupboards in his kitchen give little insight into his life, apart from proving that he’s no bon viveur. There’s a limited supply of crockery, a few battered pots and pans and a coffee percolator that’s seen better days. His computer monitor is flickering on the kitchen table, an open document appearing when I press the touchpad. Either Shane forgot to lock it or he wanted me to find the financial report. It’s an audit of business at the diving school, showing that it’s losing money hand over fist, despite the new boat Mike acquired last year. The Fair Diane cost £200,000, leaving the company’s finances with a sizeable black hole. If Shane killed his sister to become sole heir to the family business, it was hardly worth his time. I do a final scan of the kitchen, looking for used plastic bottles and a roll of garden twine, but find nothing.
University, until retiring recently. The volume is dog-eared with use, scribbled notes in the margins. I return downstairs with the book in my hands, to find Shane standing by the kitchen door, glowering at me.
‘Is this book yours, Shane?’
He glances at the cover. ‘I’ve never seen it before. Jude must have left it here one night.’
‘I need to borrow it for now, and I’ll have to take your computer and phone away for analysis.’
‘How am I meant to work?’ Shane’s frown cuts deep horizontal lines across his forehead.
‘They’ll be returned next week. But before you go, why were you trying to break down Sophie Browarth’s door this morning?’
‘We’ve hardly spoken since Jude died. Sophie was her best friend; I’m worried about her, that’s all.’
His statement fails to chime with the nurse’s claim that he’s visited her every day. ‘I’m cautioning you to leave her alone for the time being. Have you been out anywhere since you went round there?’
He stares at me, clearly longing to throw a punch. ‘I was doing a tax forecast for Dad’s business. Now I’m going to work.’