Ruin Beach

by Kate Rhodes

  I remember the vicar telling me that he dived with Jude two days before she died. He might be able to cast more light on her state of mind, but there’s no sign of Justin Bellamy when I reach the vicarage, so I walk to the church next door, even though the place carries too many memories. I’ve attended dozens of weddings and christenings there, but the service that stands out most clearly is my father’s funeral when I was fourteen. It resonates in my mind as I enter the chancel; there was no coffin to mourn over after my father drowned, my mother’s grief unending. The memory fuels my determination to find out what’s happened to the Heligan boy, to give Linda peace of mind. Mahogany pews fill the nave, a commemorative list of lost mariners on the wall, my father’s name inscribed halfway down.

  ‘Looking for me?’ The priest emerges from the vestry, stepping into a shaft of sunlight. He’s wearing formal black vestments for once, the light settling on the puckered skin of his scar.

  ‘Can I ask some questions about Jude?’

  ‘Fire away, I’m glad to help.’ He settles his lanky form on one of the pews.

  ‘You were with her not long before she died. How would you describe her mental state?’

  Bellamy replies slowly, as if he’s hunting for details. ‘She seemed a bit stressed, but soon relaxed out on the water. The dive seemed to lift her spirits.’

  ‘Did Jude mention what was bothering her?’

  ‘Only that her parents were having difficulties. I tried to draw her out, but she never said if their problems were financial or emotional.’ His face clouds. ‘Jude wanted more time with Ivar and Frida, but she had to work long hours most weeks. She seemed frustrated more than anything.’ The priest’s maimed face carries so much understanding, I doubt whether any human act could shock him. ‘Did she mention anything about a shipwreck called the Minerva?’

  ‘To be honest, I’ve forgotten most of our discussion. I was focused on our dive; I still struggle to get depth timings right.’

  ‘But you’d remember if she’d talked about underwater treasure?’

  ‘Who wouldn’t? I loved watching Jacques Cousteau when I was a boy.’ He glances down at his hands. ‘We chatted about everyday stuff: places we’d travelled, jobs we’d done. We even shared details about our body art.’

  ‘I can’t imagine you in a tattoo parlour, Justin.’

  ‘Don’t judge a book by its cover. I spent five years in the army.’

  ‘Is that where you got your scar?’

  ‘I’ll tell you about it sometime over a pint, but now I should get the church ready for Jude’s memorial. Forgive me for being a bit keyed up. It’s easy to say the wrong thing when the family are so vulnerable.’

  ‘You always strike the right note. I’ll see you at the service.’

  Justin Bellamy gives a thoughtful smile as he rises to his feet. I leave him placing leaflets in each pew, preparing for the ceremony in a few hours’ time.

  My next port of call is Ivar Larsson’s home at the end of the village, where Shadow is waiting on the doorstep. I swear the creature is clairvoyant, always certain where I’m going before I’ve decided, but his company will be useful today. Larsson is more likely to welcome me once he sees the dog. The man only opens the door by a fraction, his eyes round with suspicion, until he leans down to stroke Shadow’s fur.

  ‘I’d rather be alone, until after Jude’s service.’

  ‘I’m just checking you’re both okay, Ivar. By the way, Elinor Jago says she’s happy to help, if you need anything.’

  ‘I hardly know her. I don’t know why she keeps snooping around here.’

  ‘She’s just being supportive.’ When I look at him again, his mouth is set in a rigid line. ‘I’ll walk with you to the church, if that’s okay.’

  He doesn’t reply, his expression non-committal. Ivar seems to be coping with his loss by pulling up the drawbridge, reluctant to accept support from anyone. The state of his kitchen shows that he’s struggling, an overflowing rubbish bin waiting to be emptied, the air tainted by sour milk, stains darkening the tiled floor. A new set of photos has appeared beside his fridge. They show the mother of his child in a low-backed top, expression relaxed as she tosses Frida into the air. My eyes linger on the blue-black illustrations that scroll down from the nape of her neck.

  ‘I’m still trying to get a clear understanding of Jude.’ The dog edges closer to Larsson, pressing his muzzle against his hand. ‘Have you thought of anyone who behaved aggressively towards her since you met?’

  He shakes his head. ‘The threats were aimed at me, not Jude.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Jamie Petherton hated my guts when we first got together. He made phone calls, then paid us late-night visits. It got worse after he found out she was pregnant. It felt like a hate campaign.’

  ‘What did he do?’

  ‘He waited till Jude went out to work, then put a brick through our window. The guy screamed abuse at me.’ His voice falls to a murmur. ‘Jude begged me not to report it, saying it was our fault he was suffering.’

  It’s hard to believe that the museum manager is capable of direct confrontation, but everyone has a snapping point. ‘That was years ago, Ivar. Petherton’s not the reason why you hate opening your front door.’

  He lifts his chin in defiance. ‘No one can make me leave this place before my work here finishes.’

  ‘What did Jude tell you about Tom Heligan?’

  ‘She liked having someone who shared her passion. Jude was happiest on the water, or under it. It thrilled her to find like-minded people.’ Something about the way his gaze evades mine makes me certain he’s hiding the truth.

  ‘Did you know he had a crush on her?’

  A narrow smile appears on his face. ‘A lot of men felt that way about Jude. It doesn’t surprise me.’

  ‘Tom went missing from his home on Wednesday night.’

  A wave of shock crosses his face. ‘No one told me.’

  ‘You want the boy found, don’t you?’

  ‘If I knew where he was, I’d say.’

  My gaze lands on the photos of his girlfriend, the images printed on her body too small to interpret. ‘What do Jude’s tattoos mean?’

  Ivar touches one of the photos with his fingertip. ‘Every time she found a new wreck, she had it drawn on her body. It was one of the first things that attracted me to her when I saw her changing for a diving trip.’ He rises to his feet suddenly. ‘I need to get Frida ready for the memorial.’

  I scan the pictures again after he leaves the room, focusing on one taken aboard the Fair Diane on a hot summer day. Jude Trellon is at the helm, her skin baked golden brown, standing beside Tom Heligan, her long hair draped over one shoulder. The image has caught the young mother and her teenaged friend in relaxed mood, grinning at the camera like nothing could ever go wrong.

  27

  The sounds have fallen silent again. Tom can no longer hear the outboard motor, or the woman’s voice. Maybe she doesn’t realise that he’s trapped below decks, unable to move? The oxygen is dwindling, the air tasting of boat diesel and his own stink. The pain in his back is impossible to ignore. When his mind clears again, footsteps tap across the floor above his head. Tom’s thoughts veer between panic and relief. His body stiffens at the sound of someone clattering down a ladder, then a door clicks open and shreds of light filter through his blindfold. It’s too dark to make out where he’s being held, but he can see a shadow rushing closer.

  ‘Who’s there? Help me, please.’ His words emerge as a dull croak.

  A hand pulls his head backwards, and liquid floods his mouth, too fast to swallow. He manages to gulp down some water, before dry bread is crammed between his lips. Tom can hear laboured breathing as someone stands over him, tightening the ropes around his ankles.

  ‘Why are you keeping me here?’

  ‘I’m not meant to do this, but I can’t let you starve.’ The woman’s voice is a dull monotone, as if she’s trying to disguise it. ‘He’s angry tha
t Jude stole from him. If you tell the truth, he’ll let you go. If you don’t, he’ll kill you tomorrow, or the day after.’

  Shadows cross Tom’s blindfold, followed by a searing flash of light, then the door clicks shut and silence settles over his world again. Moments later he hears the outboard motor roar into the distance. The woman that came to feed him is leaving in a hurry, his body tenses with the knowledge that she may not return. He might be left to rot in this filthy place, without ever seeing daylight again.

  28

  Half an hour passes before Ivar and Frida are ready for the memorial service. Ivar’s suit is a sombre grey, but Frida wears a scarlet party dress. The child’s eyes are huge and unfocused when she gazes up at me, as if she’s unable to fathom so much adult confusion. It strikes me as cruel that the Trellon family have left the pair to walk to the memorial service alone.

  Ivar doesn’t speak as we cover the short distance from his house to the church. The man’s hand is clutching his daughter’s so tightly, his knuckles are turning white. I can tell it’s more than a normal grief reaction, the man is afraid of something, but he’s unwilling to share his secrets. The only way to make him open up will be to spend more time in his company, until he lowers his guard.

  Justin Bellamy is waiting by the door of the church. The priest welcomes Ivar warmly, before crouching down to speak to Frida, then ushering us inside. The air smells different since I came here a few hours ago, incense and the sickly sweetness of cut flowers catching the back of my throat. The nave is packed with families from Tresco, Bryher and St Mary’s, keen to support Jude Trellon’s family, even though her body can’t be buried until the case is closed. People’s faces contain judgement as well as sympathy when they see Ivar arrive. Some still seem to view him as an outsider who has failed to adapt to island ways. My suspicions are confirmed when we reach the front of the church. Mike, Diane and Shane are huddled together, the last seat on their pew occupied by Jamie Petherton. An outsider would assume that he was the grieving boyfriend, his face blank with misery, dressed in an elegant black suit. We sit across the aisle from Jude’s family as the service starts.

  The vicar’s face is pale as he welcomes us all to the service, his voice cracking with distress. The strain of losing a young, charismatic member of this tiny community seems to be affecting everyone deeply. When I glance across at the Trellons, Mike’s eyes are fixed on the stained-glass window above the altar, and Diane’s face is buried in a tissue, while her son clasps her hand.

  The highlight of the ceremony is when Zoe walks to the front of the church. Her great singing voice is a blessing and a curse in such a small place, with islanders begging her to perform at every wedding, anniversary party and funeral. She looks stunning as usual, a gorgeous, Amazonian blonde, showing no sign of stage fright. When she begins to sing ‘Beyond the Sea’, her unaccompanied voice soars to the rafters. Zoe’s version of the old tune is so loaded with emotion, people are dabbing their eyes before the first verse finishes. My old friend is a grown woman now, not the skinny kid I once chased across the sand, and she has a gift that deserves to be shared more widely. Back then I could second-guess her moods, but now she leaves me baffled. I’m still reeling from the power of her rendition as the song ends, a murmur of appreciation rippling through the congregation.

  Diane stands up to deliver her eulogy once the last note fades. She’s swaying on her feet, as if a hard wind is blowing through the aisles.

  ‘My daughter wasn’t the easiest woman in the world, but easiness is overrated. Jude loved challenges, and she was never afraid. She was built for the sea, not the land – a genuine free spirit. She didn’t deserve to die at twenty-nine.’ Diane’s expression changes in an instant, from grief to accusation as she surveys the crowd. ‘One of you must know who killed Jude. I’m begging you to tell someone, or send a letter. We can’t move on until we know.’ She manages to sit down again before lapsing back into tears.

  The rest of the ceremony passes without incident. The vicar’s speech reminds me that Jude packed a lot into her three decades; competing internationally in free-diving competitions, before settling down. I glance at Ivar while the details of his partner’s life unfold. Only a skilled observer could tell that he’s suffering as badly as Diane, even though his face is impassive. His hands are braced in his lap, like a mountaineer clutching a guide rope. Frida seems oblivious to her father’s sadness, bouncing a painted wooden boat on her knee, as if it’s battling a fierce storm.

  I stand in the churchyard when the service ends. The cemetery is packed with gravestones, dating back 200 years, names erased long ago by the hard rain that falls each winter. I know from years of undercover work that the best way to avoid attracting attention is to blend into the background, so I lean against the drystone wall that encloses the churchyard. The killer is likely to be among the hundred people who have spent the last hour cooped up inside. Murderers love returning to the scene of their crime, to remember the power of sacrificing someone’s life, and see the relatives’ devastation, but no one is behaving suspiciously today. Diane and Ivar are making awkward conversation, while Frida plays with two other kids among the gravestones, clearly thrilled to be outdoors. Ten metres away, Mike Trellon is comforting his daughter’s best friend, Sophie Browarth, the nurse’s face pressed against his shoulder. No one would know that she’s having an affair with the victim’s brother, because Shane is deep in conversation with Will Dawlish. They stand with their heads down, as if grief is an invisible burden weighing on their backs. The only person wearing a smile is Zoe. She’s chatting to one of the waitresses from the New Inn, holding the woman’s baby in her arms, oblivious to my stare. In the old days, she claimed that parenthood was a fool’s game, but her opinion seems to be changing. I scan people’s faces until the crowd disperses, the vicar shaking his parishioners’ hands as they leave the churchyard.

  I’m about to return to the incident room when DCI Madron steps into my path. He’s dressed in full uniform, silver stars on his epaulettes, his cap glittering with brocade. The man’s eyes are level with my chest, but his crisp tone is intended to remind me who’s in command.

  ‘Good to see you dressed appropriately for once, Kitto. You should wear that suit to your review meeting. Have you got time to update me on the case?’

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  ‘Walk with me to the harbour. The deputy commissioner’s coming over to St Mary’s for a briefing; I want to tell him about your progress.’

  The jetty is deserted when we reach the harbour. The islanders will stay at home until everyone regroups for Jude Trellon’s wake tonight at the inn, but her death is a less pressing concern than the missing boy. I’ve still got a chance of returning him to his mother alive. Madron’s grey eyes assess me cautiously as I explain my theory that someone targeted both victims for their knowledge of the sea. The Minerva is a local obsession, a fabled ship loaded with cargo that could make a diver rich overnight. Dr Polrew seemed certain that the mermaid amulet is of Roman origin, but I need Jamie Petherton to identify the coin found in Jude’s kitbag, and the second figurine from Tom Heligan’s loft. The way her body was pinned to the rocks makes me assume that the boy is still alive: if the killer follows the same MO, he’ll be returned straight into our hands. Once I fall silent, Madron surprises me with a nod of assent.

  ‘Someone’s treating the sea like a roulette wheel, gambling their lives on gaining big rewards.’ His face is sober when he turns to me again. ‘Keep yourself safe and contact me if you need more officers, Kitto. I can request them from the mainland.’

  ‘Thanks, sir, I’ll let you know.’

  The DCI gives a nod of dismissal, then walks away, leaving me in shock. For the first time in recorded history, the man listened without prejudice, but there’s no point in accepting his offer. A sudden influx of strangers would send the island into lockdown. The police launch disappears into the distance, returning Madron to the desk-bound duties he loves.

  I take a sl
ow walk from Dolphin Town to Jamie Petherton’s house at the foot of Vane Hill, passing through fields grazed short by generations of sheep. The creatures bleat out protests at my arrival, short tails bouncing as they race to the far side of the field. It’s lucky that Shadow is nowhere in sight. One of his favourite pastimes is chasing vulnerable animals while barking at ten decibels. The sky is darkening by the time I approach Petherton’s house. It looks like a modern version of a forester’s cabin; the two-storey building is insulated with rough-hewn timber, its peaked roof covered with solar panels, half a dozen water butts positioned to collect rain from its gutters. The building looks like it would tick all the boxes in the Green Party’s housing manifesto, designed to conserve every natural resource.

  Petherton gapes at me when I ring the bell, as if he’s trying to decide whether to slam the door in my face. The museum manager is still dressed in the clothes he wore to the memorial: his well-cut suit must have cost him a month’s wages, but his face looks thinner than before, ravaged by deep shadows. It seems fitting that one of his eyes is brown, the other blue. His odd gaze makes him look like a changeling, not fully equipped for either land or sea.

  ‘Can I come in please, Jamie? I need a favour.’

  ‘Of course, I’ll do my best to help.’ The man’s courtesy seems to cause him discomfort, his lips forming a narrow smile.