by Kate Rhodes
The woodman theme carries on inside Petherton’s home. The hall floor is made from scaffold boards planed to a smooth finish; pieces of tie-dyed fabric adorn the walls, and even the lampshades look homemade. Jamie catches me eying the decor as we walk deeper into the house.
‘Quite something, isn’t it? This is my parents’ section of the house; they met at Glastonbury forty years ago, then came here to run a smallholding and live off-grid.’
‘Did they achieve their dream?’
‘They missed life’s luxuries after six months.’ He gives an awkward laugh. ‘Dad worked as an accountant on St Mary’s and Mum wrote children’s books. They just keep a few chickens in the garden these days.’
‘Your parents aren’t at home?’
‘They’re travelling round India, to celebrate my father’s retirement. This is my part of the property.’
The man’s living room contains two large sofas and a direct view of Vane Hill, but it’s the range of decorative items that catches my eye. Every wall is lined with shelves to accommodate a vast array of possessions, as if the man is creating another museum inside his home. The place is packed to the ceiling with collectibles, from Star Wars figures and Matchbox racing cars to leather-bound books. I ignore the clutter and place the evidence bags on his table.
‘Can you identify these for me, Jamie?’
He stares at the objects inside their plastic wrapping. ‘A professional antiquarian could give you more detail.’
‘You know more about history than most people. Why not just take a look?’
Petherton collects a magnifying glass from a cabinet, then hunches over the dining table to study the coin. He inspects the figurine with the same close attention, shifting it to examine every angle.
‘The coin’s Roman, from the sixth century, stamped with the profile of Emperor Anastasius. It must have come from the sea, because the copper’s so heavily oxidised.’
‘How do you know all this?’
‘Roman society has always fascinated me. They were barbaric, of course, but some of their systems were more progressive than ours.’
‘What about the sculpture?’
‘It’s the sea god, Neptune. It was cast from bronze, with gold detail added later, made for someone of high status.’ His face relaxes as he holds it up to the light. ‘The verdigris doesn’t spoil its beauty. Roman artists were the first to observe the human form so accurately. I’d say it was the same age as the coin, but you’d need expert confirmation. It’s a pity the museum doesn’t own anything this fine.’
Petherton’s reaction differs from Dr Polrew’s. He seems more interested in the aesthetics of each piece than where they were found.
‘What if I told you they came from a local wreck?’
‘That’s not possible. Only one Roman vessel went down near here, and no trace of it has ever been found.’
‘Jude discovered it before she died.’
‘The Minerva?’ Petherton’s eyelids flutter rapidly. ‘How do you know?’
‘I think she told the wrong person, and got into trouble.’ The man’s thin form sways towards me, making me step forwards to help him into a chair. ‘Stay there, Jamie. I’ll get you a glass of water.’
Petherton is still recovering when I return. ‘Jude mattered a great deal to you, didn’t she, Jamie?’
‘More than I realised,’ he murmurs. ‘I tried to forget her, but it’s impossible in a place like this. She was everywhere I looked.’
‘Is it true that you put a brick through her window?’
‘I’m not ashamed.’ His uneven gaze suddenly comes back into focus. ‘We’d still be together if Ivar had left us alone. He has to answer for his own actions.’
The suppressed anger in his voice makes me certain he could have flipped and harmed his ex-girlfriend, despite his mild manners. But I can’t accuse him of using his parents’ boat to attack her in Piper’s Hole without evidence. He has little information to offer when I ask which islander might be so obsessed by finding the Minerva that Jude’s discovery would put her in danger. By the time I leave, he’s reverting to type. There’s a lengthy pause before he hands back the coin and figurine, as if relinquishing them causes him physical pain.
29
The New Inn is filling when I return, Shadow keeping watch over the crowd gathering for Jude Trellon’s wake. I ignore his protests and leave him tied up in the yard. The Trellons have enough challenges to face without a boisterous dog running amok. There’s no sign of Will Dawlish inside; a young bartender stands in his place, pulling pints at a furious rate. The landlord may be absent but his bar has been prepared for a lavish party. The victim’s attractive face grins down from a poster-sized photo on the wall, her golden eyes observing the mourners through a cloud of balloons suspended from the ceiling. When I was a child, I never understood why parties were thrown for every birth and death, but it makes better sense now. The end of a life well-lived deserves celebration, but Jude Trellon’s murder wiped out her existence decades too soon. It feels wrong to buy drinks for myself and Eddie while Tom Heligan is still missing, but most of the islanders will spend their evening here; if we stay vigilant, the killer may slip up and reveal themselves.
When I turn round again, the bar is packed to capacity, tables and chairs pushed back to the walls. One of the advantages of being the tallest man in any room is the ability to see every face in a crowd, my eyes skimming the new arrivals. Families have travelled from neighbouring islands to raise a glass in the victim’s honour, but some are missing from the Tresco community. Sophie Browarth and Shane Trellon haven’t arrived yet – probably comforting each other in secret, before arriving separately. Jamie Petherton has stayed at home after our chat, along with the Polrew family, but the dead woman’s parents stand by the entrance welcoming guests. People take it in turns to offer sympathy, or press drinks into their hands, but Ivar Larsson is keeping a low profile. I can see Elinor Jago making intense conversation with my deputy on the far side of the room. The postmistress offers me a distracted nod before disappearing into the crowd when I arrive with Eddie’s beer. He seems to be recovering from his attack, but the combative look on his face is still in evidence, alongside his black eye. Despite his slight build, he looks ready to beat the killer to a pulp if he should ever cross his path.
‘Thanks for the rescue,’ he murmurs. ‘Elinor was pumping me for information.’
‘People are concerned, that’s all.’
‘I couldn’t give her much reassurance.’ Frustration sours his tone of voice. ‘The forensics lab called earlier to say it could be days before we get results back on Shane’s computer and Tom Heligan’s phone. Their senior officer’s just resigned and they’re short-staffed.’
‘Just what we need, but we’ll manage somehow. Finish your drink then go home to Michelle.’
He ignores my instructions. ‘What will Linda Heligan do if we can’t find her son?’
‘I don’t normally have to tell you to stay positive, Eddie.’
‘Sorry, boss, the attack’s left me jangled. Michelle’s been nagging me to look for a safer job now the baby’s coming. Her dad’s got a holiday company on the mainland.’
‘Would that suit you?’
He shakes his head. ‘I’d be bored rigid renting out caravans.’
‘Don’t even think about resigning. You’re my right-hand man.’
The tense set of his shoulders relaxes slightly as someone turns up the music. Otis Redding’s ‘Sitting on the Dock of the Bay’ echoes from the speakers, followed by more vintage Motown ballads. Mike and Diane Trellon rise to their feet to honour an island tradition. They dance together in the centre of the floor, swaying in a slow circle, managing to smile at the crowd. There’s a thunder of applause when the song ends, everyone determined to send their daughter off with a riotous celebration.
Ivar is sitting by the door, the man’s face austere while Denny Cardew offers words of comfort. Frida is playing with her friends nearby, showing no
sign of distress. I get the sense that she may need a counsellor to help her understand that her mother won’t return, but for now Frida’s innocence is shielding her from the pain of losing Jude.
The evening passes in a flurry of speeches and songs, but I make sure to stay sober. Some of the guests have been drinking hard, talking to all and sundry, confidence raised by an overflow of booze. The party has been going for several hours before I catch sight of Shane and Sophie standing in separate corners of the room. It’s 11 p.m. when Zoe takes to the floor with Justin Bellamy, and I have to ignore a stab of envy that lasts until she appears at my side.
‘Dance with me, quick, before Justin asks me again.’
‘Why? You’d make a great vicar’s wife.’
She grabs my hand. ‘One dance, big man. Is that too much to ask?’
‘Go on then, if you insist.’
The truth is, it’s no hardship to feel those hourglass curves pressed against me. It takes effort to keep my attention trained on the room, watching the crowd for any disturbance that could reveal the killer’s identity.
‘There’s something weird about Justin,’ Zoe whispers. ‘It’s like he’s going through the motions, but there’s nothing inside.’
‘He seems okay to me. Don’t break his heart, will you?’
Over the top of her head I catch sight of the vicar heading for the exit. I could tell Zoe that the man she’s evading has gone home, but she might cut our dance short, and her cool hand on the back of my neck feels more intoxicating than any amount of alcohol. The music ends too soon. Now the room is emptying, Zoe dashes away to catch the last ferry back to Bryher. It doesn’t surprise me that Diane and Mike look the worse for wear, after coping with their daughter’s wake with so much dignity. Mike’s speech is slurred when he thanks the bar staff for their work. Ivar is sitting at a corner table, with Frida curled up asleep at his side. Diane’s eyes are glistening as she reaches down to embrace him.
‘Jude would want us to get on better, for Frida’s sake, wouldn’t she?’
Larsson lets his head rest on the woman’s shoulder for a moment, the pair of them united for once. I stand back to let the family say their goodbyes, until just Ivar and Frida remain in the room. The man’s face only brightens when he receives an ecstatic greeting from Shadow outside. Frida hums quietly to herself as I accompany them through Dolphin Town, but Ivar says little on the short journey, as if the effort of receiving so much sympathy has drained him of conversation. His relief is obvious when his cottage appears at the end of the hamlet, his footsteps quickening. But when we approach, it’s clear that something’s wrong: the front door is hanging open. Ivar runs towards his home before I can stop him.
‘Stay back,’ I call out. ‘Look after Frida while I check it’s safe.’
He releases a stream of Swedish curses, but waits by the gate as I approach the building, with Shadow’s loud bark echoing down the path. The kitchen window has been smashed, shattered glass pooling on the ground outside. When I return to the front door, the lights don’t work, so I grab a torch from the hall table to assess the damage. The laptop computer that usually sits on Ivar’s kitchen table is missing, a china cup shattered on the floor, coffee splashed across the tiles. It looks like someone has taken a strategic approach, only breaking things in their haste to escape. Drawers hang open, papers littered across the floor, but there appears to be no structural damage. Someone knew what they wanted, and disabling the lights was a clever touch. If Ivar had returned early, darkness would have given the intruder a chance to flee. I check the first floor, but whoever broke in probably left a long time ago. Every cupboard and chest of drawers has been searched, clothes dumped on the floor and books pulled from shelves. Frustration sets in as I show Ivar the damage downstairs. Most of the islanders attended the party, but several arrived late or left early, giving them time to break into the place while everyone else was busy. I use my torch to look inside the fuse box at the top of the stairs, light returning when I flick a few switches. The killer had the presence of mind to cut off the power supply, rather than smashing light bulbs, suggesting a calm, methodical approach.
My anger increases when I watch Ivar surveying the mess in silence, while his daughter clings to his hand. The child is my biggest concern; she’s been through enough trauma already, her eyes wide with shock.
‘Why not put Frida to bed, Ivar? Her room’s untouched. I’ll wait for you down here.’
Larsson frowns at me but takes the child upstairs without arguing. I hear him singing a quiet Swedish lullaby to his daughter as I check the property again, trying to work out which islander would be cruel enough to ransack a grieving man’s home during his girlfriend’s wake. I could go door to door, hunting for the perpetrator, but I’m certain they’re smart enough to cover their tracks. Whoever broke in will have buried the missing computer by now, or thrown it into a rock pool. I call the forensics lab on the mainland, leaving a voice message to request a visit, to check for clues that are invisible to the naked eye. The killer may have stayed true to form and worn gloves when he searched the place, but there’s a chance he’s left a traceable DNA imprint.
Larsson looks drained when he returns downstairs, and I can tell it’s the wrong time to quiz him about potential suspects. Instead we stick to practicalities and make an inventory of missing items. The thief has taken his laptop, which Jude only used occasionally, and a few photographs from her diving expeditions. The intruder probably came here looking for information about the Minerva, but couldn’t resist pocketing some mementoes. Ivar answers my questions in slow monosyllables, and I sense that he’s still guarding a vital piece of information, but he’s immune to questions.
‘You should go home,’ he says in a measured voice. ‘Thanks for helping us.’
‘I’m staying over, Shadow can keep guard outside. It’s not safe for you and Frida to be here alone.’
‘There’s no need. I don’t want her routine upset.’
I stare at him. ‘Are you too proud to accept help from anyone?’
There’s an edge of fury in his voice when he replies. ‘It’s so easy for you, isn’t it? You were born here and people trust you. I’ve had nothing but suspicion since I arrived. Jude’s family and the whole community wanted me to leave.’
‘Is that what happened when you were eighteen?’
‘You know about my car accident, do you?’ His pale eyes lose focus as he drops onto a chair. ‘If I’d gone to prison for dangerous driving, people might have forgiven me, but my parents fought to keep me out of jail. Villagers scrawled graffiti on our door and sent us hate mail. It taught me that the only person you can rely on is yourself. The people here are no different to the ones I left behind.’
‘If you meet the islanders halfway, they’ll accept you.’ But there’s a grain of truth in what he says. The slow pace of life here makes some people reluctant to adapt. ‘I’ll go early tomorrow, but for now I’m staying. It’s my job to keep you both safe.’
There’s a pause before he replies. ‘As you wish.’
Ivar brings me a pillow and blankets, then disappears upstairs. The man seems to have buried his feelings so deep, they’re impossible to access. I stand by the window, surveying the darkness outside. There are no stars tonight, the moon a haze of brightness behind a veil of clouds. In the dim light I can trace the fields rolling down to Ruin Beach. The Kinvers’ boat is lit up brightly in the distance, even though it’s the middle of the night. It would have been easy for them to row ashore while the islanders were at the inn, mourning the loss of a woman they’d recently employed. The couple had good reason to want access to Trellon’s computer, for information about hidden wrecks. I’m still watching the light shifting over the waves when a sound drifts from upstairs: a man’s muffled sobbing, low and grating. Larsson survived his girlfriend’s memorial service and wake without shedding a tear, only releasing his sadness in the privacy of his own home. The sound continues long after I lie down and wait for sleep to come.
30
Saturday 16 May
Tom’s body flinches when early morning light floods the hold. Brightness seeps through the rough fabric of his blindfold, but all he can hear are waves striking the side of the vessel, and the man tutting to himself.
‘You need a shower, boy,’ the voice hisses. ‘This one will be heavier than normal. You won’t forget it in a hurry.’
Fingers tighten around Tom’s shins, then without warning he’s hauled across the plastic floor. The rapid movement makes the pain in his back throb harder, but he tries not to yell. Someone jerks up his shirt, hands rough as he’s stripped bare, then icy liquid floods across his chest. Suddenly a blast of water hits his face so hard, his head jerks backwards. When his airways clear, he releases a scream, until another vicious jet of water silences him again and it’s impossible to breathe. The punishment seems to last forever. Tom is left naked and shuddering on the floor, his limbs bound so tightly, sores are forming on his skin. Drowning is the death he fears most, despite his love of the sea. Now a woman’s soft murmur reaches him, begging the man to stop, until he tells her to shut up.
‘Not very brave, are you, boy?’ the man’s breath whispers across his face. ‘You were squealing like a baby.’ There’s something fake about his voice, his accent hard to identify.
‘Let me go, please. My mum’s got no one else.’
‘You should have thought of that before, shouldn’t you? Give me what I need and you can go.’
‘What do you want?’
‘The truth.’ The man releases a strangulated laugh. ‘Jude told you everything, didn’t she? The location of the wreck, the depth, and what she found there. I saw her at Piper’s Hole, hiding things for others to find.’
‘I don’t understand.’
The hard jet of liquid strikes Tom’s face again, filling his nostrils and mouth until he almost blacks out. When the hose is finally switched off, water spews from his lips as he chokes for breath.
‘Stop, please, I’m begging you.’