Ruin Beach

by Kate Rhodes

  ‘Don’t treat me like a fool then.’

  Before Tom can reply, rough hands drag him across the wet floor again, his limbs battering against obstacles, until he’s thrown back into the hold.

  31

  I wake up, dazed, at 6 a.m. The mountainous landscapes on the wall remind me that I spent the night at Ivar Larsson’s house, his hard sofa leaving a crick in my neck. Daylight reveals that last night’s intruder did a thorough job of turning the place over. Papers still litter the floor, some of the pictures hanging askew on the walls, as if the intruder was searching for a concealed safe. An unexpected sound makes me swing round suddenly. Frida has appeared in the doorway, golden-brown eyes observing my every move. She seems more interested in her new housemate than the fact that her home has been ransacked. Her pale-blue pyjamas look like hand-me-downs from a much larger child, the toy she played with at the funeral still clutched in her hand. I haven’t had much experience with kids, apart from occasional visits from my niece, but something about the girl cuts me to the quick when she fixes me with a curious stare.

  ‘Do you like it?’ She holds out the painted boat.

  ‘It’s beautiful. Did your dad make that for you?’

  She shakes her head slowly. ‘Mummy did. She painted it too.’

  When Frida presses the boat into the palm of my hand, it’s obvious how much care has gone into each detail. It’s a minute replica of an old-fashioned fishing smack, made of balsa wood. Jude must have spent hours gluing the pieces together, which offers a new insight into her character – people say she was impulsive and quick-tempered, but it would have taken patience to craft something so delicate. The girl’s smile flares into life when I return her toy.

  ‘Can I have a drink?’ she asks.

  ‘Why not ask your dad, sweetheart?’

  ‘He’s asleep.’ Her direct request won’t allow for a refusal, so I reach for my shirt and follow the kid into the kitchen in my boxer shorts, aware that Madron would be appalled by the intimacy of the situation. When I pass her a tumbler of apple juice, she sits on a low bench by the table, legs swinging as she gulps noisily from the glass. I stay in the kitchen to check the tumbler doesn’t slip from her hands, her gaze tracking me as I make myself coffee.

  ‘Do you go in the sea every day, like my mum?’ she asks.

  ‘Not that often. Most days I’m too busy.’

  ‘She finds things there, to bring home for daddy.’

  I crouch down beside her, keeping my smile in place. ‘It’s still really early. I think you should go back upstairs and play with your toys, until your dad wakes up.’

  The kid takes a moment to digest my suggestion, then flits away. I’m left holding her empty glass, aware that I’m out of my depth. Frida is nothing like my exuberant niece; her intense gaze seems to assess the world in forensic detail. Before long she’ll be asking questions about her mum’s death that her father will struggle to answer, unless I discover the truth.

  Larsson still looks pale when he comes downstairs at seven thirty. He hardly speaks as he concentrates on spooning cornflakes into Frida’s mouth, while the girl plays with Lego on the tabletop. My attitude towards the man has shifted in the days since I told him of his girlfriend’s death. It’s growing harder to believe that he could have killed Jude in a fit of passion, when his entire focus seems to be trained on protecting his daughter. Frida has accepted my presence already, humming to herself when the meal ends, then slipping outside to play with Shadow.

  ‘She’s a great kid,’ I comment. ‘It’s obvious she’s pretty smart.’

  Ivar stands by the kitchen window, watching his child play in a small sandpit. ‘I hope she’ll be a scientist like me, but maybe she’ll be athletic like Jude . . .’ his voice tails into silence.

  ‘Who do you think broke into your house, Ivar?’

  He swings round to face me. ‘It’s obvious, isn’t it?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Petherton, of course. He’s still bitter after all this time.’

  ‘The intruder was looking for something specific. The break-in could be related to Jude’s death.’

  ‘Check his place today. I’m telling you, the man’s unbalanced.’ Ivar’s features are hard with certainty.

  ‘I’ll look at all the islanders’ alibis, but don’t spend time alone. Jude’s killer may have come here looking for information. I want you to take Frida to Mike and Diane’s.’

  ‘We’re not being driven out of our home.’

  ‘Then an officer will have to guard your house.’

  He shakes his head firmly. ‘Frida doesn’t need any more strangers coming here, and whoever did it has had their fun. A year of my research was stored on that computer; thank God I backed it up.’

  ‘You’re turning down police protection?’

  ‘Leave your dog with us. He’ll guard the place well enough.’

  ‘Call me later this morning, when you’ve checked every room. Let me know if anything else is missing.’

  Larsson gives a grudging nod, his manner as tense as a steel trap. My plan to win his trust by spending more time in his company seems to be having little effect, which makes me wonder if his secret is more sinister than I thought. He might be concealing something that could land him in jail. His relief is palpable when I leave the home he protects so fiercely, but Shadow seems thrilled with the new arrangement. The creature doesn’t even blink when I tell him to stay, tongue lolling, not a care in the world as he fetches a tennis ball Frida has thrown for him.

  I call Eddie on my way to see Jamie Petherton again, informing him of last night’s break-in. His voice is disbelieving when he hears that another crime has been committed in a place that has been law-abiding for decades. I ask him to follow up my call to forensics, then walk towards Vane Hill. At 9 a.m. the island is going about its business as normal, tourists strolling along inland paths towards the Abbey Gardens, and a few locals waiting for the ferry to transport them to St Mary’s. The rest of the island’s permanent population will be at work already at the inn, or the Abbey Gardens. The sun is warming the back of my neck when I return to Jamie Petherton’s eco-house, and I’m sweltering in yesterday’s charcoal-grey suit. When I rap on his door again, he doesn’t answer and I assume that he’s at the museum already. I can see evidence that he spent last night alone through his lounge window: a single wine glass sitting on his coffee table, waiting to be washed up. It’s only when I approach the back door that the smell of burned plastic reaches me. The odour is emanating from a black bin bag, half concealed by a rose bush. My eyes blink wider when I look inside, a reek of chemicals rushing out as the bag spills open. It contains the burned-out remains of a laptop, the keyboard melted to a congealed lump of plastic, and it doesn’t take a genius to see that Larsson may have been right about the museum manager breaking into his home, but the reason for his vandalism is harder to understand. The break-in must have been planned carefully. Setting light to the computer would have destroyed fingerprint evidence, but what information was he so desperate to find, and how would he have known the password? I seal the bag shut again, suppressing my disappointment. If Petherton’s act was a bid to destroy Ivar’s research, as vengeance for a romance that ended years ago, it may have no connection with Jude’s death.

  32

  I place the remains of Larsson’s computer on the table at the incident room.

  ‘We need a formal interview with Jamie Petherton today,’ I tell Eddie.

  My deputy screws up his face at the chemical stink rising from the bag. ‘One of the barmaids downstairs told me something about him last night. Apparently he made another girl’s life a misery before Jude. The relationship ended badly, but he wouldn’t let go. After months of phone calls and accusations, she moved to the mainland.’

  ‘To escape him?’

  ‘Most people would, if some nutter kept hassling them,’ he replies.

  ‘He doesn’t seem that unstable now, but it could be an act. We need to know h
is exact movements.’

  It takes time to track Petherton down. The museum’s answer machine informs me that the place is closed. When he finally answers his mobile, the man claims to be at a meeting in St Mary’s, his voice bemused when I ask him to report to the police station. Eddie and I use the force’s smallest launch to travel there, the powerboat scudding across shallow waves until we enter Hugh Town harbour, where kids are learning to crew lugsail dinghies, the fair weather tempting people outdoors. One of the boats clips past at a hectic pace, almost causing a collision as we steer towards the jetty, the kids on board hooting with laughter. It’s a reminder that most of the population are enjoying a relaxed Saturday, while Eddie and I drive ourselves mad hunting for clues. The boats make an appealing picture as I step onto dry land, dozens of pastel-coloured sails catching the breeze as they drift on the tide.

  Lawrie Deane looks relaxed for once when we reach police headquarters. His grievances about my senior position seem to have been forgotten while he completes admin tasks on his computer. The sergeant’s expression grows taciturn again when he advises me that Madron’s office is available for the interview. The DCI’s room is as orderly as the man’s uniform, his old-fashioned desk polished to a high shine, ranks of colour-coded folders lining his walls in alphabetical sequence. Jamie Petherton doesn’t seem perturbed when he arrives a few minutes later. His funereal suit has been replaced by a grey T-shirt, jeans and trainers, but his expression is sombre when his mismatched eyes meet mine. The man looks surprised when I describe the break-in at Larsson’s house last night.

  ‘I’m just checking details at this stage, Jamie,’ I explain. ‘Can you tell us how you spent last night?’

  ‘I had a quiet evening, watching a DVD and drinking a few glasses of wine.’

  ‘Why didn’t you attend the wake?’

  ‘Ivar’s not my biggest fan. I didn’t want to make Jude’s family uncomfortable.’ His gaze is so calm, either he’s completely innocent or an accomplished actor. ‘Why would I go to his house while he was out?’

  ‘You’ve admitted to having strong feelings for Jude, and you broke in once before, didn’t you?’

  He looks at me in disbelief. ‘That was years ago, for a specific reason.’

  ‘If you could do it then, why not now?’

  ‘Jude and I had just split up; I was at breaking point. Plenty of people would react the same.’

  ‘You harassed another ex-girlfriend for months, didn’t you?’

  ‘Are you accusing me because I made mistakes in the past? I’ve never harmed anyone in my life.’ The man’s tone is incredulous, not angry.

  ‘The remains of a laptop computer were found outside your house earlier this morning.’

  ‘Anyone could have left it there.’ Petherton’s body language is tense while he struggles to remain polite. ‘It was nothing to do with me. Now, I need to get back to the museum; I’m running late for a meeting with the governors.’

  He rises to his feet, but I advise him to stay until the interview ends. The man retreats into a resentful silence as his fingerprints are taken. Once the formalities are over, Petherton exits the building at a rapid pace. He didn’t deny the tension between him and Ivar Larsson, but no one will be able to confirm that he remained at home last night, because his neighbours were at the wake. Even if he did break into Larsson’s property, it could have been a simple act of spite. Sergeant Deane gives me a scathing look when we finally leave the station, as if I make a habit of pursuing innocent citizens for my own enjoyment.

  The sky is a pallid blue when Eddie and I return to Tresco, a crisp breeze coming off the water, but my thoughts refuse to clear. I’m certain that someone’s playing me. One of the islanders knows about the ill feeling between the two men, and they’re capitalising on it to buy themselves time.

  I’m still tense when I get back to the New Inn alone by mid-morning, after sending Eddie off on house-to-house enquiries about the break-in; it feels like the investigation is veering from one false lead to the next, and I’m powerless to get it back on track. Will Dawlish is in his usual position behind the bar, polishing wine glasses. The innkeeper raises his hand in greeting, but the look on his face is subdued.

  ‘Is something wrong, Will?’

  ‘Not really. I’ll be fine once the lunchtime crowd arrives.’

  ‘You were missed at the party last night. It’s not like you to take a night off.’ I pull up a stool at the bar.

  ‘I couldn’t face another wake, to be honest. You’d laugh if you knew how I spent the day.’

  ‘Try me.’

  His gaze fixes on the window. ‘Anna and I bought a boat last summer. She loved to swim and dive; being on the water was a passion for her. I’ve hardly used it since I lost her, but yesterday I went for a sail.’

  ‘You didn’t capsize?’

  ‘I didn’t even have to call the coastguard. It felt good to turn the engine off and drift.’ When he looks at me again, his eyes are out of focus. ‘Sometimes life feels like we’re heading in the wrong direction, doesn’t it? It’s hard to justify our actions.’

  ‘You’ll feel more confident, next time you sail.’

  ‘Let’s hope so.’ His smile slowly revives. ‘I might do it again this afternoon, just for the hell of it.’

  ‘Lucky you, I’d tag along if I was less busy.’

  ‘Another time, I hope.’

  I leave Dawlish whistling in a minor key as I climb the stairs. The view from the attic window is distracting, the channel between Tresco and Bryher glittering like quicksilver, half a dozen boats at anchor, being chivvied by the tide. It’s a reminder that someone sailed a boat to Piper’s Hole and waited for Jude Trellon, then returned home in the middle of the night after committing murder, without alerting anyone’s suspicion. It would take a cool head to behave with so little conscience. The only islander who fits the bill is the historian, David Polrew. The man is hard-hearted enough to turn his daughter into a virtual prisoner, and goad her to fulfil his ambitions. Jude Trellon might have let slip about discovering the Minerva on one of their diving expeditions, but refused to disclose its location. Something about his arrogance makes me believe that Polrew would destroy anything that got in his way.

  PART 3

  ‘For thou didst cast me into the deep,

  Into the heart of the seas,

  And the flood was round about me;

  All thy waves and thy billows passed over me.’

  Jonah 2:3

  33

  Tom’s senses are working overtime. His clothes have been stripped away, apart from his jeans, the damp air making him shiver. The boat’s endless rocking increases his nausea, waves slapping against the hull as the sea nudges it from side to side. He can hear seagulls screeching, and hours ago the low-pitched drone of a helicopter that planted dreams of rescue in his mind, only to fall silent again. The boy shakes uncontrollably when someone walks overhead. This time the tread is lighter than before, one person climbing aboard instead of two. When the door clicks open, a woman’s voice addresses him. Her tone is familiar, light and breathless, yet he can’t place it.

  ‘Can you stand up, if I help you?’

  ‘I’ll try,’ Tom croaks, his throat raw with thirst.

  Her touch is gentle as she loosens the rope around his ankles. He feels as weak as an old man when he finally stands upright, his feet shuffling as the woman guides him along, streaks of sunlight filtering through his blindfold.

  ‘Sit here,’ she says. ‘That cut on your back’s infected. I’ll clean it for you.’

  Tom sinks onto a padded seat, wincing as the smell of antiseptic fills his airways, the pain sharpening when the woman smears it across his wound. Her touch is brisk and efficient as she seals a bandage to his skin. Afterwards she gives him a water bottle. The boy is so thirsty he lifts it to his mouth too fast, some of the liquid spilling onto his thigh.

  ‘Steady,’ the woman murmurs. ‘You’ll be sick at that rate.’

  ‘You h
ave to help me.’ He drains the bottle before speaking again. ‘Let me go, please.’

  ‘You know I can’t.’

  ‘Have you brought food?’

  ‘A sandwich, but don’t tell him, will you?’

  ‘Okay, but why are you keeping me here?’

  ‘I told you, he wants the Minerva’s co-ordinates, longitude and latitude.’

  ‘I don’t know them.’

  ‘The wreck is all he cares about.’ There’s a tinge of sadness in the woman’s voice. ‘Tell me, then he’ll stop hurting you.’

  ‘It’s somewhere past White Island, but that’s all I know.’

  ‘You’ll have to do better than that.’ She gives a mirthless laugh. ‘Do you understand how Jude Trellon died?’

  ‘Underwater, at Piper’s Hole.’

  ‘Drowning’s the worst death, Tom. Your lungs feel like they’re on fire, then there are terrible visions as your brain’s starved of oxygen. Is that what you want?’

  ‘Please don’t let me die like that.’

  ‘Tell the truth then.’ The woman grips his arm as he swallows the last mouthful of bread, her touch less gentle than before. ‘We’re leaving the boat now. Come with me.’

  It crosses Tom’s mind to lash out, but his hands and feet are still bound. She could easily send him tumbling overboard. Instead she forces him down a short ladder, into a smaller boat. A rough plastic tarpaulin scrapes across his back, hiding him from view, then the outboard motor roars into life. Tiredness and fear overwhelm him, his eyes gritty under the blindfold, as the dinghy scuds over choppy waves.

  34

  I’ve spent hours considering every suspect, but the pieces refuse to add up. The violence of the killer’s MO and items found at each crime scene make me certain he’s obsessed by the Minerva, his messages intended to taunt us. I can understand why the prospect of finding the ship could drive someone to madness. If it was loaded with precious artefacts, it could make someone’s fortune overnight, and turn the finder into a household name; the discovery of such an ancient wreck would create worldwide media interest. The killer may have found items of cargo hidden by Jude Trellon, his anger growing when she refused to disclose the wreck’s location. Tom Heligan has probably been targeted simply because the killer believes he knew her secrets. Despite Shane’s aggressive behaviour, there’s nothing linking him with either crime. Plenty of people remain on my suspect list, including the Kinvers and David Polrew, but the lack of hard evidence leaves me powerless. My only arrest so far has been Jamie Petherton, who has been freed pending investigation, for the crime of breaking and entering, not murder.