Ruin Beach

by Kate Rhodes

  37

  It’s 7 p.m. when I use the launch to return to Tresco, dressed in fresh clothes. The walk to Larsson’s house gives me time to digest Zoe’s revelation. I can see that an exotic adventure is more appealing than serving drinks in a hotel at the edge of the world, but it still hurts that she’s prepared to abandon everything here, including me. It’s a relief to arrive at Dolphin Town, where Larsson’s house is so brightly lit he seems to be using electricity to ward off bad spirits. His face wears its usual fierce expression when he opens the door. It’s clear he’d like me to sling my hook, but concern for his daughter’s safety wins the day. Shadow’s warm welcome offers a direct contrast, the dog’s paws landing on my chest as he makes a desperate attempt to lick my face.

  ‘Has he been behaving himself?’

  Larsson gives a crisp nod. ‘It’s Frida who’s breaking the rules; she’s refusing to go to bed. Maybe you can persuade her it’s time to sleep.’

  The girl is sitting on the living room floor, dressed in bright-red pyjamas, hunched over a sheet of paper. She continues her frantic scribbling when I drop down beside her, but all I can see are random black lines floating on a swirl of turquoise.

  ‘I’m drawing a boat for mummy,’ the kid announces, without looking up.

  ‘That’s pretty good, I can tell the sea’s at high tide.’

  The comment draws a quick smile, then Frida carries on scratching her pen across the page so hard, pressure marks score the paper. I watch until the sheet is almost covered before speaking again.

  ‘You look tired, kiddo. Want me to carry you up to bed?’

  The girl shakes her head vehemently, but exhaustion soon topples her. The expression on Larsson’s face combines relief with irritation that his unwelcome guest has persuaded his daughter to behave. I feel a stab of pity as I cart the kid upstairs. She smells of soap, lavender shampoo and innocence, but any day now her world will crack apart. The least I can do is find out how her mother died, to protect her from unanswered questions. I wait until she snuggles under the duvet, her eyes closing before I switch off the bedside light.

  Larsson is tight-lipped when I return to the kitchen, but keeps his displeasure private. ‘We may as well eat,’ he says. ‘People keep leaving emergency supplies on my doorstep.’

  He ladles chicken soup into bowls, then places them on the table, with wedges of granary bread. The room has been put to rights since last night; surfaces have been cleaned, and the papers that were strewn across the floor filed away. He listens intently when I explain that I found the burned shell of his laptop this morning.

  ‘At Jamie’s house?’

  I haven’t mentioned Petherton’s name, but news travels fast here, whether it’s good or bad. ‘Keep an open mind, Ivar. Someone else could have broken in, then dumped it there.’

  ‘No one else is crazy enough. I don’t want that freak anywhere near my daughter.’

  The anger on his face reminds me that I intended to get under his defences by establishing common ground, not to upset him further. ‘Why not tell me about your research? There’s nothing we can do tonight; it might be a good distraction.’

  He frowns at me. ‘My work’s pretty straightforward. I came here to map changes in the marine ecosystem, and the easiest way is to look at wreck sites. Each one’s unique, but the seaweeds, plankton and crustaceans are all suffering. Each year I check to see which species are dying out.’

  ‘How do you record all that information?’

  ‘On computerised sketches.’ Ivar shows me a wreck site on his phone; the ship’s remains are illustrated so accurately, every broken timber is shown in a 3-D diagram. His software could draw the seabed far more clearly than David Polrew’s old-fashioned maps. ‘If you touch the screen, it brings up lists of species inhabiting that section.’

  ‘It must take hours underwater to collect so much evidence.’

  ‘The job needs doing before the ecosystem reaches a tipping point.’ His face hardens again. ‘Huge strands of sea kale grew here for thousands of years, but it’s almost gone. Acidification’s killing it.’

  His mournful tone confirms that it’s easier to grieve for the polluted sea than for his girlfriend, righteous anger keeping his sadness at bay.

  ‘Does anyone help you with the survey?’

  ‘Jude dived with me sometimes to take photos, and Anna helped me last year.’

  My eyes blink open. ‘Anna Dawlish?’

  ‘She was a biology teacher before she met Will, so she knew how to record data and identify species. She came diving with me and Jude every week last summer; she was a good friend of ours. It was a terrible shock when she died.’

  When I look at Ivar’s face again, he seems on the verge of tears, but pulls it together at the last minute. I still don’t fully understand the man’s reluctance to show emotion, but a raft of feelings swirl across his face: anger and despair, with fear rising to the surface. I know it would be pointless to ask why he’s afraid, but at least he’s shared some fresh information. Will Dawlish’s wife went on diving expeditions to help his research. Despite the coroner’s verdict of accidental death, it seems even more likely that Anna was murdered by the same person who killed Jude Trellon.

  38

  Sunday 17 May

  Madron is waiting for me outside the incident room this morning. It’s lucky that Shadow is still guarding Larsson’s house, because the dog’s presence would only increase his bad temper. The DCI must have serious concerns about the case to leave his home on St Mary’s so early on a Sunday. His grey eyes are cold as liquid nitrogen when we cross the threshold.

  ‘I thought you had begun acting more professionally, Kitto, but I was wrong. I’ve a good mind to remove you from the case.’

  ‘Why, sir?’

  ‘You’ve been staying at the victim’s house. That man may have killed his wife; he’s one of your chief suspects. An SIO should remain impartial at all times. Why aren’t you using a guard from the mainland?’

  ‘I need to win Larsson’s trust.’ I take a breath, to stop myself exploding. ‘He’s in a fragile state, and so’s his daughter. He wouldn’t stay with Jude’s family after the house was burgled, so I slept on his sofa. I spent last night there too.’

  ‘I thought as much.’ Madron gives a loud sigh.

  ‘Ivar could be next on the killer’s list. If you remove me from the case, he’ll need round-the-clock protection.’

  ‘What makes you think he’s vulnerable?’

  ‘The killer’s guarding his patch, stopping other divers from finding the Minerva, so he can claim its cargo. He thought Jude Trellon knew the wreck’s location, so he’s bound to believe Larsson knows it too.’

  ‘Who else is on your suspect list?’

  ‘I’ve got a warrant to search David Polrew’s house. He ticks all the boxes and he’s a manipulative bully. You got my report on his daughter’s suicide attempt, didn’t you?’

  ‘Polrew’s never committed a crime in his life.’

  ‘Plenty of murderers have clean records, sir.’

  ‘I thought Shane Trellon was your top suspect?’

  ‘Nothing implicates him, except sibling rivalry. We finally got the lab results on his computer and phone, which came back clean. The only thing his emails and texts prove is that he’s having an affair with a married woman. I let the Kinvers go due to lack of evidence too. Forensics are taking days to give us results; I’d be grateful if you could remind them that the murder case should be their top priority.’

  ‘Don’t blame them for your mistakes; they’ve only got five officers to cover all of Cornwall.’ Madron fixes me with his icy stare. ‘You’re impossible to supervise, Kitto. Don’t you realise you’re risking your future?’

  ‘If Larsson or his daughter had been hurt, it would have been my responsibility.’ I keep my gaze steady. ‘Why not put some faith in me, sir? It would make both our lives easier.’

  ‘Faith has to be earned, Kitto. It’s time you started following orders.
’

  ‘I can’t leave Ivar and his daughter unprotected.’

  ‘An SIO must keep his professional distance. I’m ordering you to put appropriate security in place.’

  ‘Larsson wouldn’t tolerate a stranger in his home, sir, and I’m close to a breakthrough.’

  Eddie barges in at the perfect moment. I suspect that he’s been on the landing with his ear to the door, waiting for the row to end. His presence soon disperses Madron’s rage. The DCI praises his hard work and immaculate uniform, before giving me a meaningful look, indicating that my deputy has outshone me again. Eddie and I both breathe a sigh of relief when he finally leaves. My deputy has begun to relax in my presence, but his eyes widen as I explain that David Polrew might be the killer. His belief in me is flattering, but he will only be disappointed if I fall from my pedestal. Right now, I’d do almost anything to prevent Madron from removing me from the job. Returning to undercover work carries no appeal whatsoever; I’ve spent enough time pretending to be someone else. It’s a relief to be myself again, on familiar ground.

  I push my concerns aside to study the coroner’s report into Anna Dawlish’s death in more detail. The account confirms that her husband discovered her body in the far reaches of Piper’s Hole; there were deep wounds to the back of her head, consistent with the tide battering her against the rocks. Her hands sustained injuries too, several fingernails torn away, but it was the bruising to one of her legs that convinced the coroner she had hit her head in a fall, then become unconscious, allowing the tide to sweep her into the cave. I drop the report back onto the table and stare out at the sea. It looks harmless today, stippled by shallow waves, reflecting the sky’s tranquil mid-blue, but I’ve spent enough time here to know that it can turn vicious in an instant. The killer could have targeted Anna Dawlish six months ago, hoping for information about the Minerva. If he knows the local waters, he would have realised that by dragging her body into the cave it would remain there until the next high tide. The deep circular currents that Ray described would drown even the strongest swimmer.

  ‘Anna Dawlish was the killer’s first victim, Eddie.’

  He rocks back in his chair. ‘But the MO’s different, sir. Jude’s body was tied to the rocks.’

  ‘There was no need with Anna. He knew the sea would keep her body exactly where he left it, in Piper’s Hole. She put up quite a fight, tearing at him with her hands, but the brine removed every trace of his DNA.’

  ‘Will’s going to be upset, if it’s true,’ Eddie murmurs. ‘He’s been in a bad way since she died.’

  My suspicions about the landlord have faded. No clues connect him to either killing, yet finding him in the incident room has left me concerned, even though Eddie claims that none of our papers were touched. The man fits the job description for a publican perfectly; affable and courteous. It’s hard to see how he would profit from the brutal murder of his own wife, followed by the death of a local diving guide. I set off for the Polrews’ house with my thoughts spinning. The walk takes me south to the Great Pool, where Canada geese skim the water’s surface, webbed feet scrabbling wildly as they land. The Abbey stands on the next rise; the imposing building was designed on a grand scale to remind the local population that Augustus Smith controlled the island 150 years ago. The Polrews’ house looks like a shadow of the original mansion, built in darker stone, its mullioned windows like hooded eyes. There’s something so gloomy about the place, it doesn’t surprise me that Gemma Polrew’s mental health is suffering.

  The front door takes a long time to open, but eventually Miriam Polrew appears. She’s dressed from head to toe in charcoal grey, as if she’s wrapped herself in a shroud, silver hair hanging down in lank strands. Her face only brightens by a fraction when she greets me.

  ‘It’s good to see you, Ben. I can’t thank you enough.’ Her words tumble out in a rush. ‘Gemma wouldn’t be here without your help.’

  ‘I was only doing my job. How’s she doing?’

  ‘The doctors had to pump her stomach, but she’ll make a full recovery after some rest.’ Her gaze slips to the floor. ‘I wanted Gemma to see a counsellor, but David doesn’t believe in talking cures.’

  ‘Can I come in, Miriam? I need to see your husband.’

  ‘I’m sorry, that’s not possible. He told me to keep visitors away.’

  Miriam Polrew’s tense expression makes me certain that her home life is worse than I imagined. I can sense that her husband has bludgeoned her into submission through endless bullying over the years. Her trembling is visible from ten paces, as if she knows that she’ll be punished for holding a conversation without his permission.

  39

  Little light filters into the cave, but it’s better than the absolute dark of the boat’s hold. Tom’s body feels weak after another night without sleep, the hard stretch of rock allowing only a few hours of rest, his hands chafed raw by the rope around his wrists. The man has left the map of Tresco behind, protected from the damp air by a plastic wallet, but he hasn’t touched it. Despite longing to go home, he’s not prepared to put another life in danger.

  Tom leans forwards, trying to peer past a huge wall of rock. It’s impossible to guess where he’s being held, but he can no longer be on Tresco; this place is unfamiliar, and he knows every inch of his native island. He tries to imagine what Jude would do in his position. She always knew how to act; even underwater her movements were quick and decisive. The boy stares at the chain tethering his ankle to the rock. If he could free his hands, escape might be possible, and trying will keep him occupied. He drags his wrists across rough stone, hoping to work the rope loose. The motion scrapes his palms until they’re covered with blisters, but Tom keeps going. He thinks of his mother waiting at home, and Gemma waving up at him from the shore, as the pain in his wrists sharpens.

  40

  ‘I’ve got a warrant to search your property. I’m afraid you have to let me in, Miriam.’

  Mrs Polrew steps back slowly. ‘You’d better tell David; I can’t get involved.’

  When I’m finally permitted to enter, it strikes me again that only a historian would live in a house that favours darkness over light, the walnut panelling and heavy rugs on the floor too oppressive for my taste. If the property was mine, I’d paint the walls white, to accentuate the soaring ceilings and allow the place to breathe.

  Miriam Polrew scurries upstairs to check on her daughter, leaving me outside her husband’s office. I can hear the man’s booming voice giving someone a piece of his mind, but when I knock on the door, the only reply is an outraged grunt. Dr Polrew keeps his back turned, his phone still pressed to his ear. He does a double take when our eyes finally meet, ending the call with a curt goodbye. His arrogant sneer is missing for once; it no longer feels like he’s preparing to give me a lecture on marine archaeology.

  ‘Have you come to check on Gemma’s recovery, Inspector?’

  ‘Among other things, yes.’

  ‘The psychiatrist claims she’s got emotional issues, but the girl only wanted our attention. She thinks she can avoid her exams with a foolish gesture. My daughter’s always had a taste for drama.’

  ‘Her attempt was serious, Dr Polrew, it’s recorded in my incident report. Gemma waited until her mother left before taking the pills; it was pure luck that you found her, because Miriam normally checks on her during the day, doesn’t she?’

  ‘Meaning what, exactly?’

  ‘I lost a colleague to suicide. Your daughter will need professional support to recover.’

  ‘How dare you advise me on her welfare?’ Polrew emerges from behind his desk like a veteran boxer lumbering into the ring, but the sight of a taller, heavier man stops him in his tracks. He deflates suddenly, as if someone’s pricked his balloon. ‘Gemma needs to pull herself together, that’s all.’

  ‘I’m not here to discuss her future. I need to search your office, in connection with Jude Trellon’s death.’

  His mouth gapes open. ‘You think I was involv
ed?’

  ‘It has to be ruled out. You dived together plenty of times.’

  ‘I can’t believe you’re singling me out.’

  ‘This is routine, Dr Polrew. Other properties on Tresco have been searched.’

  Like all bullies, he backs away when he’s cut down to size. Polrew’s presence lingers in the empty room, with an odour of stale cigar smoke, the air still crackling with his bad mood. I put on sterile gloves to sift through the folders stacked on his shelves, pulling down one with the word Minerva scrawled on its spine. It’s fatter than the others, proving that his interest in it trumps every other shipwreck. The folder contains photos from dives near the Eastern Isles, over the past three years, as well as a ship’s log. My eyes blink wider when I see the number of additional crew members scribbled beside the dates of each voyage. Until now, Polrew has claimed that only Jude Trellon accompanied him, but sometimes two or three other islanders were on board, yet none of their names are recorded. I spend an hour combing through Polrew’s office, learning more about his passion for maritime history. Photographs on the wall include one of an ancient wreck being winched from the seabed, the wooden outline resembling a whale’s skeleton. My irritation builds as I complete the search. I’m sure the office once held items from his dives with Jude Trellon, which he’s moved somewhere harder to access. My hunt may have revealed nothing, but I can’t give up until Tom Heligan is found.

  When I finally emerge, Polrew is waiting in the corridor, arms folded tightly across his chest.

  ‘I need the names of everyone that accompanied you when you looked for the Minerva, Dr Polrew.’

  ‘Several people joined me over the years. My wife, Ivar Larsson, Anna Dawlish and Jamie Petherton, but there may have been others. My expeditions tend to blur into one these days.’