by Kate Rhodes
‘Anna Dawlish crewed for you?’
‘She was a keen diver, unlike Jamie. He’d rather sit in his museum than get his skin wet.’ Polrew gives a sneering smile. ‘At least he’s a decent navigator.’
‘Where are the keys to your boat?’
‘I don’t have them.’ His words emerge on a hiss of amusement. ‘A friend on St Agnes borrowed it yesterday for a family trip.’
I produce my notepad from my pocket. ‘Give me his contact details, please.’
The historian scribbles a few words, then hands the pad back with a flourish. ‘I’ll want a formal apology when you accept that Jude’s death is nothing to do with me.’
I keep my eyes level with his. ‘Did you ever take Tom Heligan on your boat?’
‘Jude brought him along once; the boy was an accomplished diver.’ The man’s stare is a direct challenge, daring me to call him a liar.
I leave the house with little to show for my visit except the man’s dossier on the Minerva. Miriam Polrew hurries out to thank me again for helping her daughter. Her expression is so anxious that I press one of my cards into her hand and tell her to ring me if she has any more concerns, even though her husband is eavesdropping by the front door. The atmosphere is leaden when I finally leave the couple to resolve their differences.
I’ve only been walking for a few minutes when I bump into Justin Bellamy, dressed in jeans and a light-green shirt, his dog collar hidden beneath his jacket. His usual smile of greeting is missing when he hurries along the path.
‘I thought I’d call on Gemma. I was hoping to speak with you too, Ben.’
‘Now?’
‘If you’ve got time.’
‘There are benches by the lake. Why don’t we go there?’
Our five-minute walk to the Great Pool reveals that the priest is troubled. His good humour has vanished, and he keeps his hands buried in his pockets, eyes trained on the ground. Justin stays silent as we settle on a bench, giving me time to admire the Sabine gulls hovering over the stretch of water, which reflects the clouded sky with photographic accuracy. The scene looks so tranquil it’s hard to believe that a local woman has been brutally murdered and a teenage boy abducted in the past six days.
‘I haven’t been completely honest with you. I’ve been wrestling with my conscience since Jude died.’ The priest’s face is tense when he turns towards me. ‘She came to the vicarage soon after our last dive together, in an agitated state. She gave me a package to look after. Jude made me swear to hand the box to her father, if anything bad happened. She promised it wasn’t stolen goods, so I agreed, to give her peace of mind.’
‘Have you opened it?’
‘No, it’s still in my cellar.’
‘Did you tell anyone else?’
‘Of course not, I gave her my word. I should have acted sooner, but my decision-making skills have suffered since this happened.’ He points at the scar that bisects his cheek. ‘Sometimes the line between right and wrong gets blurred.’
‘How do you mean?’
He takes a deep breath, before speaking again. ‘I was a chaplain with the Royal Fusiliers. I loved it at first, travelling the world with a great bunch of soldiers, counselling them and praying for their safety. They were the last unit to leave Afghanistan when British troops withdrew . . .’ His words fade into silence before he can talk again. ‘I was in a transport with twenty men when we ran over an IED. Only six of us survived.’
‘I’m sorry, Justin.’
‘The carnage was terrible, and the waste. All I could do was give them last rites as they died.’ He shifts awkwardly in his seat. ‘I thought about resigning – a priest needs empathy to do his job.’
‘You seem to have plenty.’
‘A little more comes back each year, but it’s a slow process.’ He pauses, lost in thought for a moment. ‘If you come to the vicarage now, I’ll give you the box.’
A couple of minutes’ walk brings us to Bellamy’s home, and I glance around as he describes his time in the army. The vicarage is far more orderly than my cottage. Justin Bellamy’s front garden proves that he likes a high degree of control over his environment; the grass newly cut, a line of rose bushes trimmed to a uniform height. The interior is equally tidy, proving that his time in the forces taught him to travel light; there are few personal items on display except a wooden crucifix above the fireplace. Justin smiles when he catches me scanning the room.
‘The Church of England doesn’t do luxury. I’ll have to leave this place just as I found it if they move me to another diocese.’
‘Is that likely?’
‘I hope not, but the islanders will decide. The parish council report to the synod next year.’ He’s standing with his fingertips pressed together, like he’s offering up a prayer. ‘I’ll get the box for you, Ben.’
The man’s loneliness resonates from the walls. He probably didn’t even get to choose the furniture in his temporary home, the room awash with beige, a sofa in the corner that’s crying out to be replaced. Bellamy has lived through enough violence to turn most people insane, yet he’s still ministering to his parishioners. Despite my sympathy for him, it crosses my mind that he could have stolen someone’s boat and attacked Jude Trellon in a fit of madness, triggered by post-traumatic stress disorder.
The priest is breathless when he returns, as if he’s eager to rid himself of guilt. The package looks innocent enough, a small cardboard box held together with parcel tape. It feels light in my arms, probably no more than a couple of kilos.
‘Sorry I took so long to tell you about this,’ Justin says.
‘Don’t worry, whatever’s inside may not even be relevant.’
I’m about to return to the incident room when he touches my arm.
‘I hope you know how lucky you are, Ben.’
‘Sorry?’
‘It took me weeks to find enough courage to ask Zoe out.’ His smile fades. ‘I saw the way she danced with you at Jude’s wake. I hope it works out for you, she’s a lovely woman.’
‘We’re just friends, it’s not a romantic thing.’
He releases an astonished laugh. ‘Situations change, Ben. Use your eyes.’
The man’s comment leaves me lost for words, so I raise my hand in a goodbye salute, then head for the New Inn, with a murder victim’s last gift tucked under my arm.
41
I’ve only been walking for a minute when a familiar sensation crosses the back of my neck. I learned to sense when I’m being observed during my time undercover. The feeling never leaves you and medics even have a name for it: hyperawareness. All your senses are so attuned to the next hazard, you notice minute changes in your environment. But all I can see are the granite cottages of Dolphin Town, gardens rioting with late spring flowers, and the spire of St Nicholas’s church. I’m standing outside the Cardews’ cottage, and when I scan the upstairs windows, Sylvia is gazing down from the top floor. The fisherman’s wife offers me a wave, and it seems pitiful that the woman’s agoraphobia has reduced her existence so dramatically: apart from time in her garden, her bedroom window must provide her only view of the outside world.
Eddie is in the bar when I return to the New Inn, talking to half a dozen locals, including two of the hotel staff. I put the box down on a table and watch him in action. Madron would be proud of how carefully he fields each question, so no one feels short-changed, the abduction of a second victim raising their anxiety levels. Tresco’s community is used to fixing their own problems, but this time they must wait passively for an outcome. Eddie’s reassurances soon send them on their way, reminding me again that we’re polar opposites. While I set people’s nerves on edge, he knows how to pacify them, his manner far more conciliatory.
‘You handled that like a pro,’ I say, when we reach the incident room.
The praise makes Eddie’s smile flare into life. ‘They’re desperate for the killer to be found, everyone’s on edge right now.’
‘You did well reassuring them.�
� I pass him the slip of paper with contact details for the man who has borrowed the Polrews’ boat. ‘If David Polrew used his cruiser to escape from Piper’s Hole, there must be evidence on board. Have the forensics team let you know when they’re arriving?’
‘The whole team’s on an assault case in Truro. They’ve promised to get back to me by the end of the day.’
‘It’s bloody ridiculous. The killer’s free to go about his business because they’re short-staffed.’ I use scissors to pry the box open with more force than necessary. ‘Let’s see why Jude gave this to Justin Bellamy for safekeeping.’
The box is full of shredded paper, with three metal objects nestled at the bottom: an engraved plate, a square box which fits the palm of my hand and a necklace set with gemstones. All of the pieces are dented and scratched, but there’s an elegance to their design, a filigree pattern making the plate shimmer like fish scales.
‘This looks like copper, or it could even be gold,’ Eddie says, as he rubs the necklace with his sleeve, trying to remove the tarnish.
I’m almost certain the items are precious metal. But did Jude Trellon find them on the seabed or steal them from someone else? I’m not fully convinced by the priest’s claim that loyalty made him wait so long to hand over the package. It’s possible that she hid cargo from the Minerva all over the island, if her life was in danger.
‘Can you get Will to put these in his safe? I need to visit Linda Heligan again.’
The walk to Merchant’s Point gives me time to process the day’s events, from David Polrew’s arrogant defence of his daughter’s state of mind, to Jude Trellon’s box of tarnished treasures. I’d like to go straight to Mike’s home to speak with him about the package, but my old teacher is expecting my visit. My head is so full of the investigation, I hardly notice my surroundings until I reach Ruin Beach. The decking outside the café is full of day trippers enjoying the afternoon sun. The island is operating as two parallel worlds; while oblivious tourists tuck into cream teas, the locals are still reeling from the murder case and Tom Heligan’s disappearance.
The door is open when I reach Merchant’s Point, Linda hunched over a book in her kitchen. Her face fills with hope when she sees me, but I can only shake my head.
‘No news yet, Linda, sorry. I just wanted to see how you’re doing.’
‘I can’t concentrate on anything.’ There’s a tremor in her hands when she shows me the cover of Little Dorrit. ‘Dickens is all I can face today.’
‘He’s always good in a crisis.’
I give her a brief version of developments, including finding Jude Trellon’s stash of items that may have come from the Minerva. Linda’s brow rises at the mention of the boat’s name.
‘Tom was planning a dive with Jude this week. He’d been excited about it for ages; he said it would be his deepest yet.’
‘Can you remember the date he mentioned?’
‘It’ll be on his calendar. Feel free to take a look.’
When I reach Tom’s room, the boy’s presence is everywhere I look. His denim jacket is hanging from the back of a chair, diving memorabilia still covering the walls, the smell of his hair gel artificially sweet. But when I study his calendar, the date he’s circled only holds the words ‘White Island, 7 a.m.’ The light is murky with the curtains half closed, making it feel like the room is submerged underwater.
‘What were you hiding?’
The words slip from my mouth before I can stop them. Tom Heligan’s telescopes, maps and sextants stare back at me accusingly, like I should already know.
42
Dim light filters into the cave as Tom wakes up. The only sounds come from the surrounding water: drops of condensation fall onto granite below, like a tap that won’t switch off, waves hissing as they caress the mouth of the cave. Something is wrong with his body. It hurts to take a deep breath and the damp air has given him a fever, his heart beating too fast, limbs shaking. When he closes his eyes again, he plummets into ugly dreams where Jude returns to life, only to die again. Suddenly he can hear footsteps, but the cave’s echo is deceptive. It’s impossible to tell which direction they’re coming from.
Tom is rising from sleep once more when someone pulls a blindfold back over his eyes. He hears the man give a grunt of disapproval when he snatches up the map of Tresco.
‘You haven’t touched it. Still protecting people, are you?’
‘Jude never told me anything,’ Tom whispers.
The man doesn’t reply. There’s a clicking sound as the chain round his leg is released, then he’s dragged to the water’s edge. Before he can say another word his head is plunged underwater. New sounds rush at him as water fills his ears; the sucking noise of the ebbing tide, bubbles of air gushing from his mouth. His lungs are burning now, panic telling him to inhale, even though brine would flood his airways and kill him in moments. Suddenly the man hauls him from the water and dumps him back on the rocks, heaving for oxygen.
‘Listen to me, you little shit. Everything Jude took belongs to me. Next time I’ll let you drown.’
‘How can I tell you, if I don’t know?’ Tom splutters.
‘Still playing the fucking hero.’ When the blindfold is ripped away, a harsh light shines into Tom’s eyes, his retinas burning. ‘Is the stuff she found at your mum’s house?’
‘She never left anything there.’
‘Ivar’s got it then?’
‘Jude wouldn’t put her family in danger.’
‘You’re lying; I can see it in your face. I’ll ask him myself.’ The chain tightens round Tom’s ankle again, but this time he’s closer to the water’s edge. ‘If the next tide’s high, you’ll drown. Better start praying it stays at low ebb.’
43
It’s 7 p.m. by the time I call Gemma Polrew, to check how she’s coping. The girl’s voice still sounds shaky, and there’s silence at the end of the line when I remind her to call me if her father’s behaviour ever becomes threatening. Once the call’s over I head for Ivar Larsson’s house. Nothing about the case feels straightforward, except my certainty that he and his daughter need protection. Going against Madron’s orders is putting my job in danger, but Larsson is reluctant to admit anyone else to his house. Shadow seems to be enjoying his role as guard dog when I arrive. He’s lying across the threshold by the back door, rising to his feet with a snarl until he recognises me.
‘Impressive,’ I tell him. ‘I thought you might take me down.’
The dog licks my hand before returning to his sentry duties. Ivar and his daughter are sitting at the kitchen table, the child absorbed in another drawing while her father sorts through correspondence. Larsson barely raises his head, but Frida offers a wide smile, as if she’s been waiting for my return. When her father’s mobile rings, he snatches it up immediately, a rush of Swedish words flowing from his lips as he carries the phone into the living room.
‘Do you like my picture?’ Frida asks.
A woman stands by herself at the centre of the page, brown hair flaring like a hedgehog’s quills, her feet encased in lopsided red shoes.
‘It’s really good. Who is she?’
The kid looks surprised. ‘Mummy, of course. Can’t you see her tattoos?’
‘Of course I can. You’re doing a good job.’
I sit back to let her continue drawing. The girl is concentrating so hard, her fist bunches tight around her felt-tip pen, as if she’s conjuring her mother back to life. I’m so far out of my comfort zone that the right response is out of reach. I’ve never witnessed the collateral damage from a murder case at such close range before; normally I’m several steps removed from the victim’s family, but this time there’s no hiding. At least the kid seems calm while she completes her picture, humming quietly as she scrawls lines of blue sea across the background.
‘Come and have your bath now, Frida,’ Larsson says when he reappears in the doorway.
‘Not yet, Daddy, please.’
‘You’ve already had an extra half-ho
ur.’
Frida gazes up at me, eyes beseeching. ‘I want to stay here.’
‘Your dad’s in charge, kiddo,’ I say. ‘I’ll still be around when you get out.’
The girl abandons her drawing reluctantly, but I soon hear her laughing in the bathroom, her emotions still flexible enough to change direction in an instant. My attitude towards her father has shifted since we first met; spending time in the house has shown me the depth of his affection for his daughter. The islanders who view him as cold and unfeeling would be amazed by his parenting skills, even in an advanced state of grief. It’s becoming harder each day to believe that the man could have killed his girlfriend in a crime of passion.
I take the opportunity to flick through the papers on the table while they’re gone. Jude’s credit card bills and subscriptions lie in a messy pile. I’ve already seen her bank statement, but it must have been an earlier version: the balance is far higher than I remembered. Five thousand pounds was paid into her account the day after she died, the donor’s name unfamiliar. Why would someone pay her a large lump sum when her family have been struggling for money? I’m keen to find out what Larsson knows, but my questions will have to wait until his daughter is in bed.
Frida seems more relaxed when she returns from her bath, dressed again in her scarlet pyjamas. The girl settles on the bench beside me while her father warms milk in a pan, but when he puts a cup in front of her, she pushes it away.
‘Mummy puts cinnamon on top. Will she be home tomorrow?’ She directs the question to her father.
‘No, Frida. Do you remember what I said? She went into the sea and can’t come back to us.’
‘Ever?’
Larsson shakes her head. ‘She wanted to, but it’s not possible. She’ll be peaceful now, nothing can hurt her.’
The child studies her father’s face, then mine, before picking up her milk, humming quietly between each sip. My admiration for Larsson rises by several notches; he has managed to explain Jude’s death to his daughter in the simplest terms, but the exchange still unsettles me. The kid’s shoulder presses against my side, as if she’s seeking an extra layer of comfort while her world adjusts. The milk works its magic fast, Frida’s eyes closing as her father carries her upstairs. I take the opportunity to look around the room again. Something here must explain Jude Trellon’s death and the reason why Tom Heligan is missing, but all I see is a chaos of dirty dishes and laundry waiting to go into the tumble dryer. Larsson is more likely to open up if I make myself useful, so I fill the washing-up bowl and set to work. I’m putting the last glass away when he returns downstairs, looking drained.