by Kate Rhodes
Diane doesn’t say a word when we arrive, already standing by her gate. She swoops down to hug her granddaughter, then gives me a look of gratitude. Mike hasn’t yet returned from the search for Tom Heligan, which strikes me as odd, when all the other boats were moored by the time I got back, apart from the innkeeper’s. When we go indoors, Frida wastes no time in pulling her box of crayons from one of the bags, then settling on the living room floor with her drawing pad, her dark hair veiling her face. The kid has developed strong coping mechanisms since her mother died, but she looks more fragile than before. There’s no way of knowing how she’ll manage if her father never comes home.
51
I tell Eddie to meet me back at Larsson’s cottage, where Shadow is fast asleep, still recovering from his adventure. When the forensics officers arrive, they are bound to criticise me for trampling over the crime scene, but at least the girl is safe. My mind spins from one regret to the next; I should have insisted that Ivar took Frida to a safe house on the mainland, but he was so determined to stay, it would have been like trying to shift a mountain. It strikes me as odd that the killers haven’t left me another taunting message – perhaps they were so anxious about being caught, they abandoned their MO.
My heart sinks when DCI Madron arrives instead of Eddie. He’s glowing from the morning’s outcome, and it’s clear that my deputy has left me to explain Larsson’s disappearance. Madron is still beaming when he steps forwards to shake my hand.
‘Your methods are unconventional, Kitto, but they seem to work. How did you know the boy had been taken to St Helen’s?’
‘A mixture of luck and common sense, sir.’
‘You seem very downbeat. Why not show some professional pride?’
‘Events have moved on since then.’
The DCI’s tone grows bitter when he hears that Larsson is missing, his approval turning to censure. ‘You knew he was in danger but never requested a guard. Now we’re back to square one, and this puts the Kinvers in the clear, doesn’t it?’
‘No, sir. They could have come ashore last night, left the message, then carried out the abduction.’
‘I ordered you to arrange appropriate security.’ His grey eyes have frosted over.
‘I tried, sir, but Larsson refused police protection.’
‘Save that for your review meeting,’ he snaps. ‘Now get on and find him.’
‘I’ll interview the Kinvers first, sir. They must be involved.’
I almost bump into Sophie Browarth outside Larsson’s cottage. She’s dressed in her nurse’s uniform and carrying her medical bag, which explains why she didn’t take part in our search for the missing boy. She couldn’t cancel appointments and let her patients down. Browarth’s flame-red hair is pulled back in a sleek ponytail today, her face as pale as milk. There’s a lost look on her face, as if she’d rather be standing in someone else’s shoes. It’s the first time I’ve seen definite proof that her complicated home life is weighing on her. She seems startled when I ask for a favour.
‘My dog’s injured, could you check him over?’
‘Humans are my speciality, Ben, not animals. I’m on my way to see Sylvia Cardew.’
‘The vet on St Mary’s can’t see him today.’
The nurse tuts under her breath, complaining that she’s running late, but her manner softens when she hears Shadow whining. Normally he’s reluctant to let strangers touch him, but he doesn’t flinch when Sophie examines his wound. Her voice is matter-of-fact when she explains that his wound needs stitches.
‘The painkiller in my bag may not be suitable for animals,’ she says.
‘He’ll risk it.’
The dog moans pitifully when he sees the hypodermic, but tolerates the injection, as if he realises there’s no other choice. My attitude towards Sophie changes as she comforts the dog. It’s impossible to believe that someone capable of such gentleness could cause anyone harm. She waves my thanks away as she straightens up, telling me to let him sleep for the rest of the day, but I follow her outside with Shadow in my arms, hoping that Sylvia Cardew will be prepared to look after him. Sophie seems uncomfortable as we walk the short distance, and we must make an odd sight: a big man lumbering along with a wounded dog in his arms, beside a petite nurse, dressed in her navy-blue uniform. She turns to me before we reach the Cardews’ house.
‘You know about me and Shane, don’t you?’ she says. ‘We’re waiting till Phil gets home to tell him. It’s not something we planned, I tried to fight it for months.’ Her gaze drops to the ground.
‘Will you stay on Tresco?’
She nods her head firmly. ‘We both love it here; nothing could drive us away. You won’t tell anyone, will you?’
‘It’s none of my business, Sophie. Why would I mention it?’
The nurse looks relieved as we reach the Cardews’ front door. She stops to brush some stray locks of hair back from her forehead, before ringing the bell, preparing herself for duty. Sylvia Cardew looks even more anxious than last time we met, cowering behind the door, but she promises to look after Shadow for the rest of the day. The couple’s old Labrador comes to sniff at the new arrival, then wanders away again, his curiosity satisfied. It’s a relief to know that the dog’s welfare is guaranteed while I chase details about Larsson’s abduction.
I scan the boats in the harbour when I get back to New Grimsby Sound, noticing that Will Dawlish’s cruiser is still missing, even though he must be needed at the New Inn by now. After the help he’s given me, I hope his engine hasn’t broken down, but there’s no time to check he’s safe, so I push his absence to the back of my mind. Eddie spends most of the twenty-minute journey to St Mary’s talking at top speed, his excitement dispersing in loud bursts of chatter. He gives me a full update on Tom Heligan’s condition, and the fact that Lawrie Deane has stopped moaning for once. The sergeant is phoning round to see if any islanders can explain Larsson’s absence.
The Kinvers are an unlikely sight when we reach the police station; their cut-off shorts and brightly coloured T-shirts make a striking contrast with the reception area’s drab furniture. They both glower at me when Eddie and I walk through the door.
‘You’re wasting our time again, Inspector,’ Stephen Kinver snaps.
‘Not from my point of view. Come to the interview room, please.’
I take the Kinvers to the small anteroom off DCI Madron’s office. Once Eddie has set up the recorder, I explain that they will be questioned in connection with the abduction of Tom Heligan and Ivar Larsson.
‘That’s ridiculous. We’ve never hurt anyone in our lives,’ Lorraine interjects before I can finish.
‘Can you explain why you stayed here, after getting permission to leave?’
‘The weather was against us, so we decided to give the Scillies a few more days before leaving for the summer,’ she replies, in a sullen voice. ‘Our website shows what we’ve been doing. We’ve dived near a different island every day, and we haven’t been secretive about it. We ate at the pub on Bryher last night, and before that we moored in St Mary’s harbour. Loads of people must have seen us.’
‘I’ve had your website checked out. There’s no way you’re making enough money to finance your lifestyle, so how are you managing it?’
‘We tick over,’ her voice is quieter now. ‘Our savings cover anything that goes wrong with the boat.’
‘Tell me why you anchored near where the boy was found.’
Stephen Kinver stares at me. ‘What are you saying?’
‘We’ll be checking whether you kept Tom Heligan on board.’
‘Jude brought the lad out to dive with us, that’s the only time we saw him,’ he says. ‘We’ve never even met Ivar Larsson.’
‘Where have you hidden him? In another cave?’
‘You’re not making sense,’ Kinver replies.
Lorraine leans forwards in her chair. ‘Why not ask the boy? Tom Heligan will tell you the truth about us.’
‘I shall, once he’s stron
ger. You both had reason to carry out the attacks. Jude wouldn’t tell you about the Minerva and the boy didn’t know; that’s why you took Ivar Larsson last night, hoping for more information. You could have made a fortune if you claimed to be the discoverers. And you were here last November; maybe you attacked Anna Dawlish too.’
‘If Jude had found the Minerva, she wouldn’t have kept it to herself,’ Kinver replies. ‘I bet her whole family knows.’
‘I’m arresting you on suspicion of Jude Trellon’s murder, and Tom Heligan and Ivar Larsson’s abductions. We’ll be checking your backgrounds carefully, so tell us now if you’ve ever been convicted of any crimes. I want to know exactly what you’ve been buying and selling on your travels.’
The Kinvers waste no time in requesting a lawyer before they’re interviewed again, and the rest of the interview is an exercise in frustration. Their story about remaining in the Scillies because of poor weather on the Atlantic Strait seems unlikely, but it will have to be verified. The couple complain bitterly when I explain that they must spend the night in custody. Lorraine gives a squeal of protest when she sees that her holding cell is the size of a broom cupboard, with a narrow bed and a toilet tucked in the corner. Her husband remains silent until his cell door is locked, but curses at high volume as we walk away. I leave Eddie to guard them; on such a small island the police force doubles as jailors, with three small holding cells at our disposal.
I take a brisk walk along the harbour, with locals stopping me several times to ask questions. The news of Tom Heligan’s rescue has already spread between the islands like wildfire. I keep my answers brief, then complete the short journey to the island’s hospital. The boy’s room is closed to visitors when I arrive, but I can see him through the window in the door. His mother’s wheelchair is pressed against the bed so she can hold his hand. I stare at Heligan’s thin form outlined under a blue blanket, his face gaunt as he sleeps. Watching the boy reminds me that I should call his closest friend on Tresco, to let her know he’s safe.
Gemma Polrew’s voice lifts as she hears the news; there’s relief in every syllable, even though I warn her that he’s dangerously ill. Her tone is full of quiet determination when she explains that she won’t be retaking her A levels. She plans to stay on the island to pursue a career in garden design, and will soon have to give her father the bad news.
I’m still peering through the window of Heligan’s room when a doctor comes to a halt at my side. She must be close to retirement age, with grey hair cropped close to her skull; the name badge on her lapel states that she’s called Sheila Barrett, her expression kindly when she peers up at me through steel-framed glasses.
‘He’s very weak, I’m afraid,’ she murmurs. ‘Two broken ribs and pleurisy in his left lung, not to mention a fractured jaw.’ She reels off his injuries at speed, as if the victim of a car accident has just arrived on her ward.
‘But he’ll survive?’
Dr Barrett holds my gaze. ‘He’s got a good chance. We won’t know the full extent of his injuries until he comes round; with luck that will be tomorrow. I’ve given him a sedative to let him sleep in peace. We’ll have him airlifted to Penzance Hospital once he’s strong enough for the ride.’
‘Thanks for helping him.’
She touches my arm. ‘The boy’s fought hard to stay alive. He’s unlikely to give up now.’
The doctor leaves me observing Heligan through the window, but my mind shifts towards Ivar Larsson. I can do nothing else for the boy, except keep my fingers crossed until he regains consciousness. Now my energies have to focus on finding the missing man, before he receives the same brutal treatment.
52
Tom drifts, far below the surface. He can hear the bleep of a monitor, his mother’s voice telling him he’s safe, footsteps drumming down a corridor, but none of it seems real. Time is slipping back to his last dive alone with Jude. The cold spring day rises from his memory in prismatic detail. Jude laughs as she steers the boat east from Ruin Beach, promising to show him something amazing, if he has the nerve to look. It’s in a secret location, and he must promise never to tell. Tom shifts restlessly on the hospital bed while his imagination spins time into reverse. He’s back on the Fair Diane, bumping over choppy waves, the sun clear overhead as the boat passes the edge of the archipelago.
Tom’s sleeping body twitches as he watches Jude throw the lead weight overboard, securing the shot line to the seabed, while White Island shifts on the horizon. Nerves and anticipation tingle through his system as he dives backwards into water that dazzles with sunlight, fronds of seagrass floating on the currents. Jude is descending already, her body spearing through the water, supple as an eel. He has never followed her so deep into the ocean before, his lungs constricting as light fades. The water turns dark green as they sink fifty metres below the surface. Far below them, wreckage is strewn across a sandbank. Tom’s gaze scans broken timbers encrusted with barnacles, the outline of a longship’s hull, its mast almost buried by sand. Hundreds of pieces of metal cover the ocean floor, glittering in the dull light, too many to count. He wants to carry on diving, so he can touch the treasures with his own hands, but Jude is tapping her watch already. It’s time to ascend, or they won’t have enough air to surface. They rise slowly, stopping to acclimatise every twenty metres, hands clutching the shot line.
Tom’s fingers flex tight around dry air in his hospital bedroom. He wants to swim back to the light, so he can tell the police about the woman that hurt him, but the distance is too great. His mother’s voice sounds in his ears. He listens to her calling out his name, until pain drags him under again.
53
Darkness has fallen by the time I trudge back to Larsson’s house. Two forensics officers are packing equipment into a black metal box, full of brushes, torches and bottles of chemicals, as if they’ve been conducting an elaborate chemistry experiment. The older officer is around fifty, his jaded expression proving he’s witnessed plenty of murder scenes. His female colleague looks much less worldly, giving me a fresh-faced smile, her light brown hair tied in pigtails. The pair look like an ex-con and a nursery school teacher, but they seem united in their desire to chase every detail.
‘It’s a pleasure to have your company at last,’ I say.
The older guy seems immune to irony. ‘We’re finished in here. We’ve taken blood samples from the floor, walls and ceiling,’ he says, in a gruff smoker’s baritone.
‘Would someone have to be badly injured for it to travel that far?’
‘Not necessarily,’ the young woman replies. ‘Droplets from a small cut can spread over a metre. Our UV lamp picks up single molecules.’
It’s 8 p.m. by the time they leave the house, the dry smell of chemicals still filling each room. They will stay at the New Inn until tomorrow, then search the Polrews’ and the Kinvers’ boats, before carrying evidence back to Land’s End. It could take days before their test results explain how Larsson was taken, and fingerprints are unlikely to help. Every member of Jude Trellon’s family has visited the house recently, and plenty more islanders have spent time here, making the evidence trail difficult to read.
It’s 9 p.m. before I return to the Cardews’ house. Denny and his wife both greet me when I arrive; the fisherman looks exhausted from his day’s work, but it’s obvious that Shadow has been receiving excellent care. Toys are strewn across his blanket and there’s a bowl full of dog biscuits at his side. I thank them for giving him so much attention, but Sylvia looks embarrassed. She makes no attempt to cross the threshold when I say goodbye, as if the outside world might damage her if she breathes fresh air. Shadow tries to wriggle out of my arms, but I refuse to put him down.
‘You’re not walking, buddy. That leg needs to heal before you go running across the fields.’
He whimpers in protest but lets me carry him back to Larsson’s house and make him comfortable on a pile of towels. Now that the day’s duties are over, my thoughts spin back over a day that started with a success
ful rescue and ended in failure. I felt elated when I hauled Tom Heligan from the sea, only to be knocked flat by Ivar going missing. Whoever the killer is, his obsession with the Minerva seems relentless; no sooner than he loses one victim, he acquires another, determined to discover the ship’s location before the chance slips from his hands.
I cast my mind over the suspect list again, focusing on who could have left the message at the inn, then taken Ivar Larsson in the middle of the night. My main focus is on the Kinvers, but they’re still protesting their innocence. Jamie Petherton’s reluctance to let things go keeps him at the front of my mind too; his passion for glittering antiques could easily have become an obsession. The same theory applies to David Polrew. The historian loves the glamour of the past, yet spends the present day tormenting his family. The man’s bullying personality could easily cross the line into violence.
I’m still sitting at Ivar Larsson’s kitchen table when a text arrives from Zoe.
Are you hungry?
Always, meet me on the quay, I reply.
My mind is still chasing in circles, aware that Larsson could be tied to a rock with the sea level rising, but there’s nothing I can do until morning, so I walk down to the harbour. Zoe is crossing New Grimsby Sound in the hotel’s launch. Her shock of platinum blonde hair stands out against the dark; she’s wearing skintight jeans, a scarlet jumper that accentuates her curves, her lips painted the same vivid red.
‘Don’t just gawp at me, big man,’ she says, stepping onto the jetty. ‘This hamper weighs a ton.’