Ruin Beach

by Kate Rhodes

  ‘Tell me what happened, or I’ll arrest you for her murder.’

  ‘I guessed Jude had found it when I saw all the diving equipment she needed. She had to be looking for something valuable to take that much risk. It was crazy to dive that deep without a decompression chamber on board; I was terrified she’d get the bends.’

  ‘But she resurfaced safely?’

  ‘The wait nearly finished me; she had to stop and use the rebreather three times.’ He slumps onto a stool by the counter, as if the memory exhausts him. ‘She’d loaded a basket while she was on the seabed. We hauled it to the surface on a pulley, and I couldn’t believe my eyes. She’d found coins and masks, jewellery and statuettes, all dating from Roman times. Some of the pieces are worth a fortune.’

  ‘What did you get out of it?’

  ‘To be in her company, like I said.’

  ‘She must have given you souvenirs.’

  He shakes his head. ‘Only this.’

  Petherton takes something from his pocket and drops it into the palm of my hand. It’s a thumb-sized version of the mermaid figurine that ended Jude Trellon’s life, the bronze polished to a dull sheen, turquoise stones glittering from finely carved eye sockets. He stands at my side while I study it, clearly afraid the amulet will be confiscated. There’s relief on his face when I return it to him. The man reminds me of a magpie more than ever at close range, his peculiar gaze drawn by the shiny objects displayed on the museum’s walls.

  ‘What happened when you got back to shore?’

  ‘I helped her hide most of it in Piper’s Hole, then I didn’t see her again until the party on St Agnes. She asked me to take her on another dive, but I refused.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I couldn’t watch her risk her life again, even though she accused me of being a coward. The only thing she wanted me for was my boat.’ There’s so much pain on his face, my gut tells me he’s speaking the truth.

  ‘Did you tell anyone about finding the Minerva?’

  ‘Jude made me promise to keep it secret.’ He looks away. ‘She never said what she planned to do with the treasure, but she was afraid it might be stolen. When I heard she’d drowned at Piper’s Hole, I assumed someone had found her hiding place.’

  ‘Where’s your boat, Jamie?’

  ‘St Mary’s harbour, being serviced. It’s been there all week.’

  I leave the museum more frustrated than ever. Petherton has plenty of reasons to carry out the attacks: his passion for history and all that glitters would have made him fascinated by the Minerva’s precious cargo and he knew its location, yet I believe his story. He loved Jude even though she was out of reach, and his gentle manner makes him an unlikely murderer. I can’t picture him planning a campaign that began with killing Anna Dawlish and included abducting a teenaged boy. I doubt any woman on the island would have helped him carry out such vicious attacks.

  When I get back to the incident room, DCI Madron is poking through evidence files, his expression sombre. He informs me that he has despatched Eddie to St Mary’s Hospital to check on Tom Heligan’s welfare. The news makes me grit my teeth. The DCI seems determined to take over, keeping watch over me while I answer phone calls from concerned locals, when my time would be better spent scouring the island for evidence of Larsson’s disappearance. My boss insists on a long review meeting, poring over every detail since Jude’s body was found, his grey eyes observing me like a specimen under a microscope. At the end of the inquisition, he offers no feedback on my handling of the case.

  ‘Go and order some food,’ he snaps. ‘You haven’t eaten all day.’

  Food is the last thing on my mind, but my position is too fragile to disobey a direct instruction. The bar feels like another world, pop songs whispering in the background while tourists gaze at menus, choosing between Eton mess and banoffee pie. I sit at the bar and order steak and chips, simply because it’s quick to prepare. Will Dawlish is missing from his usual place behind the bar, and his assistant takes my order, informing me that his boss has taken the day off. When I look out of the window, the sea is rougher than before, tamarisk trees being lashed by the wind. It’s growing dark already, the lights on Bryher starting to shine, and I wish that time would wind back to before Jude’s death, when Eddie’s duties involved circulating the islands on one of the country’s quietest beats, instead of watching a young boy fight for his life. When the food arrives, I swallow mouthfuls too fast to register their flavour, knocking back orange juice to keep my head clear.

  The DCI looks calmer when I go back upstairs. He has labelled our evidence files, paperclips stored in a jam jar, reports neatly filed away. It’s 8 p.m. and I’m about to suggest he goes home when the landline jangles on the table and he snatches the receiver from my hand. His posture changes as he listens, answering in terse monosyllables before hanging up.

  ‘Someone’s reported a man’s body, on White Island.’

  I’m already pulling on my coat. ‘Is it Larsson?’

  ‘They don’t know. The woman says it’s out in the water, tied to a rock.’ He rises to his feet. ‘Stay here, Kitto. Call the coastguard while I deal with it.’

  I’m about to argue, but the look on his face makes me bite my tongue. It will take an hour to reach White Island and someone must stay here to deal with local concerns. It’s clear that my boss has lost faith in me, unwilling to let the investigation take another wrong turn.

  I put through a call to the coastguard agency, then stand by the window and watch Madron hurrying down to the quay to take the biggest launch out to White Island. I stay put until it heads south through the sound, then spend a fruitless half-hour going back over the investigation, trying to piece together a new strategy.

  I’m still immersed in reports when one of the waiters from downstairs taps on the door. He leaves a small cardboard box on the table, explaining that it was left on the doorstep earlier today. My name is written in block capitals on the packaging, and my heart sinks as I discover that it contains a clear glass wine bottle, stoppered with a cork. I curse under my breath when the slip of paper fails to drop into my hand, then smash the bottle into a waste bin to retrieve the message. This time the killer has abandoned subtlety. I’m expecting a sea shanty or a sailor’s prayer but find just two words:

  PIPER’S HOLE

  For the first time, I realise that the killer must be insane. His writing has changed since the first messages; then it was tight and over-controlled, but now it’s like a child’s first attempts, the letters scrawled across the slip. I grab my phone and a torch, casting my eyes around for anything suitable as a weapon, but all I can see is a screwdriver lying on the windowsill. I drop it into my pocket, then run downstairs, the wind battering my face as I wrench open the fire escape. I’ve studied the tide tables so often this week, I know the sea will be racing in by now. If Larsson really is at Piper’s Hole there’s little time before the cave floods. I take the most direct route possible, chasing across Castle Down. Tregarthen Hill is in sight when I hear Shadow barking in the distance, but I carry on running; the last thing I need to worry about is a wounded dog demanding my attention. I lose my footing on my way downhill, skidding onto the beach with a few pounds of shale raining down on me. When I stare back at the steep incline, Shadow is picking his way between rocks, still limping heavily, and there’s no time to yell at him to get back to safety. The wind is scouring my face, the sea knee-deep as I cross to Piper’s Hole. I make a hurried call to Madron, but get his answering service, so I call Eddie to request support, before shoving the phone back into my pocket. Larsson may already be dead, but the killer has played a good hand; the body on White Island was no more than a decoy.

  My torch beam is weak as I press through the cave’s narrow entrance, its batteries failing. My system is on high alert while the water deepens, the floor of the cave dropping away. I’m already thigh-deep as the passageway widens, then there’s a vivid flash of brightness; someone has set up arc lights inside the cave, designed
to blind anyone stumbling in from the dark. My torch is fading when the light dies again, leaving me groping along the cave’s wall. The sounds change as the passage widens, echoes increasing as water laps against the rock. The stink of rotting seaweed is suddenly so putrid, my breath emerges in ragged gasps, and the sense that I’m being watched makes my skin crawl. Someone arrived long before me, their eyes accustomed to the darkness. When the light flicks on again, the cave’s soaring ceiling is illuminated and I catch sight of something that makes me stumble to a halt. A man’s body is hanging above the pool. He’s suspended by his ankles, his form so tightly bound it looks like a chrysalis. Ivar Larsson’s eyes are closed; there’s no knowing whether he’s dead or alive before the light cuts out again and I’m alone in the flooding cave, with water lapping at my chest.

  ‘Cowards,’ I yell out. ‘Show yourselves, for fuck’s sake!’

  When another flare of white light comes, it’s as if I’m caught in a thunderstorm. I can hear the whine of a generator mixed with the waves slapping against stone like riotous applause, but there’s no time to question how the killer rigged an electrical system here. All that matters is freeing Larsson, before the sea stops us escaping. The killer must be lurking nearby, but I shove his presence to the back of my mind, until the water lifts me off my feet and I’m swimming through black water. When the searing light flashes on again, I realise it might be on a timer, while the killer and his accomplice stay safe and dry at home. The brief illumination provides enough time to stare up at Larsson’s body; I’ll have to climb to the cave’s highest point to haul him down. There’s every chance that he will die in this stinking cave, but I can’t abandon him. His daughter’s face burns in my mind as I swim through the dark. When my fist grazes against a boulder, I haul myself onto the wall of rock and climb blindly, my fingers groping for a secure handhold.

  ‘You’re safe, Ivar,’ I yell out. ‘There’s a rescue boat outside.’

  If he’s conscious, I hope the lie will keep him fighting. The next pulse of light is momentary, burning my retinas before dying again. I need to move fast, before the killer cuts the rope and lets him drop into the water below. I’m halfway up the rock face, five metres from the point where Larsson dangles above the pool. As I reach the next boulder, someone shoves me backwards, a rough hand pushing my shoulder. I drop down to get out of his reach, receiving a hard kick to my chest on the way.

  There’s a gruff peal of laughter as someone tries to push me from the rocks, and he’s got the advantage. It’s only a matter of time before he pries me from the wet surface, so the next time he shoves me, I grab his arm. There’s a muffled cry as he topples forwards, knocking me from the ledge. We hit the water together and I come up spluttering, but when light fills the cave again, I catch sight of Larsson’s inert body overhead, swaying like a pendulum. Before I can spin round, someone catches me in a headlock.

  ‘You should have kept out of it, you idiot.’ His speech is full of anger, but the island lilt in his voice is familiar.

  ‘Mike,’ I choke out his name. ‘Why are you doing this?’

  He forces my head underwater and instinct takes over. I lash out with my fists; my punches batter his ribs until his grip around my throat loosens by a fraction, and I come up panting for air. There’s no sign of him when light penetrates the darkness again. The second attack comes from below; he yanks my ankles until I’m underwater, fighting to free myself. It’s only then that I remember the screwdriver in the back pocket of my jeans, but the man is relentless. He’s in front of me in the pitch-dark, pushing me under, until I fight free and clamber back onto the rocks. This time I move faster, hands clawing at wet granite.

  When I reach the top, I grope along the rock face until my hand touches the rope, and for once my carthorse build has a purpose. I haul hand over fist, until Larsson’s feet are within reach, then drag him onto the ledge. His body is tightly bound, my wet fingers struggling with elaborate knots. When the light flicks on again, his face is ashen, but at least he’s breathing. I’ve just managed to free his hands when someone kicks my legs out from under me, and I topple backwards from the ledge, releasing a yell of anger. My shoulder thumps hard against a boulder on the way down, the pain sharp enough to convert my fear into rage, then I’m flailing through the water again. It could be imaginary, but a woman’s soft voice drifts towards me.

  ‘Leave while you can. You don’t have to die like this.’

  Escape isn’t an option while Larsson’s lying on the rocks above, too weak to defend himself. I climb the wall of granite from the other side, with adrenalin pumping through me. Light fills the cave as I reach the top and see a man with his back turned, hands bunched around Larsson’s throat. It can’t be Mike Trellon. The killer’s frame is too broad, but his identity makes no difference when I plunge the screwdriver into the wad of muscle between his neck and shoulder. There’s a loud cry of pain before he falls from the ledge and blackness surrounds us again. I can hear him splashing in the water below as I kneel beside Larsson. He’s regaining consciousness, a stream of Swedish words spilling from his mouth.

  ‘Can you sit up, Ivar?’ I ask. ‘We have to get out of here.’

  ‘I can’t move. My legs are numb.’

  ‘Don’t worry, we’ll get you home.’

  ‘Is Frida safe?’

  ‘She’s fine. You’ll see her soon.’

  I can hear him weeping while I undo his ties, the man’s emotions flooding out at last. When the light flicks on again, there’s no sign of the killer, and I hope he’s sunk without a trace. The water levels are rising steadily, so I tie a makeshift harness around Larsson’s chest and pray that I’m strong enough to fight the tide.

  58

  Tom can see a light shining up from the depths. It’s so vivid, he wants to sink down and bathe in its warmth, but he’s rising into the shallows. Dots of colour dance before his eyes, angelfish riding the currents, but the light draws him like a magnet. The wreck is down there, and so is the treasure. He could sleep on the ocean’s soft floor, under a blanket of sand, but new sounds are confusing him: high heels clack across lino, and a distant voice is talking about oxygen levels. When he finally surfaces, someone is clutching his hand.

  ‘Thank God, Tom, I’ve been waiting for you.’ His mother is trying to smile.

  He tries to speak, but a layer of plastic is covering his face. When he tries to remove it, his mother touches his hand. ‘Leave the mask there, love. It’s helping you breathe.’

  He relaxes back against the pillows, and the pain in his side is milder than before, his thoughts muzzy. Tears trail down his cheeks for everything he’s lost. When he shuts his eyes again, he will sleep without dreaming; he will never see the wreck again, his feet stuck on dry land. It’s only now that he remembers what he must tell his mother. He tries to say the woman’s name, but he’s too weak to talk.

  ‘Don’t worry about anything, darling.’ His mother squeezes his hand again. ‘Concentrate on getting well. Try to sleep, then you’ll be strong again.’

  His mother’s cool fingers caress his face, pushing his hair back from his forehead until sleep overtakes him.

  59

  It worries me that Larsson makes little sound as I lower him from the ledge, telling him to cling to the rocks when he reaches the water. I can’t guess how badly injured he is, but it’s my only choice; to keep him alive we must leave the cave, and it won’t be easy. The bursts of light are less frequent now, each pulse revealing how high the water has risen, relentless waves gushing towards us.

  Ivar is barely keeping his head above water when I reach him. I explain that he must cling to my back, but his grip on my shoulders is so weak, the plan may fail. The tide’s weight pushes against me as I cross the pool, while Ivar cries out in pain. It would be a challenge to swim out of here alone, but I must do it with a dead weight on my back, and the flashes of light have ended. I’m floundering in total darkness, as well as freezing seawater, with no way to locate the passage out. Th
e oncoming tide keeps shoving me in the wrong direction, swirling currents threatening to pull us under. When a wave breaks over my head, I realise that we’re in trouble. Once our exit floods, we’ll be forced back into the cave, with no chance of survival. I’m running my hands across the rock face, trying to find the mouth of the passage, when a noise rises above the waves. Shadow’s high-pitched howl cuts through every other sound. The dog must be outside the cave, calling for me.

  Shadow’s guiding call draws me in a new direction, with a wall of water shunting me backwards, but at least Ivar is still clinging to my back. There’s only a foot of clear air between our heads and the roof of the passageway as I claw my way along the rocks, hauling us towards the exit, but I’ve only made a few meter’s progress when a rough hand yanks at my shirt, trying to pull me under. This time I lash out without hesitation. I grab my attacker and pound his skull against the granite. There’s a dull moan as I hurl him back into the water, certain the tide will finish him once and for all. When I turn round, Ivar is shivering as I lift him onto my back again.

  ‘Stop this,’ he mutters. ‘Go on without me.’

  ‘You’ll die if you stay here.’

  ‘We both will if you try and save me.’

  ‘Don’t be a fucking hero. Just hang on, we’re almost there.’

  It’s a lie, of course. We must fight through metres of pitch-black water, but at least his grip is stronger than before as I haul him through the torrent. A slight bend in the passage gives us a moment’s shelter and the dog’s howling is closer than before. There’s a crack in the darkness ahead, but the tide is almost touching the ceiling. If I slow down, we’ll have to finish the last part of our swim underwater.

  When I finally drag Larsson from the mouth of the cave, Shadow is poised on a lip of rock directly above us, barking at full volume. I reach up and touch his flank before helping Larsson onto a dry rock, then let myself collapse. Ragged breaths shudder from my lungs, cold and exhaustion weakening me. When my eyes open again, the moon is breaking from a bank of cloud and Denny Cardew’s ancient fishing boat is bobbing on the waves. A weak laugh slips from my mouth. The man has helped me from the start, so it seems fitting that he will rescue us, and this time he deserves more than a bottle of wine. When I rub the brine from my eyes, there’s no sign of him on board. If Cardew tried to swim ashore, his chances of survival are thin, but I’m too busy checking that Larsson is safe to fret about the fisherman. The sea is lapping closer, forcing me to carry him to a higher ledge. Before long there will be only the sheer wall of the cliff to cling to, while the tide tries to rip us from its surface. I dig my phone from my pocket, but saltwater has ruined the mechanism. I can only hope that Eddie put through an emergency call straight after I phoned him.