by Kate Rhodes
Frida’s face breaks into a smile when she looks up at me.
‘These are for you,’ I say, as I hand over a box of marker pens. ‘Your dad will want a picture when he comes home.’
‘I did one of you.’
The girl pulls a piece of paper from a pile on the floor. A black-haired man stands at the centre of the page, taller than the trees and houses that surround him: a broad-shouldered giant, with a lopsided smile. She beams at me again when I thank her for my portrait, but it’s obvious she wants to return to her story, and my concerns are fading. The kid’s grandparents adore her and she already knows how to protect herself; she’ll get by with one parent instead of two.
My strength is waning when I walk back across the fields, with Shadow limping between rows of ripening wheat. I could use three Nurofen and a comfortable bed for the rest of the afternoon, but David Polrew is striding towards me, his craggy features set in a cast-iron frown. Whether the historian is out for an afternoon stroll or looking for a fight, I’d rather avoid him until my strength returns.
‘I’ll be filing a complaint, Inspector,’ he says. ‘The way you hounded me during your investigation was unforgivable, and you’ve been contacting my daughter against my wishes.’
‘Gemma phoned me yesterday because she’s too afraid to confront you.’ My dislike for him turns my voice bitter. ‘I’m taking her to the mainland tomorrow, to see Tom Heligan in hospital. He’s been asking for her.’
‘I won’t allow it. Her exams start next week.’
‘Didn’t she tell you, she’s decided to study horticulture instead? Gemma’s going to train as a gardener in the Abbey Gardens. I’ll call for her first thing tomorrow morning, and if I hear you’ve laid one finger on her, or your wife, you’ll be prosecuted for assault.’
There’s a hissing sound as air emerges from Polrew’s mouth, like gas releasing from a hot-air balloon. It’s a pleasure to render the man speechless for once as I wish him good day and head for the harbour.
When I finally get home to Hell Bay, Shadow stretches out on the settee and shuts his eyes, as if he’s witnessed enough trouble to last him a lifetime. Maggie has left a shepherd’s pie, a loaf of bread and a bottle of wine on the table, in line with island tradition. I grew up certain that every problem could be fixed by a square meal, but last night’s poor sleep has finally caught up with me. I serve the dog half of the pie, then go into my room and lie down without bothering to remove my shoes.
It’s late afternoon by the time I wake up. My head’s groggy with bad dreams about evil mermaids with vivid yellow hair, but the pain in my shoulder is fading, my body slowly recovering. I put on swimming shorts and a T-shirt and sit on the bench outside my house, letting late afternoon sunlight soak into my bones while I drink a cold beer. The dog is amusing himself by batting an empty sea urchin shell across the beach, and my eyes are fixed on the surf when Zoe appears on the gravel path. She looks gorgeous as usual, in the smallest pair of shorts imaginable and a white vest that accentuates her tan. She sits beside me and steals a swig of my beer; when she turns to me again, her eyes are round with interest.
‘What happened in that cave, Ben? Everyone’s calling you a hero.’
‘I was just doing my job. Why don’t you entertain me, for once?’
‘You can have a song, if you want. But I need more beer first.’
I hand her my bottle. ‘It’s a deal.’
Zoe tips her head back and sings ‘Cry Me a River’. Her voice is so achingly sexy, it sounds like Ella Fitzgerald is serenading me, and I have to cross my arms to stop myself from reaching for her. I give a slow round of applause when she finishes.
‘Stay there, I’ve got something for you.’ I go inside to collect the box, but her smile fades when she looks inside.
‘You got me some bulbs?’
‘I spoke to the guy in the garden centre on St Mary’s. They’re alliums; if you plant them now they’ll be flowering when you get back from India, to welcome you home.’
Her jaw drops open. ‘How did you guess that I’d signed the contract?’
‘Because you never refuse a challenge.’
‘We’ve got that in common.’ She plants a kiss on my cheek. ‘Maybe I was wrong to make you swear never to ask me out.’
‘Your loss is the rest of womankind’s gain. Let’s go for a swim.’
‘I didn’t bring a costume.’
‘Never mind. I won’t arrest you for indecent exposure.’
‘All the hotel guests would see me; I’ll have to change.’
She heads for home, but I’m too impatient to wait. The tide is rolling towards Hell Bay in a series of low waves when I reach the water, to find it soft as a caress. Shadow is sniffing along the tideline, hunting for something disgusting to roll in, and soon Zoe is running across the beach in a scarlet bikini that makes me feel glad to be alive. I won’t let myself imagine her leaving until it happens, and there’s no point in worrying about my professional future until after my review meeting.
Out of nowhere, the human waste I’ve witnessed in the past ten days catches up with me. Denny and Sylvia Cardew’s bitterness has left two men without wives, and a young girl motherless. The only beneficiary will be the Valhalla Museum, when the Minerva’s bounty is finally salvaged. I drift on the water’s surface, aware that hundreds of undiscovered wrecks lie fathoms below me on the ocean floor. All I can hope is that the underwater graves will be left in peace for a long time to come.
Author’s Note
I have blended truth with fiction in Ruin Beach, and hope my book will not offend inhabitants of the Scillies. The islands are one of my favourite places, so I would hate to lose my usual warm welcome! I have twisted and turned the landscape slightly for the sake of a good story. All of the locations mentioned in my novel are real, including the famous Abbey Gardens on Tresco, which contain the Valhalla Museum, with its atmospheric display of mastheads and items reclaimed from shipwrecks. Piper’s Hole exists too, on Tresco’s northern coast, but I have exaggerated its dangers. Plenty of myths exist about the cave’s deathly atmosphere, but its pool is far shallower than I describe. None of the people mentioned in this book are real, but both the New Inn and Hell Bay Hotel do exist, and are great places to stay while you get to know the Scillies’ haunting landscape.
The islands’ archaeology and shipwrecks have always fascinated me. For anyone with an interest in early civilisation, the Neolithic dwellings scattered across the Scillies are well worth visiting, as are the remains of a Roman temple on Northwethel. But the thing that fascinated me most when researching this book is the multitude of wrecks that litter the islands’ shorelines, making the area a magnet for divers. Geologists believe that the archipelago was one united land mass before sea levels rose, and now only the highest peaks of mountains remain, with hill graves exposed, making the islands the largest ancient graveyard in the world. Marine archaeologists estimate that only a tenth of shipwrecks on the seabed around the islands have been explored, the rest buried so deep beneath the waves they have not yet been found.
Acknowledgements
My thanks are due to my excellent editor, Jo Dickinson, for her kind encouragement and great editing skills. Thanks too to all of the lovely, supportive team at Simon and Schuster, including Jess Barratt, Carla Josephson, Maisie Lawrence and Helen Upton, and to my copyeditor, Fraser Crichton.
I owe a great deal of thanks to the kind staff of the New Inn on Tresco, for answering all of my questions about Piper’s Hole and local tide patterns. Thanks also to Martin Owens for taking me out on his boat on a blustery day. Touring the coast of Tresco on a rough sea gave me plenty to write about, Martin, thank you! It was well worth getting soaked to the skin.
Thanks as ever to all of my writing pals: the Killer Women, the 134 Club, Penny Hancock and Miranda Doyle. Twitter friends are too numerous to mention, but I owe Peggy Breckin and Julie Boon a debt of gratitude for supporting me right from the start.
My excellent husband,
Dave Pescod, deserves the largest amount of gratitude, for being my first reader, best critic and provider of endless cups of tea.
Love DI Ben Kitto?
Read on for an exclusive extract from the new thriller by Kate Rhodes, coming 2019 . . .
BURNT
ISLAND
Friday, Nov 5th
The sun is rising when Jimmy Haycock sets out on a cold November morning. He passes the lighthouse first, its tall form looming over St Agnes like a winter ghost. The building is one of his favourites, even though its light was removed years ago, but there’s no time to stop and admire it. Jimmy’s friends are waiting and he can’t disappoint them. He takes his usual route to the lake, with his binoculars hidden in his pocket.
Jimmy walks north through Middle Town, where the stone faces of a dozen houses observe his progress. The man keeps his head down, to avoid the blank stares of shuttered windows, only relaxing once he reaches open country, where no one will disturb him. The meadow is crisp with frost, grass crunching under foot, his heart lifting when he spies the Big Pool. The expanse of water is as flat and shiny as polished glass today, tinted pink by early sunlight. None of his friends have come to see him: the sky is empty, not a single cry of welcome. Jimmy is about to return home when seagulls descend suddenly in a swirling cloud. The flock circles overhead, close enough to touch, bawling out raucous greetings. When he throws scraps of bread into the air, they battle for each crumb. He can smell brine on their wings, wet feathers stroking his cheeks. The creatures stay long after his food supply is exhausted, then disappear back into the sky, leaving only a handful of his favourite creatures behind. Oystercatchers wade towards him through the shallows, absorbing his attention.
His fingers are numb with cold by the time he slips his binoculars back into his pocket. There’s an odd smell on the air – a stench of fuel burning, mixed with a sweetness he can’t identify. Now that the birds have gone he notices smoke billowing from Burnt Hill, as if someone is sending him a signal. He leaves the pool behind then picks his way across the sandbar that stretches from Blanket Bay.
Jimmy’s pace slows as he approaches the source of the fire. The smell is stronger now; its sickly taste irritating the back of his throat. He’s panting for breath by the time he reaches the peak of the hill. The sight that greets him there makes little sense at first. A mound of charred sticks is glowing a dull red, paraffin cans abandoned on the grass nearby. When he looks again, small flames surround a blackened mass at the heart of the bonfire. His stomach rolls with nausea, because there’s no mistaking the shape that lies among the ashes. A face leers up at him, melted flesh hanging from exposed cheekbones, empty eye sockets giving him a direct stare. The dead man appears to be asking for his help, and Jimmy’s unable to refuse. He witnessed another life slipping away when he was a boy; this is his chance to make amends.
‘I’ll find out who hurt you,’ Jimmy mutters.
He can’t even tell whether the body is male or female as he makes his promise. The sight sends him reeling backwards, desperate to escape, but his conscience won’t let him run away. He recalls something his mother used to say: always leave something for the dead, to show your respects. His eyes smart with smoke and tears as he throws his sheepskin coat over the fire, extinguishing the last flames. Jimmy recites the start of his mother’s favourite prayer: Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name, but his words vanish in the smoky air. His grey hair flies on the breeze as he stumbles towards safety.
Kate Rhodes grew up in London, but now lives in Cambridge with her husband, the artist and writer Dave Pescod. Kate began her career as an English lecturer and still works part-time as an educational consultant. Before becoming a crime writer she produced two award-winning poetry collections. In 2015, Kate was awarded the Ruth Rendell Short Story prize.
Also by Kate Rhodes
Hell Bay
Blood Symmetry
River of Souls
The Winter Foundlings
A Killing of Angels
Crossbone’s Yard
First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2018
A CBS COMPANY
Copyright © Kate Rhodes, 2018
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Hardback ISBN: 978-1-4711-6543-6
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