by Kate Rhodes
Statistics are still bothering me when I drop into bed. More than ninety per cent of female victims are murdered by their partners. I stare at cracks in the ceiling. Danny may be the obvious suspect, but nothing about this case has been convenient so far. Any male islander could have nursed feelings towards her. Names and faces of the people I’ve known all my life filter through my head, until sleep claims me just before dawn.
9
My new deputy arrives on my doorstep by 8 a.m. I was hoping for a reliable old hand, but the officer Madron has sent is Eddie Nickell, presumably because he lives on Tresco and can be present every day. The constable is six inches shorter than me, blond curls framing a cherubic face, his voice reedy as a choirboy’s. He offers his life story as soon as I place a mug of coffee in his hands. He went to Plymouth University to study law but returned after a year, preferring a more practical job. My heart sinks even further when he explains that he’s twenty-three years old.
‘This is a great opportunity for me, sir. I’m keen to hear about the Murder Squad.’
‘Don’t call me sir, Eddie. It makes me feel ancient.’ He carries on gabbling until I hold up my hand to slow him down. ‘I’ve arranged to see the family before today’s meeting. It’s important that the islanders see us supporting them. Remember, they’re newly bereaved. Let me do the talking, okay?’
Shadow’s nowhere to be seen as we walk inland, but I can hear him barking cheerfully in the distance. It irritates me that I let him out for some fresh air, only for him to run amok when I’d rather he stayed out of mischief. It takes less than ten minutes to reach Matt and Jenna’s cottage; the building is modest but freshly painted, earthenware pots full of flowers beside the front door. Two decades have passed since the pair were high-school icons; since then he’s been a lifeboat captain and crewed on trawlers, until he was laid off, his wife working for a holiday company on Tresco. It’s Matt who answers the door, his face solemn, no sign of his old swagger when he shakes my hand.
‘Thanks for helping us, Ben. I’m glad you’re in charge.’
‘Anyone would do the same.’
‘Suzie’s in a bad way. Is it okay if she stays here, with my mum?’
‘Of course. But can I see her first?’
The hallway is filled with framed photographs, smiling family portraits that already look historic. The living room smells of coffee and trapped air, curtains still drawn. Suzanne is slumped on the settee, her grandmother, Gwen Trescothick, beside her. The old woman is petite and formally dressed, her grey hair cropped short. Her calm expression reveals that she’s so focused on helping her granddaughter, her own grief has been suppressed. Suzanne doesn’t lift her head when I offer my condolences, breathing uneven as she tries not to cry. When her father flicks on a sidelight she gives a moan of protest.
‘You need to hear what Ben’s got to say, love.’
Matt’s eyes lock onto my face expectantly, as if Nickell doesn’t exist. Distrusting outsiders is an island tradition: my new deputy is Cornish born and bred, but he’s not from Bryher. I speak in a low voice to avoid panicking the girl.
‘We’ll have to work fast to find who hurt Laura. I’ll need help from all of you.’
Suddenly the child’s face looms closer, her skin blotchy with tears, long hair a shade darker than her sister’s. When she grips my wrist, her nails mark my skin. ‘You know what happened to my sister, don’t you?’
‘Only her injuries, Suzanne. We don’t have any more details.’
‘Would she have been in pain?’ Her eyes are pleading.
‘Laura probably didn’t even know what was happening.’ The white lie is all I can offer by way of comfort.
When I look up again, Jenna has appeared, her hand skimming Matt’s shoulder. She walks to the window to open the curtains. Her dark clothes are as sober as her movements, but even now she looks striking, a tall blonde with perfectly symmetrical features. The dim light shadows her high cheekbones and wide-set blue eyes, but it’s her expression that concerns me: I’ve seen that Valium stare before, bereaved relatives getting by on tranquillisers.
‘It’s time to get on with it,’ she says quietly. ‘We need to find the bastard who did this to Laura.’
‘I can’t believe it was an islander.’ Matt’s face contorts with anger.
‘I’m afraid it looks like it must have been. No ferries ran the day before,’ I reply. ‘If you’re ready, we should get started.’
No one says much on the short walk to the community centre, the couple arm in arm, as if they’re providing each other with a lifeline. The atmosphere is charged when we go inside. Last time, people were hoping Laura would be found alive, but now the air’s fizzing with anger. The killer is almost certainly in the room. Around seventy people are sitting on the folding chairs, talking in hushed tones, until I rise to my feet and silence falls. All of the faces here are familiar: Maggie and Zoe in the front row, Ray at the back, arms folded.
‘Most of you know me already. I’m DI Ben Kitto, from the Metropolitan Police. I’ll be running the investigation. I want to reassure you that we’ll find Laura’s killer, but in the meantime, you need to stay safe. We believe the murderer is still on the island, so keep your houses secure, and don’t go out alone. No one leaves Bryher without my permission for the time being. We’ll be using this hall as our headquarters. Before you go today we need to check our list to see who was here on Sunday night and Monday morning.’ I scan the room again. ‘Any questions so far?’
Dean Miller puts up his hand. ‘Why do you think Laura was attacked? Maybe her death was an accident.’
‘The murder weapon hasn’t been found yet, but we know she was stabbed.’
The crowd draws a collective gasp of panic. Silence returns as I explain that everyone must provide the name of someone to verify their whereabouts on Monday morning, when Laura went missing. A few of the older islanders look shocked. The crime rate here is negligible, most houses left unlocked all year round. The only theft I remember as a child was a man’s underwear taken from a washing line, then returned on April Fools’ Day, sprayed baby pink. When I scan the crowd again, the tall brunette is alone at the end of a row. The hall is warm, but she’s still wearing her coat, her expression distracted as I bring the meeting to a close.
I leave Eddie collecting details from the crowd milling by the door. My first task will be primary-stage interviewing, to rule out those closest to Laura. Secondary stage will include friends and distant relatives, the ripple effect spreading out to acquaintances. But the standard stages of detection mean little in a place where lives are so tightly intertwined.
It’s not easy to stay objective when I return to the Trescothicks’ house. Jenna, Matt and Suzanne huddle at the kitchen table, clearly exhausted. I’ve sent Gwen home, so I can focus on immediate family members first.
‘I need to speak to you separately, please, before things are forgotten.’
Jenna looks concerned. ‘Can’t we stay together?’
‘You’ll remember more this way; I need every detail.’
‘I’ll go first,’ Suzanne whispers. ‘To help Laura.’
‘Is it okay to talk here?’
The girl gives a timid nod. ‘I suppose so.’
Her parents leave the room reluctantly. Their younger daughter is pale in the morning light, a few pimples dotting her face, but she’ll be a beauty soon. At fourteen she’s got her mother’s tall, athletic physique and classic bone structure, her dad’s wide-set brown eyes. Right now, she looks more like a terrified child than a fully fledged teenager, dressed in black jeans and an oversized jumper. I feel a quick burst of sympathy; the kid seems so shaken it could be weeks before she’s fit to return to school. Behind her on the wall I spot a framed certificate with her name printed at the bottom.
‘What did you win?’ I ask, pointing at it.
‘The Three Islands junior race, last summer.’
The annual swimming race is a local rite of passage. Every summer hundreds of
islanders thrash through the waves from Bryher Quay to the west coast of Tresco, then back via Hangman Island at breakneck speed. To have won the teenage category the girl must be stronger than she looks.
‘That’s impressive. How long did you take?’
‘Just under two hours.’ My attempt at small talk has little effect, her shoulders still hunched with tension.
‘That’s good going; it almost killed me when I tried. You must be one hell of a swimmer.’
‘Dad taught me, but I’ll never be as good as him.’ A flash of pride crosses her face then fades away as I put the Dictaphone on the table. ‘You’re recording what I say?’
‘It’ll be the same for everyone. Just as well actually, my handwriting’s lousy.’ I try to keep my smile reassuring. ‘Let’s start with anything you remember about Sunday night.’
She drops her head, twisting a silver ring on her thumb. ‘Laura went out in the afternoon. I heard her singing in her room when she got back, around seven.’
‘Do you know where she’d been?’
She shrugs. ‘For a walk, probably.’
‘With Danny?’
‘She wasn’t meant to see him.’ The girl looks away. ‘His parents didn’t like her. Dad said she should forget about him.’
‘But you think she met up with him on Sunday?’
‘I don’t know.’ She still won’t meet my eye. ‘They went to the fishing huts sometimes.’
‘Laura told you that?’
She blushes to the roots of her hair. ‘They had nowhere else to go.’
The sheds are always empty on Sundays, the perfect place to take a girl when privacy’s hard to find. I did it myself, back in the day.
‘She never brought him here?’
‘Dad’s always around, they couldn’t even talk in private.’
‘Do you think Laura and Danny argued on Sunday?’
‘She seemed okay when she got back.’
‘Was Laura really keen on him?’ The girl gives a single nod in reply. I can see the yearning in her face, a reluctance to accept that her sister’s gone. ‘Who was she seeing before Danny?’
She hesitates. ‘Sam Austell, but she chucked him last year.’
‘He’s a footballer, isn’t he?’
‘Not anymore, he’s back living with his mum.’
‘How did he react to Laura ending it?’
‘Not great at first. He kept texting and calling her for weeks.’
‘Was there anyone before him?’
‘Nothing serious.’ Suddenly Suzanne’s eyes are brimming. ‘She used to be home more, with us.’
‘You spent a lot of time together, didn’t you?’
‘Since I was small.’
‘Did you hear her leave on Monday?’
‘My alarm went at seven, but she’d already gone. She often took a walk before work, to have some time alone.’ Suzanne wipes her hand over her face, smearing tears across her cheeks. ‘The boat to school was cancelled, so I came back from the quay about half past eight and made Mum a cup of tea.’
‘You’ve done well, Suzie, but let’s stop there. If you remember anything else, we can talk again, any time.’
I can see she wants to say more, but isn’t quite brave enough, despite my encouragement. When I lead her out into the hall, Jenna’s waiting. She probably heard the entire conversation. In a standard murder investigation family members would be kept apart, to stop them copying each other’s stories, but Madron is adamant that they will be more co-operative if they’re treated as innocent bystanders.
Jenna sits opposite, only her hands revealing the strain. Her fingers are knotted, like a mountaineer clutching a guide rope.
‘Tell me about Sunday night, Jenna.’
‘Laura ran back up to her room straight after dinner. She’s at that stage where she guards her privacy.’ Her voice peters out like she’s just realised that her daughter’s wish has been granted in the worst way possible.
‘She sounds the independent type.’
Jenna’s face flickers with pride. ‘Laura’s always been a go-getter. She was ambitious and confident with boys too. She didn’t take any crap.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘A lad she was seeing flirted with someone else, so she ended it, just like that.’
‘How did he react?’
‘She didn’t let him come crawling back. My daughter never took any nonsense.’ Her voice breaks as she struggles for breath. ‘She was so headstrong, we clashed sometimes.’
‘You argued?’
‘Only because we’re alike. I don’t know what I’ll do without her.’
She carries on answering questions, her voice breaking. The two sisters had been laughing and playing music on Sunday night, everyone in bed by eleven.
‘Was Laura happy at home?’
‘Of course. Why wouldn’t she be?’
‘No reason, I just need all the details you can give me. Did you know Dean Miller was painting her?’
‘Laura loved going to his studio.’ There’s a note of panic in her voice. ‘You don’t think he hurt her, do you?’
‘I’m just checking what people knew. What do you remember about Monday morning?’
‘I heard the door shut twice, so I knew both girls had left. Monday’s the one morning when I can lie in for an hour before work. I followed my usual routine until I heard the ferry wasn’t running.’
‘What time did Matt get up?’
‘I don’t know. He slept at his mum’s on Sunday night – Gwen’s been struggling since his dad died last year.’
Her voice is matter-of-fact, but the statement sets alarm bells ringing. Until now the family have presented a united front, but the loss of her father-in-law could have put them all under strain. She copes with the rest of the interview, but gives me a solemn stare when it ends. ‘I knew you’d help us, Ben. That’s why we wanted you in charge.’
‘Sorry?’
‘You were always smart and determined. If anyone can find out who hurt Laura, it’s you.’
It amazes me that she’s composed enough to offer encouragement, but it’s a pity Matt chooses this moment to appear. His expression darkens at the sight of his wife’s hand on my arm. I can almost smell the jealousy coming off him. I keep my movements slow and deliberate, to prove that her gesture is casual, but anger still surrounds him like a force field when his wife leaves the room. Once we’re alone he fixes me with a fierce glare.
‘I’ll comfort my wife. You stick to finding the bastard that killed our daughter.’
‘I intend to, Matt, but I need more information about Laura. She wanted to be an actor, didn’t she?’
‘Her drama teacher said she was a natural. She had charisma too, always popular at school.’ I recognise the clench-jawed set of his face. The toughness of island life prepares you to handle your emotions, but Matt’s stoicism seems to be demanding a high price today.
‘What do you think of Danny Curnow?’
‘His dad’s a prat.’ He spits out the words. ‘Jay Curnow’s buying up Bryher, inch by inch. He thought Laura was unworthy of his son and heir.’
‘He told you that?’
‘The whole island knew.’ The anger on his face raises my curiosity, but his dislike for Curnow will have to be explored another time; right now there are more pressing concerns.
‘What time did you get up, the day Laura went missing?’
‘About ten. I’d been in the pub the night before, so I took my time.’
‘Gwen can vouch for that, can she?’
‘Go ahead and ask her.’ He stares back at me. ‘What are you getting at, exactly?’
‘Nothing, I just need to know where every islander was, the morning Laura died. Can I take a look at her room, Matt?’
‘Why? She hated people touching her things.’
‘It could give us clues.’
He leads me upstairs then backs away, as if he can’t bear to breathe the jasmine perfume still hanging on the air. The ro
om seems too sophisticated for a sixteen-year-old girl, with dove grey paintwork and monochrome New York skylines on the walls. Dean Miller must have been right about her yearning for a more glamorous existence. Her wardrobe holds exotic clothes she probably bought second-hand on the mainland: a red feather boa, dresses in metallic fabric, a fake leopard-skin coat. I pull on sterile gloves before opening her bedside cabinet. It holds tubes of lip gloss, a silver charm bracelet and a copy of The Fault in Our Stars. It’s the only book in the room, but there are dozens of DVDs. A few are vampire and zombie movies, but most are Hollywood classics – The Big Sleep, Casablanca, Rear Window.
There’s no sign of a diary, letters, or anything to explain her state of mind. Her phone is probably at the bottom of the ocean, but her laptop sits on a desk in the corner. I pack it into an evidence bag, for the IT guys to process, then pull the bed away from the wall to check for secret hiding places. All teenagers have one, so I carry on searching. Eventually the breakthrough comes by chance. Something rattles when I bump against her wardrobe and I hear the clatter as an object falls to the floor. It’s a tin box, six inches square, decorated with a picture of Polperro Beach, in chipped enamel paint. The lid is so tight it takes effort to prise it open. Inside there are two photos of Sam Austell. They show him as a burly, dark-haired youth, giving the camera an irritable stare, as if he resents anyone stealing his image. I don’t know much about the boy, apart from his sporting prowess and the fact that his mother keeps bees. Tucked beneath the pictures is a neat silver package. When I peel back the foil, a chunk of cannabis resin releases its distinctive smell of bitter chocolate and tobacco. A piece that size would retail for several hundred quid in London. Laura’s personality is starting to make sense: a girl who loved to dress up and escape reality, by any means possible. It’s too soon to guess if she was still in love with Sam Austell, but the cannabis stash could be the first of many secrets. I’ll have to scour the island to find the rest.