by Kate Rhodes
It’s a struggle to stop my jaw hitting the ground. ‘Right, I didn’t know.’
She laughs at full volume. ‘Old people have sex, Ben, get over it. You’ll be glad when you’re sixty.’
‘How long’s it been going on?’
‘Over a year. He’s kind, sweet and I enjoy his company.’
‘One wrong move and he’s fish bait.’
‘Don’t worry, he’s crazy about me.’
‘Then he lives to cook another meal.’ I pick up my coat, trying to banish an image of Maggie and Billy in the big oak bed I trampolined on as a kid. ‘One more thing. Who’d give Sam Austell shelter on the island?’
Her eyebrows rise. ‘No one comes to mind; his mates are on the mainland. He’s another lost soul these days. Me and Jim went to see him play in Plymouth; you should have seen him sprint. The boy deserves a second chance.’
Eddie’s shirt is wilting when I get back, knife-edge creases melting away. His expression is so dejected that I want to explain that the slack days of an investigation give time for reflection, until the wheels start turning again. One of the things I loved about working with Clare was her refusal to admit defeat, even when our backs were against the wall. She just ploughed on, hammering every case into submission. I push her to the back of my mind and focus again on my new underling; it’s clear he’s in no mood for a pep talk. Even our walk to the quay feels like Groundhog Day, Arthur Penwithick emerging from his house at the exact moment we reach the jetty, to ferry him home. I consider doing a last recce for Sam Austell, but my chances of finding him in the dark are negligible.
My next few hours are spent delivering my promise to Ray. Work on the boat continues late into the evening. My uncle only speaks to give me instructions, humming quietly as he measures each seam, his lack of communication a relief after filtering information all day. We’re adding the lapping now, overlaying planks, tamping more wool and resin into the gaps. The boat has become a whale’s skeleton, the keel its vertebra, ribs curving like cupped hands. It makes a wheezing sound in the cooling air, odd clicks and snaps like joints flexing. The work gives me enough pleasure to make me regret choosing policing over chandlery for a split second, but patience has never been my greatest virtue. When I left home at eighteen I needed the challenge of tougher questions. At nine o’clock I say goodnight, Ray emerging from under the boat to give me a quick salute. The lights are on in Arthur Penwithick’s house next door when I leave, TV blaring. Eddie has spoken to the ferryman already, and I’m certain Ray would have heard him leave if he’d set out early on Monday.
Someone is sitting in my porch when I reach the cottage, making Shadow give a loud yip of greeting, the glow of a cigarette visible in the dark. In summer people often wait outside friends’ houses, enjoying the weather. In a place this small it’s never long before they return. But loitering on a chilly winter night means that the visit is more important than a social call. Jim Helyer unfolds himself from the bench, his smile sheepish.
‘Making a nuisance of yourself, Jim?’
‘I brought beer.’ He brandishes a six-pack of Löwenbräu.
‘In that case, you’re my honoured guest.’
Jim and Zoe are my only close friends left on the island, others scattered to the four winds, chasing work or adventures, but he seems uneasy, his banter slower than normal. Jim’s a typical islander, programmed to volunteer information at his own pace. Once the heat from the fire penetrates the room, he starts to unwind, tension easing from his face.
‘Tell me how London’s been treating you,’ he says quietly.
It would be a relief to let off steam about Clare, but no words arrive. ‘The usual high pressure crap, I won’t bore you with it. How’s parenthood going anyway?’
He looks at his hands. ‘Great most days, but juggling the farm can be a challenge. I’ve persuaded Angie to stop at two, but she’s not thrilled. Five or six kids is her idea of a family.’
He has almost drained his second beer, and I’m getting the lie of the land. More issues are weighing on his mind than Laura’s death.
‘Spill the beans, Jim. Something’s bothering you.’
His shoulders twitch, as if I’ve threatened him. ‘There are no excuses, when I’ve got Angie and my kids. I’m the luckiest man alive.’ His fingers jitter on the arm of the sofa. ‘I made a stupid mistake.’
‘Let me be the judge.’
‘Laura kept coming round to babysit, all fresh and young and beautiful. I couldn’t take my eyes off her.’ His words tail into silence. ‘I tried to kiss her one time, three months ago. When she slapped my face that put an end to it.’
My thoughts click into professional mode. ‘Angie said you were tending the animals the morning Laura died. Is that true?’
‘I’m up at five thirty every day; it takes me two hours to milk the goats.’
‘Can anyone confirm that?’
‘Gwen Trescothick probably saw me from her window. She’s an early riser.’
I study him again. ‘Why are you saying this now?’
‘It’s been messing with my head. I needed to tell someone.’
‘You decided to confess before someone else blew the whistle?’
‘Nothing you say can make me feel any worse. It was crazy, Ben, maybe I’m cracking up. I just wanted to be young and carefree again, like the old days.’
‘Did you call or text her, after that?’
He shakes his head. ‘Angie hasn’t got a clue, thank God. Please don’t tell her what a prat I’ve been. It would break her heart.’
‘I can’t protect you. It’s a murder case.’
‘Why not let me help? I know the island better than anyone.’
‘That’s impossible now. You’ll have to come to the station, after the memorial service tomorrow. Make a formal statement for the record.’
‘I wasn’t thinking straight, that’s all.’
‘Explain it to me tomorrow.’
He looks miserable when he stands up to leave, the atmosphere thick enough to slice. Once he’s gone I lean against the front door, exhaling curses. It’s hard to believe that Laura’s rejection might have sent a gentle soul like Jim onto the cliff that morning, with a knife in his pocket. My gut tells me that the only men close enough to commit murder were her dad and her boyfriend, but Jim’s confession can’t be overlooked.
Something feels different when I finally lie down. The pain in my neck has dulled to a vague throb, and I remember Nina Jackson’s cold hands on my skin, that misleading wedding ring tempting me to run a search on her, even though she’s done nothing wrong. I shut my eyes and wipe her from my mind. The wind is gusting across the roof, hard enough to rattle the tiles. I’m still worrying about whether infatuation could have pushed my old friend over the brink into violence when sleep finally arrives.
16
The visit from Ben Kitto has left Rose unsettled. She remembers seeing him as a tiny infant, his black hair as thick as a fox’s pelt, the child’s cry loud enough to raise the roof. Today she felt both glad and afraid to see him again, a giant with calm green eyes. His quiet manner almost made her spit out the truth about Sam’s absence, the boatmen haunting the shores and Jay Curnow’s attempts to steal her home.
To keep herself occupied, she rummages for clothes to wear at Laura Trescothick’s memorial service, but finds nothing suitable. Her wardrobe contains remnants from the charity shops on St Mary’s. Years ago, she chose items for their glitter, decking herself out in second-hand finery, but now every garment is threadbare. Her favourite red velvet skirt is riddled with moth holes. She rubs its soft fabric against her cheek, remembering a time when she loved to dance, get drunk, flirt with men. It would be easy to yield to self-pity, release the tears pricking the backs of her eyes. But what purpose did crying ever serve?
Rose stares at the flickering lights of Tresco’s houses, across New Grimsby Sound, wishing that she could pray. The psalms and verses she learned at Sunday school lost their meaning a long time ago. The only gods Rose b
elieves in now are nature and the sea, elemental forces that can cure or destroy. But she remembers the ritual her mother performed each spring, to cleanse the place of bad spirits. She collects sprigs of rosemary, sage and juniper from boxes stacked against her wall. Once she has lit the herbs with a match, fragrant smoke fills the air. She wafts the smudge stick into every corner of the cabin, muttering words under her breath to complete the ritual. The air is still pungent with hope when her son’s phone begins to ring. She has kept it charged since finding it in his room, and now she snatches it from the table.
‘Who’s there?’
The answer is a blather of words, spoken too fast, in a language she can’t understand. The man’s tone is bitter as his voice rises to a shout.
‘Give me my son back, please,’ Rose whispers into the phone.
There’s another loud stream of curses before the line dies.
17
Shadow begins the new day with a fit of temper, his outraged barks pursuing me for a hundred metres when I leave him locked indoors. I’m not looking forward to my first trip to the local church since my mother’s funeral, but today there’s no choice. Laura Trescothick’s memorial will replace the normal Sunday morning service, and a crowd of islanders are waiting on the jetty to be ferried over to Tresco. The family have asked mourners not to wear black, so I’ve opted for a blue plaid jacket and jeans. Zoe is following the colour rule too; she dashes over to greet me wrapped in an emerald green coat, her vivid red lipstick an obvious ploy to make her look cheerful.
‘God, this is grim,’ she mutters. ‘I wish they hadn’t asked me to sing.’
‘Matt and Jenna will be grateful so many came.’ I glance around the crowd. ‘Did you shut the hotel for the morning?’
‘A friend from St Agnes is running the bar. I wanted to close up, but we’ve still got guests.’
All of the islanders have arrived, except the Austells. The Curnow family stand at the edge of the crowd, Danny’s expression mutinous, as if he’d rather grieve alone. But it’s Matt’s body language that interests me most. So much tension is stored in his movements that one badly chosen word could ignite an explosion, reminding me of his argument with Laura the week before she died. Suzanne clings to his side, the girl’s face shrouded by long hair the colour of wet straw. My eyes skim the crowd, aware that the killer must be among them. Their expressions all look the same: solemn and pinched with cold. Dean Miller has swapped his paint-stained overalls for a blazer and freshly pressed trousers. The Hordens are beside him, Emma hanging onto my old teacher’s arm as if she might lose him in the melee. Jim is keeping his head down, deliberately avoiding me after his surprise confession; my old friend’s pallor reminds me that he was infatuated with the girl the entire island has turned out to mourn.
The Trescothicks are first onto the ferry, Arthur Penwithick helping Jenna aboard. I ride over on a fishing smack that’s been called into service for the event. The decks have been scrubbed clean but the odours of fish guts and salt still taint the air. I stare over the side as we cross New Grimsby Sound, wishing I could swim the narrow channel like when I was a kid. A searing blast of cold might open my eyes wide enough to spot missing clues. Everyone waits for the crowd to spill from the deck before climbing the shallow incline of Tresco hill. The larger island may only be five minutes from Bryher, but it’s foreign territory. The landscape looks manicured, a paddock is filled with well-groomed horses and ponies for tourists to ride in summer. Tresco operates on a grander scale, the Abbey Gardens drawing thousands of visitors each year.
By the time we reach the island’s church, many of Tresco’s inhabitants have joined the crowd to pay their respects. The nave’s white walls are decorated with flowers, balloons and swags of ribbon, more fitting for a christening than a memorial. Most of the people filling the low wooden pews are Laura’s age; some of her friends already in tears.
The service begins with ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’, and time winds back to the days when I sang in the choir, more for the music than religious conviction. It seemed like a good way to meet girls until I realised that rugby players fared better than boy sopranos. My eyes scan the walls as the vicar welcomes us. The church is named after St Nicholas, patron saint of fishermen, a roll call of the drowned printed on the wall. My father’s name is among them, lost when I was fourteen. My mother’s visits to church grew more regular after that, as if faith could plug the gap he left behind.
The air tastes of incense and dust as Zoe rises to her feet. When she sings Laura’s favourite song, ‘Thinking Out Loud’, her status as the islands’ sweetheart is confirmed. You could hear a pin drop as she delivers each pure note, the melody heavy with longing, a reminder that even in the worst circumstances she can hold an audience in the palm of her hand.
Matt rises to his feet as the last note fades. His expression’s numb, but he holds it together while photos of Laura are projected onto the wall of the nave. If he killed her, then he must have nerves of steel to deliver his daughter’s eulogy. His voice fractures as he describes a talented girl with a zest for life. Heads bow as he speaks; the death of someone so young raises too many questions, the natural order crumbling. I look around to see if anyone’s gloating, but the mood is sombre. Arthur Penwithick arrives late from mooring his boat. There’s no room in the pews, so he stands at the back, grease-stained cap clutched in his hands. Jim is sitting across the aisle from me, eyes welling as he gazes ahead. Despite his wife’s alibi that he was tending their livestock the morning Laura vanished, I still need to quell my discomfort about interviewing an old friend in connection with the girl’s murder.
There’s an atmosphere of relief when the service ends. Even in winter, the churchyard is picturesque – elm trees marking the periphery, gravestones so old that the names of the dead have worn away. The island has run out of burial plots. Laura will be cremated on St Mary’s, like every other islander. When I look up, Nina Jackson is on the other side of the crowd, wearing a dark red coat, talking to my uncle. For once, Ray is making conversation with someone he barely knows, shoulders angled in her direction, his raw-boned face animated. The sight brings a smile to my face; I can’t remember seeing him flirt with anyone until now. Zoe appears at my side as I watch them.
‘You did well. I’m not an Ed Sheeran fan, but you made that song sound half decent.’
‘High praise, big man. Didn’t anyone tell you it’s bad taste to ogle girls at a memorial service?’ she whispers.
‘Tell that to Ray. I think he’s smitten.’
‘My arse,’ she sniggers. ‘Trust you to fancy the island’s most troubled female.’
‘Is she?’
‘She’s got complicated tattooed all over her.’
‘Beautiful though, so who cares?’
‘You’re such a cliché.’ Zoe digs her finger into my ribs. ‘How’s the investigation going?’
I give her some general details as we walk back to the quay. It’s clear she’s been deeply affected by Laura’s death; behind her flamboyance, she’s finding it hard to accept.
‘You couldn’t have stopped it, you know.’
‘That’s not true.’ Her eyes glisten. ‘Laura was killed on her way to work for me.’
‘It’s not your fault.’ I shake my head. ‘What do you know about Sam Austell?’
‘The guy loves his recreational drugs; I chucked him out of my bar last month, high as a kite.’
We part company on the quay when she catches the first boat back, leaving me brooding over suspects. My suspicion that the girl could only have been killed by someone inside her intimate circle with powerful feelings for her is growing stronger. Her elusive ex-boyfriend Sam has social issues, but surely no one would wait a whole year to hurt a girl for ending their relationship? His disappearance could have less to do with guilt than a messed-up life. He may have walked into the sea, unable to handle his sporting dreams being shattered. I’m still puzzling over all the options when the ferry docks on the quay to carry th
e last islanders back across the sound.
My footsteps are leaden as I reach the village. I’ve arranged to give Matt and Jenna an update, the winter pansies beside their front door a blur of purple blossoms, far too cheery for the occasion. Jenna is dry-eyed when she answers the door, holding herself together against the odds. Her formal clothes have been replaced by a sweatshirt and faded jeans, the memorial’s gloom stripped from her skin.
‘Want me to come back tomorrow?’
She shakes her head firmly. ‘I need to hear your news.’
I sit beside her on the leather sofa. A picture of Laura beams down from the mantelpiece. It’s a typical school portrait, golden hair in a ponytail, smile so unquestioning it looks like she’s never doubted anything in her life. My guilt about making slow progress rises by another notch. Jenna’s studying me closely, eyes round with questions.
‘When someone gets attacked like this, it’s almost always by someone they know . . .’ My voice tails into silence. ‘The process must feel slow, but we have to eliminate people, one by one.’
‘So long as you find him, I don’t care how long it takes.’ The need in her eyes is so raw, it’s clear she expects a promise.
‘I won’t stop looking, Jenna, if that’s what you mean.’ She clutches my hand for a second. ‘Where are Matt and Suzanne?’
‘At his mum’s. Gwen’s too upset to be alone.’
‘Have you remembered anything else about Laura’s behaviour?’
‘Only that she was less open than before. There’d been tension between us recently.’
‘About what?’
‘Her future.’ There’s another flicker of emotion, her eyes welling. ‘It’s all my fault, Ben.’
‘What did you argue about?’
‘She was racing to grow up, like me at her age. I thought making her pay rent might slow her down, but she was determined to leave.’
I nod in reply. ‘We should search her room again, in case I missed something.’
The suggestion is more for her benefit than mine, to make her feel useful. First, we check Laura’s wardrobe and cupboards, then I use a claw hammer to pull up loose floorboards. It’s only when I turn Laura’s desk over that my fingers touch cold plastic. A transparent folder is taped to the underside, my breath catching at the sight of a wad of banknotes. My first thought is that the cash must be linked to the drug supply she was hoarding.