by Kate Rhodes
Ray appears on the jetty when I arrive on Bryher. It would break the habit of a lifetime for him to express concern, but he invites me in for food. I thank him before explaining that I need to get home.
‘Where’s Shadow?’ I ask.
‘He buggered off across the beach hours ago.’
‘Bloody dog thinks he owns the island.’
The five-minute walk back to the cottage helps me reach a decision. Shadow’s waiting in the porch, giving a quick yip of greeting as I grab a bottle of wine without taking off my coat. He stretches out on the rug, giving me time to escape before he can follow. He may have won points for tracking Austell down, but tonight he’s surplus to requirements.
Nerves kick in as I follow the path to Gweal Cottage. Maybe it’s because I’m not sure of my motives. All I know is that I want to see Nina Jackson again, if only to force her from my thoughts. When she opens the door, she’s dressed in cut-off jeans, a low-necked blouse and severe, metal-framed reading glasses. The contrast is oddly sexy. I feel daft, standing there with a bottle of Rioja in my hands.
‘You should invite me in,’ I say, handing over my gift. ‘It’s an island tradition to offer visitors food.’
Her eyebrows rise. ‘Really? That’s news to me.’
Music spills from her sound system when she finally admits me. A man is singing his heart out in a language I don’t understand; Portuguese maybe, or Spanish. It reminds me that she’s out of my league, but the easy route has never carried much appeal. Whatever happens next, at least I’m here in her kitchen, breathing in her scent. It’s heavy with roses and cinnamon, an undertone of musk giving a kick of sensuality. I park myself at her kitchen table, too tired to care about invading her space. There’s something calming about watching her handle crockery, movements deft as she pours soup into a bowl, tears a hunk of bread from a loaf.
‘Did you make this?’
‘Cooking’s one of my pastimes.’ She holds up the bottle of wine. ‘Want a glass of this?’
‘Only if you join me.’
She sits straight-backed, watching me eat. Behind all that composure, I can’t tell whether she’s irritated or amused. The soup is minestrone, spicy enough to leave a warm aftertaste; her bread’s good too, crust sticky with olive oil and sea salt. The wine helps to thaw away the bone-chilling boat ride from St Mary’s.
‘I hear you wrestled a violent man to the ground this morning,’ she says.
‘The grapevine often exaggerates.’
‘It’s not true?’
‘It was much less heroic; the guy was in a weakened state, he fell over and I jumped on top of him. Can I ask you a personal question?’
‘Only if you promise to stop staring. It makes me uncomfortable.’
‘Even when you’re staring back?’
She drops her gaze. ‘I read Jamaica Inn at an impressionable age. The smugglers looked like you, tall and black-haired. You’re the last of a dying breed.’
‘My ancestors were fishermen, but they risked their lives just as often.’ I put down my glass. ‘What made you visit Bryher in the middle of winter?’
‘I could ask the same thing.’
‘It’s my home. You needed a reason to come here.’
Silence stretches out so long, it seems certain she won’t answer. When she does finally speak, her tone is so jagged it sounds like she’s swallowed broken glass.
‘Something happened that I needed to forget. I thought being away from home would make it easier.’
‘Has it?’
‘Not yet.’ She takes a gulp of wine. ‘Why did you come back?’
‘Same reason, but tonight’s curing me.’
‘Is that your best line?’ She lets out a laugh. ‘Finish your drink, then go home to Shadow.’
‘You promised to show me some relaxation exercises.’
Her expression grows serious. ‘How are the headaches?’
‘Still there, but less painful.’
She rises to stand behind my chair. Even though I’m expecting it, the coolness of her fingers on my skin sets my teeth on edge. She eases my head forwards, then touches my jaw, slowly straightens my neck again. ‘Try shoulder rolls, a dozen rotations, morning and evening. Want me to write it down?’
‘I don’t need instructions.’
‘There’s nothing else on offer.’
‘Why don’t we find out?’ When I pull her into my lap her scent of musk and old-fashioned flowers is potent enough to taste, her skin poreless, amber eyes turning molten. My lips graze the underside of her jaw. When she kisses me back, it’s tempting to carry her straight to bed, but she’s already pulling away.
Nina sits on the chair opposite me, fingers touching her lips. I don’t know if she’s trying to wipe the kiss away or hold it in place.
‘I can’t get involved with anyone, Ben.’
‘Don’t complicate it. You fed me, so I’m returning the favour, that’s all. It’s an . . .’
‘. . . island tradition?’
‘Come to mine tomorrow, eightish.’
‘I’m busy.’
‘Wednesday then, same time.’
I grab my coat and leave before she can argue. The sea mist is thickening again, so dense and chilly it takes concentration to navigate the path home. After fifty metres a sound cuts through my high spirits; footsteps trailing across the shingle, like a slow echo. But when I spin round, the fog is impenetrable. The noise could be my mind playing tricks after a tough day. The killer is hardly likely to pursue me across the island, unless he’s armed to the teeth. I make a deliberate effort to ignore it, white air stifling my breathing as I push on through the dark.
20
The sea’s call is no more than a whisper tonight, as Rose stands in her kitchen, humming to herself. Since hearing that Sam is alive, she feels invincible. The threat of losing her home no longer scares her, or the boatmen hiding in the shadows. Soon her son will be under her roof, and her remedies will restore his health quicker than any hospital. She doesn’t even care that the doctors are insisting on a police chaperone when she visits.
Rose is swaying to music that murmurs from the radio. Elvis is singing about tenderness and never letting go, but when the song finishes, her happiness fades. Soon she must board the ferry across miles of blank sea, leaving Bryher behind for the first time in years. She pushes the thought aside. Tonight, she will let herself celebrate: her boy is alive, and no matter what people claim, he must be innocent. She reaches for her pestle and mortar, to blend feverfew, burdock and vervain. The combination will purify his blood and calm his mind. She crushes the herbs into a fragrant powder, perfecting a recipe to heal her son.
She is pouring the dried mixture into a sachet when something startles her. A sound arrives out of nowhere, as loud as thunder. A fist pounds on her front door, almost forcing it from its hinges. Then the floor vibrates as someone kicks the wooden wall of her cabin, the onslaught so thunderous it sounds like her home will collapse around her ears. She presses her hand over her mouth, stifling her screams. Rose hits the light switch, then cowers in a corner, too terrified to move. Darkness might let her escape through a window if they break down the door. She’s still shaking when the noise finally stops, but manages to drag herself to a window. The beach is empty, except for the gleam of moonlight, as if the men threatening her have vanished into the ether. There’s no way of knowing whether the smugglers came back, or Curnow sent his men to hound her. She will have nowhere else to hide if they destroy her sanctuary.
21
Discomfort tightens the muscles across the back of my neck as I gaze down from the stage. The whole island population has packed the community hall this morning. DCI Madron stands at the back, monitoring my performance. My boss still seems certain that Laura’s ex-boyfriend killed her in a drug-fuelled rage, but I can see no concrete proof that Sam Austell harmed Laura. My own suspicions remain focused on Danny Curnow and Matt Trescothick, both men staring back at me from the audience. The crowd listens
attentively as I explain that money has been found in Laura’s room, her parents unaware how she earned it. The memory of the chopped-up photo on my doorstep makes me advise the islanders again that security is paramount.
‘If you have to leave home after dark, make sure you’re accompanied. Keep yourselves safe until the killer’s found.’
Some of the islanders look sceptical, as if they can’t believe Laura’s attacker is still on island soil. Matt gives a grudging nod when I ask him to return in an hour for an update, then the hall clears rapidly, leaving me and Eddie to chase loose threads. My first task is to call Penzance Hospital. Dr Lucas is non-committal on the phone, explaining that Austell is still struggling to speak. The evidence supports Madron’s theory that Sam could have attacked Laura, then made a failed suicide attempt by swallowing cannabis resin. But we have no evidence other than his toxicology report, which shows sky-high levels of toxins in his blood. My call to the National Crime Agency draws a cagey response. An unlicensed vessel with a Latvian crew was caught recently; no contraband was found aboard, but the sniffer dogs went wild, suggesting that they had thrown their stash into the sea, and it’s possible that a larger network is still operating in local waters. News from the IT experts is just as inconclusive. Laura’s computer reveals nothing more sinister than a passion for eBay and hundreds of intimate messages from Danny Curnow. Common sense tells me that Laura’s death is linked to the drugs swilling round Sam Austell’s system, but so far there’s no hard proof.
Matt Trescothick’s heel taps out a jerky rhythm when he sits down for our meeting, his face grey with tiredness.
‘We think smugglers have been running drugs through the islands, Matt. It’s possible Laura was caught up in it. That’s what we’re checking now.’
He shakes his head resolutely. ‘I told you, she never touched that shit. We raised her to keep clear of it.’
‘You were seen arguing with her a few weeks ago, on the beach, late at night. Can you tell me why?’
‘Are you serious?’ Matt leans forward in his chair, a muscle ticking under his left eye. It looks like he’s having to work hard to stop himself from punching me. ‘My daughter’s dead, and all you do is criticise me for giving her advice.’
‘Tell me what the row was about, Matt.’
‘Laura sneaked out of the house late, to meet Danny Curnow, so I followed her. I knew she’d end up hurt if they stayed together.’
‘The onlooker told us you were throwing your fists around.’
‘Who said that, for fuck’s sake? Do you really think I’d hit my own child?’ He studies my face for a second, then his expression darkens. ‘You’re as bad as the rest of them.’
Matt storms out of the hall, leaving me relieved that Eddie has escorted the DCI back to the launch. Madron would take a dim view of the confrontation, after his advice to treat the family with care, but we need a breakthrough soon or he’ll be pressing for a quick conviction.
I set off for Tom Horden’s cottage with Shadow traipsing behind me through the fields. My old teacher may not be high on my suspect list, but I need to finish interviewing everyone present on the island the day Laura died. Eddie has spoken to him already, but I want to hear his story for myself. I feel sure that Tom Horden will have been up with the larks, mathematical brain dividing the day into neat sections, but his appearance proves me wrong. Sparse grey hair sticks out from his skull in untidy clumps when I reach South Cottage. My old teacher is in need of a shave, brown trousers creased as he gives me a muted welcome.
‘Sorry I missed the meeting, my wife had a bad night.’ He angles his face towards me, his good eye making assessments. ‘Please ignore the mess.’
His kitchen sink is piled with last night’s dishes and a stack of laundry is dumped in the corner, proving that basic household chores are a burden on top of looking after his wife. There’s stiffness in his movements as he sits at the table, rheumatism or discomfort slowing him down.
‘Is this an official visit?’
I place the Dictaphone on the table. ‘Everyone on the island is being interviewed about Laura’s death.’
‘Your constable knows we were here all morning. Emma won’t be able to confirm it though, her memory’s like a sieve.’
‘I’d still like to speak to her again.’
‘Don’t disturb her, please.’ Horden’s face sours. ‘It takes hours to calm her down.’
‘When’s the last time you saw Laura?’
‘Our anniversary meal at the hotel last month. The girl gave us a free bottle of wine.’
‘People saw her here more recently.’
His hands tremble in his lap. ‘She dropped in occasionally, to keep Emma company. I don’t remember the exact date of her last visit. Two weeks ago, perhaps.’
I give him a steady look. ‘The schoolgirl you were accused of touching was younger than Laura, wasn’t she? But they were the same physical type.’
His tone is icy when he speaks again. ‘Nothing gets forgotten, does it?’
‘Not when it’s that serious. You got fired over it, didn’t you?’
‘That child’s allegations cost me my career. I resigned to avoid the smears, even though I’d done nothing wrong. She was intent on harming me, but Emma was the real victim. She wouldn’t leave the house for months.’
‘Why?’
‘Shame, I suppose, despite my innocence. Some children are as violent as adults. They want to bring us down to their level, but she never got the chance.’
‘What happened when Laura came here?’
‘She sat with Emma, chatting, watching TV. Most times I left them alone.’
‘Did you pay her to keep your wife company?’
‘Of course not. The girl visited us out of kindness.’
‘Can I speak to Emma now, Tom?’
‘It was twenty years ago, for God’s sake. The charges were dropped.’
‘This is to do with Laura, not the past.’
‘We should still have legal representation.’
‘I’m collecting facts, Tom. Neither of you are being accused of anything.’
His defensiveness interests me, and the fact that he lied about Laura’s visits.
Emma Horden peers up at me when I enter the living room, her bowl of treasures cradled in her lap. It looks like she’s been playing with her make-up box; dark red lipstick spiralling her mouth in a grotesque circle, peacock blue daubs on her eyelids. The effect is clownish without being funny. She gives me a suspicious stare when her husband exits the room.
‘Go away. I don’t like strangers.’
‘You’ve known me since I was a child, Emma. You told me you’d seen Laura Trescothick, on the beach the other night.’
Her small eyes peer at me. ‘Who?’
‘The pretty blonde girl who visited you sometimes.’
She shivers. ‘Was it you that let her drown?’
‘I’m trying to find out who hurt her. Tell me about your friendship with Laura.’
‘She sings, or tells me stories. She’ll be on TV one day.’
‘Does your husband like her too?’
‘He always likes the pretty ones.’ Her face falls. ‘Poor Tom. Almost blind, he relies on me these days.’
‘Is that right?’
‘Both eyes failing. Can’t see the wood for the trees.’ She cradles the bowl full of glittering trinkets closer to her chest, a few clam shells dropping into her lap.
‘What else do you remember about Laura?’
‘Don’t tell my husband.’ She presses her finger to her lips, swearing me to secrecy. ‘I gave her money sometimes, to spread her wings.’
‘That’s kind, Emma. Do you remember how much?’
‘None of your business.’ The old woman reaches up, fingers snarling in her coarse grey hair.
‘Will you show me your treasures before I go?’ Something in her collection has caught my eye.
‘Look, but don’t touch.’ When the old woman removes her hand, a red, heart-s
haped earring just like the one in my pocket lies on top of the pile.
‘That was Laura’s,’ I say, pointing to it. ‘Where did you find it?’
‘It’s mine. No one can take it away.’ Her voice is rising now, shrill with anxiety. Suddenly she lashes out, her clenched fist bouncing from my shoulder.
‘Relax, Emma. Just tell me where it came from.’
‘The girl let me keep it,’ she whispers. ‘To remember her by.’
She cradles the bowl closer to her chest, then croons quietly, as if she’s comforting a child. I leave her to enjoy a rare moment of peace. My visit raises plenty of questions, but proves that the Hordens’ marriage is more balanced than it seems: dementia and poor vision creating a level playing field. Emma’s admission that she gave Laura money explains some of the cash in the girl’s room, but I doubt she could have accessed such a large sum. Her confused state of mind makes it impossible to learn how she came by Laura’s earring; she may simply have found it on the beach. Tom’s reaction to my questions bothers me more. His professional humiliation twenty years ago seems to have left him afraid of judgement. Whether or not he behaved inappropriately, people love rumours, always believing there’s no smoke without fire.
I pass the old schoolhouse then carry on walking, determined to get some fresh air before facing my deputy’s constant cheeriness, the peak of Gweal Hill rising ahead of me. Breakers are curling across Hell Bay, a line of yellow spume draped across the shingle. It’s only when I glance up at the hotel that I see Zoe waving; arms zigzagging like she’s performing semaphore. I jog up the steps two at a time. She looks striking as always, blonde hair deliberately messy, like she’s just crawled out of bed, but her mile-wide smile is absent for once.
‘What’s wrong?’ I put my arm round her. ‘Come inside, it’s freezing out here.’
‘Nothing, really. I just wanted to see a friendly face.’
When I glance through the doors of the bar, Angie Helyer is busy covering furniture with dust sheets, so I lead Zoe to the breakfast room. The space is more intimate but shares the same ocean view, the water two shades darker than the sky. My friend stands by the window, arms folded as she watches the sea.