by Kate Rhodes
He gives a wry smile. ‘You took your time figuring it out. I’ve been waiting for you.’
‘Explain what happened then, Dean. I’m listening.’
‘I had a boyfriend on the mainland, years ago. No one’s tempted me since then, except Danny. He’d have sailed to the mainland with Laura, forgotten all about me.’ There’s a note of disbelief in his voice. ‘I followed her to the cliff. Pure jealousy, I suppose. With Danny it was harder. He guessed what I’d done; I killed him in self-defence. Watching the sea take him hurt me more than anything.’
His tone sounds too casual, the confession slipping out so easily. Why would he just admit to his crimes after weeks of cat and mouse? ‘That’s not the full story, is it?’
‘If you take me to the station, I’ll tell you more.’
‘Not yet. I need to know Suzanne’s safe first.’
The girl steps through the doorway at the mention of her name. A surge of relief arrives once I see that she’s unhurt. This man has claimed two young lives already; there’s no way I’ll let him take a third. Suzanne’s eyes are out of focus and she’s soaked to the skin, as if she’s been caught in a storm. She stands at the painter’s side, barely any clear air between them, her affection for the old man filling me with concern. I’m about to tell her to step back for her own safety, when something glints in her hand. The girl’s knuckles are chalk-white, her fist bunched tight around the handle of a knife.
53
The girl raises her fist, the blade pointing directly at my chest.
‘Calm down, Suzie,’ I say. ‘Drop the knife on the floor.’
Her facial muscles spasm. ‘You can’t make me live with Mum again.’
‘No one’s going to try.’
‘You’re lying. I’ll end up in prison.’
‘There are better places for people your age.’
‘That’s a lie too.’ She steps closer, the weapon angled towards my face. ‘No one ever tells me the truth.’
‘Give me the knife, then we’ll talk.’
A tear slides down her cheek. ‘Laura said she’d stay with me, till I was old enough to go travelling with her.’
‘Danny spoiled everything for you, didn’t he?’
Her teeth are bared as she suddenly lunges at me, a flash of light as the blade slices through the air. I have to move fast to knock it from her hand. When it spins to the corner of the room, the girl casts around for another weapon, but Dean grabs her wrists. She tries to break free at first, then gradually responds to his hushing. Her arms stop thrashing as his grandfatherly murmur calms her. Once all of that vengeful power has drained out of her, she’s no more than a tearful child.
The next hours are spent getting her into custody. Arthur Penwithick ferries us across to St Mary’s, but the last Sky Bus to the mainland flew hours ago. It’s agreed that Suzanne’s interview must wait until her psychiatric assessment is completed tomorrow in Penzance. That will give us time to track down a solicitor with experience of representing juveniles. Dean agrees to talk immediately, even though the harsh overhead light in Madron’s office reveals his exhaustion. Eddie’s at my side as I read the artist his rights, the old-fashioned recorder whirring quietly.
‘Talk us through what happened this evening, Dean.’
His stained fingers splay across the table’s edge. ‘That’s obvious, isn’t it? I was working in the studio. Suzanne came to see me, terribly upset. She asked if she could stay at mine.’
‘She confessed to the murders?’
‘The kid told me yesterday.’ The artist’s gaze drops to the floor. ‘Laura had her own dreams to follow, but being left with her mother was more than Suzie could stand.’
‘What about Danny?’
‘Suzie hated him for taking her sister. Laura might have carried on protecting her, if Danny hadn’t tempted her away.’
‘Why did you pretend to be the killer?’
He gives a tired shrug. ‘I’ve got nothing to lose. Suzie’s just a young girl.’
I carry on interviewing him for another half-hour, but little fresh information emerges. The artist states that he hadn’t realised how much Laura and Suzanne were suffering. The older girl was too afraid of what Jenna might do to Suzie to tell the truth about her violence. He says little about Danny, face grave when I ask questions. Apparently, the boy had turned up at his studio unexpectedly, offered to model for payment. His feelings are unspoken, but the regret on his face is easy to read.
Eddie and I decide to sleep in Madron’s office, so we can take Suzanne and Dean over to Penzance on the Scillonian’s first crossing, but the only comforts available are a couple of blankets and the hard floor. Despite the rudimentary facilities, Eddie’s choirboy features blaze with excitement.
‘Why would a fourteen-year-old girl act like that?’ he says.
‘Push anyone too far and they’ll snap,’ I reply. ‘Violence was the norm in her house. When her mum beat her, there was no one she could tell.’
Eddie shakes his head. ‘It’s still hard to believe.’
I drift off to the sound of his voice, rehashing details, as if he’s trying to pinpoint the exact moment when we should have realised the child was at breaking point. The concrete floor and an overactive brain makes my sleep fitful. The first sound I hear when my eyes open is Eddie’s chatter, as if he’s been ranting all night on a continuous loop.
We spend the morning phoning ahead and completing arrest reports, before boarding the Scillonian at noon. Sleep deprivation makes it feel like time is slipping backwards, as we handcuff Dean and Suzanne to chairs in separate rooms below decks. When I leave Eddie to guard them, the same teenage brunette who served me weeks ago is standing behind the bar.
‘You again, Inspector Kitto,’ she says. ‘Where’s Shadow?’
‘He ran away.’
‘But he was so devoted to you.’ The girl looks concerned as she slides two coffees into my hands. ‘He’ll come back. Dogs are smarter than you’d think.’
My young assistant is out for the count when I return, slumped in his chair in the corridor. It’s a relief to digest the facts in silence, drinking first his coffee then mine. Dean Miller seems an unlikely hero, prepared to sacrifice his freedom for a young girl. It’s Suzanne’s actions that leave me reeling. She seemed like a vulnerable child, broken by her sister’s death. Her mother’s violence must have unhinged her, Matt’s unhappiness taking its toll as well. Storm clouds hang over the Atlantic when I look through a porthole, the sea one shade lighter than black, nothing like the slew of colour Dean Miller favours. Relief should be hitting me, but I’m still reckoning with the human damage to a single family. The mother will be sentenced for assaulting a minor, one daughter dead, the other arrested for double murder. My eyes fix on the horizon, longing for sight of dry land.
54
I expect to see Steve Hilliard and his sidekick on the quay when the Bryher Maid takes me home hours later. No official statement has been released about Suzanne, but they must know she’s been detained. With luck, they’ve chased the story back to the mainland, the island finally free of the rubbish they’ve been printing. The afternoon air feels heavy as I step off the boat and thank Arthur Penwithick. His buck-toothed smile makes me feel guilty about suspecting him and so many other islanders during the investigation. It’s Ray I feel worst about, the case making me doubt people I’ve respected all my life. It feels like lead weights are lining my pockets as I trudge to Rose Austell’s cottage.
When I arrive at Green Bay, the door to her cabin hangs open. She’s scrubbing stains from wooden furniture, trying to bleach away signs of the recent break-in. The smile she gives me is half relieved, half wary.
‘Why don’t we sit down, Rose? It’s time we had a talk.’
It takes patience, tenacity and repeated promises that Sam won’t be arrested before she tells her story. The details come slowly at first, then she gains confidence and her words flow like water breaking through a dam. Jay Curnow has been calling in favours from islanders
who owe him money. He expects people like Pete Moorcroft to do his dirty work, and help build his property portfolio, by fair means or foul. But the information Rose gives about the drug smugglers explains why she’s so afraid. I listen in silence as she describes their night-time visits in unlit boats, endless threats and abuse, the damage to her property.
‘They won’t disturb you again, Rose. A Latvian boat was caught last night, not far from shore. Green Bay will be patrolled until the rest of them are caught, but you still haven’t told me how Sam got involved.’
The wary look is back in her eyes. ‘He was too scared to refuse.’
It’s clear she has no intention of admitting that her son has been their runner for over a year, but her information should help the NCA track the drug boats’ circuitous route from Riga to the Scilly Isles’ deserted beaches. All I can hope is that Sam will benefit from rehab, instead of breaking his mother’s heart again. Jay Curnow’s coercion will be easier to stop. I’ll pay him a visit after Danny’s funeral, to remind him that threatening behaviour to extort a property sale is against the law.
My phone vibrates in my pocket once I return home, Madron’s voice jubilant.
‘Congratulations, Kitto. You seem to have a knack for being in the right place at the right time.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ It’s hard to muster much enthusiasm for an outcome that will condemn a fourteen-year-old girl to a long custodial sentence in a juvenile detention centre.
There’s a pause before he speaks again. ‘I should apologise. The case is the worst I’ve seen; my tone may have been too harsh on a few occasions.’
‘No offence taken, but it’s not over yet. I’m going back to Penzance tomorrow to interview Suzanne.’
‘Why not let the mainlanders do it? She’ll be needing psychiatric care.’
‘With respect, sir, the final interview should be mine.’
‘Stubborn as ever,’ he replies, sighing. ‘Have you heard I’m appointing a deputy?’
‘That’s news to me.’
‘It’s quiet here, compared to London, but you could fill the vacancy.’
His suggestion leaves me speechless. I’ve never considered coming home permanently, but an alternative future rolls out before me. I could slumber through a lifetime of neighbourhood policing, say goodbye to the stress of undercover work.
‘I’ve got commitments in London, sir.’
‘Think about it before you turn me down.’
He rings off before I can reply, leaving me amazed that after so many stand-offs, the DCI has offered me a job. It’s been thirty-six hours since I had any decent sleep, but my body’s still racing, excess adrenalin making me feel like I could run a marathon in record time. I should visit Maggie for a dose of common sense, but an idea is nagging at me. My only choice is to deal with it once and for all.
Nina takes so long to open the door of Gweal Cottage, I’m afraid she’s already left. Her expression’s neutral as she stands on the threshold; only the dog seems glad to see me, rubbing his muzzle across my palm.
‘Have you come for Shadow?’
‘Just to talk, Nina.’
She stands her ground. ‘I don’t want another argument, it’s too tiring.’
‘I agree. Just hear me out, that’s all I ask.’
Nina leads me to the living room, the air still tinged with smoke. Her calmness is missing for once, hands fidgeting at her sides, and I’m wishing I’d planned a better speech. I feel like a giant with nothing to say. Words clog my mouth, until I remember that she appreciates honesty.
‘Why not stay here with me, for a while? See how it goes.’
‘You’re going back to London soon, Ben.’
‘I’ll be here till spring at least. Now the case is over, things will be peaceful. I can show you the islands. You can relax and play your violin.’
‘That’s the longest speech you’ve given.’ There’s still no sign of a smile. ‘My parents are expecting me this weekend.’
‘Visit them, then come back.’
‘You’ve only known me a few weeks.’
‘Who cares?’
Laughter slips from her mouth. ‘You’re making this up as you go along.’
‘I know what I want, Nina. Let’s find out if it works.’
‘I’m not ready. You can see that, can’t you?’
‘You’ll recover better here.’ I keep my hand on her arm. ‘You like sleeping with me.’
‘I won’t deny it. Are you always this relentless?’
‘Only when I’m chasing something important.’
She takes a step backwards. ‘Let me think about it.’
‘How long do you need?’
‘I’ll let you know. Shadow can keep you company till then.’
The dog traipses after me with his tail between his legs, equally reluctant to be sent packing.
55
Rose finishes Sam’s room first. She has reattached his shelf to the wall, trophies pieced together with glue, stains scoured from the carpet. She will use her meagre savings to buy a new mattress for his bed, before he comes home from hospital. His health matters more than any of the possessions the smugglers destroyed. But when he returns, they must think hard about his future. The boy needs to recover fully and follow his dreams, even if that means leaving her behind.
She opens her front door to watch cold sunlight blessing Tresco’s fields, the calm water of the sound turning silver. For the first time in weeks, she can breathe easily, with pure air filling her lungs. After facing so many threats, she will not be forced from the island after all. When spring comes, she can search the beaches for badderlocks, laver and sweet tangle, without having to look over her shoulder. She will tend her bees when their long hibernation ends. Emotions rush at her as the light patterns change. She sheds a few quick tears for the dead girl and her boyfriend, their chances stolen before they reached full bloom. If she could pray, she would say a few words for them, but faith lies beyond her reach. Instead she shuts her eyes and imagines the island in high summer, when honeysuckle riots in the hedgerows, Atlantic terns floating overhead, children flying kites on the beach.
Rose feels calm again when she steps back inside her cottage, humming to herself as she puts her small empire to rights.
56
The DCI at Penzance station isn’t thrilled by my arrival the next day. She’s a stout brunette of indeterminate age, expression sour enough to curdle milk. Her lapel badge tells me she’s called Kathy Tremayne, but I doubt we’ll ever be on first-name terms.
‘You could have saved yourself a trip, Inspector.’
‘I’d like to hear her statement first hand.’
She gives a heartfelt sigh. ‘The girl’s in the interview room. Her entourage is ready and waiting.’
Suzanne is surrounded by the full battery of professional support: a young female solicitor, an advocate and a psychiatrist. Carers always flock round juvenile murderers, years too late, as if it was possible to reel back the damage. The girl is dressed in a pale grey tracksuit, looking younger than ever. Without make-up, she could be a nervous twelve-year-old rather than a teenager, her face shiny with anxiety. At first, she seems unwilling to answer my questions. When she finally meets my eye, her voice is little more than a whisper.
‘My sister said we’d always stay together, but she changed her mind.’
‘And you couldn’t accept that?’
‘Laura knew Mum hit me all the time, but she was leaving anyway.’ A spasm of rage crosses her face then vanishes again.
‘Can you tell me exactly what happened?’
She presses her hands to her cheeks. ‘When I heard her singing in her room that Sunday it was the final straw. She was so happy to be going, I knew she wouldn’t change her mind. So I followed her to the cliff the next morning, with Billy’s knife under my coat. I was going to threaten her, to make her stay, but she just stood there grinning. I saw her fall onto the rocks. The sea carried her away.’
‘And what ab
out afterwards?’
‘I couldn’t believe what I’d done. That night I went down to the beach and saw her lying on the sand.’
‘You bumped into Emma Horden there, didn’t you?’
‘How did you know?’
‘She’s got one of the earrings Laura was wearing when she died.’
‘I gave it to her, and told her to forget what she’d seen.’
‘Shock has made it stick in her mind, even though she remembers so little. It must have been her that attacked me on the beach, thinking I was the killer.’ I study the girl’s tear-stained face again. ‘Why did you leave me messages and start the fire?’
‘To keep you away. I thought it would scare you enough to stop you looking for me.’
‘How did you leave the house without your parents realising?’
‘They were too busy rowing to notice. I climbed down the drainpipe from my room, then let myself in the back way.’
‘What happened with Danny?’
‘I thought he’d guessed it was me, so I waited for him on the beach. That time the knife was from mum’s drawer, not the pub. I took the watch off his wrist and left it for you.’ Her voice has a sing-song quality, as if she’s reciting a lullaby.
‘You’ve just confessed to killing your sister and her boyfriend, Suzanne. Do you realise that?’
The girl doesn’t reply, tears dropping onto the pale fabric of her tracksuit bottoms, like heavy splashes of rain. I feel shell-shocked after the interview ends. Normally it takes hours to drag out a murder confession, but the girl needed just fifteen minutes to admit to crimes that could see her detained for decades.
Before leaving the station, I request a meeting with Suzanne’s psychiatrist, Dr Coren. He’s a small-framed man with an Einstein frizz of grey hair, brows lowering over intense black eyes. I can tell he’s uncomfortable, in case our discussion prejudices his report for the Home Office, but I’m longing for answers.
‘Is Suzanne suffering from a mental illness?’ I ask.
‘We’ll run the full battery of tests. She may have a dissociative illness like schizophrenia or bipolar disorder, but it’s likely to be situational.’