Pulpit Rock Read online

  Praise for

  KATE RHODES

  ‘A vividly realised protagonist whose complex and harrowing history rivals the central crime storyline’

  SOPHIE HANNAH

  ‘An absolute master of pace, plotting and character’

  ELLY GRIFFITHS

  ‘In Burnt Island, Kate Rhodes has cleverly blended a tense plot with a vivid sense of the raw, beautiful landscape of the Scilly Isles, and every character is a colourful creation’

  RACHEL ABBOTT

  ‘Both the plot and the writing keep one thoroughly engaged’

  DAILY MAIL

  ‘Expertly weaves a sense of place and character into a tense and intriguing story’

  METRO

  ‘Rhodes does a superb job of balancing a portrayal of a tiny community oppressed by secrets with an uplifting evocation of setting’

  SUNDAY EXPRESS

  ‘Kate Rhodes directs her cast of suspects with consummate skill, keeping us guessing right to the heartbreaking end’

  LOUISE CANDLISH

  ‘In Burnt Island, Kate Rhodes’ portrayals of island life are vivid; her landscapes deftly sketched. A tense thriller with pitch-perfect pace – I devoured it!’

  ISABEL ASHDOWN

  ‘One of the most absorbing books I’ve read in a long time – perfectly thrilling’

  MEL SHERRATT

  ‘Fast paced and harrowing, this gripping novel will leave you guessing until the end’

  BELLA

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  For Teresa Chris

  PART 1

  ‘If I must die,

  I will encounter darkness as a bride,

  And hug it in mine arms.’

  Measure for Measure (Act 3, Scene 1), William Shakespeare

  Saturday 3 August

  Sabine finishes her shift at midnight. She’s glad to serve her last drink, leaving the hotel guests lingering over their liqueurs, while the night porter replaces her behind the bar. The young woman slips outside into air scented by roses in the walled garden, their sweetness clashing with salt rising from the sea. When she looks back at the hotel, it’s easy to imagine how it looked five hundred years ago, its thick walls defending St Mary’s from invasion, the castle perched high above the shore. She crosses the grounds to the staff accommodation block at a rapid pace, but disappointment hits home when she gets there. No one is waiting for her; just the bare corridor, echoing her footsteps.

  Her mood lifts when she finds a note pushed under her door. It contains a message, scrawled in urgent red capitals:

  MEET ME AT THE LIGHTHOUSE.

  Sabine wastes no time changing into her favourite summer dress. The night is still warm when she takes one of the hotel’s bicycles from a rack by the entrance. Her happiness builds as she weaves through Hugh Town’s narrow streets, with the breeze tugging her dark hair from its ponytail. She’s imagining her university friends’ reactions, back home in Riga, when she tells them about the island’s beauty and her summer romances. The street lights fade as she pedals harder, her journey illuminated only by stars as she freewheels down to Peninnis Head. This part of the island has its own stark beauty, with a tumble of rocks strewn across deserted moorland, and the lighthouse blinking at the dark.

  She abandons the bike on the grass then stands still, absorbing the silence. This is her first moment alone since she ate breakfast with her friend Lily and the other hotel staff. The headland is the most romantic place on St Mary’s, cleansed by the Atlantic tide. Huge rock formations loom above the coastline, resembling the outlines of giants, but the scenery will be forgotten when her new man arrives. They’ll drink wine, or go skinny-dipping, then make love on the beach, like last time. She knows he’s a bad choice, but the attraction is too strong to ignore. Sabine closes her eyes to imagine him holding her, while the lighthouse casts its gleam across the ocean.

  Sabine is still dreaming when a voice whispers her name, in a tone she doesn’t recognise. Light sears her retinas when she opens her eyes.

  ‘Stop it,’ she laughs. ‘You’re blinding me.’

  There’s no reply before something hard batters against her head, then the glare fades and her thoughts splinter into silence. She’s barely conscious when her body is dragged across the moor.

  Sabine can’t tell how much time has passed when she comes round. There’s a dull pain in her temple, but no sense of panic. She knows nothing bad could happen on such a small island, yet when she tries to open her eyes, the darkness remains. Fabric has been bound tight around her waist, making it hard to breathe. There’s so little air in her lungs it feels like she’s drowning. She summons all her strength, but her arms fall useless at her sides, then a muffled voice hisses in her ear.

  ‘Keep still. You’re spoiling my work.’

  ‘Let me go, please. You’re hurting me.’

  ‘Be brave, sweetheart. Your hair needs to be beautiful for your big day.’

  A comb drags through her curls, like when her mother brushed her hair each morning before school, but these movements are savage, yanking the roots until her scalp burns. Sabine’s voice is shrill with pain when she cries for help, but the only reply is an ugly snarl of laughter.

  1

  Sunday 4 August

  It’s 9 a.m. when I reach my uncle’s boatyard on Bryher’s eastern coast. I can see the island of Tresco across New Grimsby Sound, green and shimmering in the early sunlight, and my newly varnished boat, moored to the jetty, filling me with pride. Ray designed it for me last spring, but I did all the joinery and hard labour. The bowrider is cut from prime cedar, twenty feet long. It took all my savings, spare time and annual leave from my job as Deputy Commander of the island police, but the result has been worth every back-breaking minute. I used it every day last month, the scorching summer heat turning my daily commute to St Mary’s into a pleasure. The boat is bobbing on the incoming tide, small and nimble, straining its mooring ropes for a new adventure.

  My dog appears when I step onto the jetty. He’s been missing from home since dawn, his tendency to run away just one of many bad habits. Shadow is a three-year-old Czechoslovakian wolfdog, full of restless energy, with a low boredom threshold. He chases ahead at the sight of Ray climbing on deck with a cardboard box in his hands. My uncle spent years at sea, before coming home to the Scillies to build boats. He’s in his sixties now, almost as tall as me, with the athletic build of a professional sailor, his thick grey hair ruffled by the breeze.

  ‘What are you putting in the hold?’ I call out.

  ‘Sandwiches and energy drinks; you’ll need them later. Three hours of open-water swimming is a strange way to spend your day off.’

  ‘I’m a born masochist.’

  ‘You must be.’ He straightens up to face me. ‘Have you chosen a name for your boat yet?’

  ‘I’m still thinking.’

  ‘Don’t wait forever, Ben. It’s bad luck to leave a vessel unnamed.’

  ‘I didn’t know you were superstitious.’

  ‘It’s you that should worry.’ He gives a slow-dawning smile. ‘She’s your boat, not mine.’

  ‘Can you steer while I put on my wetsuit?’

  Ray leans down to start the engine. Shadow is already standing on deck, sniffing the sea air. The dog’s glacial blue eyes give me a long stare, blaming me for the delay in casting off.

  ‘Strong currents this morning; you’ll have to swim hard a
round the headland.’ My uncle shouts to make himself heard above the engine’s noise as the boat edges into St Mary’s Sound. ‘How many of you are training today?’

  ‘Six, unless you fancy joining us?’

  ‘Not a chance in hell. You lot are gluttons for punishment.’

  ‘At least we’re getting fit.’

  The short journey unfolds in amicable silence. Sunlight glitters on the water as we pass Tresco’s western coast, where dinghies are moored in New Grimsby’s harbour, before the pale sand of Saffron Cove comes into view. Our pace quickens as the current drags us past the deserted island of Samson, where abandoned houses stand on the hillside, their roof tiles stolen by winter gales a century ago. Shadow seems to enjoy our sudden burst of speed. He’s standing on the boat’s prow with his paws on the rail, tongue lolling, his grey fur ruffled by the wind.

  The outline of St Mary’s fills the horizon as we sail due south. It’s the biggest island in Scilly, almost five miles long, and a metropolis compared to Bryher, where I was born. The island used to make its living from flower growing and fishing, but most people’s jobs depend on tourism now. Day trippers arrive by the thousand in summer, to admire the island’s archaeological sites and sunbathe in small coves overshadowed by granite cliffs. Its ragged coastline is closer now and I realise that my uncle was telling the truth; I must be crazy to enter the island swimathon for the first time. The brutal competition takes place every August; its route circles St Mary’s coastline, beginning with a noisy send-off from Hugh Town harbour. My small team has been training all summer, hoping to complete the circuit in less than five hours. There’s plenty of camaraderie right now, but when the starter’s whistle blows in two weeks’ time, we’ll take no prisoners.

  The spray is cool on my face as the boat passes Garrison Point, where the Star Castle peers down from its rocky promontory, and I’m already itching to be in the water. I’ve loved wild swimming since my childhood. I know its dangers, yet I’m still keen to dive in when we reach Porthcressa Bay. The beach is one of the prettiest on St Mary’s. Its wide horseshoe of sand will soon be scattered with tourists, tanning themselves mahogany, or drinking cappuccinos in the café that overlooks the shore. Right now it’s deserted apart from four other swimmers, pulling on goggles and doing warm-up routines.

  ‘Get moving then,’ Ray says. ‘It’s too shallow to moor.’

  ‘Hang on to my phone, can you? My whole life’s in there.’

  I drop the mobile into my uncle’s hand then plunge into the water. The Atlantic chill bites hard, even though this summer is shaping up to be the hottest on record; the ocean’s saline tang fills my mouth, its thunder silencing every other sound. My carthorse build works to my advantage once I’m submerged. My movements are heavy and lumbering on land, but my strength proves useful as I swim for shore, enjoying the power behind each stroke. The swimmers waiting for me on the beach include two other police officers: my deputy, Sergeant Eddie Nickell, and our newest recruit, Constable Isla Tremayne. The other two men are Steve and Paul Keast, a pair of local farmers. The brothers are old friends of mine, in their thirties like me. We used to play rugby together and have met regularly for a pint since I returned to the islands. They could almost be twins, sharing the same lanky frame, messy brown hair and dark eyes, yet their personalities are chalk and cheese. Steve is two years older and a real extrovert, while Paul is dragged along in his brother’s slipstream. Both men are lifeboat volunteers, but Paul’s the weaker swimmer. He’ll need extra training sessions to help him over the finishing line.

  ‘Where’s Sabine?’ I call out. ‘Isn’t she coming?’

  ‘Stuck at work, I bet,’ Steve replies. ‘The hotels are packed.’

  The girl will be disappointed to miss our training. Sabine is only here for the summer, but she’s thrown herself into preparing for the race, swimming whenever she gets free time. Eddie looks like a blond-haired sixth former as he greets me, beaming with excitement about the challenge ahead. Isla Tremayne seems less enthusiastic. The local girl is twenty-one years old, a tomboy with an athletic build, black hair cut shorter than mine, with a serious air. She has worked hard from day one, but is still finding her feet. Isla observes every procedure then takes notes, like she’s cramming for an exam. I was surprised to see her name on the list of volunteers for the swimathon, but she’s got plenty of stamina, and tall waves don’t faze her whenever we hit a swell.

  ‘I’m on duty later. Maybe I’ll skip training and sunbathe instead,’ she says, her face deadpan.

  ‘No chance,’ Eddie replies.

  The young sergeant grabs her wrist, and the rest of us splash into the water behind them. At least the tide is in our favour, carrying us north as we leave the harbour’s protection. When I look back at the land, the coastal path unwinds like a thread of pale brown wool, separating the trees and wildflowers from the shore. Ray is sailing fifty metres behind as a safety measure, in case anyone runs into trouble during the two-hour swim to Pelistry Bay. The rescue boat allows me to focus on my own performance without worrying about the others. I concentrate on finding my rhythm, hands slicing through the water’s chill, but exhilaration only sets in when I’ve been swimming hard for ten minutes.

  The ocean sings in my ears and endorphins flood my system as we pass the black outline of Nicholl’s Rock, a stone cathedral rising from the sea. I’ve swum this stretch of coast so often, its inlets and crevices are imprinted on my memory. Ray knows the waters well enough to keep his distance. The seabed contains hidden spikes of basalt, sharp enough to rip a boat’s hull to shreds. The shore here is beautiful but vicious, covered with car-sized granite boulders.

  I concentrate on building my pace, shifting through the waves at a steady crawl, until my hamstrings burn. We’re heading for Dutchman’s Carn, a rocky outcrop that comes into view as the cliffs soar to my left. The rest of the team are lagging behind, except for Eddie. The sight of him thrashing through the water brings a smile to my face. My deputy would love to beat me, and he’s got a ten-year advantage, but I’ll use every trick in the book to stay in front. The lighthouse appears as I round Peninnis Head. Gulls are scrapping for food on the rocks below, their screams blending with the ocean’s noise.

  Someone is calling my name when I surface for a break. Ray waves at me from the boat, arms flailing like he’s performing semaphore. One of the other swimmers must be in trouble. But when I look back, they’re keeping pace. Eddie is ten metres away, followed closely by Isla and Steve, with Paul working hard to catch up. The boat is rising and falling with each breaker, but my uncle is intent on catching my attention. When he points at the shore I glimpse a pale outline against the black cliff face. It could be a kite tangled on the rocks, but when I swim closer my vision clears. The shape is swinging from left to right, slow and heavy as a pendulum. It looks like a doll dressed in white, suspended from a piece of string, with a swathe of fabric flailing in the wind.

  ‘A bloody suicide.’

  I hiss out the words, then yell for Eddie and Isla at the top of my voice. I cut through the water at my fastest pace, even though nothing is waiting for us, except the loneliest form of death.

  2

  Lily searches for her friend in the staff block at 10 a.m. She’s been hard at work for three hours already, changing beds and scouring toilets for today’s new arrivals. The hotel is so warm, a trickle of sweat runs down her backbone, but she’s got no complaints. Her job at the Star Castle has freed her from the misery of her past, providing a living wage and new friends. There’s a smile on the girl’s face when she trots down the corridor. Sabine should be back from her swim by now; there will be time for coffee and gossip before her break ends.

  The girl’s movements are tentative when she taps on her friend’s door. It’s still hard to believe that Sabine has singled her out. The older girl is beautiful and popular, yet she’s chosen Lily as her closest ally. Maybe it’s because they’re both outsiders. Lily moved to St Mary’s from Plymouth five years ago, and Sa
bine is a Latvian student, only here for the summer. When she knocks again, the door swings open, taking her by surprise. Her friend always keeps it locked, even though no one would steal anything here. Sabine says old habits die hard – burglaries happen often in her part of Riga.

  Lily is puzzled by what she sees. It doesn’t look like her friend slept in her room last night, the bed neatly made. Her uniform has been thrown across the back of a chair, her shoes abandoned in the corner. Sabine promised to meet her here, and she’s never let her down before. Maybe her mysterious new boyfriend is to blame. Lily is about to leave when she spots a scrap of paper on the floor, the bright red words catching her eye. Someone must have left it for Sabine, but who would invite her to meet him at the lighthouse at midnight?

  A ripple of shock runs through her when she reads the cryptic message again – the handwriting is familiar. She drops the note into her pocket in case anyone visits the room before Sabine returns. The management are obsessed by maintaining the hotel’s excellent reputation; they frown on staff keeping late hours, particularly if their work suffers. Lily is about to leave when she spots her friend’s bright pink phone, flashing with messages. One of the numbers on the screen belongs to Lily’s brother. It looks like Harry has been lying through his teeth. He put the note under Sabine’s door and sent her three texts yesterday. Her friend is probably with him now, planning to bunk off work. Anger makes her shove the phone into her pocket so she can hand it to Sabine this afternoon when her shift ends. There’s still no sign of her friend, the corridor empty. Lily’s heart is beating too fast when she pulls the door shut and hurries back to her room.

  3

  My eyes fix on the woman’s body dangling from Pulpit Rock as I scale the narrow path to the cliff top, her face covered by a white veil. The soles of my feet are raw from climbing the wall of basalt, but the pain doesn’t register. I’m more interested in why her life ended with so much drama. What kind of desperation made her leap into thin air? I’ve got no way of identifying her yet. My first task will be to haul her corpse back onto solid land. I stop for a moment at the top, looking around for potential witnesses. Peninnis Head is a stretch of moorland, covered in grass and heather, studded with boulders, but there are no walkers in sight. The island’s automated lighthouse stands on the highest peak, fifty metres away. It’s the only man-made object in sight, and its construction is basic, just a rotating lantern raised from the ground by a black metal frame. When I gaze down from the cliff’s edge, the crown of the woman’s head is visible, and her lace veil fluttering in the breeze. The crooked angle of her neck is so unnatural it must be broken.