Pulpit Rock Page 10
Hannah’s body has left an imprint on the sand when I return to the tideline, and droplets of blood smeared across a piece of granite, but the next tall wave carries them away.
18
I’ve already asked Lawrie Deane to warn the hotels to keep their guests safe, but I’ll have to be more specific. I want them to prioritise lone females, after the killer’s second attempt. Whoever hurt the German tourist has enough confidence to attack a hiker in broad daylight, so the risk level is on red alert. Hannah may have been spending so much time alone she had no knowledge that a woman had been killed when she set off on her hike. I stare up at Halangy Down as I kick the motorbike’s engine back into life. My brother and I played here sometimes at dusk when we were kids, pretending that the long shadows were ancient ghosts, flying down from hilltop graves to visit their old homes. The Bronze Age settlement is one of the biggest in Europe, its stone boundaries stretching as far as the eye can see.
Lawrie sounds annoyed when I call to check he’s managed to inform all female visitors who are renting holiday cottages not to spend time alone.
‘I’ve tried, boss, but people keep phoning in for news. They’re blocking the line.’
‘Work as fast as you can, Lawrie. I’m heading to the hospital now to check the victim’s okay.’
His sigh echoes in my ear. ‘I’ve phoned one number six times. The lady’s staying in Watermill Cottage.’
‘I can drop by there now. What’s her name?’
‘Nina Jackson.’
Irritation runs through me as I say goodbye. It’s my professional duty to visit her, but I’d rather avoid it. Our last proper conversation was when she sailed back to the mainland, without giving our relationship time to develop. My teeth are gritted as I ride east along Watermill Lane at 6 p.m., hoping today’s meeting will be the last time we clap eyes on each other before she goes home. The surroundings are beautiful, with elm trees forming a leafy archway over the road at Trenoweth, but even the picturesque scenery fails to improve my mood. I’m still scowling as I follow the track down to one of the island’s loveliest coves.
Watermill Cottage stands alone at the end of a fishermen’s track down to the shore. The traditional two-storey property is built from local stone, with storm shutters to protect it from winter gales. It would only appeal to someone who loves their own company, but its charm is obvious. I can see the Eastern Isles beyond Crow Sound, and the peaks of St Martin’s and Tresco shimmering in the distance. I’m taking off my crash helmet when Nina calls out to me.
‘The view’s not bad, is it?’
She’s standing in the porch. Her brown hair is longer than before, glinting in the sun. It skims her shoulders as she steps towards me, no trace of make-up on her olive skin. Her summer dress stops mid-thigh, exposing long tanned legs, and bare feet. Looking at her leaves me speechless. Suddenly I’m painfully aware that my clothes are dirty, my hair still wet from its recent soaking. She always wrongfoots me, like a sucker punch, arriving out of the blue. Nina assesses me calmly before speaking again.
‘You still look like more like a wild Cornish smuggler than a cop.’
‘I can’t see why. My ancestors were law-abiding fishermen, for five generations,’ I say, taking care to keep my distance. ‘Were you planning to avoid me all week, Nina?’
‘I knew our paths would cross sometime.’ Her voice is slightly husky, as if she’s just downed a glass of cognac.
‘I’m surprised you came back.’
‘The landscape’s hard to forget. Like I said, I meant to call, but you’re busy right now.’
‘Another woman was attacked this afternoon. Why didn’t you answer your phone?’
‘I was swimming.’ Her amber-coloured eyes show concern, but no sign of panic. ‘Is she okay?’
‘I’m going to the hospital now to check.’
‘Have a cold drink first – this heat’s punishing.’
My plan to keep our meeting brief founders when I enter the cottage. Large windows flood the rooms with light, and the air smells of her perfume; jasmine, sea salt and musk. It makes me keen to escape, before memories carry me in the wrong direction. Nina has made herself at home already, with a Jane Austen novel lying on her sofa, her violin case propped against the wall. I can see a single deckchair on the patio through the open window, proving that she travelled here alone, still happier with solitude than intimacy. Nina keeps her back turned when she opens the fridge and pours juice from a pitcher. I remain on my feet when she passes me a glass, the iced liquid chilling my throat. A pile of books is stacked on the kitchen table, with their titles on display: Person Centred Counselling; The Drama of Childhood; Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.
‘Are these yours?’
She smiles before replying. ‘I’m training to be a counsellor; there’s an assessment coming up soon.’
‘Another career change.’ I set the empty glass down on her table. ‘This place is too isolated, Nina. You should stay in town until the killer’s found.’
‘I’ll be fine here, the owners have lent me their car.’
‘You’re still vulnerable.’
She points at the double-glazed windows. ‘I can lock myself in at night. The place is like Fort Knox.’
‘Nothing’s changed, has it? You never accept help.’
‘I’m leaving on Sunday. I’ll stay safe until then, I promise.’
I’d forgotten her stubborn independence, and how unmoved she is by the idea of danger. Her strength attracted me back then, but now it only causes frustration as I head for the door.
‘It’s going on record that you ignored my request.’
Her expression remains neutral. ‘Come back another time, Ben. If you want to catch up.’
I don’t bother to say goodbye before putting on my crash helmet. Nina’s straight-backed defiance used to fascinate me, but today it only worsens my bad mood. I drive away with irritation swilling around in my gut. The clock seems to be spinning backwards, when my focus should be on the present.
It’s a relief to see the white outline of the hospital looming into view, but the receptionist looks distracted when she instructs me to take a seat. I wait in the corridor, checking messages from the station on my phone, until Ginny Tremayne appears. Her curly grey hair is caught in an untidy bun, a clutch of biros fighting for space in the pocket of her white coat. Isla’s mother treats everyone that sets foot inside her hospital the same way, doling out kindness with each dose of medicine. I’m glad she’s the duty doctor today; the attack victim is in safe hands, but her smile is slow to arrive.
‘Hannah was nauseous and unresponsive when she arrived. That’s a bad sign with head wounds.’
‘I thought she was recovering.’
‘Concussion’s unpredictable, Ben. One minute the patient’s chatting to you, the next they’re fighting for their life.’ Ginny examines me over the top of her glasses. ‘Do you know Hannah’s last name? I want to check her medical records.’
‘I’ll find out and let you know. What happens now?’
‘She’s in a coma; the condition can last a long time in cases like this. If the swelling on her brain reduces we can airlift her to the trauma unit in Penzance.’
I let the bad news sink in, but another thought rises to the surface, after my conversation with Eddie. ‘I meant to ask for some more details about how you and Isla spent Saturday night.’
‘I told you on the phone.’ She looks surprised by the sudden change of subject. ‘We watched The Notebook on Netflix, ate too much popcorn and chilled out.’
‘And after that?’
‘Isla went out for a last look at the sea; it’s a ritual of hers. I went to bed around eleven and fell asleep straight away.’
‘Did you hear her come back?’
‘I can’t actually remember. Does that matter?’
‘We have to account for everyone’s precise movements, the night Sabine died, including my own team.’ It occurs to me that Isla could have driven to the ligh
thouse, without her mother realising; there’s no hard proof that she’s innocent of attacking Sabine for failing to return her interest. Her mother seems unaware of the suspicions flitting through my mind.
‘By the way, thanks for encouraging Isla to open up. I’ve known she was gay for years, but she needed to say it in her own words.’
‘I’m glad it helped.’
Ginny’s relaxed smile makes me wonder how she would feel if she knew Isla had slept with the murder victim, and may have to be excluded from the case.
‘Can I see the patient now?’
Hannah is struggling to breathe when I enter her room; her features look as fragile as spun glass behind her oxygen mask. The bleakness of her situation hits me for the first time. The killer has chosen another lone female, with no one to sit at her bedside. Instinct makes me touch her hand, until something catches my eye. He didn’t have time to complete his elaborate wedding ritual, but still left his calling card. The gold band on Hannah’s ring finger matches Sabine’s. The woman’s eyelids don’t even flutter when I say her name, her hand limp in mine. I can only hope she’s got the strength to pull through, or the killer will claim his second bride.
PART 2
‘And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling – my darling – my life and my bride,
In her sepulchre there by the sea –
In her tomb by the sounding sea.’
‘Annabel Lee’, Edgar Allan Poe
19
Lily is on her hands and knees when evening comes, scrubbing the kitchen floor of her old home. She does it to honour her mother’s memory, not for Harry’s sake. The physical labour brings no peace, her mind still overloaded. She’s on tenterhooks when her brother finally traipses through the door. He’s sober, at least; there’s no sign of the glint in his eye that signals danger.
‘You live like a pig, Harry.’
‘Don’t nag, please. I can’t take it today.’ His voice is gentler than before. He looks exhausted, and afraid of something he won’t name.
‘What’s got you so scared?’
‘Nothing, I slept badly last night, that’s all.’
She rises to her feet then hands him the Polaroid of Sabine. ‘Why was this in your jacket pocket?’
‘You shouldn’t poke through my things.’
‘I wasn’t. It fell on the floor.’
Harry’s expression darkens when she gives him Sabine’s photo. He holds it gingerly between his fingertips, like its surface is caustic. ‘I didn’t take it.’
‘You’ve got a Polaroid camera, haven’t you?’
‘It broke, years ago.’
Lily grabs his wrist, forcing him to meet her gaze. ‘Sabine’s dead, Harry. You were seeing her. Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘It only started a fortnight ago. She didn’t want to spoil your friendship if it didn’t work out. Look, I know I said yesterday it didn’t mean anything, but I cared about her, Lily. I wanted to visit her in Riga.’
‘Explain what’s happened, then.’
‘Someone posted that photo through the door, with my name on the envelope.’ He gives her a look of dry-eyed misery. She hasn’t seen him cry for years. He even sat through their mother’s funeral without shedding a tear. ‘I keep thinking about that car I saw by Pulpit Rock. Maybe it belonged to the killer. It was an SUV, but I can’t remember the colour. I’ve been looking for it everywhere.’
‘You can’t go hunting for him – you might get hurt. Why not tell the police?’
‘They’d arrest me. I get blamed for everything, but I’d never hurt a woman. You know that, don’t you?’
‘You’ve used your fists plenty of times outside the Mermaid.’
He gazes down at his hands. ‘I’m sorry, all right? Dad’s blood is in my veins. It’s a problem I can’t fix, but I promise you, I never harmed her.’
‘You saw something at Pulpit Rock, didn’t you? That’s why you hit the booze again, before anyone else knew she was dead.’
‘I was drunk by the time I got there, like I told you. I can’t remember anything, except seeing the SUV driving away.’ Harry collapses forward in his seat, head bowed over his knees. ‘I can’t go to prison again. It would kill me.’
Sympathy floods Lily’s system, yet she can’t trust him. After so many false promises about staying sober, his innocence doesn’t ring true.
20
The Cornish Constabulary’s decision about Isla staying in the investigation team appears on my phone at 7 p.m., before I leave the hospital. The email states that she can serve on the case, if I provide a statement confirming her innocence. I still want to know what happened after her mother went to bed, the night Sabine died, but Isla’s behaviour so far appears innocent. She was out on foot patrol when Hannah got hurt, so she can’t be linked to the attack, which will give me leverage next time I speak to Madron. If it seems like a fait accompli, the DCI is more likely to give his blessing.
The sun is setting as I head off for Juliet’s Garden on the motorbike. People are relaxing in deckchairs on Porth Mellon beach, kids building their final sandcastles before bedtime, as if the island were one big playground. I ride past the Keast brothers’ farm in Porthloo, where one of my friends is opening the doors to their barn. It could be either Steve or Paul as the dusk thickens, the lanky figure offering a wave as I pass.
Juliet’s Garden is a cluster of whitewashed cottages perched on high ground, just south of Carn Morval. Juliet May has lavished plenty of time and money on renovating the old fishermen’s homes as holiday rentals, and creating a restaurant that guests flock to all summer long. One of the staff unlocks Hannah’s rented cottage for me. The place is tidy, apart from the bedroom, where slippers lie abandoned on the floor, newspapers and books strewn across the dressing table. Hannah appears to be travelling light, with few clothes in her wardrobe, except shorts, jeans and T-shirts. I find her travel documents stashed inside a small suitcase. Her full name is Hannah Weber, a native German born in Berlin.
I ring the information through to the hospital, but the woman’s papers give little new information. She’s a journalist, marital status single. Hannah Weber’s printed itinerary shows that she travelled overland through France, before touring the UK. The Isles of Scilly were meant to be her last stop before returning home. The only other item of interest is a journal, containing handwritten notes, but my German is limited to the days of the week, and how to order beer. It could be a diary or a travelogue. I take it with me, hoping someone can translate the last few pages to see if they reveal her attacker’s identity.
I check the grounds carefully before leaving. The cottage has a fine view of Hugh Town beach, where lights are flicking on in the fishermen’s cottages. The deserted island of Samson lies to the west, with Tresco’s hills a black outline on the horizon. I use my torch to scan the ground outside the cottage. The coastal path runs straight past it, shrouded by trees. Hannah’s attacker could have hidden there unseen, free to track her movements without raising suspicion. Frustration nags at me when I kick-start the bike’s engine again. The killer seems to have a problem with independent female travellers. Vicious attacks on women are normally sexual, but neither victim was molested; the only common denominator is that they’re both travelling alone, with no plans to stay in Scilly permanently. The Cornish gold wedding rings forced onto each woman’s hand is the killer’s way of claiming them.
The station is still humming with activity when I get back. Sabine’s death has galvanised the whole team; no one seems prepared to leave the building while there are tasks to complete. Isla and Eddie are busy tapping information into their laptops. Even Lawrie Deane is doing overtime: he’s bowed over his desk, despite his normal tendency to exit the building on the stroke of 5 p.m. I can tell the evening’s sticky heat is bothering him, beads of perspiration erupting on his pasty skin, even though the electric fan is working at full blast. The sergeant’s breathing is laboured when he hands over a new batch of
witness reports. His expression only comes to life when I tell him that a translator is needed, to interpret Hannah Weber’s notes.
‘Didn’t you spend time in Germany as a kid, when your dad was in the army?’ Eddie asks him.
Deane gives a slow nod. ‘We lived there for five years; I was pretty fluent by the time we came home.’
‘Could you take a look?’ I ask.
‘I’m rusty, but I’ll give it a go.’
The sergeant pores over the notebook, frowning with concentration. He reads out a couple of sentences with a perfect German accent. ‘She’s writing about travelling alone through Europe. It’s mainly about places she’s visited, and whether she’s made welcome. She’s a freelance reporter for Der Spiegel.’
‘Does she mention anyone hassling her?’
‘Not a dicky bird.’ He flicks through to the final page. ‘Hang on though, she says a stranger approached her yesterday, near Toll’s Island. He made her so uneasy she was glad to get away.’
‘Does she say anything else about him?’
He shakes his head. ‘Only that she was scared.’
‘That’s a good start, Lawrie. I had no idea you were a linguist.’
‘I can try and translate it all if you want.’
Deane’s triumphant expression makes me feel guilty. I’ve pigeonholed him as a jobsworth with narrow horizons until now; he may have travelled the world in a dugout canoe, but I’ve been too blinkered to notice. He’s discovered far more than the rest of us about the day before Hannah Weber’s attack.