Hell Bay Page 14

  ‘Who was I kidding, anyway? My voice is crap these days, it’s years since I practised regularly.’

  ‘Tell me what’s happened.’

  ‘One of the entertainment agencies turned me down. Maybe I should forget singing and stick to being a hotelier.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid. They’ve just got shit taste.’

  She gives a narrow smile. ‘Thanks for the confidence boost, big man.’

  ‘Look, there’s something I should check, but I’ll come back. We can talk about it later.’

  ‘You’ll be too busy.’ Zoe turns to face me. ‘Can you even remember the last time we got pissed and lay on the floor, telling bad jokes?’

  ‘Tonight, I promise.’

  ‘Be here by ten and all is forgiven.’

  She’s already rallying by the time I leave, reminding me why I admire her. Zoe’s childhood dreams have been dealt a hammer blow, but after five minutes of self-doubt she’s hurrying back to work, her trademark smile firmly in place.

  I give Eddie a brief explanation at the community hall, then he sets to work checking the Hordens’ bank accounts, while I read an email from Alan Madron. The DCI’s terse message advises me not to upset the victim’s family again. I roll my eyes. The man doesn’t seem to realise that ruffling a few feathers to reach the truth is an occupational hazard.

  ‘The Hordens couldn’t have given Laura much cash,’ Eddie pipes up. ‘They’re scraping by on tiny pensions.’

  His computer screen proves that my old teacher and his wife are virtually penniless, so the mystery of Laura’s two thousand pounds remains unresolved. I spend the rest of the afternoon writing up witness reports and arranging a press conference for tomorrow, but neither Eddie nor I can understand how Laura Trescothick’s earring ended up in Emma Horden’s bowl of treasures.

  By the time I head back to the cottage, frustration and hunger are burning a hole in my gut, the dog bounding across the beach after going AWOL all afternoon. His barks graduate to a full-blown howl as I open the door. In the kitchen, I empty a can of food into his dish and watch him dig in. Maggie appears in the doorway while the dog gorges himself, dressed in a bright yellow windcheater and carrying a wicker basket.

  ‘How did you know I was starving?’

  ‘Sixth sense. Plus, I wanted to check you’re okay. I’ve brought lasagne, salad and chocolate fudge cake, courtesy of Billy.’

  ‘My love for you grows stronger every day.’

  ‘Odd how food affects men that way. Got anything to drink with this?’

  ‘Coke?’

  She wrinkles her nose. ‘I’d rather hang onto my teeth, thanks. Let’s have tap water.’ Maggie pushes back her cloud of grey curls, nut-brown eyes scrutinising me. ‘Give me details, Ben. Rumours are flying.’

  I swallow a mouthful of pasta. ‘It’s all speculative so far.’

  ‘But you’ve arrested Sam Austell?’

  ‘Who told you that? He needs to recover before we can interview him.’

  ‘Rose is on the warpath. The hospital say she can’t visit yet; she came to see me, ranting about injustice.’

  I rub my hand across the back of my neck. ‘I’ll drop by her cabin tomorrow.’

  ‘You seriously think her boy attacked Laura?’ Her face is expectant.

  ‘Stop it, Maggie. You know I can’t give details.’

  ‘There’s something else I’d like to know.’ She narrows her eyes at me. ‘A little bird tells me you spent the night with Nina.’

  ‘For God’s sake, I only spent a few hours at her cottage.’

  ‘The island thrives on gossip, my love. You know that.’

  ‘Nothing happened.’

  Her shrewd gaze fixes on me. ‘Pity, she could use some affection. I can’t see why such a beautiful girl’s alone, or you for that matter.’

  ‘Maybe we’re built that way.’

  ‘Some bastard left her high and dry, I’ll bet.’ She studies me again. ‘It’s good you’re spending time together.’

  Maggie covers a lot of ground in the half-hour it takes to finish our meal. She informs me that Billy is planning to move into her flat; they’re tired of running two homes. Hugging her goodbye is like embracing a robin, her small form fluttering in my arms, system revving for her next task. After she leaves I stare out of the window. The hotel glitters on the horizon, like Christmas decorations strewn across the beach, incongruously cheerful. Part of me wishes I’d never begged to run the investigation, but watching someone else flounder would have felt even worse. When I look at the sea again, the waves are smaller than before, the tide retreating from the land. The water has been my worst enemy so far, washing away evidence from Laura’s body, leaving little behind except my suspicion that her killer was close enough to watch her movements for a long time. He knew exactly where to find her, his face so familiar that she didn’t even run when he brandished a knife. Under normal circumstances, a surveillance team would keep track of Matt Trescothick and Danny Curnow’s movements, until the truth emerges, but no such luxuries are available here. When I turn back to the table, I feel sure that a vital piece is missing from the puzzle. I switch on my computer and check the islanders’ statements again, until my eyes start to blur.

  22

  When I arrive at Zoe’s flat at ten, she’s pouring tequila into shot glasses misted with ice, the Kaiser Chiefs belting out the loud, old-fashioned rock we loved when we were in our teens. Shadow bounds across the room to greet her, with far more affection than he ever shows me.

  ‘Here’s to drowning our sorrows,’ she says, pressing a glass into my hand.

  ‘I haven’t got any.’

  She snorts out a laugh. ‘You’re burying them in work, sunshine. Keeping busy lets you off the hook.’

  ‘When did you become a psychiatrist?’

  ‘Tell me why you came home, then I’ll stop nagging.’

  ‘I’m not in a talkative mood.’

  ‘Dance then, for fuck’s sake, and let off some steam.’

  ‘This is your front room, Zoe, not a nightclub.’

  She grabs my hand anyway, and the combination of raw booze, good music and her goading makes me revert to type. I loved dancing with her as a kid, even though I lumbered like a carthorse, while she was a picture of lithe grace. Three of our favourite numbers pass before we collapse back onto the sofa, laughing like fools. The release of adrenalin makes the conversation flow easily again for the next few hours. She tells me that she plans to keep on singing, despite today’s rejection.

  ‘I can’t let the bastards grind me down.’

  ‘You wanted to be Blondie when we were at school, like you could turn the clock back forty years. Do you remember?’

  ‘I prefer Madeleine Peyroux these days.’

  ‘Your voice is way better.’

  She looks amused. ‘Why can’t I fancy you, Ben? You’re ideal boyfriend material.’

  ‘You missed your chance in year eight.’ The brutal crush I had on her at thirteen is common knowledge. Luckily, it passed in weeks and our friendship resumed, unscathed.

  ‘That’s true,’ she replies, her voice starting to slur. ‘What do you want from life anyway, big man?’

  Her expression is suddenly so serious I end up fumbling for the truth. ‘Love and happiness, I suppose, just like everyone else.’

  ‘That formula hasn’t worked for me.’ She slides her empty glass back across the table. ‘I’d like a kid before I’m too old to enjoy it, but my relationships never work. I’ll have to find another way.’

  ‘Time for bed, kiddo. You’ve stopped making sense.’

  It’s the early hours when I haul her to her feet and lead her to her bedroom. She’s too drunk to be left alone, but when I peer into her spare room, the bed is piled with boxes full of vinyl – jazz albums struggling for space alongside Emeli Sandé and Pharrell Williams. My only option is to use her sofa, but it’s a losing battle. It’s one of those shiny leather deals, so overstuffed that even my fourteen-stone weight fails to
make a dent.

  In the morning, my bones ache from head to toe. Shadow must have grown cold in the night, because he’s stretched across my chest like a canine duvet, whimpering in protest when I nudge him onto the floor. It crosses my mind that I’ll be having dinner with Nina Jackson tonight. The idea of seeing her again lifts my spirits, but Zoe’s moans seep through the wall around 7 a.m., so I make coffee and carry it through to her room. We sit in bed to drink it, with backs against the headboard. The view reminds me of her conflict of interest. Singing may be her passion, but she loves it here too much to leave; miles of uncluttered ocean spilling across the beach.

  ‘Christ, I’m a lightweight. I used to be able to hold my booze, back in the day.’ She turns to study me. ‘You look even worse than me.’

  ‘The case kept me awake. You knew Laura pretty well, Zoe. Who did she trust most?’

  ‘Get to know Dean Miller, he’s the island’s Pied Piper. Adults give him a wide berth, but kids always seek him out.’

  Shadow sprints across the beach with his usual joie de vivre when I take him back to the cottage. Zoe’s words stick in my mind, because they chime with Dean Miller’s claims when Eddie and I visited him, but my promise to go and see Rose Austell has to be fulfilled.

  Once the dog is safely locked indoors, I head inland, passing the natural swimming pool that islanders use at the end of summer, fed by the run-off from Gweal Hill. It stays warm long after the sea cools, flanked by tall rocks that are ideal for diving. I stand at the edge, staring at the weeds choking its surface, wishing for those childhood days when my only concern was summer-holiday boredom. There’s no sign of Rose when I reach Green Bay. Knowing her tendency to shun visitors, I crouch down and call through the letter box, promising to take her to the mainland today to see her son, and telling her to meet on the quay at noon. My only reply is a muffled curse in the distance, but I’m certain she heard, so I straighten up again and head for the old schoolhouse.

  Dean Miller appears as soon as I arrive. He’s wearing frayed overalls and clutches a box of paints, his oddly boyish eyes peering at me. Up close, he looks tired, deep lines marking his skin.

  ‘You’re up early, Dean.’

  ‘Best time of day for painting.’ He nods at the sky. ‘The light’s at its clearest.’

  ‘Can I speak to you about Laura?’

  ‘I’ve got another visitor, but that won’t matter.’ He sets off towards his studio before I can ask who arrived before me.

  Dean’s workspace stands at the end of his overgrown garden, a crude wooden building with skylights cut into the ceiling, a heater in the corner releasing paraffin fumes. A slim figure is hunched by the window. Suzanne Trescothick looks startled to see me, the young girl scrambling to her feet.

  ‘There’s no need to leave, Suzie,’ Miller tells her.

  ‘I should go,’ she says quietly. ‘Dad’ll be expecting me home.’

  The girl slips through the door before I can say a word, but her haunted expression lingers in my mind. It intrigues me that she chose Miller’s studio as her sanctuary, despite the man’s offhand manner. He’s busy poking through brushes scattered over his workbench, as if her quick departure leaves him unconcerned. The walls are covered with seascapes that are too garish for my taste. One of the paintings is two metres wide, waves crashing to the shore in a frenzy of colour.

  ‘Is that your favourite?’ He turns to face me.

  ‘It’s dramatic, that’s for sure.’

  ‘You hate it, I can tell. Don’t you go to exhibitions?’

  ‘Not often. I can’t see why anyone would pay millions for a Picasso.’

  ‘Proud to be a philistine?’

  ‘Books are my thing, not art. If I was rich I’d collect signed first editions.’ I turn in his direction again. ‘Do you exhibit your work much?’

  ‘There’s no need. I’ve got loyal patrons in the States.’

  Dean returns his attention to his easel. I can see why Laura loved it here; bebop jazz drifting from the stereo, sun beaming through the skylights and the glamour of watching something emerge from nothing. Pale grey lines are threading across Miller’s empty canvas already, as if he’s sketching ghosts.

  ‘Laura was fascinated by you. She said so, in one of her letters.’

  His hand jerks back from the painting, but his eyes stay focused. ‘Kids are easy to impress. She imagined I knew something about the world.’

  ‘She must have confided in you, Dean.’

  ‘Not really. She asked questions mainly, about old-time movie stars.’

  ‘And told you her secrets?’

  ‘Only her escape plans. She wanted to hitchhike down the west coast of America with Danny, when she finished college. Then they’d be actors in LA, and make a fortune. Easy as one, two, three.’ Behind the cynicism, his tone is mournful. ‘She worked hard to get that boy; we planned her campaign together.’

  ‘Dozens of love letters?’

  ‘The direct approach works wonders.’

  I visualise the envelopes on my kitchen table, packed with dreams and fantasies, hundreds of tender words. ‘Why did Suzie come here this morning?’

  He carries on sketching. ‘To escape from reality for a while, I imagine.’

  ‘Can I see your paintings of Laura?’

  ‘Feel free. Two unfinished ones are over there.’

  He points at a pile of canvases propped against the wall. Most are his usual brash seascapes, but two smaller ones are hidden at the back, a couple of feet square. The images are stark enough to make my jaw drop. In the first, Laura stands naked in a pale blue room, her frame small as a child’s, arms outstretched like she’s begging for an embrace. Her gaze is so hard-eyed, I feel obliged to look away. The other one is even more disturbing. Sprawled on her back, one arm covers her breasts, the image graphic as a centrefold. When I stand up again, Dean is wearing a narrow smile.

  ‘More to your taste, Inspector?’

  ‘Do her parents know you painted her like this?’

  He rolls his eyes. ‘Laura was at ease with her body. That’s why she’d have made a fine actor.’

  ‘I’m surprised she agreed to it.’

  ‘She always had a chaperone. Suzie came with her most times; I guess that’s why the kid keeps coming back here. Those two were never apart. She sat in the corner, doing schoolwork while Laura modelled for me.’

  ‘Did you pay her?’

  ‘Fifty quid a pop. She did five or six sittings.’ He looks at the paintings again, expression closed. ‘I’ll never finish them now. I may as well burn them.’

  ‘Were you in love with her?’

  His strident laughter ricochets from the walls. ‘I’ve never slept with a woman in my life. You’re more my type: tall, broad-shouldered, butch. I have to travel to the mainland for guys like you.’

  I stand my ground, even though his stare feels invasive. ‘Life here must get lonely sometimes.’

  ‘No one makes judgements, that’s why I stay.’

  ‘Laura must have spoken to you, Dean. She came here dozens of times. You’re protecting her killer by keeping the information to yourself.’

  ‘I told you before, I’ve got nothing to say.’

  The expression in his eyes is suddenly so hostile that I wonder if I’ve misjudged him as a harmless eccentric. Maggie may have been right about his loneliness souring into a toxic force. I feel certain that he and Suzie Trescothick could fill in some of the gaps about Laura’s death, but they prefer silence. Dean returns to his painting, releasing a frenzy of brushstrokes onto the canvas as Dizzy Gillespie’s trumpet soars. I take one last look at Laura’s face before leaving – defiantly young and beautiful, as if nothing could get in her way.

  23

  Shadow trots peacefully at my side until we reach the community hall. Then he cowers behind me, releasing a series of loud barks, until a figure in dark jeans and a waterproof jacket emerges into view. Jim Helyer keeps his distance while the dog continues to howl.

  �
�Calm down,’ I mutter, grabbing Shadow’s collar. ‘Go inside, Jim. He’s having a mad half-hour.’ I crouch beside the dog, looking into his colourless eyes. ‘What’s your problem? Stay outside and keep out of trouble.’

  The dog’s odd behaviour continues; he loiters in the porch, instead of doing his usual vanishing act. When I get inside, Jim is making stilted conversation with Eddie.

  ‘Recovered from your migraine?’ I ask.

  ‘It was a blinder. All I can do when one hits is lie down in a dark room . . .’

  His voice tails into silence as the Dictaphone whirs. I’ve set aside my discomfort about interviewing my old friend over the girl’s murder, but I know it won’t be easy. The best way to make him talk is to stay quiet, forcing him to share his thoughts, while Eddie scribbles on his notepad.

  ‘Tell us about Laura Trescothick, Jim. Begin wherever you like.’

  The request makes him shift awkwardly in his seat, fingers toying with the cuffs of his frayed work shirt. When I study my friend objectively for the first time in years, I see that he’s on the cusp of middle age, tension apparent in his body language, his wind-blown hair as ragged as a scarecrow’s.

  ‘It started last winter.’ He rubs his temple hard, like he’s trying to dislodge a bad idea. ‘She turned into this perfect beauty, pure and uncomplicated. I know it sounds crazy, but I didn’t even care that she had a boyfriend. She was in my head all the time.’

  ‘When did you tell her how you felt?’

  ‘Christmas time. Angie had gone to the pub to meet friends, and I waited at the house for Laura. I tried to kiss her, but she slapped my face. She wouldn’t let me explain.’ He hunches forward, gazing down at his hands. ‘Laura was right to push me away. It did us all a favour.’

  ‘You must have hated her for rejecting you.’

  ‘I deserved it. What kind of creep comes onto a girl half their age? She probably saw me as some sort of pervert.’

  ‘Were you afraid she’d tell Angie?’ I ask. ‘They worked together, after all.’