Pulpit Rock Read online

  Deane thumbs through his notes before replying. ‘Twenty-three, but some are already staying with relatives or friends.’

  ‘Visit the rest, please, and don’t take no for an answer.’

  ‘What if they refuse?’

  ‘Apply the protective custody law, for their own safety.’

  Deane looks concerned when he and Isla prepare to leave. The islanders tend to be fiercely independent, after years of fending for themselves. Some women may argue to remain at home, but Jade Finbury’s disappearance shows we can’t take risks. After they’ve gone I glance through the window into the backyard, seeing only bare concrete, and the patch of sunlight where Shadow used to bask. It crosses my mind that the person we’re looking for may have taken my dog to send me a brutal message. The creature’s fate matters less than finding Jade Finbury, yet he stays in my mind. The idea that he’s lost for good lodges there like a burr that can’t be removed.

  I call Frank Rawle to ask him to escort Liz Gannick to Kernick’s flat, then keep watch outside. My old headmaster reports for duty five minutes later, a smile bringing his hard-boned features to life, his rarely used uniform immaculate. He seems overjoyed to be involved in the case at last, his assistance allowing me and Eddie to head for the quay immediately. Under normal circumstances I don’t mind my deputy’s constant chatter, but today I need time to think. There must be a common link between Sabine Bertans, Hannah Weber and Jade Finbury. The women are aged between nineteen and thirty-four, confident enough to travel the world and pursue their ambitions. But why would the killer target them for being independent? I need to understand why the Cornish wedding rings and gold lockets St Mary’s fishermen gave to their wives are being left on the victims’ bodies. I still believe his calling cards could unlock his motives. There’s no way he’s just an opportunist; there’s always a common theme when a serial killer goes to work.

  The dockside is normally full of people waiting for the small ferries that ply back and forth between the islands, taking visitors to Tresco’s Abbey Gardens or the unspoiled beaches of St Martin’s. But the coffee shop is empty today, only a few islanders watching the boats bobbing in the harbour. Two ferrymen approach us with scowls on their faces, protesting about sailing restrictions. They’re growing restless, and there’s no hiding from anyone’s anger when you’re six foot four with a hefty build. Many local families depend on cash from summer visitors, but inter-island ferry services can’t resume until the killer’s found. I keep my voice calm when I explain that the case will get solved faster if they let us work.

  The men’s tempers appear close to boiling point, like the summer heat, but they step back reluctantly, allowing Eddie and me to enter the Isles of Scilly Travel Company’s office. It’s usually a hive of activity with passengers queuing for the three-hour journey to Penzance on the Scillonian, or waiting for goods from the mainland, but now the area’s deserted. Julian Power is studying his computer screen intently, like he’s gazing into the abyss.

  ‘Please tell me the travel ban’s lifted,’ he says. ‘People think I’m to blame. The last few tourists are having trouble getting their insurance companies to shell out for hotel bills.’

  ‘Tell them things will soon be back to normal,’ I reply. ‘Can we see your passenger lists for last week, please? I need to know who travelled to Penzance.’

  ‘I’m afraid my IT system’s still down. I’ve got the numbers for each crossing, but no names and contact details. They’ve been deleted, along with half my mailing list.’

  ‘You can’t retrieve the information?’

  ‘Believe me, I’ve tried. Most of our software’s been infected.’

  The guy looks uncomfortable, but I can’t be certain he’s telling the truth. ‘How about you, Julian? Did you go over to the mainland last week?’

  ‘I stayed at home. My assistant covered for me, while I tried to fix the IT system.’

  Internet failures and computer breakdowns happen often in the Scillies, but this one is a disaster. Jade Finbury could be hidden anywhere on the island, and we’ve lost our best chance of tracking the killer down.

  ‘Have you had any luck finding out which family donated the sailors’ charms to the museum?’

  ‘I’ve checked the whole archive and found no reference to them; the entries are as chaotic as my computer. I’ll have to look again.’

  ‘Tonight if possible, please, Julian. I need that information urgently.’

  I thank Power before we leave, even though he’s delivered a double helping of bad news. Eddie leans on the railing outside, powerless to do anything except wait while I phone the airport to check which islanders flew to Penzance last week. Half a dozen small planes leave St Mary’s daily in summer, crossing to Land’s End, Newquay or Exeter, but the passenger lists aren’t definitive. If the killer sailed to the mainland to buy the wedding dress, he’s beyond our reach.

  My gaze takes in the glitter on the sea’s surface, while the airport manager checks his records. A gaggle of walkers are admiring the lifeboat house, perched on its promontory beside the bay, while seagulls circle overhead in slow rotations. The sight is so peaceful, it looks like an illustration from a Cornish holiday brochure, but the island’s beauty is being tarnished by so much violence. The airport manager reels off names, which I scribble in my notebook, before showing them to Eddie. ‘These people were in Penzance when the dress was bought, and back here in time for the first attack.’

  Isla Tremayne’s name is first on the list, making me question again whether I was wrong to keep our new constable on the case. Tom Polkerris is among the islanders that flew to the mainland, along with Steve and Paul Keast, and Leo Kernick. When I scan the names again there’s only one more I recognise: Elaine Rawle, my old headmaster’s wife. Now that we know the killer bought the dress last week, I’ll have to find out why every islander on the list travelled to the mainland, but Polkerris seemed genuinely distressed to hear of Sabine’s death. I feel uneasy when my gaze returns to the Keast brothers’ names. I’ll have to question them again, putting our friendship under even greater strain, but my main focus is on finding Jade Finbury before it’s too late.

  Eddie seems relieved when we set off for Leo Kernick’s flat to check on Gannick’s progress – it’s a finite task to complete. He wears a focused look as we walk to the photographer’s home on Pilot’s Retreat. The street name refers to the mariners who earned their wages from piloting ships through the treacherous local waters, past hidden reefs that surround the Scillies. The pilots competed for work by rowing out to waiting vessels at top speed, the winner securing the job, making homes near the quay a necessity. Their dwellings have changed little in the past two centuries; dark stone cottages, huddled together like old women gossiping. Frank Rawle is standing outside Kernick’s property, stiff-backed, like a sentry on duty. He looks crestfallen when I thank him for his help, reluctant to return to civilian life.

  Leo Kernick’s ground floor flat gives him an ideal vantage point for scoping out victims; his windows look out on passers-by, strolling to Old Town beach or Pulpit Rock. Eddie and I don sterile suits, even though we only need a quick look around Kernick’s home. We wait outside while Gannick lays more plastic sheeting on the floors, and strange odours drift down the hallway. Cigarette smoke mingles with the same smell of chemicals from the photographer’s dark room.

  ‘Don’t touch anything,’ Gannick snaps, when she finally lets us inside. ‘I’d work quicker if you left me alone.’

  ‘We’ll be gone in ten minutes.’

  Kernick’s hallway looks innocent enough, with his bicycle propped against the wall and a run of threadbare carpet. There’s nothing unusual about his bedroom either, apart from its sparsity. It holds an unmade double bed, a wardrobe, and little else. It’s only when we reach the living room that my jaw drops open. Photographs plaster two of the walls from floor to ceiling, hundreds of different images overlapping each other. The effect is so oppressive, I can see why Jade Finbury refuses to coha
bit, even though her smiling face is the first I recognise. The pictures record every wedding and christening Kernick has been paid to photograph. Weddings shots show dozens of brides and grooms in formal poses. Some have been taken inside the island’s churches, but more at beauty spots like Holy Vale and the Star Castle. I’m still staring at them when Eddie summons me to the other side of the room.

  ‘Take a look at this, boss.’

  He points at an image of Hannah Weber. The journalist is gazing straight at the camera, her expression wary, as if the portrait was taken against her will. I recognise the scenery immediately; the shot was taken near Toll’s Island, but I can’t tell whether Kernick spoke to her before or after she bumped into Father Michael.

  ‘Maybe he hates taking wedding photographs because Jade keeps turning him down,’ says Eddie.

  ‘Are there any of Sabine?’

  I focus my attention on the rest of the room while he studies the images. The place is shabby but clean, a bookshelf loaded with art magazines and biographies of famous photographers like Cartier-Bresson and Annie Leibovitz. I’m struck by the flat’s smallness, for a man who must have earned big fees from selling pictures to the tabloids. It’s hot and airless with the windows closed, but the kitchen is tidy. Kernick wiped the surfaces before heading to his studio this morning. Apart from the photos, he seems to live quietly, pursuing the craft he loves. Liz Gannick looks aggrieved when I ask what she’s found.

  ‘I’ll need another hour, but it’s clean so far,’ she tells me.

  A shout goes up from Eddie while I’m checking Kernick’s bathroom. His face is jubilant when I find him in the lounge, pointing at a photo that’s almost hidden by larger images. It’s a shot of Sabine, taken on the beach. It’s nothing like the Polaroid image I received from the killer: afternoon sunlight illuminates her face, her expression completely carefree. The only indication that Leo Kernick may be involved in the attacks is his shots of all three victims. Hannah Weber looks the most reluctant to have her likeness captured. She’s got her back to the sea, short blonde hair ruffled by the breeze, wearing a forced smile.

  31

  Lily is serving lunch to a handful of guests in the hotel restaurant. The dining room is cooler than outside because the castle’s thick walls lower the temperature, but her clothes still feel tight and uncomfortable. There’s no sign of Liam Trewin, allowing her to serve each table without his intense stare tracking her movements. Time passes quickly as she hurries back and forth, but her thoughts drift beyond the castle’s walls. It’s a relief when the guests finish their desserts. She can speak to Tom Polkerris at last. Lily hovers outside his office, rehearsing what to say before summoning enough courage to knock.

  When Polkerris’s voice calls her inside, the manager looks flustered, shutting down his computer before she can see his work. His calm only returns when he rises to his feet, his expression concerned. Lily picks up the scent of his expensive aftershave when he walks towards her.

  ‘Are you okay, Lily?’

  ‘Fine thanks, sir, but I need a day’s leave.’

  He looks surprised. ‘You’re not due any holiday yet. Is work tiring you?’

  Anxiety makes her palms sting with pins and needles. ‘My brother needs my help.’

  ‘Causing trouble again, is he?’

  Her gaze drops to the floor. The island is so small, secrets can’t be hidden. ‘He’s been struggling all year.’

  ‘You don’t have to explain.’ Polkerris’s voice is gentler than before. ‘How many days are you talking about?’

  ‘Until Thursday night, please.’

  ‘Rhianna won’t be happy, but you’ve got my permission. Can you stay here till this evening and come back for kitchen duty on Friday morning? If the ferries are running again we’ll have a full house.’

  Lily beams at him. ‘I’ll be here for the early shift, sir.’

  ‘It’s sweet that you want to help your brother, when others have written him off. It shows your kindness.’ Polkerris takes a step closer, his gaze searching her face. ‘I’ve been thinking about you, Lily.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Why didn’t I choose someone caring, like you?’ He touches a fingertip to her jaw, his gaze tracing the outline of her lips. ‘You’d better go, before I do something stupid.’

  Polkerris’s behaviour leaves Lily confused. Despite the crush she’s had on him all year, she could never break up someone’s marriage, and why would he bother with her when his wife’s so beautiful? She pushes his words to the back of her mind. The girl hurries back to her duties, wishing she could leave immediately. She knows her brother is trying to find Sabine’s killer, and she wants to help so she can sleep peacefully again, without bad dreams.

  32

  Leo Kernick sounds defensive when I call him at his studio to ask about his photos of Sabine and Hannah Weber. He claims to be so passionate about documenting island life that he takes shots of everyone he sees on St Mary’s, like a visual diary. When I ask why he flew over to the mainland last week, he claims to have visited a gallery in Penzance that’s holding an exhibition of his work. The photographer still denies knowing Hannah’s name or speaking to her for more than a few seconds. Frustration leaves a sour taste in my mouth; I’ve got no tangible proof of his involvement, it’s his word against mine. He may just be an obsessive, whose photography rules his life. My second call is to Isla, her tone breezy when she states that her visit to Penzance was to see an orthodontist, which I can easily check. One of the limitations of island life is the lack of specialist health care; visiting an optician or dentist can cost hundreds of pounds in travel alone.

  A drone is flying overhead when Eddie and I leave Pilot’s Retreat. It’s large, and looks high-spec, making me suspect it’s being piloted from another island by the press. It hovers above the roofline, red lights flashing as it buzzes past. I feel like shaking my fist at it, but turn my back instead, reluctant to see my face plastered across news websites. The drone soon flies off to its next target, leaving its motorised whine buzzing in my ears. I’m still processing our visit to Leo Kernick’s flat. The man’s love for his craft is obvious, but he seems too fond of his girlfriend to target other women.

  While Eddie and I walk down to the coast road, I make another call to Lawrie Deane, telling him we’ll need to search the island for Jade Finbury this evening, because all the attacks have been conducted at night. The sun won’t set until around 9 p.m., giving us time to carry out more inquiries first.

  I scan the view ahead when we reach the bottom of the hill; the off-islands are wavering behind a blur of heat haze. Members of the lifeboat crew are sailing the rescue launch past Hugh Town Beach on a practice mission, making me long for a job with such clearly defined boundaries. I’d happily swap places with any of them right now. They take huge risks to rescue stricken vessels, but are rewarded by saving lives. My own job is much less heroic, and not every murderer gets caught. Eddie looks preoccupied as we hurry down the Strand, with the air growing humid, and razorbills shrieking overhead. I come to a halt when the noise changes suddenly.

  ‘What’s that sound?’ I ask.

  ‘It’s just birds, scrapping for food.’ Eddie’s expression changes when the moaning noise comes again.

  We run towards the row of houses. The sound amplifies when we reach Harry Jago’s home, making me look up at his bedroom window, but the curtains are drawn.

  ‘It’s coming from the ginnel,’ Eddie says.

  He races down the side passage, where a man sits hunched against the wall. Jago’s face is a mess, with grazes across his cheekbone, his left eye swollen shut. I can’t tell whether he’s been beaten up, or drank so much last night that he fell on his face and had to crawl home.

  ‘He stinks to high heaven,’ Eddie mutters. The air is soured by raw alcohol, urine and mould clinging to the brick walls.

  ‘Can you get up, Harry?’ The boy remains motionless, forcing me and Eddie to hoist him to his feet. ‘You need a doctor.’


  ‘Fuck off, the pair of you.’ He throws wild punches that fail to connect.

  ‘Calm down or you’re going in a cell. Let’s get you cleaned up.’

  Jago’s body slumps against my shoulder before he can reply. Stuart Helyer gawps at us from his porch as Eddie and I haul the boy inside. My sympathy grows when we lay him down on the sofa. His face is as pale as bleached linen, bruises round his eye and jawline turning from red to blue. Jago hauls himself to an upright position, his gaze bleary.

  ‘Who did this to you, Harry?’

  ‘No one.’ His words are slurred. ‘Get out of my house.’

  ‘That’s a nice way to thank us for our help.’ The boy sneers at me in response. ‘I hear Sabine Bertans was on your boat last week. I thought you hardly knew each other?’

  The boy is in no state to talk, his head lolling backwards as sleep overtakes him. It could be hours before he can answer questions. When I check my watch, the afternoon is vanishing. I can’t waste time on a kid who’s hellbent on self-destruction, while Jade Finbury is still missing.

  I leave Jago in Eddie’s care, then cross the road to the Catholic church. It’s empty, apart from the smell of fresh incense, confirming that the priest has said mass at least once today. Father Michael looks like any middle-aged man when he answers the doorbell, dressed in jeans, trainers and a short-sleeved shirt, clutching a mug of coffee. His dog collar is the only sign of his calling; there’s none of the fake piety that turns me off most religions. He dumps his drink on the hall table then hurries outside when I tell him that Jago needs his help.