Pulpit Rock Read online

  I can see my boat drifting on the tide while Ray drops anchor a safe distance from a line of exposed rocks. Luckily, the shipping channel back to the mainland is clear, no vessels sailing near enough to catch sight of the victim. Eddie is scrambling up the cliff face, the others swimming ashore, but responsibility for finding out what happened to the woman rests on my shoulders alone. My decade in the Murder Squad in London never cured my squeamishness; my guts twist into a knot when I assess the scene again. We’ll have to set up a cordon fast, so no dog walkers pollute the scene.

  Eddie is panting for breath when he reaches my side. ‘Do you know who she is?’

  ‘We’ll need photos before we find out; I should take one from up here. I’ll get Lawrie to bring a camera from the station.’

  ‘No need, I’ve got my phone.’

  I watch in amazement as he fishes a waterproof bag from the sleeve of his wetsuit, his phone tucked inside. ‘You must have been a great boy scout, Eddie.’

  He looks embarrassed. ‘I always carry it, in case Michelle calls about the baby.’

  Eddie has been the world’s most committed dad since his daughter Lottie arrived last year, greeting fatherhood with the same enthusiasm he brings to his job. He even twisted my arm into becoming her godfather, but today I’m just grateful for his vigilance. He stands close to the cliff edge, taking photographs for the coroner’s report, while I walk over to the other swimmers. Isla’s bent double, hands pressed against her knees, catching her breath. Steve is a few metres behind, but Paul is still struggling up the path, forcing me to wait for him. I persuaded both of my friends to become special constables so they could act as stewards during the islands’ festivals and help out in emergencies.

  ‘I need you two in Hugh Town,’ I tell the brothers, once Paul arrives.

  ‘Ray can take us back to Porthcressa,’ Steve replies.

  ‘Rest first, then swim out to the boat. I want you to guard the coastal path, please. Don’t let anyone up here.’

  ‘Do you want Ray to drop your clothes at the station?’

  ‘Thanks, Steve, that would be great.’

  He remains composed while I hand out more instructions, but his younger brother’s eyes are glassy while he stares down at the woman’s figure hanging from the cliff face. Paul was always sensitive when we were kids, quick to empathise with anyone in trouble. It doesn’t surprise me when he turns his back abruptly, stumbling away before spewing his breakfast into the heather, the brothers’ reactions at opposite ends of the spectrum. People often succumb to shock on witnessing a fatality, but I can’t worry about anyone except the victim today. Steve will have to take care of his brother by himself.

  Time is passing too quickly; it’s mid-morning already, and everything must happen in the right sequence. When I call the pathologist, Dr Keillor, he sounds reluctant to sacrifice his golf game for such a miserable purpose. I’m lucky that my boss, DCI Madron, is on holiday in France for another ten days. The man keeps promising to retire, then changing his mind at the last minute; he seems obsessed by creating a spotless legacy. His insistence that every task be recorded in minute detail would only slow us down – there will be time for paperwork once we know why this woman died.

  I realise how Pulpit Rock gained its name when I scramble over granite boulders to retrieve the victim’s body. One huge rock balances on another, like a fire and brimstone preacher leaning on his lectern, delivering his sermon to a reluctant congregation. The priest seems to be addressing the Atlantic’s vastness, the rock formation jutting out across the sea. I use Eddie’s phone to photograph the noose that ended the woman’s life, but my concerns are growing. How many suicides are composed enough to wind a rope three times around a boulder, then secure it with a double reef knot, before hurling themselves to a certain death? I try to ignore the rocks below, gaping at me like rows of broken teeth. The next gust of wind brings the rope close enough to grab, but Eddie and I need three attempts to haul the woman’s dead weight up the cliff. Her form is cold and lifeless as I carry her to the nearest piece of level ground.

  When I lay the body on the grass, the woman’s identity remains a mystery, her face obscured by layers of thick white lace. Only her feet and hands are exposed, her nails painted a delicate shade of pink.

  ‘Shall I lift the veil?’ Eddie asks.

  ‘I need one more photo first.’

  She looks like an archetypal bride when I step back to capture the image, her slim form dressed in an ankle-length gown. Dark curls spill out from behind the opaque veil; poppies and cornflowers have been threaded through her hair, but they’re already wilting.

  Eddie and Isla are standing close by when I pull back the lace. The woman looks familiar, but the picture doesn’t make sense. Her face has been carefully made-up, eyelids coated with pale grey shadow and lashes darkened by mascara, her twisted mouth glossy with lipstick. It’s her tortured expression that makes me replace the veil fast. I’m hoping that our newest recruit hasn’t seen enough to identify the victim.

  ‘We should wait for the pathologist,’ I say. ‘Keep your distance, both of you.’

  Eddie follows my instruction but Isla steps closer. Her face is oddly calm when she whispers a few words.

  ‘I recognise that tattoo on her foot; the sun symbol’s meant to bring good luck. It’s Sabine, isn’t it, boss?’

  ‘You’re right, I’m afraid.’

  It goes without saying that the vivid orange design on the girl’s skin has failed to do its job. Guilt washes over me when I think about her death. I’ve trained with her a dozen times and never spotted signs of depression, but suicide is hard to predict. My old work partner in London took her own life, after pretending to be fine right to the end.

  I push my feelings about the girl’s death aside before using Eddie’s phone to call the station in Hugh Town. My voice resonates back from the handset while I instruct Lawrie Deane to pick me up immediately. When I straighten up, I catch sight of a distinctive yellow bicycle lying on the grass by the lighthouse. The Star Castle’s name is painted on its frame. Why would Sabine dress up in full bridal regalia, then ride here in the middle of the night, instead of swallowing a handful of pills in the privacy of her own room? The sun burns the back of my neck as I return to her body, until a sudden breeze rises from the sea. It sends the veil billowing upwards, and the girl’s face greets me again, her tortured stare impossible to avoid.

  4

  Lily has changed out of her maid’s uniform, dressed now in black trousers and a crisp white blouse. It took just ten minutes to transform herself from a chambermaid into a waitress. Some of the other staff complain about having to perform many different tasks around the hotel, but Lily enjoys the variety. She will serve guests their late-morning coffee until her shift ends, then be free to look for Harry. Lily tries to focus on her work, instead of worrying about confronting her brother this afternoon.

  The restaurant is her favourite place in the hotel, the ancient stones in its exposed walls revealing the Star Castle’s origins. One of the porters told her that it was built by Elizabeth I; the castle has remained hidden behind its star-shaped perimeter walls for five centuries. Lily often visits the room when the last guests have gone to bed, to touch the walls and marvel at their permanence, yet she’s too annoyed for the hotel’s long history to give her pleasure today. Two other waiters are on duty, but Sabine still hasn’t arrived.

  The girl keeps busy, slipping between tables with a coffee jug in hand. She refreshes a woman’s cup and acknowledges her murmured thanks with a smile, before a male guest beckons her closer. She would rather avoid him, but it’s too late. The man’s name is Liam Trewin; he’s in his early forties, and Lily can’t explain why he makes her uncomfortable. Maybe it’s the directness of his mid-blue stare; his gaze so invasive she feels like a specimen in a laboratory. Everything about him reeks of money. Even his blond hair looks expensive, falling neatly across his forehead, framing features that aren’t quite handsome enough for Hollywo
od. His eyes are a fraction too close together, thin lips adding an edge of cruelty to his smile.

  ‘How are you today, young lady?’ His voice is a slow American drawl.

  ‘Fine, thank you, sir.’

  ‘What are you called again?’

  ‘Lily.’

  ‘Pretty name for a pretty girl.’ His glossy smile looks unnaturally bright. ‘Where’s our friend Sabine this morning?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘I thought she’d be on duty.’ A frown line appears between his eyes. ‘I’m hoping to tour the island with her later, if she’s free.’

  ‘Sorry, I don’t know where she is.’

  ‘Ask your manager for me, can you?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Lily can feel Trewin’s gaze tracking her as she hurries away. She knows Sabine would never agree to spend time alone in his company. Only yesterday she joked about the man’s pathetic attempts to lure her back to his room with gifts and bottles of wine. The girl’s throat goes dry when she approaches one of the hotel’s managers. Lily has developed a crush on Tom Polkerris, despite him being married and almost twenty years her senior. The man has always treated her kindly, but she doesn’t want to get her friend in trouble, even though she warned her that Harry’s flings never last long. It’s easier to tell her boss a lie than admit Sabine’s probably with her brother.

  ‘Sabine’s not here, sir. Mr Trewin’s asking where she is.’

  ‘Is she in her room?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Has the guy been bothering you?’ Polkerris glances around the room, as if he’s only just realised that a staff member is missing.

  ‘Not really, he just wanted to know.’

  ‘Tell him she’s off duty, please, Lily. I’ll find her now.’

  Trewin seems irritated when she returns to his table, a muscle twitching in his jaw. ‘My hire car will go to waste.’ His eyes skim her body again. ‘Unless you fancy taking a drive instead?’

  ‘Sorry, I’m busy this afternoon.’

  The man’s gaze is sharp with anger when she backs away.

  5

  I’d like to guard Sabine’s body until the pathologist arrives, but the luxury of honouring the dead isn’t an option. I’m Commander until the DCI returns, and I can’t attend a crime scene dressed in a wetsuit with a pair of goggles dangling from my hand. Eddie and Isla remain at Pulpit Rock to wait for Dr Keillor when Lawrie Deane collects me at midday in the island force’s only van. The sergeant is a curmudgeon, in his mid-fifties, face set in a permanent scowl, his red hair cropped close to his skull. He gazes straight ahead as the van trundles across rutted ground to King Edward’s Road, while I focus on the five-minute journey back to town, instead of imagining the girl’s misery before she died.

  The area’s beauty is undeniable as the fields of Peninnis slip past, yellow with ripe wheat, the Atlantic unfurling in the background. The lane narrows as we near Hugh Town, edged by drystone walls. A group of tourists is clustered round Buzza Tower, photographing the old windmill from every angle. All of St Mary’s hotels and holiday cottages are packed to capacity, the population swelling to over two thousand, which will make our lives more difficult.

  Once we reach town, grey buildings faced with local stone press in on us. The shopping area by the quay is crawling with humanity. People are dressed in shorts and flip-flops, wandering through the narrow lanes, browsing in Mumford’s for books and magazines, or buying picnic ingredients from the Co-op. The island’s carefree mood will soon be broken by the announcement of Sabine’s death.

  ‘Are you okay, boss? Eddie said the girl was done up in bride’s clothes.’

  ‘None of us saw it coming. She must have been suffering in silence.’

  ‘You’re sure it was suicide?’

  ‘I think Sabine cycled there, on a Star Castle bike. We won’t know until tomorrow if anyone else was involved.’

  ‘None of the islanders would hurt a young girl like that.’

  ‘We’ve had violent crime here before, Lawrie. We can’t be certain of anything till the pathologist gives his verdict. It looks like suicide, but she may have been targeted.’

  ‘Our very own psycho killer,’ Deane mutters. ‘Just what we need.’

  ‘Don’t share details, even with your family. If this gets out it’ll be all round the island in five minutes.’

  The sergeant gives me an old-fashioned look for questioning his loyalty. Deane knows St Mary’s better than any of us; he’s lived here for decades. There’s a difference between the people here and those on the off-islands, where there are few cars and even less amenities. Most of St Mary’s inhabitants enjoy being surrounded by neighbours, with a hospital, sports centre and societies to join. They’re less reserved than my neighbours on Bryher, who can avoid leaving its shores for weeks at a time. I can’t forecast how a young woman’s bizarre death will affect the island’s upbeat personality.

  We’ve arrived at Garrison Lane already, the pebble-dashed walls of the police house rising up to greet me. It’s one of the smallest stations in the UK, with a reception area, a couple of offices and two holding cells. On days like this I yearn for the state-of-the-art building in Hammersmith where I spent a decade working as an undercover murder investigator for the Met, with every type of specialist kit under one roof, but there’s no turning the clock back. Serious crime in the Scillies is so rare, anything more than the bare minimum would be a waste of resources. St Mary’s is like the land that time forgot, with no CCTV, and little violent crime, except the odd drunken brawl.

  ‘Can you ask one of our special constables to deliver the crime scene kit to Eddie and Isla at Pulpit Rock? They’ll want clothes too. We can’t leave them out there, sweltering.’

  ‘I’ll get it sorted.’ He gives me a long-suffering look.

  ‘Then phone the forensics lab in Penzance, please. Ask Liz Gannick to fly over straight away.’ I’m living dangerously by requesting help from the county’s Chief of Forensic Services. She doesn’t suffer fools gladly, but I want to know every detail behind Sabine’s death, before evidence is lost.

  Ray must have arrived at the station before us; I spot Shadow tethered outside as we park. The clothes I left on the boat have been placed inside the porch, neatly folded, my phone in the pocket of my jeans. It’s a relief to change out of the clammy neoprene of my wetsuit once we get inside, but I know it’s only a matter of time before people start asking us why the coastal path is blocked.

  ‘Answer the phone while I’m out, can you, Lawrie? I’m going to the Star Castle – I’ll leave the dog with you.’

  The sergeant parks himself behind the reception desk with a sour look on his face, giving me a grudging nod when I leave.

  Sabine’s place of work lies on the Garrison, a five-minute walk from the station. The rocky stretch of land owes its name to the British army’s repeated attempts to use the island as defence against foreign invaders. The Star Castle has become a deluxe hotel and is a magnet for tourists, who flock to admire its architecture. Aerial photos make it look like a Christmas decoration, its star-shaped boundaries perfectly preserved. I pass through the town’s narrow lanes, then walk up the steep hill to the archway, where soldiers on horseback once entered the compound. Sentries would have manned the lookout points centuries ago, enjoying a long view over land and sea. St Mary’s was vital territory back then, but when I look east now, there’s little to defend except an unspoiled landscape, shaped by centuries of farming. Hugh Town’s picturesque jumble of fishermen’s cottages would be called a village back on the mainland.

  I’m still struggling to process Sabine’s death when I enter the hotel’s foyer, the quiet hitting me immediately. The castle’s metre-thick walls block every external noise. All I can hear is a buzz of conversation drifting from the restaurant, where guests are gathering for an early lunch, the air scented by a huge floral display. The receptionist offers a serene smile, as if nothing could disturb her inner calm, before summoni
ng her manager. Tom Polkerris arrives soon after she drops the phone back onto its cradle. I have to quell my dislike when he shakes my hand. He was the class bully in my year at Five Islands School, devoted to making other kids’ lives miserable. I remember getting a detention for slamming him against a wall, after he yelled taunts at a friend of mine. He was an overweight teenager, using his bulk to intimidate, with rampant acne and frizzy brown hair. Today his appearance matches his role as joint manager of a high-class hotel. He seems unsettled by my arrival, but that goes with the territory: there’s no escaping your past on an island this small.

  Polkerris is six inches shorter than me, but must be following a rigorous exercise regime, his sharp suit revealing a lean physique. His hair is carefully styled, jaw covered with designer stubble. There’s a note of concern in his voice when he finally greets me.

  ‘This is unexpected, Ben. How can I help?’

  ‘I need to see you and Rhianna in private, please.’

  ‘Come this way. She’s in our office doing paperwork.’

  I follow him down a windowless corridor that cuts through the heart of the castle, until we enter a well-lit room with a view of the gardens. Two desks face each other across metres of plush grey carpet. Polkerris’s wife is staring at her laptop. Rhianna is a native islander too, but we didn’t socialise as kids. Her parents sent her to an exclusive boarding school on the mainland, and I’ve never seen her slumming it in the local pubs. Rhianna’s appearance is even more stylish than her husband’s when she rises to her feet: blonde hair flows over her shoulders in a sleek ripple, a tight grey dress accentuating her slimness. Her features remind me of a china doll with porcelain skin, green eyes open a fraction too wide. Tom Polkerris has met his match: there’s no way this ice maiden would allow anyone to bully her. She barely raises a smile before pointing at a seat by the window, as if I’m being sent to the naughty step.