Pulpit Rock Read online

  ‘The victims are dressed in white, like nuns taking their vows. They call it taking the veil, don’t they? Maybe you see them as novitiates, not brides.’

  ‘This is nonsense.’ He rises to his feet rapidly. ‘Go ahead and turn this place over if you want. You can start upstairs.’

  ‘I’ll look down here first.’

  The priest falls silent when I reach his kitchen. The back door hangs open, and his table holds evidence of a recent meal: two plates hold unfinished sandwiches, and a pair of water glasses only half drunk.

  ‘Who was here just now, Father?’

  ‘One of my parishioners, like I said. He missed lunch so I prepared some food.’

  ‘Tell me his name.’

  The priest appears to search his conscience before answering. ‘Harry Jago. The boy was so terrified he ran off before I could stop him.’

  ‘You let him get away, even though his sister’s been taken?’

  ‘Lily’s missing?’

  The priest sinks onto a chair while I call Eddie to inform him that Jago has escaped again, this time from the priest’s house. Father Michael looks paler when I ask my next question.

  ‘Explain your relationship with Harry for me, please.’

  ‘His mother was a good, hard-working woman. She only made one mistake, which was marrying the wrong man. She arrived here with nothing except two kids to feed, so I paid her to clean this place and the church. I promised to keep watch over Harry and Lily before she died.’

  ‘The boy seems afraid of you.’

  ‘Only because I hold him to account. Harry knows I’m disappointed when he goes off the rails, but I support him anyway. I was far worse at that age.’

  ‘I bet he’d do anything for you.’

  The priest’s eyes glitter with anger. ‘Now you’re accusing me of grooming a vulnerable young adult? I told him to report to the station, but only he can decide.’

  ‘His sister’s got hours to live, and Harry might know the killer’s identity. I bet he told you everything.’

  The priest makes no reply, but a history of violence shows in his face, and my accusations have triggered his fighting impulse. His hands form fists at his sides, even though he keeps his temper in check.

  ‘Stay with me while I search your house, Michael.’

  The priest’s calm returns while I rummage through cupboards, looking for a Polaroid camera, a weapon, or anything to link him to the murders. He keeps quiet while I check each sparsely furnished room, where crucifixes hang over every doorway. I can’t imagine contemplating my faith twenty-four hours a day. The pressure to avoid even the smallest transgression must be hard to bear. His face is expressionless when I climb the stairs to inspect his study, where a Bible lies open on his desk.

  ‘I need to look in your cellar.’

  ‘You’re wasting your time.’

  The priest takes so long prevaricating, I return downstairs alone. He’s still grumbling as I descend into his basement, the air cool and dry, the walls freshly whitewashed. It’s virtually empty, apart from a crate containing old photo albums from Michael’s youth. The images show him sitting beside a field full of daffodils, but he looked troubled even then. I notice a wooden chest standing by the wall just before I leave; it’s the size of a coffin, obscured by shadows. When I lift the lid a bride’s veil is cocooned inside a muslin bag, with a delicate pair of white shoes. I’m still holding them when the priest appears behind me, his face tight with anger.

  Father Michael removes the veil from my hands, like a parent handling a newborn child, then wraps the shoes in their original tissue paper. He’s about to replace the items when I notice a piece of paper lying in the box, covered in black script. The priest gives a grudging nod when I ask to see it. The yellowing page matches the museum records I borrowed from Julian Power.

  ‘Where did you get this, Father?’

  His face remains blank. ‘I don’t know where it came from.’

  ‘Why should I believe you? First you let Harry Jago escape, then I find bridal clothes in your cellar.’

  ‘Let’s go back upstairs, I’ll explain everything.’

  I reach out my hand. ‘I need that sheet of paper first.’

  He takes his time handing it over, then watches me place it in my pocket. The priest’s gentleness only returns once we reach his living room. He gives me an encouraging smile, as if he’s about to deliver a difficult sermon.

  ‘I asked Leah’s parents for some of her bridal clothes twenty years ago.’ His gaze drifts to the window. ‘I was on the mainland at a job interview when she died; I wasn’t there when she needed me most. That’s why I visit the hospital so often. I hate the idea of a human soul slipping from this world to the next, without any form of comfort.’

  ‘How did Leah die, Michael?’

  My question makes him flinch. ‘Frank and Elaine asked the coroner to record a verdict of death by misadventure. They couldn’t stand the idea of people gossiping.’

  ‘She killed herself?’

  The priest looks down at his hands. ‘Leah had been diagnosed with depression. I thought loving her would help her through it. She kept her feelings hidden in the last few weeks, pretending to be excited about the wedding, while the illness took over. Leah’s note said that she loved me more than anything, but couldn’t see a way out. She didn’t want to be a burden.’

  ‘Who found her?’

  ‘Frank, when he got back from school. He protected me from seeing her body, and all the ugly details. He and Elaine have treated me like a son since then. They never blamed me for pushing her deeper into that brutal illness.’

  ‘But you blamed yourself.’

  He wipes his hand across his face like he’s cleaning a slate. ‘None of this is relevant to Harry Jago. The boy needs good role models. I’ve been mentoring him, for his mother’s sake.’

  ‘Were you involved in the killings, Michael?’

  ‘How could I be? I’ve barely left the hospital for the last three days.’

  ‘People trust you. Your parishioners would do anything for you, especially if they’re vulnerable.’

  His jaw drops open. ‘Do you honestly believe I’ve been brainwashing people?’

  ‘Tell me exactly what Harry said. You hid details from Sabine’s last confession too.’

  ‘I took a vow of secrecy. When someone unburdens their soul to me, that trust is sacred. If I break the sacrament I can no longer serve God.’

  ‘Harry Jago isn’t a believer. There was nothing holy about your talk today.’

  ‘He begged me not to say anything. That’s a confession, isn’t it?’

  ‘Tell me where the boy’s gone.’

  He weakens at last. ‘I told him to hide in the fishermen’s huts by Watermill Cove. He needs to examine his conscience until he’s ready to talk.’

  ‘Call him for me. He’ll answer if he sees your number.’

  The priest obliges, and Jago picks up instantly. When I seize the receiver, the boy’s breathing is so ragged it sounds like he’s run a marathon.

  ‘Listen to me, Harry, it’s DI Kitto. Your sister’s been taken. If you know something, tell me, before it’s too late.’

  The boy gives a guttural cry before the line goes dead.

  55

  Lily’s fingertips are raw when footsteps clatter outside. She has tried to loosen her chains until her skin bleeds, but she’s still trapped. Her heart lurches in her chest when the door creaks open. She can hear the killer moving closer, but can’t twist round far enough to meet his eye.

  ‘I’m thirsty,’ she whispers. ‘I need water, please.’

  He’s dressed in dark clothes, a hood with narrow slits exposing eyes she can’t recognise. Lily mumbles a quiet thank you when he places a bottle of water on the dressing table; she gulps the liquid down in a few rapid gulps. He has already retreated, but she can feel him assessing her.

  ‘You haven’t followed my instruction.’ His voice sounds rough, as if he’s just smoked a pack
of cigarettes, but he could be trying to disguise it.

  ‘There’s no point. I can’t become someone else with a few dabs of make-up.’ The man stays quiet, as if her defiance has stunned him into silence. ‘Who is the girl in the photo anyway?’

  The killer’s voice sounds plaintive when he begins to sing:

  ‘The bride in her glory will ever be fair,

  Come winter or summer, no queen can compare,

  With the bride in her glory, be she ever so fair.’

  Lily forces a smile. ‘Did you write that song for her? She’s special to you, isn’t she?’

  Lily’s plan seems to be working. The man hasn’t hurt her yet, and she can feel him listening, even though he’s hidden by the dark air.

  56

  I burst outside without looking back at Father Michael, still uncertain of his role in the women’s deaths, while he’s spent most of his time at Hannah Weber’s bedside. I push my confusion aside to call Eddie, telling him to meet me at the cove.

  The rain is lighter when I ride through Trenoweth, but it’s 6.30 p.m., the sky darkening as I pass the Long Rock. The standing stone looks like a needle on the horizon, pointing its accusing finger at the clouds. The facts of Leah Rawle’s death are still registering, but I can’t prove that it’s influenced the recent killings. Eddie has arrived before me, the police van standing beside a cluster of ramshackle fishermen’s sheds overlooking Watermill Cove. He’s at my side when I fling open the doors of the first hut. It’s empty, apart from the acrid smell of decaying fish, bait boxes and reels of twine. The next shed is the same, but the third looks different. Its interior has been scrubbed clean, and there’s a table with a mirror beside it, lengths of rope abandoned on the floor. I can see brown stains on the fibres; one of the victims pulled so hard against her constraints, she made herself bleed. The killer kept one of his victims here, but my call to Jago has sent him running.

  Eddie’s enthusiasm takes a nosedive when he sees the killer’s handiwork. He gives the table a vicious kick, but I’m still considering the props that surround us.

  ‘It’s a strange kind of torture,’ I say. ‘The killer wants to turn the women into brides, just before they die.’

  ‘Tom Polkerris is screwed up enough to do that, isn’t he? The bloke hated Rhianna’s fixation with the perfect wedding and wasting their savings on it, even though their relationship was on the wane.’

  ‘We’re just guessing, Eddie. Let’s review what we actually know about the killer.’

  My deputy parks himself on a crate, while rain taps out a hectic rhythm on the thin roof above us. ‘He’s got access to a vehicle, and a warped idea about brides. The bloke likes the thrill of strangling women with his bare hands.’

  ‘The guy’s a control freak too. I bet he loved posting those photos through the station door, and to Harry Jago, showing us he’s in control.’ I rub my hand across the back of my neck. ‘But look at this place. He’s swept the floor and laid a clean sheet over the table; that mirror’s been polished recently too. It’s like a religious ceremony, but Father Michael’s got an alibi for almost the whole time the killer’s been at work.’

  My deputy dips his hand inside a cardboard box, producing a fistful of wilting flowers. ‘Whoever did it picked these, to make a garland for her hair.’

  ‘I still think two very different people might be working together.’

  ‘We know Paul Keast and Rhianna Polkerris are secretive. They fell in love without anyone finding out.’

  ‘But there’s no hard evidence against them. We’ve still got a dozen male islanders with no alibis too.’

  Eddie’s face is full of yearning for a quick solution, but we’re facing the same obstacles that have blocked us from day one.

  57

  Lily senses that she doesn’t have long. She’s still sitting by the mirror, her reflection paler than ever, but she doesn’t regret her choice. If she dies, at least she’ll be herself, not pretending to be someone else. The killer refused to answer her questions, then left her alone, but now he’s back. The man is pacing the stone floor, ready to hurt her, unless she can make him talk.

  ‘Tell me about the girl in the photo, please.’

  Lily can only see a blurred outline reflected in the mirror. He’s on the far side of the room, head bowed, face concealed by his hood.

  ‘She was a pure spirit.’ His words are choked with emotion, the voice suddenly so light in tone the speaker could be a woman. ‘Holding her in my arms meant everything.’

  ‘But you lost her?’ The voice has faded into silence. ‘I know how that feels. My mother died recently; I miss her every day.’

  Lily is concentrating so hard, her fingernails are cutting the palms of her hands, the pain reminding her that she’s still alive. People must be searching for her. They’ll arrive soon, if she can only keep him talking.

  ‘I can’t bring her back. I’ve been fooling myself.’

  ‘Hurting me won’t help you.’

  The killer’s closer now, his tone growing shrill. ‘You’re like the others. None of you are loyal to the islands, or to me.’

  The blow comes before Lily can brace herself, a hard punch to her ribcage, emptying her lungs of air. Pain travels through her core, but she forces herself not to scream. When her eyes open again, she’s alone, the darkness around her thicker than before, until her gaze catches on a chink of silver. The door stands ajar by a few millimetres, keeping her hopes alive.

  58

  Hours slip by too quickly, time passing in a flurry of meetings, CPS evidence reviews and a brief interview with Tom Polkerris. It’s 7 p.m. when the hotel manager is brought into Madron’s room. The man’s smugness has reduced, but his answers are useless. He’s already admitted to sleeping with Sabine after a late shift in the hotel bar, but there’s evidence he was working when Hannah Weber was attacked. If he’s got an accomplice, he’s a good liar. My old classmate looks bemused when I ask if anyone else is involved, continuing to deny any link to the attacks.

  I release Paul Keast after the interview ends, even though the thirty-six hour cut-off hasn’t arrived. There’s little point in holding him when there’s no hard evidence that he’s guilty. He doesn’t say a word when Eddie hands over his bag of possessions, slipping through the station doors to check on his livestock or see his new flame. Tom Polkerris is a different kind of prisoner. He grows angrier as the hours pass, battering his fists against the wall, then shouting curses through the hatch in the cell door.

  Liz Gannick inspects me with her sharp glare when we meet in Madron’s office, as evening gives way to night. Her crutches are propped against the wall, like she too wants a quick getaway.

  ‘You’re sending me back to that bloody hotel, aren’t you?’

  ‘Polkerris is a credible suspect, Liz. He mistreats women, he’s a plausible liar, and he had easy access to Sabine and Lily. I need you to find proof. The bloke loves manipulating people and he’s been edgy from the start.’ I remember his agitation on hearing Sabine was dead. He may have been afraid of exposure, instead of regretting the girl’s death.

  ‘I’ll start with his car,’ Gannick says. ‘If he’s guilty, he’s used it recently to capture his latest victim. There may even be fresh DNA.’

  ‘It’s too late to send samples to the lab. If Lily’s still being held, she’ll be dead by morning.’

  ‘I can’t work miracles, Ben.’

  ‘Pity.’

  Gannick’s face looks anything but angelic when she grabs her crutches and swings back into motion. I’m so concerned about lone women being attacked that I tell Lawrie Deane to accompany her to the hotel, but at least I know Isla is safe. I’ve sent her out on a last foot patrol with Eddie, asking for sightings of Lily Jago, leaving me alone at the station.

  I’ve only just turned on my computer when a call arrives on the landline. Frank Rawle is offering his help again. I decline politely; the man’s desire to get involved still bothers me, but he takes a leadership role in every
part of island life. He runs the parish council, the school’s advisory board, and is a hospital trustee. The man’s constant efforts to improve the quality of life on St Mary’s make him an unlikely murderer.

  I swallow my fear that we’re acting too slowly to save Lily Jago. We spent the day searching every obscure shed and outbuilding, as well as interviewing suspects this evening. All I can do now is learn what the sailors’ charms mean to the killer, even though I’d rather be outside hunting for the missing girl. The rain on the station’s roof sounds like bullets from a scattergun, the brutal sound reminding me the girl may be dead already, her corpse battered by the elements.

  I spend the next hour struggling to read the museum’s records. The past twenty years’ entries are easy because Elaine Rawle’s handwriting is perfectly formed, but the sailors’ charms may have been left to the museum decades ago. The previous manager ran the museum for fifty years, his minute scrawl growing illegible as he aged. I get no help from the extra sheet I found in Father Michael’s basement, apart from confirming that it was torn so cleanly from the ledger, its absence is hard to spot. My gaze scans the list of items, certain I’m missing something, but none of the names jumps out at me.

  There’s a scratching sound outside, just as my eyes are straining from overuse. It’s pitch dark when Shadow bounds through the door. He normally gives me a boisterous greeting, but his behaviour’s changed. The dog lets out a series of barks, his pale eyes locked onto my face. There’s nothing outside except darkness and rain, coursing down the windows, while the islanders shelter indoors.

  ‘Where’s Nina?’

  The dog gives a pitiful whine, prompting me to call her number, but there’s no reply. Now he’s standing by the door, howling for release, and I know something’s wrong. I told Nina to keep her phone switched on at all times, but when I call again, there’s still no answer.