Pulpit Rock Page 3

  ‘I’ve got some news about Sabine Bertans,’ I tell them.

  ‘Not in trouble, is she?’ Rhianna looks surprised. ‘She’s got the right paperwork. We’ve hired plenty of Latvian girls over the years; they’re hard workers, nice manners too.’

  ‘When’s the last time you saw her?’

  ‘Sabine was serving in the bar last night,’ Tom replies. ‘She volunteered for an extra shift this morning, but never showed up.’

  ‘Why didn’t you say?’ his wife snaps. ‘I’m in charge of staff.’

  The couple glare at each other with such animosity it looks like a war might erupt at any moment, but domestic squabbles are irrelevant now.

  ‘We know Sabine left the hotel after her shift ended.’

  ‘That’s hard to believe,’ Rhianna says. ‘She didn’t finish till midnight. Please just tell us what’s wrong.’

  ‘Her body’s been found by Pulpit Rock. I can’t reveal any details, but we’re certain it’s Sabine. I’ll do a formal identification later today for the records.’

  ‘Are you saying she was killed?’ Tom Polkerris’s voice vibrates with shock.

  ‘I can’t share anything at this stage, I’m afraid.’

  His face drains of colour, before he drops into a chair, collapsing like a house of cards. There’s no sign now of the kid who loved to goad his classmates. Polkerris is open-mouthed with shock, but his wife’s calmness remains intact.

  ‘When did it happen?’ Her tone is irritable, as if the girl’s death is a minor disruption to her plans.

  ‘We don’t have a clear picture yet; I’ll need to search her room before I leave. Did she seem distressed in the last few days?’

  ‘Not at all, she was loving her time here,’ Tom Polkerris replies.

  His wife’s composure vanishes suddenly. ‘Our guests can’t hear about this. They come here for peace and quiet.’

  ‘Shut up, Rhianna,’ Polkerris mutters. ‘Didn’t you hear what Ben said? One of our staff’s been killed; nothing else matters.’

  ‘Tell that to our shareholders if we get bad reviews on TripAdvisor.’ Her lips purse into a tight line, making me question what emotions exist inside that glossy shell.

  ‘Would it be okay to hold a public meeting here later? I want to announce Sabine’s death before gossip takes hold. Your restaurant would be ideal.’

  ‘It’s busy,’ Rhianna snaps. ‘The church hall’s your best option.’

  Tom looks set to argue, but keeps his mouth shut. Our conversation has revealed the couple’s differences: they seem to be falling apart in the face of this crisis instead of pulling together. Polkerris’s walk is unsteady as he leads me through the hotel’s internal garden to the staff accommodation block. It looks like he’s spent the morning knocking back booze, but fresh air seems to help. By the time we reach the single-storey building his gait has steadied.

  ‘Sabine was in room eleven,’ he mutters. ‘It was unlocked when I looked for her earlier.’

  I pull on sterile gloves before touching the door handle. If anyone else turns out to be involved in Sabine’s death, I could be trampling all over primary evidence, so it pays to take care. The air carries the synthetic odour of cheap perfume when I enter. A narrow bed is shoved against the wall, and the room could belong to any young woman, with hairclips, sunglasses and loose change scattered across the dressing table. She must have left in a hurry: her uniform lies in a crumpled heap, as if she was desperate to escape. If she left a suicide note, there’s no sign of it here. My eyes catch on a red dress hanging inside her wardrobe. Sabine will miss out on a lifetime of parties for reasons I can’t explain. I ignore the anger swilling around in my gut; there’s no place for it on an investigation. Regrets are fine in your down time, but while you’re on duty, they only trip you up.

  It doesn’t take me long to check under the mattress, behind furniture and in the pockets of her clothes, with no luck at all. I need her phone urgently to understand the context of her death, but all I find is a plastic wallet containing some letters, Sabine’s passport and travel documents, which I drop into an evidence bag. Polkerris is still leaning against the wall outside, his head sagging as if the weight of his skull is a heavy burden.

  ‘Are you okay, Tom?’

  The man’s eyes blink shut. ‘Do you think she suffered?’

  ‘It’s too soon to tell.’

  ‘She was nineteen years old.’ A sheen of perspiration has erupted on his pale skin.

  ‘Let’s focus on tasks, shall we? I have to find Sabine’s phone. I saw her using it recently; the case is bright pink, decorated with flowers. Can you ask your staff to look for it in the hotel?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Did Sabine have a boyfriend?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know, I’m afraid.’

  ‘What about close friends? Who did she hang out with on her days off?’

  ‘I can’t say.’ He hesitates before speaking again. ‘We don’t pry into our staff’s private lives.’

  ‘How did she seem to you last night?’

  ‘Relaxed, as usual, joking with the waiters. I was on duty from six till after midnight, circulating between the restaurant, bar and reception desk. We said good night when her shift ended.’

  ‘Do you know any personal details?’

  ‘Only that she was Catholic; she asked if there was a church nearby.’

  ‘I’ll check that out. My team may need to come back, today or tomorrow.’

  ‘Any time, one of us is always here.’

  I close the door to Sabine’s room, then ask Polkerris to lock it and hand over the key, so no one tampers with her belongings. Just as we’re leaving I spy a figure at the end of the corridor, little more than a shadow, vanishing before her face is exposed. It’s a reminder that rumours will already be flying around St Mary’s, unless we provide accurate information.

  Polkerris is too preoccupied to notice our eavesdropper as we cross the gardens, my gaze scanning the flowerbeds. The roses make an ideal backdrop for the lavish weddings that form the mainstay of the hotel’s business, with couples paying thousands to say their vows in such a historic setting. My old classmate’s calm has returned when we finally reach the exit, making me wonder where he’s buried the aggression that fuelled him as a boy. His expression is sober as I tell him not to inform his staff of Sabine’s death until after the public briefing at 3 p.m.

  Lawrie Deane is still trapped behind the reception desk when I get back to the station, but Shadow jumps to his feet, clearly hoping for a run along the beach. Lawrie is on the phone to the airport, which brings the day’s first good news: Liz Gannick’s flight from Penzance will touch down soon. I’ll accept all help on offer, if it gets us nearer the truth.

  I’m about to head for the airport when I spot a brown line under the doormat. A manila envelope has got stuck there and been overlooked until now; my name and title are written on the front in ragged black capitals: DI BEN KITTO. I consider chucking it on my desk to deal with later, but instinct makes me peer inside. The envelope contains a single Polaroid photo, and the image tightens the knot in my stomach. Sabine stares back at me, her face framed by the veil she wore this morning. This time she’s very much alive. No make-up has been applied to her face yet – she’s still the natural beauty I remember – but the expression in her eyes is one of abject terror. If she took the picture just before committing suicide, it’s a macabre type of selfie. It’s possible she delivered the envelope last night, before cycling out to Peninnis Head.

  Suddenly it hits home that the girl I swam with has been wrenched from this world, no matter how she died. When I stare at the photo again, it gives no clues about timing or location. I can’t tell whether it was taken minutes or hours before her death. When I turn it over, someone has used a white marker to scrawl The bride in her glory will ever be fair on the black plastic. I don’t know where the phrase comes from, but I need to find out. Sabine could have written it herself, certain that dying young would preserve
her beauty forever, but she never struck me as vain. If she was murdered, the words have a different meaning. The killer wasn’t content with the brutal murder of a vibrant young woman: he’s taunting us, and the bastard may be less than a mile away, already planning his next attack.

  6

  I drive east to the airport at one o’clock with Shadow on the back seat, the photo burning a hole in my pocket. I’ll need to get the handwriting identified, depending on the pathologist’s news. I follow the coast road north, past Town Beach, where fishing boats lie stranded by the low tide. When I reach Porth Mellon, tourists are dawdling along the pavement with cameras slung from their shoulders, ice creams in hand. They look like members of a parallel universe, oblivious to all forms of danger. I drive through farmland on the Lower Moors, where sheep are sheltering from the sun’s glare below tall elm trees. Flower fields line the airport’s approach road, currently lying fallow, the soil a dull brown. It’s easy to forget that the entire landscape glittered with daffodils and narcissi just a few months ago.

  I reach the car park in time to watch Liz Gannick’s ten-seater plane taxi down the airstrip after a perfect landing. Once it’s stationary, the site manager lets me walk across the landing strip. The pilot, Jade Finbury, jumps down onto the runway, leaving her passenger locked inside. The brunette is in her early-thirties, with a round, appealing face that seems designed to smile. She moved here from London five or six years ago, straight after qualifying as a pilot. Jade has adapted well to island life, finding a partner and making friends among the community. I don’t know her well but she’s good at her job. I’ve been her passenger plenty of times, when I fly to the mainland for training events.

  ‘Your guest’s got plenty of luggage, Ben. Shall I get one of the porters?’

  ‘That would be great, thanks.’

  ‘Has something happened while I’ve been away?’

  ‘A young woman died. You’ve just flown Cornwall’s chief forensics officer over to help us.’

  Her smile vanishes. ‘Is it someone from St Mary’s?’

  ‘We’re holding a public meeting at the church hall at three this afternoon to announce the news.’

  She shakes her head in denial. ‘Nothing bad ever happens here.’

  ‘Come to the briefing, Jade. We’ll have a better picture by then.’

  ‘I’ll be there.’

  The pilot’s professional manner returns when she grabs her flight manual and heads for the airport building at a brisk march, leaving me to welcome Gannick. A small mountain of boxes and crates fill the front seats, hiding the chief forensics officer from view. Her loud northern voice starts yelling instructions before we’ve even said hello.

  ‘I’ve brought our mobile lab with me. Don’t just stand there, this kit weighs a ton.’

  ‘Great to see you too, Liz. Thanks for coming over.’

  ‘Why in God’s name do you need help with a suicide?’

  ‘The girl was nineteen. Her parents will want every detail, and I need to know if anyone else was involved.’

  Gannick scans my face for signs of panic, already making assessments. I fight my impulse to help her down the steps, watching as she manoeuvres onto the airstrip with ease, wielding her crutches like an acrobat. She told me about having spina bifida, but her condition rarely seems to slow her down. She looks more like a student than a senior crime scene investigator, her petite form clad in tight jeans and a scarlet T-shirt. The last time we met her short hair was peroxide blonde, but now it’s raven black, with a few neon pink spikes for added interest. Her pixie-like features are so small and angular, they could belong to a twelve-year-old, but her gaze is world-weary.

  ‘Let’s hope it’s worth my while.’ She’s already twitching with impatience. ‘What are we waiting for? The scene’s getting corrupted as we speak.’

  ‘It’s only five minutes away.’

  ‘Have you got that bloody dog in the van?’

  ‘He’ll be overjoyed to see you.’

  Gannick’s loathing for Shadow is part of her act. She grumbles about him, yet slips him expensive dog treats when she thinks no one’s looking. I’ve only worked with the chief forensics officer on one previous investigation, but her style is unchanged. She’s good company off-duty, but works at breakneck speed, her brusque communication style harsh enough to terrify the faint-hearted. She scowls with irritation while the porter helps me load her equipment into the police van, as if the boxes should transport themselves.

  The forensics officer sits in the back with Shadow, firing out questions during our short drive around the island’s western coast, past Old Town’s horseshoe bay, but she falls silent as we approach Peninnis Head. The area has been cordoned off with crime scene tape, a sterile white tent erected over Sabine’s body. Gannick makes me put on a white Tyvek suit, and overshoes, even though my footprints are already scattered liberally across the grass. The synthetic fabric is punishing on a hot day – sunlight blasts the rocky landscape, bleaching the granite from grey to white. I catch sight of the pathologist walking back to his car, just as Gannick reappears at my side.

  ‘I’m glad you’re working with us, Liz. The victim was an acquaintance of mine.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I know what I’m doing. They gave me the top job for a reason.’

  I’d forgotten Gannick’s tendency to turn compliments into insults. She ducks under the cordon while I walk over to speak to the pathologist. Gareth Keillor retired from Home Office duties several years ago, but is still licensed to act as the islands’ consultant. His small eyes observe me through tortoiseshell glasses, scant grey hair unsettled by the breeze. He slings his medical case into the boot of his car, as if he can’t wait to escape.

  ‘Thank God we don’t see that type of death often,’ he says. ‘It’s a horrible way for a young woman’s life to end.’

  ‘If she was killed, I’ll need to put the island on lockdown.’

  ‘She didn’t commit suicide, that’s certain. The abrasions round her wrists are rope burns: she was tied up, then murdered, within the last twelve hours.’ His hands rest on the boot of his car. ‘I can’t tell whether she was dressed in that bride’s outfit before or after the flowers were woven through her hair, but it was a labour of love for someone.’

  ‘You’re sure she didn’t jump from Pulpit Rock?’

  ‘One hundred per cent.’

  ‘What about other injuries?’

  ‘I’ve taken swabs for the lab, but there’s no sign of sexual assault, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘Do you think she was tortured?’

  His face is regretful. ‘Let’s hope not. We’ll find out more when I examine the body again.’

  ‘Thanks for your help, Gareth. Sorry to interrupt your game.’

  Keillor gives a dry laugh. ‘I was winning hands down, but all I want now is a stiff drink.’

  The pathologist gives a quick salute before folding his neat frame into his brand-new Audi. St Mary’s is just five miles long, but the luxury vehicle must compensate for his grisly duties whenever there’s an unexplained death. Gareth Keillor is the only pathologist I know who views the murder victims he examines as humans, rather than biological specimens, and he’s confirmed my suspicions. I make a quick phone call to Lawrie Deane, telling him to block travel to and from the island with immediate effect.

  Liz Gannick’s shadow is moving around inside the tent that shields Sabine’s body, a box of specimen bottles lying open on the grass. Eddie and Isla are sitting on a rock nearby, their wetsuits piled at their feet. They must be keen to cool down, after guarding the site all morning in the blazing sun.

  ‘We can go back to the station once I’ve spoken to Liz,’ I tell them.

  Gannick seems unmoved by the sight of a young woman’s corpse. She’s poring over the wedding gown, her gloved hands adjusting the fabric with small, patient movements.

  ‘Keillor says she was murdered, Liz.’

  ‘That makes sense; I’ve never seen a suicide do this
much staging. You can take her jewellery,’ she says, pointing at a white plastic case. ‘Apart from a ring that’s been jammed onto her finger. I’ll try and prise it off later.’

  When I look inside the case, a pair of transparent evidence bags contain items I don’t recognise. I never saw Sabine wearing the small gold locket. Its engraved casing is deeply scratched, while the hoop earrings in the other bag look brand new. I can’t tell whether they’re solid gold, but the yellow metal glitters as I take photos with my phone.

  Gannick looks up at me. ‘It’s like the old wedding rhyme.’

  ‘Something old and something new?’

  ‘If there’s anything borrowed or blue, you’ll be first to know.’

  I want to say that I appreciate her attention to detail, but she’d only reject the compliment with a flick of her hand. It will take her an hour or two to prepare Sabine’s body to be carried to the hospital’s mortuary by the island’s only ambulance. The transfer must be made without losing a single hair or fibre that could reveal the killer’s identity. Gannick is so busy toiling over the crime scene, she doesn’t notice my departure.

  The Keast brothers have arrived to guard the scene. Steve appears relaxed, while Paul is shifting his weight from foot to foot. I’ve watched my friend grow more fragile over the years, but the emotional fallout from the murder case isn’t my top priority. I can only feel grateful that the brothers have agreed to put their lives on hold while I take Eddie and Isla back to the station to review the evidence. I scan the scene again before we get into the van. Why would a killer risk choosing a renowned beauty spot to display a victim’s body? Apart from the tent concealing Sabine’s body, the rest of the landscape looks pristine. Acres of wild grass and moorland flowers end abruptly when the cliff pitches into the sea, the lighthouse overlooking two thousand miles of clear ocean.