Pulpit Rock Read online

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  Lawrie Deane is busy typing messages when we get back, reluctant to leave his computer when I call him into Madron’s office for a briefing, but at least he’s had the foresight to order lunch; a tray of sandwiches and cold drinks is waiting for us. The team’s faces are serious as we gather around the table. Two sergeants and one inexperienced constable are the full extent of my workforce while the DCI’s away on holiday and another officer is on long-term sick leave. Under normal circumstances four full-timers can easily enforce law and order among the islands’ peaceful communities, with less than two thousand permanent residents, but I may need more staff to solve a vicious murder at the height of tourist season. I could request extra officers from the mainland, but that might cause more harm than good. No one talks here until they’re ready, and our biggest job will be containing the islanders’ panic until the killer’s found.

  My three officers wait expectantly; I’m the only one with experience of leading a serious crime investigation, and hierarchy dictates that every key decision is mine. Isla’s face is paler than before, her expression tense when I explain that the case has just become a murder hunt. I pull the polaroid photo from my pocket, still wrapped in an evidence bag, then pass it round.

  ‘The sick bastard,’ Isla hisses, as she reads the words scribbled on the back.

  ‘A nutjob, obviously,’ Eddie agrees. ‘Who’d do that to a young girl?’

  It’s Lawrie Deane’s reaction that surprises me. The sergeant normally plays the hardman, but his eyes are glossy when he returns the photo. His daughter is around Sabine’s age, so it’s not surprising he’s affected on a personal level.

  ‘We’re looking for someone mentally ill,’ I say. ‘Only a sadist would abduct a young woman, dress her in a bride’s costume, complete with make-up and flowers, then push her off a cliff. We can’t tell if it’s a man or a woman yet, but the killer must be a risk-taker. It took daring to hand-deliver a photo to the police station then display her body in the open. It could have been done quietly, by dropping her corpse into the sea at high tide, but the killer had a point to prove. Does anyone recognise the phrase “The bride in her glory will ever be fair?” It rings a bell, but I can’t place it.’

  Eddie pores over his phone. ‘It’s not mentioned anywhere on the web.’

  ‘It means something to the killer, but our first task is to find out who Sabine knew. She arrived on St Mary’s in mid-June; I want to hear about any short flings or one-night stands during that time. We all know that ninety per cent of violent crime against women is carried out by men they know intimately, but this could be an exception. It may be a man with a fetish, or a woman strong enough to overpower someone as fit as Sabine.’

  Isla looks paler than before, making me wonder if shock is affecting her. ‘Do you think the killer’s still here, boss?’

  ‘It looks that way. No ferries have sailed since last night, and the harbourmaster has checked local boats to make sure he didn’t leave by sea.’ I scan the team’s faces again. ‘I want to know everything about Sabine. How did she spend her spare time? Where did that dress come from, and the jewellery? Small details could expose the killer. We also need to do an urgent trace on her phone. Lawrie has arranged an emergency public briefing at three o’clock in the church hall. Can one of you get it announced on local radio, please?’

  I give each officer duties to perform but Isla still looks frail; she seems to be holding herself together by keeping busy. After I’ve tacked Sabine’s photo to a pinboard I study her face again, trying to channel my anger towards the murderer into achieving the justice she deserves. She was a bold spirit, brave enough to trek across Europe alone, and work all summer in a foreign country, yet her killer set out to humiliate her, covering her face in layers of make-up she never wore while she was alive. I still don’t know what other indignities she suffered before her death.

  I lock myself into Madron’s office to complete the worst task of the day. The air carries his old-fashioned smell of Brylcreem and boot polish. It feels wrong to commandeer his room, but it’s the only place at the station with guaranteed privacy. I rearrange objects on his desk, procrastinating, until I’m ready to call Sabine’s home in Riga. Her mother sounds relaxed at first, curious to know why someone is phoning from the UK. I give her the news as gently as possible. There’s a five-second delay before I hear a gasp. The sound is followed by a grating scream, shrill enough to make me grit my teeth, then a man’s voice takes over. He speaks in broken English, begging me to explain, and I have to describe his daughter’s death all over again.

  7

  Lily’s mouth is dry with panic as she escapes the hotel compound at 2 p.m. She senses that something’s wrong, because DI Kitto left Sabine’s room with a frown on his face. She must talk to her brother, even though she fears him. An odd atmosphere fills the air as she walks through Hugh Town. The lanes are clogged with holidaymakers, and a queue of people runs the length of the quay, snaking back from the ferry’s ticket kiosk. A red-faced woman almost barges her off the pavement, complaining loudly that today’s ferry service has been cancelled. Lily hurries towards the low stone buildings that line the Strand. She pauses outside the fisherman’s cottage that became her home on St Mary’s five years ago, still hoping her mother might appear at the window, but the pane of glass is empty. No one answers when she unlocks the door and yells her brother’s name.

  Lily continues her search, passing the squat outline of the community centre then following the path to Porth Mellon Beach. She remembers her excitement on moving to the island at thirteen. It seemed magical to hear the waves greeting the land all day long after living in a high-rise flat, but even the open shorelines fail to lift her spirits today. A dozen boats stand on raised blocks behind the old chandlery, and there’s no one around. The early afternoon sun is so hot, Lily raises her hand to shade her face, wishing she’d worn sunglasses. Harry has found a summer job carrying visitors round the coastline in an old speedboat owned by Paul Keast. It’s resting on its trailer, and there’s no sign of her brother. She expected him to be out on the water, with Sabine, soaking up the sun. Keast seems prepared to overlook Harry’s flirtations and his temper, provided he makes a profit.

  Lily props her back against the shady side of the boat, protecting her fair skin from the sun’s glare. Half an hour passes before footsteps crunch across the sand, the sound bringing her to her feet: Harry is swigging from a can of beer, with half a dozen more inside the plastic bag dangling from his hand. It would be wise to back away, but her questions need answers. Shame crosses her brother’s features before his defences rise again.

  ‘What have I done wrong this time?’ He swallows another gulp of beer.

  ‘I need your help, Harry.’

  ‘Why?’ He steps closer, his expression softening. ‘You’re upset, I can see it in your face.’

  Lily studies him under the screen of her hand. Harry will soon be twenty, her senior by eighteen months, tall and good-looking. The sun has picked out blond streaks in his light brown hair, his skin deeply tanned. He still looks like the swaggering show-off she worshipped as a child, but their relationship has changed. He used to confide in her, but he’s spent three months in jail since then, and his drinking’s growing worse. Harry is her only relative on St Mary’s, yet she no longer trusts him.

  ‘Sabine never came back to the hotel last night. I thought she’d be with you.’

  ‘I haven’t seen her.’ The tenderness on Harry’s face vanishes.

  Lily pulls her friend’s phone from her pocket, brandishing it at him. ‘You’ve been texting her all week, arranging to meet up.’

  Harry stares at her. ‘Why did you take her phone?’

  ‘You’re lucky I pocketed it before the police searched her room.’ Lily steps closer even though instinct tells her to run. ‘You promised not to lay a finger on her.’

  ‘I gave her a few free rides on the boat, that’s all.’ He offers a narrow smile.

 
; ‘You said you’d leave my friends alone.’

  ‘It just happened, Lily. It didn’t mean anything, to either of us.’

  ‘Why are you talking about her in the past tense?’

  ‘Because it’s over, that’s all.’

  Lily pulls the scrap of paper from her pocket and brandishes it at him. ‘You put this under her door last night, didn’t you? It’s your handwriting.’

  He shrugs. ‘I was at the pub with some mates, so I got to the lighthouse late, and a bit pissed. No one was there – I saw a car drive past on the lane but she wouldn’t have got a lift, she’d have cycled. I lay down on the grass to wait for her, but I fell asleep. I woke up a few hours later, and walked home alone.’

  ‘Why are the police hunting for her?’

  ‘How should I know? I never saw her and she hasn’t messaged me.’ His forehead gathers into a frown.

  ‘You were too rat-arsed to care if she got home safe, as usual.’

  ‘No lectures, I’m not in the mood.’

  ‘Tell me she’s safe, Harry, please.’

  Pain shoots through Lily’s system when he grabs her arm and gives it a vicious twist. She holds her breath, waiting for a blow that never arrives.

  ‘You’re just like all the others. I made one mistake, and now I’m the island’s scapegoat.’ Her brother yanks her wrist again until she winces with pain. ‘Why don’t you fuck off and leave me alone?’

  Lily’s other questions will have to wait; it only takes a few cans of lager to sour Harry’s personality. She retraces her steps along the path, and when she looks back, he’s slumped beside the boat, guzzling his next beer, already sinking into self-pity. Lily’s mother pleaded with her to try and get him back on the straight and narrow before she died, but his temper drove her from their rented house weeks after the funeral. His violent reaction makes her believe he’s hiding something about Sabine’s disappearance.

  Dozens of islanders are heading for Hugh Town when Lily reaches the road. An odd feeling crawls inside her gut when she hears one of them say that the police have called an emergency meeting at three o’clock, but no one can explain why.

  8

  Under normal circumstances, St Andrew’s church hall is an oasis of calm. It lies at the heart of Hugh Town, the barn-like space used for choir practice, yoga classes and Tai Chi, but there’s no chance of relaxing today. Volunteer stewards are corralling locals and tourists inside. My team has placed a hundred chairs in neat rows, but they’re all taken, with more people queuing to be admitted. One of the realities of working on such small islands is that news travel fast, be it good or bad.

  I wait in silence as the hall fills. My undercover work with the Murder Squad taught me that killers like to watch events unfold: I scan the crowd for scratched arms, bruised faces – signs of a recent struggle – but see only people I’ve known all my adult life, plus a sprinkling of tourists. The visitors’ faces are burnished to a healthy glow from hours outdoors. The locals are pale by comparison, from labouring inside cafés, pubs and shops, capitalising on the money that boosts the islands’ economy during holiday season. The Keast brothers are in the front row, fresh from guarding the crime scene. There’s no sign of Tom and Rhianna Polkerris from the Star Castle, but Jade Finbury is in the middle of the crowd. The pilot’s expression is sunny while she chats with the woman to her right. My uncle Ray is standing at the back, his features unreadable, as if nothing could surprise him. Shadow is at his side, releasing a high-pitched whine. Thank God Ray is gripping his lead or he’d bound onto the stage to join me.

  I walk to the front of the platform that serves many different purposes during the year. Torch singers croon love songs on Valentine’s night, and comedians perform stand-up routines. The crowd watches expectantly, as if they’re hoping for a decent joke, but their faces darken when I announce Sabine Bertans’ death, then share details from the crime scene.

  ‘We need to know if she went to Pulpit Rock voluntarily, or someone forced her there. It was a brutal, premeditated attack, and we’re certain the killer is still on St Mary’s. I need every detail about how Sabine spent her last hours. Her phone’s still missing; it’s got a bright pink case, covered in a floral design. If you find it, please bring it to the station immediately. I can’t stress highly enough that you all need to keep safe. Don’t spend time alone, and keep your doors locked. No one can leave or visit St Mary’s without our permission until her killer’s found.’

  My final statement prompts a hiss of irritation, which is understandable. Hundreds of tourists will be unable to return to work on Monday, while the next influx of visitors will be barred from travelling to the islands.

  ‘Can I assume that everyone here will let us search their homes, if necessary? It would save a lot of time applying for individual search warrants.’

  The sea of faces nods back at me, as I expected. I ask them to pass on the news about property searches to their neighbours, before hitting a button on my computer. A photo appears on the wall, of the gold locket and earrings the girl was wearing.

  ‘The jewellery may belong to the victim, or to someone local. If anyone recognises it, please talk to me today.’

  There’s a buzz of voices as people study Sabine’s photo. I show them an image of the phrase scribbled on the back, but no one recognises it, or the killer’s handwriting. It crosses my mind to explain that she was wearing a bridal gown, but the grotesque detail might trigger panic. It’s important to find the right balance. I need the islanders to keep functioning normally, while accepting the dangers they’re facing. It requires a delicate balancing act to answer each question in turn, without revealing the violence of the attack. When the meeting ends everyone has agreed to provide alibis, to be verified before they can get permission to travel.

  People are already forming queues to speak to my team. Eddie Nickell is running the operation, making sure that Lawrie and Isla collect the right details. Ploughing through the alibis will take hours, even though the islands’ six special constables have volunteered their services. They help out as stewards during the islands’ festivals and gig races, but have no experience of other aspects of policing. We’ll need to do most of the basic work ourselves, and I’m keen to return to the Star Castle, where Sabine worked long shifts to send money home to her family and fund her studies. I know too little about her life, except that she loved to swim, and her manner was warm and outgoing. I should have spent more time with her, to learn about any threats she was facing.

  I’m still kicking myself for missing clues in the girl’s behaviour when a familiar figure hurries across the room. Elaine Rawle is a slim woman of average height; her walk is so nimble, she looks like a retired tennis player, with smooth grey hair swept back from her face. Her elegant summer dress stands out among the crowd’s neon-bright T-shirts and Bermuda shorts. Elaine is married to the former headmaster of Five Islands School. She has run the Isles of Scilly Museum for decades, with quiet efficiency. Her voice is usually a genteel murmur, but words spill from her mouth in a garbled rush today.

  ‘That locket’s from the museum, Ben. We had some items stolen about a year ago. I can’t remember the exact date, but you’ll have a record at the station, won’t you?’

  ‘Slow down, please, Elaine. I heard about some items going missing, but you need to start at the beginning.’

  ‘The thief took a handful of jewellery from one of our cabinets. The piece you showed is made of Cornish gold. I don’t know much about its history, but I’d recognise it anywhere.’

  ‘Someone just walked into the museum and grabbed it?’

  ‘Our security was hopeless back then; DCI Madron made us install better locks after it happened. The odd thing is that the thief could have emptied the whole cabinet, but more valuable pieces were left behind.’

  ‘Do you have any idea who did it?’

  ‘That’s the frustrating thing. It was the middle of summer, when the island was flooded with visitors. This might sound unfair, but I wonde
red if Harry Jago might be involved. The boy’s always in trouble. I can’t imagine any of the other islanders doing something so stupid.’

  ‘Can I drop by the museum tomorrow for a tour?’

  ‘Any time,’ she replies. ‘I’m not exactly rushed off my feet, but if you want to know more about the locket, Julian Power’s our expert. He’s collects local jewellery, and he’s writing a catalogue for the museum, so people can see items online.’

  Julian Power runs the Isles of Scilly Travel Company; a middle-aged bachelor with a solemn manner, who takes his responsibility for ferrying passengers seriously. He strikes me as an unlikely collector of women’s jewellery, but when I scan the room again, he’s nowhere in sight. Elaine Rawle disappears into the crowd, while I digest the fact that our culprit is a thief as well as a murderer. I’ll have to check out her theory that Harry Jago was involved, although the boy strikes me as lost, rather than dangerous. Whoever killed Sabine must have been planning the attack all year, but my most pressing task is to find out who was close to the victim. The attack wasn’t a piece of random violence. It would have taken rigorous preparation at each stage to avoid drawing attention.

  I slip out of the hall to pay a visit to Sabine’s priest. The street outside is packed with people, discussing the girl’s death like a hot piece of gossip. At the edge of the crowd I see a woman with back turned, her glossy hair a rich shade of chocolate. I blink rapidly to clear her image away; stress must be getting to me if I’m conjuring ghosts from the past. But when my eyes open again, Nina Jackson is still standing there, perfectly real. It’s the first time I’ve seen my ex-girlfriend in almost two years – although ‘ex-girlfriend’ is pushing it. We’d barely got past the fling stage before she left Bryher, but that hasn’t stopped my thoughts drifting back to her countless times since. She’s wearing a turquoise shirt that accentuates her tan, and a pair of faded jeans. Shadow has noticed her too. He must have given Ray the slip, his lead trailing as he bounds in her direction. The dog’s enthusiastic greeting gives me time to wipe the shock from my face before saying hello. She’s wearing opaque sunglasses that mask her expression, but Shadow is too busy licking her hands to notice the tense atmosphere.