Pulpit Rock Page 7

  ‘No need to run, Lily. I’m not here to arrest you.’

  ‘My break’s over; I should get back to work.’

  ‘Stay, just for a minute, please. I understand you were friends with Sabine Bertans. Can you think of anyone who wanted to harm her?’

  ‘She had no enemies here.’

  ‘What about boyfriends?’

  The girl pushes a stray lock of hair back behind her ear, her hand trembling. ‘Sabine was single. She knew she’d be flying home soon.’

  I hand her my card. ‘Call me if you remember anything. You want your friend’s killer found, don’t you?’

  ‘More than anything.’ The girl’s eyes are cloudy with tears as she turns away.

  Lily vanishes back inside the building, leaving the scent of anxiety and cheap shampoo lingering on the air. I’m almost certain that she was hiding in the corridor when I searched Sabine’s room. Her nervousness could mean she’s concealing something, or too distressed to discuss her friend’s death. I got the feeling that she’d break into a hundred pieces if I pushed too hard.

  My computer screen is flashing when I get back to my room, and my boss’s face appears when I hit the Skype button. DCI Madron’s one concession to holiday relaxation is to swap his formal jacket and tie for a Polo shirt, tightly buttoned around his throat. The man’s grey hair is so neatly combed, his parting could have been drawn with a slide rule. I don’t want to share the news of Sabine’s death, but it will be reported in the papers tomorrow. Anger resonates in his voice when he finally reacts.

  ‘Why did you let the whole day pass before calling me, Kitto?’

  ‘We’ve been busy, sir. I meant to ring this morning.’

  ‘I should be kept informed at every stage.’

  ‘We’re following procedure, I promise.’

  ‘Don’t forget our special constables if you need extra help.’ Alan Madron peers at me again. ‘Lose that stubble before you start work tomorrow, for God’s sake. Why should people place their trust in someone who looks like a tramp?’

  The DCI has complained about my refusal to wear uniform ever since appointing me as his deputy last year. He spends the next ten minutes grilling me about procedural matters, before finally relenting.

  ‘I don’t want any shortcuts, Kitto, and above all, keep the islanders safe.’

  I’m still fuming when I turn off my computer. It annoys the hell out of me that my boss turns critical whenever danger strikes. Liz Gannick’s music has lowered to a steady heartbeat, with stray bass notes pulsing through the wall. I’m willing to bet she’s still peering down her microscope at midnight, hunting for any stray molecule to identify the killer. I’m about to crawl into bed when another unwelcome sound reaches me. Shadow is baying at the top of his voice, a wolf-like scream that should only be heard in the forests of Wyoming, under a full moon. I’m forced to go downstairs and sneak him through the fire exit, cursing under my breath.

  The creature gives me an innocent look before curling up, content, on a blanket in the corner, soon beginning to snore. When I put out the light the building has fallen silent, but my eyes stay open. My loneliness only surfaces at times like this. It’s easy to ignore on relaxed days, when solitude can feel like a luxury, but tonight it’s an unwelcome guest. It hung over me for months after Nina left, and now she’s back, just when I’d almost forgotten her. I’ve been enjoying life alone, but tonight I could use someone to listen to my fears. Needles of starlight push through the curtains, and the knowledge that Sabine’s killer is still roaming around the island rests on the centre of my chest like a lead weight.

  12

  Monday 5 August

  It’s 3 a.m., but Lily still can’t sleep. The air feels stifling, even with the window ajar, her thoughts refusing to settle. Guilt nags at her for failing to tell Ben Kitto that she took Sabine’s phone, but when she switches the mobile on again, new texts have arrived from Latvia. One picture shows a group of young people in a bar, raising their beer glasses to the camera. The words WE MISS YOU! are written below the image in English. Sabine’s friends don’t yet know that she’ll never return. Lily scrolls through the messages again, until she reaches Harry’s texts. Their intimate tone makes her uneasy. He invited Sabine out on the boat again, promising to show her the whole island, then the messages end abruptly the night she died.

  Lily drops the phone on her bed. She ought to hand it to the police tomorrow, but that would get Harry into trouble. She still can’t be sure her brother played no part in Sabine’s death. When he’s drunk, he becomes another person, prone to terrible mood swings. Everyone on the island knows he’s unreliable. He picks arguments after he’s been to the pub, and even though he apologises later, the cycle keeps repeating itself. She’d love to turn the clock back to a simpler time, but their childhood is over. Tomorrow she must find out why Sabine died, no matter how many challenges she faces.

  13

  I give myself a clean shave soon after dawn. My hotel bathroom comes equipped with spare toiletries, including a razor, but my reflection still looks angry. Sabine’s death and the DCI’s criticisms have put a scowl on my face, my green eyes giving me a hard stare, as if the black-haired giant in the mirror might punch through the glass at any minute. I make myself do a quick workout, with enough push-ups to make my muscles burn, aware that exercise breaks will be limited until the killer’s found.

  When I fling open the curtains, the sun is shining on Round Island in the distance, the sky picture-postcard blue. Hugh Town’s cottages run in grey seams down to the harbour, where crab boats are unloading their catch. In an ideal world I could linger here, watching the tide retreat, but Shadow is desperate for fresh air. I could use a long run too, but there’s no time to burn off any more of the adrenaline that’s flooded my system since Sabine died. I need to reach the station early, to make plans before the team arrives.

  There’s little sound from the other hotel bedrooms as Shadow races down the fire escape. Once we’re outside, the dog streaks ahead with his usual gusto. I take a quick detour down to the quay, where fishermen have piled creels and lobster pots, the air already warm. There’s a stench of fish guts, brine and seaweed, and Shadow is in his element. He only materialises again when I unlock the station door, whining for food. His muzzle wrinkles in disgust when I pour dry biscuits into his bowl in the backyard.

  ‘You’re not human, remember? Don’t hold out for sirloin steak,’ I advise him, before walking back inside.

  The incident board is covered in photos from yesterday’s crime scene, but the bigger picture refuses to materialise. Someone on the island hated Sabine enough to subject her to a bizarre, ritualised death, photographing her, then forcing her into a bridal costume. I can’t understand why the people she knew best are refusing to talk. She told her priest that she was seeing someone new, but didn’t disclose his identity. It’s not yet clear whether the killer was someone she’d slept with, or a psychopath with a weird obsession. Her fearless independence could be the feature her killer hated most, if he’s always been trapped on the islands. The only evidence left behind is her jewellery, a single Polaroid photo, and a line of obscure poetry. When I stare at her image again the camera’s flashlight has bleached most of the colour from her skin. The killer must have spent ages applying lipstick and eye shadow to her face, like a mortician beautifying a corpse.

  I shuffle through the papers I collected from Sabine’s room. The details of her flight home from London are scrawled in blue ink, and a list of places she wanted to visit during her final week in the UK, including the Tate Gallery and Buckingham Palace. At the bottom of the pile there’s a postcard for her parents in Riga. Her words are breezy and upbeat, followed by a row of kisses, but something about the message makes me uneasy. When I compare Sabine’s handwriting with the envelope from the killer and the Polaroid, the styles match. A graphologist will have to decide, but the writing looks identical. She may have been forced to copy out the phrase ‘The bride in her glory will ever be fa
ir’ then address the envelope in bright-red felt tip, as if the pen was dipped in blood.

  ‘You sick bastard,’ I mutter under my breath.

  Shadow is whimpering, his head cocked to one side, studying me intently. I don’t know whether to be glad or unnerved that he always reads my mood so accurately, but I motion for him to settle, while I look at the jewellery found on Sabine’s body. I already know she was wearing the earrings Liam Trewin gave her, and a locket stolen from the local museum, but the gold band forced onto her wedding ring finger remains a mystery. The items could have a symbolic meaning that relates to the macabre wedding ceremony. I’ve asked Lawrie Deane to search the island’s register of births, marriages and deaths, to see if 3 August is significant for any of the islanders, but so far he’s found nothing. It’s too soon to guess whether the killer was intending to target a young woman when he stole the locket, but I need to know more about the theft.

  The Isles of Scilly Museum lies on Church Street, a short walk inland from the police station. The dog runs ahead, making forays into people’s front gardens whenever he finds an interesting scent. The street is lined with typical Scillonian terraced cottages, low-roofed, and faced with grey stone. They would have belonged to fishermen in the old days, but now sell for high prices to retirees from the mainland. Elaine Rawle and her husband Frank have lived opposite the museum for decades. Their detached property is larger than its neighbours, separated from the road by a tidy front garden. The front door gleams with fresh paint when I press the bell.

  The man who opens the door once struck terror into the hearts of every local child, including me: Frank Rawle was headteacher at Five Islands School until his retirement two years ago. He presided over the school during my time there, an austere presence, ruling the establishment with a rod of iron. The man had a reputation for using his cane liberally until it was banned, but pupils still feared him. I remember being sent to his office, for lack of effort in all lessons except English and PE. He gave me a stern warning, before advising me to play more rugby, which turned out to be sound advice. My old headmaster appears in good health, his tall form unbending, grey hair swept back from his forehead in the cropped style he’s worn for decades, but these days the power is mine. He and his wife are both special constables, required to follow my instructions at the island’s public events. Rawle no longer towers over me, but his craggy features are still imposing. He scrutinises me closely, as if I’ve been playing truant, before shaking my hand. When his black Labrador appears at his side our dogs sniff each other with equal caution.

  ‘Good to see you, young man. Bring Shadow inside, if you like.’

  ‘Not today, thanks, Frank, it’s your wife I need. She promised me a tour of the museum.’

  ‘Elaine’s over there now. Is this about the girl’s death?’

  ‘I’m hoping for information about the stolen jewellery.’

  Rawle doesn’t seem to hear my comment. ‘What kind of lunatic would hurt a young woman like that? If you need help, I’ll gladly volunteer.’

  ‘Thanks, Frank, I may well call you.’

  ‘I helped Eddie search for the girl’s phone, but the Star Castle’s grounds were clean as a whistle. We must have looked under every bush.’

  ‘Thanks, Frank. We’ll be checking the hotel’s interior today.’

  ‘Want me to come to the museum? I know the place like the back of my hand.’

  He’s already stepping outside, taking charge like the old days, but I give a polite refusal. ‘Elaine can show me round, thanks. It won’t take long.’

  Frank Rawle looks disappointed, as if boredom nags at him while his wife is out. It still feels odd to use his first name, after calling him ‘sir’ for so long, but his manner has softened since then. He’s still standing in his porch when I cross the road to the museum. The building looks anonymous from the outside, with an advert pasted to the door, offering to help anyone with local roots to trace their family trees. There’s no sign of Elaine and security measures remain lax, despite last year’s theft. The museum’s trustees haven’t shelled out for a burglar alarm.

  The ground floor of the museum appears deserted. It smells of dust, wet sailcloth and cleaning fluid, like the deck of a yacht that’s just been swabbed down. The islands’ marine history adorns every wall. Glass cabinets contain items salvaged from wrecks, including coins, flint boxes and rusting muskets. A wall display provides a history of St Mary’s lifeboat, from the days when rescuers rowed out to stranded vessels in force nine gales. But the most impressive exhibit is a full-sized replica of a Victorian sailing gig, housed in the museum’s basement, its mast and sail rising through the empty core of the building. When I lean over the rail to admire it, Elaine is polishing one of the cabinets on the floor below. She looks startled by my arrival, but her smile revives when I walk downstairs.

  ‘You’re bright and early,’ she says. ‘We don’t open till nine.’

  ‘Frank sent me over. Can you show me where the jewellery came from, Elaine?’

  ‘Of course, the cabinet’s over here.’

  Elaine leads me past displays that have changed little since I was a boy, her pace rapid for a woman in her sixties. She doesn’t pause as we march past an assortment of items charting life in Scilly since records began. Hand axes and knives from the Bronze Age fight for space alongside Roman scabbards. A collection of stuffed seabirds watch with beady glass eyes as we come to a halt by a small glass case.

  ‘The thief must have known exactly what to pick,’ Elaine says. ‘I still don’t understand why only six pieces were taken. Why not swipe the lot?’

  ‘Do you remember what was stolen?’

  ‘Three lockets and three gold rings. I think they were made locally, but Julian Power will know more about them. We’re lucky to have such an expert as a trustee.’

  ‘Can you show me some of the pieces the thief left behind?’

  She picks up a small gold pendant etched with the outline of a sailing ship, and a man’s name inscribed on the back.

  ‘Lovely, isn’t it?’ Elaine murmurs. ‘The engraving’s so delicate.’

  ‘Why would a killer steal something with all that history?’

  ‘It doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘Sorry, I was thinking aloud.’

  Her eyes are glossy when her gaze connects with mine. ‘Frank and I met Sabine several times when we had dinner at the Star Castle. Such a lovely girl, wasn’t she?’

  ‘It’s tragic for her family.’

  ‘She was even younger than our Leah.’ Elaine’s voice fades to a whisper.

  ‘Is that your daughter?’

  ‘That’s right; we lost her years ago.’

  ‘Sorry, I had no idea.’

  ‘Don’t apologise, Ben, you were a child back then. She was twenty when she died. One minute she seemed fine, then suddenly she was gone.’

  When I touch her shoulder Elaine manages a smile, but her face soon blanks again, as if so much loss still leaves her mystified. Sabine’s death seems to have rekindled her grief, and I expect many of the islanders feel the same. Lives are so tightly connected in a small community, neighbours feel like relatives, because you cross paths every day.

  I spend a few more minutes searching the basement floor, imagining the killer browsing through displays. He would have stood where I am now, inhaling the odour of old books, polish and cleaning fluid. There’s not much to check, apart from a storeroom which contains mops, brooms and shelves loaded with back issues of The Cornishman. My eyes catch on a pile of cardboard boxes in a corner of the museum’s ground floor, stacked almost to the ceiling. A label explains that they hold items donated for a forthcoming exhibition on island life, yet they’re so thick with dust, the heap may have been there when the killer stole the jewellery. The small scale of the place means that whoever stole it was taking a huge risk, and must have been highly motivated.

  I check the museum log for 3 August last year, and find that dozens of people visited, the place constan
tly busy. Elaine kept a tally of the number of visitors, but not their names. The killer probably dropped in several times, to plan the theft, but she can’t remember specific details. She was writing a press release that day, about a new exhibition of local photographs. Elaine only noticed the cabinet’s lock was broken when she closed the place at five o’clock.

  ‘Julian loves talking about the exhibits,’ she says, as I prepare to leave. ‘He’ll be glad to see you.’

  I thank her before saying goodbye a little before 10 a.m.; the woman’s sadness is still visible when I leave, but her advice to seek expert help is sound. The killer placed the stolen locket around Sabine’s neck for a reason, and its history could provide new insights. It still nags at me that the theft occurred on 3 August, then Sabine died exactly a year later, but the date has no obvious significance. Shadow trips along the pavement beside me, oblivious to the thoughts whirling around my head.

  Julian Power’s house is a stone’s throw from Hugh Town quay. The tall Georgian building has an air of faded grandeur; it looks far more sombre than Tregarthen’s Hotel next door, which has welcomed paying guests for two hundred years, ever since a retired sea captain turned his home into a business. Power appears dubious when he finally answers his doorbell, and Shadow’s reaction doesn’t help. The dog takes an instant dislike to him, his jaws snapping, making me grab his collar. I can’t see why Power has triggered so much aggression. The man’s straight-backed posture makes me assume he’s ex-army; he’s around fifty, with a compact build, dark hair cut short, and a neat moustache. He stands his ground while Shadow barks at the top of his voice, grey eyes observing me steadily. Power’s expression only softens when I ask for help to identify the items stolen from the museum.

  ‘I’m happy to talk if the dog stays outside. But I won’t be able to add much to what Elaine told you, I’m afraid. There’s no record of the pieces being donated. All I know for certain is that they were crafted locally, towards the end of the nineteenth century.’