The brutal tide, p.13
The Brutal Tide, page 13
I’d like quick answers, but there’s no point in talking to Ray during a meal. He maintains his silence as he sits beside me looking out to sea, taking slow mouthfuls. I watch clouds drift over Tresco’s hills, beyond New Grimsby Sound. The water is so still, the yachts moored in the channel look like they’ve been set in dark blue resin, but my uncle’s serenity eludes me. I keep remembering him marching up Badplace Hill, like a man on a mission.
‘There’s going to be an almighty thunderstorm soon, isn’t there?’
Ray finishes his last mouthful. ‘The Met Office says this calm should last three more days, which suits me fine. The humidity helps the wood.’ He’s still the best weather forecaster on the islands, after years in the merchant navy.
‘I saw you walking on Shipman Head this morning, when I was swimming. What were you doing there?’
He gathers up our plates, setting them down in the sink with a clatter of protest. He hates being quizzed, but I’ve got no choice.
‘Taking exercise, like you.’
‘You were close to the grave site.’
‘I needed some thinking space, if you must know.’
I lean back against the wall and let silence spin out between us, until he finally speaks.
‘I’m considering selling the yard. It’s best to stop while I’ve got a choice.’
‘You’ve said that before.’
‘Nothing lasts for ever. I’ll be sixty-five next year.’
‘So what? You’re fitter than most fifty-year-olds.’
‘Rubbish, I’m an old man with a hernia.’ He takes his pouch of tobacco from his pocket and starts to roll a cigarette. ‘You came here for something, Ben. What is it?’
‘Information about the past. You know we’re investigating the murder of a teenage boy, killed between twenty and thirty years ago, then buried in a shallow grave on Badplace Hill. I don’t remember anyone going missing when I was a kid. How do you think it happened in a community of less than a hundred, without raising suspicions?’
Ray’s sea-blue eyes assess me. ‘People arrive and leave like the tides, except us natives. They try out our lifestyle, then run back to the mainland. Our winters don’t suit everyone.’
‘Let me show you something, Ray.’ I pull my phone from my pocket and display my photos of the items from Badplace Hill. ‘Do you recognise either of these?’
My uncle squints at the images. ‘That’s a copper clouting nail. I’ve got a few in the storeroom. It’s been years since I worked on trawlers big enough to need them.’
‘How about the other picture?’
‘It’s just a scrap of old cloth.’
‘I think it’s that canvas roll bag you lost, with compartments for hand tools.’
He studies the image again, suddenly more interested. ‘You could be right. It annoyed the hell out of me; I had to replace a chisel my grandfather passed down.’
‘How long ago did you lose it?’
‘When you were a boy, twenty-odd years ago. What’s this about anyway?’
I take my phone back from him. ‘Someone used that clout for a murder weapon, and your toolkit was in the victim’s hand.’
Ray stares back at me. ‘Are you serious?’
‘Who do you think put them there?’
‘No idea.’ He fixes his gaze back on the sea, collecting his thoughts. ‘I went to the pub one night, leaving the yard unlocked. I only realised my tool bag had gone when I started work next morning. Maybe someone took the clout then too.’
‘Who did you suspect at the time?’
‘I thought it was some kid on a dare. I asked around and no one knew.’
‘What year was it exactly?’
He hesitates before replying. ‘You’d just finished primary school, I think.’
‘Twenty-seven years ago?’
‘It may have been the year before.’
‘You must remember someone going missing from Bryher.’
A frown darkens his face. ‘Some men deserve to end up in a shallow grave. Maybe you should let sleeping dogs lie.’
‘It’s my job to find out who died, no matter what he did.’
Ray hesitates for a moment. ‘I had a Polish lad working in the yard for a bit. Do you remember Jakob Bazyli?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Jakob was my apprentice for a year. He shoved a note under my door apologising, then left without saying goodbye. I never clapped eyes on him again.’
‘Where was he staying?’
‘Over at the Kernows.’
‘How did he leave the island?’
Ray gives an exaggerated shrug. ‘He was here one day, gone the next.’
‘I’ll have to track him down. Tell me everything you remember.’
‘I don’t keep records more than five years, but I know Jakob was from Warsaw. He was a hard worker, the honest type. I can’t see him stealing my toolkit. I think he was more homesick than I realised; the lad used to sing Polish songs in the yard. He was missing some girl at home.’
‘Nothing else?’
‘It was decades ago.’
I’d like to go on, but I’ve already pushed my luck. My uncle’s expression is blank, even though I can tell he’s rattled. He always keeps his cards close to his chest. Irritation clouds my thoughts, until he leans over to tap me on the wrist. Physical gestures are so rare from Ray, it takes me by surprise.
‘I’ve got something to show you, down in the yard.’
When I follow him back downstairs, he leads me to the corner where he stacks offcuts, and pulls back an old dust sheet. I’m speechless when I see what’s underneath. It’s a cot, made from seasoned oak, with delicate island flowers carved on each side. It’s set on rockers, with spindles he’s run through the lathe, and it’s been polished to a shine. Ray’s craftsmanship and the care he’s taken knock me sideways.
‘That’s beautiful. Has Nina seen it yet?
‘I wanted to check with you first. I can always give it to someone else.’
‘It’s better than anything we could buy. She’ll be thrilled.’
Pleasure crosses his face, then vanishes. ‘It’s just odd bits of wood I threw together in no time.’
‘Liar, it must have taken days.’
I stand there admiring his joinery, but Ray seems eager to get back to work. He’s given me a new lead, and some background information, which I’ll have to chase down. It makes me uncomfortable to record items from his yard being found at the murder scene. I’d like his advice on the Craig Travis situation too, but Ray has no experience of gangs, or grudges that last for generations, so I take my leave.
I’ve witnessed my uncle’s softer side, which rarely surfaces, but the visit has triggered a new dilemma. I can’t explain why, but I feel sure he’s holding something back. He could solve the mystery for me if I can ask the right question.
31
Ruby knows the second stage of her father’s plan might be challenging. It took two long years to track her next target down, until she hatched a simple plan. She pretended to be a van driver, delivering flowers to the woman’s sister, asking her to confirm the sender’s address after giving the name. She recited the address of a remote West Country farm in a blink, exchanging Annie Hardwick’s safety for a bouquet of roses. The next stage will involve physical exertion. Ruby has never walked across open country before; her closest experience was a trip to Epping Forest with a couple who fostered her for three months, then put her back in care. They said she was too secretive, and their younger child found her frightening, even though she’d just begun to feel safe there.
She’s been walking for half an hour, but still can’t find the place. The farm stands near the bridleway, yet there have been no signs for it. Maybe she took the wrong turn at the last stile? The instructions she’s memorised are imprinted on her mind. A successful hit has to be clinical, leaving no trace behind. She steps away from the path to sip from her bottle of water and finds herself in a glade. The dappled light sifting through high branches is beautiful, but there’s no time to admire the scenery. It’s only when she stands up again that she spots a building, almost hidden by trees. She takes care to stay in the shadows as she approaches, stopping frequently to check that no one’s following.
Ruby comes to a halt when she reaches a boundary fence made of rusting barbed wire. A small farm building stands fifty metres away. It looks derelict, but a horse peers out from a stable door, chickens squawking in an enclosure. There’s an old-fashioned well that must still be in use, with a bucket hanging from a chain. She can smell manure and creosote, but whoever lives there is using modern technology, even though the buildings are falling apart. There are solar panels on the farmhouse roof, and more on the barn. Her biggest concern is the three CCTV cameras rigged up on the barn and farmhouse walls. She’ll have to tread carefully to avoid being caught on film. Rudy’s still gazing at the place when a sound reaches her. It’s the crackling noise of footsteps on dry undergrowth, but when she swings round, there are only densely packed trees, scenting the air with rain and decay. She waits near the boundary, hoping someone will emerge.
Ruby is ready to give up for the time being, by 3p.m. She is almost certain the farm belongs to an ex-cop. She’s doing a good job of staying hidden, and the place ticks all the right boxes. Hardwick told people she wanted to live off grid, preferring to be alone. She’s a survivalist too, passed her SAS training with ease, before joining the police. Maybe she knows her undercover work has left her vulnerable, even in the middle of nowhere. Ruby keeps her gaze glued to the building for another five minutes before stuffing her water bottle back into her pack. It’s tempting to scramble over the fence and hide in the barn, but Hardwick might be indoors, watching.
‘See you later,’ she hisses under her breath.
She walks back to the pub slowly, stopping to look at the scenery. Its beauty registers but doesn’t affect her deeply. The green counterpane of fields is seamed together by crumbling dry-stone walls, spotted with yellow patches of gorse. It stretches as far as the eye can see. Ruby feels too visible on this rolling grassland, to stop and admire anything for long. It’s a relief to return to the pub. When she glances through the front window, the landlord is chatting to some old-timers at the bar, no other staff in sight. The man’s vision is poor, and he’s too stuck in his routine to remember details of her movements. She can rest easy until tonight.
32
A surprise is waiting for me when I return to the Rock for my 4 p.m. briefing with Gannick and Eddie. Madron has come over from St Mary’s. He looks out of place in the neglected room, assessing the dust on every surface with a look of disgust. Eddie gives me an apologetic shrug. I know he’ll have tried hard to keep him away, but our boss believes I need close supervision. Gannick is too busy staring at her tablet to notice the tense atmosphere.
‘I want every protocol followed,’ the DCI says. ‘Let’s start with a progress report from each of you, please.’
Madron believes in hierarchies, so he turns to Gannick first, due to her seniority. He gives a deferential smile, but the forensics chief hates social niceties.
‘I haven’t made much headway,’ she announces. ‘I spent hours trying to extract DNA from the items found at the scene.’
I lean forward to have my say. ‘I’ve spoken to my uncle about the items. He says the murder weapon is a copper nail, referred to as a clout, normally used in shipyards to rivet heavy pieces of timber. The cloth and rusted metal could be the remains of a tool bag he lost over twenty years ago. I’ve spoken to him, and it’s obvious he’s not involved.’
The DCI holds up his hand like he’s stopping traffic. ‘Both items at the murder site came from Ray Kitto’s yard?’
‘It seems likely, sir. He also mentioned a young Polish man called Jakob Bazyli who worked for him twenty-seven years ago. Bazyli left suddenly, so we need to track him down. Apparently he left a note at the boatyard, but the killer could have done that.’
‘Why didn’t you bring Ray in for questioning?’
‘If my uncle killed one of his workers, why would he tell me the young man’s name, and would he leave his own possessions at the scene?’
Madron’s pale grey stare lingers on my face. ‘We’ll talk about this after the meeting.’
Gannick describes taking soil samples from the spot where the skeleton was found, while irritation churns in my stomach, but I have to accept Madron’s point. I was wrong to break protocol when interviewing a relative. My attention only returns to the meeting when the forensics chief explains that there may have been fragmentation, if the bones really were decades old. She would only need to find a minute piece for the lab to extract DNA.
‘Thanks for your hard work,’ Madron says.
She gives a quiet laugh. ‘That’s just the start. I’ll have to spend tonight staring into a microscope till I find that bone.’
‘Anything to add, Kitto?’ Madron’s smile vanishes as he studies me again.
‘I’ve been trying to find out who could have removed the bones undetected. Jamie Porthcawl visited the site unauthorised. He entered the tent on Friday evening, even though the area was cordoned off. He claims to have dropped his dad’s compass there, but I’m not convinced. Nathan Kernow was at the site later on, around midnight, before the bones were taken.’
‘What in God’s name was he doing trespassing on a crime scene?’
‘Conducting a pagan burial ritual, complete with candles, wild flowers and a hand-made altar. He would have been a young boy at the time of the murder, but we still need to keep track of him.’
Madron frowns. ‘You think he took the bones?’
‘He may have removed them on a second visit, but I’ll keep an eye on Danny Trenwith too. Him and Maeve have a lot to gain by getting rid of the skeleton. They’re desperate to finish their build. Things seemed tense at home when I spoke to them.’
‘I can see why. We can’t keep them waiting indefinitely.’
‘With respect, sir, this may be a cold case, but it’s still a murder investigation. I want to find Jakob Bazyli, but it could have been someone else in that shallow grave.’
‘Look at the Porthcawl family, will you? The younger lad left quite suddenly, if I recall correctly. His name was Hugh. He settled on the mainland, according to hearsay, but I’ve never seen him come back to visit.’
‘Why didn’t you mention that before, sir? You know we’re looking for a missing person.’
Madron tuts under his breath. ‘The Porthcawls are a respectable family. No missing person was ever reported, and Hugh may simply have established a new life elsewhere. The lad struck me as a high-flyer.’
‘We’ll check his whereabouts, but we can’t prove he left the islands; the shipping office lost most of its records recently, due to a computer virus. I’ll speak to Arthur Penwithick to see if he remembers anything about visitors using his ferry.’
DCI Madron’s expression warms again when he turns to Eddie. I still don’t fully understand why he saves his contempt for me alone, apart from his admission years ago that I bear a physical resemblance to his oldest son. The young man was a thrill-seeker, which led to his death in a motorbike accident, and Madron views me in the same light. No matter how painstaking my approach, he always accuses me of recklessness. I wish we had a better working relationship, but it’s been tense ever since I started working for him four years ago, so it seems unlikely anything will change.
Eddie finishes his report by describing his progress through the island’s census, checking individuals’ names at every property on Bryher. He’s come across no missing persons so far. It still bothers me that Madron knew about a young man leaving the islands without any clear explanation, but at least we’ve got a new lead.
Gannick raises her head again. ‘Whoever wound up in that grave must have been terribly isolated not to be missed.’
I nod in reply. ‘No one’s ever reported a relative or acquaintance disappearing, according to the registrar. I’ll go over to the Town Hall on St Mary’s tomorrow. Sandra Trescothick’s been checking the official records for us, but she’s had no results yet, so I’ll take a look myself.’
‘You all have defined roles in the investigation, so keep going, please. Hard work gets results,’ Madron says. ‘Follow me, Kitto. I want a private word.’
It’s dusk when we leave the pub. My boss leads me towards the beach so we won’t be overheard, marching like a platoon sergeant. A line of sweat has developed on his upper lip when he finally comes to a halt.
‘What in God’s name is wrong with you?’ he snaps. ‘Give your uncle a formal interview, and record every word, or we’ll be accused of whitewashing events. Do you hear me?’
‘Loud and clear, sir.’
‘Why do you never exercise caution? The same goes for the Travis case. You were instrumental in exposing that gang, and the killer’s a sick individual. A graphologist has just analysed the suicide note his daughter left behind. Apparently she was under huge stress when it was written. She may have been forced to write it, then thrown into the river.’
‘Why murder his daughter? I thought they were targeting the police team that put him away?’
‘Maybe the killer thinks she didn’t show her dad enough respect.’
‘I’m still safer here than on the mainland.’
Madron’s grey eyes turn icy, despite the heat. ‘What does Nina have to say?’
‘I shan’t worry her till it’s unavoidable.’
‘She doesn’t know?’
‘I’ll pick the right time to share the news.’
‘Nina’s smart enough to make her own choices. I insist you tell her immediately.’
‘She’ll want to stay here, on the islands.’
‘Listen to me, Kitto. I won’t tolerate another broken rule.’ His frown forms a deep groove between his eyes. ‘Tell her in the next twenty-four hours, or I will.’ He struts away before I can argue.
