Monday 11 May
My day off begins with a canine wake-up call. Something rough scrapes my cheek at 6 a.m., and when my eyes blink open, Shadow is sprawled across my pillow, his paw heavy on my chest.
‘Get off me, you hellhound.’
I jerk upright to escape his slobber, wondering how he managed to break into my room again. Shadow skulks away to avoid my temper, a sleek grey wolfhound with glacial blue eyes. A stream of curses slips from my mouth as I emerge from bed, my lie-in ruined by an unwelcome pet inherited from my old work partner. Loyalty would never allow me to abandon him at a dogs’ home but it crosses my mind occasionally, depending on how many rules he breaks. When I open the front door, it’s impossible to stay angry. The dog bowls across the dunes, the cottage filling with the cleanest air on the planet.
Bryher is at its best in early May, before the beaches are invaded by day trippers keen to photograph every bird, flower and stone. This morning there’s not a soul around. Sabine gulls spiral overhead, the Atlantic a calm azure, no sign of the storms that thrashed the western coastline all winter long. This is the view that summoned me home from my job as a murder investigator in London. I took the quality of light for granted as a kid; it’s only now that I appreciate the way it makes the landscape shine. There are no houses to spoil the scenery, except the square outline of the hotel on the far side of Hell Bay, ten minutes’ walk away. My own home is much humbler; a one-storey granite box built by my grandfather, with extra rooms added to the sides as his children arrived. The slate roof needs repairs since last month’s gales played havoc with the tiles, but my DIY plans will have to wait. I owe my uncle Ray a day’s labour in return for hours of dog-sitting, and an early start will give me time for a swim afterwards.
I glance at the letter that lies unopened on my kitchen table before I leave. My name and title are printed in block capitals on the envelope – Detective Inspector Benesek Kitto – and I already know what it contains. It’s a summons from headquarters in Penzance, telling me to report for a review meeting, to decide whether I can continue as Deputy Commander of the Isles of Scilly Police, now that my probation period is ending. I’ve spent three months fulfilling every obligation, but the judgement is out of my hands.
Shadow traipses behind when I take the quickest route through the centre of the island, my walk leading me eastwards over Shipman Head Down. The land is a wild expanse of ferns and heather, the fields ringed by drystone walls, with flowers rioting among the grass. If my mother was alive, she could have named each one, but I only remember those that are good to eat – wild garlic, parsley and samphire. No one’s stirring when I cut through the village, passing the Community Centre with its ugly yellow walls, stone cottages clustered together like old women gossiping. When I reach the eastern shore, I admire the repainted sign above my uncle’s boatyard. Ray Kitto’s name stands out in no-nonsense black letters, as clear and uncompromising as the man himself. I can hear him at work already, hammer blows ringing through the walls. The smell of the place turns the clock back to my childhood when I dreamed of becoming a shipwright, the air loaded with white spirit, tar and linseed oil.
‘Reporting for duty, Ray,’ I call out.
My uncle emerges from the upturned frame of a racing gig, dressed in paint-stained overalls. It’s like seeing myself three decades from now, when I hit my sixties. Ray almost matches my six feet four, his hard-boned face the same shape as mine, thick hair faded from black to silver. He looks less austere than normal, as if he might break the habit of a lifetime and let himself grin.
‘You’re early, Ben. Prepared to get your hands dirty for once?’
‘If I must. What happened to the boat?’ Its prow looks battered, elm timbers splintering, but its narrow helm is still a thing of beauty, just wide enough for two rowers to sit side by side. Gig racing has been a tradition in the Scillies for centuries, the vessels unchanged since the Vikings invaded.
‘It needs repairs and varnish before the racing season starts.’ He gives me a considering look. ‘Ready to start work?’
‘I’d rather have a full English.’
‘You can eat later. Bring the delivery in, can you?’
A shipment of materials has been dumped on the quay that runs straight from the boatyard’s back door to the sea. Three crates stand side by side, waiting to be carried into Ray’s stockroom. It takes muscle as well as patience to heft tubs of paint and liquid silicone onto a trolley, then shelve them in the storeroom, but the physical labour clears my mind. I stopped clock-watching weeks ago, no longer measuring hours by London time. Days pass at a different pace here, each activity taking as long as it takes, the sun warming my skin as I collect another load. My stomach’s grumbling with hunger, but the view is a fine distraction. Fishing boats are returning from their dawn outings, holds loaded with crab pots and lobster creels. Many were built by Ray years ago, when he used to employ shipwrights to help him construct vessels with heavy oak frames and larch planking, strong enough to withstand the toughest gales. I shield my eyes to watch them battling the currents that race through New Grimsby Sound, and an odd feeling travels up my spine.
One of the fleet is approaching the quay at full speed, black smoke spewing from its engine, while the rest head for St Mary’s to sell their catch. The boat is a traditional fishing smack called the Tresco Lass, with red paint peeling from its sides, skippered by Denny Cardew. The islands’ permanent population is so small I can name almost every inhabitant, despite my decade on the mainland. I don’t know Cardew well, but the fisherman’s son was a classmate of mine twenty years ago. I remember Denny as a quiet man, watching football at the New Inn, where his wife Sylvia worked as a barmaid, but his composure is missing today. He’s signalling frantically from a hundred metres as his boat approaches. As it draws nearer I can see that the decking is in need of varnish, and there’s a crack in the wheelhouse’s side window.
When I jog down the quay to help him moor, Cardew stumbles onto the jetty. He’s in his fifties with a heavy build, light brown hair touching his collar, skin leathered by a lifetime of ocean breezes. I can’t tell whether the man is breathless from excitement or because of the extra weight he’s carrying, banded round his waist like a lifebelt. Words gush from his mouth in a rapid mumble.
‘There’s something in the water, north of here. I saw it when I was collecting my lobster pots.’ His mud brown eyes are wide with panic. ‘A body, by Piper’s Hole.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Positive. I went so close, I almost hit the rocks.’
His tone is urgent, but I’m not convinced. Last week a woman on St Agnes reported seeing a corpse on an offshore rock. It turned out to be a grey seal, happily sunning himself, but the tension on Denny’s face proves that he’s convinced. The coastguard would take an hour to get here, so my day off is already a thing of the past.
‘Come on then,’ I reply. ‘You’d better show me.’
Ray is standing on the jetty as I climb over bait boxes strewn across the deck. The dog tries to jump on board, but I leave him on the quay, whimpering at Ray’s feet. My uncle watches the boat chug away, his expression resigned. He’s grown used to our time together being cancelled at short notice, even though I’d like to repay him for his support since I came home.
Denny Cardew’s skin is pale beneath his year-round tan as he focuses on completing the return journey, the fisherman’s silence giving me time to watch the scenery from the wheelhouse as we sail through the narrow passage between Bryher and Tresco. Cromwell’s Castle hangs above us as the boat chases Tresco’s western shoreline, its circular stone walls still intact after four centuries. The bigger island has a hard-edged beauty; its fields are full of ripening wheat running down to its shores, but the coastline is roughened by outcrops of granite, Braiden Steps plunging into the sea like a staircase built for giants.
Cardew steers between pillars of rock at the island’s northernmost point, waves pummelling the boat as we reach open water, nothing sheltering us now from the Atlantic breeze. A few hundred yards away, Kettle Island rears from the sea. It earned its name from the furious currents that boil around it. I can see a host of gannets and razorbills launching themselves into the sky, then winging back to settle on its rocky surface.
‘Over there,’ Cardew says, as we approach Piper’s Hole. ‘I’ll get as close as I can.’
The fishing smack edges towards the cliff, with the shadow of Tregarthen Hill blocking out the light. From this distance, the entrance to Piper’s Hole is just a fold in the rock. No one would guess that the cave existed without local knowledge; it’s only accessible at low tide, when you can scramble down the hillside, or land a boat on the shore. Right now, the cavernous space will be flooded to the ceiling, my thoughts shifting back to a local woman who died there last year, stranded by a freak tide.
I peer at the cliff face again, but all I can see are waves breaking over boulders, a row of gulls lined up on a promontory. Several minutes pass before I spot a black shape rolling with each wave at the foot of the cliff, making my gut tighten.
‘Can you land me on the rocks, Denny?’
Cardew gives me a wary glance. ‘You’ll have to jump. I’ll run aground if I go too close.’
‘Lucky I’ve got long legs.’
My heart’s pumping as the boat swings towards the cliff. If my timing’s wrong, I’ll be crushed against the rocks as the boat rides the next high wave. I wait for a deep swell then take my chances, landing heavily on an outcrop, fingers clasping its wet surface. When I climb across the granite, the soles of my trainers slip on a patina of seaweed. I give Cardew a hasty thumbs up, then turn to the wall of rock that lies ahead, marked by cracks and fissures. Below it a body is twisting on the water’s surface, dressed in diving gear, too far away to reach. I can’t tell if it’s a man or woman, but the reason why the ocean has failed to drag it under is obvious. The oxygen tank attached to the corpse’s back is snagged on the rocks, anchoring it to the mouth of Piper’s Hole.
I dig my phone from my pocket and call Eddie Nickell. The young constable listens in silence as I instruct him to bring a police launch from St Mary’s; it will have to anchor nearby until the tide ebbs and the body can be carried aboard. The breakers cresting the rocks are taller than before, but the Tresco Lass is still bobbing on the high water, ten metres away. I make a shooing motion with my hands to send Cardew away before his boat is damaged, but he gives a fierce headshake, and I can’t help grinning. The fisherman is a typical islander, unwilling to leave a man stranded, despite risking his livelihood. I turn my back to the pounding spray, knowing the wait will be uncomfortable. It could take an hour for the tide to recede far enough to let me reach the body. When I lift my head again, the corpse is rolling with each wave, helpless as a piece of driftwood.