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.
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.