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 fair’ 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 constantly 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.’
‘Any new information would be useful.’
Shadow is still misbehaving when I tie him to a railing; the creature howling with outrage for no obvious reason. I know little about Power, except that he’s a second-generation islander, and one of the island’s richest men. He bought the Isles of Scilly Travel Company a decade ago, acting as broker for all mainland ferry and flight services. I can tell immediately that his interest in collecting extends beyond local jewellery. Antique seascapes fill the walls of his hallway, all painted in the same realist style, galleons fighting to stay afloat in harsh typhoons. His living room has shelves loaded with glassware, and decorative plates cover his French dresser.
‘How long have you been collecting?’
He gives an awkward smile. ‘Ever since I can remember. It started with stamps and coins, then spiralled out of control. It’s my only addiction.’
‘It beats drugs or booze.’
‘True, but it can be expensive. A Roman coin I bought last week cost me eight hundred pounds.’
‘Is it made of gold?’
‘Good Lord, no. Most of those are in the British Museum. It’s a bronze aureus; I’ve wanted one for years.’
The man’s new purchase animates him at last, his eyes glowing with pleasure. He produces a wooden box then hands it to me. It contains a dozen pieces of jewellery, glittering against their black velvet lining.
‘These are Cornish gold like the ones taken from the museum. Fishermen bought them here on St Mary’s over a hundred years ago, as talismans for their new brides. Jewellers called them “sailors’ charms”, but they didn’t always bring good luck.’
I pick out a locket with a date engraved on the back, a lock of hair pressed behind the glass. I can see why fishermen gave such intimate mementoes to their wives as wedding gifts, in case they perished at sea.
‘Was much gold mined in Cornwall?’
Power shakes his head. ‘Mostly tin and copper; it’s very scarce. It’s a shame that the thief took some of the museum’s most important pieces. I can’t understand why there’s no mention of them in the record book, but they could have been donated a hundred years ago. Heirlooms like that rarely come up for sale. I only know from hearsay that the locket you found at Pulpit Rock has a tragic history. Apparently the man who gave it to his wife drowned soon after they married.’
His words silence me for a moment. Many families in Scilly have lost relatives to the sea, including mine. My father often gave my mother flowers before his fishing trips, until his trawler went down on the Atlantic Strait. The same storm killed the Keast brothers’ father too, making us members of a club that no one wants to join.
‘We found the locket on the victim’s body,’ I say.
Power shakes his head, frowning. ‘The sailors’ charms contain so much hope and tenderness; it’s a pity the killer’s tarnished them.’
‘Three rings went missing too, didn’t they?’
‘I think they were just simple Cornish gold wedding bands made locally, but they’re not listed in the museum’s record book either.’
‘Elaine mentioned that you’re creating an online catalogue.’
He winces. ‘It won’t be easy; the record book goes back a hundred and fifty years. I wish I’d never volunteered.’
‘Would you check the record again, to see if there’s any mention at all of which family left the stolen pieces to the museum? I think they have a special meaning for the killer.’
‘When do you need to know?’
‘As soon as possible, please.’
‘I’ll do my best.’
‘How long will you need?’
‘I can’t promise miracles. The records are pretty impenetrable, but I’ll start today.’
‘Can you call me when you find out?’
I show Power the wedding band found on Sabine’s finger, and he confirms from the hallmark that it’s likely to be one of the stolen items. The man’s solemn manner strikes me as odd; his face is so expressionless, he seems to believe that smiling might cause him pain.
‘Would you mind telling me how you spent yesterday, Julian?’
He looks puzzled. ‘I never met the young girl that died. You realise that, don’t you?’
‘It’s my job to ask questions anyway, I’m afraid.’
‘I was wrestling with my computer at home. Our booking system broke down last week, so I was trying to fix it. Then I went to the museum in the evening; I borrowed the key from Elaine Rawle at about 8 p.m. I got home in time for the ten o’clock news.’
‘You were alone?’
‘I’ve lived by myself for years.’
‘Do you mind saying why?’
He folds his arms tighter across his chest. ‘I got divorced five years ago, but the local gossip mill never stops churning, especially in winter when there’s little to keep people busy. I prefer being alone to having my love life dissected in the pub.’
‘You must get lonely sometimes.’
‘Not at all. My house is peaceful, and I never have to placate anyone. I can do as I please.’
The man’s precise speech reminds me of the killer’s systematic approach, despite finding no concrete evidence to link him to Sabine’s death. He seems determined to put collecting at the centre of his life, instead of other human beings. I remember the make-up so carefully applied to Sabine’s face, and flowers threaded through her hair, before thanking him for his help. There seem to be two sides to the killer’s personality. Whoever completed the crime is capable of the delicacy Power showed when handling his rare items, yet Sabine’s body was hoisted from the ground with brutal strength, then displayed like a broken doll. My mind circles back to the sailors’ charms, aware that the killer stole more than one item for a reason. I’m already braced for a phone call, telling me another victim’s been taken.