The Cornish Constabulary’s decision about Isla staying in the investigation team appears on my phone at 7 p.m., before I leave the hospital. The email states that she can serve on the case, if I provide a statement confirming her innocence. I still want to know what happened after her mother went to bed, the night Sabine died, but Isla’s behaviour so far appears innocent. She was out on foot patrol when Hannah got hurt, so she can’t be linked to the attack, which will give me leverage next time I speak to Madron. If it seems like a fait accompli, the DCI is more likely to give his blessing.
The sun is setting as I head off for Juliet’s Garden on the motorbike. People are relaxing in deckchairs on Porth Mellon beach, kids building their final sandcastles before bedtime, as if the island were one big playground. I ride past the Keast brothers’ farm in Porthloo, where one of my friends is opening the doors to their barn. It could be either Steve or Paul as the dusk thickens, the lanky figure offering a wave as I pass.
Juliet’s Garden is a cluster of whitewashed cottages perched on high ground, just south of Carn Morval. Juliet May has lavished plenty of time and money on renovating the old fishermen’s homes as holiday rentals, and creating a restaurant that guests flock to all summer long. One of the staff unlocks Hannah’s rented cottage for me. The place is tidy, apart from the bedroom, where slippers lie abandoned on the floor, newspapers and books strewn across the dressing table. Hannah appears to be travelling light, with few clothes in her wardrobe, except shorts, jeans and T-shirts. I find her travel documents stashed inside a small suitcase. Her full name is Hannah Weber, a native German born in Berlin.
I ring the information through to the hospital, but the woman’s papers give little new information. She’s a journalist, marital status single. Hannah Weber’s printed itinerary shows that she travelled overland through France, before touring the UK. The Isles of Scilly were meant to be her last stop before returning home. The only other item of interest is a journal, containing handwritten notes, but my German is limited to the days of the week, and how to order beer. It could be a diary or a travelogue. I take it with me, hoping someone can translate the last few pages to see if they reveal her attacker’s identity.
I check the grounds carefully before leaving. The cottage has a fine view of Hugh Town beach, where lights are flicking on in the fishermen’s cottages. The deserted island of Samson lies to the west, with Tresco’s hills a black outline on the horizon. I use my torch to scan the ground outside the cottage. The coastal path runs straight past it, shrouded by trees. Hannah’s attacker could have hidden there unseen, free to track her movements without raising suspicion. Frustration nags at me when I kick-start the bike’s engine again. The killer seems to have a problem with independent female travellers. Vicious attacks on women are normally sexual, but neither victim was molested; the only common denominator is that they’re both travelling alone, with no plans to stay in Scilly permanently. The Cornish gold wedding rings forced onto each woman’s hand is the killer’s way of claiming them.
The station is still humming with activity when I get back. Sabine’s death has galvanised the whole team; no one seems prepared to leave the building while there are tasks to complete. Isla and Eddie are busy tapping information into their laptops. Even Lawrie Deane is doing overtime: he’s bowed over his desk, despite his normal tendency to exit the building on the stroke of 5 p.m. I can tell the evening’s sticky heat is bothering him, beads of perspiration erupting on his pasty skin, even though the electric fan is working at full blast. The sergeant’s breathing is laboured when he hands over a new batch of witness reports. His expression only comes to life when I tell him that a translator is needed, to interpret Hannah Weber’s notes.
‘Didn’t you spend time in Germany as a kid, when your dad was in the army?’ Eddie asks him.
Deane gives a slow nod. ‘We lived there for five years; I was pretty fluent by the time we came home.’
‘Could you take a look?’ I ask.
‘I’m rusty, but I’ll give it a go.’
The sergeant pores over the notebook, frowning with concentration. He reads out a couple of sentences with a perfect German accent. ‘She’s writing about travelling alone through Europe. It’s mainly about places she’s visited, and whether she’s made welcome. She’s a freelance reporter for Der Spiegel.’
‘Does she mention anyone hassling her?’
‘Not a dicky bird.’ He flicks through to the final page. ‘Hang on though, she says a stranger approached her yesterday, near Toll’s Island. He made her so uneasy she was glad to get away.’
‘Does she say anything else about him?’
He shakes his head. ‘Only that she was scared.’
‘That’s a good start, Lawrie. I had no idea you were a linguist.’
‘I can try and translate it all if you want.’
Deane’s triumphant expression makes me feel guilty. I’ve pigeonholed him as a jobsworth with narrow horizons until now; he may have travelled the world in a dugout canoe, but I’ve been too blinkered to notice. He’s discovered far more than the rest of us about the day before Hannah Weber’s attack.
The killer seems to make a habit of following women to the island’s margins. Toll’s Island is a rocky outcrop on the north-eastern coast, with no houses in sight. It holds the ruins of an ancient battery, built during the English Civil War. Hannah may have wanted to report on the island’s ancient sites, endangering herself by going there alone.
Eddie lets out a whoop of excitement when I pass his desk, then grins up at me. ‘Liam Trewin’s got form. He harassed a woman in Florida last year, but got off with a hefty fine, according to the Federal Investigation Service.’
‘Was it his ex-wife?’
‘The victim’s a waitress at a café near the haulage company he runs.’
‘What a scumbag,’ Isla says, peering over Eddie’s shoulder. ‘He targets women who have to accept his shitty behaviour.’
‘Is there anything else?’
‘There’s stuff about his family on Wikipedia. His dad’s from Cornwall; the bloke made millions as a financial guru in New York, but his youngest son never joined his business. It looks like he’s the black sheep of the family.’
‘Liz Gannick can check Trewin’s hotel room tomorrow morning. She may find evidence we missed.’
‘His hire car’s clean. She says there’s no sign of blood anywhere.’
‘I still want to interview him. Get him here by ten tomorrow morning, please. I’m going back to the hospital. Gannick can start checking vehicles owned by the islanders we haven’t ruled out, but it’s time the rest of you went home.’ I look out of the window at the empty yard behind the station. ‘Has anyone seen Shadow?’
‘Sorry, boss, he slipped his lead down by the quay,’ Isla says. ‘I tried to catch him, but he ran off across the beach.’
‘He’ll come back when he’s hungry.’ I meet her eye again. ‘Can we have a quick chat, Isla?’
The constable follows me into Madron’s office. She appears relaxed when I quiz her more deeply about Saturday evening. I ask how long she spent outside after her mother went to bed, and she claims it was less than ten minutes. It’s been her habit since childhood to walk down to the shore for a final glimpse of the sea before going to bed. I feel reassured when our conversation ends; her story tallies directly with her mother’s, giving me another bargaining chip to use in my next phone call to Madron. She agrees to let Eddie drive her home, even though she seems to resent our attempts to keep her safe.
Shadow is nowhere in sight when I lock up the station at nine o’clock. I’ll probably get a call tomorrow from one of the island’s farmers, telling me he’s been chasing sheep. The evening’s heat has mellowed when I turn the corner into Church Street. It’s hard to imagine anyone committing a crime when I pass St Mary’s Hall Hotel, where half a dozen couples are sitting under an acacia tree, enjoying a late dinner and a glass of wine.
The hospital is quiet when I arrive, the evening shift winding down as my lungs fill with the odours of iodine, sickness and floor polish. I’m eager for news that Hannah Weber’s condition is improving : I haven’t forgiven myself for arriving too late to help Sabine, but the second victim may yet recover. When I peer through the glass panel into Hannah’s room, a man is sitting beside her bed. Father Michael appears startled by my arrival, a Bible lying open on his lap. The strain on his face disappears when I greet him.
‘I’m glad to see you here, Father.’
His smile reveals a set of yellowing teeth, as if endless cups of tea from his parishioners have stained the enamel. ‘I drop by most evenings, to check if patients need anything. One of the nurses told me this young lady was attacked.’
‘Her name’s Hannah; it happened this afternoon.’
‘The poor girl must have been terrified.’ His expression sobers. ‘When I spoke to her yesterday she seemed happy here.’
‘Where did you meet her?’
‘Near Toll’s Island; I was taking my morning walk.’
I try to keep my expression neutral when I realise that it could have been the priest who scared Hannah. ‘She mentioned visiting there in her diary. Did you talk for long?’
The priest looks confused. ‘Just a few minutes. I told her about our coffee morning on Saturday; it’s a fundraiser for the church roof. She said that she was travelling alone, so I thought she’d enjoy some company.’
‘That was a kind offer. Did you see anyone else there?’
‘Not that I remember, but I had to get back. Some parishioners were expecting me to visit.’ His attention has already returned to the unconscious woman, allowing me to study him more closely. Father Michael has always seemed content with his pastoral role, his manner open and friendly, but the language barrier could have made Hannah Weber misunderstand his invitation.
‘I wish I could do more to help,’ he murmurs.
‘Company is all she needs right now. Were you saying a prayer?’
‘Just reading some psalms. Patients say it brings them peace. Maybe it’s hearing a calm voice that soothes them, but I think the message helps too.’ He looks into my eyes more deeply. ‘Would you like to hear Psalm twenty-eight?’
‘I’m not a believer, Father.’
‘That doesn’t matter.’ His shrewd gaze connects with mine again. ‘It might give you comfort.’
I drop down on the seat opposite. ‘Go ahead.’
The priest must know the words by heart, because his gaze drifts from his Bible to Hannah’s face. ‘The Lord is my strength and my shield; my heart trusted in him, and I am helped: therefore my heart greatly rejoices; and with my song I will praise him.’
I can’t tell whether Hannah Weber is listening, or too deeply unconscious to hear, but his conviction makes me envy his faith. His words stay with me as I return to the corridor, where Ginny Tremayne is waiting to give me an update. She explains that Hannah’s vital signs and reflexes haven’t improved since she arrived.
‘It could go either way,’ she says. ‘I’m glad Michael’s with her; patients always respond well to his kindness.’
Ginny’s gone before I can ask another question, but when I peer into the room again the priest shows no sign of going home, even though it’s approaching 10 p.m. He’s still performing his incantation, and I can only hope that his faith will work miracles. Hannah Weber is still hovering between life and death, her skin as pale as candlewax, while his psalms fill the room.