The weather is finally changing from endless sunshine to the threat of rain my uncle predicted, with clouds massing in the sky. The air is so loaded with humidity I feel stupefied when Isla finally comes back to the station by mid-morning. The young constable looks drained, so I give her the menial task of inputting report outcomes while I check our incident board. It’s covered with photos from the first two crime scenes, but nothing yet about Jade Finbury’s murder. I still can’t find anyone connected to all three attacks. Paul Keast is linked to two of the victims, but I’ve got no proof that he met Hannah Weber. The killer has thrown us a curveball by making his first two attacks coastal, then choosing an inland location for the third, taking the pilot from her own home.
He picked another of the island’s beauty spots to display Finbury’s body. A friend of mine had his wedding pictures taken in Holy Vale last summer; the dappled light and woodland setting looked romantic in the pictures, but the location has lost its innocence now. I’ll never forget that bridal figure swaying in the breeze. But why is he turning his victims into dead brides, while no men have been transformed into grooms? Plenty of male tourists and overseas workers visit the Scillies, without attracting his wrath. Hatred mingles with reverence when he transforms his victims, dressing them in traditional white.
I need to see Harry Jago before making any decisions. He’s the only person on St Mary’s with a history of stealing: he could have taken the items from the museum to sell to another islander. He’s not answering his mobile, so I set off for his rented home again on foot. Hugh Town is eerily silent, like it’s trapped in the eye of a storm. The only human activity I can see is a pair of canoeists paddling between vessels moored in the harbour, their movements slow and languid, like they have all the time in the world.
Jago is dressed in boxer shorts and a ripped T-shirt when he finally opens his door. The boy’s face is less swollen than yesterday, but still covered in ugly scrapes and bruises, his expression groggy. His drink problem must be more serious than I thought, his hands trembling at his sides.
‘You should have been at the station first thing. Didn’t Lily pass on my message?’
‘She’s not here.’
I step past him into the hallway. ‘Get dressed, please; we need a chat.’
The boy traipses upstairs with all the enthusiasm of a schoolboy being sent to do his homework. He’s still sulking when he returns to his untidy kitchen. The fridge contains little except a six pack of beer, but I empty a carton of orange juice into a pint glass then shunt it across the table.
‘They say Vitamin C cures hangovers.’
He swallows a mouthful, then grimaces. ‘You’re wasting your time. I told you, I don’t know anything.’
The boy’s sullen expression proves that his trust in the police expired when his dad went to jail, his own sentence providing the final nail in the coffin. He looks wary, as if another brutal beating could start at any minute.
‘When did your drinking start, Harry?’
‘What’s it to you?’
‘I’m sitting here; we may as well have a conversation.’
Jago’s story arrives in broken sentences. He didn’t want to leave Plymouth after his dad’s conviction. His drinking began at fourteen to impress his new schoolmates in Hugh Town. Knocking back cider behind the bike sheds became a badge of honour, making him seem harder than the rest. His mother tried to stop him, but it was a losing battle. He’d steal money from her purse then get older friends to buy his booze. The craving triggered his shoplifting too. When the boy finally stops talking, his expression is stunned, like he’s amazed to have spilled his secrets to a policeman. I was exactly the same after my father died, lost and afraid, hiding it all behind a show of bravado. There’s no way this kid’s got the concentration skills to carry out such sophisticated attacks.
‘School didn’t work for me either,’ I admit. ‘Playing rugby gave me an outlet.’
‘I’m shit at ball games.’
‘Run or swim then; burn off some energy. It’ll help you make better choices.’
The boy stares back at me, but I know he’s listening. He’s not stupid, just vulnerable, and his life will fall apart if he carries on drowning his sorrows.
‘Another woman’s been killed, Harry. It’s time to explain, if you know about any threats Sabine was facing.’
‘It’s not my fault.’ A tear rolls down his cheek. ‘She was kinder than everyone here, except Lily.’
‘Did you nick that jewellery from the museum?’
The boy flinches. ‘Why do I get blamed for everything?’
‘You’re not in trouble, but I know you were seeing Sabine. I just need the truth so no one else gets hurt.’
‘This is bullshit.’ His voice is raw with strain, like he’s been caught red-handed. ‘You’d arrest me if you had any proof.’
‘The bloke prefers killing women, but you’re in danger too, if you know anything. Did he beat you up for getting too close?’ Jago carries on studying the table’s worn surface. ‘Where’s Lily? I thought she was taking today off to look after you.’
‘My sister’s given up on me. She prefers her cushy hotel job.’
‘How do you pay the rent? Your wages can’t cover it.’
‘Some of the islanders are helping me.’
‘Such as?’
His answer is slow to arrive. ‘Father Michael, Julian Power and the Rawles. Mum cleaned their houses, so it’s for her sake, not mine. That’s why Paul Keast gives me work too.’
‘What happens when their charity ends?’
‘Mum left some savings.’
‘And when that’s gone?’
‘I don’t look that far ahead.’
The boy slumps in his chair, eyes closed. Instinct tells me he stole the items to cover his overheads, but there’s no proof. If he’s got information about the killer, he’s too scared to say.
I can’t waste more time on an interview that’s going nowhere, so I tell him to contact me if he remembers anything relevant. Harry doesn’t bother to show me to the door, and frustration makes me feel like yelling curses at the sky. It’s filled with dark ridges of cloud while I’ve been inside, chasing in circles.
I’m about to return to the station when I spot an envelope sticking out of the dustbin. Something shifts inside my chest when I pick it up. Harry’s name is scrawled across the front, in the same forward-sloping handwriting I saw in Jade Finbury’s kitchen. The photo inside is nothing like the ones displayed in Leo Kernick’s studio. It’s an extreme close-up, revealing terror and fury in the pilot’s expression. The bastard forced Jade to address the envelope before killing her, just like Sabine. When I turn it over, Jade has scrawled another phrase on the back: Come winter or summer, no queen can compare. Why hand-deliver that cryptic message to the boy’s home, if he’s not involved? I hammer on his door again, but he must have been watching. He’s locked it from the inside.
‘You stupid little shit,’ I mutter.
I take a few steps back then ram the door open with my bodyweight, in time to see Jago sprinting across Porth Mellon beach from the back window. The boy is already too far away to catch. There are a dozen paths he could follow, and the island’s coves and woodland make ideal hiding places, but he must know more than he revealed, and his sister probably shares his secret. Anger washes over me as I leave the house, still clutching the envelope. Whoever posted it through Harry’s door has scared him so badly he’s running from the one person who could keep him safe.