It’s 2 p.m. by the time I catch up with Eddie; the young sergeant’s upbeat mood seems to have vanished.
‘Gannick just called,’ he says. ‘There are no trainers matching the print in Holy Vale at the farmhouse, and the blood at Jade’s house isn’t Paul Keast’s.’
‘His arrest warrant will lapse by 10 p.m. tonight if no new evidence is found.’ Paul may have hated Jade and Sabine for rejecting him, but there’s no solid proof he hurt them, and the news about his new relationship undermines his motive for going on a killing spree.
I stare at our suspect list again, with Eddie at my shoulder. Tom Polkerris is still a suspect. He seemed to have a jaded view of white weddings, but his obsession may run even deeper than his ex’s, and he had the perfect opportunity to watch Sabine and Lily at the hotel. The cruelty he showed as a boy may still be driving him.
‘What do we do now, boss?’ Eddie asks.
‘Let’s speak to Polkerris first.’
Isla stays behind, sifting through Liz Gannick’s latest report. Lawrie Deane is still with the forensics chief at the Keasts’ farm, but I’ll need to bring the team together soon to plan tonight’s safety arrangements. Everyone on St Mary’s needs our protection, including Lily Jago. If the girl’s still alive the killer will be preparing to display her body tomorrow morning.
There’s no sign of Tom Polkerris in the Star Castle’s reception area so Eddie and I march down the narrow corridor. I rap once on the door of his office, before barging inside to find the hotel manager kissing one of the hotel’s waitresses, his hand inside her blouse. She blushes furiously, before scurrying away. I can hardly believe that we’ve found evidence of his infidelity so soon, but it may happen all the time. After she’s gone, Polkerris stands by the window, glowering at us. The situation would be laughable under different circumstances, but my sense of humour has taken a nosedive.
‘How old is she, Tom?’ I ask. ‘Seventeen?’
‘Old enough to know her own mind,’ he says. ‘One minute we’re having an appraisal meeting, the next she’s all over me.’
‘It must be nice, being irresistible,’ Eddie mutters.
Polkerris shows us the palms of his hands. ‘It was a mistake, all right? I’ve been under pressure. You can’t arrest me for that.’
He lowers himself onto a plush sofa, his smooth facade back in place, no visible creases in his expensive suit.
‘How many times has it happened?’
‘What do you mean?
‘You employ temporary staff, mostly female, young and easily impressed. It’s an abuse of power.’
‘I haven’t broken any laws.’
‘Your fingerprints are all over Sabine’s bedroom. Did you sleep with Lily Jago too?’
‘You’re loving this, aren’t you?’ he sneers. ‘It’s a personal attack.’
‘I bet your staff know all about your antics.’
Polkerris’s body language is changing, his shoulders hunched in self-defence. ‘I slept with Sabine once, that’s all.’
‘Hannah Weber was fascinated by the history of this place. She visited twice, describing the castle as “magical” in her journal. Is she another of your conquests?’
‘We never even met.’ The look on his face contains pure hatred. ‘You can’t forgive and forget, can you?’
‘No one likes a bully; the only difference now is how it’s described. We call it coercive control. If a female employees rejects you, she could lose her job. You’ll get the sack when this goes public.’
‘The owners won’t believe you.’
‘Trust me, they will.’
I take a good deal of pleasure from arresting Tom Polkerris. The solicitor is bound to advise her new client to answer every question with ‘no comment’, just like Paul Keast, but at least we can hold him overnight. If he’s the killer, he can’t harm Lily again, if she’s still alive.
Lawrie Deane calls me soon after the paperwork is completed and Polkerris is placed in a holding cell at 4 p.m. The sergeant explains that he forgot to mention that the Rawles’ house hasn’t been fully searched. Frank was out during his visit, and Elaine claimed that her husband had the only key to the attic.
‘I can’t see why they’d lock it, when it’s just those two living there.’
‘I’ll pay them a call, Lawrie. I should check on Leo Kernick anyway.’
I can’t imagine the Rawles marring their respectable image, let alone going on a killing spree, but Jeff Pendelow’s suggestion that the killer might be a pillar of the community is still ringing in my ears.
The rain is steady when I set off, but getting soaked again is the least of my worries. I’m digesting the clashes between Rhianna’s story and Tom Polkerris’s. It still seems possible that the killings sprang from the collapse of their marriage, but I need to carry on checking every detail, until evidence is confirmed.
Frank Rawle’s appearance is pristine when I reach his house. The razor-sharp creases in his shirtsleeves contrast with my sopping-wet windcheater. His Labrador trots out to greet me once the door opens, begging to be stroked.
‘I was about to call you, Ben. I’m afraid Leo’s gone,’ Rawle announces. ‘We hoped he’d stay longer, but he left before we woke up.’
‘Was he any calmer by the time he went to bed?’
‘He’s still in shock. It’ll take him months to recover.’
‘Could you drive to his studio later to check he’s okay?
‘We sold our car years ago, but I can take a walk there now.’
‘Thanks, Frank. Could we have a quick chat first?’
I send Lawrie a message on my phone to let him know that Kernick’s on his own, before following Rawle inside. A grandfather clock ticks loudly as he leads me through to his living room. I’d like to fire out questions then hurry back to the station, but the situation requires delicacy. The man’s shirtsleeve pulls back as he gestures for me to sit down, revealing a thick surgical bandage.
‘How did you hurt your wrist, Frank?’
He looks embarrassed. ‘I tripped in the back garden. Elaine insisted on dressing it for me as a precaution. It’s just a sprain.’
‘Your house has already been searched, but I hear you keep the attic locked. Would it be okay to look inside?’
I feel awkward hunting for evidence linking Rawle to the murders, when he’s been a respected community member for decades, but his dominating personality singles him out. The rooms on the first floor have the same dark panelling as the hallway, making them feel claustrophobic. When I climb the final flight of stairs to the attic, Rawle takes his time producing a key.
‘My wife would hate this,’ he says. ‘She treats this room as sacred territory.’
‘I won’t take long, I promise.’
Time shifts into reverse when the door finally swings open. The loft has never been modernised, with bare rafters overhead, the years receding to the late nineties. The musicians in Primal Scream, Nirvana and the Fugees look fresh-faced in the posters above the girl’s narrow bed. The duvet cover has faded from red to pink, the musty smell proving that the window is rarely opened. Old-fashioned cans of hairspray and tubes of lipstick lie on the dressing table. Leah Rawle beams down at me from the wall. The young man beside her in the photo looks familiar; his arm is draped around her shoulder, a cigarette dangling from his lip. A guitar stands propped against the wall.
‘It looks like your daughter was keen on music.’
‘Leah dreamed of teaching it, once she qualified.’ Frank Rawle is still standing in the doorway, reluctant to cross the threshold. ‘We should have given everything to charity long ago, but Elaine won’t hear of it.’
Leah’s possessions have been treated like priceless artefacts. The air tastes of dust and old memories, my breath catching when I walk further inside. A wedding dress hangs from the wardrobe door, its lace turning yellow. Twenty years have passed, but there’s still a dull sheen on the silk, the bodice covered in embroidery.
‘Was your daughter due to get married?’
‘The ceremony was just a week away. They’d booked the church and planned their honeymoon.’
‘She was engaged to an islander?’
‘Didn’t anyone tell you the story? Her fiancé was Michael Trevellyan.’
‘The priest?’
Rawle nods in reply. ‘He was working on his parents’ flower farm back then. They were far too young, but we relented in the end. It was obvious they were in love.’
I stare back at him. ‘I had no idea.’
‘Mike’s life fell apart afterwards. I know his religion brings him solace, and his ministry’s been exceptional, but his life would have been happier if Leah had survived.’
I’d like to know how the girl died, but the question seems insensitive. My old headmaster appears keen to escape his memories. Leah Rawle’s death has impacted on everyone she knew down the years: her mother’s spirit was broken, while her fiancé has allowed religion to replace love. It bothers me that the priest spoke to Hannah Weber just before she was attacked. It crosses my mind that he could be staying at her bedside to watch her die, rather then helping her survive, but the idea seems ridiculous. Why would a respected man of the cloth go on a killing spree, twenty years after his fiancé died? But anyone can commit violence under the right circumstances. I call the priest’s mobile number straight after leaving the Rawles’ home, but get no reply.