Hours slip by too quickly, time passing in a flurry of meetings, CPS evidence reviews and a brief interview with Tom Polkerris. It’s 7 p.m. when the hotel manager is brought into Madron’s room. The man’s smugness has reduced, but his answers are useless. He’s already admitted to sleeping with Sabine after a late shift in the hotel bar, but there’s evidence he was working when Hannah Weber was attacked. If he’s got an accomplice, he’s a good liar. My old classmate looks bemused when I ask if anyone else is involved, continuing to deny any link to the attacks.
I release Paul Keast after the interview ends, even though the thirty-six hour cut-off hasn’t arrived. There’s little point in holding him when there’s no hard evidence that he’s guilty. He doesn’t say a word when Eddie hands over his bag of possessions, slipping through the station doors to check on his livestock or see his new flame. Tom Polkerris is a different kind of prisoner. He grows angrier as the hours pass, battering his fists against the wall, then shouting curses through the hatch in the cell door.
Liz Gannick inspects me with her sharp glare when we meet in Madron’s office, as evening gives way to night. Her crutches are propped against the wall, like she too wants a quick getaway.
‘You’re sending me back to that bloody hotel, aren’t you?’
‘Polkerris is a credible suspect, Liz. He mistreats women, he’s a plausible liar, and he had easy access to Sabine and Lily. I need you to find proof. The bloke loves manipulating people and he’s been edgy from the start.’ I remember his agitation on hearing Sabine was dead. He may have been afraid of exposure, instead of regretting the girl’s death.
‘I’ll start with his car,’ Gannick says. ‘If he’s guilty, he’s used it recently to capture his latest victim. There may even be fresh DNA.’
‘It’s too late to send samples to the lab. If Lily’s still being held, she’ll be dead by morning.’
‘I can’t work miracles, Ben.’
‘Pity.’
Gannick’s face looks anything but angelic when she grabs her crutches and swings back into motion. I’m so concerned about lone women being attacked that I tell Lawrie Deane to accompany her to the hotel, but at least I know Isla is safe. I’ve sent her out on a last foot patrol with Eddie, asking for sightings of Lily Jago, leaving me alone at the station.
I’ve only just turned on my computer when a call arrives on the landline. Frank Rawle is offering his help again. I decline politely; the man’s desire to get involved still bothers me, but he takes a leadership role in every part of island life. He runs the parish council, the school’s advisory board, and is a hospital trustee. The man’s constant efforts to improve the quality of life on St Mary’s make him an unlikely murderer.
I swallow my fear that we’re acting too slowly to save Lily Jago. We spent the day searching every obscure shed and outbuilding, as well as interviewing suspects this evening. All I can do now is learn what the sailors’ charms mean to the killer, even though I’d rather be outside hunting for the missing girl. The rain on the station’s roof sounds like bullets from a scattergun, the brutal sound reminding me the girl may be dead already, her corpse battered by the elements.
I spend the next hour struggling to read the museum’s records. The past twenty years’ entries are easy because Elaine Rawle’s handwriting is perfectly formed, but the sailors’ charms may have been left to the museum decades ago. The previous manager ran the museum for fifty years, his minute scrawl growing illegible as he aged. I get no help from the extra sheet I found in Father Michael’s basement, apart from confirming that it was torn so cleanly from the ledger, its absence is hard to spot. My gaze scans the list of items, certain I’m missing something, but none of the names jumps out at me.
There’s a scratching sound outside, just as my eyes are straining from overuse. It’s pitch dark when Shadow bounds through the door. He normally gives me a boisterous greeting, but his behaviour’s changed. The dog lets out a series of barks, his pale eyes locked onto my face. There’s nothing outside except darkness and rain, coursing down the windows, while the islanders shelter indoors.
‘Where’s Nina?’
The dog gives a pitiful whine, prompting me to call her number, but there’s no reply. Now he’s standing by the door, howling for release, and I know something’s wrong. I told Nina to keep her phone switched on at all times, but when I call again, there’s still no answer.