Hangman Island, page 1
Praise for KATE RHODES
‘Beautifully written and expertly plotted; this is a masterclass’
GUARDIAN
‘Gripping, clever and impossible to put down’
ERIN KELLY
‘Clever, atmospheric and compelling, it’s another masterclass in plotting’
WOMAN’S WEEKLY
‘Rhodes is a published poet and every one of her sentences sings’
FINANCIAL TIMES
‘A vividly realised protagonist whose complex and harrowing history rivals the central crime storyline’
SOPHIE HANNAH
‘An absolute master of pace, plotting and character’
ELLY GRIFFITHS
‘Kate Rhodes has cleverly blended a tense plot with a vivid sense of the raw, beautiful landscape of the Scilly Isles, and every character is a colourful creation’
RACHEL ABBOTT
‘Kate Rhodes directs her cast of suspects with consummate skill, keeping us guessing right to the heart-breaking end’
LOUISE CANDLISH
‘One of the most absorbing books I’ve read in a long time – perfectly thrilling’
MEL SHERRATT
‘Fast paced and harrowing, this gripping novel will leave you guessing until the end’
BELLA
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For my brilliant daughters-in-law, Jess Fulcher and Harriet Churchward
Hell is empty, and all the devils are here.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE,
The Tempest
PART ONE
1
Friday 25 August
Jez Cardew knows he’s in danger the moment his eyes open. He’s lying on his back, soaked to the skin, with pain throbbing inside his skull. The stars look blurred and out of place. A midnight-blue canopy hangs overhead, glinting with light, like a child’s drawing covered in too much glitter. When he drags in a breath, the sharp tang of brine hits the back of his throat. All he can remember is leaving St Agnes, alone on his father’s boat, then blacking out. Now there’s smooth fibreglass under his fingertips instead of the cabin cruiser’s scratched varnish.
He succumbs to the darkness, and when his eyes open again, there’s a figure up ahead in the wheelhouse. Relief floods through him; a local fisherman must be ferrying him home, but he still can’t understand how he’s ended up on someone else’s boat. There’s a burning pain at the back of his skull, and trying to sit up makes him dizzy. When he touches the wound, he can feel blood coursing down his neck.
‘Who’s there?’ he calls out.
Silence hangs on the summer air as the wind holds its breath. The shadow man doesn’t reply. Jez peers over the gunwale, but there’s no sign of land, which doesn’t make sense. The Scillies are grouped so close together, you can always see lights from neighbouring islands, but now there’s only the ocean’s dark expanse.
‘Answer me, please,’ he yells out, suddenly afraid. ‘Where are we going?’
‘Offshore.’ The voice is a soft murmur.
‘I need a doctor.’
There’s a loud burst of laughter. ‘You won’t get one on the Atlantic Strait.’
Jez tries to stand, but tumbles back to the deck. He feels himself drift in and out of consciousness. His strength is finally returning when his eyes open again. The boat has anchored. There’s a sharp pain in his left wrist; he didn’t notice before, but someone has bound it with twine that cuts into his skin, too tight to loosen. His confusion is mixed with wild panic. The sea’s motion rocks the boat from starboard to port. It rises with one swell, dropping with the next, the waves’ murmur filling his ears like whispered threats.
‘What the hell is this?’
He can just reach the pager he always carries in case there’s a shout from the lifeboat house, but it’s no use to him now. Its only purpose is to signal that a boat is in trouble, but he’s the one in need of rescue. Fear surges in his stomach again when the figure in the wheelhouse turns round. It’s too dark to see details; he can only listen as the man winds the anchor back up from the seabed, setting the boat adrift. He is dragged to his feet by his free wrist, and hears another peal of laughter as he hits the gunwale.
‘Come on, you hero. Show me how brave you are now.’
Jez battles hard to stay upright, but he’s shoved backwards, plunging into the sea. The brutal cold cancels his pain, and waves roar in his ears; the sound is ugly, like a football crowd jeering. He spits out brine, thrashing his legs to stay afloat. His left wrist is tied to the gunwale, and now the boat’s engine is churning. He’s dragged along in its wake, fighting to keep his head above water. He can’t die like this. Not before he reaches thirty, on a calm August night when he’s just found his path.
The boat comes to a halt again ten metres ahead; its lights shine like a beacon, promising safety, yet the man on board seems determined to watch him drown.
Jez tears at his wrist, but the knot won’t shift. His training as a lifeboatman has taught him to conserve energy in a crisis. Lie on your back and float like a starfish, the trainer said, but instinct makes him tread water, to keep the cold at bay. Maybe this is a mate’s sick idea of a joke. He manages to drag himself along the rope back to the boat, but when he tries to climb on board, the man kicks him away. Panic saps his strength. There’s no land in sight; he keeps hoping for a glimpse of the islands, but he’s surrounded by miles of unbroken sea.
He cries out for help as the boat speeds away, even though his only witnesses are the waves and sky. A current pulls him under, and pain sears through his wrist. The hymn sung at his grandfather’s funeral echoes in his mind. Eternal Father, strong to save, whose arm hath bound the restless wave… The melody plays on, but the words are lost as the boat’s engine reaches full power. Black water surges over his head; he struggles to breathe, but the sea’s embrace is too powerful to resist.
2
Saturday 26 August
I can think of better ways to spend an off-duty morning in late summer. I’m standing in Janet Fearnley’s living room in Hugh Town, with arms outstretched like a scarecrow, while she jabs at me with pins. I should be grateful that Scilly’s best seamstress is prepared to adjust my wedding suit only a week before the event, but I’d rather be on the beach. My junior colleague from the police, Eddie Nickell, smirks at me from his seat in the corner. He’s become a friend since he joined the local force, even though his sunny disposition grates on me occasionally. We share a passion for sea swimming, and have seen even more of each other since we both joined the lifeboat crew. Eddie has agreed to be my best man, because my brother Ian will be cutting it fine, flying in from America hours before our wedding. Eddie’s suit fits his slim build so well, no changes were required, while I’m the poor sod being stuck with pins. This is the first time he’s seen me attempt to look smart, which seems to amuse him no end. The heat only adds to my discomfort. It’s just 10 a.m., but the temperature is rocketing, even though the window’s wide open.
‘My husband, Trevor, was an outdoor type, like you,’ Janet says. ‘He always hated being cooped up indoors. Are you planning to do the swimathon again?’
‘I’ve signed up, but there’s been no time for exercise since Noah came along.’
‘How old is he now?’
‘Three months, and full of beans.’
‘You’ll have to teach him to swim.’
‘He loves the water already.’ I watch her hands flying across the fabric. ‘Has the lifeboat festival been keeping you busy, Janet?’
‘It’s taken a while, with events all over Scilly, but it’s got off to a great start.’
I catch sight of a boxful of RNLI badges on her table. ‘Did you send me some of those a few days back?’
‘I got a packet too,’ Eddie chips in. ‘Someone had drawn a figure dangling from a yardarm on the note, like a kid playing hangman. I thought it was some kind of joke.’
Janet looks surprised. ‘That’s odd. I got a thousand made, to give away for donations; no one on the committee mentioned doing a mailshot.’
‘Maybe they’re meant for kids on the off-islands. I didn’t see a note with mine,’ I reply. ‘It looks like most families are helping the festival one way or another.’
‘We’re determined to beat last year’s total.’
‘You always do.’
‘It feels important, since losing Trevor.’
‘Everyone appreciates the work you do.’
Janet lost her husband only last year while he was on a sea-fishing trip, alone on his boat, yet she’s finished grieving, in public at least. The woman’s over seventy but still making immaculate wedding dresses and suits. She’s worn the same steadfast smile for the past half hour, while she adjusts my jacket. Janet is a typical Scillonian; she’s lived on the islands all her life and remains positive through good times and bad. Maybe the classic books on her shelves help her to relax; I can see Paradise Lost, Romeo and Juliet, and several poetry anthologies.
When I look out of the window, three islanders manning a stall by the side of the road selling cakes and home-made lemonade as part of the week-long festival. There will be a play by local kids at the town hall, stand-up comedy and gigs in the pubs, as well as several fetes. I see evidence of Janet’s involvement all over her living room: rolled-up posters, raffle prizes, and stacks of flyers.
‘Are you looking forward to the wedding, Ben?’
‘Not the dressing-up bit; the picnic on the beach is more my style. I hope you’re coming?’
‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Nina’s dress is a beauty, if I say so myself. She’ll make a perfect bride.’ Janet points at the mirror. ‘Take a look at yourself now, Ben.’
I don’t spend much time gazing at my reflection, for obvious reasons. My face proves that sleep deprivation is the new normal, thanks to my son being an early riser. Janet’s full-length mirror shows a man pushing forty, with a giant frame, a mess of black hair, dark smudges under his mud-green eyes, and an ugly five o’clock shadow. Eddie appears to have sprung from a higher species. He looks tanned and relaxed, while I frown at the mirror.
‘The jacket’s great,’ I say. ‘Shame about the rest.’
Janet rolls her eyes. ‘No false modesty, please; you and Nina should model for Bride and Groom.’
‘I could pass as a caveman right now.’
‘More like Poldark, on a grand scale. Two more minutes, then you’re done.’
The woman’s fingers move at the speed of light, pinning and tucking, while I keep my arms raised.
I can see my fiancée from the window. Nina stands further along Hugh Town beach, with our son in his buggy, her chocolate-brown hair glinting in the morning sun. I watch her stoop down to show Noah some stone or shell she’s picked from the sand. It’s a relief to see her looking well. She almost died giving birth to him three months ago, but no one would guess it now. Motherhood suits her, and Noah was born content. He wakes at four every morning, ready for life’s adventures. I can’t explain why our family life still feels like a house of cards. Maybe it’s because the cardiologist in Penzance insists on seeing Nina every three months, to check her heart function, even though she appears fit and healthy. I can tell that my wolfdog, Shadow, is unsettled too; the creature suffers from wanderlust most days, but now he’s glued to Nina’s side, his pale fur drenched with brine.
‘It’s too quiet out there,’ I mutter under my breath.
‘How do you mean?’ Janet peers up at me.
‘Nothing’s stirring, not even the wind.’
‘It’s a lovely summer day. Enjoy it while it lasts.’
I take in the view while she works her magic on the mid-blue fabric that I chose for myself and my uncle Ray. The off-islands shimmer in the distance, shrouded in heat haze, the Atlantic a pool of molten silver with barely a ripple. A crowd of island kids are building sandcastles, clearly overjoyed that school won’t reopen for another two weeks.
‘We’re almost done, you’ll be glad to know,’ Janet says.
There’s a sudden bleeping sound, which triggers a rush of adrenaline. Instinct makes me pull off the jacket immediately, scattering pins. Eddie’s RNLI buzzer echoes mine, and he’s already on his feet. We often miss rescue missions when we’re patrolling the off-islands, but today there’s no avoiding it. Janet remains calm as I apologise for rushing away. Every islander recognises the alarm call for lifeboat crew, and she’s run the RNLI support team for years. She wishes us luck before we sprint downstairs from her flat on Fore Street, and I shout back, asking her to let Nina know I’m on a rescue.
We’re only a few minutes from the two-hundred-year-old lifeboat house, poised above Hugh Town Harbour. Nina won’t be thrilled if I’m late home. I’m on holiday from police duties for the whole week, and promised to ferry wedding paraphernalia home to Bryher on our boat, but it can’t be helped. I joined the crew last year, even though my attitude to risk has changed since Noah came along. I push my doubts aside as we burst through the doors of the lifeboat house. We’re among the first to arrive, so we’re bound to be on today’s mission, whether or not the call-out’s serious.
The coxswain, Liam Quick, is too busy pulling on his oilskins to greet us. He’s around fifty, athletic, with a mariner’s weather-beaten face, mid-blond hair and a short-lived smile. He’s the only full-time professional member of the island crew. We all know how passionate he is about his job; he takes every shout seriously, even when the risk to life is minimal. The coastguard loudspeaker is blaring at full volume, giving nautical coordinates for a missing boat. My temperature rises even higher as I pull on my kit. It’s punishing on a hot day; the yellow and black suit has wrist and neck seals to prevent water getting inside, plus boots with steel toecaps. The final touch is a pre-inflated life jacket and a safety helmet, known as a Gecko.
I’m sweating by the time another crew member appears. Constable Isla Tremayne is out of breath from sprinting here. Our boss will be outraged that most of his five-strong police team are going on a rescue, but Madron’s temper is easy to ignite. My old school friend Paul Keast arrives next. I’m relieved to see him. He’s been a lifeboatman for twenty years and is always solid in a crisis. I’m busy listening to the cox’s briefing when the next two crew members roll up, so I don’t catch their faces, but the rescue is already underway. A vessel is missing off the coast of St Agnes, with two local men believed to be on board.
The lifeboat is anchored in the bay, forcing us to pile into our D-class speedboat to reach it. The festival organisers will be pleased about passers-by seeing us in action, leading to bigger donations. I feel a rush of excitement as the launch slides down the runway and hits the water. It rattles my bones as it scuds along at top speed, soon reaching the islands’ main lifeboat. Its seventeen-metre-long hull is dark blue, but the fo’c’sle, deck and wheelhouse carry the RNLI’s distinctive dayglow orange, making it visible for miles. All mariners associate that luminous colour with safety, even when the lifeboat is just a pinprick on the horizon in a force nine gale.
Every crew member follows the drill as we jump on board. Liam is skipper and Stuart Cardew acts as navigator; he’s already staring down at the GPS system when the engine fires into life. I remain in the wheelhouse as spare man, to run messages to the rest of the crew, grabbing the handrail when the twin engines activate. They’re so powerful, the floor shudders. The bow thruster ignites, giving us an extra burst of power as we set off to locate the stricken vessel. We hit top speed in moments, twenty-five knots per hour, and I can’t hear much through my Gecko except the engines’ roar. St Mary’s Sound passes in a blur, with the spikes of Bartholomew Ledges spearing from the sea like blackened teeth. It’s a reminder that the waters around Scilly are full of hazards. The islands are the peaks of a submerged mountain range, with hundreds of sharp crags just beneath the surface. No mariner can rely on their GPS system alone to avoid shipwreck; they have to understand the tides.
I hear a tinny voice on the radio announcing that the rescue helicopter has been scrambled. It will take fifteen minutes to cross from the mainland. More details are already blaring from the radio. Two men set off on a cabin cruiser from St Agnes late last night, but no one reported it missing until now, which strikes me as odd. Why would any boat get into trouble on a flat, calm sea? Surely they had a phone or radio to summon help if the engine failed?
When I peer out of the window again, the islands have vanished; we’re sailing west into open water. The sea is feigning innocence. Its appearance is more like the Mediterranean than the cold Atlantic. It’s powder blue, glassy with sunshine, no other boats in sight.
3
Sam Austell arrives late for the shout. The lifeboat is just an orange speck on the horizon. He’d love to be on board. Two other men are in the boathouse, listening for news of the mission, but their closed body language announces that he’s not welcome, even though he’s been in the crew for six months. He catches sight of his face reflected on the computer screen when he peers at the coordinates sent by the coastguard. He’s pale and scrawny, even though he’s in his mid-twenties, and takes good care of himself. He still resembles the drug dealers he hung around with in Penzance before his stretch in prison. It’s no surprise that some of the lifeboat crew objected to him joining.
