by Kate Rhodes
‘Leave that stick in the porch then come inside, Jimmy.’
He points across the bay, trying to make himself understood, but Deborah just smiles and opens the door wider.
‘Martin’s at the pub, but he’ll be back soon. Come through to the kitchen; you look hungry.’
Deborah leads him to the kitchen then places a cup of milk and a wedge of cake in front of him. His hunger is so great that he gobbles it down, without noticing that she’s left the room, but once the food is finished, her quiet voice echoes through the wall. She’s calling the police, her tone low and insistent, filling him with panic. He rises to his feet so fast the chair clatters to the floor. If the police take him, Naomi will never escape. Mrs Tolman calls out his name as he runs down the hallway, but it’s too late. He yanks the front door open then runs back through the clearing.
23
I’m alone at the lifeboat house, sifting through witness statements, when Deborah Tolman calls me at 8 p.m. She sounds troubled, saying that the Birdman came to her home earlier in an agitated state, only to disappear again. When I put down the phone, I regret sending Eddie home, but don’t want to summon him back. He’s done hours of overtime since the case started, and the Birdman has an uncanny ability to hide from us. It’s likely that he’s sheltering in one of the island’s caves or barns, always staying one step ahead. I pull on my waterproof to carry out a quick search around the Tolman’s property, even though it may not yield a result.
The weather has stopped its assault on the island when I get outside, but I can tell the reprieve is only temporary. The atmosphere feels too still, as if the storm is just holding its breath. Shadow seems happy to join in the search, chasing after my torch beam when I scan the fields. It takes less than ten minutes to reach the Tolman’s house, where Deborah is waiting for me.
‘Jimmy ran down the path inland,’ she says. ‘Shall I come with you?’
‘No need, stay indoors and keep safe. Did you work out why Jimmy came here?’
‘Martin’s one of the few people he trusts. I think he was hoping to see him, but he was out walking.’
‘I’ll look for Jimmy now, don’t worry.’
Despite my advice, Deborah Tolman still looks anguished as I back away. It’s frustrating that the Birdman has come within touching distance, but there’s no sign of him as I comb the paths along the clifftop, then spiral inland, checking every outbuilding I pass. After a fruitless hour of walking, I call it quits, resigning myself to look again tomorrow, but Shadow’s behaviour deteriorates as we reach Middle Town. He’s barking at full volume, the sound so anguished that I lean down to grab his collar. My dog is straining to escape, releasing high-pitched howls, his movements frantic. I glance around to see what’s spooked him, but find no obvious cause.
‘Shut up,’ I hiss, yet he carries on baying at the clouds. ‘You’re a bloody liability.’
He slips from my grasp, sprinting down the lane through Middle Town. It crosses my mind to let him run, but there’s every chance he’ll circle back and continue his infernal howling in the small hours, just for the fun of it. I’ve only been chasing after him for a few minutes when the air sours, my mouth filling with the taste of smoke.
Shadow is leading me towards Naomi Vine’s house, where flames are spearing through a hole in the roof. Adrenaline makes me run faster. If I don’t act soon, she’ll be burned alive, just like Alex Rogan. The front door is unlocked when I push it open and it’s clear that I’ll have to act fast. The choking air is growing hotter all the time.
‘Stay back,’ I yell at the dog, who’s still at my heels, barking frantically.
I make a quick call to Eddie but he doesn’t pick up, so I leave a voicemail telling him to alert the volunteer fire officers, before plunging into the smoke. Even with the collar of my coat pressed over my face, the fumes attack my airways in seconds, my eyes streaming. I try to recall the layout of the house, groping along the hallway to the staircase. If Vine hasn’t escaped, she’s likely to be in her bedroom.
Flames are climbing the wall when I reach the top storey, the air pungent with chemicals. I kick open a bedroom door but there’s no sign of her. The rooms are all empty, but the fire is gaining hold, smoke drifting through cracks between the floorboards. Flames billow through the central stairwell, so I take the back stairs, where I’m greeted by a fresh pall of smoke. There’s a crackling sound as the wooden panelling catches, then a roaring noise, like a cry rising to a shout, but I flail through the dark until I reach a pocket of clear air in the cavernous living room. It dawns on me suddenly that Naomi will be trying to save her work, but flames are bursting through the doors of her studio. Heat and smoke prevent me from going further until I spot a figure on the floor.
The Birdman is lying on his side, his ragged clothes filthy with soot. Fierce heat sears my skin as I lift his dead weight over my shoulder then make for the exit, but a line of flames spears from the floor, blocking our way out. I take a deep breath before running through the fire. It seems to take forever before we spill out onto the lawn, my lungs heaving for air with smoke billowing from my blackened clothes. I’m lucky not to have sustained injuries, but Jimmy is still semi-conscious when I lay him on the grass, smears of soot marking his narrow face. The oddness of his appearance hits home, now that I see him up close. His grey hair stands out in uneven clumps, so ragged he must cut it himself; bundles of feathers protrude from the pockets of trousers that are inches too short and riddled with holes. I’m still coughing myself hoarse when it occurs to me that Naomi Vine could still be inside.
Yellow flames leap through the attic windows with greater intensity than before, the core of the mansion crumbling. Roof slats are dropping to the ground behind us, but my strength is fading. It requires stamina to haul the unconscious man towards the gates while lumps of brick rain down on us. A section of lead guttering smashes to the ground, missing us by less than a metre as I carry him to safety.
‘Are you all right?’ Eddie is running along the path, his torchlight shining in my face.
I double over, coughing smoke from my lungs. I’m almost certain that Jimmy Curwen started the fire, but I’ll need to check how the island’s teenage arsonist spent the last few hours.
‘Check on Adam Helston, Eddie, quick as you can.’
Eddie sets off at a rapid jog. Curwen is coming round at last, his gaze sharpening. The man’s breathing sounds hoarse but at least he’ll be fit to interview. If he’s the arsonist, he must have a vicious nature: Naomi welcomed him and this is how he repays her. It looks like he set light to the building then got trapped inside.
‘Were you alone in there, Jimmy? Or did someone help you?’
The man shuts his eyes, too cowardly to return my gaze. I can feel the flames’ heat from twenty metres and there’s still no sign of the fire officers, removing my only hope of searching for Naomi. The noise is deafening as window panes fracture and more of the roof collapses. The Birdman doesn’t speak as the blaze takes hold, but tears leak from his closed eyes. The damage he’s caused seems to give him little pleasure.
When I look back down the lane, a stout figure is heading towards us, his white beard visible against the dark. Stan Eden must have seen the blaze from the lighthouse and hurried down to help. His gaze skims the Birdman’s face before he turns in my direction.
‘I can take him to mine, if you want. He’ll catch cold out here.’
‘Thanks, Stan. Keep him locked indoors till I can join you.’
Curwen’s face is as blank as a sleepwalker’s when he stumbles to his feet. The man’s clothes look ready to fall apart; his worn-out boots are filthy with mud and his jumper is covered in scorch marks, hands wounded by cuts and burns. He’s shaking so violently that I drape my coat round his shoulders then watch Stan Eden lead him towards his home, a ten-minute walk away in Middle Town. The Birdman seems oblivious to the drama he’s caused. He keeps his head tipped back as he walks, his gaze fixed on the sky.
Fire officers are
arriving at last. A tractor is dragging the hydrant towards the blaze, with half a dozen volunteers running ahead. I have to yell to make my instructions heard, above the sound of the roof collapsing, but the thin stream of water has little effect. I leave Mike Walbert in charge until I can return. My biggest concern is to find out what Jimmy Curwen was doing inside Naomi Vine’s home.
There’s no sign of Shadow until his bark echoes in the distance, letting me know he’s safe. I stare back at the building when we near the village; the old mansion house looks like a giant Catherine wheel, with fire spewing from upstairs windows and yellow flames searing the brickwork. I have no way of knowing whether Naomi Vine is still trapped inside.
24
Stan Eden’s home is the last lighthouse keepers’ cottage in the terrace, and I arrive there at 11 p.m. From the outside it looks unremarkable, with a drab green front door, but the décor proves that the old man’s lighthouse obsession runs deep. Pictures of an extinct lifestyle line his hallway, their monochrome ink turning sepia. They show uniformed men being winched from dinghies onto landing platforms, and playing chess in minute kitchens, while waves batter the windows. I feel a pang of envy for a profession with such clear rewards. The keepers endured hardships, but knew they were saving lives, while some murder investigations never get a result. Adrenaline is still pumping through my system, even though the immediate danger has passed; soot is making my skin itch, flakes of burned paint falling from my hands.
Jimmy Curwen is sitting at the kitchen table with a blanket round his shoulders, his eyes glassy. His nickname seems even more fitting when I study his features again. There’s an avian quality to his sharp nose and his gaze that never fixes on anything for long. Eden has provided a basin of hot water and a flannel, but Curwen hasn’t bothered to wipe the dirt from his skin; the man’s expression is so blank the fire seems to have cauterised his emotions. I need to get inside his head, but he won’t even make eye contact.
‘Why did you visit the mansion house tonight, Jimmy?’ I ask.
The Birdman’s hands tremble in his lap. He only responds when Eden puts a glass of water in front of him, gulping down the liquid in rapid swallows.
‘Can’t you interview him tomorrow, when he’s rested?’ Eden asks. ‘He’s welcome to sleep here.’
‘Jimmy may have started the fire, Stan. He should be in a holding cell till we know what happened.’
The old man gives me a stern look. ‘There’s a lock on the bedroom door, but he’d never harm me. I’ve known him since he was born. He’s a boy, trapped inside a man’s body.’
When I look at the Birdman again his lips contort into odd shapes, fists clenching in his lap while he tries to speak.
‘Tied up . . . in the fire.’ His words are a hoarse whisper.
‘Is that how you left Naomi, Jimmy?’
The Birdman’s face bows over his lap, tears landing on the backs of his hands. It’s obvious that he’s too exhausted to talk again so I lead him upstairs to Eden’s spare room. I make him take off his boots before he curls up on the single bed, like an exhausted child. I pity him, no matter what evils he’s committed. His clothes stink of smoke, his face gaunt with tiredness, matted grey hair plastered against his skull. He looks ill-prepared for the media spotlight that will glare down on him if he’s the killer.
Once I get back downstairs, my eyes scan more photos of lighthouses. I’m still studying the images when Eden returns with arms full of firewood, chuntering under his breath. He drops down on the stool opposite, fingers tugging at his white beard.
‘You can’t prove that Jimmy started that fire, can you?’ he asks.
‘He was in the building, Stan. I have to know why.’
‘Jimmy would never harm anyone. He’s faced enough tragedy in his lifetime.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The lad saw his sister fall from the Bar at high tide. Her body washed up on Covean Beach three days later; that’s when he stopped talking. Jimmy was ten years old. He’s only been interested in saving his birds ever since.’
‘That’s a sad story, but Naomi Vine may have been burned alive in her own home. He’s been on the run for days. It looks like he started the blaze then got trapped inside.’
Eden scowls at me. ‘People scapegoat him for being different, and you’re no better.’
‘I have to base my judgements on evidence.’
‘Jimmy wouldn’t harm that woman. Plenty of people want her gone, but he’d never hurt a soul. He’ll crack up if you lock him indoors.’
‘Keep him here till tomorrow, please, Stan. He should be in secure accommodation until I’ve interviewed him.’
‘The lighthouse has got beds in the living quarters and locks on the doors.’
‘We’ll take him there tomorrow. Thanks for your help.’
I return to the fire, where Eddie is keeping watch. The emergency water tank is being refilled, but at last the flames are dwindling. Plumes of smoke funnel through the hole in the roof, an orange glow pulsing behind the upstairs windows.
‘Not a pretty sight, is it?’ Eddie says.
‘Seeing someone’s home destroyed never is. What’s the news on Adam Helston?’
‘His room’s below his mum and dad’s. He could have sneaked out then run back there before I arrived.’
‘We’ll do a full search tomorrow. At least Curwen’s under lock and key.’
The sergeant throws me a questioning look, but has enough sense to keep his views about the Birdman to himself. Guilty or innocent, I need to find out why he was present at both fires and has been on the run for days. We stand side by side, powerless to do anything except watch the property smoulder. I remember a specialist fire investigator telling me once that arsonists love watching the misery they cause. I scan the grounds of Naomi Vine’s house then spin round to look back down the lane, aware that the killer may already have us in his sights.
25
Tuesday 9 November
Pain wakes Jimmy at dawn, the wounds on his hands pulsing with heat. He peers through the curtains towards Wingletang Down: the old mansion has stood on the skyline since before he was born, but now smoke is billowing from its roof. He remembers Naomi Vine’s low voice pleading for help. If she lies at the heart of the blaze, he’s to blame. Tears course down his cheeks, for the man in the fire, and the woman he failed to set free.
Ben Kitto will ask more questions when morning comes. The tall policeman puts him on edge, his build so huge he looks like a giant from a child’s storybook. Jimmy wants to explain everything he’s seen, but the detective’s dark green stare silences him. He thinks of the pain on Naomi Vine’s face and longs to run back to her house, praying she’s still alive.
Jimmy runs his fingers along the window frame, managing to lever it open. It crosses his mind to swing his legs over the sill and let himself drop, but the distance to the concrete patio is too great. He’d break his legs if he tried to jump. Cold air caresses his face, but there’s no birdsong to comfort Jimmy tonight. Even the owls have deserted him.
26
I leave Shadow by the back entrance of the Turk’s Head as the morning light intensifies, determined to reward him for alerting me to the fire. Without his help, Jimmy Curwen would have died at the scene. I peer through the window of the pub’s kitchen where a light shines above steel-topped work tables, but there’s no one around, so I help myself to a handful of sausages from the fridge. Shadow gives a bark of appreciation when I reappear with his unexpected feast.
‘How did you know people were in danger?’
The dog is too busy wolfing down his reward to listen, but I wish he could answer. His acute sense of smell would make him an ideal sniffer dog, if only his wayward behaviour could be corrected.
Once I get back to my room, I peel off my clothes then step under the shower. The water that swirls down the plughole is tinged grey as I shampoo soot from my scalp. Lack of sleep hasn’t caught up with me yet, my brain spinning with information. The Birdma
n only gave a single reply, saying that Vine was tied up in the fire. There must be a link between Rogan’s brutal killing and the destruction of the sculptor’s home. It’s possible that someone started the latest blaze then trapped Jimmy Curwen inside the building, intending to let him burn, leaving Vine’s body lying in the wreckage too, but the Birdman’s odd behaviour still makes him my chief suspect.
The storm has strengthened when I dress in the half-light. Trees and bushes are being pummelled by the wind, glass vibrating inside the window frame with each new gust, while rain falls in solid sheets. The elements seem determined to slow the investigation, and any forensic evidence at Vine’s house will be diluted. My phone pulses in my pocket just as I’m preparing to leave my room, DCI Madron’s name appearing on the screen. His sole focus is on today’s press conference. The weather conditions mean that the journalists must question me by Skype, rather than face-to-face.
‘At least the killer’s under arrest, Kitto.’
‘I need to question Curwen before charging him. We don’t have any clear evidence.’
His tone cools. ‘I imagine Liz Gannick will find plenty of proof that he torched Naomi Vine’s house.’
‘When she does I’ll let you know.’
‘I hope you’re keeping her sweet. If she files a negative report we’ll all suffer.’
‘I realise that.’
‘Don’t show any doubt to those journalists, they’ll eat you alive.’
‘I have dealt with the press before, sir.’
‘It’s a pity I can’t get over to run the event.’ Madron sounds disappointed, but for me it’s a lucky escape. The storm may have cut St Agnes adrift from the outside world, but I’m free to complete my work without interference. The only downside is that Eddie and I will have to enlist volunteers to get the job done. One of our first tasks will be to take Jimmy Curwen to the lighthouse, then recruit islanders to stand guard.