by Kate Rhodes
I leave my room before 8 a.m., lack of sleep making me desperate for coffee. Ella Tregarron is in the pub’s kitchen already, unloading plates from the dishwasher, her expression tense as she pours me a coffee from the percolator. The investigation needs to make progress fast, to stop unknown threats putting the islanders on edge.
Liz Gannick appears in the doorway as I finish my drink. She looks ready for business, her petite frame clad in waterproofs when she follows me into the bar. She listens in silence when I explain about the fire.
‘I’m surprised you slept through the commotion,’ I say. ‘A dozen people turned out to help, but the fire investigator can’t fly here in this weather.’
Gannick nods at the breakers racing across the shore. ‘The forecast says the storm could last two more days. You may as well show me the ruins, before I check Rogan’s house.’
She doesn’t complain when scouring wind attacks us during our walk, using her sticks to swing between puddles, while Shadow chases away to find shelter.
The damage to Vine’s house looks worse by daylight. A pall of smoke still hangs over the building, despite the rain, and it’s clear that the property has been comprehensively destroyed when we enter the overgrown garden. My expertise lies in murder investigation, not arson, but even I can see that someone worked hard to create such a powerful blaze.
It hits me for the first time that if her remains lie inside the building, Naomi Vine’s death would have been just as agonising as Alex Rogan’s, making me wish I’d defended her better. Window frames are scorched and splintering, revealing the house’s blackened interior, parquet singed from the floor. Gannick remains silent as we circle the grounds, pausing to take photos on her phone.
‘The fire started inside,’ she comments.
‘How do you know?’
‘You’d see trails on the external brickwork if flammable liquid had been poured through windows or doors.’ She turns to face me. ‘I imagine they set a chain of fires through the core of the house, for a quick result. A wooden-framed building like this would go up in minutes.’
I remember the panelling inside the living room and the lime-washed beams in Vine’s hallway. The place didn’t stand a chance once fire started. Rain is falling harder than before, but it’s too late to save the property now the damage is done. Gannick picks her way along the path at a rapid pace, swinging her legs over pieces of fallen masonry, like an athlete shifting her weight between parallel bars. Many people would rely on a wheelchair in her situation, but her independence is admirable; if I were in her situation, I might be tempted by the easier option. The woman is paler than before when we return to the front entrance, and I’m not surprised. There’s something horrifying about seeing the mansion in its ruined state, especially when it may also be a murder scene. I’m about to climb the steps when Gannick gives me a sharp look.
‘Never enter a crime scene without overalls; you should know that by now.’ Her tone is brisk when she passes me a bag containing a white Tyvek suit and overshoes.
‘The structure’s unsafe, Liz. Stay here while I check the hallway.’
‘You asked me for help, remember?’ Gannick’s features are hard with irritation. ‘I’m not police anymore; I run my own operation.’
The set look on her face proves that resistance is futile. When we approach the front entrance the lock is still intact. Naomi Vine must have welcomed the killer inside, unless he already had a key.
‘I told her to keep the place secure.’
‘She didn’t listen,’ Gannick mutters. ‘Or it was someone she trusted.’
She falls silent as we enter the hallway, debris crunching underfoot.
The air reeks of smoke, and blackened plaster is falling from the stairwell where the mahogany balustrade has been reduced to spent matchsticks. Gannick motions for me to remain by the entrance before unrolling silver fabric across the floor. Her face is shiny with concentration as she assesses every detail, running her torch beam over the worst fire damage.
Naomi Vine’s living room is a blackened shell; only her largest sculptures are intact, the metal covered by a patina of soot. Part of the ceiling has collapsed in the kitchen, units burned from the walls, but the worst devastation is in Vine’s studio. I can’t tell whether fire or vandalism has caused greater damage. There’s a crater in the floor where boards have collapsed, holes gouged from the walls, many of her sculptures defaced.
‘The roof may come down,’ I tell Gannick. ‘Don’t spend long in here.’
‘I can’t rush my work.’
‘Those beams could collapse any minute.’
‘For God’s sake,’ she snaps. ‘Let me do my job. If she died here, we need to find her body.’
It crosses my mind to haul her outside, but her help may be essential, and I owe it to Naomi to find out exactly what happened. ‘I’ll put a guard in the hallway until you’re ready to leave.’
It only takes Eddie ten minutes to report for guard duty. The young sergeant looks astonished when I explain that the killer may have been hiding here for hours, keeping Naomi Vine captive, just like Alex Rogan.
‘I didn’t search this place yesterday. I thought it was secure,’ he murmurs.
‘So did I. It’s not your fault, Eddie.’
His expression lightens by a fraction. ‘Shall I check the grounds again?’
‘Keep watch here until Liz finishes her search.’
My deputy stations himself in the ruined hallway while I scan the grounds. Some of the trees nearest the house have charred branches from flames that spilled through the windows last night, when the blaze was at its height. The rest of the overgrown gardens look undisturbed, until I see that the largest outbuilding has been left open, and a telltale stench of paraffin catches the back of my throat. The killer probably made several trips here, storing the flammable liquid he needed to start a fire until the deed was done. I peer through the entrance, unwilling to destroy evidence he may have left inside, but rags and tins of turps lie on the work bench. Either the killer has tried not to leave fingerprint evidence or he doesn’t care about being found.
Once I’ve searched the grounds thoroughly, I return to the gates, which provide the only entrance to the property, unless he scaled the ten-foot-high brick wall. I curse under my breath when I spot something hanging from the ironwork gate, suspended from a wire. It’s an oyster shell, its edges softened by the sea’s pounding. The killer has followed the same pattern as before, leaving another taunt for me to find; a stream of capital letters have been written on the shell’s smooth lining. He must have a cool head to leave his calling card then saunter away from a burning building. I’m dropping the shell into an evidence bag when Eddie runs along the path, his face pink with excitement.
‘Gannick’s found something, boss.’
The forensics chief is on all fours in the studio, examining the inglenook fireplace. The muscles on the back of my neck tense as I crouch beside her, certain that she’s discovered Naomi’s corpse.
‘It looks like someone was held here,’ she says. ‘There’s a length of chain and a padlock, but no sign of a body.’
I study the blackened metal in silence, a flicker of hope rising in my chest. The find supports the Birdman’s claim that Naomi Vine was tied up in the fire. The sculptor struck me as a tough customer, and she’s already fought off one attacker, but she can’t have escaped her fetters like a modern day Houdini unless she was released. I need to understand the common denominator between her and Rogan, to find out why they were both targeted, but above all I want to know whether she’s still alive. If she was having an affair with the astronomer, someone could have been jealous enough to attack them both, but I’ve got no definite proof. The two victims are both talented incomers, well-known in their field. Everyone warmed to Alex Rogan, but Naomi Vine has made enemies ever since she arrived. Someone on the island may have resented her presence enough to want her dead. If it’s Curwen, there will be no more violence while he’s locked away, but I’m not fully
committed to the idea. The killer appears to be enjoying himself, his latest blaze more flamboyant than the bonfire that claimed Alex Rogan’s life. My thoughts are racing too fast, aware that the campaign could escalate. The most likely outcome is that Naomi’s body lies in another room of her ruined mansion, but if she didn’t die in the fire, she’s still in danger. There’s an outside chance that the killer has dragged her to another location, preparing to start his next blaze.
27
A man’s tall figure is waiting on the path when I leave Naomi Vine’s house, his face obscured by his coat collar. Martin Tolman must have an important question if he’s willing to endure a wind forceful enough to hurl fallen branches across the open land. The architect’s distinguished features already appear blanched by the cold. Shadow normally treats strangers like long-lost friends, but today he releases a growl before snapping his teeth at Tolman, forcing me to grab his collar.
‘He won’t hurt you, Martin. It’s just the wind making him edgy.’
Tolman keeps his distance when he nods at the house. ‘I saw the smoke from across the bay. Can I help at all?’
‘I need guards at the lighthouse this afternoon; people are taking it in turns. Can you be there by three?’
‘That’s no problem. Is Naomi safe?’ His expression sobers as he says her name.
‘We’re searching the building now. Did you know each other before she moved here? I saw one of her sculptures in your lounge.’
‘We’re just neighbours, but I admire her work. Was she caught in the fire?’
‘I hope she escaped. She may be sheltering somewhere nearby.’
‘Do you want me to search the down?’
‘That’s a good place to start.’
Shadow reacts badly to Tolman raising his hand in a farewell gesture. He lunges forward again, jaws snapping, until I hiss at him to behave. The architect makes slow progress crossing the exposed ground, his black coat splayed by the wind. He seems far tenser than the last time we met, but for no obvious reason. It makes me question whether his link with Naomi goes beyond simple neighbourliness, but my immediate concern is for Liz Gannick, who is still scouring the ground floor of the torched mansion, despite hazards posed by falling timbers. After dodging the grim reaper twice, she seems certain that her life is charmed.
Eddie looks upset when he finally joins me on the path. I’ve known him long enough to understand that he hates unfinished business; if we don’t find Naomi Vine soon his frustrations will slow him down. The young sergeant keeps his head down as we walk away, his features obscured by his scarf as we face the battering wind. Our next duty is to collect the Birdman from Stan Eden’s home, but my deputy comes to a halt as we reach Middle Town.
‘Can I say something, sir?’
‘Go ahead, Eddie.’
‘We’re going in the wrong direction. The Birdman couldn’t have planned that fire; he lacks the intellect. Why not let me interview him, to find out why he was at Vine’s property? You could carry on looking for her body.’ The sergeant looks astonished by his act of rebellion when his speech ends, but concerns about the case have blunted my ability to listen.
‘People keep saying Curwen’s innocent, but his coat was thrown over Alex Rogan’s body. He was in Naomi’s house when it burned down – and he’s given us the runaround for days. Jimmy Curwen is still our chief suspect. You can go back and help Liz Gannick if that bothers you, but let me get on with it.’
Eddie gives an embarrassed nod. ‘Okay, boss, I’ll leave you to it. I’ve said my piece.’
He hurries away, leaving me to complete my walk in silence. It’s the first time my deputy has ever questioned my judgement, but it’s too late to back down.
Jimmy Curwen is wearing fresh clothes when I collect him from Eden’s house. The lighthouse keeper has kitted him out in old-fashioned jeans, a padded jacket and lace-up shoes. Last night’s soot has been washed from his skin, but he’s still carrying his prized possessions: bundles of feathers protrude from the pocket of the jacket as I lead him towards the lighthouse. Curwen keeps his face averted during the short journey, but a chorus of birdsong rises overhead, a row of black-headed gulls calling from the roofline of the house opposite, while a kittiwake hovers above us. The birds appear to be serenading him. The creatures are so used to sharing his food, they’re expecting a free meal. Jimmy’s behaviour becomes panicky when he sees Louise Walbert standing by the lighthouse. The island’s solicitor has agreed to be his advocate, and for once her vivid wardrobe has been replaced by business clothes. She looks like a typical lawyer in her smart navy coat, clutching a briefcase in her hand, proving that she has more than one identity.
Curwen’s thin face looks strained when we coax him inside, using a pincer movement to propel him up the spiral staircase, through the building’s narrow core. The keepers’ former kitchen is equipped with custom-built cupboards that line its curved wall. The melamine table has been scrubbed clean, but its surface is so scarred it must have stood there since the light was active.
‘Take a seat please, Jimmy.’
The man’s hands tremble while I read him his rights, his gaze flitting towards the door as if he’s longing for freedom.
‘Your coat was found at the scene of Alex Rogan’s murder. The binoculars in the pocket were yours too. Was it you who laid your sheepskin over his body or someone else?’
His odd, beakish face is impassive when I repeat the question, but the look in his eyes proves that he understands every word.
‘Try to say yes or no to each question, Jimmy,’ Louise whispers.
The man studies the surface of the table, his hands clutched in his lap. My only option is to use another method. My old partner in London taught me that interviewing is about give and take; if you offer something, you get something in return.
I lower my voice to a quieter register. ‘Ella’s been feeding your birds. She’s got a soft spot for you, hasn’t she?’ I pause before continuing. ‘All you have to do is explain why you ran away after Alex died.’
The man’s expression relaxes slightly, his mouth forming shapes, but only a hiss of air emerges when he tries to speak.
‘I need to know about Naomi Vine, too. What happened at her house last night?’
Curwen’s head is bowed, a few tears splashing onto the lino at his feet. Louise and I sit in uncomfortable silence while he weeps; there’s no point in hurling questions at a man in no state to answer.
‘Help us out, Jimmy. Tell me what happened. Then, if you’ve done nothing wrong, you can go.’
‘He can only be held for thirty-six hours from point of arrest.’ Louise looks apologetic, as if she regrets having to remind me of the custody law.
I address Curwen again. ‘I’ll leave you a pen and paper then come back later. Write down what you remember about the last few days. The door will be locked, but you’re not alone; people are taking turns to sit outside.’
I glance at the wall and notice that the clock’s hands aren’t moving. Maybe the last lighthouse keeper removed the battery on his way out, leaving time at a standstill. Frustration makes me feel like punching a wall, but professional courtesy prompts me to thank Louise Walbert before she retreats down the metal stairs.
Ella Tregarron is already waiting on the landing to begin her guard duty. She’s swaddled in scarves and a padded coat, long black hair snaking across her shoulders, her skin clear of make-up. The landlady looks more vulnerable without her painted smile. I explain that another islander will take over soon, but to call me if the Birdman becomes agitated.
‘I’ve brought Jimmy some food,’ she says.
‘That’s a kind thought.’
I carry the Tupperware box through to Curwen, before locking him inside the small room. Ella has already begun her vigil. She’s placed a stool opposite one of the windows, facing north across the island, while gusts of wind rattle the glass. She seems happy to watch the storm savage the island, until the next guard arrives.
28
He pushes the paper aside then peers into the food box. It contains sausage rolls, sandwiches and a couple of bananas. He puts the bread aside then stands with his back against the wall to eat, still hungry after days without proper meals. Then he opens the narrow window and peers outside. The ocean is unrolling to the west, with no interruption until it laps the horizon, gale-force wind roughening its grey surface. Sea birds hover above the island, hoping for shelter.
Gulls descend when Jimmy extends his hand from the window, scooping bread from his palm, his spirits lifting for the first time in days.
‘I missed you,’ he whispers.
Birds circle the window long after all the food has gone, pecking at the glass. Jimmy’s mood plummets once the last one flies away. He sits at the table with shoulders hunched and nothing to distract him until the police return. But soon a woman’s voice addresses him through the door. Ella’s soft tone makes him smile: the landlady has been kind since his mother died, making sure he doesn’t go hungry. She seems to understand that he would prefer to work for his living than beg scraps from neighbours, often leaving food parcels outside his flat.
He presses his ear to the door, to listen more easily.
‘Are you okay, Jimmy? Tap if you can hear me.’
Jimmy raps his knuckles on the wood, hoping she will carry on talking. Ella’s thick Cornish accent reminds him of home, her sentences rolling like a slow tide.
‘The police will ask if you killed Alex Rogan.’ Her voice quietens, until he can barely hear it. ‘They’ll keep you locked up until you say you’re guilty. Say yes to every question, Jimmy. It’s the right thing to do. Tell them you hurt Alex and it was you who set fire to Naomi’s house.’