by Kate Rhodes
Jimmy’s thoughts are confused. His father told him never to lie, yet he feels sure Ella is giving good advice, because her voice is gentle, and she has always supported him. He presses his ear to the wood and pays attention to her words. She repeats the message until it lodges in his mind and his memory of the real events starts to blur.
29
It’s almost 10 a.m. when I return to the Turk’s Head. I’ve left little time to prepare for the video conference, and pandering to journalists seems like madness during a murder investigation. The interview with my chief suspect has proved inconclusive, but I’m starting to wonder whether Eddie might be right. I should be in the incident room checking every piece of evidence, while Liz Gannick completes her forensic search for Naomi’s body. I curse under my breath as I put on my one smart jacket then position my computer in front of a blank wall, thankful that my ancient jeans and mud-spattered boots will be hidden from view.
Six faces appear on my screen when the conference begins: journalists from the BBC, Sky, the Press Association and a few tabloids, as well as the Cornish Gazette. By lunchtime, Alex Rogan’s death will be common knowledge, his celebrity status making the media hungry for details. My own image will appear on news websites within hours, but that’s not important. I need to stop anyone gaining details of Rogan’s agonising death, to protect Sally from press intrusion. I also have no intention of releasing information about last night’s events, until I know what’s happened to Naomi Vine. The first questions are easy, like the opening problems in an exam, getting tougher as the interview progresses.
‘Why have you banned journalists from the island?’ one of the reporters asks.
‘No one can visit St Agnes until the investigation ends. There will be plenty of time for questions once the killer’s caught.’
‘Have you arrested any suspects?’
‘We’re pursuing some strong lines of inquiry. I’m confident we’ll soon be able to name the killer.’
‘A local source says that Alex Rogan died in a fire, Inspector Kitto. And I’ve heard that the sculptor Naomi Vine’s house went up in flames last night. Is that true?’
I keep my expression neutral. ‘I can confirm that a property was set alight, but my investigation’s ongoing. I can’t release any further details at this time.’
The local reporter throws me an easier question. ‘Is the Dark Skies Festival going ahead?’
‘The Cornish Tourist Board will make a decision soon. Details will be published on their website next week.’
I close the interview once the fifteen-minute time slot ends, relieved to slam my laptop shut. If I don’t find the killer soon, the press will send drones over the island, scouring every cove for clues. An islander must be profiting from selling information to the press, despite my warnings, but I need to focus on finding the killer, not rooting out spies. They’re lucky I don’t know their identity or I’d throw them in the lighthouse with Jimmy Curwen.
*
My walk to Sally’s house gives me time to gather my thoughts. The killer may have attacked Alex Rogan and Naomi Vine for planning to put St Agnes on the map: Rogan wanted to share the beauty of the islands’ dark skies, and Vine believed that her reputation would attract visitors to see her sculptures. It’s possible that the Birdman has been drawn into the violence, but he can’t be acting alone. The Cornish clues left at each crime scene increase my certainty that the killer is defending his territory, signalling to outsiders that they’re not welcome. He seems to view anyone from outside St Agnes as the enemy, including me, even though my birthplace lies just three miles north by sea.
I’m still digesting the facts when Zoe emerges from the Rogans’ home. Her expression’s strained, but I can tell she’s battling to stay calm for her friend’s sake. She steps into the porch, pulling the door shut behind her.
‘Sally went out again last night. I found her, shivering with cold.’
‘Where did she go?’
‘She was watching the fire on the down, babbling to herself. At least she’s making sense now. I made her take one of the sedatives the doctor prescribed.’ She looks uncomfortable when she speaks again, her voice reduced to a whisper. ‘Sal could have set light to Naomi’s place, Ben. Anyone can see she’s disturbed.’
‘I’ll come in and talk to her.’
It crosses my mind that Zoe’s suspicions may be correct. Sally could have torched Naomi Vine’s house, believing that she was having an affair with Alex, but the idea sounds far-fetched. Whoever set the fire planned how to send the huge property up in flames in the shortest possible time. Sally would have to be a skilled actor to put on such a convincing show of grief while remaining calm enough to execute such a complex crime.
I find her slumped on the sofa in the living room, dressed in leggings and a loose T-shirt, hands braced over the mound of her belly as if defending her baby from another attack. The air carries a sickly odour of air freshener and distress. Sally doesn’t react to my arrival: shock must be hitting home – or the effects of the sedative she took – a dazed look in her wide-set brown eyes. My old schoolmate seems to be falling apart right in front of my eyes.
‘I hear you took a walk outside last night, Sal. That’s not a good idea. Please stay indoors until we catch Alex’s killer.’
Her response is slow to arrive. ‘If you can’t find him, I’ll do it myself.’
‘You need to keep safe.’ I study her tense features again. ‘What time did you go out last night?’
‘I don’t know. I couldn’t sleep, so I went for a walk. It’s the only thing that helps me think straight.’ Sally’s voice rises to a shout suddenly, her skin reddening. ‘The bastard that killed Alex is out there somewhere. No one’s hunting for him.’
‘That’s not true, Sally. We’re working round the clock.’
‘Is it Jimmy Curwen? I heard he’s been arrested.’
‘You’ll be first to know.’
‘Alex deserves better.’ Anger cuts through her drug-induced monotone again, her hands balling into fists. ‘Get out of here, Ben. Don’t come back till his killer’s locked away.’
Zoe gives me a quizzical look when I step back into the hall, as if she expects me to share her suspicions, but I’ve seen every kind of grief reaction in my time, from numb denial to psychotic fury. If the person I loved most had been taken, I’d be lashing out too, desperate for answers. The depth of Sally’s misery makes me certain she’s not the killer.
‘She’s changed,’ Zoe whispers. ‘It feels like she’s out of reach.’
‘Keep her company while time passes. That’s what she needs.’
She looks me squarely in the eyes. ‘Are you angry with me, Ben?’
‘Of course not. There’s a lot on my plate, that’s all.’
‘Why not let me help?’
Her hand skims my wrist, but I can’t afford distractions; if another victim dies, it will be because I’ve missed vital clues. Instinct tells me to clear the air, but I offer a quick goodbye and march away.
I follow the path towards the lifeboat house, ignoring the wind that’s threatening to blind me. Halfway along the route someone calls my name and Shadow gives a joyful bark of greeting. The approaching figure is Steve Tregarron. The landlord’s grey hair is plastered flat by rain, his face drawn by the cold breeze.
‘This came for you, Ben.’ He holds out a manila envelope that’s blotched by raindrops, the printed label immediately recognisable. ‘It was delivered last night.’
‘Where did you find it?’
‘At the pub, inside the porch.’
My concern rises immediately; the killer must be gaining confidence, fearless enough to walk through the village at night, risking exposure. ‘Thanks, Steve. I don’t suppose you know any Cornish, do you?’
He shakes his head. ‘My gran taught me the months of the year and how to count to ten, but that’s my limit.’
‘Same here.’
The killer must despise our ignorance. Cornish was decl
ared extinct a decade ago, and despite attempted revivals, a beautiful Celtic tongue has been allowed to die out. Apart from a few schools and societies, only a few hundred people can still speak it fluently.
Shadow bounces up to lick Tregarron’s hand until the man bends down to stroke him.
‘What time did you get home after the fire last night, Steve?’
‘Four a.m. Ella only found the envelope this morning.’ He gives Shadow a final rub before straightening up again.
‘So it was delivered after dawn.’
I thank him and say goodbye, but the dog lingers on the path, whimpering. He’s a creature of easy loyalties and Tregarron must have fed him recently, so he chases him back towards Middle Town. I’m alone when I hurry to the boathouse with the killer’s latest missive tucked inside my pocket.
30
The message is written on an oyster shell, like the one outside Naomi Vine’s house, but when I inspect it under a strong light, the words are different. Someone used a steady hand to inscribe a whorl of letters. I type the messages from both shells into the translation website, which only takes seconds. The one left outside Naomi Vine’s home is short and simple:
Ty a’s kyv y’n tyller sans.
I recognise a few of the words written in the message Steve Tregarron just gave me, but its overall meaning is a mystery:
Fisten ma na garthons faglow hy enev kyns bora.
It’s only when the translation site converts the statements into English that they link together:
You will find her at the holy place.
Act fast, or by sunrise, flames will cleanse her soul.
I feel a sharp burst of relief. I was afraid the sculptor had died in the fire, but there’s a chance she’s still alive. The killer’s timespan is clear even though the location is designed to confuse me. He’s claiming that Naomi Vine has until dawn tomorrow to live, yet he’s sending us on a wild goose chase while he plans his next fire. The entire island is a holy site, according to historians: the Scillies were one land mass before sea levels rose, with early civilisations burying their dead on mountaintops, which are all that remain of the ancient landscape. The killer could be referring to one of the cairns or entrance graves that litter the island, or he may be lying through his teeth. I’ll need to organise another search of the island with Eddie once he returns from the fire scene with Liz Gannick.
There’s no sign of Shadow when I set off for the Helstons’ farm, determined to keep my approach methodical. Naomi Vine’s got a tough constitution; if she’s alive, the killer will be getting a run for his money. All I need to do is follow the trail he’s left behind. If Adam Helston is innocent, the killer entered his home by stealth and placed a box of fire-starting equipment in his bedroom. Whoever murdered Alex Rogan has few scruples. What kind of killer would use a troubled seventeen-year-old boy to camouflage their guilt?
I stand outside the farm’s front door, with rain dripping down the back of my neck. When Julie finally answers, she wears the same closed look as before, hiding her thoughts behind a blank mask. The woman is wearing a plain black dress, grey hair hanging down in rats’ tails, as if she’s determined to hide any signs of attractiveness.
‘Can I come in, please, Julie? I’ve got a warrant to search your property.’ She takes a single step back, forcing me to edge past her into the hall. ‘Do you often leave the house empty?’
‘Hardly ever,’ she replies, her expression still guarded. ‘Only when Sam and Adam are working outside and I pop out to see a neighbour.’
‘Do you lock the door?’
She shakes her head. ‘We never bothered until Alex Rogan died.’
‘How often do you visit friends?’
‘Two or three times a week. I see Rachel Carlyon or Louise Walbert for a cup of tea.’
I take a breath before trying a different tack. ‘I’m not doing this to cause trouble, Julie. We both need to know who broke into Adam’s room; it could prove his innocence.’
She gives a grudging nod. ‘I went to the harbour to collect a food delivery last Wednesday and ran into Stan Eden, so we chatted for a bit. But the only other time the place was empty was Guy Fawkes Night. We were all at the bonfire party till midnight and the door was open.’
The news doesn’t surprise me. Theft hardly ever happens on the islands, and the majority of people leave their doors unlocked all year round.
‘Is it okay to search the ground floor?’
She grumbles in protest, but soon leaves me alone in her front room. It’s full of shabby furniture, their outsized TV the family’s only concession to luxury. The contents of cupboards and drawers include a file of letters from their mortgage company. The farm has racked up debts over the years, offsetting each new expense against the land’s value until they are barely breaking even. Sam Helston’s tension makes more sense now; he must feel like he’s running on empty, as well as caring for a wayward son.
I move through the house at speed, aware that there’s little time to waste if the killer’s threat to kill Naomi Vine tonight is real. The upstairs rooms are equally blameless, just as I expected. The couple have cleared away any evidence of their son’s love of pyrotechnics. I stare out from the window on the landing, noticing a thick evergreen hedge that shelters their back garden. The killer could have hidden behind it until the family went out for the evening, then entered the house without being spotted. Julie gives me a thoughtful look when I thank her for cooperating, but doesn’t bother to say goodbye.
When I get outside, Sam Helston and his son are working in their packing shed, building boxes from thin sheets of plywood. By February the place will be full of hired labourers, preparing daffodils to be shipped to London, but right now the hangar rings with emptiness. I can see nothing incriminating here, only stacks of empty pallets.
‘Sniffing round again, are you?’ Sam Helston swings in my direction, while his son keeps his head down.
‘Just doing my job. Thanks for helping put out the fire last night.’
He gives a grudging nod. ‘It wasn’t for your sake. Anyone would do the same.’
Adam steps closer to hear our conversation, even though his eyes remain fixed on the ground.
‘Has anyone been hanging around the farmhouse?’ I ask. ‘I need to know who left that box in your room, Adam.’
‘My mates come over from St Mary’s sometimes, but they don’t leave stuff here,’ the boy replies.
‘Our friends wouldn’t try to frame Adam,’ his father adds. ‘What are you driving at?’
‘An islander’s responsible for this, and there’ll be more violence if we don’t stop it. Call me if you remember anything.’
When I hand my card to Helston he shoves it into his back pocket, his sour expression proving that he’ll bin it once my back’s turned.
I call for Louise Walbert on my way to Middle Town. She seems reluctant to attend the Birdman’s second interview, only following me out of a sense of duty. When we approach the lighthouse, Jimmy appears at the high window, his expression as innocent as a child’s. He’s watching kittiwakes tumbling on the wind, mesmerised by their acrobatics. Gavin Carlyon has taken over guard duties and is waiting for us on the landing. The man is immersed in a book called The Cornish Historic Family, lifting his head to observe our arrival, his unblinking stare grazing my face. It crosses my mind that he may be glad that Naomi Vine’s missing, so that his precious island can remain unchanged. I have to remind myself to be polite.
‘Thanks for your help, Gavin.’
Carlyon’s smug smile grates on me. ‘No problem, it’s given me time for some research.’
‘Can you stay while we interview Jimmy?’
‘I’m in no hurry.’ He returns to his local history book, with its drab brown cover.
Curwen is standing on the far side of the room when I unlock the door, shifting his weight from foot to foot while terns skim past the window. The paper I left behind hasn’t been touched. The man’s face is bone white, panic crossin
g his features when we sit down at the table, but there’s no chance to ask my first question. Carlyon’s voice calls out before the door flies open. When Sally Rogan bursts into the room, her cheeks are florid, her expression grim as she lunges at Jimmy.
‘You little freak. You killed him, didn’t you?’ Her hands close around the Birdman’s throat before I can pull her away. ‘I pitied you, scuttling around, hiding from the world. You evil bastard. Why did you hurt him?’
Zoe arrives as the tirade ends. Sally lashes out one last time before the fight drains out of her, and she collapses into her friend’s arms. It’s the first time I’ve seen her lose control so completely, convincing me that it’s not safe for Zoe to remain in her house alone. I call Eddie to arrange for another islander to stay there, so two people can keep guard over Sally until she recovers, but the drama has unsettled the Birdman.
Jimmy looks more vulnerable than before, his whole body shaking. He’s cowering by the window, as if he’d like to fly into the clouds to join the creatures he loves, but his fear doesn’t exonerate him. He may still be involved in one islander’s brutal murder and the abduction of another.
31
Jimmy is too upset by Sally’s attack to hear the detective’s questions. He can still feel the imprint of her fingers around his throat while he choked for air. Louise Walbert is watching him closely, her cool expression scaring him almost as much as the policeman’s calm voice. His thin hands jitter on the table when the next question comes.
‘Forget what just happened, Jimmy. Try to stay focused. You need to tell us how you were involved in Alex Rogan’s death,’ the policeman says. ‘If you keep quiet, Naomi Vine will suffer. We know she’s still alive, but she hasn’t got long. Do you understand?’
He gives a slow nod, but his reply sticks to the roof of his mouth, syllables coating his tongue like sand. Louise reminds him that he can say ‘no comment’, but he’s longing to explain. He’s dreamed of fluency every night since childhood, yet by morning speech always deserts him.