by Kate Rhodes
‘Did you help someone kill Alex Rogan?’ the detective asks.
Jimmy remembers the fire on Burnt Island, the man’s hollow eyes begging for mercy, but Ella’s voice is ringing in his ears. She told him to agree with everything the policemen asked, and she’s the islander he trusts most.
‘Yes.’ His reply is a soft whisper.
The solicitor gapes at him. ‘Do you know what you’re saying, Jimmy?’
He tries to repeat the word, but it lodges in his throat.
‘I don’t think he understood.’ Louise’s voice is firm, her face angled towards Kitto. ‘The killer leaves written clues, doesn’t he? Jimmy can’t read. His mother told me he’d never learned.’
The detective’s green eyes scour Jimmy’s face for a full minute. ‘I want you to stay with Stan Eden. Sleep in his spare room tonight. Don’t go anywhere without his permission; I may need to question you again.’
Jimmy doesn’t fully understand the man’s instructions until the door opens and he’s set free. A wave of gratitude rises in his chest. If Ella hadn’t given him the right advice, he would still be locked inside that airless room. His feet clatter on the metal stairs as he races from the building.
32
‘Sorry about the interruption, Inspector. Sally barged past me before I could stop her.’ Gavin Carlyon is lurking by the doorway after Louise Walbert leaves.
‘It’s not your fault. Can I ask a few questions before you go?’
‘By all means, I’m happy to help.’
‘How did you spend yesterday?’
He peers over the top of his half-moon glasses. ‘I walked down to the quay for some exercise, but the bad weather ruined my walk. I started work around ten a.m. I’m tracing a family tree for an American with Cornish roots. Most of my research is for international clients these days.’
‘Did you leave the house again later?’
‘I don’t believe so,’ Carlyon replies, frowning. ‘What’s this about, Inspector? My wife’s expecting me home. She hates being alone since the violence started. Surely you don’t believe I’m involved?’
‘You called Naomi Vine evil then her house burned down. That’s quite a coincidence, isn’t it?’
‘I was talking about her influence on the island. It wasn’t a personal criticism.’
‘Do you speak much Cornish?’
He’s blustering now, face red with anxiety. ‘I imagine everyone here knows a few words. But Stan Eden’s the expert; he learned the language as a child, and a few others like Ella Tregarron and the Tolmans have an interest.’
‘The person I’m looking for is obsessed by the past, like you. Speaking in Cornish is his way of honouring the island’s history.’
‘I can translate old marriage and birth certificates – using a dictionary – but that’s my limit.’
‘Do you have proof that you spent last night at home?’
The quake in his voice could stem from anger or guilt. ‘Rachel was with me. We watched some awful film on TV.’
‘What was it called?’
‘I can’t remember, but she will. It was a tedious American melodrama that she adored.’
Carlyon’s smug manner has faded, like a balloon deflating, relief on his face when he finally scurries away. I enjoyed crossing swords with him, yet I’m no further forwards. The man’s conflict with Naomi Vine is on public record, but there’s no proof that he started the blaze, and when I call his wife, she barely hesitates before confirming that they watched Pearl Harbour before going to bed around midnight.
*
Shadow has returned to the boathouse before me; he’s dozing on a blanket in the corner, probably sleeping off a heavy meal of scraps from the pub’s kitchen. Eddie and Liz Gannick are both hunched over a laptop, studying pictures of Naomi Vine’s ruined home. My deputy turns in my direction as I arrive, the atmosphere between us still awkward after our disagreement.
‘I’ve asked extra people to help Zoe look after Sally. Is she okay?’
‘She’s calming down. What did you find at Naomi’s place?’
‘A lot of damage, but no human remains upstairs. The fire went through the stairwell to the top floor. Most of her furniture’s been destroyed.’
‘It’s the same downstairs,’ says Gannick. ‘Vine’s sculptures have been defaced too.’
‘Someone set out to destroy what she values most,’ I reply. ‘Just like they wanted to damage Rogan’s telescopes.’
‘This was in the ashes, near the fireplace where we found the chains.’ Gannick points at an evidence bag that contains a glass vial, with drops of colourless liquid inside. ‘We’ll need substance analysis to check it’s Rohypnol, but I bet he’s used it on Naomi Vine too. Plenty of websites sell it.’
I peer at the thumb-sized bottle, trying to imagine the killer handling it. ‘He’ll wait for nightfall to set his next bonfire.’ I pull the oyster shells from my pocket. ‘These are the only clues he’s left us, saying she’s being kept in a holy place. She’ll be dead by dawn if we don’t find her.’
Gannick is frowning with concentration as she studies the Cornish words inscribed on the shells’ smooth linings. We pass the next ten minutes in a flurry of discussion. My deputy looks relieved when I explain that Jimmy Curwen has been released into Stan Eden’s custody. He couldn’t have left the latest message at the pub because he was locked inside the lighthouse, but someone may have brainwashed him into assisting them, which could be why he confessed to being involved in Alex Rogan’s death. I may have been chasing a false lead for days, too influenced by the fact that he went on the run. But it was his coat we found at the scene, so I can’t completely rule out Jimmy’s involvement. Sally’s reaction proves that he has been tolerated rather than accepted by most people on St Agnes. The possibility that I made a mistake fuels my urge to find Naomi Vine by nightfall, or the responsibility for her death will be mine alone.
‘I need a list of islanders who know Cornish,’ I tell Eddie. ‘The killer could be using a translation website, but it might be someone with a deeper knowledge.’
He grabs his phone. ‘I’ll do some checking around.’
‘Tell the islanders to stay indoors once it gets dark. If the killer’s roaming around, I don’t want anyone getting hurt.’ I reach for my coat. ‘We need to investigate shrines and graves on the island, too. I’ll search the church first.’
Shadow’s tail is wagging like a metronome, oblivious to external threats. The dog streaks through the boathouse door, overjoyed to greet the fresh air again. The church is visible from almost every part of the island, sitting at the top of an incline, an architectural prompt not to forget God’s laws. I don’t know how many of St Agnes’s residents are active worshippers, but it’s not surprising that they were a devout community in the days when most men fished the rough Atlantic Strait. The sea’s proximity would have been a constant reminder of its dangers.
I glance around the churchyard, checking for signs that the killer has visited recently, but see only dozens of tombstones, listing at odd angles after centuries of hard weather. There are no recent graves because the council has declared all of the islands’ cemeteries full, so Alex Rogan will have to be buried on the mainland. The church is typical of Scillonian architecture, with no airs and graces. It has granite walls, a low spire and a few stained glass windows depicting the island’s lighthouse and fishermen toiling at sea. The interior is simple too, its white walls and narrow pews suitable for St Agnes’s tiny population.
The church is unlocked when I twist the brass door handle. Vases of flowers stand on either side of the entrance, the air scented with incense. It’s only when I cross the threshold that I notice a figure on one of the pews. The man is deep in prayer, face bowed over his lap, a murmur of disjointed words reaching me at the back of the nave. My footsteps break the man’s reverie, and when he swings round I see that it’s Liam Poldean. His eyes are so bloodshot I can tell he’s been crying.
‘Sorry to disturb you. I just n
eed to take a look around.’
‘That’s okay, Ben, I was just going.’
‘Don’t hurry on my account,’ I say, dropping onto the pew next to him. ‘I didn’t know you were a believer.’
‘I’m not a regular,’ he replies, with a dry laugh. ‘I’ve been so busy with my kids it’s only just hit me that Alex has gone. Good friends are hard to find out here. You rub along with your neighbours, but people you really like don’t come along often . . .’ his voice peters into silence.
‘I know what you mean.’
‘Mike Walbert’s letting my boys feed his sheep, so I came here to clear my head.’
‘Did it help?’
‘Not really.’ He wipes his hand across his face, embarrassed by his show of emotion. ‘It feels like I’m doing bugger all to support Sally. The frustration’s screwing with my head.’
‘You could tell me which islanders know the most Cornish.’
‘Keith Pendennis understands a few words, and Stan Eden sings the old ballads in the pub, if he’s drunk enough. You could hear a pin drop when he gets to his feet. I wish I understood the lyrics.’
Poldean’s voice is so wistful that I study his face again. Sadness for his lost friend seems to mingle with regret for the passing of a language that was spoken on the islands for generations by our ancestors.
‘Would you mind doing something else, Liam?’
‘Anything you need.’
‘Bring everyone to the lifeboat house by two o’clock. Naomi Vine’s missing; we need to find her fast.’
Poldean gets to his feet immediately, his stride purposeful when he clatters down the aisle. I’d like to spend longer in the church’s peaceful atmosphere, but time is passing too quickly. I search the place thoroughly before I leave. The vestry is empty apart from choristers’ challises hanging from hooks on the wall, and there’s a mouldering smell of damp. I find no sign of the killer’s presence in the nave either. If he plans to sacrifice Naomi Vine at a holy place on the island, he must have another location in mind, or he’s waiting until darkness falls to move her.
Liz Gannick has made herself at home when I return to the boathouse, typing a report into her laptop at a hectic pace. Eddie hands me his mobile with an apologetic grimace and Madron’s voice bleats out rebukes before it reaches my ear. The DCI wastes no time in criticising me for releasing Jimmy Curwen while no other suspects have been arrested. After a long verbal assault my patience wears thin.
‘I have to go now, sir. We need to find Naomi Vine urgently.’
‘Don’t hang up, Kitto. Give me a full update.’
‘I’ll call back later.’
I curse under my breath after the conversation ends, but Liz Gannick offers a rare smile.
‘You look ready to commit murder,’ she says.
33
The islanders arrive in gaggles at 2 p.m., dressed in anoraks and wellingtons. I can see a broad range of facial expressions among the crowd: Rachel Carlyon looks anxious to find her friend, but Martin and Deborah Tolman are holding a private conversation at the back of the crowd, while Liam’s two boys chase each other round the hangar. Keith Pendennis stands by the door, wearing the dead-eyed stare of a bouncer who’s been on duty too long. I’ll have to check the attendance list later, but some islanders are missing from the crowd. There’s no sign of Ella and Steve Tregarron, and Gavin Carlyon must be sulking at home after our clash at the lighthouse.
Shadow whines loudly when I get to my feet; he seems keen to escape the packed building, despite the gale that’s rattling the windowpanes.
‘Thanks for coming back, everyone. I need your help to find Naomi Vine. We have to bring her home tonight, or she may not survive until tomorrow. We’re getting a better picture of the man who killed Alex Rogan: he’s fascinated by the Cornish language and might have been studying it recently. If any of you have information about who started the last fire, please speak to me or Eddie.’
The faces in front of me remain impassive.
‘You’ll be working in two groups, so we can cover the whole island, combing every beach, cave and property. We don’t have time to get individual warrants to search your houses, so I’ll take silence as assent. Speak up now if anyone has a problem.’
The smile slips from Martin Tolman’s face when he hears that homes will be searched, but everyone else looks ready to start. The Helston family has turned out en masse, despite their low opinion of my investigation. I breathe more easily when Zoe slips through the door; at least I’ll have one ally who’s completely on my side. Eddie and I pore over a map of St Agnes, agreeing that he will search Middle Town and the northern section of the island, while my team covers the south. Liz Gannick volunteers to stay behind and answer the phone, which suits me fine; she’s best placed to pacify Madron if he calls again.
My group includes Mike and Louise Walbert, Keith Pendennis and the Tolmans. Zoe falls into step beside me when we head across the down. I’m eager to get moving while it’s still light, but the squall buffets us from all directions, sea air coating my lips with salt. Lumps of granite rear from the ground like pieces on a giant chessboard, their shapes resembling pawns and rooks. Liam Poldean is ahead of us on the path, his sons sprinting into the distance while he scans the open ground.
‘It’s bloody pissing down,’ Zoe mutters. ‘It feels like the Gods are against us.’
‘How’s Sally doing?’
‘She can’t sleep; it’s making her pretty edgy.’ She leans closer to make herself heard above the wind. ‘Thanks for getting me more help; one of the neighbours is with her now.’
My previous mistake is still nagging at me when I reply. ‘Keep a close eye on her, Zoe. If Sal leaves the house by herself, let me know.’
She nods in reply. ‘Do you think Naomi’s still alive?’
‘It looks that way. At least she didn’t die when her house was torched.’
‘Let’s find her then, for Christ’s sake. The island’s only two miles long.’
Zoe marches ahead, her attitude unchanged since we were in our teens; she’s still unwilling to accept even a whiff of failure, pacing across the island with her Amazonian stride. Right now I don’t care about her plans to leave, I’m just glad she’s on my side. While Zoe races ahead, I fall into step beside Keith Pendennis. My old boxing coach acknowledges me without saying a word. The man seems too preoccupied for communication, but police work has taught me to hold my tongue to get a response. After five minutes of silence a question slips from his mouth.
‘How’s my daughter coping with all this?’
‘It’s more than most people could bear, Keith. She’s angry as hell.’
‘No change there,’ he mutters. ‘That’s why we lost touch.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Things fell apart when Sal hit eighteen. She delayed going to uni and hung out with older blokes on St Mary’s. There was bugger all we could do about her drinking and taking drugs. If we challenged her, she flew off the handle.’ Pendennis stares at the ground as we walk. ‘She attacked me in front of my wife, punching and kicking. I tried to calm her down, but nothing worked, so I told her to leave. Jeannie was ill by then; she needed peace to try to recover. We didn’t hear from Sal for years afterwards, even when Jeannie’s Parkinson’s got bad.’
‘That must have been tough on you all.’
‘I never expected Sal to move back here. She rented the shop until she raised the cash to buy it.’
‘But things didn’t improve?’
‘She let me give her away at her wedding, but she’s still angry. I don’t think she even knows I’m proud of her for turning her life around. She blames me for being a lousy dad.’
‘Sal seemed happy enough when we were kids.’
‘The depression started in her teens.’ Pendennis’s gaze is still fixed to the muddy path. ‘She says I neglected her and Jeannie, spent more time at boxing matches than at home, and she’s got a point. Training young champions gave me such a buzz, I forgot my respo
nsibilities at home.’
‘How long since the pair of you had a proper talk?’
He hunches his shoulders. ‘It was just formalities at the wedding; we’ve barely spoken since.’
‘It’s never too late to build bridges, Keith.’
‘Try telling her that. She’s made it clear she’s not interested.’
Pendennis shakes his head in denial, jaw clenched so tightly I can tell he’s close to tears. I’d like to ask another question but he marches ahead. The man’s statements have changed my view of him as a tough guy unwilling to bend. He’s tried making amends, but Sally is unwilling to forgive and forget. I remember the way she flew at me when I broke the bad news about Alex, and her assault on the Birdman. While her father loves the discipline of physical sports, she struggles to control her passions. The conversation has increased my sympathy towards him, providing a different view of the lively, rebellious girl I knew at school.
*
We make slow progress across the fields at Garabeara in the centre of the island, but none of the team complains about the drenching rain as we traipse between fields edged by drystone walls. Small groups of islanders check each property when we reach Higher Town. Zoe and I search a vacant holiday home, with Deborah Tolman’s help. The former medic is so remote it’s impossible to tell how she feels about the murder hunt, but she keeps busy, opening wardrobes and peering under beds. I search the outbuildings at the end of the hamlet, too, but find only crates of fertiliser and compost, releasing a dry smell of cut grass and decay. The team’s faces are disappointed when we gather outside the bulb shop. Past disagreements with Naomi Vine have been abandoned during the crisis, everyone committed to preserving her life, forgetting the disputes she’s caused. It’s typical of island behaviour that the community is united against a common threat, but the killer could be hiding in plain sight, pretending to search for a woman he plans to kill.
Covean Beach opens before us after a few hundred yards. It’s a perfect horseshoe, so sheltered that families flock here each summer, but today spikes of granite are poking from the sea, waiting to savage passing ships, the waves gunmetal grey. The black outline of Gugh is visible in the distance, but I need to prioritise searching the main island first, where most of the properties lie. I get the team to spread out in a horizontal line, to sweep Wingletang Down. Rain has made the grassland boggy, with pools of standing water collecting on its surface, mud clinging to our boots. Dozens of cairns punctuate the landscape, built from fist-sized rocks until they stand ten feet tall, marking the sites of forgotten graves. It’s easy to recognise the down as an ancient cemetery. Huge shapes spring from the rolling landscape, Crooked Rock dominating the horizon like a giant bent double by the fierce breeze.