by Kate Rhodes
Many of the team look tired by the time we reach Beady Pool. The place was a favourite of mine when I was a kid, because beads that spilled from a seventeenth-century Dutch shipwreck can still be found in its rock pools at low tide. But there’s no point in lingering today, so we carry on past Gull’s Rock with the wind at our backs. Zoe is busy rallying people’s spirits while I’m beginning to lose faith. The killer is a game player: he may only have sent his latest message to make me swerve in the wrong direction. We have peered into every cave and stone built grave on the down, clearing the bracken aside to look for Naomi Vine’s body. I doubt he ever intended to leave her at one of the island’s sacred sites. He may simply have cast her body into the sea, to avoid being caught.
After Horse Point we follow the coastline back up the western side of the island, where Porth Warna beach stands empty, its shingle scoured clean by the new gale riding in from the Atlantic. I walk ahead, with most of the searchers straggling behind, only Zoe and Mike Walbert keeping pace. The farmer’s cheeks are ruddy from the wind’s assault, but he seems oblivious after a lifetime facing the elements.
‘We’ll search St Warna’s Well then send everyone home,’ I tell him.
‘The saint wouldn’t appreciate this,’ he says, with a narrow smile. ‘She came here in the fifth century for a life of quiet contemplation.’
‘I could use some of that myself.’
I remember my school teacher explaining that religious zealots travelled to the Scillies from Ireland to live as hermits, sacrificing their souls to God. The well was built over a sacred spring and devotees of St Warna would crawl along a narrow tunnel to touch its source, but the site has fallen into disrepair. The sign beside the landmark is covered with rust, its entrance choked by knee-high grass. The well lies between two outcrops of stone and Mike Walbert is first to point his torch into the opening. He swings round to face me again immediately. His expression’s excited, but all I can see is a shimmer of black polythene.
‘There’s something blocking the passage.’
‘It could be rubbish blown in by the wind, Mike. The space is pretty narrow to drag someone inside.’
Liam Poldean peers through the opening. ‘Want me to check? I’m smaller than you, it won’t be such a squeeze.’
I shake my head. ‘Stay here and watch your boys.’
Walbert ducks through the opening before I can stop him, so used to leading the island’s campaigns that he’s forgotten who’s in charge. But his exploration won’t slow us down for long; the chink in the rock only extends for a few metres. I wait in silence while the rest of the group straggles across the field, their faces pinched by the cold. I’m planning to send them home with their goodwill intact, until a noise like gunfire blasts from the opening.
Mike Walbert’s yell makes me dive inside, inhaling smoke and sulphur. His form is slumped on the ground, a blur of orange flames dancing behind him. I call out, but there’s no reply. When I pull Walbert’s arm, his body is a dead weight and it’s too dark to see the extent of his injuries, so I drag him out feet first, suppressing my panic. If the killer has rigged a second booby trap, it could detonate at any moment. Seconds tick by too slowly until I reach the open air without sparking another explosion. Liam Poldean’s tense expression greets me when I haul the farmer onto the grass, then place him in the recovery position. Blood pours from a wound on Walbert’s neck, his skin blackened by soot and mud, but at least he’s breathing. My first reaction is fury: the killer told me to search the island’s holy sites, leaving a booby trap where it was sure to be found. The bomb was meant for me – Mike Walbert was in the wrong place at the wrong time.
The searchers look shocked by the farmer’s injuries, slow to comply with my request to stand back. Walbert’s wife crouches over him, babbling words he can’t hear while blood pours down his face. Deborah Tolman is lingering at the back of the crowd, but she’s the only islander with full medical training so I call her forwards. Her face is ashen when she assesses the farmer’s injuries, his body twitching as she checks his reflexes.
‘He’s been knocked unconscious, but his pulse is steady.’ Deborah uses a handkerchief to staunch the blood then looks up at me. ‘We need to carry him to my house.’
‘Is it okay to lift him?’
‘His back’s not broken. I’m more concerned about head injuries; I want to monitor him and stitch those wounds.’
Liam Poldean and Keith Pendennis volunteer to carry Walbert the short distance to the architect’s home, the farmer’s heavy build making the task a challenge. He’s already starting to come round, incoherent sounds spilling from his mouth, but his feet drag over the mud as they battle uphill. Louise Walbert paces behind while I stare into the mouth of the well, too angry to speak to anyone. If I’d acted faster, the man’s injuries could have been prevented. I study the entrance again, trying to work out which islander could have rigged the homemade explosives. The rest of the search party look relieved to be sent home. Only Zoe stays behind, rain dripping from the hood of her waterproof, her expression outraged.
‘The vicious bastard,’ she says. ‘A kid would have died if they’d gone in there.’
‘I have to see what he’s left behind.’
Zoe grabs my sleeve. ‘Don’t be stupid, you can’t go in there again.’
‘There’s only one booby trap; I’d have triggered any others on my way out.’
I run my torch beam over the rough granite walls as I push through the opening again. I can imagine the early worshippers pressing their bodies between these rocks, crawling towards the holy source to cleanse their sins, but any purity the site once held has been defiled by the killer’s violence. The dry heat of gunpowder fills my airways, even though the fire triggered by the explosion has died out from lack of oxygen. I collect the remains of the killer’s bomb-making set for Gannick to analyse. Its design is simple; just a tripwire attached to a fuse, the device a few inches long, pegged into the rock at head height to cause maximum damage. If Walbert had been facing it when it detonated, he would have been blinded.
‘What kind of bastard aims a firework at someone’s eyes?’ I hiss into the dark. But the answer hovers, just out of reach.
34
Jimmy has returned to the lighthouse with Stan Eden. The old man is doing maintenance tasks: oiling hinges and polishing door handles, but Jimmy knows he’s being watched. Eden’s keen eyes sear his face whenever he tries to back away, so he concentrates on a colony of Atlantic gulls winging inland to avoid the storm, as the sun slips towards the horizon. Jimmy sees a group of islanders gathering on the green below. He’s too far away to read their faces, but their bodies look tired, the crowd only dispersing when a new band of rain pelts the ground. The lighthouse keeper stops working for a moment to stand by his side.
‘Look at that bunch of hypocrites,’ Eden says. ‘Most of them can’t stand Naomi Vine, but they’re searching for her anyway. They’re saying she survived that fire after all. If she’s not found by morning, she’ll go the same way as Alex Rogan.’
The Birdman’s heart batters against his ribs. His friend is still alive and now he must find her, before it’s too late, but he’s trapped indoors, doing nothing. He scrubs his hand across his face, trying to wipe away his guilt. Tiredness weakens the old man’s ability to stand guard; he settles in his armchair, and when he begins to snore, Jimmy makes his decision. The detective told him not to go outside, but his conscience can’t be ignored. He grabs a torch from the pocket of Eden’s coat, then tiptoes down the metal stairs without making a sound.
Jimmy hurries to the Turk’s Head. He needs to see Ella Tregarron, but the pub is in darkness so he shelters in the yard to wait. When a light flickers in the dark, he approaches the window. Ella is sitting at one of the steel-topped tables, a candle guttering at her side; the landlady is crying so hard, her shoulders heave with each sob. Jimmy taps lightly on the window. Tears are still coursing down her cheeks when she opens the door, but she swipes them away with h
er knuckles. She seems unwilling to meet his eye.
‘I heard the police let you go, Jimmy. Thank God you’re safe.’
He wants to thank Ella for her advice, offering a smile instead, hoping she’ll understand. It only sets her crying again.
‘I should never have asked you to take the blame. I must be losing my mind, Jimmy.’ Her eyes screw shut to contain the tears. ‘It was a moment of madness; I’d never have let them lock you away. It’s just that Steve’s been acting strange since Alex died. God knows what he’s done. He’d never survive in prison, he’s not strong enough.’
Jimmy touches her arm, uncertain how to give comfort. Ella rubs tears from her eyes again then retreats to the kitchen. She returns with a bag of scraps for his birds, but her eyes are still full of sorrow.
35
Light is fading when I climb towards the Tolmans’ house. Its outline is more striking at night, its huge windows glowing against the cliff face; the building looks like a square-edged lantern, shining in the dark. I point at the path to let Shadow know he’s surplus to requirements, and for once he leaves me in peace. I’m glad to shelter in the house’s wide porch, escaping the wind, until Deborah Tolman appears.
‘How’s Mike getting along?’ I ask.
‘He’s on the mend, but he’s got half a dozen flesh wounds. One of them’s pretty deep,’ she says. ‘I’ll keep him here overnight in case he’s concussed.’
‘Thanks for looking after him, Deborah. I know it wasn’t easy for you.’
‘Was it that obvious?’
‘Only at first. You soon clicked back into the old routine, didn’t you?’
‘Healing people used to be second nature.’ She pauses at the foot of the stairs. ‘My last job put me off medicine for good; it was for a charity abroad.’
‘Where were you based?’
‘Syria; I spent four years with Medecins San Frontieres.’
Deborah leads me upstairs without another word, but my attitude shifts in an instant. Her self-possession is the result of working in a battle zone rather than a cold temperament. No wonder the sight of another wounded man bleeding at her feet turned her skin pale. The woman has seen more violence than I could ever imagine.
She shows me to the bedroom where she’s caring for Mike Walbert. The farmer is lying down with a bandage taped to the side of his neck, his smaller wounds yellow with antiseptic. His eyes are groggy when he tries to speak, but Deborah lifts her hand to quiet him.
‘Ben’s just checking you’re okay, Mike. There’s no need to talk.’
Louise Walbert is clutching her husband’s hand. Her big, colourful persona has vanished with the accident; she’s still trembling from seeing him toppled. She gives me an anxious smile, her attention soon returning to the patient.
‘Can I speak to Martin before I leave?’ I ask Deborah.
She nods her agreement. ‘He’s in the basement, fussing over his grand project.’
I leave her comforting the Walberts and walk back downstairs. Eddie has searched the couple’s house already, and it would be hard to conceal a victim in rooms with so many glass walls, exposing every action to the outside world. Secrets seem impossible here, until I reach the basement. The white walls match the rest of the house, yet the room is airless because a huge architectural model rests on trestle tables, consuming most of the space. Martin Tolman is applying paint to one of the sections when my footsteps draw his attention. The architect straightens up immediately, his expression awkward.
‘Men my age shouldn’t play with toys, but I never lost the habit,’ he confesses.
He’s created a replica of St Agnes, featuring every hill and bay. The brown fields and stone houses are oddly realistic, the Big Pool a sliver of glass, reflecting the overhead light.
‘How long did this take to build, Martin?’
‘I started it six years ago, but it’ll never be finished. The territory keeps changing.’
My eyes scan the miniature island again: the lifeboat house has been remodelled as an observatory, just as Alex Rogan wished, its domed roof split open to reveal a small telescope, with Naomi Vine’s sculptures standing guard on Blanket Bay.
‘Impressive, but not quite accurate. You’ve taken some liberties.’
‘Architects have to dream, Ben. It’s an idealised version of this place, with an observatory and outdoor art for all to enjoy.’
Tolman has imagined a future only he can control. There’s something so disturbing about the tiny islanders roaming across his synthetic empire that I scan the room again, looking for doorways, but there’s no obvious hiding place. I shake my head to dislodge my doubts, my confidence shaken by suspecting the wrong man for too long. It’s unlikely that a pillar of the community and devoted Christian would drag a victim back to such a spotless lair.
‘Do you expect to find Naomi tonight?’ he asks.
‘You seem very concerned.’ The tension on his face makes me take a shot in the dark. ‘I know I asked you this earlier, but you didn’t give me a full answer. Did you two know each other in the past, Martin?’
His face blanks before he blurts out his reply. ‘It happened so long ago, it’s not relevant anymore.’
‘But you had a relationship?’
‘It was nothing serious. We both trained at the Royal College of Art; she was in the year below me.’
‘You were students together in the nineties?’
‘Naomi studied Fine Art, which was far more glamorous than designing buildings.’
‘What was she like back then?’
‘Gifted and charismatic. People admired her, but she didn’t care. She’s always preferred her own company.’
‘You fell for her?’
Tolman flinches. I can almost see him concocting a lie. ‘We met at a party in Mayfair and spent a weekend together. Her relationships never progressed far beyond one night stands.’
‘But you wanted more?’
‘That’s immaterial. It’s all in the past.’
‘Tell the truth, Martin. Lies don’t work in a place this small.’
He pulls in a deep breath. ‘Naomi had no idea I lived here when she bought the old mansion. Seeing me shocked her, I think, but she was friendly enough. She gave me one of her sculptures when I called to welcome her.’
‘What did you talk about?’
‘I said I was happy here, teaching myself Cornish and getting to know the islands again. She told me she was looking for peace and quiet. That’s the extent of it; nothing else happened between us.’
‘Does your wife know about your fling?’
‘Deborah’s easily hurt. Please don’t mention a mistake I made in my twenties; I regret the casual way I dealt with people back then. My life’s been far more fulfilled since she persuaded me to join the church.’
‘Naomi Vine’s missing and you two were involved. You didn’t give me the full picture when I asked if you had history.’
‘It seemed wrong to raise old ghosts. You know I didn’t hurt her; I was with my wife all day before her house burned.’
‘You’ll still have to make an official statement tomorrow, Martin.’
He gives a grudging nod before I leave him poring over his plastic utopia. There’s no proof yet that Tolman harmed Alex Rogan or Naomi Vine, but the man is so elusive, it’s impossible to pin him down. Maybe he was so infatuated with Vine in their student days that feelings were rekindled. On an island this small it would have been impossible to avoid each other.
Deborah Tolman is putting on her coat when I reach the front door, her face blank, making me wonder if she heard Martin speaking about his old flame.
‘Don’t go out alone, will you?’
‘I just need fresh air,’ she says. ‘I’ll stand in the porch and listen to the sea.’
‘Thanks again for all your help today.’
She frowns at me. ‘I was born here, remember. The community only survives by supporting each other.’
The medic’s face looks gaunt when I wi
sh her goodnight, as if reverting to her old duties has ruined her peace of mind.
*
Shadow gives me a rapturous greeting when I get back to the boathouse, but Eddie looks frustrated. His search has yielded few fresh clues about the killer’s identity, or where Naomi Vine is being held, even though every building on the main island has been checked. It’s looking more likely than ever that the killer has cast his second victim into the sea instead of burning her alive.
Liz Gannick’s voice sounds tired when she explains her findings. ‘I got fingerprints from the paraffin cans in Vine’s shed,’ she says. ‘I’ve emailed them to the lab, but I doubt there’s a match on the national database.’
‘It only holds data from convicted criminals, and no one here has a police record except Adam Helston. We’ll need to fingerprint all the islanders tomorrow.’
‘Want me to start now, boss?’ Eddie chips in.
‘We should use the time left to search for Vine.’
‘The lab won’t give instant results anyway,’ says Gannick. ‘There’s no one on duty till tomorrow.’
My job in London was a breeze compared to this. The station in Hammersmith was packed with state-of-the-art equipment, and expert support was only a phone call away. Things operate differently when you’re surrounded by the Atlantic and a three-hour ferry ride from Land’s End, yet I’ve got no intention of giving up. The sky outside is fizzing with stars and Naomi Vine may still be alive.