by Kate Rhodes
36
Jimmy has returned to the gates of the old mansion. The place is a ruin, its blackened interior visible through gaping windows. When his eyes scan the down, his breath catches in his throat. The wild expanse of grassland has always frightened him at night since an old fisherman told him that drowned sailors haunted the place. The spiky outlines of cairns pierce the horizon, their tall forms like sentries, watching his every move.
Now that he knows Naomi survived the blaze, Jimmy is determined to find his friend. He’s still rooted to the spot when the gale increases its attack. Fresh rain pelts the back of his neck, the wind roaring as it gusts across open fields. He’s about to set off for Higher Town when a sound rustles behind him and he’s shoved to the ground. The voice hissing in his ear is so gruff with anger he can’t tell if it’s male or female.
‘Fly away home, Jimmy. Stay out of my way.’
He tries to free himself, but his attacker’s foot rests on the back of his neck, and he’s too afraid to fight.
‘If you try to stop me, you’ll burn too. Do you understand?’
A stammer of noise escapes from Jimmy’s lips, his cheek pressed against cold mud. The killer stands over him, murmuring guttural Cornish curses. When he’s finally released his whole body is shaking. Jimmy is still too terrified to move, even when the killer’s footsteps splash into the distance across sodden ground.
37
Alex Rogan would have been in his element tonight. The conditions are perfect for stargazing when the three of us leave the boathouse; the clouds are thinning at last, the moon visible for the first time in days. It’s only 6 p.m., but Liz Gannick looks tired from sifting ashes at Vine’s mansion all day, swinging along on her crutches at a slower pace than usual while the wind pummels us.
‘I’ll help you search the last few houses,’ she offers.
‘You’ve done a twelve-hour shift, Liz. Go back and get some rest.’
She stares at me. ‘I won’t sleep, knowing that woman could be burned alive.’
‘I promise to call if we need you.’
Gannick must be exhausted because her protests soon fade. Shadow gives a low whine when she limps away, always keener on female company than male, but he trails after me and Eddie with his tail between his legs. My deputy has regained his fighting spirit, the thrill of the chase sparking in his eyes. He looks like an excitable prefect when he faces me again.
‘Do you think she’s still alive?’
‘He loves being in control, Eddie. Why end the party so soon? If the killer’s following the same pattern we’ve got until dawn before he sets her alight.’
‘I tried to persuade Michelle to stay at the pub but she hates breaking Lottie’s routine. She’s still worried I’m in danger. She keeps on at me to find a safer job.’
‘If you leave me here with Lawrie Deane I’ll resign.’
Eddie laughs as we march through Higher Town, but I can’t forget that someone on the island is intent on doing more harm. The trap set at St Warna’s Well proves that he knows basic electronics, or followed a YouTube tutorial, which barely narrows the field. People here pride themselves on self-sufficiency, learning practical skills as children. The investigation is moving too fast to check everyone’s movements over the past twenty-four hours, but we can’t slow down while there’s a chance Naomi Vine’s still alive. Her vulnerability when I broke into her house nags at my conscience. I should have ignored her protests and insisted she stayed at the pub until the killer was found. It bothers me that she tried to make contact, before she was taken. If I’d replied to her text sooner, maybe I could have prevented her abduction.
The houses in Higher Town huddle on either side of the lane, their windows already lit. People seem to be obeying my instruction to stay indoors, with no sign of human activity now darkness has fallen. I hope they’re following the rest of my security advice, too, keeping doors locked and seeking safety in numbers. The outline of Gugh is moonlit when we reach the Bar, the causeway still fully exposed. Eddie and I will have time to search the buildings on the tiny satellite island before the ocean surges in again a few hours from now, making the way back impassable. I can’t imagine the attraction of living in a place where nature confines you at home every day, but it would appeal to a killer with something to hide.
Gugh looks deserted when we step onto the beach, the outline of Obadiah’s Barrow standing tall on the brow of Kittern Hill. Chunks of granite litter the grassland, and there are half a dozen cairns, reminding me that the island belongs more to the past than the present. The Carlyons’ home must be 150 years old, yet it’s one of the youngest things here; apart from two other properties, most of the other structures date back to the Bronze Age. I leave Shadow with Eddie, who sets off to search Keith Pendennis’s cottage and the vacant holiday home on the far side of the hill.
Rachel Carlyon looks relieved to see me when she opens her front door. ‘Come in,’ she says. ‘Search wherever you like; I’m afraid Gavin’s outside. I’m not sure where he’s gone.’
‘I won’t take long, Rachel, this is my last property. Can I check upstairs?’
She gives a rapid nod. ‘Take all the time you need.’
It strikes me again that the place is a slice of local history. Each room is filled with period furniture, from metal bedsteads to tallboys and mahogany dressers. The decorative wood panelling looks original, and a brass light fitting hangs from an ornate ceiling rose. The couple’s reading material would appeal to the killer’s regional obsession too: the shelves are lined with books on the artists of St Ives, Cornish poetry from the nineteenth century, and a history of St Mary’s fishing fleet. I search each room thoroughly, even climbing into the loft, but there’s no sign of Naomi Vine.
Rachel is making me a hot drink when I return to her kitchen. The room contains a scrubbed pine table, ladder-backed chairs and a bench that must have been salvaged from a local church. There are more objects hanging from the walls than I can count: tin jelly moulds, drinking flagons and earthenware jugs.
‘Where did you get all these antiques?’ I ask.
‘Gavin loves flea markets. He’s always on the Internet, bidding for things.’
Rachel’s words nag at me as I peer inside the couple’s pantry. Her husband and Martin Tolman have a lot in common: both men are fixated by a particular vision of their environment. Carlyon wants to return to an earlier time, while Tolman is creating an idealised version of the entire island. It’s not yet clear whether either man’s obsession is powerful enough to make him murder whoever threatens its existence.
Gavin Carlyon stumbles into the kitchen after I finish searching his store cupboard for a space big enough to conceal a woman’s body. The man looks like a Dickensian villain tonight, dressed in a long black raincoat, frowning at me over his half-moon glasses, a long-handled hammer clutched in his hand.
‘I’ve been securing our fence before this wind brings it down,’ he says, dumping his hammer and nails on the table. ‘I should apologise for being brusque earlier, Inspector, but your approach felt accusatory.’
‘It’s my job to ask difficult questions until Naomi’s found.’
‘We argued over a building; it’s not a matter of life and death. I hope she comes back safe and sound.’
‘You couldn’t care less.’ His wife gives a derisive laugh. ‘You’ve hated her from day one, Gavin.’
I’ve never heard Rachel raise her voice, but her husband’s insincerity seems to have snapped her self-control. The air between them buzzes with resentment, Carlyon scowling when he finally replies.
‘Your friend wants to destroy the island’s character, Rachel. I complained about her wretched statues covering our beaches at the council meeting, then she chased after me, yelling curses in my face. The woman’s got mental problems. I thought she might attack me.’
His wife points an accusing finger at him. ‘Naomi’s the bravest, most creative person here. Can’t you see that?’
‘She’s destroyi
ng our way of life.’ The man’s speech crackles with anger.
‘Rubbish, we have to adapt to survive.’
‘No one wants St Agnes to prosper more than me.’
‘You’re not bothered about what happens to Naomi, but you’d go to hell and back to preserve a damned building.’ Rachel gives her husband one last stare before stalking out of the room.
‘My wife’s easily led, Inspector,’ Carlyon blusters. ‘She admires creative people, while I think that most art is a waste of time.’
‘Why didn’t you join our search this afternoon, Gavin?’
He runs a hand across his brow. ‘I had another wretched migraine, but it’s lifting now, thank God.’
Something about the man’s manner convinces me he’s lying. I’d like to press for details, but there’s still no proof that he’s involved. A final question slips from my mouth before I can drag it back. ‘Would you mind explaining how you got injured at the fireworks display last year?’
The man’s arrogance crumbles away. ‘A freak accident put me in hospital for a few weeks.’
‘Who was in charge?’
‘Mike Walbert. The poor man was mortified, even though he wasn’t to blame. He was so upset he flew over to Penzance twice to visit me in hospital.’
Carlyon’s manner has calmed, but I wonder whether he sees the farmer’s injury this afternoon as poetic justice, even though his wounds are superficial. I thank him for letting me search his home, then leave him to it. The property feels as unnatural as a museum, stuffed with historic artefacts, the atmosphere loaded with tension while the couple pull in different directions.
Eddie’s enthusiasm is still intact when I catch up with him and Shadow, even though rain is dripping from the end of his nose. ‘There’s nothing suspicious here. The holiday cottage is still locked up and it doesn’t look like anyone’s been there, but Pendennis gives me the creeps. His cottage is so clean, the air stinks of bleach.’
‘Let’s talk at the pub, Eddie. If you don’t eat soon, you’ll keel over.’
‘I had something earlier, there’s no need.’
My deputy looks reluctant to slow down, but visiting the pub could help our investigation. We’ll hear the latest news, as well as refuelling ourselves. When he follows me across the Bar, the causeway still stands a few feet above sea level. The Carlyons’ tiny kingdom will remain open to the outside world for another few hours.
The Turk’s Head is doing a roaring trade tonight. A log fire is blazing in the hearth and Ella Tregarron is busy pulling pints behind the bar. Most of the islanders are huddled around tables, the atmosphere noisy. It reminds me of my childhood, when every crisis was fixed in Bryher’s only pub. Eddie and I have taken a corner table when Louise Walbert hurries over. My first concern is that her husband’s condition has worsened, but she’s clutching something in her hand.
‘I went home to collect overnight things for Mike and this was hung on our gate.’
The envelope has her name printed on the front and is already open. Everyone in the packed bar is watching us, reminding me that our conversation should be held in private, so we duck into a small function room behind the main bar. The space looks like a throwback to an earlier time, with a swirling red carpet and walls yellowed by tobacco, but at least we can read the killer’s message in peace. It’s painted on a razor clam shell this time, proving again that his materials come from the island. Thousands of shells like this wash up on its shores each year.
Louise Walbert reads the words out loud: ‘Kyn few hi lemmyn, y ferow a verr spys. A aswonnydh omglewans a vadhya yn tan.’
‘Do you know what it means, Louise?’
‘Something about fire, but most of it’s beyond me I’m afraid.’
‘Fetch Ella, can you, Eddie? She may be able to translate it.’
The landlady seems uncomfortable when she peers at the Cornish words in silence, before looking up at me. ‘Stan Eden’s the one you want, I’ve only done an evening class.’
‘Just try your best, Ella.’
‘I think it says: “She lives still, but soon will die. Do you know how it feels to bathe in fire?” ’
Louise lets out a dull murmur. ‘First Mike gets hurt, then this.’
‘Don’t walk back to the Tolmans’ alone,’ I say. ‘You mustn’t be by yourself until the killer’s found.’
Louise is so concerned about her husband, there’s no point in scaring her more by explaining that Alex Rogan received a similar threat before he died, and one was found at Naomi Vine’s house. The new message makes five in total, including the one sent to my home on Bryher. I can’t forecast which of us he plans to attack next.
Eddie and I are still talking to Louise when a woman’s scream rings through the wall, making us rush back to the bar. At first I can’t see where the noise is coming from, until I catch sight of Sally Rogan at the centre of the room. She’s dressed in pyjamas and a bright red dressing gown, her feet bare. My old friend looks even more disturbed than when she attacked Jimmy Curwen. She’s yelling at full volume, arms flailing, while she bawls at the assembled crowd.
‘Why are you lot in here, drinking? You should be hunting for the bastard who killed my husband. Do you think I can rest till he’s locked away?’
Sally whirls from table to table knocking glasses over until they shatter on the flagstone floor, her wild energy mimicking the storm outside. She yells out a protest when I brace her arms at her sides, but soon collapses in floods of tears. I take a step back to let others comfort her, but Sally’s outburst makes me wish she was safe in the hospital on St Mary’s. The strain of losing her husband is pushing her over the edge.
Zoe appears while I watch the islanders comforting the stricken woman. ‘Sal ran outside before we could stop her,’ she explains.
‘Did you know she suffers from depression, Zoe?’
‘It was in remission. She’s been stable for years.’
‘We’ll get her to hospital when the ferries are running again.’
Sally’s outburst reminds me of her father’s description of her violent outbursts, but my biggest concern is that the killer is leaving messages and booby traps galore, intent on creating mayhem. I scan the pub’s interior again, but see only a united community tending a grieving woman, aware that he could he among us right now, watching the chaos unfold.
38
It takes all of Jimmy’s courage to rise to his feet. His spine aches from where he was kicked to the ground, his heart still beating a nervous tattoo. The rain is lighter than before, but wind is screaming across the down, its gusts mimicking the cries of gulls. Jimmy knows he should return to Stan Eden’s house, yet his need to find Naomi is greater than any desire for safety. He can still see his sister slipping from the sandbar when he closes his eyes, the waves dragging her under. If he’d acted faster she would be alive today, but this time there’s still a chance. To find Naomi Vine he must follow his attacker without being seen.
Jimmy’s head spins as he walks deeper into the down. Shock is catching up with him and he knows he must rest before continuing his search. He heads for the cave where he sheltered before, its mouth lit by moonlight. The air inside is cold, but at least he’s sheltered from the icy breeze. He huddles at the back of the cave, eyes closing with exhaustion, until something moves at the edge of his line of vision. When he crawls towards the cave’s exit, fear floods his system again.
He can see the outline of Boy’s Rock, spearing up from the grassland like a giant’s profile, and a figure moving at its base. Someone in a long black coat is busy collecting fallen branches, then stacking them in a pile, movements slow and purposeful. The killer’s new bonfire makes the one that claimed Alex Rogan’s life look small by comparison.
PART 3
‘Thy rage shall burn thee up, and thou shalt turn to ashes ere our blood shall quench that fire’
King John, (Act 3, Scene 1),
William Shakespeare
39
It’s 10.30 p.m. when
I finally persuade Sally to go home. She’s still muttering curses, grief and anger pouring out of her, when Zoe and two other women from Middle Town escort her home. I remind everyone in the pub to walk home in groups and offer neighbours shelter until the killer’s found. Some look defiant while I give out my instructions; people are eager to take matters into their own hands, which could prove disastrous. If the killer is patrolling the island, bystanders will be in harm’s way.
Eddie’s eyes glitter when I explain my strategy for the rest of the night. Excitement at taking part in a murder hunt is still written all over his face, but right now I just want the culprit found. We need to visit the Walberts’ farm first, because it’s the last place the killer left a calling card. His campaign is gathering pace; with any luck he’s growing sloppy and we can pick up the thread from there. My thoughts race as we cover the ground to Lower Town Farm. Most of the islanders were in the pub tonight, but the Helstons were absent, along with Martin Tolman, Keith Pendennis and Gavin Carlyon. I’d like to know how all of them have been spending their time. In an ideal world a troop of officers would be at my disposal, but that can’t happen until the storm subsides.
Shadow is waiting by the farm gates, tongue lolling after his hard sprint across the fields, as if the killer’s deeds are just a glorious game.
‘Check the front of the property, Eddie. I’ll search the back garden.’
The view from the Walberts’ patio explains why the couple have dedicated their lives to farming this patch of land: there’s a clear view over Blanket Bay to Burnt Island, then two thousand miles of dark water rolling into the distance. Even at night the view is staggering, with storm clouds racing across the face of the moon. I wish that Mike could help us now, his practical vision always quick to find solutions, but the man has been levelled by an injury I should have prevented. I focus my energy on searching for any small detail the killer may have forgotten, but my torch reveals that the lawn has been swept clean by the raw breeze, and there’s nothing on the path except a few tufts of moss. When I check the back door and downstairs windows, the farmhouse is secure.