by Kate Rhodes
The killer must have left his calling card then vanished, proving that each attack is planned with absolute precision. It’s only when I see the shed door hanging open that my spirits lift. Two cans of paraffin are tucked under a work bench, and beside them a bag full of rags and wax tapers. I could be imagining things, but the killer’s intentions still seem to taint the air. He’s stockpiling tools in multiple locations, as if he wants to raze the entire island to the ground. I pull on sterile gloves then pour the paraffin down a drain beside the house, in case our arsonist makes a return visit.
Eddie looks disappointed when I return to the front of the building, his smile only reviving when he hears about the fire-starting kit I saw in the shed. It’s possible that it was there during today’s search, but the islanders were too focused on finding Naomi Vine to notice key details. He falls into step as I follow the track inland, both of us driven to find the sculptor before it’s too late. Middle Town looks deserted as we march down the lane, lights on in most properties. The islanders appear to have heeded my warning to return home from the pub and keep their doors bolted.
‘Let’s search the down again, Eddie. The last message told us she’s being kept at a holy site; that whole area’s riddled with ancient graves.’
Eddie hurries along beside me, matching my pace, but Wingletang Down is an unforgiving place tonight. A strong wind is still racing in from the Atlantic, gorse bushes flailing in the breeze, the scrubland silvered by moonlight. When we come to a halt outside Naomi Vine’s house, the site looks ghost-ridden; if she’s still alive, the sculptor will be devastated to see her home reduced to a blackened shell.
‘Let’s do a quick tour. The killer may have made a return visit.’
Shadow stays close to my side, releasing a low growl. He still seems anxious about entering the grounds, but traipses after me while I scan the path for signs of activity, my gaze catching on piles of leaves blown inland by the squall. I walk further round the building’s perimeter before spotting a bundle of feathers lying on the ground.
‘Over here, Eddie,’ I call out.
My deputy has his phone pressed to his ear when he races towards me. ‘Stan Eden says the Birdman’s missing. They were in the lighthouse earlier, but he ran off and hasn’t been seen since.’
‘These feathers belong to Curwen, he carries bundles around in his pockets.’
Eddie drops to a crouch. ‘There’s an outline in the mud, then footprints as someone ran away.’
‘You can see where someone’s hands have clawed the earth.’
Rain is blurring the footprints that track across the path and we’ve made matters worse by polluting the area, making it hard to distinguish between the Birdman’s and the killer’s prints.
‘One of them’s got small feet,’ Eddie comments. ‘Mine are bigger, and I’m a size nine. Those can’t be more than a seven.’
I peer down at the imprints, which are already disappearing. It crosses my mind that a couple could be carrying out the attacks, or a man with a small build like Adam Helston. It would be useful to know the shoe size of all the suspects, but there’s no time to chase details. At least we have proof that the Birdman was here, the largest set of footprints leading us across the down. The man can’t be solely responsible for the killings, because he was locked up when the latest message was left, but he’s been too close for comfort since the case opened. I need to find him fast, to understand exactly what he’s seen. I focus on the horizon and try to imagine where he’s hiding. Moonlight shafts through the clouds suddenly, making the landscape eerier than before, with rock formations raising their sharp heads to the sky. Before we can take another step, a man appears on the path. He’s wearing a waterproof coat, its hood obscuring his features; there’s a weapon in his hand, raised to shoulder level.
When I step onto the path the man comes to halt, his face still obscured. He’s holding a baseball bat uplifted, as if he’s planning an immediate attack; Shadow races forwards before I can say anything, paws landing on the man’s chest while he gives a loud bark of greeting. Another flash of moonlight reveals his face at last, tense with irritation at my dog’s boisterous welcome. I recognise his pallid, time-worn skin immediately.
‘Why are you out here, Steve? It’s not safe.’
‘It’s time he gets what he deserves.’ The landlord’s face is quivering with anger.
‘Where were you earlier? I didn’t see you at the pub.’
‘I was upstairs, until Sally lost the plot. It was the final straw seeing the poor girl like that.’
‘The killer may be armed, Steve.’
‘I’m not hiding indoors, waiting for him to attack us again.’
‘Does Ella know you’re out here?’
He gives a rapid nod. ‘She couldn’t stop me.’
Tregarron’s actions make me even more determined to find the killer fast. If we don’t catch him soon, more people will end up hurt. I’m about to send the landlord back to the pub when a light flickers at the corner of my eye; a new fire is burning on the western horizon, bright red flames spearing the sky. My advice to stay indoors could be doing more harm than good. I’ve given the killer a perfect opportunity to roam free without fear of being caught.
40
Steve jogs after us as we cross St Agnes, with the wind at our backs. A vivid glare is still visible up ahead, although the flames appear to be dwindling, the stench of chemicals making me gag as we race uphill to the church. I’m out of breath when I wrench open the cemetery gates, my eyes still fixed on the dull red glow. Eddie is at my side, cursing to himself, while Steve lags behind, determined not to miss the action. The light is coming from a metal trough, half full of sand, lying on the church steps, releasing plumes of smoke and a few spluttering flames.
I understand the killer’s game immediately. The island’s fishermen keep emergency flares on their boats, packed with chemicals, designed to release a light that shines for miles. But tonight a dozen have been lit to mimic another house fire, sending us in the wrong direction. When I crouch beside the bucket, I see that the flares are rigged to a trip wire like the one at St Warna’s Well, but the killer has used a kitchen timer to let him escape unnoticed.
‘Clever bastard, isn’t he?’ Steve mutters.
The landlord is still heaving for breath when I turn to face him, and it crosses my mind that he’s the only islander we’ve seen since leaving the pub. Tregarron could have planted the device himself, but the pub has been searched today, revealing nothing incriminating. The killer has succeeded in luring us back to one of the island’s holy sites, just as his message stated. Little damage has been done, apart from scorch marks on the building’s wooden doors.
I leave Eddie and Steve to search the graveyard while I step inside. The nave still smells blameless, my lungs filling with incense and communion wine, but this time the space is empty. Nothing appears to have changed since my last visit, until I see a word, spray-painted above the altar: FELLYON
My Cornish is limited, but even I get the message this time. The killer is calling me a fool for chasing in his footsteps without guessing his motives. He’s used a decoy to bring me here, while keeping Naomi Vine out of sight. I’m still trying to understand his motives when Eddie calls my name. His voice is so urgent that I feel certain he’s found another calling card, but Steve Tregarron is slumped against the church wall, head bowed, his face waxy in the moonlight.
‘He’s ill, boss,’ Eddie says. ‘I’ve told him to rest for a minute.’
‘What’s the trouble, Steve?’
Tregarron’s eyes are unfocused, his voice hoarse. ‘Angina. My pills are at the pub.’
‘Let’s get you home. Can you put your arms round our shoulders?’
Eddie looks tense as we help the landlord to stand. I doubt he’s ever seen anyone die before his eyes. He’s spent his entire life on minute islands where most people expire from old age, and the greatest threats come from the sea and harsh weather.
We manage
to lift Tregarron back downhill in less than ten minutes. It takes careful manoeuvring to carry him upstairs to his flat, but at least he’s conscious when we lay him on the sofa. I call out for Ella but there’s no reply.
‘Where are your tablets, Steve?’ I ask.
‘Bathroom cabinet,’ he wheezes.
Eddie is doing a good job of caring for the landlord when I return to the lounge. Tregarron’s hand shakes when he slips a pill under his tongue and Shadow has picked up on the tense atmosphere, whining quietly as we wait for the medication to work. Steve’s eyes are still screwed shut against the pain, and frustration hits me that the crisis might have been averted if he hadn’t tried to play hero. He takes long shuddering breaths, as if the effort of inhaling worsens his pain, but colour is gradually returning to his cheeks. Now he just looks exhausted, rather than fatally ill.
‘How are you doing?’ I ask.
‘Better, thanks. Sorry to waste your time.’ He manages a weak smile.
‘Don’t worry, but you can’t chase around like a maniac in your condition. Where’s Ella gone?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Come on, Steve. I’m not leaving you here alone.’
His face crumples suddenly. ‘She’ll be with a man.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘That’s how it works. She’s never really been mine.’
Tregarron is too weak to explain, his eyes closing from exhaustion, but I insist on calling Ella’s number. There’s no reply after two attempts and it dawns on me that the island’s mysterious landlady may have become the killer’s third victim.
41
Jimmy waits for the figure to disappear over the horizon before picking across the wet grass, the wind tugging his clothes. His mouth dries when he sees dozens of branches stacked inside a circle of elder bushes, ready for another bonfire. He glances around, but the down appears empty. There’s no sign of the figure he saw gathering firewood. The ragged grassland contains only the massive rock formations he’s known all his life, rising from the landscape like waking giants. Jimmy reminds himself that he can’t let another life slip away, his borrowed torch scanning the ground in frantic circles. An owl’s call convinces him that he’s moving in the right direction, its shriek as piercing as an infant’s cry.
He walks slowly around the granite pillar of Boy’s Rock. Track marks are revealed when moonlight pours down suddenly, showing where a boulder has been dragged across the mud. It takes effort and determination, but he shifts the stone by a few feet, then steps back, puzzled. A hole in the ground has been exposed, wide enough for an adult to squeeze through, the earth rubbed smooth around its mouth. He kneels down to look inside but the darkness scares him. The gap seems to contain only black air and the bitter smell of wet earth. Jimmy shines his torch into the opening, but fear prevents him from crawling inside.
42
Wednesday 9 November
My phone rings after 1 a.m., while Eddie and I are helping Steve Tregarron. I regret picking up immediately because the DCI’s hectoring voice whines in my ear.
‘You had no intention of calling back, did you, Kitto?’
‘The killer set another fire tonight, sir. Luckily no one was injured.’
He makes a loud tutting sound. ‘Check the islanders are safe then start again tomorrow. I won’t have you risking any more lives.’
‘This is our last chance to find Naomi Vine.’
‘Stay indoors till sunrise, Kitto. If you disobey me it’ll be a disciplinary matter. Do you hear?’
‘Loud and clear, sir.’
I hang up before Madron can issue another pointless order. The man is so risk-averse he’s prepared to let the killer revel in his moment of power. Eddie joins me in the hallway of the Tregarrons’ flat a few minutes later. His boyish face looks calmer now that the landlord is recovering. He agrees when I explain that we can’t continue our search until Ella returns. The landlord is too weak to be left alone, even though he claims that his chest pain has stopped.
Eddie stays with Steve while I go downstairs to wait. I switch on a single light behind the bar then ring Ella Tregarron again, but the pub’s door creaks open before the call connects. The landlady’s expression is anguished, her black coat and boots mud-spattered.
‘Where have you been, Ella?’
She almost jumps out of her skin. ‘Jesus, you frightened me. I thought the place was empty. I was looking for Steve; the old fool left here swinging a baseball bat.’
‘You took one hell of a risk.’
‘I was afraid he’d get himself killed.’
‘We brought him back just now. He had an angina attack.’
‘Not another.’ Her voice is tense with fear as she peels off her wet coat. ‘Where is he?’
‘Upstairs, resting. His pills are doing the trick.’
‘Thank God.’
‘Did you see anyone else out there?’
‘Jimmy Curwen near Boy’s Rock, but he hid before I could reach him.’ She hesitates before speaking again. ‘Sam Helston was down on Blanket Bay.’
‘What was he doing?’
‘Staring up at the church. I don’t think he even saw me.’
‘How come your clothes are filthy?’
‘I slipped on the mud.’ She glances down at the brown splashes on her jeans.
I take a breath before speaking again. ‘Steve thought you were with another man.’
Her expression is weary as she drops into a chair. ‘He’s always been jealous, but it’s worse than ever. I only have to chat to a customer for him to lose the plot . . .’ Her voice fades into silence.
‘Were you having an affair with Alex Rogan?’
She shakes her head. ‘I had a stupid fling with a summer tourist, years ago, soon after we got married. I’ve regretted it ever since. Steve was convinced Alex fancied me, but that’s rubbish. The bloke was in love with Sally.’ There’s fear in her face, as well as denial.
‘You think Steve hurt him, don’t you?’
‘My husband’s the best man I know.’ Ella’s voice falters when she speaks again. ‘But jealousy’s a kind of madness, isn’t it? I was scared he’d lost control, and now I feel terrible. I was stupid to doubt him.’ Her tone grows strident, as if she’s trying to convince herself. ‘Let me see him, please; the angina leaves him exhausted.’
‘Give me your phone first, Ella.’
She releases a bitter laugh. ‘So I’m the killer now, am I?’
‘You were warned to stay indoors. Anyone breaking the rule gets the same treatment.’
Ella tuts loudly before dropping her mobile into my hand. She hurries away, leaving me to scan her call list, but the phone has only been used twice today, to contact Julie Helston and Rachel Carlyon. Steve has rung her frequently over the past week, keeping tabs on her whenever she leaves the pub, but the only other male caller is Mike Walbert. I drop the phone back onto the bar: a five-minute conversation with one of the island’s elder statesmen is hardly incriminating, but the reasons for her husband’s jealousy nag at me. Steve is ageing fast, while she retains her beauty. The man seems torn apart by the idea of losing her.
Tregarron discovered the first body and spent tonight proving his desire to catch the killer, yet he appears a broken man. It’s possible that he’s hidden Naomi in an obscure place then faked an angina attack to put himself in the clear, but instinct tells me it’s unlikely. I can see why he would target Rogan, but Vine has given him no cause to attack, unless he’s begun to hate the incomers his business needs to survive. If Ella was telling the truth, the Birdman is hiding somewhere on Wingletang Down and Sam Helston is also roaming free. There’s a chance that Helston’s the killer, but the man has no history of conflict, despite his short fuse.
Eddie appears while I’m mulling over the new information. ‘Steve’s recovering, thank God,’ he says.
‘Are you all right? It upset you, seeing him so ill.’
He scowls at me, lack of sleep finally negating his polit
eness. ‘I just want this over; the killer’s running rings round us.’
‘Let’s find him then. We need to go back to Wingletang Down: Ella saw Curwen there and the killer may be drawn to it too. I think he’ll start his next fire well away from any houses, like on Burnt Island, to avoid being seen.’
When I look up again, Liz Gannick is in the doorway. The forensic chief’s childlike form is kitted out in waterproofs again, her expression determined. She points one of her crutches at me like she’s wielding a shotgun.
‘I’m sick of doing nothing. I’ll come with you.’
I point out that I’m the SIO, but Gannick ignores my objections, reminding me that I need a good partnership report. Her attempt at blackmail doesn’t convince me, because I doubt she’d damage my career without serious provocation, but I let her join us anyway. Her pace may slow us down, but her expertise could bring fresh insights.
43
Jimmy keeps his back pressed against Boy’s Rock. He wants to enter the narrow tunnel to look for Naomi, but the dark terrifies him and his torch batteries are failing. He remembers his mother singing him to sleep as a boy, until the darkness felt as comforting as an embrace, her rose perfume scenting the air. But there’s no kindness in the atmosphere tonight, only fog rolling in from the sea.
His breathing quickens when he finally lowers himself through the opening, falling seven or eight feet before landing in a tunnel. The space is so confined he’s forced to crawl along on hands and knees. He tries to call Naomi’s name, but a whimper emerges from his lips instead. The air is toxic with chemicals and silence, and his torch beam narrows to a chalk mark, spiralling across muddy walls until it suddenly expires. Darkness paralyses him until something touches his hand.