by Kate Rhodes
‘What is it, Eddie?’
‘That’s not true. It can’t be.’
‘Take a breath, then explain.’
‘He’s got Lottie.’
My grip on his arm tightens. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Michelle was in bed. He broke the window and grabbed the baby from her cot.’ Eddie’s talking too fast, forgetting to breathe between words.
‘Go and make sure Michelle’s okay. I’ll search the north coast.’
‘I can’t stop, for fuck’s sake.’ His jaw clenches tight before he speaks again. ‘He’s got my daughter.’
‘You’re needed at home; I’ll call you with any news.’
Eddie sets off at sprint towards Lower Town. The news about Lottie has sent a shot of adrenaline through my system: I remember her smell of talcum powder and innocence as I sang her to sleep. Shadow is at my heels as I chase past the Big Pool towards Porth Killier. He barks in protest when I stop to draw breath, as if he’d prefer to carry on splashing through rock pools indefinitely. My own lungs are heaving and the time has come to stop hedging my bets. The sun will rise in a few hours’ time and Naomi Vine’s chances of survival will end, along with those of Eddie’s baby. I can’t keep on pursuing every false lead. I need to find out where they are without any more mistakes.
I run through the list of suspects in my head. Plenty of people on the island dislike change, but few are unhinged enough to steal a two-month-old baby from her cot. Martin Tolman lied about knowing Naomi Vine in the past, but had no clear motive to attack Rogan, or harm a child. The Birdman is still at large, and Sam Helston’s anger could have turned against all newcomers for undermining the traditional farming life of his family. It’s still possible that Steve Tregarron set tonight’s chain of explosions then feigned illness to make himself look innocent. The man’s jealousy may have driven him so far beyond reason, he no longer cares who he hurts.
I’m still considering which suspect to pursue when a thread of light shines in the distance, flickering like a beacon, and my decision’s sealed.
47
Jimmy peers out from his hiding place, catching sight of a new fire burning at the northern end of Covean Beach. He keeps his eyes fixed on the flare as he heads towards it, his heart lifting when the dark figure reappears. This time there’s a parcel in his arms. The killer pauses by the high tidemark, staring out at Sackey’s Rock, its sharp outline blurring as the tide rushes home. Jimmy hides behind marram grass on the dunes until the man starts moving again. His mouth is dry with panic when the figure steps onto the Bar, the waves swirling at his feet.
This is where his sister drowned. Jimmy’s mother always told him to avoid walking out to Gugh as the waters rose, in case the sea swept him away too. But tonight he must ignore her advice. He waits until the black-coated figure reaches the distant shore, never once glancing back at St Agnes. Jimmy forces himself onto the ridge of sand. He concentrates on each step, afraid of slipping into the deep water that lies on either side.
He feels weak with relief when he reaches Gugh. Keith Pendennis’s house lies directly ahead, all of its windows dark. He looks up at Kittern Hill, where the figure halts by the Carlyons’ home. Jimmy watches him shift the parcel he’s carrying over his shoulder, his pulse quickening when he sees an infant’s pale face. The killer is carrying a baby in his arms. The figure hurries on past Obadiah’s Barrow, its outline glittering with starlight. Jimmy is afraid the man will drop the child on the ground. He catches sight of a shadow running uphill, then ducks behind a drystone wall to avoid being seen, waiting five long minutes before emerging again. Now the man is unlocking the door of the holiday cottage at the top of Kittern Hill, but a few minutes later he reappears, his arms empty this time, then vanishes into the darkness. Jimmy scours the horizon, losing track of his outline.
Jimmy waits until his nerves settle before rising to his feet again. He normally loves visiting Gugh at low tide, to count the kittiwakes’ nests on its high granite cliffs, but tonight he’s terrified. He edges through the dark towards the holiday cottage, checking whether the man is lying in wait, but the property seems deserted, no sound except waves crashing against the rocks below. The door handle won’t budge, yet he can’t stop now. Naomi Vine may be waiting inside to be set free.
He stands by the window, peering into the empty house. Moonlight illuminates a small kitchen, with chequered lino and white units. It’s only when Jimmy looks again that his mouth gapes open in shock. The green shirt Naomi Vine was wearing lies crumpled in the corner, a red handprint marking the wall, beside a smear of blood.
48
I can still see the thread of light, but Shadow has streaked away, looking for better adventures. When I drop down onto the sands at Porth Killier I catch sight of a figure by the shoreline, his powerful torch beam skimming the shingle. This is the source of light I’ve been chasing, but the man ignores my presence, keeping his head down while he inspects every grain of sand. Shadow flies across the beach like a speeding bullet, barking at high volume. The man spins round in panic as my dog snaps at him, refusing to back down.
‘Come away, Shadow,’ I yell out.
The dog’s behaviour calms by a fraction as I approach, but he’s still keeping guard, not letting his prisoner move a muscle. It’s only when I’m within touching distance that I recognise who I’ve been following. It’s Martin Tolman. The man’s face is obscured by a cap and thick scarf, protecting him from the breeze. He looks relieved when I catch hold of Shadow’s collar and drag him away.
‘Your dog’s got a fighting spirit,’ the architect comments. His voice is mild, but his expression’s fearful.
‘What are you doing here, Martin?’
He shifts away from me. ‘I couldn’t sleep, which is rare. My nights here are usually easy.’
‘You’re in trouble, aren’t you?’
Tolman looks like he might try to run, but soon changes his mind. Shadow would tackle him in seconds, and there’s no hiding in a place like this. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Where’s Naomi, Martin?’
A dry laugh rattles from his mouth. ‘I’d never harm her, believe me.’
‘Spit it out, for God’s sake.’
‘I didn’t give you the complete story, that’s true.’ Tolman’s gaze remains fixed on the sea. ‘I was afraid Deborah would overhear us.’
‘Tell me now or you’re under arrest for abduction.’
‘I ran into Naomi at an exhibition in London, ten years ago. It was like a grenade blowing my perfectly ordered life apart.’ He drops down onto a boulder, as if his legs can no longer support his weight. ‘I hadn’t seen her since college, yet my feelings hadn’t changed. I was infatuated; it all came rushing back. She cared for me too, but nothing’s permanent in her eyes. I left my first wife and kids for her, which was a terrible mistake. A few months later she ended it.’ The raw pain in his voice makes his speech grind to a halt.
‘Keep going, Martin.’
‘I went to France to build a new life, but she followed me. The relationship lasted another year, until she walked away again.’
‘So this is revenge?’
He shakes his head vehemently. ‘She’s not to blame. Her childhood was dreadful; first the care home, then endless foster parents. That’s why she can never settle.’
‘You got involved again after she moved here?’
‘I think she tracked me down. She believed I’d end my marriage to Deborah, like the first time, simply because she’d changed her mind.’
‘You wanted her so much you killed Alex Rogan. Did you think they were having an affair?’
‘I’ve done nothing wrong.’ Tolman’s voice drops to a murmur. ‘If I knew where she was, I’d set her free. I can’t bear the idea that she’s in pain somewhere, out of reach. That’s why I’m out here, searching. I owe her that much at least.’
‘What about your wife?’
The architect flinches. ‘Deborah’s been my salvation. She’s given he
r life to helping others and stopping their suffering. I can’t throw my marriage away.’
‘Why not tell her the truth?’
‘It would hurt her too much. Naomi asked me to leave Deborah, but I refused.’
‘Yet you slept with her anyway.’
‘Once, soon after she arrived. If Naomi makes up her mind she’s impossible to refuse, but her work’s like a calling. It always comes first.’ His words falter again. ‘A relationship with her is like confronting a whirl-wind.’
‘If she’s alive she won’t be thrilled that her home’s been destroyed.’
‘She’ll be devastated,’ he replies. ‘Naomi’s not robust anymore. When we were young other people’s opinions didn’t matter, but now a bad review leaves her wounded for days. That’s why I’m afraid for her.’
‘How did she react when you ended the affair?’
‘She said we could be friends, but I’ve only seen her in public since.’
‘Was she afraid of someone? Whoever’s taken her has got Eddie Nickell’s baby, too.’
‘My God, that’s terrible.’ His eyes blink shut for a second. ‘Naomi doesn’t trust Gavin Carlyon. She believes he hates her for bringing change to St Agnes.’
‘Go home now, Martin, and lock your doors. We’ll talk tomorrow.’
He steps closer, eyes glittering like wet flint. ‘My wife would fall apart if she knew I’d been unfaithful.’
‘I can’t promise to hide it.’
‘Please don’t destroy my marriage over a mistake; Deborah will be the one that suffers.’ His gaze is imploring.
‘My priority is finding Naomi, before it’s too late.’
The architect’s speech leaves me confused. There’s so much distress in Tolman’s voice, he could be the perpetrator or a victim, caught between competing demands. His shoulders are hunched as he heads across the beach, with Shadow still snapping at his heels.
49
Jimmy’s fear drops away as he rattles the back door of the cottage. His hands are cold as he tries to pry a window open, fingers slipping from the wet glass. He scans the hillside again for a sign of the figure he’s been tracking, but there’s no movement. Even in darkness he senses that the house is empty. He can see the neat and tidy living room through a gap between the drawn curtains, a gingham cloth covering the table, ready to welcome the season’s first holidaymakers.
He’s so exhausted that he leans against the wall, his face dropping forwards into his hands. He wants to return to the comfort of his birds, but a faint sound breaks the silence. It could be a gull bawling high overhead, but the noise is coming from another ground floor window. He tries to open it, but the plastic frame is slick beneath his fingers, a blind obscuring the opening. Jimmy stands beside the glass until the sound comes again, and this time it’s unmistakable. An infant’s thin scream drifts through the air; the baby he saw must be locked inside the property, and Naomi Vine may be trapped too.
Jimmy’s instincts propel him back across open land to the first house he sees. Concern for Naomi gives him enough courage to rattle the door knocker until footsteps rattle down the hall. Gavin Carlyon is wearing nightclothes when he appears. He frowns when Jimmy points at the brow of the hill, agitation making his movements wild and uncontrolled. Carlyon stares at him, then pulls his dressing gown tighter round his throat.
‘You’re not making sense. The police say it’s not safe outdoors, you’d better come inside.’
Jimmy shakes his head, then gestures towards the cottage again, but Carlyon grabs his wrist. The man’s grip is tight enough to burn when he pulls him over the threshold.
50
Frustration hits me when I reach Covean Beach. I’ve wasted valuable minutes with Tolman, but the man is so secretive he may yet turn out to be the killer, tortured by his affair with Naomi Vine. Now it’s too late to cross the Bar, the causeway slipping below the waves, and the killer has planned his campaign to perfection: Gugh is the perfect murder site because the islet will be cut off until dawn, minimising his risk of being caught. Rescuers would need a powerboat to cross the fast-moving waters of the strait.
‘Fuck that,’ I mutter under my breath.
The point where the sandy ridge slips below the waves is still visible; with any luck I can wade across, but Shadow splashes into the water behind me.
‘Stay there,’ I yell at him. ‘Don’t follow me.’
For once the creature obeys, which is lucky, because the currents are so rapid he’d soon be swept away. He stands at the water’s edge, whimpering, as I follow the Bar from memory. It’s easier than I expected after making the journey many times as a kid. When I reach the midway point, waves are lapping at my knees but the sand still feels solid under my feet. I take care to place my weight on the ridge, then look ahead to get my bearings.
The ground slips away suddenly, leaving me up to my neck in icy water. I breathe out a string of curses, and Shadow is barking non-stop in the distance, but I’ve already drifted too far from the causeway. My only chance is to swim the hundred metres to the shoreline, my teeth chattering as I thrash against the tide. Currents are pulling me north, and moonlight is bouncing off a huge expanse of ocean. If I don’t reach Gugh soon, I’ll be dragged into the shipping lane with the freighters sailing to America. Panic makes me plough through the water fast, but the gap widens. I try backstroke to increase my speed, yet the shore is too distant.
It seems to take me forever to reach Gugh’s north coast and collapse on the beach, heaving for breath, the cold breeze slicing through my wet clothes. My hands are shaking as I drag my phone from my pocket. Water gushes from its plastic casing, and my biggest mistake hits home. I should have called Eddie before setting off; now I’m stranded here until morning – unless one of the island’s three occupants can lend me a dinghy.
The chill hits me again when I climb Kittern Hill, my clothes still dripping with brine. I could skirt round the island’s shores, but this is the quickest route to the Carlyons’ home. Halfway up, I look back at St Agnes in time to see another flare ignite, but my confidence holds. The killer can release fireworks all night long: I’ve searched every square inch of St Agnes, even looking underground. Naomi Vine must be hidden here, if she’s still alive.
The islet’s only holiday cottage rests on the brow of the hill. It belongs to an elderly Welsh couple who have visited each summer since I was a boy. The killer despises all of the island’s visitors and may have chosen the cottage simply to destroy their cherished possession. The building is well-kept with gleaming paintwork, not a single roof slate out of place, but something flickers behind one of the ground floor windows, making my pulse quicken. The property is always vacant at this time of year.
I come to a standstill when it dawns on me that Rachel Carlyon must have a key – she cleans all of the local holiday properties. Something shifts in my chest when I remember her fixing the light in the shop, deftly replacing a blown fuse; she could easily have attached flares to kitchen timers, because of her skill with electrical devices. Maybe she shares her husband’s hatred of change, her friendship with Naomi Vine no more than a sham. That would explain why one of the footprints by the old mansion was smaller than the Birdman’s; it could have been made by a woman. Questions rattle round my head when I approach the cottage. The back door is unlocked and I try to enter without making a sound. I press one of the light switches but there’s no power, leaving the room still in darkness when the front door slams.
I run into the hallway to find the space empty, apart from the sickly smell of air freshener, and there’s no movement on the hillside. The man I’m pursuing has an unnatural ability to vanish, but he can’t leave Gugh unless he’s an Olympic swimmer. We’re both stranded here until sunrise. I’ll search the property fast, then go after him again. Just as I head down the corridor, I hear an infant’s piercing scream and adrenaline floods my system. Lottie’s here somewhere; the bastard may have injured her. Instinct makes me pull my torch from my pocket, but seawater ha
s killed the battery. I’m shoving it back into my pocket when a shaft of pain burns through my temple, white light flaring in front of my eyes until I hit the ground.
51
Every bone in my body aches when I come round. My skull’s throbbing and it sounds like a dentist’s drill is whining inside my ear. My cheek is pressed against cold, wet carpet, but when I try to move, nothing happens. My brain is working too slowly, limbs refusing to follow orders. There’s a reek of chemicals that I can’t identify. All I know for certain is that my clothes are saturated and the sea’s cold has penetrated my bones.
I try to work out what happened from my injuries. Pain courses through my back and hip, and even though my thoughts are muzzy, the penny drops. The killer has given me a dose of Rohypnol. I force my eyes open, but thick, black air hangs in front of my face. My days undercover taught me that Rohypnol is the gangster’s drug of choice and the rapist’s best friend. It can leave victims catatonic for hours, but the darkness tells me I can’t have been out for long. The killer must have misjudged the dose – my bulk has saved me from losing hours to oblivion, but hasn’t spared me the drug’s numbing effect on my muscles.
It takes concentration to lift my thumb a centimetre from the floor, yet the movement fills me with relief; at least it proves I’m not paralysed. When I inhale again, the acidic smell of petrol is overwhelming. I try to identify its source, but it’s everywhere. Panic crawls across my skin. He only needs to strike a match to turn the place into a fireball. I wrench my eyes open again, refusing to yield to sleep, then something shifts in the dark.