by Kate Rhodes
I fall asleep again, only waking when a nurse slips into the room. She barely speaks as she removes the gauze, then dresses my burn again, before leaving me alone. My thoughts keep returning to the extraordinary measures Naomi Vine took to frame her ex-boyfriend. Someone must have told her about the underground tunnels on Wingletang Down, where she kept her arsenal. I still don’t know where she acquired all the flares, making it seem like the whole island was under siege, but she must have made plenty of trips to the mainland.
It’s after midnight when I rise to my feet, too preoccupied to sleep again. I walk into the corridor, dressed only in hospital-issue pyjama bottoms and a white surgical robe. Lawrie Deane is dozing on a bench outside the room next to mine, where Naomi Vine is being kept. He looks startled when I wake him. The news that I want to speak to the woman who almost killed me seems to amaze him, but he lets me go ahead.
Vine’s appearance has changed since we lay opposite each other on a stretch of filthy carpet. Someone has washed her hair, every speck of grime cleansed from her skin. Apart from the frame over her legs to protect her burns, and her bandaged cheek, she looks like any other forty-year-old woman. Only her intense expression reveals that she’s mentally ill. I lower myself onto the chair, a few feet from her pillow.
‘It’s late for bedside visits, Inspector.’
‘I’ve been thinking about what you did.’
‘I’ve got no regrets.’
‘Why did you kill an innocent man, who was just about to become a father?’
‘He wouldn’t listen to me. The boathouse would have made a perfect exhibition space, with a viewing platform, so people could see my sculptures arranged across the beach. They would have looked so beautiful, right at the point where the ocean meets the land.’ Tears well in her eyes.
‘Alex wanted something better. His telescopes would have shown people the entire solar system.’
‘That man was only chasing glory, and he was a coward at the end. You should have heard him squeal as his flesh melted away.’
When she begins to laugh, I know she’ll never go to prison. She’ll live in a psychiatric institution for the rest of her days. I can still hear her cackling as I return to my own room.
64
Jimmy’s hands are still shaking when night-time falls. Ella insisted on fussing over him, murmuring apologies while she bandaged his shoulder, but he can’t forget seeing Naomi Vine on the floor, her skin blackened by fire. Ella says that she’ll go to jail, but he prefers to remember the sculptor in her studio, turning metal into living forms, and the gifts of food she pressed into his hands.
When Jimmy checks the clock on his wall it’s 10 p.m. Time to feed his birds. He carries a bag of seed and bottles of water downstairs, pausing to look up at the lighthouse when he reaches the yard. A dim light shines down from the gallery, reminding him that Stan Eden is keeping the island safe. But when he turns around, someone is waiting in the shadows, and the fear he’s suppressed resurfaces.
‘No need to run away, it’s only me.’ Martin Tolman steps into the light.
The Birdman makes a small, bowing motion, even though the look on the architect’s face is unnerving. Tolman provides a roof over his head, but the man’s tense expression makes him fear his home is at risk.
‘I hear you tried to save Naomi Vine. That was a brave thing to do; I’ll always be grateful.’ Tolman walks closer, his gaze unblinking. ‘Have you ever visited the bird sanctuary on St Mary’s?’
Jimmy nods his head slowly. He was taken there once as a boy. The place filled him with wonder: seeing the creatures recovering inspired him to build his own cages and tend his wounded gulls.
‘My friends run it now; they need help looking after the birds. The job’s only part-time. It doesn’t pay much, but you could survive on the wage. Would you be interested?’
Jimmy stares at Tolman in disbelief. All he’s ever wanted is a job, like the other islanders, to buy medicine for his birds and feed himself without begging.
‘Is that a yes, Jimmy?’
The Birdman nods his assent rapidly.
‘That’s good news. I’ll come back tomorrow to make arrangements.’
Tolman says a quiet goodbye, leaving Jimmy reeling. Since his parents died, he’s longed for independence, and now it’s so close he can almost touch it.
The creatures are calm tonight when he crawls inside the enclosure to lay out fresh straw. The Atlantic gull can finally stand, but it shrieks in protest as he carries it outside. Jimmy cradles the bird against his chest, admiring its glassy black eyes and the yellow markings on its fierce beak. He whispers a few words, then opens his hands. The gull spreads its wings, before beating them wildly.
Jimmy tips his head back to watch the bird lunge into the air, then soar above the roofline, heading for open water.
65
Thursday 10 November
I’ve been signed off work for the next three days. It’s late in the morning and a stream of visitors have marched up the path to my cottage, most of them hungry for details, even though I can’t disclose anything until the trial ends. It’s a relief to be alone for the first time in days, apart from Shadow, who’s lying on the sofa beside me, sleeping off his escapade. Naomi Vine is still clogging up my headspace, but she’s safe in the medical centre at Penzance prison. Tomorrow she’ll receive a full psychiatric assessment. I can guess the results already; anyone who’s prepared to kill a man, torch her own home and attempt two more murders for the sake of a building is unlikely to be declared sane.
Madron has kept me out of the loop while the case winds down, but details have filtered through anyway. Gavin Carlyon has filed a complaint about his accusations being ignored, and now that Vine has been arrested his claims seem justified. His wife is still pleading ignorance about the materials stored at their home, but I’m not convinced; Rachel was so gripped by hero-worship, she would have done anything for her glamorous new friend. Now that the danger’s over, I feel a degree of sympathy for Naomi Vine. The sculptor’s life imploded after her parents died, the care system doing more harm than good. A combination of factors caused Vine’s breakdown, but the misery she suffered as a child must have contributed.
I stare down at the book I’m reading. The final chapter of The Great Gatsby lies open before me, but all I can see are parallels. Gatsby had the world at his feet: talented, good looking and charismatic, yet he threw it all away, like Naomi Vine. I gaze out of the window instead of finishing the story. The storm has cleared at last, wisps of sea mist lingering on the air, the atmosphere calm. Hell Bay stretches out in a long arc, with breakers rolling across the shore. It’s soothing to watch the tide chivvy shingle further up the beach, but unfinished business nags at me. It could just be exhaustion from the strain of the case, but the feeling won’t shift.
My gaze falls on the watch Maggie gave me before the case started, its silver casing undamaged by the fire. I take it from my wrist to examine it again, wondering how many hazards it’s seen during its fifty-year lifespan. The inscription on the back makes more sense to me now: ‘Time waits for no man.’ If I’d stayed in that locked room a minute longer, all three of us would have died. I hold the watch to my ear and listen to its tick, slow and regular as a resting heartbeat. I normally avoid considering the future, taking each day as it comes, but that approach has to change. Being alone has lost its appeal, so I’ll have to make phone calls and start taking risks.
I’m about to return to my book when Shadow jumps to his feet, ears pricked. The creature can identify every islander by their tread, reacting differently to friend or foe. He looks thrilled to greet whoever is crunching down the shingle path, tail wagging madly as he races along the hall. Eddie enters without knocking, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. My parents were so relaxed about friends visiting they never bothered to fit a doorbell.
‘Anyone home?’ he calls out.
‘In the living room.’
My deputy looks different out of unif
orm. He’s wearing jeans and a sweatshirt, his blond curls uncombed for once. I notice that he’s clutching a large shopping bag.
‘Michelle’s sent you some lunch,’ he says.
‘I thought you were on duty.’
‘The DCI gave me permission to visit.’
I roll my eyes. ‘Why’s everyone queuing up to nurse me, for God’s sake?’
‘Count yourself lucky. It’s shepherd’s pie and some kind of chocolate cake. I’ll stick the beers in the fridge.’
‘Now you’re talking.’
I sit in the kitchen while Eddie loads a ceramic dish in the microwave. The dog fixes me with his blue-eyed, insistent stare until I feel obliged to scoop some of the pie into his bowl, then the meal passes in a flurry of conversation. Eddie provides more details from the case when I press him. Apparently Liz Gannick found so much evidence on the petrol cans left at the Walberts’ house and the stash of explosives, Naomi Vine’s guilt would have been proved, once her prints were taken, even without her confession. Incinerating her home to destroy the main evidence of her crimes wouldn’t have saved her from a prison sentence.
‘I still don’t get why she tied herself up, then waited to be found.’
Eddie shrugs his shoulders. ‘She knew the Birdman would call eventually, because he was her only regular visitor. She wanted to make it look like Tolman had attacked her, but the Birdman couldn’t alert us, so she waited hours then ran out of patience. She was so unhinged, she let light to the place.’
‘Rogan lost his life because of her broken love affair.’
‘She was obsessed. Naomi knew Tolman was learning Cornish, so she did the same. She didn’t care how many people she damaged.’
‘How’s Sally doing, Eddie?’
‘She’s calmer now the killer’s locked away, and her dad’s staying at her place.’
I stare at him in amazement. ‘How come? Neither of them wanted to back down.’
‘Louise Walbert frog-marched Keith to Middle Town. It was sticky at first, but they’ve agreed to forget the past. He’s planning to live there till Sally’s had her baby. Keith’s talking about running the Dark Skies Festival, in Alex’s memory, to give Sally something positive to focus on.’
The news fills me with relief. At least one of Alex Rogan’s dreams has been fulfilled: his wife has buried the hatchet with her father before their child arrives. We’re halfway through the meal when I notice that my deputy’s awkwardness has vanished; he’s using my first name, body language relaxed despite recent traumas. My mistaken belief in the Birdman’s guilt at the start of the case has destroyed the pedestal he placed me on, which is an almighty relief. It’s only when he’s about to leave that his expression grows solemn.
‘I heard the news about Zoe getting married.’
‘Rumours spread fast, don’t they? She’s making me fly over to Mumbai for the wedding next July.’
‘I thought you two might end up together. You’re always happy when she’s around.’
‘And a miserable git the rest of the time?’
‘That’s not what I’m saying. You’re the kind of bloke people trust; that’s why we asked you to be Lottie’s godfather. I hate thinking about what might have happened if you hadn’t carried her outside.’ His words fade, while he pushes the idea aside.
‘Naomi didn’t set out to hurt Lottie. She just wanted something pure to hold, and she’d dreamed of having a kid when she was with Tolman. She’s so deranged she thought no one would guess she’d staged the whole mess herself.’ I drain my bottle of beer. ‘I still think one of your old schoolmates would do a better job as godfather.’
Eddie shakes his head firmly. ‘Lottie needs the best man on the islands.’
‘Flattery will get you nowhere.’
I swallow hard before speaking again; I don’t want to take on a responsibility I may not be able to fulfil, but I can’t forget seeing his baby fighting to breathe. Words slip from my mouth before I can silence them.
‘The answer’s yes, Eddie.’
He punches his fists in the air. ‘Thank Christ for that; Michelle told me not to come home till you agreed.’
I say goodbye when the meal ends. There’s an awkward moment in the porch as he gives me one of those man hugs that are halfway between a handshake and a wrestling manoeuvre, finally crossing the line into friendship after a bumpy start. Once the door shuts behind him, the sense of unfinished business that’s bothered me all morning finally lifts from my shoulders.
Half a dozen well-meaning texts have arrived since Eddie’s visit, including one from Zoe, inviting me round for the afternoon. I could carry on lounging on the sofa, but Shadow is dancing at my feet, telling me that I’ve spent too long feeling sorry for myself.
‘Come on, monster. Take me for a walk.’
My dog vanishes into the mist once I step outside, but we always reach the same destination eventually.
Author’s Note
St Agnes is one of my favourite places in the Isles of Scilly, and I hope that some readers may feel inspired to visit the remote destination for themselves. But I must explain to anyone that does make the journey: this novel isn’t a guidebook. The story blends imagination and reality. I have taken liberties with the island’s geography, to add danger to my tale, but I’ve also tried to conjure the magic of the place. There is no old mansion house on the island, and although you will find Neolithic gravesites on Wingletang Down, the tunnels are make-believe. St Warna’s Well exists, but is smaller than in my description. The island’s tiny dimensions and population of just eighty-two permanent residents are accurately described in Burnt Island. St Agnes does have a decommissioned lighthouse, which has had its light removed and is now a private residence, but there are no cottages at its feet.
The Turk’s Head is a great place for fine beer and locally caught fish and chips, but it does not have rooms for hire. The island’s post office is a treat to visit, with lovely staff and a good selection of locally produced food. You will find a decommissioned lifeboat house on the island, and a tiny, beautiful church with stained-glass windows that reflect the island’s fraught relationship with the sea.
All of the Isles of Scilly have experienced maritime tragedies; dozens of local fishermen have been lost to vicious storms over the centuries, yet the beauty of the ocean remains. I’ve never felt closer to the sea than on St Agnes. The quiet is so complete, you can hear the tide from every part of the island, until the sea’s whisper feels as natural as breathing.
Acknowledgements
Many thanks are due to the brilliant team at Simon and Schuster: Jo Dickinson, Rebecca Farrell, Jess Barratt, Dawn Burnett, Rhiannon Carroll and the excellent sales team. I receive so much support and encouragement from you all, my job feels easy.
Many thanks to Stephen Wright at Two Cities, for commissioning the series for TV, which has been a huge boost. Thanks are also due to my literary agent Teresa Chris and my TV agent Katie Langridge for believing so passionately in this series from the start.
Thanks to the kind staff of the Turk’s Head and the Post Office on St Agnes for answering questions about island life and whether or not someone could drown at high tide if they fell from the Bar. Thanks also to Nigel at Paulgers Taxis on St Mary’s for an excellent guided tour, and Rachel Greenlaw for her hospitality at her lovely apartment, Cowrie. In a typical piece of Scillonian generosity, Rachel took me out for coffee and offered me a week’s free accommodation on the first day we met! Thanks to lovely Linda Thomas at Porthcressa Library for describing winter storms in the Scillies, and how the off-islands can become isolated for days during a bad squall. Pete Hicks, St Mary’s lifeboat cockswain, spent time describing sea conditions around St Agnes, which helped a great deal. I am also very grateful to Sam Rogerson, Cornish Language and Culture Support officer, for translating the Cornish passages in the book for me. Oll an gwella, Sam! Your help was invaluable.
Thanks as ever to all of my writing pals: the Killer Women, the 134 Club, Penny Hanco
ck, Clare Chase, Valentina Giambanco, Mary-Jane Riley and Miranda Doyle. My husband Dave Pescod is a brilliant and tireless critic, and still my biggest cheerleader after twenty-three years. Thanks also to stepsons Jack, Matt and Frank, for encouraging me to keep writing. What lovely, thoughtful men you have become!
Special thanks are due to my mother, Wendy Rhodes, for being so full of joy when she heard that the series had been optioned. Your texts and kind words keep me writing, Mum. Cheers to Honor, my sister, for being generally fabulous.
Finally, thanks to Twitter pals Peggy Breckin, Julie Boon, Jenny Blackwell, Louise Marley, Janet Fearnley, Hazel Wright, Christine South, Polly Dymock, Angela Barnes, Rach Medlock, Sarah LP and hundreds more. Your kind messages of encouragement inspire me to produce the best stories I can dream up, to keep you all entertained.
Also by Kate Rhodes
Hell Bay series
Hell Bay
Ruin Beach
Alice Quentin series
Crossbone’s Yard
A Killing of Angels
The Winter Foundlings
River of Souls
Blood Symmetry
Fatal Harmony
Go back to the beginning
with DI Ben Kitto and read his first
investigation on the Isles of Scilly . . .
HELL
BAY
After ten years working for the murder squad in London, a traumatic event has left DI Ben Kitto grief-stricken. He’s tried to resign from his job, but his boss has persuaded him to take three months to reconsider.
Ben plans to work in his uncle Ray’s boatyard on the tiny Scilly island of Bryher where he was born, hoping to mend his shattered nerves. But his plans go awry when the body of sixteen-year-old Laura Trescothick is found on the beach at Hell Bay. Her attacker must still be on the island because no ferries have sailed during a two-day storm.