by Kate Rhodes
I call Eddie to explain what’s happened before contacting the only pathologist in travelling distance. Dr Gareth Keillor retired to St Mary’s after his Home Office job ended, but he’s still licenced to act as our consultant when required. He doesn’t answer when I ring his home number so I leave him a voicemail. My final call is to the county forensics team in Penzance. I’m expecting another answering machine, but someone picks up immediately, even though it’s after 10 p.m. The woman at the end of the line introduces herself as Liz Gannick, Cornwall’s newly appointed Chief of Forensic Services. She listens in silence as I ask for assistance. Her northern voice is crisp when she promises to catch the first plane over tomorrow, then abruptly hangs up. It surprises me that she will visit the scene herself, rather than sending one of her minions. I’ve never met Gannick before, but she’s known as a tough operator; her expertise could make or break my investigation into how the victim died.
I hunker behind a boulder, aware that my birthday this year will be memorable for all the wrong reasons. But being stranded here is nothing compared with the victim’s suffering. When I look back at St Agnes, the fire on the beach is still burning at full strength, a patch of gold against the sky’s blackness. The revellers stand in huddles, watching the ritual sacrifice; burning the straw men is meant to sear away bad spirits on a night of revelry, but seeing the effigies go up in smoke only adds to my discomfort. Flames ravage the cloaks swathed around the witches’ bodies while my eyes return to the funeral pyre at my feet. The victim’s death must have been lonely as well as agonising, and the killer clearly enjoys symbolism. It looks like he wanted the burned remains found at the very moment the island tried to rid itself of evil.
‘Who are you?’ I mutter under my breath.
I can’t believe that a passing yachtsman would drag a corpse up a steep hill instead of dropping it into the sea with no questions asked. Whoever did this planned to add a vicious threat to a popular local festival. It’s likely to be an islander, even though no one from St Agnes has been reported missing, in a place where nothing goes unnoticed.
I leave Zoe a voicemail asking her to look after Shadow until tomorrow. We should be enjoying the party together, but I can’t leave a murder scene unattended. By now the tide has almost covered the path leading back to St Agnes. If I requested help a boatload of volunteers would arrive immediately, but they’d trample over valuable forensic evidence, and it’s too late for me to risk returning by foot. The churning waters between Burnt Island and St Agnes have claimed the lives of several holidaymakers who misjudged the tides. The darkness seems thicker than before when I crouch beside a granite mound, wishing I’d worn thicker gloves. I’m starting to regret my desire for more excitement at work as the cold sinks deeper into my bones.
2
Jimmy stays at home in his bedsit, avoiding the crowds. At fifty-three years old, he’s reliant on charity for the roof over his head, because no one has ever offered him a job. An old-fashioned gas fire keeps the place warm, yet tonight it’s impossible to relax. He stares at the objects on his windowsill: bundles of glossy white egrets’ feathers, an abandoned swallow’s nest and the broken shell of a hawfinch’s egg. But even his favourite possessions fail to calm him tonight.
When he peers outside, the bonfire is still blazing on Covean Beach, so he draws the curtains to avoid the spectacle. The flames remind him too strongly of the corpse he found this morning, his window sealed to banish the smell of smoke. Conscience tells him to honour his promise to the figure he saw in the fire, because the death he witnessed as a boy still haunts his dreams. But speaking to the police would terrify him. He can recite the names of every bird species on the island when he’s alone, yet words escape him when people are listening. He will have to find the killer without help from anyone.
Jimmy paces around the room, too agitated to relax. He turns on his radio, but strangers’ voices discussing things he can’t understand set his teeth on edge. Only one thing will settle his mind, so he stuffs a bag of seed in his pocket and hurries downstairs. The air in the yard is freezing, but he doesn’t care. The enclosure he built is made from chicken wire and driftwood, the frame rattling as he pulls open the door of the first compartment. Birds caw loudly as he drops food into their bowls, a juvenile puffin pecking at his hand.
‘Don’t be afraid,’ he whispers. ‘I won’t hurt you.’
An Atlantic gull lets him stroke its wing, his touch slow and cautious. The bird’s broken leg is mending and the starving kittiwake will soon be strong enough to release. Jimmy shuts the door of the enclosure, in case one of the injured birds tries to escape before it’s healed. He kneels on the mud to watch his friends settling down to sleep on piles of clean straw. The gull’s black eyes assess him without judgement, settling Jimmy’s nerves for the first time since he fled from Burnt Island. He concentrates on the birds’ quiet movements until the corpse’s ruined face slips from his mind.
3
Saturday 6 November
I catch a few hours of sleep on the rocky ground, metres away from the corpse, the cold breeze waking me at 5 a.m. My bones ache as I rise to my feet. The sea has become an expanse of silver, ridden by an armada of choppy waves. It feels like I’m standing at the edge of the known world, with nothing except Bishop’s Rock lighthouse to interrupt the Atlantic before it laps America’s shores. The huge bonfire on Covean Beach is still smouldering, even though the last revellers went home hours ago. The straw effigies have left no trace behind and the tide has receded at last, leaving me free to escape Burnt Island on foot until the next high tide arrives tonight.
When I turn to assess the murder scene again, the sight is worse by daylight. The victim appears to be offering me a broad grin, facial tissue burned away, exposing rows of pure white teeth. The scale of the body makes me assume that it’s a man. I can’t guess whether he was frog-marched up the hill or came here voluntarily. A sheepskin coat covers his remains from the neck down, burned through in places where fire has scorched it. Two paraffin cans lie beside the pyre, abandoned in a hurry as if the killer feared being caught in the act. The victim’s left hand protrudes from under its sheepskin covering. His fingers look like blackened twigs, but it’s a relief to see a metal band glinting in the early light: the man’s wedding ring could help with identification.
The morning light reveals that shallow marks have been made on a boulder close to where the victim lies. Each capital letter is an inch tall, etched by a knife or chisel, the sentence written in a foreign language. It’s possible that some kid was experimenting with a secret code, months or even years ago, but I take a photo of the granite surface just in case, then drop my phone back into my pocket.
When Eddie finally toils up the hill, he’s followed by DCI Alan Madron. My boss is a small man with formal manners, always immaculately dressed. Today his boots are polished to a mirror shine, his mackintosh neatly buttoned, the parting in his salt-and-pepper hair so straight it looks like it’s been precision-engineered. Eddie looks stricken when he sees the victim, but Madron barely reacts. The DCI’s grey eyes scrutinise me with cool detachment.
‘I hear you guarded the body all night, Kitto. Admirable commitment, but you should have requested backup.’
‘Evidence would have been destroyed, sir. I’d have needed a boat back to St Agnes and birds could have disturbed the scene if it was left unprotected.’
Madron surveys the victim’s remains with distaste. ‘The press mustn’t get wind of this. Don’t announce anything until the pathologist gives his verdict. What do we know about the victim?’
‘No one’s been reported missing. The body could have been left here by a passing boat, but it’s unlikely. I’ve rung the harbourmaster on St Mary’s for a list of vessels on local waters and he’s seen nothing unusual. The only identifier we’ve got right now is the wedding ring.’
‘We can’t touch it until forensics arrive.’ The DCI releases a loud sigh. ‘Breakfast’s waiting for you at the pub, Kitto. Go and wa
rm up then collect our visitors from the quay. Have you met Liz Gannick before?’
‘Not yet.’
‘She’s an ex-cop, easily riled. Last time I saw her she was in a wheelchair. Make sure you treat her with kid gloves.’
Madron’s clipped tone irritates me, but I follow his instructions. The DCI is close to retirement, with little experience of murder investigations, yet loves to draw rank. Our working relationship has remained tense ever since I joined his team earlier this year, my position only recently made permanent. My teeth are still grinding as I walk back to Higher Town. The night’s vigil has left me hungry to know the victim’s identity, yet my boss has dismissed me from the scene like a naughty schoolboy. There’s no one in sight as I walk through the village, only the pristine white lighthouse looming overhead. The place still looks like a rural idyll, an unlikely setting for such a vicious murder.
The back door of the Turk’s Head is ajar when I arrive. Ella Tregarron doesn’t notice me at first, the landlady keeping her back turned as she labours over the stove in the pub’s large kitchen. A cascade of black hair ripples down her back as she pours oil into a frying pan, and the smell of toast wafts on the air. When I clear my throat to catch her attention she spins round in a hurry.
Ella is in her early forties, with a slim build and striking features. Her high cheekbones, pale green eyes and bee-stung mouth look good from a distance, but up close her skin is dull with tiredness. She was a stunner in her youth and her air of mystery remains, but now she carries an aura of quiet disappointment, as if life has failed to match her dreams. I fancied her madly as a boy, but there’s no reason why she’d have noticed, when every man on the islands must have felt the same. Ella doesn’t fit the stereotype for a pub landlady, her manner contained rather than outgoing.
‘Come in, Ben. You must be hungry.’ Her voice has such a thick Cornish accent it sounds like she’s never travelled past county limits.
‘You’re a lifesaver, I’m starving.’
‘Cold, too, I’m guessing, after your night outside.’
She gestures for me to sit at the steel-topped table, loading my plate with more fried eggs and toast than two men could consume. Ella remains silent as she pours coffee into a pair of white mugs, then sits down opposite, her gaze lingering on my face. She’s so watchful that I feel certain her husband must have told her what happened.
‘What did Steve say when he got back from Burnt Island?’
‘Nothing, he just bolted upstairs. I couldn’t get a word out of him.’
‘Is he okay now?’
‘He’s been ill, so I made him a hot toddy then helped him into bed,’ she replies, setting down her mug. ‘Steve doesn’t scare easily. Something bad must have happened up on that hill.’
‘We’ll make an announcement later today.’
Her eyes widen. ‘Someone’s been killed, haven’t they? It’s written all over your face.’
‘You’ll hear soon enough, Ella, I promise.’
‘All the villagers from Middle Town were at the party.’ She shakes her head in disbelief. ‘It can’t be a local.’
Ella looks unsettled so I keep the talk general, and she seems calmer by the time I thank her and say goodbye. She waves away my offer of payment, as if a free breakfast is a just reward for trying to keep the island safe.
The hot food and shot of caffeine help me to think more clearly as I follow the path along the beach to Porth Conger Quay. Whoever killed the victim must have spent time and effort preparing for the murder. They gathered piles of driftwood and hauled paraffin up the hill before it took place. I’d like to know whether the killer chose Burnt Island to set the victim alight as his idea of a joke, or as a symbolic location. My walk takes me past Helston Farm, where green shoots are defying the wintry conditions in the nearest field. The rest of the land seems to be lying fallow, but appearances are deceiving. A legion of bulbs is hidden below the surface, waiting to bloom next spring when the island’s famous daffodils will be shipped all over the world. The ground seems unlikely to blossom with colour today; all I can see are acres of tilled loam, raked smooth to keep weeds at bay.
The police launch is nowhere in sight when I reach Porth Conger Quay, but the delay doesn’t surprise me. They were a fact of life during my childhood, with ferry crossings cancelled frequently due to unpredictable weather. I’m still standing on the jetty when the vessel finally appears, looking worse for wear, blue and yellow flashing peeling from its sides. I’m expecting Dr Gannick to be a grim-faced battleaxe, but there’s no sign of a female passenger or a wheelchair when the speedboat approaches the quay.
Sergeant Lawrie Deane is skippering the launch, a middle-aged officer with cheeks glowing from the hard breeze, ginger hair combed back from a face that generous observers would describe as plain. He’s a trusted member of DCI Madron’s team and was furious not to win the job as his deputy, but his resentment towards me appears to be fading at last. Dr Keillor is seated beside him, the pathologist’s expression sombre as he gives me a nod of acknowledgement, his eyes shielded by thick spectacles.
Once the boat moors I spot a small figure hiding in the bow, clad in a black leather jacket, skinny jeans and red wellingtons. Liz Gannick is tapping out a message on her phone, oblivious to my stare. I can’t imagine her in white overalls crawling over crime scenes, but she must be outstanding in her field to win the job of running the county’s forensics service. Her appearance is elfin, with short hair dyed platinum, a few longer wisps falling across her brow. Gannick has the physique of a twelve-year-old child, but fine lines around her eyes suggest that she’s in her early forties. Her pale brown stare is penetrating enough to measure my flaws in a couple of blinks. She offers a rapid handshake, but remains in her seat as I thank her for making the journey.
‘Rough seas don’t bother me, Inspector. I know the islands well.’ Her tone sounds even more brusque than it did on the phone, her northern accent broader than before. ‘Help me out of here, can you?’
I could lift her onto the jetty in moments, but the woman’s spiky manner indicates that she prefers independence. She uses crutches to lever herself out of the vessel, only grasping my hand for a second as her matchstick-thin legs land on solid ground. She looks annoyed to catch me observing the manoeuvre.
‘It’s rude to stare, DI Kitto. Didn’t anyone teach you?’ She makes the statement in a breezy tone, but it’s clear I’m being tested.
‘I was told you’d need a wheelchair. We’ll be crossing some rough terrain. Is that okay?’
‘I’m fine on foot.’
‘Good to hear. Shall we get moving?’
‘Let me give you some advice first.’
‘Go ahead.’
‘Treat me like a fully functional human being. If we’re working together, it’ll make life easier for us both.’
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to insult you.’
Now she can see me squirming there’s a glint of amusement in her eyes. ‘Believe me, I’ve had worse. There are overshoes and Tyvek suits in that box. I’ll grab my kit, then you can give me the details along the way.’
Dr Keillor waits in silence as Gannick gathers her equipment, his expression world-weary, as if examining corpses is a waste of valuable leisure time. He walks ahead with Deane while I accompany the forensics officer. The pair of us must make an odd spectacle: a lumbering giant carting a case full of equipment for a minute woman wielding her crutches at a rapid pace. The scientist’s questions are laser-sharp; she absorbs my answers in silence, storing away facts to analyse later.
When we reach Burnt Island, Gannick makes no complaint about the steep climb. Dr Keillor marches ahead while she navigates between boulders with deft agility. By the time we reach the top, I’m embarrassed to have doubted her strength. The chief of forensic services isn’t even out of breath when she greets DCI Madron and Eddie, who are still guarding the body. My boss offers her and Dr Keillor a formal welcome; he’s a stickler for protocol, and their seniority has pu
t him on his best behaviour. Gannick ignores the DCI’s old-fashioned courtesy, remaining in the background while Keillor approaches the murder scene, but I can tell she’s itching to get started.
The pathologist focuses on the victim’s face when he lowers himself to a crouching position. ‘Someone’s made a mess of you, haven’t they, my friend?’ he mutters under his breath.
Keillor draws on sterile gloves, then peels back the sheepskin carefully. Eddie is swaying on his feet, eyes glassy as he observes the corpse, but at least he remains upright. Fire has melted the victim’s flesh, arms fused to his torso where fragments of bone are visible, shreds of blackened muscle still clinging to the legs and ribcage. Dr Keillor is too busy studying the remains to pass comment. Silence thickens around us and I’m about to request his verdict when he turns to face me.
‘The victim was male with an average build. It’s too soon to tell his age.’ He leans forward to study the skull more closely. ‘There’s a fracture in his parietal bone, but the blow could have been inflicted posthumously.’
‘Can you give us any more details?’ Madron asks.
‘I’ll need to do a full post-mortem first. His arms and legs must have been bound or else the heat would have forced the muscles to flex at right angles. The lab will have to analyse the embers to explain how the fire started, but you’d need petrol-based firelighters as well as paraffin and solid fuel to create such intense heat. It would have taken a minimum of three hours to destroy so much tissue. The coat was thrown over the body after the event. If everything goes to plan, I’ll do the post-mortem this afternoon and will take X-rays for a dental records match.’ He turns to face Liz Gannick. ‘I’m afraid you’ll struggle to find the killer’s DNA; we’ve had rainfall since the man died.’
