by Kate Rhodes
‘You need more boxing lessons, Ben. Someone gave you a pasting, didn’t they?’ He nods at the scratches his daughter left on my neck.
‘It’s nothing. We just want a short conversation.’
‘Pity,’ he replies, shaking his head. ‘You’d be a heavyweight contender by now if you’d stuck at it.’
‘I never had your speed.’ I take a breath before continuing. ‘I’m afraid it’s bad news about your son-in-law.’
His eyes blink rapidly. ‘Sally’s husband?’
‘He was murdered by an islander yesterday, or the night before.’
A look of outrage crosses his face. ‘Why wasn’t I told?’
‘We only found him last night.’
‘What sick fucking bastard would do that?’ His voice is hoarse with disbelief, hands fisting at his sides.
‘We’ll find out, but Sally’s struggling. She needs your support.’
He springs to his feet then dumps his mug in the sink. ‘I’m the last person she’d want around.’
‘She’s six months pregnant and you’re her only family, Keith. We can walk you there now if you like.’
‘Don’t give me orders.’ Pendennis spins round suddenly, a muscle ticking in his jaw. ‘You’re a mate of hers; you bloody take care of her.’
My memory dials back twenty years to the way he harangued smaller, weaker boys for making slow progress in the ring. Pendennis may have hated his son-in-law for reasons unknown. It’s possible that he disapproved of Sally marrying an outsider, even though he dragged himself along to her wedding. I’d like to ask more questions, but the fitness trainer’s lips are set in a hard line. I tell him about the meeting we’re planning in the lifeboat house this afternoon, then say goodbye.
Eddie looks shaken once we get outside. ‘I wouldn’t fancy being stuck in a lift with him right now. He’s like a bomb waiting to go off.’
‘Do you know why he and Sally rowed? She never said they’d fallen out.’
‘I’ll ask around, boss.’
My friend ignored her dad’s advice often when we were growing up; two strong personalities under one roof led to regular clashes, but she rarely criticised him. Pendennis has spent a lifetime honing his body and his reputation as the island’s hard man, but that doesn’t make him a killer, unless I can find proof.
5
DCI Madron is waiting for us outside the old lifeboat house, wearing a look of distaste. The building stands above the shore at Bergecooth Bay, its slipway running down to the shingle below, while the rocky outline of Burnt Island looms on the horizon. It’s a simple clapperboard barn with the letters RNLI fading on the sign above its entrance. It’s stood empty since the island’s lifeboat service ended ten years ago, making way for a centralised fleet on St Mary’s. The wooden doors that once fell open whenever the rescue boat emerged are starting to splinter.
The DCI seems unmoved by our return from informing Rogan’s widow of his death; his sole focus is on police protocol. ‘This accommodation’s not fit for purpose, Kitto. You can’t use it as an incident room.’
‘There are no other public spaces on St Agnes, sir.’
‘It could damage our professional reputation. I suggest you look again.’
Madron sucks in a long breath as I open the fire door, his disapproval silenced by the echo of our footsteps. The hangar is empty, apart from the lifeboat’s wheel tracks still marking the concrete floor and a row of orange life jackets hanging from the wall. The air feels as cold as the temperature outside, but the room upstairs is more inviting: the observation deck is still intact, with a telescope on a metal plinth, a table and folding chairs stacked in a pile. A panoramic window runs from wall to wall, giving uninterrupted views of the ocean. The grin on Eddie’s face is easy to interpret: the space would make an ideal bachelor pad, and it should provide us with a calm environment to solve a case that’s crying out for a quick result.
‘I thought Naomi Vine wanted this place for an art gallery?’ says Madron.
‘The islanders aren’t keen, sir. They’re fighting her application to put her sculptures on the beach, too,’ Eddie replies. ‘The boathouse would make a great village hall.’
‘It would take a fortune to make this place habitable.’ The DCI’s expression remains thunderous. ‘What do you know about Professor Rogan, Eddie? You’ve lived here six months, you must have the inside track on the community.’
The young sergeant’s face sobers. ‘Rogan spent holidays here as a kid and fell in love with the place. He was looking for a site to build an observatory for schoolkids and locals to use. He’d persuaded the Science Council to put up half the money and wanted to raise more from his Dark Skies Festival at the end of July. Alex said the Scillies would be one of the best places to see the lunar eclipse. He met Sally when he came down here looking for sponsors and ended up marrying her last summer.’
‘What’s the festival about?’ the DCI asks.
‘It’s a get-together for stargazers. Apparently there’s hardly any light pollution here.’
‘That’s all well and good, but it doesn’t explain Rogan’s murder,’ Madron replies.
I pull my phone from my pocket to show him the killer’s message. ‘This was scratched into the rock where Rogan was found.’
My boss stares at the image. ‘It’s written in Cornish, isn’t it? What does it say?’
‘He’s warning outsiders to keep away. He’s claiming that St Agnes is sacred land.’
‘Find out who’s been criticising incomers.’ The man’s tension shows in the set of his shoulders. ‘I want a word with you in private before I leave, Kitto.’
The DCI’s grey stare is colder than the ocean outside when we return downstairs. ‘Remember that your conduct as Senior Investigating Officer is under intense scrutiny. The press will spread rubbish all over the tabloids if you put a foot wrong. They’ll ask why an eminent astronomer met such a violent death on a small island and we won’t get a minute’s peace. I expect the highest professional standards from you, Kitto.’
‘Have I let you down before?’
‘There’s always a first time. Sally Rogan’s a personal friend of yours, isn’t she?’
‘A schoolmate; there’s no conflict of interest.’
He narrows his eyes. ‘It’s fortunate that Eddie lives here, but I want you on St Agnes at all times, until the killer’s found. That message sounds like the start of a campaign. Go home, pack a bag, then get back here immediately.’
‘I was planning to stay till I get a result. There’s plenty of room at the pub.’
‘Don’t allow anyone to visit or leave St Agnes. I’ll contact Rogan’s parents on the mainland and keep them away until we’ve got answers.’ His gaze lands on my ancient donkey jacket. ‘How many times do I have to tell you to smarten up? Get a decent coat and a haircut before the press briefing.’
‘Is that all, sir? I need to prepare my talk for the islanders.’
‘Liz Gannick knows the Chief Commissioner. He’s asked her for a partnership report on the island force. If she writes one negative word, it’ll be a disciplinary matter. Make sure you stay in her good books.’
The DCI marches away before I can reply. The man’s lack of faith in my ability annoys the hell out of me, but at least he’s left me to my own devices. He used to insist on attending every public meeting to monitor my behaviour, so his level of trust must be rising, even though my wardrobe is still failing to impress.
When I get back upstairs Eddie is putting the room in order. He’s busy sweeping dust from the wooden floor, but it feels like the lifeboat crew could return at any minute to reclaim the nautical maps and tide tables covering the walls. Eddie’s diligent approach usually makes me smile, but today I have to suppress my irritation. My deputy is performing cleaning duties, and my boss is fretting about his professional reputation, even though a man has died in the worst circumstances imaginable.
Forty islanders gather for the two o’clock meeting. I scan their faces i
n turn, aware that any one of them could be Alex Rogan’s murderer, but their expressions are unreadable. The people of St Agnes have a reputation for toughness. Local families rely on one another when the summer tourists leave and harsh winds race in from the Atlantic. The island is too distant from St Mary’s for easy crossings during winter, so the population are forced to be self-sufficient. They are less dependent on tourism than the other islands, with only one pub and a scattering of holiday homes; many of the permanent residents still survive on fishing, farming or growing flowers. Others have become entrepreneurs, selling everything from locally made chocolate to hand-knitted sweaters through shops on the mainland.
The people milling around on the slipway look like nothing could faze them, but their reactions to Rogan’s death will be interesting to observe. They can handle life’s adversities, but a cold-blooded murder is bound to test their defences. Eddie has laid out some chairs in the hangar downstairs, yet most of the crowd choose to stand, their faces wary as the meeting begins. Keith Pendennis is by himself, arms tightly folded across his chest. The coach has smartened himself up since we spoke, dressed in a heavy winter coat, dark jeans and boots, but his truculent expression remains. He still looks ready to deck anyone who dares to meet his eye.
Ella Tregarron is smiling at me from the front of the crowd. She’s wearing a coat with a fur collar, her lips painted a vivid crimson like a fading Hollywood starlet. Her husband appears to have survived his ordeal intact, but the couple’s differences are stark by daylight. Steve is still dressed in his scruffy leather jacket, threadbare jeans and cowboy boots, while his wife is perfectly groomed. I notice the man’s tight grip on her hand, as if she might slip from his grasp if his concentration lapses. When I scan the faces again, only Liam Poldean looks genuinely upset, his face white with strain as he shifts his weight from foot to foot.
The meeting has already begun when Eddie’s fiancée Michelle sneaks in at the back of the room with their baby daughter Lottie slung across her chest. She’s a pretty twenty-four-year-old with long, chocolate-brown hair, currently on maternity leave from her job as a nursery school assistant. The young woman’s face lights up when she spots Eddie beside me, and gives him an encouraging wave. It crosses my mind that announcing a local murder would feel a hell of a lot easier if someone in the crowd was rooting for me with that kind of devotion, but I’ve been single for months. I should be used to solitude by now. Silence falls over the room once I rise to my feet.
‘Thanks for coming everyone. Most of you know us already; I’m DI Ben Kitto and this is Sergeant Eddie Nickell. I’m sorry there’s nowhere warmer for us to meet. You’ll have heard by now that a man’s body was found last night on Burnt Island. We can confirm that we’re treating this as a murder, and that the victim, who we believe to be Alex Rogan, was killed in a fire.’
The crowd’s shock hisses around the room like Chinese whispers.
‘Alex left home to catch the seven a.m. ferry to St Mary’s on Thursday morning, but it appears he never reached the quay. I’ll be running the investigation and using this building for our headquarters. This is a murder inquiry – no one can leave St Agnes without my permission. I want all of you to keep your homes secure; lock your doors and windows, and don’t spend time alone.’
I take my time passing on selected information, allowing it to register. The islanders’ faces are impassive and people seem reluctant to speak. Even though I was born on Bryher and Eddie grew up on Tresco, they’re treating us like aliens. Stan Eden is the first to break the silence. Eden is one of the oldest islanders – a former lighthouse keeper with a stout build and a thatch of white hair, his expression solemn. The rest of the crowd watch the old man rise to his feet like he’s their best source of guidance.
‘Alex was on Porth Killier beach a few nights back, setting up his telescope. I had no idea he was missing.’
‘Neither did his wife. His killer wanted him found on bonfire night for reasons we don’t yet understand.’ I pause to scan the crowd. ‘Please speak to me if you know anything about the attack. We’ll be visiting every house on the island, and before you leave today please tell Eddie where you were on the fourth and fifth of November. None of you should talk to the press about Alex’s death. Anyone who does will be arrested for obstructing a murder investigation.’
The meeting fragments after a few more questions. The islanders seem eager to escape, but their behaviour doesn’t stem from rudeness. They have grown used to life with few outside interventions. I’ll have to proceed with caution to stop them siding against us. We need all the cooperation we can get.
‘One more thing,’ I say as the meeting ends. ‘We found a coat with binoculars in the pocket at the murder scene. Does anyone know who owns a worn-out sheepskin?’
‘The Birdman,’ Steve Tregarron calls out. ‘Jimmy Curwen wears one all year round.’
The crowd releases another hiss of whispers, the man’s guilt already decided.
‘Keep watch for him, please. Jimmy may not be connected to the attack, but I want to speak to him.’
‘The bloke’s an oddball; no other islander would commit murder.’ A male voice reaches me from the back of the room. I can’t tell who made the accusation, but plenty of heads nod in agreement. I need to know why they’re so quick to assume Curwen’s guilt.
‘Leave the investigation to us. Trust me, we’ll make arrests as soon as we have proof.’
The crowd departs in unison, leaving me and Eddie alone in the freezing boathouse packed to the rafters with unanswered questions. The Birdman has lived on St Agnes all his life; a dishevelled figure patrolling the shore after every high tide, but I know little about his history, except that he was cautioned two years ago for disturbing the peace.
I’m about to go back upstairs when one of the islanders returns to the doorway. Martin Tolman’s appearance is distinguished; he’s in his mid-forties, grey hair cropped close to his skull, his dark eyes set deep into their sockets. He looks like a character actor playing a particularly intense part, but Tolman is a local architect. I employed him to draw up some blueprints back in the summer when I was thinking of converting my loft; weight has dropped from him since then, exaggerating his sharp cheekbones. He barely manages a smile when I reach out to shake his hand.
‘Good to see you, Martin. Were you at the meeting just now?’
He gives a distracted nod. ‘I don’t know if it’s relevant, but Alex Rogan came to my house last Monday night. He was in a dreadful state when my wife opened the door.’
‘What did he want?’
‘Someone had put burning rags through the window of his study that evening. Luckily he put out the fire before it caused damage. He made me promise not to tell Sally. She was out when it happened.’
Tolman’s story fits the circumstances precisely: the killer was so determined to end Rogan’s life he tried to murder him on two separate occasions.
‘Did Alex see who did it?’
He shakes his head. ‘There was no one around when he went outside. The poor chap seemed mystified. Liam Poldean had called by earlier with his kids, but they’d had no other visitors.’
‘Were you close friends with Rogan?’
‘Acquaintances, really. He came to our church a few times for communion.’ Tolman bites his lip. ‘Sorry, Ben, I should have reported the incident straight away.’
‘It’s not your fault, thanks for letting me know. Can we have a longer chat soon?’
‘Any time, you know where I am.’
The architect offers a quiet goodbye, his slim form barely casting a shadow when he slips out of the building, but he’s the least of my concerns. I need to find out why a coat belonging to the island’s most eccentric resident was used to shroud a body at a murder scene.
6
Jimmy hides behind the lifeboat house, peering through a crack in the fire door. He used to love this place when he was a boy. The building reeked of diesel, brine and the rubbery sweetness of oilskin. The crew u
sed to let him peer through their telescope to watch puffins plummeting into the sea, hunting for mackerel, but there’s no trace of those officers today. A tall, black-haired man stands where their boat lay, rubbing the back of his neck as if his muscles hurt. Jimmy recognises Ben Kitto and the younger man who waits at his side, his frame so much smaller that the pair look like father and son.
He tries to gather the courage to tell them what he witnessed on bonfire night, but the words turn to dust in his mouth. Jimmy presses his ear to the crack, struggling to follow the conversation. Individual words carry on the still air – suspect, victims, forensics – but their meanings confuse him. Soon the big detective walks closer, his voice reaching Jimmy more clearly.
‘We need to find out why Curwen was at the scene, Eddie. No one’s seen him since. He could be our killer.’
Jimmy reels backwards, almost stumbling from the ledge. He escapes through the bushes then chases the path back to Middle Town. No matter what happens, his birds need him; he can’t neglect them.
When he gets home, the sun has already dropped from the sky. He regrets leaving his coat on Burnt Island because his jumper and thin trousers offer little protection from the cold. Once indoors, he tries to remember what he heard. The police think he’s to blame. He must find out who killed the burning man or they’ll put him in jail, and the creatures he’s rescued will starve. He pulls on another jumper, stuffs his pockets with bundles of feathers from his collection, then packs food in a carrier bag before rushing downstairs.
A tern screams out a raucous welcome, but the gull eyes him calmly as Jimmy refills water dishes and tips seed into their trays.
