by Kate Rhodes
‘I’ll find the answer,’ he whispers. ‘Then I’ll come back.’
Jimmy wishes he could spend longer with his birds, but there’s no time to waste. He runs until the village lies behind him, uncertain where to start his search. When he reaches the open fields he hides behind a thicket of gorse, his heart jittering with panic.
7
I leave Eddie making phone calls at 5 p.m., checking whether anyone witnessed Alex Rogan’s last walk. Eddie’s cheeks are flushed with excitement as he crosses names off our list of potential suspects, the field narrowing already, with more than half of the island’s residents providing cast-iron alibis. I can see why he’s enjoying himself. His duties normally involve travelling between the islands as the friendly face of law enforcement, in a place where few crimes ever happen. He has already visited Jimmy Curwen’s flat, but found it empty. The grisly discovery on Burnt Island seems to have energised him, even though it’s late afternoon and his fiancée and daughter want him at home.
Tiredness is catching up with me after last night’s lack of sleep, but I need to find the Birdman before I attend the autopsy. The best place to get information is at the pub, which doubles as a community centre all year round. The winter dusk is thickening, and my eyes take a while to adjust when I leave the lifeboat house. I’m following the track towards Middle Town when a torch beam crosses my face and a man’s low voice greets me as he steps into my path. Mike Walbert is the owner of Lower Town Farm and was a friend of my father’s. He acted as a coffin-bearer at Dad’s funeral, a big, avuncular man of around sixty with a bluff manner and skin roughened by a lifetime outdoors. I can tell from the concern on his face that his wife Louise has told him about Sally’s ordeal this morning.
‘You must be freezing in that boathouse, Ben. Come in and get warm.’ The farmer is dressed in a padded coat, a scarf swaddling his throat.
I’m short of time, but offending one of the island’s elders could hinder the investigation. Walbert comes from a long-established island family, acting as St Agnes’s mayor on several occasions and still heavily involved in local politics. Refusal isn’t an option when he puts his hand on my shoulder and shepherds me towards his farmhouse.
Walbert’s build is almost as hefty as mine, his walk lumbering. He keeps the talk general as we approach his home, telling me that he’s been checking his flock of rare breed sheep, who have a habit of breaking through fences. An appetising aroma greets me when his front door opens, freshly baked bread wafting from the kitchen. The farmhouse bears the hallmarks of Louise’s bohemian style – walls painted in vivid colours and adorned with flamboyant paintings of local scenes. I notice some framed newspaper stories from the Gazette, too, reporting projects the couple have spearheaded, like building a local playground. The Walberts are childless, allowing them to channel their spare energy into raising money for local causes. When Mike leads me into the dining room, his wife is hunched over a table that’s littered with cogs and small pieces of metal.
‘You look busy, Louise.’
She puts down her glasses, her eyes puffy with tears. ‘I mend things when I’m upset, Ben. This old radio’s keeping me busy.’
‘It’s her idea of relaxation,’ Mike agrees. ‘Last week she dismantled our washing machine, fitted a new pump, then had it working again in five minutes flat.’
Louise’s technical skills don’t surprise me because my mother was the same. Island life teaches everyone to make do and mend from an early age.
‘How do you remember where everything goes?’
‘It’s child’s play compared to your job right now.’ She puts down her screwdriver. ‘Ella Tregarron’s looking after Sally, but I’ll spend the night there, so the poor girl isn’t alone.’
‘Thanks for taking care of her. Is she up to answering questions?’
Louise shakes her head. ‘I’d wait till she gets over the shock. Is there news about Alex?’
‘Not yet, I’m afraid.’
‘Come and sit by the fire.’ Her smile revives when she rises to her feet. ‘You must be starving.’
She returns with fruit cake and a pot of tea. Scillonian hospitality relies on good manners, so I thank her warmly, even though I’ve got no appetite and tea is my least favourite drink.
Mike watches me take my first sip, reminding me that he’s keen to help. He offers to put heaters in the lifeboat house to warm the abandoned building. It’s only when I look more closely that changes in the farmer’s appearance register: he still appears robust, but his expression is bleak. He no longer seems like the confident spokesman who always champions the island’s causes with brash good humour on the local news.
‘Alex Rogan never hurt a soul,’ he murmurs. ‘Whoever ended his life must be unhinged. Most people are blaming the Birdman; they say he’s the only islander capable of doing it.’
‘What do you know about him?’
‘Jimmy Curwen’s a misfit. He’s survived on handouts from neighbours since his mum died two years ago; the Tregarrons give him leftover food.’ Walbert shrugs his shoulders. ‘He can’t hold a conversation with another human being, but chats away to his wounded birds happily enough.’
‘Does he seem the violent type?’
‘Not to me,’ Louise chips in. ‘Being alone in the world makes him unlucky, not evil.’
Her husband shakes his head. ‘Why would he run off if he’s innocent? No one can tell what he’s thinking. He chased some lads for destroying a bird’s nest years ago and almost got himself arrested. The bloke was screaming these weird noises. Women have kept their kids away from him ever since.’
‘He lives by himself, doesn’t he?’
‘Jimmy’s got a bedsit in the lighthouse keepers’ cottages. Martin Tolman lets him use one of the flats for free.’
‘That’s generous of him.’
The farmer nods his head. ‘Jimmy hasn’t caused much trouble till now, but the bloke’s a strange one. If you want help catching him, let me know.’
‘Thanks for the offer, but we expect to find him soon,’ I reply. ‘It’s possible that someone tried to torch Rogan’s house before he was attacked. Can you think why?’
Louise looks bemused. ‘He spent most of his time at Roseland Observatory in St Austell, or here with Sally. Why would that upset anyone?’
‘It’s too soon to tell. Did he have many close friends?’
‘I saw him with Liam Poldean in the pub plenty of times. They hit it off from day one. The only person he clashed with was his father-in-law, but that’s not rare. Keith Pendennis is tricky at the best of times.’
‘What did they row about?’
‘I saw them trading insults on the beach a few weeks back. It looked like it might get physical, but I didn’t hear the gist of it.’
Keith Pendennis remains a potential suspect; he has failed to provide an alibi, saying only that he spent the day of his son-in-law’s death alone at home on Gugh. But his clash with Alex Rogan might have escalated to murderous violence.
‘Nothing like this has happened before, has it? The place has been crime-free for years.’
‘Apart from the fire this summer,’ Mike says.
He’s busy stirring sugar into his tea and Louise is staring at the polished table-top. They appear reluctant to criticise another islander, but all three of us remember their hay barn going up in smoke in August. The incident has troubled me ever since because the lad I arrested never explained his actions; he protested his innocence until the evidence grew overwhelming and his solicitor told him that pleading guilty would bring a lighter sentence. When Eddie searched the farm’s workshop, he found the boy’s toolkit packed with firelighters and boxes of matches.
‘There’s a difference between a teenage prank and cold-blooded murder. Adam Helston did his community service and he’s caused no more problems, but he’ll be interviewed like everyone else.’ The boy struck me as troubled, not dangerous, but I still need to visit his family. The juvenile court left a suspended sentence hang
ing over him for the damage he caused.
‘His dad’s so embarrassed he can hardly meet my eye.’ The farmer shifts uncomfortably in his seat, as if old grievances are weighing on him. I use the lull in our conversation as my opportunity to leave.
I thank Mike for his hospitality, remembering his certainty that the Birdman could be the killer. Innocent or guilty, I need to find him fast. Experience has taught me that being different can cause suspicion. When I joined the Murder Squad in London my colleagues spent months mimicking my West Country accent; it took a year before I was allowed into their clan, but Jimmy Curwen hasn’t been so lucky. It’s clear that he’s never been fully accepted by the community. His loneliness and resentment may have hardened into violence.
It’s 6 p.m. by the time I continue my journey to Middle Town, trailing my torch beam over drystone walls. There are so few outdoor lights in the Scillies that night falls abruptly; torches are essential to avoid breaking your ankle tripping on a rabbit hole. The drama of nightfall is one of the things I missed most in London. The city sky faded to a dirty brown outside my flat in Hammersmith, with wreaths of smog choking the stars, but the difference between day and night is absolute here, particularly in winter. The sky is midnight blue already, the constellations gleaming.
I’m still questioning why Mike Walbert’s confidence has been replaced by anxiety. Shock at Alex Rogan’s death seems to have knocked even the strongest community members sideways. The islanders seem unwilling to accept that a vicious murder could occur in a place which has been law-abiding for decades, with the exception of a few petty crimes. I need to remain open-minded at this stage in the investigation. I’ll keep a close eye on Keith Pendennis and Adam Helston, but Sally must provide more evidence before I start making assumptions.
*
I get back to Middle Town and head for the keepers’ cottages. They stand in a neat, whitewashed terrace at the foot of the lighthouse, a single light glowing from an upstairs window. The back door of the end house is unlocked, so I climb the stairs. An odd smell taints the air, growing stronger outside the Birdman’s flat. A hessian bag of straw almost blocks the entrance to the loft room, releasing a farmyard odour of dust and newly mown grass. I tap on the open door but there’s no reply as I step inside.
The room is dominated by Jimmy’s passion for the avian species: rows of fractured eggshells crowd the mantelpiece, and different types of feed are stored in tubs and boxes. A few threadbare clothes hang in Curwen’s wardrobe. The closest thing to modernity is the Birdman’s ancient radio, with no TV or computer in sight. I put through a call to Eddie to inform him that our chief suspect’s flat remains empty. Jimmy’s absence since the time of the murder places him under strong suspicion. A life of poverty, without any home comforts, may have spurred his violent tendencies, but doesn’t explain why he would target a man like Alex Rogan. Further checks must wait until tomorrow. When I glance at my watch it’s six thirty, and Dr Keillor will be waiting for me on St Mary’s.
‘Go home, Eddie,’ I say over the phone. ‘Curwen will still be here tomorrow; he can’t leave the island without being seen.’
My deputy sounds uneasy when he informs me that no one has provided any useful information about Alex Rogan’s abduction. I’ve spent enough time here to know that the islands yield their secrets slowly, but the first forty-eight hours after a body is found are crucial. Sleeping beside the victim’s charred remains has made the vigil personal, my old school friend’s grief increasing my need to catch the killer. The case puts the other islanders in danger too. Whoever killed Rogan must be unbalanced; few people of sane mind could stand back and watch someone burn.
A noise stops me in my tracks as I cross the yard, the high squealing of an infant in distress, making me break into a run. It’s coming from an enclosure attached to the wall by wooden plinths. But when I get closer, the cage houses a seagull lying on a nest of straw, and half a dozen more birds in separate compartments. One of them screams in terror, wings flapping wildly against the chicken wire, a white bandage encasing one of its claws. I crouch down to inspect Jimmy Curwen’s bird hospital and notice that the food bowls are almost full. He must have come back here to feed them since going on the run, but his care for the wounded birds doesn’t make him innocent. I still need to find out why the Birdman has disappeared straight after the island’s only violent crime in recent history.
8
It’s 8 p.m. by the time I sail the police launch into Hugh Town harbour. St Mary’s is three times the size of St Agnes, with almost 2000 inhabitants; it seems like a metropolis by comparison, with a handful of vehicles driving through the narrow streets. The island’s hospital is one of the smallest NHS facilities in England, and despite being purpose-built, the place looks like a handful of white portacabins thrown together beside a small car park. It contains three treatment rooms, an operating theatre for emergency procedures, and the mortuary where Dr Keillor is waiting for me. He looks unimpressed when I rush through the door. I’ve witnessed his autopsies before, and communication between us is improving, although he claims to prefer working alone.
The pathologist’s suit looks like it was purchased from a gentlemen’s outfitters several decades ago, thinning grey hair combed over his bald patch, tortoiseshell glasses reducing his eyes to pinpricks when he glances in my direction. He seems oblivious to the stink of formaldehyde and the fact that his only companion is a corpse waiting beneath a thin white sheet.
‘You’re late, Ben. My wife tells me it’s my turn to cook; she doesn’t appreciate being kept waiting.’
‘Sorry, I had some loose ends to chase. Didn’t you get my text?’
He gives a grim smile. ‘The only reason you sent that polite little apology is to stop me whining to Madron.’
‘Guilty as charged.’ I hold up my hands as if he’s pointing a loaded gun at my chest. ‘Can I stay anyway?’
‘If you keep quiet. Background noise ruins my concentration.’
‘My lips are sealed.’
He stands beside the operating table. ‘I sent X-rays to dental records and got a match an hour ago: the victim is definitely Alex Rogan.’
The pathologist’s face is sober when he draws back the sheet, and the state of the corpse makes me glad not to have eaten recently, my empty stomach somersaulting against my ribs. The sight would trigger nightmares in most of the population; Rogan’s body looks worse under the strip lights’ glare, his features melted like candlewax, fragments of blackened wood still clinging to his limbs. Keillor’s movements are delicate, as if he’s treating a living patient. He murmurs a slow monologue for the benefit of the recorder that hangs from the ceiling, but occasional words and phrases reach me: necrosis, oedema, third-degree burns. I only understand half of his terms, but the facts are clear enough: someone set out to cause Alex Rogan an excruciating death.
When I look up again, Keillor is using a long-bladed knife to separate Rogan’s ribs and remove the heart, lungs and spleen from the shell of his torso, forcing me to swallow hard to suppress my nausea. Behind the stench of chemicals I can smell the oily sweetness of burned flesh. Once the organs have been weighed and examined, he places them in metal trays, then finally replaces the white sheet.
‘At least you stayed, Ben. I hate it when people run screaming from my theatre.’
‘It crossed my mind.’
‘Full marks for bravery, but I’m afraid your victim had a bad death. His arms were bound with rope that burned away in the fire. He received a heavy blow with a sharp metal instrument, like a pickaxe. The three-inch-deep wound to his skull would have caused a fatal brain injury, but he was alive when he entered the fire.’
‘How do you know?’
‘The alveoli in his lungs are blackened by tar. If he’d been dead at point of entry, there would have been no smoke inhalation. When the tissue samples come back, I should be able to pinpoint when he died to within six hours.’
‘That’s the best help I’ve had yet. The islanders are k
eeping their cards close to their chests.’ I study his face again. ‘Anything else?’
‘Your killer chose the best way to cover his tracks. Fire destroys all trace evidence at source, if it’s intense enough. It can even wipe out DNA.’
Disappointment worsens my bad mood. My journey to St Mary’s has only proved that Alex Rogan’s killer can’t be pinned down. I feel like slinking away to lick my wounds, but a stiff drink might be a better remedy.
‘Let me buy you that dinner you missed, or a pint at least.’
Keillor shakes his head. ‘My appetite’s deserted me. The older I get, the more premature death exhausts me; your victim’s the same age as my youngest son. I need a bath and an early night.’
‘That’s a pity. The Mermaid’s got some great local beer.’
He’s scrubbing his hands with surgical soap that colours his skin a vivid yellow. ‘Liz Gannick’s waiting for me there. She wants to discuss my findings, but I’d rather you went in my place. Let’s have that drink another time, Ben.’
‘I’ll hold you to it.’
I head for the pub at a rapid march, keen to find out why the chief forensics officer contacted Keillor without my permission.
*
The Mermaid Inn has guarded the mouth of Hugh Town harbour for 200 years; the sign above its door shows a brightly painted siren perching on a rock, and the interior is equally characterful. The place was a favourite of mine in my teens for its relaxed atmosphere and high quality beer. It hasn’t changed much since then, still doubling as a maritime museum as well as a drinking den. An array of marine salvage hangs from the rafters. Tillers, oars and brass-framed portholes from local shipwrecks dangle above the tables, with mariners’ knots and pieces of scrimshaw mounted in frames. I pause to glance at a broken compass that always fascinated me as a kid, its needle still pointing due north.
Liz Gannick is alone at a corner table, poring over a newspaper. She’s dressed entirely in black, her bleached hair standing up in spikes, elfin face youthful but careworn.
