by Kate Rhodes
‘Loud and clear, but I’ve done nothing wrong.’
‘Come on, Adam. This box holds enough firelighters to burn a castle down to the ground.’
‘Someone planted them, like last time. Can’t you see?’ Words fly from the boy’s mouth at high velocity. ‘Why would I risk buying that stuff? Even my parents don’t believe me. They want me to stay here shovelling shit all day long. Dad says I’ve blown my chances of getting a decent job.’
‘You want to leave St Agnes?’
‘I hate farming. Liam Poldean offered me an apprenticeship, but Dad won’t listen.’
Something about the boy’s clear eye contact persuades me he’s telling the truth, but I wait for him to calm down before speaking again. ‘A criminal record won’t stop you trying another career. The army would take you, or even the police, if you pass the entry course. Everyone makes stupid mistakes at your age.’
The boy’s face lightens by a few degrees, but he doesn’t reply.
‘Who could get in here without being seen?’ I ask.
‘I’m in the fields all day, but Mum would know. She hardly ever goes out.’
Adam’s parents are still too tense with anger to answer questions when I go back downstairs with the box of firelighters under my arm. I tell them to keep watch over their son, day and night, until I come back. The rain is heavier once I leave their property, yet it’s a relief to breathe air untainted by misery. Adam seemed to be telling the truth, but I can’t prove he’s not connected to Alex Rogan’s death; his parents’ alibi is his only defence. The boy seems trapped in a toxic situation, his father determined to keep him on the family farm. Maybe I’d go on the attack too, in his situation. I’m reminded of my own youthful belief that bigger adventures lay over the horizon.
My phone buzzes in my pocket when I get back to the incident room. The clipped voice at the end of the line belongs to Dr Keillor, his statements so brief he seems unwilling to waste a syllable.
‘The lab results are back, Ben. Shall I email you the results?’
‘Give me an outline now, please.’
‘Alex Rogan died roughly fifteen to eighteen hours after leaving home, which places his death before dawn on the fifth of November. Tissue samples show high levels of cortisol in the surviving muscle mass.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Stress hormones are released into the bloodstream when someone experiences pain. It means he was conscious when he was set alight. The killer probably smashed his skull to stop him screaming.’
‘You can tell all that even though he was burned?’
‘Cortisol’s a powerful chemical. That’s why abattoirs keep livestock calm before they die; it taints the flavour of meat when it’s cooked.’
‘Are you saying that Rogan was tortured before he died?’
‘Your killer wanted to see him burn, the head wound was an afterthought. The only saving grace is that toxicology shows he’d been given a dose of flunitrazepam – better known as Rohypnol.’
‘The date rape drug?’
‘There was enough in his system to make him sluggish and easier to control. It might have numbed some of the pain.’
‘Whoever did it must have hated his guts.’
‘Psychology’s not my forte, I’m afraid.’
‘Sorry, I was thinking aloud.’
‘That’s my worst failing, Ben; it’s a feature of my grand old age. Without meaning to sound rude, I hope we don’t meet again soon – unless it’s at the pub. I’m happier on the golf course than conducting autopsies these days.’
I mull over the pathologist’s findings after our conversation. I need a forensic analysis of Alex Rogan’s house, but travel restrictions are in place until the storm warning lifts. My only chance of expert help is from Liz Gannick, who is still with her relatives on St Mary’s, unable to travel back to the mainland. There’s curiosity in her tone when I make the call. I can tell how badly she wants the killer found, not only to add gloss to her reputation.
‘The harbour’s in lockdown,’ she says. ‘I’ll come over tomorrow, when the ferries are running again.’
I feel a pang of envy for Gannick’s job after she hangs up. She has to confront the results of violence every day, but chasing down the perpetrator rests on my shoulders alone. It crosses my mind that I could pick her up in Ray’s lapstrake, but Madron would remove me from the case if he knew she’d been subjected to rough seas.
Eddie arrives at the lifeboat house as I’m shoving my phone back into my pocket, so I tell him about the arsonist’s toolkit in Adam Helston’s room. I still find it hard to believe that a teenage boy would plan such a well-coordinated murder campaign. The killer’s use of the Cornish language is relevant too. He appears to resent outsiders’ interference in his tiny kingdom, but so far the only islanders with a proven interest in the language are Deborah and Martin Tolman, even though neither have a clear reason to harm Alex Rogan. Eddie keeps his gaze trained on my face as I pass on the details. Ever since we started working together he has tracked my movements closely, as if my behaviour provides better guidance than the policing manual. But right now it feels like the blind leading the blind. He shakes his head in disbelief, the news ending his usual stream of chatter, until he gazes down at the piece of paper still clutched in his hands.
‘I’ve called all the local boat owners and ferrymen. No one’s given Jimmy Curwen a lift off the island.’
‘Good work, Eddie, now all we have to do is find him. He’s still our chief suspect.’
‘I don’t agree, sir.’ He looks awkward, his gaze fixed on the table. ‘Like I said, the bloke seems gentle. Most of the time he keeps out of people’s way. I think we should be pursuing other leads.’
‘Anyone can flip out, Eddie, and Curwen’s got more reason than most. He fits the psychological profile of most violent criminals perfectly. He’s isolated, with time on his hands, and ostracised by his community since scaring those kids. Let’s organise a search party tonight. If he’s lying low, he’ll only move around after nightfall.’
‘Can you do me a favour first? Michelle’s been in a state since Rogan died. She respects you; there’s a chance you can calm her down.’
I give a rapid nod. ‘Let’s go now, then set up the search.’
We must be making progress because Eddie has never invited me to his home before, our talk centring on the case as we walk back to Lower Town.
The Nickells’ rented apartment is over an old granary, with a fine view uphill to the lighthouse. Eddie looks embarrassed as we climb the fire escape to the second floor, as if he’s regretting his invitation.
The couple’s living room gives an insight into his home life: the young sergeant prides himself on being organised at work, but the cramped space is chaotic, with clothes drying on racks and a play mat on the floor heaped with toys. The furniture looks like it was donated by a variety of well-meaning relatives, with armchairs in different styles and colours. Michelle hurries from the kitchen as soon as we arrive. She’s holding their daughter Lottie over her shoulder, the infant bawling at the top of her lungs.
‘Thank God you’re home,’ she tells Eddie. ‘She’s been crying for hours. Can you take her?’
‘Hang on,’ he replies. ‘Let me get my coat off first.’
Michelle dumps their baby in my arms before I can protest, then disappears back into the kitchen. I can count the number of infants I’ve held on one hand. It feels unnatural to be left with the howling creature while Eddie follows his fiancée; the baby’s face is scarlet with fury, tiny hands curled into fists as she releases her frustrations.
‘That’s a horrible noise,’ I tell her. ‘What’s your problem?’
Eddie leaves me alone for an uncomfortably long time. I try every method going to quiet the baby, from rocking and jiggling, to pulling faces, until humming a Coldplay song in her ear finally does the trick. After two choruses she’s limp in my arms, gurgling with contentment. She may have old-fashioned musical tastes, but a
t least she’s behaving. The kid keeps burrowing closer to my chest, making quiet snuffling sounds. Michelle looks astonished when she and Eddie finally reappear.
‘You’re a miracle worker, Ben. She’s been bawling for hours.’
‘Try playing her Radio Two,’ I reply. ‘Eddie tells me the news about Alex Rogan’s been getting to you.’
Her eyes moisten suddenly. ‘I keep having nightmares about Eddie getting hurt.’
‘He can handle himself. Why not go round to a friend’s house while he’s at work, just for a while? You’ll worry less if you’re with people.’
I spend the next twenty minutes reassuring her, and by the time I pass Lottie back, the baby is out for the count, barely stirring when she reaches her father’s arms. The look on Eddie’s face is a revelation. I often think of him as a schoolkid, but his expression combines pride with responsibility. I’m about to tell him to stay at home until the search for Jimmy Curwen begins, but there’s no chance of leaving. He’s standing straight-backed, blocking my exit.
‘We’ve got a favour to ask,’ he says.
‘Go ahead.’
His voice falters when he speaks again. ‘We’re having a naming ceremony for Lottie next spring. Would you consider being her godfather?’
‘Are you serious?’ The question is so left-field it takes a while to register.
I could point out that I’ve never let people get close, spending ten years undercover with the Murder Squad, learning how to vanish. I prevent connections from running too deep, except with relatives and friends I’ve known for a lifetime. Even the dog arrived in my life by default. If I agree to Eddie’s request, the connection would be one more factor anchoring me to these islands permanently, when I’d rather believe that nothing ties me down.
Michelle studies my face intently. ‘We want the best guardian to look after Lottie, in case anything happens to us.’
‘You’re not expecting a plane crash, are you?’
‘I hope not.’ Eddie gives a shaky laugh.
‘How about your old schoolfriends?’
He shakes his head vehemently. ‘They can’t even look after themselves. We need someone responsible.’
I glance down at the sleeping child; her face is smaller than the palm of my hand, long eyelashes splayed across her cheek. ‘Let me think about it.’
Whether I say yes or no, it’s clear from the way the couple handle their daughter like a crystal ornament that she’s transformed their world. Michelle plants a kiss on my cheek before I leave, although the conversation has put me on edge. Eddie has placed me on a pedestal and sooner or later I’ll tumble back down to earth.
*
I can still feel the baby’s weight against the crook of my arm when I get back to the boathouse, wishing I could give the islanders better protection. In an ideal world I’d flood St Agnes with officers, searching under every stone, but a sudden influx of strangers would send the community into a blind panic. I’ll have to rely on brains instead of manpower. My thoughts are working overtime as I sketch out a profile of the killer. Whoever murdered the astronomer loves the medium of fire, trying to set Rogan’s house alight before abducting him. He must be a sadist, too, because he subjected Rogan to the worst kind of savagery, keeping him drugged and bound on an exposed hilltop until nightfall.
If the Birdman’s the culprit, Alex Rogan must have done something to cause his hatred. But what crime did the astronomer commit to warrant such violence? Could the Dark Skies festival have triggered the killing? The Cornish messages suggest that hatred of outsiders lies behind the crime, but they don’t lead me any closer to Jimmy Curwen. Anyone could use a dictionary to translate simple phrases into a dead language.
I find it hard to believe that a seventeen-year-old boy would commit such a violent act, sending out messages in advance, but Adam Helston’s previous crime rings my alarm bells. Keith Pendennis enjoys his reputation as a tough guy, and his feud with his daughter has lasted years, but there’s no proof that he killed her husband, despite the anger bubbling underneath his skin. The Birdman is still my main suspect, despite Eddie’s protests. He could be sheltering in one of a hundred barns, outbuildings or caves, but I’m determined to find him before daybreak. When I look outside, the dark is impenetrable, only a thin scattering of stars illuminating the night sky.
15
Jimmy sees the search party arrive from the mouth of a cave on Wingletang Down. The tall policeman is leading a dozen islanders across rough grassland, the group keeping their heads bowed while torch beams trail across plants and boulders. Jimmy slips from the cave’s entrance and vanishes through the trees. If he moves fast, he can circle back and stay out of their reach.
Voices carry on the still air. Jimmy hears everything the crowd says, but most of it is too complex to make sense. All he knows for certain is that they are looking for him, using walking sticks to push back weeds and peer under brambles. It crosses Jimmy’s mind to step into the light and give himself up. He’s exhausted and hungry, but can’t forget his promise to avenge the man in the fire.
Suddenly, one of the searchers heads straight towards him, forcing Jimmy to duck under a gorse bush, its dry thorns tearing his skin. He waits until the torch beams fade before emerging back into the open, but a new kind of discomfort is making his skin crawl. Someone is watching him again, tracking his movements like a hawk suspended above its prey. If he moves a muscle, he will be at their mercy. He stays motionless in the shadows until the search party vanishes across the down.
16
It’s nine o’clock when I finally return to the Turk’s Head without having glimpsed the Birdman. Curwen spends his days roaming the island, so he must know every nook and cranny, his invisibility testing my patience. I leave Shadow tethered to a railing behind the pub, with only a slight twinge of guilt. His fur will protect him from the night-time cold and he would only damage the pub’s pristine interior.
Ella is alone behind the bar again tonight, the fire burning low in the inglenook. My head is too full for conversation, even though she gives me an expectant look when I order food to take up to my room. Ella’s smile is wistful when she offers to feed Shadow as well. The woman’s mysterious behaviour makes me wonder again about the source of her unhappiness, but her kind gesture tempts me to lean across the bar and plant a kiss on her cheek, even though her husband would be outraged if he caught me near his wife.
I stand with my back to the radiator once I get upstairs, thawing away the night’s cold, too wired to sit down. I ought to do something recreational to switch off my thoughts, which are still buzzing from the fruitless search. The internet is working again when I open my laptop to check my email, but it’s operating at a snail’s pace, as if the connection could soon expire. When I glance out of the window, the Atlantic is a solid expanse of black. The air still feels ominously calm, the storm keeping its distance for now. The Skype symbol flashes when my gaze returns to the computer screen and my brother’s face appears, transmitted all the way from upstate New York. Ian is a year older than me, our relationship built on a lifetime of jokes and brutal teasing. His face is so similar to mine it’s like confronting a tidier, clean-shaven version of myself, dressed in a doctor’s white coat.
‘Why are you bothering me? Haven’t you got patients to harm?’
‘Even successful orthopaedic consultants take breaks.’ He never fails to remind me that his job outclasses mine. ‘What’s with the hair? You look like Poldark.’
‘Just give me a tin mine and a stallion to ride across the fields.’
He sniggers like a twelve-year-old. ‘Pity you don’t have his luck with the ladies.’
‘I get my share.’
‘When’s the last time you had a sexual experience with a living, breathing female, instead of Pornhub?’
‘None of your business.’
‘Lower your standards, mate. Some lonely spinster might take pity.’
‘I’m too busy. There was a murder here on Bonfire Night.�
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‘Jesus, what happened?’
My brother’s face grows serious. Underneath the banter, I know he’s been checking on my welfare ever since my return to the islands. He listens carefully as I give him the bare details, then updates me on his family. His wife’s tired of her high level career in medical admin, but his six-year-old daughter is having the time of her life singing in the school choir.
‘You should hear her let rip. She’s like a mini Adele.’
‘Does the world need another?’
His face looms closer to the screen. ‘Are you okay? You’ve been moping since that girl ditched you. Nina, wasn’t it?’
‘Thanks for reminding me.’
‘Get back in the game, bro, before you forget how.’
‘Thanks for your heartfelt concern.’ I’m about to say goodbye when he throws a sudden curveball.
‘We’re thinking of coming back to the Scillies next year. I want Christy to know her roots.’
I stare at him in amazement. ‘You’d trade New York for a few lumps of rock in the middle of the Atlantic?’
‘In a heartbeat.’ The raw homesickness in his voice takes me by surprise.
‘Do it, then. There’s room at mine till you get settled.’
I’m still reeling when our conversation ends. Ian has always seemed happy with his sophisticated lifestyle, but the same urge to escape city life for clean air, familiar faces and ocean views dragged me back here too. I didn’t wallow after he left for the States, but it took me a while to accept his absence. It felt like one of the few people who knows exactly how I tick had disappeared from view.
The prospect of my brother coming home is enough to boost my spirits as I run an internet search on Alex Rogan. Wikipedia offers a detailed profile, describing him as a ‘charismatic astronomer, adept at sharing his knowledge with the masses.’ On the surface the man’s life was a glittering success, but someone hated his presence on the island, even though he appeared happy with Sally. Maybe the murderer resented his attempt to bring more people to St Agnes. His celebrity status was affecting the island’s delicate chemistry, breaking down the isolation that has preserved local customs for centuries.
