by Kate Rhodes
‘Fancy making a house call, Eddie?’
My deputy jumps to his feet immediately, making me feel like a jaded old hand. He releases a stream of chatter as we cross the island, our route winding between rain-soaked fields, but thankfully he avoids repeating his request for me to become Lottie’s godfather.
I can see why locals call the tidal causeway that connects the two islands the Bar: a ridge of yellow sand stands a few feet above water, with unpredictable currents boiling on either side. The lifeline will connect the tiny islet to St Agnes until late tonight, before being consumed by rising waves. Apart from Keith Pendennis’s austere cottage, the only properties on Gugh are the Carlyons’ home, a holiday cottage and some empty barns. During the hours when the islet is cut off by the tides, the residents can circle their tiny kingdom on foot in less than ten minutes.
Eddie turns to me again once we’ve made the crossing. ‘Could you handle this much isolation?’
‘No way, but it gives the residents peace and quiet.’
Keith Pendennis is standing by the window as we pass his cottage; the man looks so preoccupied I’m not even sure he’s seen us climbing Kittern Hill. The Carlyons’ property is smaller than Naomi Vine’s, but still imposing; a detached Victorian villa peering down at the ocean. My guess is that a merchant chose the plot a hundred and fifty years ago for its fine view of St Mary’s. The man who appears in the porch seems to have time-travelled back to the days when his home was built. Gavin Carlyon’s waistcoat and white shirt would suit a Victorian gentleman, his thinning brown hair tucked behind his ears, half-moon glasses resting on the tip of his nose. When he steps closer, the light reveals deep burns across his jaw and neck, the skin a livid red.
‘Thanks for coming,’ he says. The man’s eye contact is so intense he appears unwilling to blink. ‘You just missed my wife; she’s working at the shop this morning. People are keeping the place open to support Sally.’
Carlyon’s home is the opposite of Naomi Vine’s ramshackle mansion, with period details lovingly preserved, from cast iron fireplaces to ornate plasterwork. The man’s office has a table loaded with books, a vase of dried flowers on the mantelpiece gathering dust, and a grandfather clock ticking loudly in the corner. The three of us remain standing while Carlyon’s gaze flits from Eddie’s face to mine.
‘I’ve got some ideas about your case, but it will take me a moment to explain.’ The man’s speech is slow and portentous. ‘St Agnes was a traditional community when I was a boy; most of the population were employed locally in farming or fishing. We’ve coped with all sorts of threats since then.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Water shortages, for a start. It’s a big problem not having a fresh supply. We paid to have boreholes dug, but we’ll soon need a desalination plant.’
‘I was talking about criminal threats.’
‘Let me come to that, Inspector. We value our unique culture here. Don’t get me wrong, everyone welcomes the summer tourists. They boost our economy and keep the place lively, but it’s a blessing when the season ends; I’m happy when life slows down again. The race for modernity hasn’t brought the rest of the world much happiness, has it?’
‘Is this connected to Alex Rogan’s death?’
‘I hardly knew him, apart from occasional chats in the pub. He seemed unassuming and likeable. It’s people like Naomi Vine who cause unrest. The place was peaceful until she started chucking her money around.’ The man’s composure has vanished, his stare maniacal. ‘My wife won’t hear a word against that woman. Rachel finds her inspiring, believe it or not.’
‘You think Naomi Vine’s linked to the murder?’
Carlyon gives a slow nod. ‘Woe betide anyone that gets in her way. I clashed with her last month at a planning meeting with the council and she followed me back here, calling me every name under the sun. If you ask me, she’s got mental problems. She can’t stand being opposed. I think she targeted Alex for some reason.’
‘Are you suggesting she killed him?’
‘Only two people on St Agnes have the temperament for murder, in my view: Jimmy Curwen and Naomi Vine. But she’s the most likely candidate. The woman’s got a vicious streak.’
His description clashes with my impression of Vine during our meeting. The sculptor’s tough upbringing could explain why she fights her corner a little too hard. ‘Claims that serious have to be based on proof, Mr Carlyon.’
He puffs out his jowls. ‘Pursue my theory, Inspector, and you’ll see I’m right. I believe her influence here has been evil.’
‘That’s a strong word to use about a newcomer.’
‘She’s tearing our island apart. I only wish that my wife could see it.’
‘I’ll speak to Rachel separately about this.’
‘You’ll find her scrubbing the shop from top to bottom. My wife thinks all of life’s problems can be removed with bleach.’ His anger suddenly dissolves. ‘Before you go, can I ask a question? Your family’s been on Bryher over a hundred years, hasn’t it, DI Kitto?’
‘That’s right, five generations of fishermen on my father’s side.’
‘Can I interview you after the investigation? I’m creating an archive of the longest-established island families.’
‘My uncle’s your best bet. Ray’s got plenty of family photos and birth certificates.’
Carlyon offers an unctuous smile. ‘I’ll give him a call.’
‘Can you remind me how you spent the fourth of November?’
‘Working here, alone with my books. My wife caught the first ferry over to St Mary’s to see friends. I barely left the house.’
It would have been easy for him to walk across to St Agnes and attack Alex Rogan for bringing an unwelcome taste of modernity to the island he guards so jealously. I glance at the genealogical charts on the wall on my way out, bloodlines picked out in contrasting colours. It doesn’t surprise me that Carlyon makes a living from history, so obsessed by the past that every newcomer threatens his lifestyle, but it’s odd that he has shown so little interest in the recent murder until now. When he escorts us to the door, daylight exposes the depth of his scar. The wound is outlined with puncture marks from stitches that must have kept a skin graft in place. I’d like to ask how he acquired such a serious injury, but Carlyon seems the type to resent personal questions.
Eddie whistles under his breath as we walk away. ‘That place gives me the creeps; it’s like a time machine. And the bloke’s not the full ticket, is he?’ His look of wonder proves that my deputy needs to learn that everyone has peculiarities, still so new to murder investigation that every key decision is mine alone. Carlyon’s unblinking stare made me uncomfortable too, but he may have reasons for his suspicions.
I study the Carlyons’ property again from the foot of Kittern Hill. It didn’t take long for him to reveal his dislike of Naomi Vine. He couldn’t find one positive word to say about the sculptor, but his accusation that she’s connected to Rogan’s death appears to be based on a single argument. The woman I saw in her studio seemed afraid to set foot outside, despite her show of independence. Carlyon’s criticisms may have more to do with resentment of the sculptor’s influence over his wife.
‘When did Carlyon get those burns, Eddie?’
The question makes my deputy wince. ‘Bonfire Night, last year. The guy needed an operation to reconstruct his jaw.’
The man’s pain must have been agonising, but his injuries don’t explain his eagerness to blame a man’s death on an incomer. We’re about to walk back across the Bar when Keith Pendennis emerges from his cottage with his Jack Russell at his side. Shadow is delighted to see his canine companion again, the two dogs haring across the beach, but the fitness coach barely raises a smile. He’s dressed in a thick winter coat and boots, his scarf shielding his face. Pendennis comes to a halt a few metres away, his manner less aggressive than last time.
‘How’s the investigation going?’ My old coach’s direct communication is welcome after
Gavin Carlyon’s pompous lectures.
‘We’re making progress, Keith.’
‘Let me know if I can help.’
‘Sally still needs your support. She’s struggling to cope.’
‘The ball’s in her court.’ Pendennis’s face suddenly clouds over. ‘If she makes the first move, I’ll consider going round.’
The man calls his dog then sets off across the Bar at a rapid march. His departure leaves me wondering why he’s unwilling to bend, despite his daughter’s suffering.
19
Jimmy’s bones ache from hunching inside the narrow cupboard since dawn. The noises ended over an hour ago, but he’s been too scared to leave his hiding place, terrified of being found. His legs tremble when he takes his first tentative steps outside, careful not to make a sound. Jimmy’s nerves steady as he absorbs the silence. All he can hear is the wind rattling shutters and whistling through chimneys. When his panic finally subsides, he walks down the corridor, searching for his friend.
An open doorway leads him to Naomi Vine’s studio. The place looks like a bombsite, with tools scattered among shards of broken glass. Plaster figurines lie broken at his feet. He touches a metal sculpture of a woman’s face, but deep scratches have been grooved through its eyes. Jimmy sets an upturned stool back on its legs, the rest of the damage too great to fix. He’s still staring at the ruins when a guttural sound comes from the other side of the room.
A chair stands at the centre of the huge inglenook fireplace, surrounded by firewood, a reek of paraffin hitting his airways as he draws closer. Naomi sits with her head bowed, arms chained to the seat, her ankles fettered. His gait falters when he remembers the burning man, but he forces himself closer. Naomi’s bright green top is stained with blood that oozes from her temple in a steady trickle, one of her eyes puffed shut by bruising, but at least she’s alive. He peels away the black tape from her mouth, allowing her words to spill out in a dry whisper.
‘Thank God. Help me, please.’
He tries to free her, but panic makes his hands clumsy, the chains refusing to budge. He manages to drag the chair from the fireplace and the woman’s voice is steadier when she speaks again, even though her eyes are glossy with fear.
‘Fetch help, quick, before he comes back. He’ll kill me next time.’
Jimmy flounders back down the corridor, where Vine’s phone lies smashed on the floor. He rushes to the nearest exit with panic rising in his chest, but the door handle refuses to give. He hurries along the corridor, hunting for another escape route. Every window is sealed and all the doors locked. Jimmy stands in the corridor, frozen in panic until an idea comes to him. He hurls a chair at the nearest window, then clambers through the opening. Shards of glass tear the palms of his hands but he barely notices the pain as he escapes down the path.
20
The wind is rising when Eddie goes back to the boathouse to phone some of the islanders and check on their welfare, leaving me to walk alone to Middle Town. Shadow attempts to follow me, whining pitifully when I send him after my deputy, but I can forecast that Rachel Carlyon wouldn’t appreciate the dog’s presence while I ask questions about Alex Rogan. There’s no sign of her as I enter the shop, until I spot her kneeling in the corner, mending a broken light fitting. The air smells of disinfectant, as if she’s been scouring the place like her husband predicted. Rachel must be inches taller than Gavin, her slim figure slowly unbending as she rises to her feet. Her grey hair is cut into a mannish crop, navy blue jumper rolled at the sleeves, thick glasses obscuring her eyes.
‘Could we talk please, Mrs Carlyon?’
She gives a cautious nod. ‘Not for long I’m afraid; I have to finish this then collect stock from the quay. The delivery boat’s bringing supplies from St Mary’s.’
‘The ferries aren’t running, but feel free to carry on working while we talk.’ I take a seat on a stool by the door. ‘It’s good of you to support Sally.’
Rachel Carlyon’s expression remains wary as she applies her screwdriver to the back of the light. ‘This place isn’t just a shop. It’s our pharmacy and post office, too; we all need it to stay open.’
‘I’m asking people about Alex Rogan’s death. Someone must have an idea why it happened.’
‘It’s tragic for poor Sally. Alex was so enthusiastic about the night sky, it made me want to learn more about the stars.’
‘Can you think of anyone he’d argued with, Mrs Carlyon?’
‘Call me Rachel, please.’ She keeps her gaze fixed on her task. ‘I never heard Alex say a harsh word to anyone. You’d have to be mad to hurt a man like that; he was such a gentle soul.’
‘Your husband agrees, but he’s not keen on Naomi Vine, is he?’
Her screwdriver hovers in the air. ‘I keep telling him it doesn’t matter if she holds different opinions from everyone here, newcomers deserve a warm welcome.’
‘How did you two become friends?’
‘I took some flowers round when she arrived. We got chatting and made each other laugh. She can’t believe I’ve never been abroad, but travel’s never tempted me; the islands give me everything I need. She keeps trying to persuade me to go over to Paris for her next show.’
‘Why does your husband dislike her so much?’
‘Gavin prefers the past, but Naomi’s forward-looking.’ Her face lightens again. ‘She’s a breath of fresh air.’
‘You seem fond of her.’
She gives a cautious nod. ‘It’s about time someone dragged us into the twenty-first century. Gavin was born in the house where we live now; he believes it’s his duty to preserve every brick. My husband wants to protect the whole island.’ She reattaches the light to the wall then flicks the switch to check it works. When she turns to face me again, her shyness returns.
‘Does your cleaning work keep you busy, Rachel?’
‘Only in summer; the holiday properties here and on St Mary’s are all empty now.’
‘Thanks for your help. If you remember anything about Alex, please give me a ring.’ I pass her my card. ‘I meant to thank you for joining the search party last night.’
She twists a duster in her hands. ‘Gavin would have come too, but he had one of his migraines.’
I leave her applying beeswax to the counter, as if elbow grease could solve all of the island’s problems. The only time the woman’s face became animated was when she spoke of her new friend, her husband’s passion for the past clearly grating on her.
By the time I return to the boathouse it’s midmorning; rain is pummelling the roof, the storm finally announcing its presence. My frustration mounts as I study the mile-wide sound that separates St Agnes from St Mary’s. The waters are a blur of disordered waves, ruining my chances of sailing the lapstrake over to collect Liz Gannick. There’s still no news of Jimmy Curwen, even though Eddie has called every household on St Agnes. It surprises me that anyone could stay hidden for three days on an island barely two miles long, but the Birdman has lived here all his life. When I check the list of islanders we’ve interviewed about Rogan’s death, my eyes light on another name.
‘I know you’ve seen Liam Poldean already, but let’s pay him another visit. I’ve been told that he and Sally had a relationship years ago.’
Eddie looks surprised. ‘The bloke’s got a solid alibi for Thursday; neighbours saw him playing with his kids at home then down on the beach.’
‘He may have information about Alex. Those two were close, weren’t they?’
My deputy keeps his thoughts to himself when we leave the lifeboat house with Shadow in tow, but I can tell he thinks the visit’s pointless. Despite his intelligence, Eddie is too quick to assume innocence. It’s taken me a decade of murder investigation to realise that anyone can turn violent if they’re pushed hard enough. He relaxes again once I ask for more details about Liam Poldean, explaining that the builder has established a good reputation locally. He’s spent the past five years renovating the old cottages on St Agnes.
‘
Liam’s a decent carpenter, too,’ he says. ‘The bloke’s a jack of all trades.’
Poldean’s house lies at the heart of Middle Town, a modest terraced property with a front garden choked with weeds. Shadow gallops away at a sprint when I ring the doorbell, clearly unwilling to stay cooped up indoors. The builder’s expression is long-suffering when he greets us, probably because a three-year-old boy sits astride his shoulders, arms locked tight around his father’s neck. Poldean looks like a typical dad, dressed in ill-fitting jeans and an ancient Snow Patrol T-shirt, his tow-coloured hair in need of a comb. He rolls his eyes in mock despair by way of greeting.
‘Come in, but be warned – my kids are having a mad half hour.’
He leaves the door hanging open as we follow him inside. A slightly older boy appears at the top of the stairs and releases a blood-curdling scream to attract his brother’s attention. The younger child slithers from his father’s shoulders and races upstairs, a door slamming loudly in his wake.
‘Thank God, now they can torment each other instead of me,’ Poldean sighs as he shows us into his living room. ‘Val’s at her mum’s on St Mary’s till the end of the week. It’s taught me that looking after pre-school kids makes my job look easy.’ The man is wide-eyed with exhaustion and his lounge resembles a bombsite, with model cars, Lego and playing cards littering the floor.
‘I know how you feel,’ Eddie replies. ‘Lottie wakes us up every morning at three a.m.’
Poldean’s face grows sober. ‘Is something wrong? I wasn’t expecting to be interviewed again.’
‘We just need some background on Alex Rogan. We’re struggling to get a clear picture and I know you were friends.’
He clears toys from the sofa before sitting down. ‘I expected him to be some stuck-up boffin, but he was a decent bloke. He had this fantasy about building a house one day, so we traded information in the pub. I told him about brickwork and laying foundations, and he explained how the solar system works.’ He releases a despairing laugh. ‘It sounds mad, but we could talk for hours. Listening to him made me wish I’d knuckled down at school instead of chasing girls; he made big, complex ideas easy enough for an idiot like me to understand.’ The man’s voice sounds choked when his speech finally ends.
