by Kate Rhodes
‘Sorry if this is hard for you.’
He looks away. ‘Sally’s suffering the most. Her baby won’t have a dad.’
‘I hear you’ve been round to see her. I’m sure she appreciates it.’
‘She’s still in shock. I don’t think she knows which way to turn.’
‘Didn’t you two go out together once?’
‘In our twenties.’ His gaze locks onto mine. ‘We stayed friends. She’s like a sister to me and Val now; she babysits for us all the time.’
The man’s speech is too defensive for my liking. It takes bravery to attempt a relationship with a fellow islander in a place this small. If things go wrong you only have two choices: you can bear a grudge, or accept the fact that you’ll bump into your ex every day for the rest of your lives.
‘What did you and Alex talk about last time you met?’ I ask.
‘The Dark Skies Festival. He wanted to make it a success, so it could run every year. I agreed to help guests set up their telescopes on Covean Beach.’
‘Did he seem worried at all?’
‘A bit preoccupied, but nothing to write home about.’
‘Alex visited Naomi Vine the night before he died. Do you know why?’
‘He never said,’ Poldean replies, frowning. ‘Naomi’s not my favourite person, to be honest. A few months back, she wanted a quote for all the building work needed at her place. I sweated blood over the costings, but she never got back to me.’ He hesitates before continuing. ‘Alex had better manners. He was the smartest person here, but he had too much class to put anyone down.’
‘Naomi must have some redeeming features.’
‘Her sculptures are great, but that contract would have come in handy. I could have booked a holiday for my kids. Val’s desperate to take them to Disney World.’
‘You seem pretty busy. Everyone knows you do good work.’
He acknowledges the compliment with a shrug. ‘I rely on word of mouth; I can’t afford mistakes.’
‘Adam Helston said you’d offered him an apprenticeship.’
‘It won’t happen. The lad’s keen, but his dad keeps him on a short lead.’
I’m about to ask another question when a crash comes from upstairs, followed by an anguished howl. ‘Jesus,’ he mutters. ‘That’ll be another trip to casualty.’
‘We’ll leave you to it, Liam. Thanks for your time.’
‘Can’t you just handcuff them to their beds till Val gets back?’ Poldean gives another tired smile before heading upstairs.
I almost trip over a mountain of Lego as we let ourselves out, still none the wiser about why Alex Rogan died.
21
St Mary’s Sound looks unnaturally calm when I reach the quay at midday, even though a red alert is still in place for all shipping from here to the Solent. With luck, I can ferry Liz Gannick back to St Agnes before the next storm system hits. I take the police launch, which has twice the motor power of Ray’s lapstrake. Shadow tries to leap aboard, but I point inland, letting him know that he’s a free agent. Madron would climb the walls if he knew that an unauthorised dog had been allowed on a police boat. The crossing takes less than half an hour over the smooth channel, but local fishermen have heeded the weather warnings and moored their boats in Porth Mellon Harbour, protected from the swell by Hugh Town’s long breakwater. The marina is filled to capacity, with skiffs and trawlers packed side by side like a shoal of colourful fish. It’s only as I moor the boat that my lucky escape registers. A band of clouds has chased me across the sound. The storm is starting to feel real, its endless rotations finally reaching land.
The waves grow taller as I hurry along the quayside. Most of the time I love living in the Scillies, until circumstances remind me that our geography makes us vulnerable: we’re forty-five kilometres from the mainland, forced to solve emergencies with no outside help. On any other day I’d pull up my hood and watch the storm gather, but Liz Gannick is waiting for me again at the Mermaid Inn. The chief of forensic services still looks like an angry sprite when I arrive, her bleached hair slicked back, petite frame hunched over a table in the corner. Her clothes are more suitable for a rock concert than a murder investigation: tight jeans, Doc Martens and an electric blue coat folded on the seat beside her.
‘Late again, Inspector.’ Gannick takes in my new haircut and freshly shaved jaw. ‘You chose an odd time for an image makeover.’
‘The DCI insisted.’ I point at the waves outside, smashing against the quay. ‘We could be here a while. What are you drinking?’
‘Black coffee, no sugar.’
Gannick is still stony-faced when I return from the bar, but I won’t apologise for inevitable delays. She carries on brooding while I down my cappuccino, but curiosity eventually cancels her disapproval.
‘I need a full team for site analysis. Working alone will slow my progress considerably. Are you ready for that?’
‘One’s better than none, and I hear you’re top dog.’
She gives me an arch look. ‘If you’re going to mock, my offer’s withdrawn.’
‘I’m serious. You’re tipped to run the national forensic service in a few years’ time, aren’t you?’
‘The seniors would block it. I’ve already broken too many glass ceilings.’
I expect another flash of temper, but Gannick appears calmer when she peers out at the waves lashing the breakwater, fishing boats bobbing higher with each new surge.
‘We’re not going anywhere, so why not give me a progress report?’ she says.
It takes us an hour to discuss details, and I’m glad the pub is almost empty, with no one close enough to eavesdrop. Gannick’s pale brown gaze assesses me while I describe each stage of the investigation, from interviewing islanders, to the calling cards written in Cornish. Her interest sharpens when I explain that Jimmy Curwen still hasn’t been found.
‘The guy sounds vulnerable. He’ll have walked into the sea by now, if he were involved.’
I shake my head. ‘Curwen may have exaggerated his difficulties. If he’s smart enough to stay out of our reach for so long, it’s likely he could have sent those messages, planned the abduction, and set Rogan on fire. There has to be a reason why his coat was at the murder scene, but there are other suspects, too. The pub’s landlord, Steve Tregarron, was seen on Burnt Island just before the murder.’
‘That doesn’t make him a killer.’ Gannick’s voice sours. ‘I prefer evidence to guesswork, which is another reason why I left the force. If you start talking about mindsets and modus operandi, you’ll piss me off.’
‘I bet that doesn’t take much.’
‘Do you want my view?’ Her cool gaze levels with mine. ‘Sexual jealousy is the trigger for most violent crimes, like acid attacks or ritualised burnings.’
‘You think someone was stalking him?’
‘I can extract physical evidence from any crime scene, but you’ll have to figure out why he died for yourself, Inspector. Witness statements always bored me to tears.’
‘Why not use my name? It’s bad enough that my deputy insists on calling me “Sir”.’
‘That’s the least of your worries.’ She pushes her coffee cup away. ‘I just want to know why Rogan was burned alive. His phone and laptop were thrown onto the funeral pyre too; the lab found metal hinges and traces of silica in the ashes.’
‘I got a transcript of the last six months’ calls from his mobile phone company, but all it proves is that he loved his wife. Rogan rang her six times on one day when he was working away. His email record’s clean, too.’ The sea still looks too forbidding to make the return crossing so I risk a personal question. ‘How are you enjoying your new job?’
‘It’s got its challenges.’
‘I still don’t get why you left a senior police job for a sideways move into a different field. You seem tough enough to deal with the old boys’ network.’
‘It’s everywhere you look.’ She stares at the tabletop as if she’s committing the beermats’
designs to memory. ‘The institutional bullying got too much. Colleagues would be polite to my face, then call me a sad little cripple behind my back. The prejudice is too engrained to tackle head-on.’
‘You expect that from me as well?’
‘The jury’s out. So far your team’s been respectful.’
‘Have your duties got easier since you moved to Cornwall?’
‘Death’s not selective, it treats everyone the same, no matter where you live. I should know, I’ve cheated it enough times. Medics tell me I’m the luckiest woman alive.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘I was born with spina bifida, plus a heart defect that required major surgery. I’ve had more operations than you’ve had hot dinners. I died twice on the operating table, yet I’m still here.’
‘Just as well, your expertise could be crucial to this case.’
I’d like to press for more details, but Gannick flips open her laptop and begins typing at a furious pace, ending our conversation abruptly. I should feel grateful that a senior forensic scientist is working alongside me, yet her spiky manner turns communication into a minefield. It must stem from her old colleagues’ disrespect, but she’ll have to trust me for our work to be effective. She barely looks up from her computer screen until the squall subsides an hour later.
*
Gannick maintains her silence as we make the crossing to St Agnes, letting me focus on steering the launch to safety. The water swells with unseen currents while the storm gathers pace for another attack. My respect for the forensics chief increases as waves batter the prow of the boat; she doesn’t flinch, even when the craft rocks violently from side to side. The only sign that she’s happy to reach St Agnes is the width of her smile when she levers herself onto the jetty. Despite the rough journey she shows no sign of flagging.
‘Shall we go straight to Alex Rogan’s house?’ she asks.
It’s only 4 p.m. and I’d like to take her to the property straight away, but I’m mindful of Zoe’s warning about Sally’s fragile state of mind. A forensics officer combing through her belongings might be more than she can stand. ‘Early tomorrow’s the best plan, when it’s light. I’ve booked a room for you at the pub.’
‘I’ll say goodnight, then.’
Gannick disappears towards the Turk’s Head, the building coming into view as we walk up the quay, her crutches tapping across the concrete at breakneck speed, leaving me to cart her equipment indoors. Dusk is gathering already, and I’m about to follow her when Shadow appears out of the gloom, giving a bark of greeting. He seems to have enjoyed his hours of freedom and it’s obvious that he’s been fed because he makes no complaint about being tethered outside the pub again.
‘Behave,’ I tell him. ‘No barking until I get back.’
The dog’s pale eyes give me a pitying stare, as if he resents my lack of faith. He stations himself in the pub’s courtyard, ears pricked like he’s expecting company. He gives a low whine of disapproval when I heft Liz Gannick’s kit over the threshold, but the establishment’s carpets wouldn’t survive long with him indoors.
The bar is virtually empty when I enter, just a few late-afternoon regulars gathered for a drink before dinner. The old lighthouse keeper, Stan Eden, is relaxing in an armchair by the hearth, chatting to Louise Walbert. Steve Tregarron is alone behind the bar, restocking shelves with bottles of beer, his wife absent for once. The landlord appears to have recovered from seeing Ella chatting to me, but the man’s pallor reflects years of hard drinking and smoking. He takes a beat too long to produce a professional smile.
‘Are you staying here for the duration, Ben?’ he asks.
‘That would be great, if possible.’ I drop onto a stool opposite him.
He nods at the empty room. ‘We’re not exactly heaving, so it’s no problem. Keep the same room, a few doors down from your colleague. You can come and go as you please by the back door.’
‘That’s ideal, thanks.’ I hesitate before asking my next question. ‘You know the islanders better than anyone, Steve. What was your view of Alex?’
Tregarron hesitates before placing more bottles on the shelf. ‘He fell for Sally hard, and he seemed thrilled about their baby. One thing keeps nagging at me though: a film crew were planning to make a documentary about his festival next summer. He knew that would rattle some cages.’
‘Why?’
‘It’ll attract more visitors and some islanders prefer a quiet life. I think he was hoping the problem would go away.’
‘A pity it didn’t,’ I reply. ‘You’ve been seen walking out to Burnt Island a few times recently. Can you explain why?’
His shoulders flinch before he replies. ‘I’ve got a new hobby.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Stargazing, believe it or not. Alex leant me a telescope.’ Tregarron points at a narrow case on the counter behind the bar, but his expression’s wary, as if he’s waiting to be caught out. ‘He said Burnt Island was the best place to go, because it’s furthest from any light pollution. I’ve been teaching myself about the constellations.’
‘Did you see anyone on your travels?’
‘Not a soul; some nights it feels like I’ve got the universe all to myself.’ The dreamy look soon slips from his face. ‘I can’t imagine going back up there any time soon.’
I rise to my feet. ‘The force will pay for my room, Steve. Give me an invoice whenever you like; I’ll make sure it’s paid on time.’
‘Your stay’s on the house; Ella and I just want the killer found.’ His face is solemn when he presses a key for the back door into my hand.
I thank him for his hospitality then lug Gannick’s crate of equipment upstairs. The man’s explanation should reassure me, because it would have been hard to fake his shocked reaction when he led me to Alex Rogan’s body, yet his latest response struck the wrong note. It’s possible Tregarron’s wife may have flirted with Alex Rogan, sending him into a fit of jealousy, but I’ve got nothing to prove it.
I dump the box outside Gannick’s door then retreat to my room to gather my thoughts. Outside my window, clouds race across the darkening sky. The water is black enough to make me wish the lighthouse was still operating; I’ve never felt more in need of illumination as the case flounders. I run through a mental list of people who’d listen to my frustration, but the obvious choice is Zoe. Her smile is running at half-strength when she answers my Skype call after three rings.
‘I came looking for you earlier, big man. Are you avoiding me?’
‘Not by choice. How’s Sally doing?’
‘She’s outside again. I tried to keep her here, but she wants to visit all the places Alex loved on her own. I worry for the baby when she’s so upset.’
‘I’ll be coming by tomorrow with the forensics officer.’
‘That should help, she’s desperate for answers.’ The signal’s poor, her image fraying at the edges. ‘Are you ready for my news?’
‘Depends if it’s good or bad.’
‘It might cheer you up. I think it’s the best ever.’
‘Hit me with it then.’
‘I’m engaged.’
The screen blanks for a second, giving me time to resurrect my smile. ‘What did you say?’
‘We’re getting married in July. Dev runs the school’s music department, but we can’t decide whether to stay in Mumbai or live here. He’s amazing, Ben. You’re going to love him.’
‘How come I’ve never heard about him before?’
‘It’s been a whirlwind, but the timing’s perfect for both of us. His parents are traditional Sikhs and he’s got a huge family; it should be quite a party. You’ll have to come over.’
‘Congratulations, Zoe, I’m glad you’re happy.’ Emotions curdle in my stomach, like milk turning sour. ‘I’d better get back to work. We can talk tomorrow.’
I hit the off button then let the news register. Zoe has been part of my landscape for so long, it’s impossible to imagine a future without her livin
g just across the bay. The selfish part of me wants her to stay single, so the friendship we’ve built since childhood won’t have to change. I always believed I’d get the chance to vet whoever she chose to marry, but she’s made the decision without even checking my opinion.
22
Jimmy is alone on the down as dusk arrives. He hasn’t followed Naomi’s request even though her plea for help this morning is still ringing in his ears. He set off for Middle Town and almost reached the settlement before panic drove him back. How could he explain to anyone that she’s in danger, when he can’t even speak? Naomi said that the killer might return; it would be his fault if the man hurt her. He’s been patrolling the area around her house all day, too afraid to leave it unguarded. He can’t face another death on his conscience, so he watches the front entrance, from inside a thicket of elm trees, with an old branch gripped in his hand as a weapon. He has stared at the old mansion’s gates for so long his vision is blurred. The night birds are beginning their evening chorus, but their song is hard to interpret. Are they telling him to keep watch, or run for help? He dithers for another minute before deciding. He must find someone trustworthy, who will understand what’s wrong.
When he looks up again, the Tolmans’ house is lit up like a beacon across the bay. Jimmy gives the old mansion a final glance before floundering through the bushes. He’s out of breath when he reaches the Tolmans’ property, where lights blaze from the ground floor windows, but when he raps on the door, the architect’s wife answers. Deborah stands there waiting for him to speak, but all that emerges from his mouth is a rush of garbled sounds.
