by Kate Rhodes
My eyes are streaming, lungs raw with smoke, but the cavalry are already arriving. Billy, still wearing his chef’s uniform, Pete Moorcroft, Jim Helyer and Arthur Penwithick. The ferryman is riding the island’s only vehicle, a tractor, dragging a water tank that serves as a fire engine. The hose unwinds with the comical slowness of a Carry On film, but eventually the jet shoots through the upstairs window. The fire is so localised that it’s extinguished by a single tank, smoke spewing from the open window. When I look back, Nina is with Zoe at the edge of the crowd. Relief hits me with full force; part of me had believed that she was trapped in the flame-filled room. The whole island population seems to have turned out to gawk. Rose Austell is loitering at the edge of the crowd, eyes glittering, clearly thrilled to see Jay Curnow’s property damaged. It surprises me that she’s talking to Dean Miller, but the friendship makes sense; they’re two of a kind, both preferring to watch island life unfold from a distance. Nina appears beside me, staring at my soot-blackened hands.
‘You gave me a hell of a scare,’ I say. ‘Where were you?’
‘At the pub, with Zoe.’
‘I salvaged some of your stuff, but the bedroom’s a write-off. Someone started this deliberately.’
We walk closer to the building, surveying the damage, one of the downstairs windows smashed from its hinges. I find myself scanning the crowd again. Chances are the killer’s gloating nearby, watching me chase in circles. There’s no sign of Danny Curnow or Matt Trescothick, as I search for the source of the fire. It’s easy to guess how the attack started. An empty can of paraffin lies on the grass behind the cottage, suggesting that the arsonist escaped onto the beach. I angle my torch at the ground then take a picture with my phone, dropping the can into an evidence bag. It was probably sterilised before use, but the killer may be working fast enough to make mistakes.
It takes me an hour to speak to everyone at the scene, scribbling down names and alibis. Maggie explains that Matt spent most of the evening in the pub. The news makes me wonder if he could have sneaked out to start the fire then coolly returned to the Rock for another beer. By now the crowd is thinning, and Nina looks pale in the glow from people’s torch beams.
‘Stay at mine tonight,’ I say.
‘All my stuff was upstairs. I don’t even have a toothbrush.’
‘We’ll cope.’
People are waiting for my instructions. The responsibility would have fallen to me, even if I had nothing to do with the case. Being the biggest man in a crowd always makes people assume I’m in charge.
‘Thanks, everyone,’ I tell them. ‘Let’s call it a night. You’ve been brilliant.’
The islanders have stayed true to form, rallying together in a crisis; Nina’s belongings have been carted away for safe storage at the shop. Smoke is still billowing from the open window, but no more can be done until tomorrow, when the fire officer from Penzance will give his verdict on how the blaze started.
Nina remains silent on the way to my house. Once we get inside she collapses into an armchair.
‘Did you lose much?’ I ask.
‘Camera, photos, laptop. Most of what I brought with me.’
‘How come you’re so calm?’
She gives a shaky laugh. ‘It’s just stuff, Ben. It can all be replaced.’
Nina looks beautiful but frail as she gazes at the fire, with Shadow’s head settled on her knee. Her blank expression convinces me to keep my distance; it reveals the depth of her grief. After losing the person she valued most, shedding some creature comforts won’t rock her world. It takes effort to back away, mumbling an excuse about making her bed. When I return, she’s asleep in my chair. She doesn’t stir when I clatter the fireguard into place. It’s tempting to lean down and kiss her, but the consequences could be disastrous. Shadow seems content to have her to himself, yawning widely as he settles by the hearth.
My skin’s on edge when I step into the shower, grey swirls of soot vanishing down the plughole. My head’s still reeling when I put out the light, rerunning the sequence of events. The causal link’s unclear, but the killer seems to be acting in a frenzy: first a stabbing, then a break-in, a bludgeoning and a fire. The island is divided between people happily going about their business and a handful of eccentrics. Hidden among them is someone whose rage can’t be controlled. My last thought as I get into bed is for Nina, curled up in my living room. It’s tempting to steal out for one last look, but I force the idea back into its box before shutting my eyes.
33
A light glows inside Rose’s cabin, even though she left the place in darkness. She hides in the dunes until she can gather enough courage to climb the steps, but once across the threshold it’s clear the culprits vanished long ago. Trays of herbs have been scattered across the floor, wooden boxes trampled underfoot, broken glass littering the furniture. The mess in the kitchen is worse. Pots of honey have been upended, leaving sticky trails on the lino, and blinds ripped from the windows. There’s no way of knowing whether Jay Curnow sent his lackeys to tear the place apart, or the smugglers came looking for their package.
Sam’s room has suffered most. Photos have been torn down, his mattress slashed apart, the boy’s trophies dented and broken on the floor.
‘You bastards,’ Rose hisses.
She would rather they had destroyed all her possessions but left his treasures intact. The only consolation is that Sam is safe in hospital, where no one can harm him; her own life is far less important. She surveys the kitchen again, but can’t decide where to begin. The scale of the damage is too much to comprehend.
She stands rooted to the spot, letting the facts register: the island is no longer her sanctuary. It would break her heart, but for the first time ever she can imagine abandoning the place.
34
The sight of Nina in my kitchen this morning makes me feel guilty. If she hadn’t got involved with me, the killer would never have torched her rented cottage, warning me to keep my distance. It bothers me too that she’s wearing one of my shirts, revealing mile-long legs.
‘I borrowed this to sleep in. Is that okay?’
‘It suits you better.’ I’m distracted by her glossy hair and acres of smooth skin. I cross my arms firmly across my chest, determined not to touch.
‘You seem tense, Ben. Is something wrong?’ Her gaze meets mine again.
‘I’m fine. What do you want for breakfast?’
‘Whatever’s going. Can I take a shower?’
‘Feel free, there’s plenty of hot water in the tank.’
Once she’s gone, I let myself exhale. The sky outside the window is calm for once, winter sunlight spilling onto mid-blue sea, gulls wheeling in circles overhead. Last night’s drama has made the scene look too good to be true. I search the fridge for something edible, and by the time Nina returns, I’m serving two halves of a mushroom omelette onto plates. She’s dressed in the pale blue blouse and jeans she wore yesterday. The only effort she seems to have made is combing her hair, yet I can’t stop looking.
‘Did anyone visit your cottage yesterday?’ I ask.
She looks thoughtful. ‘Dean Miller came for another appointment, then Jay Curnow making a courtesy call.’
‘No one else?’
‘Danny walked by, around seven in the evening, but he didn’t stop.’
‘Where was he going?’
‘He was climbing Gweal Hill, lost in his own world.’
I take a gulp of coffee, but it leaves a bitter aftertaste. Danny’s endless night-time walks could be his way of scouring the island to find Laura’s killer, or escaping from his guilt. He would have been in the right place at the right time to start the fire at Nina’s cottage.
‘Have any of the islanders behaved oddly towards you, since you arrived?’
She gives a rare smile. ‘Apart from you?’
‘No one else?’
‘Pete Moorcroft, one time. But maybe I imagined it.’
‘How do you mean?’
She looks e
mbarrassed. ‘He carried my shopping back to the house, the day I arrived. It felt like he’d never leave.’
Pete has slipped to the bottom of my suspect list, with no hard evidence connecting him to Laura’s attack. I remember our conversation when he was birdwatching, his manner friendly but awkward. By carrying Nina’s shopping, he was probably trying to be welcoming, unaware that he’d overstepped the mark.
‘Will you go back to Bristol now?’
She shakes her head. ‘Jay’s going to find me somewhere else to stay, if the cottage takes more than a week to fix.’
‘You’re welcome to stay here till then.’ The statement slips from my mouth before I can stop it.
‘Are you sure?’
‘If you promise to keep the dog with you. He’s not much of a bodyguard, but he’s better than nothing.’
Shadow doesn’t seem bothered by my lack of faith. He’s already stationed himself by Nina’s chair, looking pleased with himself, as if his luck’s about to turn.
The fire investigator arrives from the mainland midmorning, complaining about his long journey. Officer Mike Ferris is a small, rotund forty-year-old, bouncing with repressed energy. He looks amused when I explain that the islanders rejected plans for a helipad, to protect the environment.
‘My arse,’ he replies. ‘They’re keeping tourists away.’
It takes him an hour and a half to assess Gweal Cottage. The ground-floor rooms are intact, apart from smoke trails on the stairway’s white paint. Upstairs the air reeks of charcoal. The bed frame is charred to cinders, carpet scorched from the floor; the melted remains of Nina’s computer lie among the ashes.
‘Lucky you got here fast,’ Ferris says. ‘Any longer and the roof would be gone.’
He confirms that the arsonist climbed in through the kitchen window, then splashed paraffin across the bedroom’s walls, furniture and floor. His intention was to destroy things Nina valued, instead of ones her landlord could easily replace. It seems ironic that Jay Curnow visited on the very day someone set light to his property. Ferris gives a cheery smile before heading back to the quay, promising to file his report by tomorrow. I feel a twinge of envy for the simplicity of his job. He only has to establish cause and effect; no need to find the culprit.
I arrive at the hospital by mid-afternoon after taking the Sky Bus, and a slow taxi from Land’s End. Sam Austell is in his room, dressed in a T-shirt and jeans, his skin pallid. The constant babble that spewed from his mouth has ended, but he’s fallen a long way from his halcyon days as a budding football star.
‘How are you feeling, Sam?’
His reply is a dull murmur. ‘Better than before.’
‘Your mum’ll be here tomorrow. Are you up to talking?’
‘I don’t know. Everything’s a bit blurred.’
‘Let’s see what you remember. Were you in contact with Laura much in the past few weeks?’
‘Not really. We stopped going out last year.’
‘But she phoned you the day before she died. What did she want?’
‘Nothing.’ There’s a pause before he replies. ‘We stayed friends, that’s all.’
‘Come on, Sam. No one had seen you together for ages.’
‘I bumped into her at Dean Miller’s house, the week before she died. She said things were bad at home.’ A flash of pain crosses his face. ‘Laura needed money. She was desperate to leave the island.’
‘Did she ask you for cash?’
‘She wanted to borrow a grand, but it was more than I had.’
‘Even though you’ve been running drugs round the islands?’
His face tenses, and I can see why; dealing carries a five-year prison sentence. ‘You can’t prove anything.’
‘I think you gave her some resin to sell, as a favour. We found it in her room, with photos of you.’ I study him again. ‘You told your mum that you saw something, the day Laura died.’
‘Like I said, my memory’s screwed.’ His cheek tics with anxiety.
‘You’re not under arrest, Sam. I know you didn’t hurt Laura; I just need to find out who did.’
‘She was scared of someone. I keep thinking it was my fault, I should have helped her more.’
‘What did you see, Sam?’
‘She asked me to meet her before she started work, on the beach below Gweal Hill.’ He stops, as if the words are choking him. ‘I saw her fall as I came round the point. She landed on the rocks. It was horrible, the sea dragging her away. There was nothing I could do.’
‘Did you see who pushed her?’
‘All I saw was her falling backwards. I thought she wanted me to watch her die. It looked like she’d thrown herself off the cliff deliberately.’
‘Is that why you took the overdose?’
The boy doesn’t reply. My frustration increases as I ask more questions. Austell’s answers have dried up, so I leave him staring down at the cars circling the hospital forecourt in an endless chain. His motives are clearer now. He still loved Laura, even though she only wanted escape funds. All he could offer was a portion of the drugs he carried. Swallowing a chunk of cannabis resin must have been his way of numbing the pain of watching her die. It’s lucky for him that there’s no proof that he’s been handling drugs, apart from the guilt on his face. But the conversation proves that the Cornish smuggling trade is alive and well. Eddie has already checked Sam’s contacts on St Mary’s, their homes coming up clean. The major dealers are skilled at disappearing into thin air when a runner gets into trouble.
Sam’s consultant catches up with me afterwards. Dr Lucas gives a guarded smile when I ask about his progress.
‘He’s taking steps,’ she replies. ‘Sam’s asked for a place on our addiction programme, but he’ll need long-term commitment.’
Her subdued tone of voice makes me certain that her job is harder than mine. She must have treated dozens of cases of drug-induced psychosis; I’m guessing it’s easy to help addicts through the first stages, but a tougher challenge to keep them clean. She raises her hand in a tired salute when I say goodbye. The prospect of a long journey back to Bryher irritates me as I leave the hospital. In an ideal world, I could click my fingers and be standing outside Dean Miller’s studio. I’m hoping the island’s Pied Piper heard Sam and Laura’s conversation, and that he’ll let me under his defences at last.
35
It’s dark by the time I get back to the island, the wide beam of my police-issue torch turning the path silver as I jog towards Miller’s house. From twenty metres away, a man’s voice pierces the silence. I can see the artist on the floor of his studio, arms limp at his sides. Matt Trescothick doesn’t even glance up when I burst through the door, his voice a dull growl.
‘You sick bastard. You fancied her, didn’t you?’
I haul Matt to his feet, but Dean has lost consciousness. His face is as colourful as one of his canvases, yellow bruising on his temple, blood dripping from a cut lip, eye socket already turning blue. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out the sequence of events. One of the paintings of Laura has been ripped in two, a jagged tear across the canvas, legs separated from her torso. The other picture is still propped against the wall. The girl’s eyes meet mine, round and accusatory, begging me to find her killer.
I force cuffs onto Matt’s wrists then phone Nina, asking her to look after Dean. She’s had more medical training than anyone else on Bryher; at least she’ll be able to check for broken bones. The artist’s eyes are opening as he wipes blood from his face with his sleeve. I grab hold of Matt’s arm to prevent him from lashing out again.
‘I’m arresting you for assault.’
Matt stares back at me. ‘I came for the paintings of Laura. I expected something beautiful, not bloody pornography.’
‘She agreed to sit for him.’
‘The bloke’s a fucking pervert.’ He spits the words in Miller’s direction. ‘Maybe he killed her.’
‘Dean was here the morning Laura went missing, people saw him.’
‘Calm down. You’re already looking at an assault conviction.’
‘I won’t press charges.’ The artist is pressing a cloth to his eye, his voice muffled. ‘My paintings upset him. I should have destroyed them.’
‘You expect me to take pity from filth like you?’ The look in Matt’s eye is murderous as I walk him back to the community hall.
‘You’re lucky Dean’s let you off, but the caution’s still going on your record.’
‘The old pervert was screwing my daughter.’
‘That’s unlikely.’
‘Maybe she turned him down.’ His eyes burn with conviction, even though there’s no proof.
‘He’s gay, Matt.’
‘There’s no way he’d paint her like that unless he fancied her.’
I turn to face him. ‘While we’re talking about violence, can you explain the bruises on Suzanne’s arm?’
He jerks his wrists, as if he’s trying to break his handcuffs. ‘If you think I’d hurt her, you’re a worse arsehole than Miller.’
‘You like using your fists to settle arguments. Who else would it be?’
‘No idea, but when I find out, I’ll take him apart.’
Matt seethes quietly while I write my caution report. He still seems furious enough to bounce off the walls when I escort him to Gwen’s home, a shocked look on his mother’s face when she opens the door.
My feelings are mixed as I head home through the dark. There’s no way of knowing how I’d feel about Dean in Matt’s shoes. The painter seems to draw the island’s young to his lair with no effort at all, like moths to a flame.
For once there’s no clamour from Shadow when I get home. He’s stretched in front of the fire, only raising his head by a fraction when I arrive. The dog closes his eyes again immediately, as if my arrival bores him. Nina is preparing food at the kitchen table, wearing my dark red jumper, that sleek waterfall of hair hanging to her jaw. I keep my expression neutral, trying to ignore how good she looks in my clothes.
