Saturday 6 November
I catch a few hours of sleep on the rocky ground, metres away from the corpse, the cold breeze waking me at 5 a.m. My bones ache as I rise to my feet. The sea has become an expanse of silver, ridden by an armada of choppy waves. It feels like I’m standing at the edge of the known world, with nothing except Bishop’s Rock lighthouse to interrupt the Atlantic before it laps America’s shores. The huge bonfire on Covean Beach is still smouldering, even though the last revellers went home hours ago. The straw effigies have left no trace behind and the tide has receded at last, leaving me free to escape Burnt Island on foot until the next high tide arrives tonight.
When I turn to assess the murder scene again, the sight is worse by daylight. The victim appears to be offering me a broad grin, facial tissue burned away, exposing rows of pure white teeth. The scale of the body makes me assume that it’s a man. I can’t guess whether he was frog-marched up the hill or came here voluntarily. A sheepskin coat covers his remains from the neck down, burned through in places where fire has scorched it. Two paraffin cans lie beside the pyre, abandoned in a hurry as if the killer feared being caught in the act. The victim’s left hand protrudes from under its sheepskin covering. His fingers look like blackened twigs, but it’s a relief to see a metal band glinting in the early light: the man’s wedding ring could help with identification.
The morning light reveals that shallow marks have been made on a boulder close to where the victim lies. Each capital letter is an inch tall, etched by a knife or chisel, the sentence written in a foreign language. It’s possible that some kid was experimenting with a secret code, months or even years ago, but I take a photo of the granite surface just in case, then drop my phone back into my pocket.
When Eddie finally toils up the hill, he’s followed by DCI Alan Madron. My boss is a small man with formal manners, always immaculately dressed. Today his boots are polished to a mirror shine, his mackintosh neatly buttoned, the parting in his salt-and-pepper hair so straight it looks like it’s been precision-engineered. Eddie looks stricken when he sees the victim, but Madron barely reacts. The DCI’s grey eyes scrutinise me with cool detachment.
‘I hear you guarded the body all night, Kitto. Admirable commitment, but you should have requested backup.’
‘Evidence would have been destroyed, sir. I’d have needed a boat back to St Agnes and birds could have disturbed the scene if it was left unprotected.’
Madron surveys the victim’s remains with distaste. ‘The press mustn’t get wind of this. Don’t announce anything until the pathologist gives his verdict. What do we know about the victim?’
‘No one’s been reported missing. The body could have been left here by a passing boat, but it’s unlikely. I’ve rung the harbourmaster on St Mary’s for a list of vessels on local waters and he’s seen nothing unusual. The only identifier we’ve got right now is the wedding ring.’
‘We can’t touch it until forensics arrive.’ The DCI releases a loud sigh. ‘Breakfast’s waiting for you at the pub, Kitto. Go and warm up then collect our visitors from the quay. Have you met Liz Gannick before?’
‘Not yet.’
‘She’s an ex-cop, easily riled. Last time I saw her she was in a wheelchair. Make sure you treat her with kid gloves.’
Madron’s clipped tone irritates me, but I follow his instructions. The DCI is close to retirement, with little experience of murder investigations, yet loves to draw rank. Our working relationship has remained tense ever since I joined his team earlier this year, my position only recently made permanent. My teeth are still grinding as I walk back to Higher Town. The night’s vigil has left me hungry to know the victim’s identity, yet my boss has dismissed me from the scene like a naughty schoolboy. There’s no one in sight as I walk through the village, only the pristine white lighthouse looming overhead. The place still looks like a rural idyll, an unlikely setting for such a vicious murder.
The back door of the Turk’s Head is ajar when I arrive. Ella Tregarron doesn’t notice me at first, the landlady keeping her back turned as she labours over the stove in the pub’s large kitchen. A cascade of black hair ripples down her back as she pours oil into a frying pan, and the smell of toast wafts on the air. When I clear my throat to catch her attention she spins round in a hurry.
Ella is in her early forties, with a slim build and striking features. Her high cheekbones, pale green eyes and bee-stung mouth look good from a distance, but up close her skin is dull with tiredness. She was a stunner in her youth and her air of mystery remains, but now she carries an aura of quiet disappointment, as if life has failed to match her dreams. I fancied her madly as a boy, but there’s no reason why she’d have noticed, when every man on the islands must have felt the same. Ella doesn’t fit the stereotype for a pub landlady, her manner contained rather than outgoing.
‘Come in, Ben. You must be hungry.’ Her voice has such a thick Cornish accent it sounds like she’s never travelled past county limits.
‘You’re a lifesaver, I’m starving.’
‘Cold, too, I’m guessing, after your night outside.’
She gestures for me to sit at the steel-topped table, loading my plate with more fried eggs and toast than two men could consume. Ella remains silent as she pours coffee into a pair of white mugs, then sits down opposite, her gaze lingering on my face. She’s so watchful that I feel certain her husband must have told her what happened.
‘What did Steve say when he got back from Burnt Island?’
‘Nothing, he just bolted upstairs. I couldn’t get a word out of him.’
‘Is he okay now?’
‘He’s been ill, so I made him a hot toddy then helped him into bed,’ she replies, setting down her mug. ‘Steve doesn’t scare easily. Something bad must have happened up on that hill.’
‘We’ll make an announcement later today.’
Her eyes widen. ‘Someone’s been killed, haven’t they? It’s written all over your face.’
‘You’ll hear soon enough, Ella, I promise.’
‘All the villagers from Middle Town were at the party.’ She shakes her head in disbelief. ‘It can’t be a local.’
Ella looks unsettled so I keep the talk general, and she seems calmer by the time I thank her and say goodbye. She waves away my offer of payment, as if a free breakfast is a just reward for trying to keep the island safe.
The hot food and shot of caffeine help me to think more clearly as I follow the path along the beach to Porth Conger Quay. Whoever killed the victim must have spent time and effort preparing for the murder. They gathered piles of driftwood and hauled paraffin up the hill before it took place. I’d like to know whether the killer chose Burnt Island to set the victim alight as his idea of a joke, or as a symbolic location. My walk takes me past Helston Farm, where green shoots are defying the wintry conditions in the nearest field. The rest of the land seems to be lying fallow, but appearances are deceiving. A legion of bulbs is hidden below the surface, waiting to bloom next spring when the island’s famous daffodils will be shipped all over the world. The ground seems unlikely to blossom with colour today; all I can see are acres of tilled loam, raked smooth to keep weeds at bay.
The police launch is nowhere in sight when I reach Porth Conger Quay, but the delay doesn’t surprise me. They were a fact of life during my childhood, with ferry crossings cancelled frequently due to unpredictable weather. I’m still standing on the jetty when the vessel finally appears, looking worse for wear, blue and yellow flashing peeling from its sides. I’m expecting Dr Gannick to be a grim-faced battleaxe, but there’s no sign of a female passenger or a wheelchair when the speedboat approaches the quay.
Sergeant Lawrie Deane is skippering the launch, a middle-aged officer with cheeks glowing from the hard breeze, ginger hair combed back from a face that generous observers would describe as plain. He’s a trusted member of DCI Madron’s team and was furious not to win the job as his deputy, but his resentment towards me appears to be fading at last. Dr Keillor is seated beside him, the pathologist’s expression sombre as he gives me a nod of acknowledgement, his eyes shielded by thick spectacles.
Once the boat moors I spot a small figure hiding in the bow, clad in a black leather jacket, skinny jeans and red wellingtons. Liz Gannick is tapping out a message on her phone, oblivious to my stare. I can’t imagine her in white overalls crawling over crime scenes, but she must be outstanding in her field to win the job of running the county’s forensics service. Her appearance is elfin, with short hair dyed platinum, a few longer wisps falling across her brow. Gannick has the physique of a twelve-year-old child, but fine lines around her eyes suggest that she’s in her early forties. Her pale brown stare is penetrating enough to measure my flaws in a couple of blinks. She offers a rapid handshake, but remains in her seat as I thank her for making the journey.
‘Rough seas don’t bother me, Inspector. I know the islands well.’ Her tone sounds even more brusque than it did on the phone, her northern accent broader than before. ‘Help me out of here, can you?’
I could lift her onto the jetty in moments, but the woman’s spiky manner indicates that she prefers independence. She uses crutches to lever herself out of the vessel, only grasping my hand for a second as her matchstick-thin legs land on solid ground. She looks annoyed to catch me observing the manoeuvre.
‘It’s rude to stare, DI Kitto. Didn’t anyone teach you?’ She makes the statement in a breezy tone, but it’s clear I’m being tested.
‘I was told you’d need a wheelchair. We’ll be crossing some rough terrain. Is that okay?’
‘I’m fine on foot.’
‘Good to hear. Shall we get moving?’
‘Let me give you some advice first.’
‘Go ahead.’
‘Treat me like a fully functional human being. If we’re working together, it’ll make life easier for us both.’
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to insult you.’
Now she can see me squirming there’s a glint of amusement in her eyes. ‘Believe me, I’ve had worse. There are overshoes and Tyvek suits in that box. I’ll grab my kit, then you can give me the details along the way.’
Dr Keillor waits in silence as Gannick gathers her equipment, his expression world-weary, as if examining corpses is a waste of valuable leisure time. He walks ahead with Deane while I accompany the forensics officer. The pair of us must make an odd spectacle: a lumbering giant carting a case full of equipment for a minute woman wielding her crutches at a rapid pace. The scientist’s questions are laser-sharp; she absorbs my answers in silence, storing away facts to analyse later.
When we reach Burnt Island, Gannick makes no complaint about the steep climb. Dr Keillor marches ahead while she navigates between boulders with deft agility. By the time we reach the top, I’m embarrassed to have doubted her strength. The chief of forensic services isn’t even out of breath when she greets DCI Madron and Eddie, who are still guarding the body. My boss offers her and Dr Keillor a formal welcome; he’s a stickler for protocol, and their seniority has put him on his best behaviour. Gannick ignores the DCI’s old-fashioned courtesy, remaining in the background while Keillor approaches the murder scene, but I can tell she’s itching to get started.
The pathologist focuses on the victim’s face when he lowers himself to a crouching position. ‘Someone’s made a mess of you, haven’t they, my friend?’ he mutters under his breath.
Keillor draws on sterile gloves, then peels back the sheepskin carefully. Eddie is swaying on his feet, eyes glassy as he observes the corpse, but at least he remains upright. Fire has melted the victim’s flesh, arms fused to his torso where fragments of bone are visible, shreds of blackened muscle still clinging to the legs and ribcage. Dr Keillor is too busy studying the remains to pass comment. Silence thickens around us and I’m about to request his verdict when he turns to face me.
‘The victim was male with an average build. It’s too soon to tell his age.’ He leans forward to study the skull more closely. ‘There’s a fracture in his parietal bone, but the blow could have been inflicted posthumously.’
‘Can you give us any more details?’ Madron asks.
‘I’ll need to do a full post-mortem first. His arms and legs must have been bound or else the heat would have forced the muscles to flex at right angles. The lab will have to analyse the embers to explain how the fire started, but you’d need petrol-based firelighters as well as paraffin and solid fuel to create such intense heat. It would have taken a minimum of three hours to destroy so much tissue. The coat was thrown over the body after the event. If everything goes to plan, I’ll do the post-mortem this afternoon and will take X-rays for a dental records match.’ He turns to face Liz Gannick. ‘I’m afraid you’ll struggle to find the killer’s DNA; we’ve had rainfall since the man died.’
‘I can work miracles, Dr Keillor, didn’t you know?’ The forensics officer’s grin is a direct challenge to anyone who questions her ability. ‘Put a sterile tent over the body immediately, please. I’ll get started before my colleagues arrive.’
‘Thanks for coming all this way, Dr Gannick,’ Madron offers. ‘You’ve had a long journey.’
‘No problem, Chief Inspector. I’ve got relatives on St Mary’s; this gives me a chance to visit them.’
The DCI and Lawrie Deane escort Keillor back downhill to the waiting boat, leaving me and Eddie to find the white polythene tent in Gannick’s box of equipment. My deputy’s expression stays blank as he studies the remains again, as if he can’t believe that a murder has been committed half a mile from his flat in Lower Town. Once the canopy is securely in place, I use sterile gloves to ease the victim’s wedding ring from his blackened hand then drop it into an evidence bag. The design is unusual – white gold, etched with stars and crescent moons.
‘Take a picture, Eddie, then see if Marie can identify it.’ His older sister works as a goldsmith in the only jeweller’s shop on the islands.
The young sergeant looks relieved to be given a specific task. His fingers are white when he grips his phone, as if he’s clutching a lifeline. I call some of the islanders while he’s busy speaking to his sister, asking them to spread the word that there will be a public meeting in the old lifeboat house at two o’clock. Liz Gannick is on her hands and knees beside the corpse, running a UV light across the ground, its blue beam tracing every rock and pebble. When I ask what she’s expecting to find she offers a look of barely controlled irritation.
‘Blood spatter, obviously. Contrary to popular opinion, rain doesn’t destroy all trace evidence. The torch picks up microscopic splashes, and blood’s thicker than water, as they say. It often clings to the undersides of stones.’
I let her continue in peace, noticing that Eddie’s face is sober when he finishes his call.
‘Alex Rogan commissioned that ring last summer, with a matching one for his wife. But someone could have stolen it off him, couldn’t they?’
‘Possible, but unlikely, I’m afraid.’
My thoughts race while I gaze down at the ring, amazed that it survived the flames intact. Professor Alex Rogan was in his late thirties; he’d moved to St Agnes two years ago to marry an old school friend of mine, who now owns the island’s shop. The man wore his intellect so lightly I had no idea he was a well-known astronomer until I saw him on TV making a guest appearance on a science programme. When I spent a few evenings in the pub with him and Sally, he came over as a gentle, mild-mannered academic, happy in his relationship, with a wry sense of humour.
Now that he’s been reduced to the disfigured skeleton at my feet, a wave of anger is swilling around in my gut. Alex Rogan was newly married, and well-liked here. Why would someone set out to kill him?