I arrive back on St Agnes at 11 a.m. with Shadow chasing towards the boathouse. I won’t be able to return home until the killer’s found, but the island’s beauty is fair compensation. The wide sweep of sand on Blanket Bay would tempt me to take a dip – if the weather were ten degrees warmer. When I step inside the building, Mike Walbert has installed paraffin heaters, which blast out heat as I climb the stairs. Eddie is hunched over his notepad by the window. The young sergeant has abandoned his uniform for once, dressed in jeans, boots and a thick jumper, but his excitable expression remains. When I show him what the killer sent me, he gazes at the stone, as if ancient secrets lie below its dry surface.
‘What do you think it means, boss?’
‘It’s written in Cornish, but some of it doesn’t translate on the language website. We need to find an islander who’s fluent.’ I sit down opposite him. ‘It’s okay to use my first name, you know. I answer to Ben or Benesek, whichever you prefer.’
He looks embarrassed. ‘DCI Madron says junior officers should always treat their seniors with respect.’
‘We’ve worked together all year. Why not drop the formalities when he’s not around?’
‘It feels weird. I was in the sea cadets for years and they made us address officers by rank.’ He looks at the chip of stone again. ‘Do you think the killer’s targeting you?’
‘He sent the package before the body was found, so he was smart enough to figure out I’d be running the investigation. The gift’s meant to keep me on my toes. We don’t know if he’ll strike again, that’s what worries me.’ I put the piece of granite back into my pocket. ‘There was no sign of Curwen at his bedsit last night. Have you had any sightings?’
‘Not a whisper, but Jimmy wouldn’t go on the attack. He’s so timid he runs away if you try to speak to him.’
‘What about those kids he chased? He almost got arrested for threatening behaviour.’
‘The little sods were raiding gulls’ nests on the cliffs.’ He puts down his notebook. ‘Jimmy must have a reason to hide from us.’
‘You haven’t seen him lose control?’
‘Never. He’ll be terrified if he found Alex’s body.’ Eddie looks uncomfortable when he speaks again. ‘Jimmy was the first person to welcome me and Michelle to our flat. He left shells and wildflowers on our doorstep; I can’t believe he’d do something like this.’
‘The report says those children were terrified. People agree he’s got a nasty temper, but we’ll find him soon enough with everyone keeping watch. Have you found out who Alex spent time with, apart from Sally?’
Eddie still seems concerned, as if he wants to continue defending the Birdman’s corner. ‘I often saw him on the quay last summer, fishing with Stan Eden and Liam Poldean.’
‘We need to speak to them, but let’s visit Sally again first. If we search the place thoroughly we might find out why Alex was targeted.’
I make a vain attempt to lock Shadow inside, but he’s wise to all my tricks, sprinting through the fire escape before the door’s closed. Our walk takes us past St Agnes’s church, where a handful of worshippers are filing inside, dressed in sombre winter clothes as if their God disapproved of brightness. The slim figure at the back of the line is Martin Tolman, the architect, his wife Deborah standing beside him as they follow the other members of the congregation into the building. Seeing the couple reminds me to interview Tolman soon. Our brief conversation in the boathouse raised as many questions as it answered, but I envy him his faith. I’d love to be able to rely on a greater power, even though I’m a natural sceptic. My belief system doesn’t extend far beyond the here and now.
Sally’s home lies at the edge of Middle Town, fifty metres from her shop. It’s a typical Scillonian building; two storeys high, crafted from local stone, with slate roof tiles and a deep porch to provide shelter from bad weather. The entire island appears to have visited before us. Cards, bunches of flowers and containers of food have been left by her front door. I can see the two women huddled together on the sofa through the front window. Zoe is clutching Sally’s hand while she cries, which doesn’t surprise me. Her kindness is bone-deep, but I can tell she’s shaken when she greets us. She leads Eddie and me through to the kitchen, dressed in faded jeans and an old blue jumper, still managing to look gorgeous, even though her eyes are glossy with tears.
‘How’s she doing?’ Eddie asks.
Zoe shakes her head. ‘She’s ranting and raving, which beats keeping it all inside. Her GP came over from St Mary’s to check she’s okay. He’s left sedatives to help her sleep, but it’s hard keeping her indoors. Sal keeps taking walks by herself. I think it’s her way of staying sane.’
‘Has she had many visitors?’
‘I’ve sent most of them away.’
‘Keep a list of names and times, please. Can you stay here for the next few days?’
Zoe looks confused but nods her agreement. Murderers enjoy watching the pain they’ve caused, often remaining close to the victim’s family; I’ll need to keep a close eye on Sally’s most frequent callers.
‘I’ll keep her company for as long as she needs, but Sal’s desperate for news. Will you speak to her, Ben?’
‘If she’s strong enough to talk. Stay here, Eddie. It’s best if I see her alone.’
Shadow lingers in the kitchen, clearly hoping for food. I can hear Sally murmuring through the closed door of her living room, but I raise my hand to knock regardless. Her appearance has changed dramatically since yesterday. There’s no sign of the outgoing, chatty woman who greeted me and Eddie in her shop, or the rebellious girl I knew at school. My old friend is slumped on the sofa, her dark blue top stretched tight across the mound of her belly, eyes swollen from crying.
I glance round her living room while she blots her face with a tissue. I’ve been here often, but have never studied her possessions with forensic interest before – now I’m searching for anything to explain Alex Rogan’s brutal murder. A wedding photo taken outside the Turk’s Head stands on the mantelpiece, with Ella and Steve Tregarron smiling in the background and most of the island community surrounding them with glasses raised. Despite the man’s public profile, the couple chose a modest ceremony, followed by a party at the local pub. Rogan is a slim, dark-haired man with a good-natured grin, clearly relaxed in front of the camera, but all I know for certain is that he was an expert in his field, writing books and presenting occasional TV programmes about the night skies. I feel a stab of regret about spending so little time in his company. I should have visited him and Sally more often, then he’d have confided in me if something was bothering him.
‘Try to say what you remember, Sal. It could help us find Alex’s killer.’
‘It won’t bring him back.’ Her voice is a flat drone.
‘I’m sorry you’re suffering like this.’
Her head snaps in my direction, her cheeks reddening. ‘People keep saying how fucking sorry they are. Do you think I care? My son will never meet his dad.’
‘I promise to find out what happened.’
‘I’ll kill whoever did it.’ Sally’s stare is fierce enough to burn. ‘You don’t know how it feels, Ben. You’ve never lost someone you love.’
I could recite a litany of names, starting with my parents, then my old work partner Clare who took her own life, but none of that’s relevant. Her grief is still so raw, she can’t see or hear anything else. I’ve never been much good at comforting people, but this time there’s no choice. When I put my arm round Sally’s shoulders she collapses immediately, her face pressed against my collarbone. I rest my hand on her back, waiting for her emotions to flood out, some of my own tension releasing as her tears flow.
I scan the room again while she weeps. The couple’s shelves are filled with books, on topics ranging from meteorites to the history of jazz. Rogan may have been a committed stargazer, but the couple’s home is earthy and unpretentious, the well-worn furniture proving that they kept their feet on the ground. After several minutes, Sally pulls back, her breathing unsteady. When her gaze catches mine again there’s shame as well as grief in her expression.
‘You don’t need this, I’m sorry,’ she mutters. ‘I’ve messed up your shirt.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
She notices the marks on my neck. ‘Did I leave those scratches?’
‘Don’t worry, Sal. They’ll soon heal.’
‘I’m turning into a monster. Thank God it was you that told me, not some stranger who’d never met Alex.’ She leans forwards to clutch my wrist. ‘Find out why he died, Ben, please. I can’t sleep till his killer’s in jail.’
‘It’s only a matter of time. Are you up to answering questions?’
She dabs her eyes again. ‘I can try.’
‘Did Alex have his laptop with him the morning he left?’
‘He takes it everywhere. It’s his lifeline.’
‘How do you mean?
‘All his contacts are on there, and everything he’s written.’
She slumps forwards suddenly, covering her face with her hands. I want to press harder, but it would be unwise to rush a pregnant woman whose world has just fallen apart. When Sally reaches for my hand again her eyes are so reddened by tears it looks like she’s got conjunctivitis.
‘I want every detail.’ Her voice quakes with a fresh wave of tears. ‘Promise not to hold anything back; give me an update every day.’
‘If it helps, of course. Has your father been in contact?’
Her frown deepens. ‘Dad can’t forgive me for being a difficult teenager; he thinks it made Mum ill.’
‘You’re a businesswoman now. Why can’t he move on?’
‘He was never around when I needed him. It’s got to the point where we can’t even listen to each other.’ She shakes her head wearily. ‘That doesn’t matter anymore; I have to focus on Alex.’
‘How did he spend the night before he left?’
‘He went to the pub for a quick pint. He was home by ten.’
‘Can you think of anyone Alex had argued with?’
‘Only Dad, but I stayed out of it. Getting him to change his mind is like trying to shift Everest. Alex wanted the rift healed before the baby comes.’
‘What about Naomi Vine?’
‘It pissed him off that she fought his application to turn the lifeboat house into an observatory, but we don’t know her personally. She’s not the sociable type.’ Sally wipes her hand across her face, clearly exhausted. ‘Sorry, my brain’s stopped working, I can’t think anymore.’
‘We can talk again tomorrow. Is it okay to search Alex’s office?’
‘Just find out what happened, please. It’s killing me not knowing.’
‘Have you got his email address and password?’
Tears ooze from her eyes again. ‘There’s a notebook in his desk drawer. Alex could hold all those huge theories in his head, but forgot anything practical.’
There’s no point in telling her to keep calm for the baby’s sake; grief isn’t an emotion you can suppress. I sit with her for a few more minutes, relieved when Zoe arrives. Sally’s vulnerability makes me even more determined to find the truth, but it’s frustrating that she’s still too upset to describe the run-up to her husband’s death in detail.
Rogan’s office is an annexe downstairs. It contains a battered leather sofa and shelves stacked with papers, files scattered across his desk. A book still lies open, as if he might return at any minute: The Universe in Your Hand: A Journey through Space, Time and Beyond. I glance at the opening paragraph, but lose the thread before the first description of quantum physics ends. Eddie scans Rogan’s documents while I inspect the rest of the room. There’s a large sheet of black paper pinned to the wall, which turns out to be a star map, with galaxies and nebulae circled with white pencil marks. His stargazing equipment is stacked by the wall, ranging from an antique telescope that’s barely a foot long to one that must weigh 150 pounds, attached to a trolley that can be dragged over rough terrain. The man’s love for his subject hits me for the first time. He threw all of his energy into organising a festival for stargazers, purely to share his passion for astronomy with like-minded souls under some of the darkest skies in Europe.
Rogan’s notes confirm that he was establishing an international reputation, working at Harvard before gaining a research fellowship at Oxford. Recently he had been visiting the Roseland Observatory on the mainland before coming home to write up his research; I find his articles about distant planetary systems in copies of the Journal of Cosmology, but nothing to explain why he was targeted. His emails reveal that he was making friends on St Agnes, arranging a fishing trip with Mike Walbert and trips to the pub with Liam Poldean.
It’s only when I rummage through his desk that an envelope just like the one I received slips into my hands. Rogan’s name is neatly printed on the front, the postmark showing that it was sent – again from St Mary’s – a week ago. It contains a strip of wood bark, with some Cornish words inscribed in small black capitals. When I check the image on my phone, the words are identical to those left at Rogan’s murder scene. The killer sent his victim a warning, then repeated the message when he died, which means I may be next on his list.
I’m about to leave Rogan’s office when some scorch marks on the window frame catch my eye, confirming Martin Tolman’s claims about a previous murder attempt. The killer planned to start his blaze here, meaning Rogan’s telescopes would be consumed first. There may be little evidence of his attempt to set the house alight, but it’s worth asking Liz Gannick to complete a detailed search. Eddie’s phone rings while I’m still gazing down at the burned paintwork, his brow furrowed with concentration until the conversation ends.
‘A dog walker from Middle Town says they saw Alex the night before he went missing. He was visiting Naomi Vine’s house.’
‘That’s interesting. He told Sally he was going to the pub, and those two didn’t see eye to eye. What do you know about Vine?’
He shakes his head, frowning. ‘Not much, she stays in her big old house most of the time. I haven’t seen her since the bonfire party.’
My interest lifts, because Vine was one of the few people to miss our meeting after Rogan’s body was found. ‘Let’s pay her a visit.’
*
It feels good to exchange the grief trapped inside Sally’s home for a practical task. We head south, the landscape revealing that the only reliable form of work on St Agnes is farming; dozens of small fields are full of sheep grazing, or green shoots of winter barley. It’s only when we reach the edge of Wingletang Down that the natural order fragments. Nothing can be built on the half-mile of rocky heathland that extends to the southern coast because it’s a designated Site of Special Scientific Interest. Walkers can wander freely, provided they stick to the paths, but all other activities are illegal. Last summer I had to shift a gang of teenagers who pitched tents there, hoping to avoid camping fees. The land may once have been tended by Neolithic farmers, but no one has cultivated it for thousands of years.
‘Spooky, isn’t it?’ Eddie mutters. ‘My dad says the down is like a rabbit warren, with Bronze Age graves connected by access tunnels. Most are blocked off in case they collapse.’
The landscape is beautiful but barren. The down looks particularly austere in winter, descending to the dunes at Horse Point, with few interruptions except oddly shaped outcrops of rock. Cairns mark the sites of ancient graves, their peaked outlines too numerous to count, the dead outnumbering the living on St Agnes by a significant majority. Suddenly the wind feels colder than before, making me long for shelter.
Naomi Vine’s place stands at the edge of the down, the final building before the land reverts to wildness. I’ve never been inside, but my brother and I were fascinated by it as kids. The mansion is easily the grandest building on the island. It’s ringed by high walls, ironwork gates protect the entrance, with only its top storey and slate roof visible from outside the compound. I don’t know much about the woman who lives there, apart from her success as a sculptor. The papers called her an enfant terrible when she won the Turner Prize two decades ago: she used to appear regularly on TV shows about art, her style witty but combative. Her house looks like a fairy-tale castle, barricaded from reality, but it’s more likely that the walls were built decades ago to protect it from winter’s vicious winds.
My curiosity increases as we reach the gates, their embossed ironwork yielding to rust. Overgrown tamarisk and elder bushes almost block our path, but the gardens must once have been impressive. There’s a marble fountain at the centre, surrounded by gnarled rose bushes and a terrace spanning the width of the property. The swimming pool is empty, apart from a silt of dark brown mud and a residue of leaves. Dozens of lead-paned windows gaze down at us, but there’s no sign of the sculptor’s presence, apart from a pair of ten-foot-high steel obelisks guarding her front door. Eddie gives a low whistle, impressed by so much grandeur.
‘This place must be worth a mint,’ I say, pushing the doorbell.
‘A million for the land alone,’ Eddie replies.
When no one responds, I peer through the letterbox and see no sign of life, only a row of paint cans dumped by the wall.
Suddenly the dog releases a frenzy of barks. He stands on his hind legs, scratching at the door handle, and my concerns for Naomi Vine rise. She could have met the same fate as Alex Rogan in such an isolated place.
‘Stop fussing, Shadow. I’ll find a way in, Eddie. You search the grounds.’
We walk in opposite directions, circling the building, but it looks impenetrable, with most of its shutters bolted. It’s only when I reach the back that I manage to prise open a sash window. The dog whimpers pitifully as I force my hand through the opening.
‘Calm down, drama queen,’ I say, but his whining intensifies when I boost myself over the window ledge.
I land on an expanse of parquet, my boots clattering on the slick surface. Naomi Vine’s drawing room must have been grand decades ago, with an ornate marble fireplace and a candelabra hanging from the ceiling. The place looks like a work in progress, with too little furniture to fill the space, the pervasive silence convincing me that no one’s home. Shadow is still barking frantically outside, as if he’s afraid of being abandoned.
My eyes scan the woman’s furnishings, looking for clues to explain her absence. The state of Naomi Vine’s living room suggests that she’s not interested in comfort, despite owning the island’s most valuable property. There are few luxuries, apart from sculptures in the woman’s own distinctive style. An elegant steel column stands in the corner, almost touching the ceiling, and half a dozen bronze sculptures grace her mantelpiece, showing an abstracted female form slowly rising from a crouching position, until her arms greet the sky. An old-fashioned phone stands on a coffee table, and a few colourful but threadbare rugs cover the parquet.
There’s a sudden clattering when I reach the back of the house. It comes from behind heavy oak doors, but once I barge through, breaking into the property seems like a big mistake. Naomi Vine stands in front of me, aiming a blowtorch at my chest, a stink of molten iron filling my airways. The sculptor is wearing black jeans and an emerald green vest, the headphones over her ears explaining why she didn’t hear my footsteps. She looks like a grown-up version of the warrior girls in video games who I fancied as a kid: ugly-beautiful, with sinews straining in her arms as she angles the torch in my direction, the tattoo snaking from her shoulder to her wrist undeniably sexy. Her auburn hair is cropped shorter than mine, and although her stance is combative, her skin is milk-pale. The expression on her face looks more like fear than fury.
‘Who the fuck are you?’ Vine spits out the words.
‘DI Ben Kitto.’ I hold out my badge at eye level.
She lets out a shaky laugh, but fear still shows on her face. ‘You almost gave me a heart attack.’
‘Switch off the flamethrower, please. Why aren’t you answering your phone?’
‘I never pick up when I’m working.’
It looks like she ignores basic physical needs like eating and sleeping, too. There are blue-black circles under her eyes, her cheekbones are hollow and her mouth is too large for her delicate bone structure. Vine’s studio reveals how hard she’s been working: light spills from a skylight window onto a huge aluminium sculpture, with metal leaves spiking out from its core. Ghostly white plaster heads peer down from shelves high above us and welding gear litters the floor. The sculptor’s frown returns when she catches me assessing her studio with interest, but at least she’s turned off her blowtorch.
‘Can we talk, please, Ms Vine? I’m investigating Alex Rogan’s death.’
A look of sadness crosses her face. ‘Come and sit down, but watch out for solder; it’ll damage the soles of your shoes.’
I walk past the huge tree-like sculpture to a sitting area at the back of the studio, noticing broken floor tiles. Naomi Vine seems comfortable with her property’s shabby grandeur, even though she moved in a year ago. She keeps her back to the wall while she gestures for me to sit on a battered wooden chair, arms folded tight across her chest. It looks like the first loud noise could shatter her nerves, although the cause of her anxiety is unexplained. She reaches for a cigarette before meeting my eyes again.
‘I was upset about Alex. I didn’t know him well, but he called by recently.’
‘He was seen here the night before he died. Can you say why?’
‘The pair of us were vying for the same building. It seems ridiculous now, but we’d had a row in the pub about the relative value of art and science. He gave a charming apology, so I forgave him. Alex asked if guests could stay here during his festival. There aren’t enough hotel rooms on the islands to accommodate them all.’
‘Did you agree?’
She nods her head. ‘I felt obliged to say yes, but regretted it straight away. I hate having my privacy invaded. We had a glass of wine to be neighbourly, then he went home.’
‘How long did he stay?’
Vine shrugs her shoulders. ‘Less than an hour.’
‘Had he ever called round before?’
‘Never.’
‘He didn’t tell his wife he was coming here.’
She stubs out her cigarette, keeping her gaze averted. ‘That’s odd, it must have been a spur of the moment thing.’
‘Do you get many visitors, Ms Vine?’
‘Naomi, please.’ She hesitates before answering. ‘I don’t seek out company. I left London to escape social obligations and focus on my work, but Rachel Carlyon calls, and the Birdman occasionally.’
‘Jimmy Curwen comes here?’
‘I always call him Birdman. The name fits him perfectly; he never settles anywhere for long. The guy’s face is extraordinary, I’ll have to sculpt him sometime.’
‘He’s hidden from us since Alex was killed. If you spot him, please call me immediately, and don’t let him inside.’ I’d like to press for more details about Rogan, but the woman still looks as fragile as spun glass. ‘No one’s seen you since the bonfire.’
‘I’m preparing for a big show in Paris.’
‘How did you hear about Alex’s death?’
‘Rachel phoned. The poor thing’s terribly upset about his wife being widowed; I did my best to console her.’
‘Forgive me for saying this, but you seem tense, Naomi.’
She folds her arms tighter across her chest. ‘I left London because I was attacked. A mugger assaulted me near my house at night; I managed to fight him off, but the shock affected me for months. I thought the islands would be a safe place to stay.’
‘They are, most of the time.’ I let my gaze wander round her studio again. ‘This is a great house, but it needs work, doesn’t it?’
‘The views sold it to me.’ She offers her first full smile since I arrived. ‘I’ll give it an overhaul this spring, if I can find a decent builder. It’s a perfect creative retreat.’
‘Unless policemen disturb your peace.’
She gives me a wry look. ‘I’ll keep my windows locked in future.’
‘You shouldn’t be here alone, until the killer’s found. He might be targeting newcomers to St Agnes. Why not take a room at the pub or let someone stay with you?’
‘That wouldn’t work.’ The fear in her eyes remains, even while she defends her solitude.
‘Why not?’
‘I grew up in care. Sharing a crowded dormitory cured my need for company on a permanent basis.’
‘At least keep your phone switched on.’
‘I can’t change the habits of a lifetime. I need silence to concentrate.’ She pauses before addressing me again. ‘There’s something else you should know, Inspector.’
‘What’s that?’
Her gaze fiercens again. ‘I can protect myself. It’s tragic that Alex died, but it won’t drive me from a place I love.’
‘Promise to keep your property secure, Naomi.’
She gives a grudging nod. I’m not convinced by her explanation for Alex Rogan’s visit, but her contradictory manner is fascinating to observe; she can oscillate between toughness and vulnerability in the blink of an eye. I have to remind myself to stay focused. In a place this small, outsiders can seem exotic, and Naomi’s energy is pulling at me.
‘I saw your show at the Tate in St Ives last year,’ I say. ‘Books normally appeal to me more than art, but your work fitted the space perfectly. The exhibition was impressive.’
‘I’ve never met a cop with artistic interests before.’ Finally the woman has relaxed enough to mock me. ‘Come back, if you’re interested. You can see my new pieces.’
‘You wouldn’t mind?’
‘My store room’s full to bursting, and it would give me a break from hard labour. Drop by – when you’re less busy.’
I pass her my card. ‘I’ll call first to check you’re free. Can I search your gardens before I leave?’
‘Go ahead.’ Her eyes narrow again as the conversation ends.
Vine’s tension returns as we walk to her back door, as if she’s dwelling on Alex Rogan’s death, or her previous attack. Her wariness remains when she says goodbye, and I’m glad to hear the bolt slide shut behind me, proving that my security advice is being taken seriously.
Shadow’s barking reaches fever pitch when I walk back along the path that circles Vine’s property. Eddie is coming towards me from the opposite direction, but the dog stays glued to my side while I look for evidence Rogan may have left behind. The overcast sky makes the mansion look ghost-ridden, its tall roofline haunted by a flurry of gulls. The dog barks again as we reach a ginnel stacked high with firewood, but all I see is a neglected garden with trees planted so close together they seem to advance like predators, gnarled rosebushes blocking out the light.
Eddie joins me a few minutes later. ‘Did you find Naomi Vine?’
‘Something’s spooked her. The most likely scenario is that she and Alex were having a flirtation. Why else would he lie to Sally about paying her a visit? She’s been attacked before. My guess is that she’s afraid to leave the house in case the killer’s targeting her too. Let’s check the grounds and outbuildings again.’
There’s no need to mention that Vine’s intense manner and creativity intrigued me. All traces of Rogan’s final visit appear to have vanished, but my main concern is that the sculptress could be facing the same threat. Shadow is still on edge, snapping at my heels as I search the overgrown gardens. I find two unlocked sheds and an outbuilding packed to the rafters with rusting metal, but no sign of damage. The dog’s barking continues until the ironwork gates finally clang shut behind us.