I stand by the boathouse window, watching bands of rain mark the sky with hard black lines. Right now I’d happily swap places with the lifeboat crew that worked here years ago, despite the storm warning that’s currently in place. I love my job most of the time, but at this point in the investigation, nothing is certain, apart from the killer’s desire to rid the island of outsiders. Madron’s voice is terse when I call to give him an update. The DCI waits at the end of a crackling line while I explain about the new message written in Cornish.
‘It sounds like the killer wants the island all to himself. He’s watching you, so don’t spend time alone, Kitto. Do you hear?’
‘Loud and clear, sir.’
‘Any risky behaviour and I’ll take over.’
DCI Madron hangs up abruptly. The man always reacts badly to pressure, and there’s nothing more chaotic than a murder investigation – until it starts to make sense. I’d love to discuss strategies with him, but his knee-jerk reactions to every new threat make each case harder to manage.
I push my resentment aside to focus on Alex Rogan’s death. It’s already 3 p.m. and the vital forty-eight-hour period since discovering his body has almost passed; so far no unusual behaviour has been reported among the islanders. Rogan seems to have been accepted by the local community, but I haven’t seen him and Sally recently enough to judge if their marriage was happy; it’s possible that he was neglecting his pregnant wife to enjoy a fling with Naomi Vine, complete with lovers’ tiffs. The only person he had a serious dispute with was Keith Pendennis, yet I’ve found no hard proof against Sally’s father. And the elusive Birdman is still out of reach, even though he was seen tending his rescued gulls last night. No one has come forward with information about potential suspects yet. It’s starting to feel like the islanders have signed an oath of secrecy.
The Helston family are next on my list. The last time I visited their home was during the summer, after Adam completed his community service for starting the fire that destroyed the Walberts’ hay barn. I doubt that a seventeen-year-old boy could commit such a violent, well-organised crime, but it would be remiss not to interview the island’s only confirmed arsonist. Shadow shows some good sense for once when I head for the door. He remains curled up on an old blanket under the table, unwilling to face the elements. I set off alone to the island’s sheltered eastern side, with rain spitting at my face.
The Helstons supplement their income as farmers by running a bulb shop each summer so tourists can grow St Agnes’s famous plants in their own gardens. There’s nothing celebratory about the bulb shop today: a closed sign hangs in the window, but someone must be inside the dilapidated farmhouse next door, because a light glows in the hallway.
Julie Helston offers me a cautious smile of greeting. She’s carrying a few extra stone, her skin puffy with tiredness, and even though she’s around forty-five, she’s dressed like a pensioner: her blouse is a drab shade of brown, buttoned up to her throat, mousy hair pinned into a bun. She ushers me into her kitchen, then gestures towards a table loaded with baskets of fabric and cotton reels. I notice that one of the containers is packed with tiny leather shoes.
‘Let me clear this mess away,’ she says.
‘Don’t worry, I’ve got plenty of room. Have you been sewing?’
‘I make rag dolls for a mail order company each winter, while the shop’s closed.’
My gaze falls on rows of two-inch-wide faces, with lips and eyes neatly stitched into place. It doesn’t surprise me that Julie Helston needs a second income, but such repetitive work would send most people mad.
‘How many can you sew each day?’
‘Twenty, if I start early.’ She picks up a half-finished doll, and I can tell she would rather continue than deal with my intrusion, her shoulders rigid with tension.
‘I’m investigating Alex Rogan’s death. Have you heard about it, Julie?’
Her gaze is glued to the doll’s crimson smile. ‘Sam was at your meeting; he told me what happened. It’s tragic that Sally’s been widowed so young.’
‘Are your husband and son here today?’
‘They’re in the fields, but they’ll be back soon.’
‘How’s Adam doing?’
‘Fine, thanks. Sam keeps a close eye on him; he’ll never do something that stupid again.’
‘Did you ever find out why he started that fire?’
Her defences slip by a fraction. ‘I wish to God he’d say. He still claims he had nothing to do with it, but he’d been in so much trouble at school it fit the pattern. I felt awful for Mike and Louise, even though their insurance covered the damage. The Walberts have been friends all our lives.’
‘What was Adam doing, in the run-up to Bonfire Night?’
Her expression hardens. ‘So that’s why you’re here. My son’s been in trouble before, so you’re coming after him again.’
‘I have to check everyone’s alibi for the fourth and fifth of November.’
‘He was working with his dad.’
‘Are you sure Adam never left the farm?’
‘The pair of them stayed in the flower shed till late. We’ve only let Adam see his mates at the weekend since his arrest.’
My gaze drops to a deep crack in the wall opposite, just above the skirting, with a smear of mud beside it. Someone must have kicked it hard to cause so much damage.
‘Did Adam put that hole in your wall?’
Her eyes blink shut. ‘My son’s easily upset, like most teenagers. He’d never do anyone serious harm.’
I glance around the cottage-style kitchen while she blusters; a framed photo above the range reveals a family that no longer exists, preserved in celluloid. Sam and Julie Helston are an attractive couple smiling for the camera, with their only child giving an impish smile. Adam looks around twelve years old: a handsome, fresh-faced lad, already morphing into adulthood, but not yet renowned at Five Islands School for truancy and bouts of fighting. When I look up again, Julie Helston’s scowl has deepened.
‘You can’t really believe our boy killed someone. He’s seventeen, for God’s sake.’
‘The murderer’s still here, Julie. I’m checking everyone’s movements.’
She rises to her feet in a hurry. ‘Search his room, you won’t find anything there.’
‘That’s not necessary at this stage.’
‘Do it now, please. Then you won’t bother us again.’
I feel uncomfortable following her upstairs, the woman’s footsteps heavier than before. Adam Helston’s bedroom is typical of any teenage boy. The air reeks of cheap tobacco; there’s a Plymouth Argyle FC poster on the wall and pictures of Paloma Faith pouting into the camera, crumpled T-shirts thrown across his unmade bed. I search the drawers of his bedside cabinet and under the furniture, with Julie watching my every move, guarding her son’s reputation like a security officer outside a mausoleum.
I point to a stack of boxes on top of his wardrobe. ‘Can I see those please, Julie?’
‘Stay there, I’ll get them down,’ she snaps.
She places half a dozen cardboard containers on the bed. The first holds old football programmes, tickets and certificates, the next a brand new pair of Adidas trainers, but it’s the largest one that draws a dull squeal from the boy’s mother. It contains strips of rag, a box of matches and dozens of firelighters, individually wrapped in cellophane, releasing a sharp tang of chemicals.
‘He promised us he wasn’t involved,’ she whispers.
Before I can ask another question, footsteps thunder up the stairs. Sam Helston looks shocked to see me when he bursts into the room, his face soon clouding with suspicion. He appears older than a man in his mid-forties; his son’s exploits have painted deep lines on his face. Adam lingers behind. The boy’s dark hair is cut into an arrogant rock star’s quiff, but he’s refusing to meet my eye. If he’s surprised to see his fire-starting kit on display, he’s wise enough to keep his mouth shut. Sam Helston positions his stocky frame to block my exit, while Julie cowers in the corner.
‘What are you doing here?’ Helston asks, his voice gritty with anger.
‘Investigating Alex Rogan’s murder.’
‘Get on and find Jimmy Curwen then. The bloke’s a fucking freak.’ He steps closer, his gaze boring holes in my skin.
‘We’re searching for him, don’t worry.’
‘Leave now before I chuck you out. Julie’s had more than she can take from your lot.’
‘Stop it, Sam, please,’ she murmurs. ‘I asked him to search Adam’s room; I thought it would get them off our backs.’
Helston’s anger changes direction when he sees the contents of the box. He shoves his son’s shoulder so hard that the boy bounces off the wall. ‘What have you done? You stupid little shit.’
‘It’s not mine,’ Adam blurts out. ‘I’ve never seen it before.’
‘Bloody liar.’ His father spits the words into his face.
I lay a hand on the man’s arm before he can throw a punch. ‘Let me speak to Adam alone, please, Mr Helston. You can wait downstairs.’
Julie scuttles out of the room immediately. Her husband raises a warning finger to his boy then trudges away, leaving an ominous silence hanging over the room. Adam Helston’s body language is more defensive than ever, just like when I arrested him for starting the fire in August. The boy’s behaviour struck me as odd at the time. Mike Walbert found him standing at the edge of the field, transfixed by the blaze, making no effort to escape. I insisted on a blood test, but toxicology results came back clean. The lad must have been stone-cold sober when he threw the match. His arms are folded tight across his chest, as if he’s expecting a sudden attack.
‘Where did this box come from, Adam?’
‘How would I know? I never put it there. I didn’t start the barn fire either.’
‘Why doesn’t that convince me?’
‘I watched, that’s all. The fire had already caught when I got there; that building was past saving.’ The boy shoots a furious look, his hands bunching at his sides, and it occurs to me that his teenage rage could easily translate into murder.
‘You’ve got six months left on your suspended sentence. One wrong step and you’ll serve it in a juvenile detention centre. Do you understand?’
‘Loud and clear, but I’ve done nothing wrong.’
‘Come on, Adam. This box holds enough firelighters to burn a castle down to the ground.’
‘Someone planted them, like last time. Can’t you see?’ Words fly from the boy’s mouth at high velocity. ‘Why would I risk buying that stuff? Even my parents don’t believe me. They want me to stay here shovelling shit all day long. Dad says I’ve blown my chances of getting a decent job.’
‘You want to leave St Agnes?’
‘I hate farming. Liam Poldean offered me an apprenticeship, but Dad won’t listen.’
Something about the boy’s clear eye contact persuades me he’s telling the truth, but I wait for him to calm down before speaking again. ‘A criminal record won’t stop you trying another career. The army would take you, or even the police, if you pass the entry course. Everyone makes stupid mistakes at your age.’
The boy’s face lightens by a few degrees, but he doesn’t reply.
‘Who could get in here without being seen?’ I ask.
‘I’m in the fields all day, but Mum would know. She hardly ever goes out.’
Adam’s parents are still too tense with anger to answer questions when I go back downstairs with the box of firelighters under my arm. I tell them to keep watch over their son, day and night, until I come back. The rain is heavier once I leave their property, yet it’s a relief to breathe air untainted by misery. Adam seemed to be telling the truth, but I can’t prove he’s not connected to Alex Rogan’s death; his parents’ alibi is his only defence. The boy seems trapped in a toxic situation, his father determined to keep him on the family farm. Maybe I’d go on the attack too, in his situation. I’m reminded of my own youthful belief that bigger adventures lay over the horizon.
My phone buzzes in my pocket when I get back to the incident room. The clipped voice at the end of the line belongs to Dr Keillor, his statements so brief he seems unwilling to waste a syllable.
‘The lab results are back, Ben. Shall I email you the results?’
‘Give me an outline now, please.’
‘Alex Rogan died roughly fifteen to eighteen hours after leaving home, which places his death before dawn on the fifth of November. Tissue samples show high levels of cortisol in the surviving muscle mass.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Stress hormones are released into the bloodstream when someone experiences pain. It means he was conscious when he was set alight. The killer probably smashed his skull to stop him screaming.’
‘You can tell all that even though he was burned?’
‘Cortisol’s a powerful chemical. That’s why abattoirs keep livestock calm before they die; it taints the flavour of meat when it’s cooked.’
‘Are you saying that Rogan was tortured before he died?’
‘Your killer wanted to see him burn, the head wound was an afterthought. The only saving grace is that toxicology shows he’d been given a dose of flunitrazepam – better known as Rohypnol.’
‘The date rape drug?’
‘There was enough in his system to make him sluggish and easier to control. It might have numbed some of the pain.’
‘Whoever did it must have hated his guts.’
‘Psychology’s not my forte, I’m afraid.’
‘Sorry, I was thinking aloud.’
‘That’s my worst failing, Ben; it’s a feature of my grand old age. Without meaning to sound rude, I hope we don’t meet again soon – unless it’s at the pub. I’m happier on the golf course than conducting autopsies these days.’
I mull over the pathologist’s findings after our conversation. I need a forensic analysis of Alex Rogan’s house, but travel restrictions are in place until the storm warning lifts. My only chance of expert help is from Liz Gannick, who is still with her relatives on St Mary’s, unable to travel back to the mainland. There’s curiosity in her tone when I make the call. I can tell how badly she wants the killer found, not only to add gloss to her reputation.
‘The harbour’s in lockdown,’ she says. ‘I’ll come over tomorrow, when the ferries are running again.’
I feel a pang of envy for Gannick’s job after she hangs up. She has to confront the results of violence every day, but chasing down the perpetrator rests on my shoulders alone. It crosses my mind that I could pick her up in Ray’s lapstrake, but Madron would remove me from the case if he knew she’d been subjected to rough seas.
Eddie arrives at the lifeboat house as I’m shoving my phone back into my pocket, so I tell him about the arsonist’s toolkit in Adam Helston’s room. I still find it hard to believe that a teenage boy would plan such a well-coordinated murder campaign. The killer’s use of the Cornish language is relevant too. He appears to resent outsiders’ interference in his tiny kingdom, but so far the only islanders with a proven interest in the language are Deborah and Martin Tolman, even though neither have a clear reason to harm Alex Rogan. Eddie keeps his gaze trained on my face as I pass on the details. Ever since we started working together he has tracked my movements closely, as if my behaviour provides better guidance than the policing manual. But right now it feels like the blind leading the blind. He shakes his head in disbelief, the news ending his usual stream of chatter, until he gazes down at the piece of paper still clutched in his hands.
‘I’ve called all the local boat owners and ferrymen. No one’s given Jimmy Curwen a lift off the island.’
‘Good work, Eddie, now all we have to do is find him. He’s still our chief suspect.’
‘I don’t agree, sir.’ He looks awkward, his gaze fixed on the table. ‘Like I said, the bloke seems gentle. Most of the time he keeps out of people’s way. I think we should be pursuing other leads.’
‘Anyone can flip out, Eddie, and Curwen’s got more reason than most. He fits the psychological profile of most violent criminals perfectly. He’s isolated, with time on his hands, and ostracised by his community since scaring those kids. Let’s organise a search party tonight. If he’s lying low, he’ll only move around after nightfall.’
‘Can you do me a favour first? Michelle’s been in a state since Rogan died. She respects you; there’s a chance you can calm her down.’
I give a rapid nod. ‘Let’s go now, then set up the search.’
We must be making progress because Eddie has never invited me to his home before, our talk centring on the case as we walk back to Lower Town.
The Nickells’ rented apartment is over an old granary, with a fine view uphill to the lighthouse. Eddie looks embarrassed as we climb the fire escape to the second floor, as if he’s regretting his invitation.
The couple’s living room gives an insight into his home life: the young sergeant prides himself on being organised at work, but the cramped space is chaotic, with clothes drying on racks and a play mat on the floor heaped with toys. The furniture looks like it was donated by a variety of well-meaning relatives, with armchairs in different styles and colours. Michelle hurries from the kitchen as soon as we arrive. She’s holding their daughter Lottie over her shoulder, the infant bawling at the top of her lungs.
‘Thank God you’re home,’ she tells Eddie. ‘She’s been crying for hours. Can you take her?’
‘Hang on,’ he replies. ‘Let me get my coat off first.’
Michelle dumps their baby in my arms before I can protest, then disappears back into the kitchen. I can count the number of infants I’ve held on one hand. It feels unnatural to be left with the howling creature while Eddie follows his fiancée; the baby’s face is scarlet with fury, tiny hands curled into fists as she releases her frustrations.
‘That’s a horrible noise,’ I tell her. ‘What’s your problem?’
Eddie leaves me alone for an uncomfortably long time. I try every method going to quiet the baby, from rocking and jiggling, to pulling faces, until humming a Coldplay song in her ear finally does the trick. After two choruses she’s limp in my arms, gurgling with contentment. She may have old-fashioned musical tastes, but at least she’s behaving. The kid keeps burrowing closer to my chest, making quiet snuffling sounds. Michelle looks astonished when she and Eddie finally reappear.
‘You’re a miracle worker, Ben. She’s been bawling for hours.’
‘Try playing her Radio Two,’ I reply. ‘Eddie tells me the news about Alex Rogan’s been getting to you.’
Her eyes moisten suddenly. ‘I keep having nightmares about Eddie getting hurt.’
‘He can handle himself. Why not go round to a friend’s house while he’s at work, just for a while? You’ll worry less if you’re with people.’
I spend the next twenty minutes reassuring her, and by the time I pass Lottie back, the baby is out for the count, barely stirring when she reaches her father’s arms. The look on Eddie’s face is a revelation. I often think of him as a schoolkid, but his expression combines pride with responsibility. I’m about to tell him to stay at home until the search for Jimmy Curwen begins, but there’s no chance of leaving. He’s standing straight-backed, blocking my exit.
‘We’ve got a favour to ask,’ he says.
‘Go ahead.’
His voice falters when he speaks again. ‘We’re having a naming ceremony for Lottie next spring. Would you consider being her godfather?’
‘Are you serious?’ The question is so left-field it takes a while to register.
I could point out that I’ve never let people get close, spending ten years undercover with the Murder Squad, learning how to vanish. I prevent connections from running too deep, except with relatives and friends I’ve known for a lifetime. Even the dog arrived in my life by default. If I agree to Eddie’s request, the connection would be one more factor anchoring me to these islands permanently, when I’d rather believe that nothing ties me down.
Michelle studies my face intently. ‘We want the best guardian to look after Lottie, in case anything happens to us.’
‘You’re not expecting a plane crash, are you?’
‘I hope not.’ Eddie gives a shaky laugh.
‘How about your old schoolfriends?’
He shakes his head vehemently. ‘They can’t even look after themselves. We need someone responsible.’
I glance down at the sleeping child; her face is smaller than the palm of my hand, long eyelashes splayed across her cheek. ‘Let me think about it.’
Whether I say yes or no, it’s clear from the way the couple handle their daughter like a crystal ornament that she’s transformed their world. Michelle plants a kiss on my cheek before I leave, although the conversation has put me on edge. Eddie has placed me on a pedestal and sooner or later I’ll tumble back down to earth.
*
I can still feel the baby’s weight against the crook of my arm when I get back to the boathouse, wishing I could give the islanders better protection. In an ideal world I’d flood St Agnes with officers, searching under every stone, but a sudden influx of strangers would send the community into a blind panic. I’ll have to rely on brains instead of manpower. My thoughts are working overtime as I sketch out a profile of the killer. Whoever murdered the astronomer loves the medium of fire, trying to set Rogan’s house alight before abducting him. He must be a sadist, too, because he subjected Rogan to the worst kind of savagery, keeping him drugged and bound on an exposed hilltop until nightfall.
If the Birdman’s the culprit, Alex Rogan must have done something to cause his hatred. But what crime did the astronomer commit to warrant such violence? Could the Dark Skies festival have triggered the killing? The Cornish messages suggest that hatred of outsiders lies behind the crime, but they don’t lead me any closer to Jimmy Curwen. Anyone could use a dictionary to translate simple phrases into a dead language.
I find it hard to believe that a seventeen-year-old boy would commit such a violent act, sending out messages in advance, but Adam Helston’s previous crime rings my alarm bells. Keith Pendennis enjoys his reputation as a tough guy, and his feud with his daughter has lasted years, but there’s no proof that he killed her husband, despite the anger bubbling underneath his skin. The Birdman is still my main suspect, despite Eddie’s protests. He could be sheltering in one of a hundred barns, outbuildings or caves, but I’m determined to find him before daybreak. When I look outside, the dark is impenetrable, only a thin scattering of stars illuminating the night sky.