It’s nine o’clock when I finally return to the Turk’s Head without having glimpsed the Birdman. Curwen spends his days roaming the island, so he must know every nook and cranny, his invisibility testing my patience. I leave Shadow tethered to a railing behind the pub, with only a slight twinge of guilt. His fur will protect him from the night-time cold and he would only damage the pub’s pristine interior.
Ella is alone behind the bar again tonight, the fire burning low in the inglenook. My head is too full for conversation, even though she gives me an expectant look when I order food to take up to my room. Ella’s smile is wistful when she offers to feed Shadow as well. The woman’s mysterious behaviour makes me wonder again about the source of her unhappiness, but her kind gesture tempts me to lean across the bar and plant a kiss on her cheek, even though her husband would be outraged if he caught me near his wife.
I stand with my back to the radiator once I get upstairs, thawing away the night’s cold, too wired to sit down. I ought to do something recreational to switch off my thoughts, which are still buzzing from the fruitless search. The internet is working again when I open my laptop to check my email, but it’s operating at a snail’s pace, as if the connection could soon expire. When I glance out of the window, the Atlantic is a solid expanse of black. The air still feels ominously calm, the storm keeping its distance for now. The Skype symbol flashes when my gaze returns to the computer screen and my brother’s face appears, transmitted all the way from upstate New York. Ian is a year older than me, our relationship built on a lifetime of jokes and brutal teasing. His face is so similar to mine it’s like confronting a tidier, clean-shaven version of myself, dressed in a doctor’s white coat.
‘Why are you bothering me? Haven’t you got patients to harm?’
‘Even successful orthopaedic consultants take breaks.’ He never fails to remind me that his job outclasses mine. ‘What’s with the hair? You look like Poldark.’
‘Just give me a tin mine and a stallion to ride across the fields.’
He sniggers like a twelve-year-old. ‘Pity you don’t have his luck with the ladies.’
‘I get my share.’
‘When’s the last time you had a sexual experience with a living, breathing female, instead of Pornhub?’
‘None of your business.’
‘Lower your standards, mate. Some lonely spinster might take pity.’
‘I’m too busy. There was a murder here on Bonfire Night.’
‘Jesus, what happened?’
My brother’s face grows serious. Underneath the banter, I know he’s been checking on my welfare ever since my return to the islands. He listens carefully as I give him the bare details, then updates me on his family. His wife’s tired of her high level career in medical admin, but his six-year-old daughter is having the time of her life singing in the school choir.
‘You should hear her let rip. She’s like a mini Adele.’
‘Does the world need another?’
His face looms closer to the screen. ‘Are you okay? You’ve been moping since that girl ditched you. Nina, wasn’t it?’
‘Thanks for reminding me.’
‘Get back in the game, bro, before you forget how.’
‘Thanks for your heartfelt concern.’ I’m about to say goodbye when he throws a sudden curveball.
‘We’re thinking of coming back to the Scillies next year. I want Christy to know her roots.’
I stare at him in amazement. ‘You’d trade New York for a few lumps of rock in the middle of the Atlantic?’
‘In a heartbeat.’ The raw homesickness in his voice takes me by surprise.
‘Do it, then. There’s room at mine till you get settled.’
I’m still reeling when our conversation ends. Ian has always seemed happy with his sophisticated lifestyle, but the same urge to escape city life for clean air, familiar faces and ocean views dragged me back here too. I didn’t wallow after he left for the States, but it took me a while to accept his absence. It felt like one of the few people who knows exactly how I tick had disappeared from view.
The prospect of my brother coming home is enough to boost my spirits as I run an internet search on Alex Rogan. Wikipedia offers a detailed profile, describing him as a ‘charismatic astronomer, adept at sharing his knowledge with the masses.’ On the surface the man’s life was a glittering success, but someone hated his presence on the island, even though he appeared happy with Sally. Maybe the murderer resented his attempt to bring more people to St Agnes. His celebrity status was affecting the island’s delicate chemistry, breaking down the isolation that has preserved local customs for centuries.
Curiosity makes me check Naomi Vine’s profile, too. Her biography confirms that she grew up in care; her tough start in life makes her achievements even more impressive. There’s a picture of her from two decades ago outside the Tate Modern, the art world falling at her feet. She had just finished at art college when she became an overnight success. Her looks were distinctive even then: vivid auburn hair cut into a short fringe, highlighting a pale-skinned face, her over-sized features compelling rather than beautiful. Her determination to succeed shows in the set of her jaw, as if she intends to win every battle without yielding ground. Another image shows her outside the Royal Academy beside a prize-winning sculpture. The artwork towers over her, made up of hundreds of broken mirrors, each reflecting a different vision of the city. Vine’s career has waned since that first stellar success, but it kept her on the world stage for several years. The article makes me keen to visit her studio again. The connection between us felt more like friendship than attraction, but I’d still like to get to know her once the killer’s found. Until then, I need to understand why Alex Rogan beat a path to her door without telling his wife.
My final task is to check Adam Helston’s notes from his juvenile court hearing. He only got into trouble at school during the six months before he set the barn alight, his behaviour warranting three exclusions for fighting with classmates. Sam Helston’s anger makes more sense as I scan the report: he and his wife have spent the past year hoping their son will turn a corner. Julie seems to be paying a heavy price for Adam’s misdeeds, stuck indoors embroidering dolls so that each day ends with a row of perfect children lined up on her kitchen table.
My eyes are burning when I finally stop working, a headache brewing at the base of my skull. I ought to rest, but sleep seems like a distant prize tonight, so I text Zoe instead. When no reply comes back I pull a battered copy of The Great Gatsby from my holdall. Books have been my biggest obsession since I was a kid, particularly classic American fiction, but I’ve only read one chapter when Zoe taps on the door. Her new image as an elegant brunette makes her seem more grown-up than before. She can still light up the room, even though her day with Sally has muted her smile.
‘I brought refreshments, big man.’ She brandishes a bottle of vodka.
‘In that case, you are truly welcome.’
‘This is pretty swanky.’ She scans the stylish room with interest, but when she looks up at me again her distress is obvious.
‘How’s Sally doing?’
‘She should be in hospital till the shock wears off – stress is making her claustrophobic. My biggest challenge is keeping her indoors. All she wants to do is walk, but I keep telling her it’s not safe to go out at night. She’s so fragile, I’m afraid she’ll crack up.’
‘What’s she been saying?’
‘Sal’s got it into her head that Alex was having an affair, but when she emailed me in India a few weeks ago everything was fine.’
‘Why did she suspect him?’
‘She’s got no proof. Sal thinks the woman’s husband may have found out and killed Alex, but that’s just guesswork. The poor thing’s driving herself crazy.’
‘Hopefully I’ll have some answers soon. Are many people visiting the house?’
‘Loads.’
She pulls a crumpled piece of paper from her pocket. Her list shows that almost every family on St Agnes has paid their respects, but Sally’s most frequent caller is Liam Poldean. The builder has gone to her home each day since Alex’s body was found, yet her father has failed to put in a single appearance.
‘How come Liam’s called by so often?’
‘He was mates with Alex, and he and Sal had a thing back in the day.’
‘They were together?’
‘For about a year, when you were living in London.’
My thoughts take time to adjust to this new information. Poldean may still be harbouring feelings for his ex, the friendship with her husband no more than a cover. I’ll have to take a closer look at his alibi, even though he claims to have been caring for his boys when Alex Rogan met his death.
Zoe pours vodka into a couple of mugs. ‘You’ve got a tough job on your hands.’
‘Tell me about it. Everyone’s keeping their mouths shut.’
‘They’ll only talk if they’ve got something to say.’
We sit together on the window seat, her expression calm despite the day’s concerns.
‘There’s something different about you, Zoe.’
‘My life’s easy compared to this. I’ll soon be back in Mumbai doing a job I love.’
‘You’re extending your contract?’
‘I’m considering it. I miss everyone here, but the school’s a brilliant place to work.’
‘It’s your decision.’ The words sound sour as they slip from my mouth, but it’s too late to recall them.
‘What’s bothering you, Ben. It’s not just the case, is it?’
‘You’re worse than Ian. Everyone’s nagging me.’
‘Why do you lock yourself away? You’ve done it since you lost your dad.’
‘That’s ridiculous, he died when I was fourteen.’
‘It started then. You found it hard, not getting to say goodbye.’
‘He drowned at sea, that was never going to happen.’
‘You hid in those books of yours.’ She’s holding my gaze so firmly, it’s impossible to look away. ‘Nina Jackson texted me last week. Do you ever hear from her?’
I try not to react, but hearing her name for the second time tonight makes me flinch. Since Nina moved home to Bristol, my romantic life has consisted of a few pointless one-night stands. ‘Why would I? She left me high and dry the best part of a year ago.’
‘She asked about you. I’m surprised she hasn’t made contact.’
‘Give it a rest, Zoe.’
‘You’re lonely, big man.’ She leans closer, scrutinising me just like my brother did, making me back away. ‘Why not give her a call?’
‘Time’s moved on, Zoe.’
‘God, you’re a stubborn bugger.’ She prods me in the ribs hard enough to make my eyes water.
‘What do you know about Naomi Vine?’ I ask, steering the subject away from my personal life.
‘You’re not interested, are you? She’s a tricky one.’
‘She’s unusual, that’s all.’
Zoe rolls her eyes. ‘I considered buying one of her pieces for the hotel last year, but they cost a fortune.’
‘Has she got a partner?’
‘She’s more of a loner. Naomi likes controversy. Some people love the idea of her sculptures on the beaches, and others hate it. I think a row of women on Blanket Bay beckoning sailors home would look great. It would attract more visitors to St Agnes.’
‘But the old-timers prefer their privacy.’
Zoe nods in agreement. ‘That’s where the conflict lies.’
I still believe that Rogan’s visit to Vine’s house is linked to his brutal killing, but it would be wrong to share any more professional concerns. It’s only when I’ve drained my vodka that I notice Zoe’s expression grow thoughtful.
‘I’ve got some big news, but I won’t share it till you lose that terrible beard.’
‘It’s not going anywhere.’
‘You’re too tired to listen properly anyway. Let’s talk again tomorrow; I should get back to Sally.’ She hesitates before speaking again. ‘Do you think she could have hurt Alex? I feel awful saying it, but some of her reactions seem off to me.’
‘She’s pregnant, Zoe. Like you said, shock and hormones are making her act weird, that’s all.’
She rubs her hand across her face. ‘It’s been such a shock. Maybe I’m imagining things.’
‘People saw her open the shop that morning, her alibi’s pretty solid.’
‘Yesterday she walked out in the middle of the night. It’s like she can’t sit still. I thought guilt might be getting to her.’
‘She’s grieving for her husband. Can you stay there till you fly back?’
‘You don’t have to ask. I should go and check she’s okay.’
‘Can you do me a favour first?’
‘What?’
‘I need a haircut. My boss keeps nagging, but I can’t get over to the barber’s on St Mary’s.’
‘You haven’t let me touch your hair since I gave you the world’s worst mullet.’
‘I’m praying you’ve improved.’
Zoe has had many incarnations in her short life. She trained as a hairdresser before following her heart and studying music at university, her dreams of a professional singing career stalling when her parents’ retirement required her to run the family hotel.
‘That raven black hair of yours deserves better care. I’ll see if Ella’s got any decent scissors.’
*
I sit in front of the mirror with a towel round my shoulders, watching two-inch locks of hair fall into my lap. Shadow is whining outside, clearly unhappy about being excluded from the party, but I’m not complaining. It’s been months since a woman touched me, and Zoe smells just as good as I remembered. Our friendship places her off limits, but it’s still a pleasure to inhale her scent of jasmine, lemon soap, and something earthy and appealing that’s all her own. When I open my eyes, she’s assessing my reflection with a critical gaze.
‘Not bad.’ She runs her fingers through my hair again, lifting it, then letting it fall. ‘If you smartened up, women might actually fancy you.’
‘Only if they go for sleep-deprived giants.’
‘You’ve always been a big, handsome thug. Your new haircut makes you look like a movie star.’
‘Bollocks.’
I can’t see any signs of Hollywood glory myself. The mirror shows a heavyweight boxer, rising awkwardly to his feet to avoid confronting his reflection. There are dark smudges under my mud-green eyes, black hair cropped shorter than seems natural. But at least part of Madron’s edict has been fulfilled: whatever happens now, he can’t accuse me of insubordination.
I check my phone before walking Zoe back to Sally’s house. A text from Naomi Vine arrived two hours before, inviting me round to see her work. I wish I’d seen it earlier. She must get lonely in that big, neglected mansion, and the invitation would have allowed me to kill two birds with one stone: I could have discovered the secrets she’s hiding and seen her new work at the same time. I fire off a quick reply, asking to drop by another evening, then release the tether on Shadow’s collar. The creature howls with pleasure before bounding through the cool night air.
My restlessness lingers after Zoe hugs me goodnight, so I take the dog for a longer stroll. The wind is finally rising after days of stillness. It follows me along the shoreline, like a hand between my shoulder blades, shoving me onwards. Clues swirl around my head with the same wild energy as the breeze. So far I’m the only person other than Alex Rogan to receive an angry Cornish curse from the killer. He died three days ago, leaving me to discover who’s singling us out, and why the murderer is trying to frame a troubled seventeen-year-old boy. I follow the shingle beach to Porth Killier, but the island is sleeping peacefully, lights out in every cottage. The killer may be combing the beaches, like me.