The wind is rising when Eddie goes back to the boathouse to phone some of the islanders and check on their welfare, leaving me to walk alone to Middle Town. Shadow attempts to follow me, whining pitifully when I send him after my deputy, but I can forecast that Rachel Carlyon wouldn’t appreciate the dog’s presence while I ask questions about Alex Rogan. There’s no sign of her as I enter the shop, until I spot her kneeling in the corner, mending a broken light fitting. The air smells of disinfectant, as if she’s been scouring the place like her husband predicted. Rachel must be inches taller than Gavin, her slim figure slowly unbending as she rises to her feet. Her grey hair is cut into a mannish crop, navy blue jumper rolled at the sleeves, thick glasses obscuring her eyes.
‘Could we talk please, Mrs Carlyon?’
She gives a cautious nod. ‘Not for long I’m afraid; I have to finish this then collect stock from the quay. The delivery boat’s bringing supplies from St Mary’s.’
‘The ferries aren’t running, but feel free to carry on working while we talk.’ I take a seat on a stool by the door. ‘It’s good of you to support Sally.’
Rachel Carlyon’s expression remains wary as she applies her screwdriver to the back of the light. ‘This place isn’t just a shop. It’s our pharmacy and post office, too; we all need it to stay open.’
‘I’m asking people about Alex Rogan’s death. Someone must have an idea why it happened.’
‘It’s tragic for poor Sally. Alex was so enthusiastic about the night sky, it made me want to learn more about the stars.’
‘Can you think of anyone he’d argued with, Mrs Carlyon?’
‘Call me Rachel, please.’ She keeps her gaze fixed on her task. ‘I never heard Alex say a harsh word to anyone. You’d have to be mad to hurt a man like that; he was such a gentle soul.’
‘Your husband agrees, but he’s not keen on Naomi Vine, is he?’
Her screwdriver hovers in the air. ‘I keep telling him it doesn’t matter if she holds different opinions from everyone here, newcomers deserve a warm welcome.’
‘How did you two become friends?’
‘I took some flowers round when she arrived. We got chatting and made each other laugh. She can’t believe I’ve never been abroad, but travel’s never tempted me; the islands give me everything I need. She keeps trying to persuade me to go over to Paris for her next show.’
‘Why does your husband dislike her so much?’
‘Gavin prefers the past, but Naomi’s forward-looking.’ Her face lightens again. ‘She’s a breath of fresh air.’
‘You seem fond of her.’
She gives a cautious nod. ‘It’s about time someone dragged us into the twenty-first century. Gavin was born in the house where we live now; he believes it’s his duty to preserve every brick. My husband wants to protect the whole island.’ She reattaches the light to the wall then flicks the switch to check it works. When she turns to face me again, her shyness returns.
‘Does your cleaning work keep you busy, Rachel?’
‘Only in summer; the holiday properties here and on St Mary’s are all empty now.’
‘Thanks for your help. If you remember anything about Alex, please give me a ring.’ I pass her my card. ‘I meant to thank you for joining the search party last night.’
She twists a duster in her hands. ‘Gavin would have come too, but he had one of his migraines.’
I leave her applying beeswax to the counter, as if elbow grease could solve all of the island’s problems. The only time the woman’s face became animated was when she spoke of her new friend, her husband’s passion for the past clearly grating on her.
By the time I return to the boathouse it’s midmorning; rain is pummelling the roof, the storm finally announcing its presence. My frustration mounts as I study the mile-wide sound that separates St Agnes from St Mary’s. The waters are a blur of disordered waves, ruining my chances of sailing the lapstrake over to collect Liz Gannick. There’s still no news of Jimmy Curwen, even though Eddie has called every household on St Agnes. It surprises me that anyone could stay hidden for three days on an island barely two miles long, but the Birdman has lived here all his life. When I check the list of islanders we’ve interviewed about Rogan’s death, my eyes light on another name.
‘I know you’ve seen Liam Poldean already, but let’s pay him another visit. I’ve been told that he and Sally had a relationship years ago.’
Eddie looks surprised. ‘The bloke’s got a solid alibi for Thursday; neighbours saw him playing with his kids at home then down on the beach.’
‘He may have information about Alex. Those two were close, weren’t they?’
My deputy keeps his thoughts to himself when we leave the lifeboat house with Shadow in tow, but I can tell he thinks the visit’s pointless. Despite his intelligence, Eddie is too quick to assume innocence. It’s taken me a decade of murder investigation to realise that anyone can turn violent if they’re pushed hard enough. He relaxes again once I ask for more details about Liam Poldean, explaining that the builder has established a good reputation locally. He’s spent the past five years renovating the old cottages on St Agnes.
‘Liam’s a decent carpenter, too,’ he says. ‘The bloke’s a jack of all trades.’
Poldean’s house lies at the heart of Middle Town, a modest terraced property with a front garden choked with weeds. Shadow gallops away at a sprint when I ring the doorbell, clearly unwilling to stay cooped up indoors. The builder’s expression is long-suffering when he greets us, probably because a three-year-old boy sits astride his shoulders, arms locked tight around his father’s neck. Poldean looks like a typical dad, dressed in ill-fitting jeans and an ancient Snow Patrol T-shirt, his tow-coloured hair in need of a comb. He rolls his eyes in mock despair by way of greeting.
‘Come in, but be warned – my kids are having a mad half hour.’
He leaves the door hanging open as we follow him inside. A slightly older boy appears at the top of the stairs and releases a blood-curdling scream to attract his brother’s attention. The younger child slithers from his father’s shoulders and races upstairs, a door slamming loudly in his wake.
‘Thank God, now they can torment each other instead of me,’ Poldean sighs as he shows us into his living room. ‘Val’s at her mum’s on St Mary’s till the end of the week. It’s taught me that looking after pre-school kids makes my job look easy.’ The man is wide-eyed with exhaustion and his lounge resembles a bombsite, with model cars, Lego and playing cards littering the floor.
‘I know how you feel,’ Eddie replies. ‘Lottie wakes us up every morning at three a.m.’
Poldean’s face grows sober. ‘Is something wrong? I wasn’t expecting to be interviewed again.’
‘We just need some background on Alex Rogan. We’re struggling to get a clear picture and I know you were friends.’
He clears toys from the sofa before sitting down. ‘I expected him to be some stuck-up boffin, but he was a decent bloke. He had this fantasy about building a house one day, so we traded information in the pub. I told him about brickwork and laying foundations, and he explained how the solar system works.’ He releases a despairing laugh. ‘It sounds mad, but we could talk for hours. Listening to him made me wish I’d knuckled down at school instead of chasing girls; he made big, complex ideas easy enough for an idiot like me to understand.’ The man’s voice sounds choked when his speech finally ends.
‘Sorry if this is hard for you.’
He looks away. ‘Sally’s suffering the most. Her baby won’t have a dad.’
‘I hear you’ve been round to see her. I’m sure she appreciates it.’
‘She’s still in shock. I don’t think she knows which way to turn.’
‘Didn’t you two go out together once?’
‘In our twenties.’ His gaze locks onto mine. ‘We stayed friends. She’s like a sister to me and Val now; she babysits for us all the time.’
The man’s speech is too defensive for my liking. It takes bravery to attempt a relationship with a fellow islander in a place this small. If things go wrong you only have two choices: you can bear a grudge, or accept the fact that you’ll bump into your ex every day for the rest of your lives.
‘What did you and Alex talk about last time you met?’ I ask.
‘The Dark Skies Festival. He wanted to make it a success, so it could run every year. I agreed to help guests set up their telescopes on Covean Beach.’
‘Did he seem worried at all?’
‘A bit preoccupied, but nothing to write home about.’
‘Alex visited Naomi Vine the night before he died. Do you know why?’
‘He never said,’ Poldean replies, frowning. ‘Naomi’s not my favourite person, to be honest. A few months back, she wanted a quote for all the building work needed at her place. I sweated blood over the costings, but she never got back to me.’ He hesitates before continuing. ‘Alex had better manners. He was the smartest person here, but he had too much class to put anyone down.’
‘Naomi must have some redeeming features.’
‘Her sculptures are great, but that contract would have come in handy. I could have booked a holiday for my kids. Val’s desperate to take them to Disney World.’
‘You seem pretty busy. Everyone knows you do good work.’
He acknowledges the compliment with a shrug. ‘I rely on word of mouth; I can’t afford mistakes.’
‘Adam Helston said you’d offered him an apprenticeship.’
‘It won’t happen. The lad’s keen, but his dad keeps him on a short lead.’
I’m about to ask another question when a crash comes from upstairs, followed by an anguished howl. ‘Jesus,’ he mutters. ‘That’ll be another trip to casualty.’
‘We’ll leave you to it, Liam. Thanks for your time.’
‘Can’t you just handcuff them to their beds till Val gets back?’ Poldean gives another tired smile before heading upstairs.
I almost trip over a mountain of Lego as we let ourselves out, still none the wiser about why Alex Rogan died.