Stan Eden’s home is the last lighthouse keepers’ cottage in the terrace, and I arrive there at 11 p.m. From the outside it looks unremarkable, with a drab green front door, but the décor proves that the old man’s lighthouse obsession runs deep. Pictures of an extinct lifestyle line his hallway, their monochrome ink turning sepia. They show uniformed men being winched from dinghies onto landing platforms, and playing chess in minute kitchens, while waves batter the windows. I feel a pang of envy for a profession with such clear rewards. The keepers endured hardships, but knew they were saving lives, while some murder investigations never get a result. Adrenaline is still pumping through my system, even though the immediate danger has passed; soot is making my skin itch, flakes of burned paint falling from my hands.
Jimmy Curwen is sitting at the kitchen table with a blanket round his shoulders, his eyes glassy. His nickname seems even more fitting when I study his features again. There’s an avian quality to his sharp nose and his gaze that never fixes on anything for long. Eden has provided a basin of hot water and a flannel, but Curwen hasn’t bothered to wipe the dirt from his skin; the man’s expression is so blank the fire seems to have cauterised his emotions. I need to get inside his head, but he won’t even make eye contact.
‘Why did you visit the mansion house tonight, Jimmy?’ I ask.
The Birdman’s hands tremble in his lap. He only responds when Eden puts a glass of water in front of him, gulping down the liquid in rapid swallows.
‘Can’t you interview him tomorrow, when he’s rested?’ Eden asks. ‘He’s welcome to sleep here.’
‘Jimmy may have started the fire, Stan. He should be in a holding cell till we know what happened.’
The old man gives me a stern look. ‘There’s a lock on the bedroom door, but he’d never harm me. I’ve known him since he was born. He’s a boy, trapped inside a man’s body.’
When I look at the Birdman again his lips contort into odd shapes, fists clenching in his lap while he tries to speak.
‘Tied up . . . in the fire.’ His words are a hoarse whisper.
‘Is that how you left Naomi, Jimmy?’
The Birdman’s face bows over his lap, tears landing on the backs of his hands. It’s obvious that he’s too exhausted to talk again so I lead him upstairs to Eden’s spare room. I make him take off his boots before he curls up on the single bed, like an exhausted child. I pity him, no matter what evils he’s committed. His clothes stink of smoke, his face gaunt with tiredness, matted grey hair plastered against his skull. He looks ill-prepared for the media spotlight that will glare down on him if he’s the killer.
Once I get back downstairs, my eyes scan more photos of lighthouses. I’m still studying the images when Eden returns with arms full of firewood, chuntering under his breath. He drops down on the stool opposite, fingers tugging at his white beard.
‘You can’t prove that Jimmy started that fire, can you?’ he asks.
‘He was in the building, Stan. I have to know why.’
‘Jimmy would never harm anyone. He’s faced enough tragedy in his lifetime.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The lad saw his sister fall from the Bar at high tide. Her body washed up on Covean Beach three days later; that’s when he stopped talking. Jimmy was ten years old. He’s only been interested in saving his birds ever since.’
‘That’s a sad story, but Naomi Vine may have been burned alive in her own home. He’s been on the run for days. It looks like he started the blaze then got trapped inside.’
Eden scowls at me. ‘People scapegoat him for being different, and you’re no better.’
‘I have to base my judgements on evidence.’
‘Jimmy wouldn’t harm that woman. Plenty of people want her gone, but he’d never hurt a soul. He’ll crack up if you lock him indoors.’
‘Keep him here till tomorrow, please, Stan. He should be in secure accommodation until I’ve interviewed him.’
‘The lighthouse has got beds in the living quarters and locks on the doors.’
‘We’ll take him there tomorrow. Thanks for your help.’
I return to the fire, where Eddie is keeping watch. The emergency water tank is being refilled, but at last the flames are dwindling. Plumes of smoke funnel through the hole in the roof, an orange glow pulsing behind the upstairs windows.
‘Not a pretty sight, is it?’ Eddie says.
‘Seeing someone’s home destroyed never is. What’s the news on Adam Helston?’
‘His room’s below his mum and dad’s. He could have sneaked out then run back there before I arrived.’
‘We’ll do a full search tomorrow. At least Curwen’s under lock and key.’
The sergeant throws me a questioning look, but has enough sense to keep his views about the Birdman to himself. Guilty or innocent, I need to find out why he was present at both fires and has been on the run for days. We stand side by side, powerless to do anything except watch the property smoulder. I remember a specialist fire investigator telling me once that arsonists love watching the misery they cause. I scan the grounds of Naomi Vine’s house then spin round to look back down the lane, aware that the killer may already have us in his sights.