I leave Shadow by the back entrance of the Turk’s Head as the morning light intensifies, determined to reward him for alerting me to the fire. Without his help, Jimmy Curwen would have died at the scene. I peer through the window of the pub’s kitchen where a light shines above steel-topped work tables, but there’s no one around, so I help myself to a handful of sausages from the fridge. Shadow gives a bark of appreciation when I reappear with his unexpected feast.
‘How did you know people were in danger?’
The dog is too busy wolfing down his reward to listen, but I wish he could answer. His acute sense of smell would make him an ideal sniffer dog, if only his wayward behaviour could be corrected.
Once I get back to my room, I peel off my clothes then step under the shower. The water that swirls down the plughole is tinged grey as I shampoo soot from my scalp. Lack of sleep hasn’t caught up with me yet, my brain spinning with information. The Birdman only gave a single reply, saying that Vine was tied up in the fire. There must be a link between Rogan’s brutal killing and the destruction of the sculptor’s home. It’s possible that someone started the latest blaze then trapped Jimmy Curwen inside the building, intending to let him burn, leaving Vine’s body lying in the wreckage too, but the Birdman’s odd behaviour still makes him my chief suspect.
The storm has strengthened when I dress in the half-light. Trees and bushes are being pummelled by the wind, glass vibrating inside the window frame with each new gust, while rain falls in solid sheets. The elements seem determined to slow the investigation, and any forensic evidence at Vine’s house will be diluted. My phone pulses in my pocket just as I’m preparing to leave my room, DCI Madron’s name appearing on the screen. His sole focus is on today’s press conference. The weather conditions mean that the journalists must question me by Skype, rather than face-to-face.
‘At least the killer’s under arrest, Kitto.’
‘I need to question Curwen before charging him. We don’t have any clear evidence.’
His tone cools. ‘I imagine Liz Gannick will find plenty of proof that he torched Naomi Vine’s house.’
‘When she does I’ll let you know.’
‘I hope you’re keeping her sweet. If she files a negative report we’ll all suffer.’
‘I realise that.’
‘Don’t show any doubt to those journalists, they’ll eat you alive.’
‘I have dealt with the press before, sir.’
‘It’s a pity I can’t get over to run the event.’ Madron sounds disappointed, but for me it’s a lucky escape. The storm may have cut St Agnes adrift from the outside world, but I’m free to complete my work without interference. The only downside is that Eddie and I will have to enlist volunteers to get the job done. One of our first tasks will be to take Jimmy Curwen to the lighthouse, then recruit islanders to stand guard.
I leave my room before 8 a.m., lack of sleep making me desperate for coffee. Ella Tregarron is in the pub’s kitchen already, unloading plates from the dishwasher, her expression tense as she pours me a coffee from the percolator. The investigation needs to make progress fast, to stop unknown threats putting the islanders on edge.
Liz Gannick appears in the doorway as I finish my drink. She looks ready for business, her petite frame clad in waterproofs when she follows me into the bar. She listens in silence when I explain about the fire.
‘I’m surprised you slept through the commotion,’ I say. ‘A dozen people turned out to help, but the fire investigator can’t fly here in this weather.’
Gannick nods at the breakers racing across the shore. ‘The forecast says the storm could last two more days. You may as well show me the ruins, before I check Rogan’s house.’
She doesn’t complain when scouring wind attacks us during our walk, using her sticks to swing between puddles, while Shadow chases away to find shelter.
The damage to Vine’s house looks worse by daylight. A pall of smoke still hangs over the building, despite the rain, and it’s clear that the property has been comprehensively destroyed when we enter the overgrown garden. My expertise lies in murder investigation, not arson, but even I can see that someone worked hard to create such a powerful blaze.
It hits me for the first time that if her remains lie inside the building, Naomi Vine’s death would have been just as agonising as Alex Rogan’s, making me wish I’d defended her better. Window frames are scorched and splintering, revealing the house’s blackened interior, parquet singed from the floor. Gannick remains silent as we circle the grounds, pausing to take photos on her phone.
‘The fire started inside,’ she comments.
‘How do you know?’
‘You’d see trails on the external brickwork if flammable liquid had been poured through windows or doors.’ She turns to face me. ‘I imagine they set a chain of fires through the core of the house, for a quick result. A wooden-framed building like this would go up in minutes.’
I remember the panelling inside the living room and the lime-washed beams in Vine’s hallway. The place didn’t stand a chance once fire started. Rain is falling harder than before, but it’s too late to save the property now the damage is done. Gannick picks her way along the path at a rapid pace, swinging her legs over pieces of fallen masonry, like an athlete shifting her weight between parallel bars. Many people would rely on a wheelchair in her situation, but her independence is admirable; if I were in her situation, I might be tempted by the easier option. The woman is paler than before when we return to the front entrance, and I’m not surprised. There’s something horrifying about seeing the mansion in its ruined state, especially when it may also be a murder scene. I’m about to climb the steps when Gannick gives me a sharp look.
‘Never enter a crime scene without overalls; you should know that by now.’ Her tone is brisk when she passes me a bag containing a white Tyvek suit and overshoes.
‘The structure’s unsafe, Liz. Stay here while I check the hallway.’
‘You asked me for help, remember?’ Gannick’s features are hard with irritation. ‘I’m not police anymore; I run my own operation.’
The set look on her face proves that resistance is futile. When we approach the front entrance the lock is still intact. Naomi Vine must have welcomed the killer inside, unless he already had a key.
‘I told her to keep the place secure.’
‘She didn’t listen,’ Gannick mutters. ‘Or it was someone she trusted.’
She falls silent as we enter the hallway, debris crunching underfoot.
The air reeks of smoke, and blackened plaster is falling from the stairwell where the mahogany balustrade has been reduced to spent matchsticks. Gannick motions for me to remain by the entrance before unrolling silver fabric across the floor. Her face is shiny with concentration as she assesses every detail, running her torch beam over the worst fire damage.
Naomi Vine’s living room is a blackened shell; only her largest sculptures are intact, the metal covered by a patina of soot. Part of the ceiling has collapsed in the kitchen, units burned from the walls, but the worst devastation is in Vine’s studio. I can’t tell whether fire or vandalism has caused greater damage. There’s a crater in the floor where boards have collapsed, holes gouged from the walls, many of her sculptures defaced.
‘The roof may come down,’ I tell Gannick. ‘Don’t spend long in here.’
‘I can’t rush my work.’
‘Those beams could collapse any minute.’
‘For God’s sake,’ she snaps. ‘Let me do my job. If she died here, we need to find her body.’
It crosses my mind to haul her outside, but her help may be essential, and I owe it to Naomi to find out exactly what happened. ‘I’ll put a guard in the hallway until you’re ready to leave.’
It only takes Eddie ten minutes to report for guard duty. The young sergeant looks astonished when I explain that the killer may have been hiding here for hours, keeping Naomi Vine captive, just like Alex Rogan.
‘I didn’t search this place yesterday. I thought it was secure,’ he murmurs.
‘So did I. It’s not your fault, Eddie.’
His expression lightens by a fraction. ‘Shall I check the grounds again?’
‘Keep watch here until Liz finishes her search.’
My deputy stations himself in the ruined hallway while I scan the grounds. Some of the trees nearest the house have charred branches from flames that spilled through the windows last night, when the blaze was at its height. The rest of the overgrown gardens look undisturbed, until I see that the largest outbuilding has been left open, and a telltale stench of paraffin catches the back of my throat. The killer probably made several trips here, storing the flammable liquid he needed to start a fire until the deed was done. I peer through the entrance, unwilling to destroy evidence he may have left inside, but rags and tins of turps lie on the work bench. Either the killer has tried not to leave fingerprint evidence or he doesn’t care about being found.
Once I’ve searched the grounds thoroughly, I return to the gates, which provide the only entrance to the property, unless he scaled the ten-foot-high brick wall. I curse under my breath when I spot something hanging from the ironwork gate, suspended from a wire. It’s an oyster shell, its edges softened by the sea’s pounding. The killer has followed the same pattern as before, leaving another taunt for me to find; a stream of capital letters have been written on the shell’s smooth lining. He must have a cool head to leave his calling card then saunter away from a burning building. I’m dropping the shell into an evidence bag when Eddie runs along the path, his face pink with excitement.
‘Gannick’s found something, boss.’
The forensics chief is on all fours in the studio, examining the inglenook fireplace. The muscles on the back of my neck tense as I crouch beside her, certain that she’s discovered Naomi’s corpse.
‘It looks like someone was held here,’ she says. ‘There’s a length of chain and a padlock, but no sign of a body.’
I study the blackened metal in silence, a flicker of hope rising in my chest. The find supports the Birdman’s claim that Naomi Vine was tied up in the fire. The sculptor struck me as a tough customer, and she’s already fought off one attacker, but she can’t have escaped her fetters like a modern day Houdini unless she was released. I need to understand the common denominator between her and Rogan, to find out why they were both targeted, but above all I want to know whether she’s still alive. If she was having an affair with the astronomer, someone could have been jealous enough to attack them both, but I’ve got no definite proof. The two victims are both talented incomers, well-known in their field. Everyone warmed to Alex Rogan, but Naomi Vine has made enemies ever since she arrived. Someone on the island may have resented her presence enough to want her dead. If it’s Curwen, there will be no more violence while he’s locked away, but I’m not fully committed to the idea. The killer appears to be enjoying himself, his latest blaze more flamboyant than the bonfire that claimed Alex Rogan’s life. My thoughts are racing too fast, aware that the campaign could escalate. The most likely outcome is that Naomi’s body lies in another room of her ruined mansion, but if she didn’t die in the fire, she’s still in danger. There’s an outside chance that the killer has dragged her to another location, preparing to start his next blaze.