The islanders arrive in gaggles at 2 p.m., dressed in anoraks and wellingtons. I can see a broad range of facial expressions among the crowd: Rachel Carlyon looks anxious to find her friend, but Martin and Deborah Tolman are holding a private conversation at the back of the crowd, while Liam’s two boys chase each other round the hangar. Keith Pendennis stands by the door, wearing the dead-eyed stare of a bouncer who’s been on duty too long. I’ll have to check the attendance list later, but some islanders are missing from the crowd. There’s no sign of Ella and Steve Tregarron, and Gavin Carlyon must be sulking at home after our clash at the lighthouse.
Shadow whines loudly when I get to my feet; he seems keen to escape the packed building, despite the gale that’s rattling the windowpanes.
‘Thanks for coming back, everyone. I need your help to find Naomi Vine. We have to bring her home tonight, or she may not survive until tomorrow. We’re getting a better picture of the man who killed Alex Rogan: he’s fascinated by the Cornish language and might have been studying it recently. If any of you have information about who started the last fire, please speak to me or Eddie.’
The faces in front of me remain impassive.
‘You’ll be working in two groups, so we can cover the whole island, combing every beach, cave and property. We don’t have time to get individual warrants to search your houses, so I’ll take silence as assent. Speak up now if anyone has a problem.’
The smile slips from Martin Tolman’s face when he hears that homes will be searched, but everyone else looks ready to start. The Helston family has turned out en masse, despite their low opinion of my investigation. I breathe more easily when Zoe slips through the door; at least I’ll have one ally who’s completely on my side. Eddie and I pore over a map of St Agnes, agreeing that he will search Middle Town and the northern section of the island, while my team covers the south. Liz Gannick volunteers to stay behind and answer the phone, which suits me fine; she’s best placed to pacify Madron if he calls again.
My group includes Mike and Louise Walbert, Keith Pendennis and the Tolmans. Zoe falls into step beside me when we head across the down. I’m eager to get moving while it’s still light, but the squall buffets us from all directions, sea air coating my lips with salt. Lumps of granite rear from the ground like pieces on a giant chessboard, their shapes resembling pawns and rooks. Liam Poldean is ahead of us on the path, his sons sprinting into the distance while he scans the open ground.
‘It’s bloody pissing down,’ Zoe mutters. ‘It feels like the Gods are against us.’
‘How’s Sally doing?’
‘She can’t sleep; it’s making her pretty edgy.’ She leans closer to make herself heard above the wind. ‘Thanks for getting me more help; one of the neighbours is with her now.’
My previous mistake is still nagging at me when I reply. ‘Keep a close eye on her, Zoe. If Sal leaves the house by herself, let me know.’
She nods in reply. ‘Do you think Naomi’s still alive?’
‘It looks that way. At least she didn’t die when her house was torched.’
‘Let’s find her then, for Christ’s sake. The island’s only two miles long.’
Zoe marches ahead, her attitude unchanged since we were in our teens; she’s still unwilling to accept even a whiff of failure, pacing across the island with her Amazonian stride. Right now I don’t care about her plans to leave, I’m just glad she’s on my side. While Zoe races ahead, I fall into step beside Keith Pendennis. My old boxing coach acknowledges me without saying a word. The man seems too preoccupied for communication, but police work has taught me to hold my tongue to get a response. After five minutes of silence a question slips from his mouth.
‘How’s my daughter coping with all this?’
‘It’s more than most people could bear, Keith. She’s angry as hell.’
‘No change there,’ he mutters. ‘That’s why we lost touch.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Things fell apart when Sal hit eighteen. She delayed going to uni and hung out with older blokes on St Mary’s. There was bugger all we could do about her drinking and taking drugs. If we challenged her, she flew off the handle.’ Pendennis stares at the ground as we walk. ‘She attacked me in front of my wife, punching and kicking. I tried to calm her down, but nothing worked, so I told her to leave. Jeannie was ill by then; she needed peace to try to recover. We didn’t hear from Sal for years afterwards, even when Jeannie’s Parkinson’s got bad.’
‘That must have been tough on you all.’
‘I never expected Sal to move back here. She rented the shop until she raised the cash to buy it.’
‘But things didn’t improve?’
‘She let me give her away at her wedding, but she’s still angry. I don’t think she even knows I’m proud of her for turning her life around. She blames me for being a lousy dad.’
‘Sal seemed happy enough when we were kids.’
‘The depression started in her teens.’ Pendennis’s gaze is still fixed to the muddy path. ‘She says I neglected her and Jeannie, spent more time at boxing matches than at home, and she’s got a point. Training young champions gave me such a buzz, I forgot my responsibilities at home.’
‘How long since the pair of you had a proper talk?’
He hunches his shoulders. ‘It was just formalities at the wedding; we’ve barely spoken since.’
‘It’s never too late to build bridges, Keith.’
‘Try telling her that. She’s made it clear she’s not interested.’
Pendennis shakes his head in denial, jaw clenched so tightly I can tell he’s close to tears. I’d like to ask another question but he marches ahead. The man’s statements have changed my view of him as a tough guy unwilling to bend. He’s tried making amends, but Sally is unwilling to forgive and forget. I remember the way she flew at me when I broke the bad news about Alex, and her assault on the Birdman. While her father loves the discipline of physical sports, she struggles to control her passions. The conversation has increased my sympathy towards him, providing a different view of the lively, rebellious girl I knew at school.
*
We make slow progress across the fields at Garabeara in the centre of the island, but none of the team complains about the drenching rain as we traipse between fields edged by drystone walls. Small groups of islanders check each property when we reach Higher Town. Zoe and I search a vacant holiday home, with Deborah Tolman’s help. The former medic is so remote it’s impossible to tell how she feels about the murder hunt, but she keeps busy, opening wardrobes and peering under beds. I search the outbuildings at the end of the hamlet, too, but find only crates of fertiliser and compost, releasing a dry smell of cut grass and decay. The team’s faces are disappointed when we gather outside the bulb shop. Past disagreements with Naomi Vine have been abandoned during the crisis, everyone committed to preserving her life, forgetting the disputes she’s caused. It’s typical of island behaviour that the community is united against a common threat, but the killer could be hiding in plain sight, pretending to search for a woman he plans to kill.
Covean Beach opens before us after a few hundred yards. It’s a perfect horseshoe, so sheltered that families flock here each summer, but today spikes of granite are poking from the sea, waiting to savage passing ships, the waves gunmetal grey. The black outline of Gugh is visible in the distance, but I need to prioritise searching the main island first, where most of the properties lie. I get the team to spread out in a horizontal line, to sweep Wingletang Down. Rain has made the grassland boggy, with pools of standing water collecting on its surface, mud clinging to our boots. Dozens of cairns punctuate the landscape, built from fist-sized rocks until they stand ten feet tall, marking the sites of forgotten graves. It’s easy to recognise the down as an ancient cemetery. Huge shapes spring from the rolling landscape, Crooked Rock dominating the horizon like a giant bent double by the fierce breeze.
Many of the team look tired by the time we reach Beady Pool. The place was a favourite of mine when I was a kid, because beads that spilled from a seventeenth-century Dutch shipwreck can still be found in its rock pools at low tide. But there’s no point in lingering today, so we carry on past Gull’s Rock with the wind at our backs. Zoe is busy rallying people’s spirits while I’m beginning to lose faith. The killer is a game player: he may only have sent his latest message to make me swerve in the wrong direction. We have peered into every cave and stone built grave on the down, clearing the bracken aside to look for Naomi Vine’s body. I doubt he ever intended to leave her at one of the island’s sacred sites. He may simply have cast her body into the sea, to avoid being caught.
After Horse Point we follow the coastline back up the western side of the island, where Porth Warna beach stands empty, its shingle scoured clean by the new gale riding in from the Atlantic. I walk ahead, with most of the searchers straggling behind, only Zoe and Mike Walbert keeping pace. The farmer’s cheeks are ruddy from the wind’s assault, but he seems oblivious after a lifetime facing the elements.
‘We’ll search St Warna’s Well then send everyone home,’ I tell him.
‘The saint wouldn’t appreciate this,’ he says, with a narrow smile. ‘She came here in the fifth century for a life of quiet contemplation.’
‘I could use some of that myself.’
I remember my school teacher explaining that religious zealots travelled to the Scillies from Ireland to live as hermits, sacrificing their souls to God. The well was built over a sacred spring and devotees of St Warna would crawl along a narrow tunnel to touch its source, but the site has fallen into disrepair. The sign beside the landmark is covered with rust, its entrance choked by knee-high grass. The well lies between two outcrops of stone and Mike Walbert is first to point his torch into the opening. He swings round to face me again immediately. His expression’s excited, but all I can see is a shimmer of black polythene.
‘There’s something blocking the passage.’
‘It could be rubbish blown in by the wind, Mike. The space is pretty narrow to drag someone inside.’
Liam Poldean peers through the opening. ‘Want me to check? I’m smaller than you, it won’t be such a squeeze.’
I shake my head. ‘Stay here and watch your boys.’
Walbert ducks through the opening before I can stop him, so used to leading the island’s campaigns that he’s forgotten who’s in charge. But his exploration won’t slow us down for long; the chink in the rock only extends for a few metres. I wait in silence while the rest of the group straggles across the field, their faces pinched by the cold. I’m planning to send them home with their goodwill intact, until a noise like gunfire blasts from the opening.
Mike Walbert’s yell makes me dive inside, inhaling smoke and sulphur. His form is slumped on the ground, a blur of orange flames dancing behind him. I call out, but there’s no reply. When I pull Walbert’s arm, his body is a dead weight and it’s too dark to see the extent of his injuries, so I drag him out feet first, suppressing my panic. If the killer has rigged a second booby trap, it could detonate at any moment. Seconds tick by too slowly until I reach the open air without sparking another explosion. Liam Poldean’s tense expression greets me when I haul the farmer onto the grass, then place him in the recovery position. Blood pours from a wound on Walbert’s neck, his skin blackened by soot and mud, but at least he’s breathing. My first reaction is fury: the killer told me to search the island’s holy sites, leaving a booby trap where it was sure to be found. The bomb was meant for me – Mike Walbert was in the wrong place at the wrong time.
The searchers look shocked by the farmer’s injuries, slow to comply with my request to stand back. Walbert’s wife crouches over him, babbling words he can’t hear while blood pours down his face. Deborah Tolman is lingering at the back of the crowd, but she’s the only islander with full medical training so I call her forwards. Her face is ashen when she assesses the farmer’s injuries, his body twitching as she checks his reflexes.
‘He’s been knocked unconscious, but his pulse is steady.’ Deborah uses a handkerchief to staunch the blood then looks up at me. ‘We need to carry him to my house.’
‘Is it okay to lift him?’
‘His back’s not broken. I’m more concerned about head injuries; I want to monitor him and stitch those wounds.’
Liam Poldean and Keith Pendennis volunteer to carry Walbert the short distance to the architect’s home, the farmer’s heavy build making the task a challenge. He’s already starting to come round, incoherent sounds spilling from his mouth, but his feet drag over the mud as they battle uphill. Louise Walbert paces behind while I stare into the mouth of the well, too angry to speak to anyone. If I’d acted faster, the man’s injuries could have been prevented. I study the entrance again, trying to work out which islander could have rigged the homemade explosives. The rest of the search party look relieved to be sent home. Only Zoe stays behind, rain dripping from the hood of her waterproof, her expression outraged.
‘The vicious bastard,’ she says. ‘A kid would have died if they’d gone in there.’
‘I have to see what he’s left behind.’
Zoe grabs my sleeve. ‘Don’t be stupid, you can’t go in there again.’
‘There’s only one booby trap; I’d have triggered any others on my way out.’
I run my torch beam over the rough granite walls as I push through the opening again. I can imagine the early worshippers pressing their bodies between these rocks, crawling towards the holy source to cleanse their sins, but any purity the site once held has been defiled by the killer’s violence. The dry heat of gunpowder fills my airways, even though the fire triggered by the explosion has died out from lack of oxygen. I collect the remains of the killer’s bomb-making set for Gannick to analyse. Its design is simple; just a tripwire attached to a fuse, the device a few inches long, pegged into the rock at head height to cause maximum damage. If Walbert had been facing it when it detonated, he would have been blinded.
‘What kind of bastard aims a firework at someone’s eyes?’ I hiss into the dark. But the answer hovers, just out of reach.