It’s 10.30 p.m. when I finally persuade Sally to go home. She’s still muttering curses, grief and anger pouring out of her, when Zoe and two other women from Middle Town escort her home. I remind everyone in the pub to walk home in groups and offer neighbours shelter until the killer’s found. Some look defiant while I give out my instructions; people are eager to take matters into their own hands, which could prove disastrous. If the killer is patrolling the island, bystanders will be in harm’s way.
Eddie’s eyes glitter when I explain my strategy for the rest of the night. Excitement at taking part in a murder hunt is still written all over his face, but right now I just want the culprit found. We need to visit the Walberts’ farm first, because it’s the last place the killer left a calling card. His campaign is gathering pace; with any luck he’s growing sloppy and we can pick up the thread from there. My thoughts race as we cover the ground to Lower Town Farm. Most of the islanders were in the pub tonight, but the Helstons were absent, along with Martin Tolman, Keith Pendennis and Gavin Carlyon. I’d like to know how all of them have been spending their time. In an ideal world a troop of officers would be at my disposal, but that can’t happen until the storm subsides.
Shadow is waiting by the farm gates, tongue lolling after his hard sprint across the fields, as if the killer’s deeds are just a glorious game.
‘Check the front of the property, Eddie. I’ll search the back garden.’
The view from the Walberts’ patio explains why the couple have dedicated their lives to farming this patch of land: there’s a clear view over Blanket Bay to Burnt Island, then two thousand miles of dark water rolling into the distance. Even at night the view is staggering, with storm clouds racing across the face of the moon. I wish that Mike could help us now, his practical vision always quick to find solutions, but the man has been levelled by an injury I should have prevented. I focus my energy on searching for any small detail the killer may have forgotten, but my torch reveals that the lawn has been swept clean by the raw breeze, and there’s nothing on the path except a few tufts of moss. When I check the back door and downstairs windows, the farmhouse is secure.
The killer must have left his calling card then vanished, proving that each attack is planned with absolute precision. It’s only when I see the shed door hanging open that my spirits lift. Two cans of paraffin are tucked under a work bench, and beside them a bag full of rags and wax tapers. I could be imagining things, but the killer’s intentions still seem to taint the air. He’s stockpiling tools in multiple locations, as if he wants to raze the entire island to the ground. I pull on sterile gloves then pour the paraffin down a drain beside the house, in case our arsonist makes a return visit.
Eddie looks disappointed when I return to the front of the building, his smile only reviving when he hears about the fire-starting kit I saw in the shed. It’s possible that it was there during today’s search, but the islanders were too focused on finding Naomi Vine to notice key details. He falls into step as I follow the track inland, both of us driven to find the sculptor before it’s too late. Middle Town looks deserted as we march down the lane, lights on in most properties. The islanders appear to have heeded my warning to return home from the pub and keep their doors bolted.
‘Let’s search the down again, Eddie. The last message told us she’s being kept at a holy site; that whole area’s riddled with ancient graves.’
Eddie hurries along beside me, matching my pace, but Wingletang Down is an unforgiving place tonight. A strong wind is still racing in from the Atlantic, gorse bushes flailing in the breeze, the scrubland silvered by moonlight. When we come to a halt outside Naomi Vine’s house, the site looks ghost-ridden; if she’s still alive, the sculptor will be devastated to see her home reduced to a blackened shell.
‘Let’s do a quick tour. The killer may have made a return visit.’
Shadow stays close to my side, releasing a low growl. He still seems anxious about entering the grounds, but traipses after me while I scan the path for signs of activity, my gaze catching on piles of leaves blown inland by the squall. I walk further round the building’s perimeter before spotting a bundle of feathers lying on the ground.
‘Over here, Eddie,’ I call out.
My deputy has his phone pressed to his ear when he races towards me. ‘Stan Eden says the Birdman’s missing. They were in the lighthouse earlier, but he ran off and hasn’t been seen since.’
‘These feathers belong to Curwen, he carries bundles around in his pockets.’
Eddie drops to a crouch. ‘There’s an outline in the mud, then footprints as someone ran away.’
‘You can see where someone’s hands have clawed the earth.’
Rain is blurring the footprints that track across the path and we’ve made matters worse by polluting the area, making it hard to distinguish between the Birdman’s and the killer’s prints.
‘One of them’s got small feet,’ Eddie comments. ‘Mine are bigger, and I’m a size nine. Those can’t be more than a seven.’
I peer down at the imprints, which are already disappearing. It crosses my mind that a couple could be carrying out the attacks, or a man with a small build like Adam Helston. It would be useful to know the shoe size of all the suspects, but there’s no time to chase details. At least we have proof that the Birdman was here, the largest set of footprints leading us across the down. The man can’t be solely responsible for the killings, because he was locked up when the latest message was left, but he’s been too close for comfort since the case opened. I need to find him fast, to understand exactly what he’s seen. I focus on the horizon and try to imagine where he’s hiding. Moonlight shafts through the clouds suddenly, making the landscape eerier than before, with rock formations raising their sharp heads to the sky. Before we can take another step, a man appears on the path. He’s wearing a waterproof coat, its hood obscuring his features; there’s a weapon in his hand, raised to shoulder level.
When I step onto the path the man comes to halt, his face still obscured. He’s holding a baseball bat uplifted, as if he’s planning an immediate attack; Shadow races forwards before I can say anything, paws landing on the man’s chest while he gives a loud bark of greeting. Another flash of moonlight reveals his face at last, tense with irritation at my dog’s boisterous welcome. I recognise his pallid, time-worn skin immediately.
‘Why are you out here, Steve? It’s not safe.’
‘It’s time he gets what he deserves.’ The landlord’s face is quivering with anger.
‘Where were you earlier? I didn’t see you at the pub.’
‘I was upstairs, until Sally lost the plot. It was the final straw seeing the poor girl like that.’
‘The killer may be armed, Steve.’
‘I’m not hiding indoors, waiting for him to attack us again.’
‘Does Ella know you’re out here?’
He gives a rapid nod. ‘She couldn’t stop me.’
Tregarron’s actions make me even more determined to find the killer fast. If we don’t catch him soon, more people will end up hurt. I’m about to send the landlord back to the pub when a light flickers at the corner of my eye; a new fire is burning on the western horizon, bright red flames spearing the sky. My advice to stay indoors could be doing more harm than good. I’ve given the killer a perfect opportunity to roam free without fear of being caught.