Steve jogs after us as we cross St Agnes, with the wind at our backs. A vivid glare is still visible up ahead, although the flames appear to be dwindling, the stench of chemicals making me gag as we race uphill to the church. I’m out of breath when I wrench open the cemetery gates, my eyes still fixed on the dull red glow. Eddie is at my side, cursing to himself, while Steve lags behind, determined not to miss the action. The light is coming from a metal trough, half full of sand, lying on the church steps, releasing plumes of smoke and a few spluttering flames.
I understand the killer’s game immediately. The island’s fishermen keep emergency flares on their boats, packed with chemicals, designed to release a light that shines for miles. But tonight a dozen have been lit to mimic another house fire, sending us in the wrong direction. When I crouch beside the bucket, I see that the flares are rigged to a trip wire like the one at St Warna’s Well, but the killer has used a kitchen timer to let him escape unnoticed.
‘Clever bastard, isn’t he?’ Steve mutters.
The landlord is still heaving for breath when I turn to face him, and it crosses my mind that he’s the only islander we’ve seen since leaving the pub. Tregarron could have planted the device himself, but the pub has been searched today, revealing nothing incriminating. The killer has succeeded in luring us back to one of the island’s holy sites, just as his message stated. Little damage has been done, apart from scorch marks on the building’s wooden doors.
I leave Eddie and Steve to search the graveyard while I step inside. The nave still smells blameless, my lungs filling with incense and communion wine, but this time the space is empty. Nothing appears to have changed since my last visit, until I see a word, spray-painted above the altar: FELLYON
My Cornish is limited, but even I get the message this time. The killer is calling me a fool for chasing in his footsteps without guessing his motives. He’s used a decoy to bring me here, while keeping Naomi Vine out of sight. I’m still trying to understand his motives when Eddie calls my name. His voice is so urgent that I feel certain he’s found another calling card, but Steve Tregarron is slumped against the church wall, head bowed, his face waxy in the moonlight.
‘He’s ill, boss,’ Eddie says. ‘I’ve told him to rest for a minute.’
‘What’s the trouble, Steve?’
Tregarron’s eyes are unfocused, his voice hoarse. ‘Angina. My pills are at the pub.’
‘Let’s get you home. Can you put your arms round our shoulders?’
Eddie looks tense as we help the landlord to stand. I doubt he’s ever seen anyone die before his eyes. He’s spent his entire life on minute islands where most people expire from old age, and the greatest threats come from the sea and harsh weather.
We manage to lift Tregarron back downhill in less than ten minutes. It takes careful manoeuvring to carry him upstairs to his flat, but at least he’s conscious when we lay him on the sofa. I call out for Ella but there’s no reply.
‘Where are your tablets, Steve?’ I ask.
‘Bathroom cabinet,’ he wheezes.
Eddie is doing a good job of caring for the landlord when I return to the lounge. Tregarron’s hand shakes when he slips a pill under his tongue and Shadow has picked up on the tense atmosphere, whining quietly as we wait for the medication to work. Steve’s eyes are still screwed shut against the pain, and frustration hits me that the crisis might have been averted if he hadn’t tried to play hero. He takes long shuddering breaths, as if the effort of inhaling worsens his pain, but colour is gradually returning to his cheeks. Now he just looks exhausted, rather than fatally ill.
‘How are you doing?’ I ask.
‘Better, thanks. Sorry to waste your time.’ He manages a weak smile.
‘Don’t worry, but you can’t chase around like a maniac in your condition. Where’s Ella gone?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Come on, Steve. I’m not leaving you here alone.’
His face crumples suddenly. ‘She’ll be with a man.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘That’s how it works. She’s never really been mine.’
Tregarron is too weak to explain, his eyes closing from exhaustion, but I insist on calling Ella’s number. There’s no reply after two attempts and it dawns on me that the island’s mysterious landlady may have become the killer’s third victim.