It has finally stopped raining when we set out again. My team makes an odd spectacle: a lumbering giant, a small woman clipping along on silver crutches, a young cop who resembles a choirboy and a wayward dog. The killer’s messages are too unclear to offer a good starting point. All he’s demonstrated so far is his desire to protect the island’s unique heritage. We’ve witnessed his fury that its ancient language has died out, and that local buildings are being bought by outsiders who don’t respect St Agnes’s past. But the field of suspects is still too wide. The killer remains one step ahead and he loves humiliating us.
All I can do now is patrol the territory around the suspects’ homes. The people highest on my list are still Martin Tolman, Sam Helston, Jimmy Curwen and Gavin Carlyon. Any of them could have waited until their wives were asleep then set out to create mayhem, and all have an axe to grind. Tolman lied about knowing Naomi Vine in the past; there’s no guessing what other deceptions he’s concealing. If Ella was telling the truth, Helston has been spotted tonight near the church where the flares exploded. The Birdman has been too close to the case, ever since his coat was used as a shroud for Alex Rogan’s body, and Gavin Carlyon has expressed his dislike of Naomi openly. He seems obsessed by protecting the island from further change. There’s an outside chance that Steve Tregarron was reduced to madness by jealousy, but the man’s illness looked genuine, unless he’s a talented actor.
‘What’s your strategy?’ Gannick asks.
The forensics chief looks happier now she’s back in the game, her sharp gaze scanning my face for showing doubt. I make an effort to keep my voice upbeat when I reply, aware that signs of weakness will slow us down. I’ve seen plenty of murder investigations founder when the SIO loses confidence.
‘You and Eddie can sweep the down while I visit Sam Helston. I don’t care how many people we disturb tonight, as long as Naomi Vine comes home alive.’
Shadow barks loudly as though he’s endorsing my view, then streaks away across an open field. The creature is enjoying his midnight ramble while the rest of the island sleeps, but I’m too preoccupied to care about his antics. The lights are out in every house I pass in Middle Town, apart from a pale glow from the lighthouse gallery. It feels comforting that Stan Eden is keeping watch tonight, just as he protected fishermen at sea, even though the old man can do little to help.
The wind has dropped by a fraction when I head for Lower Town, but I can still hear the sea pounding the shore. The sound is inescapable on such a small island, with every house close to the incoming tide. On a good day it’s reassuring, but tonight it sounds brutal; waves are still attacking the land with unnatural force as the squall blows itself out. Shadow hovers at my side when I reach the Helstons’ farm, releasing a low growl. The front of the house is in darkness, so I walk to the back of the building and see Sam through the kitchen window, sitting alone, head bowed. Helston is collapsed on a chair, too tired and wind-blown to remove his coat, a bottle of whisky at his elbow. The man doesn’t look like an archetypal killer, tiredness rather than excitement written across his features. He gives me a furious look when I tap on the window.
‘You again,’ he mutters, opening the back door by a fraction. ‘Leave us alone, for fuck’s sake.’
‘Let me in, Sam. We need to talk.’
He lurches back to the kitchen table, but Shadow is oblivious to his bad mood: the dog approaches Helston cautiously, then rests his muzzle on the man’s knee. I expect the farmer to brush him off, but he buries his hand in his fur. Some of the tension lifts from his voice when he speaks again.
‘Your dog follows you everywhere, doesn’t he?’
‘It’s not personal. He’ll chase anyone for food.’
Helston manages a grudging smile. ‘Do you want a drink?’
‘I’d love one, but Naomi Vine’s still missing. You’ve been outside tonight, haven’t you?’
He rubs his hand across his face. ‘I couldn’t sleep. I hate being cooped up here.’
‘Why?’
‘The farm’s a bloody millstone.’ He stares down at his hands. ‘It’s been in my family for generations, but Adam’s not interested. He wants to learn building skills then be a property developer.’
‘Do you think he started the fire last summer out of frustration?’
‘Christ knows, the boy’s so close-lipped no one can reach him.’ He slops another inch of whisky into his glass. ‘It’s breaking Julie’s heart. My wife used to be the life of the party, back in the day. Now all she does is sew those bloody things.’ He points at a basket full of ragdolls, their beaded eyes open a little too wide, each one wearing an identical smile.
‘It can’t be easy, watching her only son spread his wings.’
‘She’s hardly laughed since he got into trouble. She used to dream about Adam taking over one day and how we’d be able to take breaks. I’ve tried to make him stay, for her sake, but we can’t keep him prisoner.’
‘If you let him go he’s more likely to come back.’
‘You’re kidding,’ he replies, with a dull laugh. ‘He’ll enjoy the high life and forget we exist.’
‘Tell me where you went tonight, Sam.’
‘Across the north shore to Blanket Bay. I had to make a decision.’
‘About what?’
‘I’ll tell Adam he’s a free agent tomorrow. He can be Liam Poldean’s apprentice or join MI5 for all I care. We’ll sell the farm when I retire.’
Helston’s story almost convinces me, apart from a lingering belief that the man’s bitterness about losing his heirloom may have turned violent. I’ve seen him go for his son, fists raised, barely able to keep his anger in check.
‘Does Julie know you were outside?’
‘I doubt it, she sleeps like the dead.’ He leans down to rub Shadow’s head again, booze making his movements unsteady. ‘Let me help you find the killer. You’ll never catch him on your own.’
‘Get some rest, Sam, and don’t take any more walks tonight.’
He gives Shadow another pat before I leave his property. I wait until the door closes before searching his barn and outbuildings again for signs of Vine’s presence, but all I see are empty pallets waiting to be filled with next season’s daffodils. I feel almost certain that young Adam Helston has nothing to do with Rogan’s murder, or Vine’s abduction. The crimes smack of a slow-burning, sophisticated fury, a million miles from the boy’s impulsive protest at being trapped in the family business.
I circle back to the down along the coast path, but there’s no one around. I can’t see anything suspicious in the sea caves or on the shore. By the time I find my colleagues, they’re at a standstill. Eddie reports that every cave on the down and the area around Vine’s ruined mansion has been searched, with no sightings of Jimmy Curwen.
‘Let’s go back to Boy’s Rock,’ I say. ‘That’s where Ella saw him.’
‘We’ve covered it already,’ Gannick insists. ‘The killer’s collected enough firewood there for one hell of a blaze.’
‘Then it’s worth a second look.’
I can see why they’re reluctant to go back. The area around the rocky outcrop is covered by sopping wet grass, rainwater soaking my jeans. I use a fallen branch to clear a path to the granite mound. It’s only when I pull back some bracken at the foot of the rock that a narrow opening appears in the ground.
‘Jesus, how did we miss it?’ Eddie mutters. ‘Do you think she’s down there?’
‘It’s possible,’ I reply. ‘He kept Alex Rogan hidden and we’re running out of options. I’ll go down and take a look.’
‘I can do it, boss,’ says Eddie.
‘It’s easier for me.’ Gannick turns in my direction. ‘If it’s booby-trapped, I know how to defuse it.’
My brain scrambles for an instant, trying to imagine Madron’s reaction if she got hurt, every safety protocol broken. It’s the conflict on Eddie’s face that seals my decision: he’s torn between wanting the challenge and thoughts of his baby daughter.
‘I’ll try first,’ I reply.
The opening won’t accommodate my hulking shoulders. For a few seconds I hang suspended, like a cork stuck in a bottle, before hauling myself back onto the grass.
‘Let me go down.’ Gannick’s eyes glitter in the starlight as she lays down her crutches. The woman seems eager to prove that her life is charmed.
‘Don’t rush, Liz. Keep stopping to check for tripwires.’
‘I was planning to jump with my eyes closed.’ She gives me a withering look. ‘Let’s move, shall we?’
Eddie and I keep tight hold of her wrists, gradually lowering her into the hole until she reaches the bottom. Her voice echoes back, letting us know she’s safe. Minutes pass too slowly while she’s hidden underground and I can understand why the killer would leave Naomi Vine here. He must believe that the down is sacred territory, pockmarked by ancient graves. After five minutes I kneel beside the opening and yell Gannick’s name. When no reply comes, it takes effort to stay focused. If the woman’s injured, Eddie will have to go down to find her. His face is tense as the seconds tick past, but there’s still no sound.
Shadow is standing by the hole, ears pricked, whining softly. Before I can stop him, he dives into the opening, only his bark reassuring me that he’s reached the bottom without breaking his neck.
‘He’s got a death wish,’ Eddie mutters. ‘We’ll never get him back up.’
‘Don’t be so sure, he can take care of himself.’
I make the statement more in hope than expectation. Shadow’s high spirits often grate on my nerves, but he’s smarter than he looks. My theory that he’d make a good search and rescue dog is about to be tested to the limit. I can still hear him barking below ground, but the sound weakens as he disappears from reach. Ten minutes later he barks again, and this time Gannick’s voice echoes from the opening, filling me with relief. The dog scrambles above ground, making the climb look like child’s play. He wags his whole body to shake mud from his fur, then favours me with a long gaze, as if he’s proved a point.
Liz Gannick is breathless once Eddie and I drag her back into the open air. ‘Remind me never to go potholing. It’s a bloody labyrinth down there; I’m lucky Shadow found me.’
‘What did you see?’
‘Tunnels lined with stone, some sections are five feet tall.’
‘Underground graves,’ Eddie says. ‘Archaeologists mapped the passageways years ago, but no one’s allowed down there now.’
‘The killer doesn’t follow rules,’ Gannick replies. ‘Take a look at this.’
She shows us a blurred image on her mobile, tinted red by flash light. The photo shows cans full of chemicals, piled against a muddy wall. The killer has stashed enough explosives to ignite a small town, but that doesn’t explain where he’s hidden Naomi Vine.