Eddie stays behind to guard the skull. It’s possible that a runner or dog walker might stumble across it, if we leave it unattended. I scan the down for Shadow’s pale grey fur, but there’s no sign of him. He’s probably glued to Nina’s side, but his independent spirit means he also enjoys solitary adventures. He’s an opportunist, hanging around people’s houses begging for scraps, but I learnt long ago that leaving him indoors alone is a mistake. He once destroyed my living room furniture in half an hour, chewing the carpet and scratching every wall.
It’s no surprise when his distinctive howl greets me as I head south across open land. He bounds towards me, always keen to join the action, but I’m still processing the macabre discovery. I assumed that the skull was an ancient relic at first. Smugglers were often buried alongside drowned sailors on the island’s downs and beaches after their ships foundered. There was no other choice, with the island’s churchyard already full, but Keillor sounded certain that the man’s remains are far more recent.
Penny Cadgwith’s house lies a fifteen minute walk away, above Great Par beach. I’ve always known that she was employed by the United Nations, visiting war-torn countries, but not the exact nature of her work. Nina has become friendly with her over the past year, and she seems too gentle for such tough work.
My walk takes me through the Town, with Shadow bounding down the lane, his high spirits out of step with my mood. Some locals are chatting in the street, casting curious glances in my direction. The news of our grim discovery will already be common knowledge. I have little chance of keeping it secret on an island with fewer than a hundred permanent residents, where most families are interrelated. News spreads by osmosis, whether or not it’s true.
I notice how isolated the Cadgwiths’ home is when I drop down South Hill. The detached property looks as humble as mine, built from grey local stone. It’s the view that provides its appeal. It’s the only property on the bay, overlooking Merrick Island and Illiswilgig in the distance. There’s no escaping the island’s history here, with Great Carn standing tall on the hillside above. The conical stack of rocks is one of Bryher’s many ancient landmarks. No one knows why the island’s early settlers piled stones into towers, two or three metres high, leaving their signatures all over the landscape. The Cadgwiths’ property appears built to withstand the centuries, just like the relics. Its walls have been polished smooth by the Atlantic wind, shuttered front windows set in recesses to protect them from gales.
No one answers when I ring the doorbell, so I walk round to the back with Shadow at my side, into a profusion of flowers. Penny is doubled over a beehive at the end of the garden. She looks startled when I call her name, before beckoning me closer.
‘It’s okay, Ben, the bees are drowsy today.’
‘Shall I leave Shadow on the lane?’
‘He’s fine here, don’t worry. They won’t hurt him.’
She’s a small woman in her forties. Her dark hair is untouched by grey, apart from a wide silver streak running through her fringe. Her face is angular, giving her a bird-like appearance. She’s dressed simply in dungarees and a T-shirt. Her only protection from the bees crawling over her fingers is a thin pair of gardening gloves.
‘Don’t you ever get stung?’
‘Rarely,’ she says, smiling. ‘And only if I do something stupid. I can tell if they’re angry from listening to the hive. The sound tells me if they’ll accept visitors. Do you mind if I check the last frame?’
‘Go ahead.’
Several people on Bryher keep bees, but I had no idea it was Penny’s hobby. My family have known hers since I was born, and she’s a returner like me, coming back to the house where she was born to raise her kids. I watch her deft movements as she extracts another frame from the hive, glistening with honey and crawling with worker bees. They don’t seem to mind being exposed to the open air, only a few flying away, while the rest continue their labour.
‘This is the tricky bit,’ Penny says. ‘Getting the frame back inside has to be done gently. I can’t risk upsetting the queen, or the whole lot will swarm.’
She takes her time slotting the wooden square into place, while a dozen bees hover overhead before returning to the hive.
‘You make it look easy.’
‘Nina should try. She’s got the right calm temperament.’
‘That counts me out; impatience is my middle name. Can we have a chat inside?’
Penny walks slowly as she leads me back to the property, her voice breathless. I follow her through flower beds rioting with spring colour: purple agapanthus, jonquils and blue heather. The profusion of blossoms must provide the ideal diet for her bees. Shadow gives an odd reaction, just as I’m about to walk through the back door. He sits on his haunches and releases a howl of protest.
‘You’re a nightmare,’ I tell him. ‘Stop that racket right now.’
The creature pays no attention, trying to prevent me entering by blocking the doorway, until I have to push him aside. His barking continues, so I shut the door to drown out the noise. I can see no obvious reason for his agitation once I’m standing in Penny’s hallway. The atmosphere is serene, her sitting room shabby but pleasant, with furniture that’s worn from long use. I see pictures of her kids as teenagers on the wall; both are at college now, living on the mainland. The most recent photos are of Penny and her husband standing on a sunlit beach, their expressions content.
‘I hope you’re not after Bryan. He’s in Penzance all week, training some shop managers on their new IT system.’
‘It’s you I need, but it’s bit sensitive. It’s linked to your old job.’
‘Sorry, I’m not following you.’
‘A human skull has been found near Shipman Head. I thought you might be able to help us. You’ve got experience of identifying human remains, haven’t you?’
She stares up at me. ‘I quit my job three years ago.’
‘How did you get involved?’
‘The UN recruited me when I was working for the Science Council. My master’s degree is in osteology.’
‘What’s that?’
‘The study of skeletons, to find out why people died. Bones contain loads of information about diet, illnesses and genetic mutations. You can tell a lot from a tiny scrap. My job was to identify victims of genocide, often in mass graves.’
‘Would you be prepared to examine the skull?’
‘I’m out of practice, Ben. It might not help.’
‘Anything you can tell us would be useful.’
She shakes her head. ‘Pretty determined, aren’t you?’
‘Just keen to know why a man died on our island.’
‘Today?’
‘If that’s okay. It’s on Badplace Hill.’
She rises to her feet slowly. ‘We’ll need to take my golf buggy. My asthma’s playing up, so walking would take ages, with me wheezing all the way.’
‘Does the pollen make it worse?’
‘Ironic, isn’t it? My bees adore spring flowers and so do I, but my lungs can’t cope.’
Shadow has stopped making his infernal row when we get back outside. He’s behaving himself again, following Penny’s buggy at a respectful distance. The air still feels oddly calm as we make the journey north, to find Eddie gabbling into his phone when we reach the site. Penny hesitates before stepping out of the golf buggy, clutching a leather bag. When we step down into the trench, her breath rattles in her chest. She takes a puff from an inhaler, then gazes down at the skull. She’s rocking on her feet, like the first gust of wind could blow her over.
‘Are you okay, Penny?’
‘It brings back memories, that’s all.’
Her manner becomes business-like once she pulls on latex gloves, then crouches down to examine the bone fragments. Her kitbag is full of trowels, spades and brushes. She uses a circular motion to dust earth from the skull. Soon I can see the first couple of vertebrae as she scrapes dirt away.
‘This could be a complete skeleton,’ she says. ‘Do you want me to find out?’
‘How long will that take?’
‘Two hours, with luck.’
‘Thanks, it would help us a lot. Do you mind?’
She shakes her head. ‘This is what I trained for, and I’m curious to know why he died.’
My phone buzzes while I watch her work. She’s removing earth with a wooden spatula, her methods painstaking. When I look at the screen, it’s another Skype call from Sarah Goldman, so I leave Eddie standing guard. The commander’s face is expressionless when it appears on my screen.
‘I’ve got an update about Travis, Kitto. His daughter Ruby committed suicide last night.’
‘That’s sad news.’
‘Did you spend much time with her?’
‘Plenty over my two years in Travis’s operation. He let me wait inside his house, if I was driving him somewhere. The kid seemed lonely, rattling around in that huge place, even though he spoiled her rotten. He called her his princess. She was his only soft spot, but he exposed her to things no child should see.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘He had this screwed-up idea that she’d run his gang after he’d gone. She saw men being tortured for disloyalty, or executed. God knows what he made her do behind my back.’
‘She was only nineteen. A psychiatrist had diagnosed her with a borderline personality disorder two years ago; she couldn’t form close relationships, except with her dad. The authorities tried to shield her, but that bastard got her in the end.’
‘What happened, exactly?’
‘Ruby torched her house, then threw herself into the Thames, leaving a suicide note.’
‘She didn’t have much luck. Her mum died in childbirth, and a dad like Travis would leave anyone traumatised.’
‘He’s still hanging on in Crowthorne’s infirmary. Apparently he didn’t react to the news of Ruby’s death, the man’s a true psychopath.’
The DCI’s comment surprises me. If anyone could find a chink in Travis’s emotional armour, it was his daughter, but maybe he’s protecting his macho image even now. He’d hate any of the prison wardens to see him vulnerable.
Craig Travis’s victims often ended up in the Thames, so there’s poetic justice in the girl’s suicide, but it still seems tragic. What hope was there for a child who never knew her mother, with a father who expected her to be impressed by horrifying violence? Maybe the toxic words he whispered in her ear tipped the balance. When I google her name on my phone, there’s just one photo of her, at fifteen, emerging from Wormwood Scrubs after visiting her dad, flanked by social workers. The kid looks like a Victorian street urchin. She’s got dark hair, a small build and a face built for sorrow, with heavy black make-up shadowing her eyes.
I put my phone away, still rocked by the news, and turn back to the crime scene. Penny Cadgwith’s expertise shows in her work. Half of the man’s spine is already exposed, the discs of his vertebrae curving at an odd angle. The thing that unsettles me most is that I can’t tell whether the murderer is still on Bryher after several decades, convinced they’ve got away with it. They must have no conscience at all to drive a spike through a man’s brain. I don’t need a medical degree to see that the victim was thrown into his shallow grave like a piece of rubbish, without care or ceremony.