I go straight to see Nathan Kernow after my clash with Louis Hayle. Shadow materialises at my side, hoping for a new adventure as I head towards the Town, but I remember his hostile reaction to Nathan last time. I fling my arms wide to let him know that he’s free to roam, yet when I look over my shoulder, he’s tracking me at a distance. I can only hope he won’t make a nuisance of himself outside Kernow’s house.
It takes me ten minutes to reach the Town, where two dozen low granite houses huddle together, protecting each other from winter’s harsh winds. Kernow’s cottage lies at the eastern edge. My curiosity’s rising, because I’ve never been inside. I know he spent time living inside a cult, but I don’t yet know if that’s connected to his ritual last night. His home is the middle property in a small terrace; the front garden is packed with overgrown shrubs, flourishing between stone pavers that lead to the front door. I catch sight of Nathan through the bay window. He’s hunched over his computer, his back turned, giving me a view of his screen. The animation he’s creating looks oddly lifelike, despite being a fairy tale. A man is waging war against a one-eyed monster, the Cyclops’s huge eye gazing down at him.
Nathan swings round, startled, when I tap on his window. He’s wearing another mismatched set of clothes: an over-sized guernsey, ancient jeans, and brogues that would look better with a suit. He inspects me from under his blonde fringe, his haircut a throwback to his days at public school. The man looks startled when I ask to come inside. His hallway is heaving with so many house plants the air feels damp against my skin; aspidistras in large pots line the walls, spider plants and ferns arranged on shelves, with a vine trailing across the ceiling. His German Shepherd emerges from the undergrowth to sniff my shoes, then retreats again.
‘Sorry about all the greenery,’ he says. ‘I should do some pruning, but plants hate being attacked. Come to the kitchen, it’s easier to move in there.’
The kitchen also contains plenty of foliage, but there’s a narrow space around the table. The shelves are packed with books on spirituality and mindfulness, plus a row of vegan cookbooks. The man may look like a throwback to an earlier age, but he seems to have embraced the craze for clean living.
‘I need more information about last night, please. Did you go back to the crime scene after we spoke, Nathan?’
‘Of course not. I followed your advice.’
‘The bones have been taken.’
He stares back at me, shocked. ‘And you believe I would ransack a grave?’
‘Anything’s possible and you were there just before they vanished. Can you explain fully what you were doing on Badplace Hill?’
His hands waver, like he’s plucking ideas from the air. ‘I had a kind of premonition after we spoke the first time. I saw that poor man writhing in agony in a field of mud. I couldn’t abandon him.’
‘I still don’t understand.’
He hesitates before speaking again. ‘My faith sounds weird to some people, that’s why I don’t often discuss it, but I believe our souls and bodies are connected. Proper burial rites can free our spirits. People like me are called neopagans these days.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It’s an umbrella term for pagans, Wiccans, Druids and shamans. We see nature as our goddess and try not to harm the environment. You can tell from my clothes, can’t you? They all come from charity shops in Penzance. I hate the idea of perfectly good stuff going to landfill.’ He gestures at his well-worn shoes, then his gaze meets mine again. ‘I hate the way the moor’s being dug up; I think of it as sacred ground.’
‘Louis Hayle feels the same. Have you spoken to him about it?’
His response is slow to arrive. ‘I don’t see much of him these days. He’s not that keen on visitors. Louis has changed since he ran his youth summer camps, all those years ago.’
‘You attended some, did you?’
‘Not many; they weren’t really my cup of tea.’ His gaze slips away.
His calm manner makes me assume he’s telling the truth, or he’s a skilful liar. ‘One more thing, Nathan. The compass sign carved on your piece of wood last night – what does it mean?’
‘It’s a pagan funeral symbol. We ask the goddess to bless the dead with air from the east, fire from the south, water in the west and earth in the north. When a soul’s been blessed by all four elements, it leaves its mortal form without regrets.’
‘And you prayed for that on the hill?’
‘I wanted to help him. Some spirits hate leaving, if their death’s been hard. That man had a right to stay there undisturbed. It appalls me that someone tampered with his grave.’
The expression on Kernow’s face is suddenly so fierce, my alarm bells ring at full volume, yet I’ve got no clear evidence apart from his presence at the grave site last night. He seems sincere about his spiritual outlook, even though it baffles me. I’ve never believed in reincarnation, but I can see the appeal; it’s a pity we only get one shot at being alive.
‘Did you see anyone on your way home?’
He shakes his head. ‘A few ghosts, but that’s to be expected.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Of course not,’ he replies, suddenly more relaxed. ‘You probably think I’m mad, but pagans have been around since before Stonehenge.’
‘I’m more interested in the here and now.’ I glance around his plant-filled room. ‘Tell me about your life here before your mother died.’
His shoulders flinch. ‘Why’s that relevant?’
‘A young man suddenly went missing. Your mum took in paying guests, didn’t she?’
‘She needed money after Dad died, when I was eleven. She had to raise me here alone, until family members clubbed together to send me away to school.’
‘Do you remember many of the people who stayed here?’
‘Not really, I was still a boy. It was mainly couples wanting a B&B for a week or two in the summer. A couple of guys came over for longer stays, to work on the trawlers, but I don’t remember their names.’
‘You didn’t come back for a while, did you?’
‘After boarding school I did an arts degree in California. Mum was thrilled when I finally returned here to live. That was about six years ago. My wages meant she could stop renting out rooms. It’s a pity she didn’t have long to enjoy her freedom. She passed away soon after.’ There’s a quake in his voice, like the pain is still raw. ‘Is that everything? I’ve got some graphics to finish.’
‘Those images look really lifelike.’
‘I can’t claim much credit; the software’s improving all the time.’
‘You spent a few years with some group in America, didn’t you? What was its name?’
‘The Children of Nature. People called it a cult, which isn’t true.’ He rises to his feet abruptly. ‘That’s a tale for another day, I’m afraid. I have to finish that sequence.’
‘Okay, but I’ll be in contact again soon, when I have more information. How come you’re toiling away at the weekend?’
Kernow looks uncomfortable. ‘My boss expects total commitment; that’s why our games win prizes.’
A fern brushes the back of my neck as he shepherds me to the front door. The guy ejects me while I still have questions to ask, but there’s no hard proof he entered that tent, or that he’s a hiding a violent past.
When I return to the Rock, Eddie’s got his head down, making phone calls, in the party room behind the bar. It only gets used for occasional wedding receptions and meetings. The ceiling is stained yellow from nights long ago when fishermen huddled by the fire smoking pipes. The floral wallpaper is so out of date it’s probably back in fashion by now. Eddie has organised the space well, with a printer linked to his laptop, and a corkboard on the wall for photos. I’d like to update him on my chat with Kernow, his wary manner, and his jungle of triffid-like plants, but Eddie’s phone is still glued to his ear.
When I search for the Children of Nature online, it’s described as a cult that preyed on vulnerable young people for several decades. Once they were recruited, they gave up their money and possessions, tending the land on a ranch and worshipping nature. The group was eventually broken up by the FBI, the organisers jailed for bribery and extortion. I can’t imagine how the experience affected Kernow, but I sensed anger in him when he spoke about the grave on Badplace Hill being desecrated.
I’d like to search his home, but right now there’s insufficient evidence to apply for a warrant. When I call one of Nathan’s neighbours, she reports seeing him return home after midnight and not hearing him leave the house again. The games designer is our only suspect, despite his gentle manner. It’s possible that he returned to the site last night, long after his neighbours were asleep, but I doubt he’s the killer. He would have been my age when the victim was murdered, little more than a child.
News spreads fast across the islands, even when it’s wrong. The lounge bar at the Rock is full when midday comes around, the place buzzing with excitement. Most people love the slow pace of life here, with one day sliding into the next, and seasonal routines dominating the calendar, but a crisis always brings the community together. They’re talking at high volume, keen to know why an emergency meeting has been called, even though some of the facts are already in the public domain. I want to use this opportunity to make the killer afraid that we already have clues about his identity.
Maggie has rigged up the projector she uses on film night each month, when old movies are served up with beer and snacks, but today’s images will be less entertaining. I’ve known most of the crowd before me since I was a boy. Ray is standing at the back of the room, his face impassive, with Sandra Trescothick close by, reminding me of them sitting together at the pub. Nina is next to Dev, but there’s still no sign of Zoe. I catch sight of Lucy Boston in the front row, and remember Louis Hayle mentioning that she took an early-evening walk on Badplace Hill. She’s taken over running the island’s only shop recently, since the previous owners retired. Lucy is one of those women who remain girlish as they age. Her grey hair is scraped back into a ponytail, her round face permanently anxious since her brother died unexpectedly.
I catch sight of Jamie Porthcawl and his wife, Bella, as I download photos from my phone to Maggie’s laptop. He looks more relaxed than yesterday morning. The couple always seem content. He enjoys his work, and she runs a successful small business making greeting cards, which are sold locally and on the mainland. The only strangers in the room are a few elderly birdwatchers from Hell Bay Hotel. They’re wearing combat trousers, khaki waterproofs and stout shoes, their long-lensed cameras resting on their laps, as if a firecrest might suddenly break cover and fly across the room. Maeve and Danny Trenwith slip into seats at the front, right at the last minute. I’m about to open the meeting when Louis Hayle glares at me from under his grey monobrow. I’m not a natural public speaker, but my hefty build gives me an advantage. People always expect the biggest man in the room to take the lead, their faces expectant when I rise to my feet.
‘Thanks for coming, everyone. You’ll have heard that a human skeleton was unearthed yesterday during the building work on Shipman Head Down. I thought it could be part of an ancient grave at first, but the bones were placed there much more recently. It was a young man, in his late teens or early twenties, and it looks like he was buried in a shallow grave between twenty and thirty years ago. We think he suffered a violent attack that left him with a fatal head wound. I hope none of you are squeamish, because I’m about to show you exactly what we found.’
There’s a collective gasp when a photo appears on the blank wall. The skeleton looks pitiful when I study the image again, with its fractured skull and jaw choked with mud.
‘He was placed in the ground naked, with a cloth bag in his hand containing some rusted metal. We still need to find out exactly what the items were. Speak to me or Eddie, please, if you know anything about the victim. We already have several strong leads, so I expect a quick result. In the meantime, I’m afraid no one can leave Bryher or visit without our permission, because the skeleton was removed from the scene last night. That happened between midnight and eight this morning.’
Someone laughs, like I’ve told a first-rate joke. ‘What kind of idiot would steal some old bones?’
‘The killer must be desperate to remove DNA evidence, even though the murder happened years ago. That will help us in the long run, because they’ve left a trail for us to follow. If any of you saw activity on Badplace Hill late last night, please let us know. You can help us get this resolved so we can all go back to normal.’
My statement is followed by a hushed silence. I explain that I need to know exactly who was on the island last night.
‘Could a holidaymaker have moved the bones?’ Jamie Porthcawl asks.
‘We’ll check the CCTV at the hotel, but it’s unlikely. In any case, whoever did it is still here. No one’s left Bryher since last night. We’ve called a halt on local boats leaving Church Quay. I think the victim was an islander, but we’ll be checking records from the pub and the hotel through the years to see if any guests suddenly disappeared.’
‘What makes you so sure he was local?’ Louis Hayle calls out. ‘Maybe someone brought him to Bryher with a specific desire to commit murder.’
There’s a low murmur of interest before I speak again.
‘It would have been easier to drop the body at sea. Someone wanted to give him a burial of sorts; I think this landscape matters deeply to the killer.’
Hayle looks unconvinced, as if I’m plucking ideas from the air. When I scan the crowd again, the initial excitement of an unsolved mystery has been replaced by discomfort. Everyone is suddenly aware that the killer could be sitting right beside them.
I throw the meeting open to questions, but the crowd disperses fast. Someone is hiding an old secret, and the islanders are famously tight-lipped. It’s never a good idea to rat on a neighbour when your welfare depends on good social connections. Bryher normally welcomes newcomers, but a few people have been ousted over the years. The community’s judgement can be quick and decisive. If you’re violent or tell lies it’s likely to cost you your job, and your circle of friends will vanish overnight.
Sandra Trescothick approaches me as the bar empties. I was planning to consult her, and her intense expression proves that she’s keen to help solve the mystery. No other islander has such good knowledge of past inhabitants. She’s smartly dressed today, her elegant coat matching her sleek blonde hair. If she has any romantic interest in my uncle, they’d make an unlikely couple, given that he rarely changes out of his overalls.
‘This is strange, Ben. Did you see this kind of thing much in London?’
‘Hardly ever.’ I witnessed enough deaths to last me a lifetime, but few cold cases, so I’m not telling a lie.
‘I’ll go back through the records, but no one’s gone missing in recent years. Local families are accounted for in the council’s archive. I can show you every birth, marriage and death since records began. There are no gaps.’
‘This must be an exception.’
She looks bemused. ‘People don’t just disappear from the islands. You’re welcome to come and see the record books any time.’
‘I’ll do that soon. Thanks, Sandra.’
‘Good luck finding out what happened. That poor man deserves a decent burial.’
She walks away, her gait measured, which seems fitting for the holder of such a serious job. Sandra’s been the archivist of island life, from cradle to grave, ever since I can remember. If she can’t explain who went missing, the truth could lie out of reach.