Sunday 4 May
I wake up before the alarm, with my head full of echoes. Nina doesn’t even twitch when I ease out of bed. She’s lying on her side, hands resting on her belly, protecting our baby even in sleep. Madron urged me to tell her about the threat I’m facing, but it feels wrong to worry her until I find a solution.
I carry a mug of coffee out to the bench in front of the house, still dressed in boxers and a T-shirt. The air’s so warm, summer seems to have arrived early. There’s still no breath of wind. When I scan the horizon, my concerns fade. Only the Atlantic’s blankness lies ahead, with matchbox-sized freighters dotted along the shipping lane. The view south is less clear, the island of Gweal shrouded in early-morning mist. I’m still certain we’re better off here than in a safe house. Bryher is so remote, and the community so tiny, even a practised killer would struggle to reach us without being spotted. No can leave the island without being run through our system, and soon we may need to close all travel from the mainland, but until then Shadow is a good early-warning system. His shrill bark alerts us to visitors long before they arrive, although he’s no match for a trained assassin.
I’m still thinking about the island’s safety when a hand touches my shoulder, making me jump out of my skin.
‘Sorry,’ Nina says, observing me more closely. ‘Are you okay?’
‘I was in my own world, that’s all.’
She’s wrapped in her dressing gown, her chocolate-brown hair glinting in the sun as she joins me on the bench. ‘Dreaming about what, exactly?’
I force my mind back to everyday reality. I’m not prepared to share bad news yet, but it’s the right time to clear up the issue that’s dogged us for months.
‘I’ve been mulling over baby names. Do you want to hear what I think?’
‘Go ahead.’
‘You loved your husband, and lost him much too soon. I can handle Simon being our baby’s middle name, but not Simone, if it’s a girl. I wouldn’t inflict that on anyone. It sounds like some crusty old French philosopher.’
Nina’s face lights up. ‘I knew you’d meet me halfway.’
‘There’s another reason why I was struggling with it.’
‘What?’
‘I’d like to use my dad’s name, but you were so hung up on Simon, I never mentioned it.’
She remains silent for a moment. ‘Mark’s a classic name, and it would be lovely to keep your dad’s memory alive. Mark Simon Kitto sounds good, doesn’t it?’ She parks herself on my lap, her arms folding round my neck. ‘You deserve a kiss for finding the right solution. In fact, why don’t we go back to bed?’
‘Tempting, but I’m due at work. Remember that offer tonight, though.’
‘I will, don’t worry.’
‘Tell me why you hate the idea of us getting married so much.’
Her smile stiffens. ‘Isn’t that obvious?’
‘Not to me.’
‘Don’t play dumb, Ben. Look how well my first marriage turned out.’
‘I won’t die on you, I promise.’
‘That’s what they all say.’ Her amber gaze is steady when she looks at me again. ‘You matter as much as Simon did. I can’t risk it again.’
‘Do you seriously think I’ll get sick if we tie the knot?’
‘Fears aren’t rational, or easy to control. I’m not ready for the next step, that’s all.’
‘But you will be one day?’
‘Maybe, but there’s no guarantee. Tell me why it bothers you so much.’
I gather my thoughts before explaining. My parents had a strong marriage, until dad’s boat sank without a trace. Every time he came home from sea, I’d watch them embrace, their bodies so close it looked like they wanted to melt into each other’s skin.
‘It’s permanent, how I feel about you. We’re having a child. I’m ready to make promises in front of a big crowd, then throw the mother of all parties to celebrate.’
‘Let’s decide once the baby comes. Is that okay?’
‘It’ll have to be, won’t it?’
Nina’s eyes are glossy with tears when she kisses me then disappears back inside. I hope she’s crying about her first husband, not the man who’s trying so hard to become her second.
My mind swings back to the crime scene on Badplace Hill, like a compass searching for true north. Someone on the island is in the same position as me, aware that the past could soon overwhelm them, but the outcomes are different. The picture of Steve Pullen flashes into my mind. Tension presses on the back of my neck like a gathering migraine, and exercise is the only cure, so I go indoors to put on swimming shorts.
The tide is at its highest point as I cross the beach, but Shadow is taking the sensible approach, with no intention of getting wet. He waits by the tideline while I stand waist deep in mid-blue water. The cold makes me catch my breath, but exhilaration soon takes over. My hefty build helps me once I’m churning through the waves. I’ve swum since childhood, only bothering with a wetsuit on freezing winter days. I leave Hell Bay at a rapid crawl and head north, with seabirds skimming overhead, monitoring my progress. Bryher’s frayed coastline extends to the east, with sweeping bays guarded by granite sentinels. No wonder smugglers loved my home island most of all the Scillies, with so many caves and shelters to hide their contraband.
I see something moving when I reach Shipman Head Down. A man is up early, striding towards Anchor Carn. It’s my uncle Ray, moving with uncharacteristic speed. He’s got a sailor’s rolling gait, but it’s a surprise to see him there. Ray is such a creature of habit, I’d expect him to be in his yard by now, or on the quay smoking his first roll-up. He’s following the path towards the crime scene, too focused to notice me wallowing in the sea. My eyes track him until he’s too far inland to see his outline. I push my curiosity away, aware that I’m becoming paranoid, then flip onto my back and swim home, the muscles in my shoulders straining with cold energy.
I feel better after a shower, my mind focused again. Eddie rang last night to say that the Trenwiths were out when he called at their home to see if they knew why their foreman had been at the crime scene the night the skeleton disappeared. Their property is my first port of call. I want to find out if they asked Jamie Porthcawl to return to the building site, even though it was out of bounds.
It’s 8.30 a.m. when I reach the cottage Maeve inherited from her family. It stands at the edge of the Town, with Broomfield Carn’s rocky profile lying near the boundary fence. The house is nothing like the shimmering towers of glass that have become her trademark. It’s small and humble, with windows set deep into its granite walls. When Danny appears in the doorway, he seems preoccupied. His eyes look as small as pinpricks as he scrutinises me through his thick glasses.
‘It’s good to see you. Come and join us for breakfast, Ben. We’ve got plenty.’
I sense a problem from the flatness in his voice, and the scowl on Maeve’s face when we enter the kitchen. She conjures a smile, but the atmosphere is so leaden I’m certain they were having a row. The couple go through the motions of making me welcome, offering me a seat at their table. Maeve is elegant in her black garb, the only spot of colour provided by her trademark gash of crimson lipstick, her hands glittering with silver. As usual, her husband fades into the background. He’s dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, salt-and-pepper hair in need of a cut. His body language is apologetic, with shoulders hunched like he’s cowering from an attack.
‘I won’t stay long,’ I say. ‘But your building site will be off limits for a while, I’m afraid.’
‘We guessed,’ Maeve says, attempting a smile. ‘The island seems to resent us messing with its landscape. Danny’s got cold feet anyway; he hates upsetting his old mentor.’
He frowns at her. ‘We’re needed in Spain, it’s just the timing that’s off.’
‘The activities centre’s our attempt to give something back, but the situation’s tricky, Ben. We had to fight off a dozen top architects to get the Madrid project. There’s a picture of my design on the wall behind you; we’re calling it the Waterfall.’ She points at a computerised drawing of a building that spears up from the ground like an arrow, with a river of glass rippling down one side.
‘It’s already in jeopardy,’ Danny says. ‘A French architect is desperate to take our place. Maeve ignores the emails, but they keep me awake.’
‘Why do you always pretend I do less work than you?’ she snaps. ‘We can’t just quit and walk away.’
I hold up my hand, calling time on their row. ‘This is a murder investigation, remember? A man lost his life on that ground. Nothing else matters.’
‘You’re right, of course.’ Maeve looks embarrassed. ‘Sorry we’re so work-obsessed, Ben.’
‘I need to know if either of you saw Jamie Porthcawl at the crime scene on your way to the pub on Friday night.’
‘Why would he go there?’ Danny asks.
‘Apparently he was looking for something, but I wondered if you’d sent him to do a recce.’
‘Of course not, but Jamie’s always been sensitive. Maybe uncovering that skull upset him, and he wanted to know what else you’d found.’
‘Vital evidence may have been spoiled.’
Danny stares back at me. ‘He’s keen to work, like us. The build’s costing far more of our personal cash than we expected, and the Design Council’s grant’s already blown. Jamie was probably checking it could go ahead. Why not ask him yourself?’
‘We already spoke on the phone, but I’ll interview him in person too. Everyone’s alibi has to be tested. Did he say anything about losing his dad’s compass at the site?’
‘Not a word.’ Maeve’s expression interests me more than her husband’s evasion, her surprise looks too convincing to be fake.
‘Someone walked into that tent later in the evening to remove the bones.’
Danny looks at me like I’m the village idiot. ‘It wasn’t me, if that’s what you’re asking. It’s a crime scene to you, but it’s just a building site to us. There’s no point going there unless we can work.’
‘We didn’t leave the house after getting back from the pub,’ Maeve says.
‘I don’t like socialising here after so much criticism of the build,’ Danny adds. ‘Most of the islanders are small-minded bigots. That’s why I left in the first place.’
‘Now who’s talking rubbish?’ his wife says, turning on him. ‘I’d move back here in a heartbeat.’
‘Keep your team away from the site, please. No one can go near it till you get the all-clear,’ I say, rising to my feet.
Maeve scurries down the hallway behind me, apologising for her husband’s bad mood, the frustration on her face clearer than before.
‘Dan hasn’t been right since we came back. The pressure’s getting to him.’
‘I can see that, Maeve. Thanks for the coffee. I’ll keep you informed about developments affecting the site.’
Danny Trenwith appears to be paying a high price for living in his wife’s shadow, but the concern in her voice proves she loves him. I still don’t fully believe Jamie’s reason for entering that tent, but it’s possible he’s desperate for the build to proceed. There’s even a chance that he removed the skeleton and chucked the bones into the sea to smooth the path for the Trenwiths. I’ll have to pay him a visit, but not until I’ve seen Liz Gannick. She’s staying in a suite at Hell Bay Hotel, just below Zoe’s flat.
The forensics chief takes time to answer when I knock on her door. She looks calmer when I’m finally allowed in, but the conversation could go either way. Gannick’s mobile lab takes up most of the living area, a microscope standing on the dining table beside vials of coloured liquid and specimen tubes. Numbers are scrolling across her computer screen like a roll of ticker tape.
‘How did you sleep, Liz?’
‘Not great. Some woman’s been bawling her guts out, but that ended a while back, thank God.’
‘I know who that is. She’s grieving for something.’
Gannick rolls her eyes. ‘Tell her to do it somewhere else.’ The shrill tone is absent from her voice today, leaving exhaustion in its place, as if other people’s emotions drain her energy. My thoughts adjust when I spot a pill bottle on the table, the medication’s name exposing her secret.
‘Those are heavy-duty painkillers, Liz. I thought something was bothering you.’
A bitter smile crosses her face. ‘A medic now, are you?’
‘I only know they’re prescribed for serious pain.’
‘I rarely take them. Let’s get down to work, shall we?’ Her energy is reviving already. She swings across the room on her crutches to where a light shines down on fragments of green metal. ‘This is the murder weapon, freshly cleaned. I looked at your photos of the skull in the ground. Your victim died fast, after having that spike driven though his brain.’
‘Our pathologist agrees with you.’
The piece of metal looks sharper than before, six inches long, its copper surface glinting now that the oxide’s been removed. Something shifts in my chest as I stare at it, aware that I’ve seen one just like it in the past.
‘It could be a massive nail, or something the killer made,’ Liz mutters.
‘Have you found any bone fragments from the skeleton?’
She shakes her head. ‘There should be particles in my soil analysis when I get to it. I’ve been checking what was in the skeleton’s hand. Some of the metal was carbon-alloyed steel, with a low chromium content, so it’s rusted away.’
‘What are you saying exactly?’
‘They make files, chisels and picks from it. I think he was holding a set of precision tools.’
The bag lies unrolled on a plastic sheet, and when I look more closely, my stomach contracts. I recognise its shape, and a patch of grey canvas has retained its colour despite years underground. Ray had an identical one until it went missing when I was in my teens.
‘It may not help you much,’ she says. ‘Plenty of people have one just like it in their DIY kit.’
‘I’ll see what I can find out.’
She’s too absorbed to notice I’m unsettled. Why would a toolkit from my uncle’s yard be clutched in a dead man’s hand? I can’t help remembering Ray walking up Badplace Hill so purposefully this morning, like he was heading straight to the crime scene.
Gannick has moved on to her next problem, peering into her microscope at specks of earth smeared across a slide, oblivious to my concerns. Her jaw is clenched with determination; she’s already forgotten I exist.