Nathan Kernow is at home when Eddie and I reach his house at lunchtime, with the sun warm on our backs. His pagan identity doesn’t show in his appearance today; he looks like an English lord dressed for an autumnal walk. It’s only on closer inspection that the image crumbles. His corduroy trousers are worn thin, his tweed jacket a fraction too small. He hovers on the doorstep, clearly reluctant to admit us, and his German Shepherd echoes his mood. The dog sniffs the air warily before slinking inside with her tail down.
‘We’ve got permission to search your house, Nathan. But can we talk for a minute first, please?’
Eddie looks shocked by Kernow’s plant collection. I push past foliage that presses in from all sides, like we’re entering a greenhouse at Kew Gardens. It’s easier to move in the lounge, where two computers stand on a dining table and books on coding and games design are stacked by his chair. Kernow gestures for us to sit down, but he remains standing, arms rigid at his sides.
‘Why are you singling me out?’
‘We need to identify the victim,’ I reply. ‘You were there the night his remains went missing.’
‘I told you, it felt important to honour the dead. I saw it as my duty.’
‘Tell us about Jakob Bazyli, please. How well do you remember him?’
Kernow reacts like I’ve shoved him backwards, slumping onto a chair. ‘You think it was him on the moor?’
‘We’re just following all lines of enquiry.’
‘Jakob seemed kind. He was here all summer, but I didn’t get to know him well.’
‘How old were you then?’
‘Around fourteen. I was home from boarding school. He was teaching himself English but hardly spoke to us. I’d hear him repeating words in his room sometimes. I got the feeling he was homesick.’ Kernow’s anxiety shows; his hands are trembling when his speech fades into silence.
‘Did he leave any possessions behind, or a suitcase?’
‘I can’t remember. Mum said he took the Scillonian over to Penzance. I don’t even know if he went back to Poland; we never heard from him again.’
‘Write everything down, please. I’d like documentary evidence too. Did your mother keep a record book when she ran her B&B?’
‘I threw it away.’
‘That’s a pity. If you remember anything, let us know. We’ll start the search now.’
Eddie disappears upstairs, leaving me to tackle Kernow’s indoor jungle, my head still buzzing with questions. I can understand why he got rid of his mother’s records, but it makes his story impossible to check. The two young men could have had a bitter row that ended in murder.
Kernow remains in the living room while I search the kitchen. My job is made harder by the dozens of ferns ranged across the worktop and spider plants hanging from the shelving. When I look through the cupboards, I only find evidence of Nathan’s veganism. His fridge contains soya mince, tofu and rennet-free cheese. There’s a photo of his mother in middle age on his French dresser. She’s a delicate-looking woman, with a tired smile. The picture was taken in her back garden. It must have been after her husband’s death, because Nathan is at her side, around twelve years old, his blonde fringe hiding his eyes. The boy’s body language interests me. He’s clinging to her hand, at a stage when most boys are desperate to seem grown up.
I can hear Eddie rummaging around upstairs and hope he’s having more luck. It takes me half an hour to check the downstairs rooms, looking behind furniture and lifting loose floorboards. I’m hunting for a letter, or anything to show that Jakob Bazyli may have been hurt here. Nathan’s bank balance comes as a surprise when I glance at his latest statement. The man’s a high earner, with more than fifty grand in a savings account. He doesn’t need to buy second-hand clothes, which supports his claim that he’s made an ethical decision to stop any more rubbish going into landfill.
Eddie’s voice is a low whisper when I go upstairs. ‘He’s kept all his mum’s stuff, boss. It’s a bit Psycho if you ask me; all it needs is a rocking chair.’
I get his point when I enter the room. The air smells of dried flowers and mothballs; Mrs Kernow’s dressing gown is still hanging behind the door, pairs of high-heeled shoes lined up by a chair. Her make-up bag lies on the dressing table, like she might return any minute to powder her nose.
‘There’s nothing here except junk,’ Eddie mutters.
‘Let’s check the loft.’
‘He hasn’t got a ladder. Can you give me a boost up there, boss?’
Gymnastics was his favourite subject at school. Eddie’s feet touch my hand, then my shoulder for a split second before he sails through the opening, in one fluid movement. Five minutes pass before his face appears at the opening, his expression blank.
‘You’d better come up here, fast.’
He’s gone before I can request more details, and Nathan Kernow appears at my side.
‘The loft’s empty. There’s nothing there of any monetary value, believe me.’ He’s rubbing his hands together like he’s trying to remove a stain.
‘We need to check anyway. Can I borrow a stepladder, please?’
He doesn’t reply, and his dog is getting more agitated. She releases a loud whine when I remove a chair from the bedroom. I try to copy Eddie’s ascent, but fail in the attempt. My hulking shoulders often cause problems, especially when it comes to buying a suit, but I finally squeeze through the opening into complete darkness.
‘Where’s the light?’ I call out.
‘The bulb’s gone.’
I can only see a thin trail of yellow from Eddie’s torch. The roof space is twenty feet long, with hardboard laid across the joists. My deputy is crouching by a table covered in fabric, with unlit candles at either end. The home-made altar makes my breath catch in my throat. It’s covered in dried heather, stones and a jam jar full of dried flowers. The last item is raised high above the rest, catching my attention when Eddie’s torchlight picks it out. It’s a piece of bone, three inches long, stained yellow by time.