Jamie Porthcawl’s anger bubbles to the surface when I lead him upstairs to one of the vacant guest rooms at the pub, which will have to serve as a temporary holding cell.
‘You’ve known me all my life, for fuck’s sake. Do I look like a murderer to you?’
‘I have to do my job. You said your relationship with your brother was good, but others say it was full of conflict, and you trespassed on a crime scene when his body was found. You may have tampered with evidence.’
He gives me a long stare. ‘Don’t waste your time, please. Get on and find my brother’s killer.’
‘You’re entitled to a lawyer at this stage, Jamie.’
‘Why? I’ve done nothing wrong.’
I feel uncomfortable locking him inside the guest room, even though it’s luxurious compared to the bare holding cells we have on St Mary’s, which contain nothing apart from a narrow bed. Jamie’s response is cold anger; he could be in shock about his brother’s death, or keeping his guilt hidden, if he played a part in the murder.
I take a quick look at the letters Jamie claims his brother sent, back in the incident room, then I email photos of them to a police graphologist. The penmanship could help us find the killer. The words on the envelopes are a misshapen scrawl, which could be someone trying to disguise their writing style, but there’s no time to read them now. Six officers from the mainland will arrive soon. It could make life easier, provided they keep a low profile.
When I hurry down to the quay, two middle-aged holidaymakers appear to have persuaded Arthur Penwithick to ferry them here despite the lockdown. Then reality hits home. The two men must be all the Cornish force can offer. One of them is already hurrying towards me.
‘Would you be Inspector Kitto? Your colleague just dropped us here.’ His West Country accent is as thick as clotted cream. He’s carrying a hefty spare tyre, his smile eager-to-please.
‘I was expecting more of you.’
‘The chief could only release us two; there are staff shortages. I should never have volunteered, to be honest. The plane made me sick as a dog.’
‘What are your names?’
‘I’m Constable Ken Ellis, and that’s Tom Kinsella.’
‘He’s the same rank?’
‘That’s right, sir. I’m traffic patrol, and Tom’s been on security jobs since his back trouble started.’
My heart sinks as he provides more details. I was hoping for young bloods, fit enough to patrol the coastline and help me find Danny, but this guy doesn’t look fit enough to defend anyone if Craig Travis’s hired killer arrives by sea. The second officer is a marginally better prospect. He’s got a wiry build, with grey hair shaved close to his skull, pockmarked skin and a forthright stare. Constable Ellis may have spent the past twenty years doling out motoring fines, but Kinsella appears to be cut from different cloth. There’s a deep groove between his eyebrows from constant frowning, but the curiosity in his expression gives me hope.
‘I’ll walk you to the incident room,’ I say. ‘My deputy can bring you up to speed.’ Eddie can give out tasks while I look for Danny Trenwith.
‘I thought we were here to guard you, sir?’ Ellis looks confused.
‘There’s been a murder. If you’re following me around, you may as well help us solve it.’
Ellis proves that he’s a talker before we’ve covered ten yards. He describes every part of their journey from Truro, by train, taxi, then plane from Land’s End, while Kinsella remains silent. He appears to be scanning the horizon, observing the landscape for clues.
‘Are you ex-army, Tom?’
He turns in my direction at last. ‘How did you guess, sir?’
‘From your posture. What unit?’
‘EOD, till I got injured.’
‘That’s unlucky,’ I reply.
‘Not in my case, sir. It was human error.’
His gaze returns to Badplace Hill, and my hopes dwindle. The Cornish force has sent me a wounded hero from the Explosive Ordnance Disposal unit, and a traffic cop. I doubt either man could identify a killer who’s bold enough to hide in plain sight. Ellis’s monologue rumbles on as we approach the pub, and my certainty that only I can save myself from Travis’s hitman grows stronger all the time.
Eddie rises to the challenge when I leave our new recruits at the Rock. My deputy has a higher pain threshold when it comes to small talk, but Ken Ellis is likely to wear even his patience thin by the end of the day. I leave them discussing how to find out which islander could have approached Hayle’s house yesterday and who will keep an eye on Jamie Porthcawl. Liz Gannick is checking the box I found for fingerprints, to see if they match Porthcawl’s.
I’m followed by Constable Kinsella and a blast of hardcore American rock when I cross Billy’s kitchen to the fire escape. The chef is bent over his steel table, gutting salmon, the fish’s pink flesh splayed across the board. His surly expression vanishes when he’s at work, replaced by pleasure he rarely shows in public. He must enjoy his craft, but there’s no time to stay and watch. Danny Trenwith is still missing, and it will be my fault if he’s never found. I can imagine him casting himself off the cliff all too easily after his behaviour last night, which quickens my pace. It’s a relief that Kinsella doesn’t feel the need to communicate, following behind while he scans the landscape, as if the fields contain snipers with me in their sights.
I take a circular route west towards Gweal Hill. Trenwith might be sheltering in one of the island’s bays, trying to calm himself. But when I drop down to Great Par beach, the long horseshoe of sand is empty. I’m about to move on when Maeve emerges from the dunes. The architect is wearing a black sundress, pale shoulders scorched pink by the day’s sun. I gesture for her to join me on a boulder overlooking the sea while Kinsella loiters in the distance.
‘I can’t stop for a minute,’ she says. ‘I need to keep looking.’
‘How long has Danny been depressed?’
‘Years, but he’s always denied it, until his breakdown six months ago. He hates taking his medication. I should have spotted the warning signs.’ She’s clutching her hands so tightly her knuckles are turning white.
‘Where do you think he is now?’
‘God knows, but it’s me he’s avoiding.’
‘How do you mean?’
Maeve is staring at the seascape ahead, but it doesn’t seem to bring her peace. Her hands flutter in her lap, burdened by silverware. The rings draw my attention again, each one with its distinctive pattern.
‘We’ve reached a turning point. The pair of us got together at sixteen. It wasn’t easy, going through uni then setting up our practice together, but I can’t imagine life without him. That’s why we’re struggling. I’d like to stay on Bryher, even though he finds it suffocating. I should probably just agree and keep on travelling, but it’s not what I want.’
‘You’re splitting up?’
‘I hope not, but he thinks we should abandon the activities centre and go to Spain.’ Maeve looks embarrassed, as if she regrets blurting out her troubles.
‘I need to ask something else, Maeve. Were you mentored by Louis Hayle too?’
She looks surprised by my sudden change of tack. ‘Dan was his favourite; he taught him to sail, along with a few other kids, until his wife made him slow down.’ Her gaze is still riveted to the horizon. ‘I was never anything special at school, but Louis’ advice gave me focus, at least. I’ve grafted for everything we have, but I’d trade it all to see Dan happy.’
‘Do you remember who else Hayle mentored?’
Maeve gives a slow nod. ‘Lucy and Christian Boston, which made sense. They were both so painfully shy, they needed encouragement.’
‘Did you know them well at school?’
‘Lucy was in our year, but it was a bad environment for her.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘She’s sensitive, isn’t she? Everything wounds her.’ The sadness in Maeve’s voice makes me keep pushing.
‘Give me the full story, please.’
‘Lucy was pretty, a real English rose, but vulnerable. The boys taunted her. They started yelling names at her in the playground, calling her easy, until her brother sorted them out. Kids made stupid judgements back then. I’m sure that doesn’t happen now, thank God.’
I don’t share her certainty; the same ugly double standards applied when I was at school, five or six years later. If a girl had several boyfriends, she was seen as fair game. Those taunts must have dented Lucy’s confidence. Maeve’s explanation reveals why she chose to remain in her brother’s protection long after her schooldays ended.
‘I’ll keep looking for Danny. Wait for him at home, please.’
Maeve looks solemn when I say goodbye, her long hair bronzed by the sun as it plummets towards the horizon. Bryher’s western beaches all have a fine view of the Atlantic, but that will be little comfort to Danny Trenwith, who sounds even more fragile than I realised. Kinsella is still standing sentry as I glance back at the sea. The rocky outlines of Gweal, Maiden Bower and Seal Island are turning orange, and Maeve’s black dress stands out against the colourful background, her shoulders hunched with tension as sunset ignites the sky.