I hear raised voices as I approach the pub, with Shadow racing ahead and my middle-aged bodyguard ten paces behind. Tiredness keeps me on high alert, until laughter rings out. Whoever’s coming this way is having too much fun to pose a threat. When I look down from the path, a young couple are crossing the sand in the opposite direction. It’s Sandra Trescothick’s son, Joe, with a slim blonde girl. They’re too busy flirting to notice me, giving me time to study her more closely; that face looks familiar, but I can’t place her. The lad’s body language proves that he’s fallen head over heels. His arm is tight around her shoulders, like he wants to shield her from danger. The sight fills me with envy. I’d like to do the same for Nina, even though she’s proved capable of looking after herself time and again.
I can tell something’s changed when I take a shortcut through the kitchen at the Rock. Billy doesn’t complain about Shadow’s presence, for once, and even manages a smile for Kinsella. His relaxed mood shows in his choice of music; Eric Clapton is whispering about angels crying tears in heaven, with the chef humming the tune. I send Kinsella up to unpack before entering the incident room, where Eddie is the last man standing. He runs me through the evening’s events. He’s gone house-to-house collecting samples of people’s handwriting, but so far nothing matches the letters received by the Porthcawl family. Liz Gannick has requested an early meeting tomorrow, even though there have been few developments, apart from Jamie calming down since his arrest. When Eddie took him food earlier, he seemed keen to clear his name, then arrange a proper funeral for his brother.
I’m bleary-eyed with tiredness when our talk ends. Eddie’s informed me that our new recruits will be staying in rooms either side of mine, and he’s taken the one opposite. I’m not certain that two middle-aged constables and an inexperienced sergeant could stop a hired killer, but professional courtesy makes me go upstairs to make sure our newcomers have everything they need. Ken Ellis is on the phone, but he gives me a cheery thumbs-up. I can hear him babbling at high volume as I return to the corridor, informing his wife that his trip so far has been restful, like a seaside holiday.
There’s a different reaction when I knock on Kinsella’s door, then enter without further announcement. The man is standing by his bed, the contents of a gun case spread across the duvet, bringing me to a sudden halt.
‘What the fuck are you doing?’
He jerks his shoulders back, like a squaddie on parade. ‘Checking my firearm, sir. It’s a daily requirement.’
‘Stand down, Constable. You’re not in the army now.’
‘Didn’t you know they were sending an armed officer?’
‘I haven’t read all my emails.’ My gaze drifts to the hardware laid out in neat piles. ‘What are you carrying?’
‘Standard Glock 17, nine-millimetre.’
‘I haven’t touched one for years.’
He jerks the barrel open to show it’s empty, then passes me the weapon. A prickle of tension crosses the back of my hand like an electric current. The gun is lightweight, its metal casing cool against my hand. It brings back memories of my training at the police firing range in London, before my first undercover job, when I was still green. I understand the statistics better now. Armed officers often fare badly in conflict situations, their weapons causing violence to escalate.
‘You’ll carry it concealed?’
‘Of course.’
‘I hear you’re on guard first tonight.’
‘That’s right, sir. Six hours on, six hours off.’
‘I appreciate it.’
Kinsella stares back at me. ‘The chief super never told us why you’re under threat.’
‘I helped put a gang leader away for life.’
‘So it’s a contract killer?’
‘It looks that way.’
He gives a curt nod. ‘I’ve done protection work before, sir. You can sleep easy with me in the corridor.’
It’s a relief to find the bar empty when I go back downstairs, apart from Maggie, preparing for tomorrow’s regulars. She looks so at home behind the bar it makes me regret leaving here at eighteen. I could have worked for her or Ray, but I was desperate to experience life on the mainland.
‘Fancy a nightcap, sweetheart?’ she asks.
‘More than life itself.’
I sit on a bar stool watching Maggie pour brandy into shot glasses, while the past blurs my vision. I’ve visited this pub since I was old enough to walk, my godmother finding tasks for me and my brother to keep us entertained. The place hasn’t changed much since then, apart from fresh paint and newly sanded floorboards to replace threadbare carpet. Maggie clinks glasses with me, watching my reactions.
‘Those two don’t look much like bodyguards, Ben.’
‘They’re the best the Cornish constabulary can offer. Want me to help you secure this place tonight?’
‘Shut the windows, can you? I normally leave them ajar, to air the place, but not with all this going on.’
I circle the room, locking each window, while Maggie locks the doors. Her expression’s tense when she returns from securing the kitchen exit, like she can’t quite believe her island is in turmoil.
‘Tell me your theory about why Louis Hayle was killed, Maggie. You were here in the days when he ran his summer schools. I never liked the atmosphere up there; two days of being patronised was enough. I had my own adventures after that, thank God.’
My godmother blinks rapidly. ‘The other kids seemed to love visiting his world.’
‘Maybe he misused his power.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Victims are often too afraid to talk. If anyone was abused, they’d still have reason to want him dead. Scars like that don’t go away.’ It crosses my mind that I’ll need to speak to Maeve, to find out if Danny could have been harmed.
‘I don’t believe it. Louis mentored my son; he loved every minute.’
‘Abusers target quieter, less confident kids. If anything happened, Hayle’s the only one to blame, but it still doesn’t explain why Hugh Porthcawl was murdered.’
She looks thoughtful. ‘I wonder if Faith had a sense that something was wrong. It seemed odd that she rarely visited, then about twenty years ago, she started coming down here too, like she was keeping an eye on him. I thought he might be ill, but she might have been worried about his behaviour.’
‘That could be it.’
‘Ask the ferryman about Hayle. Arthur went down to the Solent, to crew in a big race for him, and he sailed his boat sometimes, years ago.’
‘He’s been tight-lipped, but I’ll try again in the morning.’
I may be grasping at straws, trying to understand a man who exerted too much power, until time stole it away. The brandy tastes sour while the truth hovers out of reach. My godmother busies herself polishing glasses and emptying the dishwasher, until I say goodnight.
Shadow is behaving oddly when we climb the stairs to my room at the back of the pub. He normally loves his independence, roaming across the island, bothering people for food, yet he’s spent the past two hours glued to my side, which always means trouble. When I open the window to let in fresh air he whines at high volume until it’s shut again.
‘Stop fussing, there’s no one out there.’
I scan the empty beach, but there’s only white sand, ribboned with seaweed, and moonlight beating down from a sky full of stars. It’s the silence that bothers me. There’s no wind, the tide’s barely moving and it’s too quiet. I send Nina a text, then go to bed, so tired that sleep arrives straight away.
Shadow wakes me a few hours later. He’s whining again, and this time he’s standing with his paws on the window ledge, like someone’s climbed a ladder to peer through the glass. I drift back into sleep, but nightmares come thick and fast. I dream of falling head-first down a well, struggling to stay above water, even though it’s a hopeless fight. The glass walls enclosing me are too sheer to climb.