Leo Kernick sounds defensive when I call him at his studio to ask about his photos of Sabine and Hannah Weber. He claims to be so passionate about documenting island life that he takes shots of everyone he sees on St Mary’s, like a visual diary. When I ask why he flew over to the mainland last week, he claims to have visited a gallery in Penzance that’s holding an exhibition of his work. The photographer still denies knowing Hannah’s name or speaking to her for more than a few seconds. Frustration leaves a sour taste in my mouth; I’ve got no tangible proof of his involvement, it’s his word against mine. He may just be an obsessive, whose photography rules his life. My second call is to Isla, her tone breezy when she states that her visit to Penzance was to see an orthodontist, which I can easily check. One of the limitations of island life is the lack of specialist health care; visiting an optician or dentist can cost hundreds of pounds in travel alone.
A drone is flying overhead when Eddie and I leave Pilot’s Retreat. It’s large, and looks high-spec, making me suspect it’s being piloted from another island by the press. It hovers above the roofline, red lights flashing as it buzzes past. I feel like shaking my fist at it, but turn my back instead, reluctant to see my face plastered across news websites. The drone soon flies off to its next target, leaving its motorised whine buzzing in my ears. I’m still processing our visit to Leo Kernick’s flat. The man’s love for his craft is obvious, but he seems too fond of his girlfriend to target other women.
While Eddie and I walk down to the coast road, I make another call to Lawrie Deane, telling him we’ll need to search the island for Jade Finbury this evening, because all the attacks have been conducted at night. The sun won’t set until around 9 p.m., giving us time to carry out more inquiries first.
I scan the view ahead when we reach the bottom of the hill; the off-islands are wavering behind a blur of heat haze. Members of the lifeboat crew are sailing the rescue launch past Hugh Town Beach on a practice mission, making me long for a job with such clearly defined boundaries. I’d happily swap places with any of them right now. They take huge risks to rescue stricken vessels, but are rewarded by saving lives. My own job is much less heroic, and not every murderer gets caught. Eddie looks preoccupied as we hurry down the Strand, with the air growing humid, and razorbills shrieking overhead. I come to a halt when the noise changes suddenly.
‘What’s that sound?’ I ask.
‘It’s just birds, scrapping for food.’ Eddie’s expression changes when the moaning noise comes again.
We run towards the row of houses. The sound amplifies when we reach Harry Jago’s home, making me look up at his bedroom window, but the curtains are drawn.
‘It’s coming from the ginnel,’ Eddie says.
He races down the side passage, where a man sits hunched against the wall. Jago’s face is a mess, with grazes across his cheekbone, his left eye swollen shut. I can’t tell whether he’s been beaten up, or drank so much last night that he fell on his face and had to crawl home.
‘He stinks to high heaven,’ Eddie mutters. The air is soured by raw alcohol, urine and mould clinging to the brick walls.
‘Can you get up, Harry?’ The boy remains motionless, forcing me and Eddie to hoist him to his feet. ‘You need a doctor.’
‘Fuck off, the pair of you.’ He throws wild punches that fail to connect.
‘Calm down or you’re going in a cell. Let’s get you cleaned up.’
Jago’s body slumps against my shoulder before he can reply. Stuart Helyer gawps at us from his porch as Eddie and I haul the boy inside. My sympathy grows when we lay him down on the sofa. His face is as pale as bleached linen, bruises round his eye and jawline turning from red to blue. Jago hauls himself to an upright position, his gaze bleary.
‘Who did this to you, Harry?’
‘No one.’ His words are slurred. ‘Get out of my house.’
‘That’s a nice way to thank us for our help.’ The boy sneers at me in response. ‘I hear Sabine Bertans was on your boat last week. I thought you hardly knew each other?’
The boy is in no state to talk, his head lolling backwards as sleep overtakes him. It could be hours before he can answer questions. When I check my watch, the afternoon is vanishing. I can’t waste time on a kid who’s hellbent on self-destruction, while Jade Finbury is still missing.
I leave Jago in Eddie’s care, then cross the road to the Catholic church. It’s empty, apart from the smell of fresh incense, confirming that the priest has said mass at least once today. Father Michael looks like any middle-aged man when he answers the doorbell, dressed in jeans, trainers and a short-sleeved shirt, clutching a mug of coffee. His dog collar is the only sign of his calling; there’s none of the fake piety that turns me off most religions. He dumps his drink on the hall table then hurries outside when I tell him that Jago needs his help.
‘The boy’s had a terrible year,’ he says. ‘His mother used to bring him and Lily to mass; but he’s been lost since she died.’
‘Harry won’t see a doctor. Can you help Eddie to sober him up?’
‘I’ll do my best.’
The priest doesn’t flinch when the stench of vomit and stale booze hits us in Jago’s living room. The boy is swaying wildly as he yells at Eddie to leave him alone. He only stops shouting when Father Michael enters the room. It looks like he’s about to faint, but Eddie grabs his arm in time, then lowers him onto the settee. Jago’s face is so badly swollen I couldn’t read his reaction to the priest, but at least he’s more compliant. Father Michael kneels at his feet, using the flannel and soapy water Eddie has provided to clean his wounds. My deputy looks relieved to have help with such a difficult customer; the priest murmurs words of comfort as he wipes dried blood from the boy’s jaw. Something about the situation leaves me unsettled. It could just be my own prejudices, because the boy is one of a tiny handful of islanders with a criminal conviction, but Rhianna Polkerris had no reason to lie about seeing Sabine on his boat. The kid may not be linked to the attacks in any way, but I need straight answers from him soon.
Liz Gannick has messaged me, saying that Isla has driven her from Pilot’s Retreat to Jade Finbury’s home. I decide to walk there, to clear my head, taking the direct route across open farmland, past Buzza Tower. The circular building has been converted into a camera obscura, projecting a reverse image of the surrounding scenery on the walls inside, making me wish that I could see the killer’s face in such perfect focus. The land opens into a patchwork of tiny fields, hemmed in by stone walls, full of late blooming pinks and carnations, grown for the mainland’s flower markets. Farmers will soon be baying for my blood, as well as the boatmen, if the killer isn’t found. The island depends on exporting its produce, but the embargo on travel can’t be lifted while more than forty islanders have no clear alibi for the night Sabine died.
Gannick looks irritated by my arrival at Jade Finbury’s house, her diminutive form swamped by her white overalls. I put on another sterile suit and overshoes, the extra layer of fabric making me feel like a piece of shrink-wrapped meat, rotting in the afternoon sun.
‘Not you again,’ she snaps. ‘I only just arrived.’
‘It’s urgent, Liz. A woman’s still missing.’
‘So I hear.’ She glowers at me again. ‘There was nothing at Kernick’s flat: no blood traces, potential weapons, or evidence of harm. This place is a different matter. I’ll show you the kitchen, then I’d be grateful for some time to do my job.’
Gannick clips away across the wooden floor, the tap of her crutches sounding like a scattergun. Jade’s kitchen looks unchanged, with an expensive coffee machine on one of the surfaces, the breakfast bar scrubbed clean. No incriminating evidence is visible, until Gannick shines her UV beam on the lino. A dark smear suddenly appears, over a foot long, by the back door.
‘The blood must be fresh to show up so clearly,’ the chief SOCO says.
‘How long before we know if it’s Jade’s?’
‘Get my samples to Penzance today, so the lab can tell us tomorrow morning.’
‘I’ll pay a boatman to deliver it.’
Gannick runs her torch over the bloodstain again. ‘The beam picks up trace evidence, but someone’s tried to cover their tracks. My litmus test picked up ammonia and iron oxide.’
‘The killer used bleach?’
‘And a Brillo pad, to remove the stain. The sink’s marked too. It must have been a deep cut; the droplets trail right back to the door.’
Gannick points the torch at the sink, revealing a diagonal line of teardrop-shaped marks, but when she switches the torch off, the wooden draining board looks clean and innocent. The forensics chief is so focused on her work, she soon forgets my presence, and I can only admire her as she runs her torch beam over the pilot’s possessions. Gannick must have crawled over a thousand filthy floors in her time, but the sordid side of her profession never seems to faze her; she pursues every task with the same determination, and I could use some of her confidence today. It looks like Jade Finbury was abducted from her own home, just forty-eight hours after our last conversation.