Burnt Island Read online

  PART 1

  ‘To be silent and consumed by fire is the worst punishment on earth.’

  ‘Blood Wedding and Yerma’,

  Federico García Lorca

  The sun is rising when Jimmy Curwen sets out on a cold November morning. He passes the lighthouse first, its tall form looming over St Agnes like a winter ghost. The building is one of his favourites, even though its light was removed years ago, but there’s no time to stop and admire it. Jimmy’s friends are waiting and he can’t disappoint them. He takes his usual route to the lake, with his binoculars hidden in his pocket.

  He walks north through Middle Town, where the stone faces of a dozen houses observe his progress, keeping his head down to avoid the blank stares of shuttered windows. He only relaxes once he reaches open country, where no one will disturb him. The meadow is crisp with frost, grass crunching under foot, his heart lifting when he spies the Big Pool. Today, the expanse of water is as flat and shiny as polished glass, tinted pink by early sunlight. Yet none of his friends have come to greet him: the sky is empty, not a single cry of welcome.

  Jimmy is about to return home when seagulls descend suddenly in a swirling cloud. The flock circles overhead, close enough to touch, bawling out raucous greetings. When he throws scraps of bread into the air, they battle for each crumb. He can smell brine on their wings, wet feathers caressing his cheeks. The birds stay long after the food supply is exhausted before disappearing back into the sky, leaving few of his favourite creatures behind. Oystercatchers wade towards him through the shallows, absorbing his attention.

  His fingers are numb with cold by the time he slips his binoculars back into his pocket. There’s an odd smell on the air – a stench of burning fuel mixed with a sweetness he can’t identify. Now that the birds have gone, he notices smoke billowing from Burnt Island, as if someone is sending him a signal. He leaves the pool and picks his way across the sandbar that stretches from Blanket Bay.

  Jimmy’s pace slows as he scrambles uphill, towards the source of the fire. The smell is stronger now, its sickly taste irritating the back of his throat. He’s panting for breath by the time he reaches the top. The sight that greets him makes little sense at first: a mound of charred sticks glowing a dull red, paraffin cans abandoned on the grass nearby. When he looks again, small flames surround a blackened mass at the heart of the bonfire. His stomach rolls with nausea. A face leers up at him from the ashes, melted flesh hanging from exposed cheekbones, empty eye sockets fixing him with a direct stare. The dead body appears to be begging for help and Jimmy can’t refuse. Another life slipped through his fingers years ago; this is his chance to make amends.

  ‘I’ll find out who hurt you,’ Jimmy mutters. ‘I promise.’

  He can’t even tell whether the corpse is male or female. The sight sends him reeling backwards, desperate to escape, but his conscience keeps him rooted to the spot. His fingers catch on a rocky mound as he steadies himself. Letters have been scratched into the stone beside the bonfire, but he has never learned to read, forced to rely on the instructions of others. His gaze soon returns to the embers. Jimmy recalls something his mother used to say: always leave something for the dead, to show respect. His eyes smart with smoke and tears as he throws his sheepskin coat over the body, extinguishing the last flames. Jimmy recites the start of his mother’s favourite prayer. Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. His words vanish in the smoky air, his grey hair flying on the breeze as he stumbles towards safety.

  1

  Friday 5 November

  My thirty-fifth birthday arrives without fanfare. It’s a work day like any other, with an evening duty to complete. The winter air chills my skin as the ferry struggles to land on St Agnes at 6 p.m., tonight’s riptide too fierce to dock near Higher Town. The island releases its familiar smell of woodsmoke and freshly turned earth as I step onto the old quay at Blanket Bay. Granite boulders are littered across the long horseshoe of sand, beside piles of razor shells and seaweed from the last high tide. St Agnes is the wildest and most secretive place in all the Scillies: just two miles long and half a mile wide, it lies furthest from the mainland with dozens of hidden coves and a pair of small islets clinging to its coastline. There are no cars or motorbikes to disturb the peace. The only vehicles here are a handful of tractors, golf buggies and rusting bicycles.

  My dog Shadow seems happy with his new surroundings, even if I could use some more excitement. The hectic pace of my old job working undercover for the Murder Squad in London has been calling to me lately, but my dog is in his element, sniffing every stone and refusing to follow instructions. Shadow is a two-year-old Czechoslovakian wolfdog with pale grey fur, eyes the colour of sea mist and a strong sense of mischief. He only materialises at my side again when I head inland, our walk bracing enough to dispel my reluctance to spend my birthday overseeing the island’s firework display.

  St Agnes appears deserted this evening, steadying itself for an influx of visitors in a few hours’ time. I walk uphill towards the hamlet that lies at the heart of the island without seeing a soul. Middle Town is home to most of the community’s eighty permanent residents; the village so picturesque that it often features in the tourist board’s glossy brochures, advertising the joys of Cornish holidays. The island’s lighthouse still dominates the settlement from the top of a low hill, despite being decommissioned years ago.

  It’s only when I drop down to Covean Beach that I catch sight of a gang of people building a bonfire on the rocky shore, hurling pallets, logs and driftwood onto a six-foot pile, their laughter rising from the darkness. Another party is rigging fireworks to a metal platform, and more volunteers are slaving over a lavish barbecue. My arrival dampens the atmosphere by a few degrees. Despite having known most of the islanders all my life, they are still adjusting to my new role as Deputy Commander of the Scilly Isles Police, their chatter quietening as they register my presence. Just seven officers oversee the islands, but some inhabitants view us with suspicion, preferring to solve disputes by themselves.

  I’m surprised to see one of the island’s newest residents, Naomi Vine, helping with preparations. Vine is a sculptor with an international reputation. She moved to the island just over a year ago, but tonight she’s using her hands for less glamorous purposes: breaking up pallets for firewood. Her slim figure is swaddled in a winter coat, most of her short red hair tucked under a woollen cap, her face animated. The community buzzed with gossip when they heard she was buying the island’s old mansion house, but the sculptor’s abrasive behaviour has caused controversy ever since. The crowd are keeping their distance from Vine, apart from one islander who seems unmoved by her reputation as a troublemaker. Rachel Carlyon is a native of St Agnes, a tall, ungainly woman who prefers to stay in the background, but tonight she looks relaxed while chatting with her new friend. The only common ground the two women appear to share is that they’re both in their early forties, but odd allegiances can spring up when you live in a minute community at the edge of the world.

  Sergeant Eddie Nickell stands on the far side of the crowd, dressed in full uniform, epaulettes gleaming on the shoulders of his coat. My deputy hasn’t missed a single opportunity to wear formal regalia since he was promoted last month. He’s just twenty-five, but making faster progress than me in his private life. The sergeant has got a two-month-old daughter with his fiancée Michelle, and seems happy in the flat they’re renting in Lower Town. Wind has teased a few blond curls from under his cap, his choirboy face blanched by the cold. Eddie is perfectly capable of managing a family event on a winter evening with a good-natured crowd, I just need to check that safety measures are on track. We walk further up the beach so that we can hear ourselves over the buzz of conversation.

  ‘You’re putting me to sha
me, Eddie.’ His pristine uniform makes my donkey jacket, jeans and walking boots look shabby by comparison.

  He grins in reply. ‘If you’ve got it, flaunt it, boss. It took me two years to earn these stripes.’

  ‘Are we all set for tonight?’

  ‘It’s looking good. We’ve got twelve marshals and two safety officers with St John’s ambulance training.’ His voice is so earnest it sounds like he’s expecting a royal visit.

  ‘Great, I’ll go down and thank them.’

  My godmother, Maggie Nancarrow, appears at my side as I trudge across the shingle. She’s come over early from her home on Bryher, never one to miss a party. I feel like a giant beside such a petite woman, her small face framed by a cloud of grey ringlets as she gazes up at me through wire-framed glasses.

  ‘Happy birthday, you handsome devil.’ She bounces up to kiss my cheek. ‘I’ve got a present for you.’

  ‘You cook for me all the time. There’s no need.’

  She presses a small package into my hand. ‘This was my dad’s. Why not see if it fits?’

  The box contains a vintage Rolex, undamaged, apart from a few scratches on its handsome steel casing. It slips onto my wrist like it was designed for me to wear.

  ‘This is too much, Maggie.’

  ‘It’s only gathering dust at home. Read the inscription for me.’

  I flip the watch over. ‘Time waits for no man.’

  ‘Remember that, Ben, or you’ll get left behind.’ Maggie’s grin sweetens the cryptic message before she scurries away, her super-charged energy blazing a trail through the crowd.

  I catch up with the party’s organiser, Steve Tregarron, as strings of lights are hung from posts on the beach. Tregarron has been landlord of the Turk’s Head for decades, but looks more like a roadie after a lifetime of hard tours. His grey hair is tied in a ponytail, deep lines bracketing his mouth, his leather jacket made characterful by dozens of scratches and stains. The landlord is courteous but keeps our conversation brief, soon marching away to help his wife Ella stack crates of beer by the safety cordon.

  I watch the islanders carry out a last check on the fireworks before spotting a familiar face: Liam Poldean is hauling wood for the bonfire across the beach. He’s a local builder, around my age, with scruffy brown hair and a friendly, capable manner. I got to know him last spring when he came over to Bryher to fix my leaking roof. He drops an armful of logs onto the woodpile, smiling as I approach.

  ‘I thought you’d be running the fireworks, Liam.’

  ‘No chance, DI Kitto,’ Poldean uses my title with friendly mockery. ‘Those rockets can maim someone if they’re lit wrong. I don’t want that on my conscience.’ His face grows serious as he scans the crowd. ‘Have you seen my kids running around?’

  ‘Maggie’s entertaining them.’

  ‘That’s good news. Gunpowder and small boys don’t mix.’

  ‘They’re fine; the safety barrier’s up already. I hear the display’s even bigger than last year.’

  ‘Fingers crossed,’ he replies with a relaxed shrug. ‘Fireworks are unpredictable bastards, but Steve’s spent a fortune, so this lot should be okay.’

  The crowd expands as ferries deliver partygoers from neighbouring islands. People stand in gaggles outside the pub, others drifting towards the beach, eager for the display to start. The bonfire is roaring already, brightening the darkness with orange flames. Three giant straw figures stand beside it, propped against hay bales, their stiff forms decorated with black cloaks, broomsticks and painted grins. Each one is around fifteen feet tall, the wind tugging at their woven limbs. It’s an island tradition to destroy bad spirits each year before the winter deepens. The bonfire is growing fiercer by the minute, its flames brighter and more powerful than before, the crackle of burning logs carried by the breeze. The smells drifting towards me trigger memories of every Guy Fawkes party I attended as a boy: saltpetre, beer and excitement.

  I’m about to warn Eddie to keep the fire under control in case sparks fly into the crowd, when someone taps me on the shoulder. A tall brunette beams up at me, her heart-shaped face so attractive it takes time to collect my thoughts.

  ‘Zoe?’

  ‘Have you forgotten me, big man? Pity, I flew all this way for your birthday.’

  ‘Your hair’s changed. I didn’t recognise you.’

  ‘Is that your best welcome?’

  I grab her in a rapid hug. ‘I wasn’t expecting you till next month.’

  ‘It was cheaper to come now than at Christmas. Let’s stand by the fire, I’m bloody freezing.’

  ‘Okay, but I’m on duty; the display starts in ten minutes.’

  She wrinkles her nose in disapproval, the ease of a friendship that’s lasted since childhood still intact, even though she bears little resemblance to the blonde bombshell that ran her parents’ hotel on Bryher until six months ago. Her dark eyes are more watchful than before, but her new life in India seems to be suiting her well. Zoe’s skin glows with health, and she’s put on a few pounds, making her hourglass curves harder to ignore.

  I squash my attraction back into its box as she shows me a photo on her phone of her new workplace. The school in Mumbai is a square concrete box with no trees to camouflage its ugliness, but the pupils lined up in the playground are all grinning for the camera. They’re street children, thrilled to live in clean dormitories and receive three meals a day. It’s Zoe’s job to teach them music and rebuild their confidence. In the past six months she has campaigned alongside the other staff to keep the place open for another year. My own job seems much less worthwhile. All I’ve done recently is hand out a few cautions for anti-social behaviour and arrest a teenager for setting fire to a neighbour’s barn.

  ‘Stay there, Zoe. I’ll get the ball rolling then buy you a drink. Steve’s gone to light the first flare on Burnt Island.’

  The event always starts with a nod to the past. Centuries ago, the women of St Agnes climbed to the highest point on its northern coast, carrying burning torches to guide local fishermen back to the harbour. Zoe and I are still chatting when a man barrels towards us through the dark. One of the few advantages of being six foot four is the ability to scan every face in a crowd, and this man’s distress is obvious as he flails past bystanders, not caring who he shunts out of his way. Steve Tregarron’s leather jacket is flapping in the wind, his skin reddened by exertion, but it’s his eyes that worry me. They’re so wide open it looks like he’s forgotten how to blink.

  ‘Something’s wrong,’ he splutters, his voice a rough smoker’s growl. ‘I saw it on Burnt Island just now, on top of the hill.’ He’s heaving for breath as shock overtakes him.

  I lead him away from the crowd to talk without being overheard. ‘What did you see, Steve?’

  ‘Human remains, or what’s left of them. It can’t be a stray animal.’

  ‘Are you sure? Things can look different in the dark.’

  He shakes his head vehemently. ‘Come and see for yourself.’

  I make a snap decision based on the information in front of me: the crowd are growing restless, impatient for the night’s entertainment. If I cancel the display, over 300 people will wander round the island, polluting a potential crime scene. It’s better to corral them here, keeping warm by the bonfire. I instruct Eddie to start the event in ten minutes and not allow anyone off the beach, before following Tregarron inland.

  The sky is pitch-dark as we jog north, our torch beams drawing white lines across uneven ground. The path takes us round the Big Pool, where kids sail model boats every summer, but tonight it looks ghostly. Its surface reflects clouds chasing overhead and the moon’s blurred outline. Tregarron seems too distressed to speak; I can hear his breath rattling, and my concern grows. If he has a coronary I’ll have two corpses on my hands, but he ignores my advice to slow down. I’m still not fully convinced that he’s found a body. It’s more likely that a lone sheep has scrambled up the hill then broken its neck in a fall.

  ‘Hurry,�
�� he calls over his shoulder. ‘Before someone else finds it.’

  We’ve reached the north-western coast of St Agnes, with the black outline of Burnt Island rising from the sea before us. Moonlight spills onto the narrow causeway – later tonight the islet will be cut off by racing currents, until the tide drops again at dawn. The path seems to be afloat on the water’s surface already, as the currents rise.

  Tregarron scrambles up the rocky hill so fast his boots release a stream of shale. The man finally comes to a halt at the peak, but I can’t see anything suspicious, just a granite cairn built so high it could tumble with the first strong wind.

  ‘It’s over there,’ the landlord says. There’s a tremor in his voice and I can tell he’d love to be wrong. I don’t know whether it’s a failing or a strength, but ten years with the Murder Squad in London have dulled my sense of horror; my first reaction when confronting a new crime scene is curiosity. Whatever I’m about to witness can’t be worse than finding a Russian gang member’s body crammed inside the boot of his car after being left to fester throughout a long hot summer.

  Tregarron keeps his face averted as I shine my torch onto a heap of blackened wood. I realise immediately that he was right – we’re witnessing a murder scene. My first concern is for the landlord; the man’s skin is paler than before, his hands shaking.

  ‘You did well bringing me here, Steve. Are you okay to walk back alone?’ He gives a rapid nod. ‘Don’t tell anyone about this until I make an announcement tomorrow.’

  The landlord rushes away without a backwards glance, clearly desperate for safety. Once he disappears I examine the scene again. It looks like the killer prepared the fire, then laid the body on top while the flames raged. No distinguishing features are left, except a layer of blackened flesh covering the poor creature’s skull. My guess is that someone returned to the scene to lay fabric over the fire, damping the flames so no one would see the smoke. The poor sod must have died hours ago; the embers are cool when I touch the charred wood at my feet. When I straighten up again, the sky ignites with colour. The wind carries a muted cheer from Covean Beach as rockets blaze gold and silver trails across the night sky. There’s nothing I can do for the time being, so I turn my collar against the wind and watch Catherine wheels spin in dizzying circles until darkness returns. Whoever took the victim’s life could be miles away by now, sailing towards calmer waters, or mingling with partygoers on the beach below.