Burnt Island Read online

  Curiosity makes me check Naomi Vine’s profile, too. Her biography confirms that she grew up in care; her tough start in life makes her achievements even more impressive. There’s a picture of her from two decades ago outside the Tate Modern, the art world falling at her feet. She had just finished at art college when she became an overnight success. Her looks were distinctive even then: vivid auburn hair cut into a short fringe, highlighting a pale-skinned face, her over-sized features compelling rather than beautiful. Her determination to succeed shows in the set of her jaw, as if she intends to win every battle without yielding ground. Another image shows her outside the Royal Academy beside a prize-winning sculpture. The artwork towers over her, made up of hundreds of broken mirrors, each reflecting a different vision of the city. Vine’s career has waned since that first stellar success, but it kept her on the world stage for several years. The article makes me keen to visit her studio again. The connection between us felt more like friendship than attraction, but I’d still like to get to know her once the killer’s found. Until then, I need to understand why Alex Rogan beat a path to her door without telling his wife.

  My final task is to check Adam Helston’s notes from his juvenile court hearing. He only got into trouble at school during the six months before he set the barn alight, his behaviour warranting three exclusions for fighting with classmates. Sam Helston’s anger makes more sense as I scan the report: he and his wife have spent the past year hoping their son will turn a corner. Julie seems to be paying a heavy price for Adam’s misdeeds, stuck indoors embroidering dolls so that each day ends with a row of perfect children lined up on her kitchen table.

  My eyes are burning when I finally stop working, a headache brewing at the base of my skull. I ought to rest, but sleep seems like a distant prize tonight, so I text Zoe instead. When no reply comes back I pull a battered copy of The Great Gatsby from my holdall. Books have been my biggest obsession since I was a kid, particularly classic American fiction, but I’ve only read one chapter when Zoe taps on the door. Her new image as an elegant brunette makes her seem more grown-up than before. She can still light up the room, even though her day with Sally has muted her smile.

  ‘I brought refreshments, big man.’ She brandishes a bottle of vodka.

  ‘In that case, you are truly welcome.’

  ‘This is pretty swanky.’ She scans the stylish room with interest, but when she looks up at me again her distress is obvious.

  ‘How’s Sally doing?’

  ‘She should be in hospital till the shock wears off – stress is making her claustrophobic. My biggest challenge is keeping her indoors. All she wants to do is walk, but I keep telling her it’s not safe to go out at night. She’s so fragile, I’m afraid she’ll crack up.’

  ‘What’s she been saying?’

  ‘Sal’s got it into her head that Alex was having an affair, but when she emailed me in India a few weeks ago everything was fine.’

  ‘Why did she suspect him?’

  ‘She’s got no proof. Sal thinks the woman’s husband may have found out and killed Alex, but that’s just guesswork. The poor thing’s driving herself crazy.’

  ‘Hopefully I’ll have some answers soon. Are many people visiting the house?’

  ‘Loads.’

  She pulls a crumpled piece of paper from her pocket. Her list shows that almost every family on St Agnes has paid their respects, but Sally’s most frequent caller is Liam Poldean. The builder has gone to her home each day since Alex’s body was found, yet her father has failed to put in a single appearance.

  ‘How come Liam’s called by so often?’

  ‘He was mates with Alex, and he and Sal had a thing back in the day.’

  ‘They were together?’

  ‘For about a year, when you were living in London.’

  My thoughts take time to adjust to this new information. Poldean may still be harbouring feelings for his ex, the friendship with her husband no more than a cover. I’ll have to take a closer look at his alibi, even though he claims to have been caring for his boys when Alex Rogan met his death.

  Zoe pours vodka into a couple of mugs. ‘You’ve got a tough job on your hands.’

  ‘Tell me about it. Everyone’s keeping their mouths shut.’

  ‘They’ll only talk if they’ve got something to say.’

  We sit together on the window seat, her expression calm despite the day’s concerns.

  ‘There’s something different about you, Zoe.’

  ‘My life’s easy compared to this. I’ll soon be back in Mumbai doing a job I love.’

  ‘You’re extending your contract?’

  ‘I’m considering it. I miss everyone here, but the school’s a brilliant place to work.’

  ‘It’s your decision.’ The words sound sour as they slip from my mouth, but it’s too late to recall them.

  ‘What’s bothering you, Ben. It’s not just the case, is it?’

  ‘You’re worse than Ian. Everyone’s nagging me.’

  ‘Why do you lock yourself away? You’ve done it since you lost your dad.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous, he died when I was fourteen.’

  ‘It started then. You found it hard, not getting to say goodbye.’

  ‘He drowned at sea, that was never going to happen.’

  ‘You hid in those books of yours.’ She’s holding my gaze so firmly, it’s impossible to look away. ‘Nina Jackson texted me last week. Do you ever hear from her?’

  I try not to react, but hearing her name for the second time tonight makes me flinch. Since Nina moved home to Bristol, my romantic life has consisted of a few pointless one-night stands. ‘Why would I? She left me high and dry the best part of a year ago.’

  ‘She asked about you. I’m surprised she hasn’t made contact.’

  ‘Give it a rest, Zoe.’

  ‘You’re lonely, big man.’ She leans closer, scrutinising me just like my brother did, making me back away. ‘Why not give her a call?’

  ‘Time’s moved on, Zoe.’

  ‘God, you’re a stubborn bugger.’ She prods me in the ribs hard enough to make my eyes water.

  ‘What do you know about Naomi Vine?’ I ask, steering the subject away from my personal life.

  ‘You’re not interested, are you? She’s a tricky one.’

  ‘She’s unusual, that’s all.’

  Zoe rolls her eyes. ‘I considered buying one of her pieces for the hotel last year, but they cost a fortune.’

  ‘Has she got a partner?’

  ‘She’s more of a loner. Naomi likes controversy. Some people love the idea of her sculptures on the beaches, and others hate it. I think a row of women on Blanket Bay beckoning sailors home would look great. It would attract more visitors to St Agnes.’

  ‘But the old-timers prefer their privacy.’

  Zoe nods in agreement. ‘That’s where the conflict lies.’

  I still believe that Rogan’s visit to Vine’s house is linked to his brutal killing, but it would be wrong to share any more professional concerns. It’s only when I’ve drained my vodka that I notice Zoe’s expression grow thoughtful.

  ‘I’ve got some big news, but I won’t share it till you lose that terrible beard.’

  ‘It’s not going anywhere.’

  ‘You’re too tired to listen properly anyway. Let’s talk again tomorrow; I should get back to Sally.’ She hesitates before speaking again. ‘Do you think she could have hurt Alex? I feel awful saying it, but some of her reactions seem off to me.’

  ‘She’s pregnant, Zoe. Like you said, shock and hormones are making her act weird, that’s all.’

  She rubs her hand across her face. ‘It’s been such a shock. Maybe I’m imagining things.’

  ‘People saw her open the shop that morning, her alibi’s pretty solid.’

  ‘Yesterday she walked out in the middle of the night. It’s like she can’t sit still. I thought guilt might be getting to her.’

  ‘She’s grieving for her husband
. Can you stay there till you fly back?’

  ‘You don’t have to ask. I should go and check she’s okay.’

  ‘Can you do me a favour first?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I need a haircut. My boss keeps nagging, but I can’t get over to the barber’s on St Mary’s.’

  ‘You haven’t let me touch your hair since I gave you the world’s worst mullet.’

  ‘I’m praying you’ve improved.’

  Zoe has had many incarnations in her short life. She trained as a hairdresser before following her heart and studying music at university, her dreams of a professional singing career stalling when her parents’ retirement required her to run the family hotel.

  ‘That raven black hair of yours deserves better care. I’ll see if Ella’s got any decent scissors.’

  *

  I sit in front of the mirror with a towel round my shoulders, watching two-inch locks of hair fall into my lap. Shadow is whining outside, clearly unhappy about being excluded from the party, but I’m not complaining. It’s been months since a woman touched me, and Zoe smells just as good as I remembered. Our friendship places her off limits, but it’s still a pleasure to inhale her scent of jasmine, lemon soap, and something earthy and appealing that’s all her own. When I open my eyes, she’s assessing my reflection with a critical gaze.

  ‘Not bad.’ She runs her fingers through my hair again, lifting it, then letting it fall. ‘If you smartened up, women might actually fancy you.’

  ‘Only if they go for sleep-deprived giants.’

  ‘You’ve always been a big, handsome thug. Your new haircut makes you look like a movie star.’

  ‘Bollocks.’

  I can’t see any signs of Hollywood glory myself. The mirror shows a heavyweight boxer, rising awkwardly to his feet to avoid confronting his reflection. There are dark smudges under my mud-green eyes, black hair cropped shorter than seems natural. But at least part of Madron’s edict has been fulfilled: whatever happens now, he can’t accuse me of insubordination.

  I check my phone before walking Zoe back to Sally’s house. A text from Naomi Vine arrived two hours before, inviting me round to see her work. I wish I’d seen it earlier. She must get lonely in that big, neglected mansion, and the invitation would have allowed me to kill two birds with one stone: I could have discovered the secrets she’s hiding and seen her new work at the same time. I fire off a quick reply, asking to drop by another evening, then release the tether on Shadow’s collar. The creature howls with pleasure before bounding through the cool night air.

  My restlessness lingers after Zoe hugs me goodnight, so I take the dog for a longer stroll. The wind is finally rising after days of stillness. It follows me along the shoreline, like a hand between my shoulder blades, shoving me onwards. Clues swirl around my head with the same wild energy as the breeze. So far I’m the only person other than Alex Rogan to receive an angry Cornish curse from the killer. He died three days ago, leaving me to discover who’s singling us out, and why the murderer is trying to frame a troubled seventeen-year-old boy. I follow the shingle beach to Porth Killier, but the island is sleeping peacefully, lights out in every cottage. The killer may be combing the beaches, like me.

  17

  Monday 8 November

  The wind tugs at Jimmy’s outsized jumper, sending chills down the back of his neck. The only building in sight is the old mansion house, with dawn’s first light reflecting off its perimeter wall. Exhaustion and the need for shelter carry Jimmy through its gates, taking cautious steps along the path. Naomi Vine sometimes leaves small food parcels for him on her doorstep, but it’s so early, she might hear him moving around and call the police. The shutters of the downstairs windows are all closed; it’s impossible to see inside. No sound is coming from the house, so she must still be asleep. Jimmy’s anxiety lingers when he finds the back door ajar, but it’s a relief to escape from the wind’s constant attack. A light shines at the end of the corridor, drawing him towards it. He feels certain his friend wouldn’t mind him taking a piece of bread from her kitchen, but footsteps suddenly ring from the walls.

  Panic makes Jimmy scrabble for a hiding place. He shelters in a cupboard just in time, the space so confined that his arms press tight against his sides. Footsteps have been replaced by china shattering, and the sound of metal beating against a solid surface. The door reduces the voice outside to a drone of angry words. He listens hard but can’t tell whether the speaker is male or female. He recognises a few of the Cornish phrases his grandfather used, their Celtic intonation rising and falling. His body trembles when someone cries out in pain, fear rooting him to the spot. Jimmy closes his eyes and tries to picture swallows flying low over the island, twisting ribbons through the sky, but the scene refuses to take shape. All he can see is black air in front of his face while the vicious sounds continue.

  PART 2

  ‘There may be a great fire in our soul, yet no one ever comes to warm himself at it, and the passers-by see only a wisp of smoke.’

  Vincent van Gogh

  18

  I hate shaving, but this morning I have no choice. My new haircut clashes with my overgrown beard, making me look like a Hell’s Angel, which would horrify Madron. The Shipping Forecast is predicting gales in Plymouth, Fastnet, Sole and Lundy while I drag my razor over winter-pale skin. The storm is arriving at the worst possible time, isolating St Agnes from the rest of the world.

  My mobile rings at seven thirty, just as I’m inspecting the breakfast tray that Ella has placed outside my room. The speaker introduces himself as Gavin Carlyon, then apologises for calling so early, his voice slow and halting. It takes me a moment to recall that he lives on Gugh, not far from Keith Pendennis’s cottage. The man’s voice is a thick Cornish drawl as he asks me to visit his home. I agree to see him later this morning, remembering that his wife Rachel is the only islander to form a close friendship with Naomi Vine. She may be able to explain Alex Rogan’s last visit to the reclusive sculptor’s house.

  Shadow barks at top volume when I launch myself into the great outdoors, his behaviour only improving when I drop a handful of dog biscuits at his feet. There’s a tang of salt in the air, the wind playing havoc with people’s gardens as I walk between Middle Town’s low cottages with the dog chasing my heels. I notice that Sally’s curtains are closed, but the lights are on in every room, so I tap on the door to check she’s okay. There’s no sign of Zoe’s thousand-watt smile when she answers, her voice a low murmur.

  ‘Neither of us slept much last night. Sal went on another midnight ramble; she was hysterical when she got back. The poor thing cried for hours.’

  ‘Do you need help?’

  She’s slow to reply and I sense that she still harbours suspicion towards her close friend. ‘Sal won’t let anyone else stay over. I’ll give you a call later,’ she says, before closing the door.

  My spirits have lowered when I head for the boathouse. Zoe is always observant; if she can see warning signs in Sally’s behaviour, I may have missed something. People saw her opening the shop less than an hour after Alex left home for the last time. It strikes me as unlikely that a pregnant woman would lure her husband to Burnt Island, overpower him, then subject him to a terrible death, but experience has taught me that anything’s possible. I’ll have to ask Zoe to monitor Sally’s behaviour closely until I’m certain she’s innocent.

  Eddie is in an upbeat mood when I climb the stairs of the boathouse, his voice excitable. ‘Liz Gannick called,’ he says. ‘She’s stuck on St Mary’s; the ferries are still cancelled.’

  ‘Bloody marvellous,’ I mutter under my breath.

  The investigation has faced constant obstacles. The island’s elusive Birdman is roaming free, and the weather is slowing our progress to a snail’s pace. It takes effort not to vent my frustration when Madron calls for an update. The DCI’s voice is cool when he tells me to dress appropriately for tomorrow’s press briefing, as if a suit and tie could solve a murder case. The conversa
tion leaves a sour taste in my mouth, so it’s a relief when Mike and Louise Walbert appear on the slipway outside; helping them will provide a useful distraction.

  Louise is wearing her usual primary colours: a scarlet coat with an emerald green scarf and yellow wellingtons, brightening the wintry day. She hands me a biscuit tin when I go out to greet them.

  ‘I made you and Eddie some sandwiches.’

  ‘That’s a kind thought, Louise.’

  Her husband lumbers closer, the collar of his coat raised against the wind. ‘Can we talk to you, Ben?’

  ‘Of course. Why not come upstairs?’

  Walbert shakes his head. ‘No need, it won’t take long.’

  We huddle together in the empty hangar, our voices bouncing back from the walls.

  ‘Go on, Mike,’ Louise says. ‘Get it off your chest.’

  ‘It may be nothing, but I’ve seen Steve Tregarron going over to Burnt Island a few times. There’s a direct view across Blanket Bay from our farm. He’s the only person I’ve seen up there lately . . . apart from Alex Rogan, that is.’

  ‘Maybe he’s taking exercise.’

  The farmer shakes his head. ‘Steve’s an indoor man, but he’s been out in all weathers, late in the evening when I’m checking the sheep. He was carrying a holdall last time I saw him crossing the causeway.’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘Last Wednesday night, about ten o’clock.’

  Louise meets my eye. ‘Mike hates telling tales. I had to persuade him to come here.’

  ‘You’re just reporting facts. I wish everyone would do the same.’

  Walbert looks relieved when they walk away, like a weight has been lifted from his shoulders, his wife’s hand tucked in the crook of his arm. I try to imagine the pub’s affable landlord setting out to commit murder, then taking elaborate steps to cover his tracks. It’s possible that he orchestrated the events on Bonfire Night, leading me to Rogan’s body to make himself look innocent, but interviewing the publican again must wait until I’ve visited Gavin Carlyon.