Burnt Island Read online

  ‘I can work miracles, Dr Keillor, didn’t you know?’ The forensics officer’s grin is a direct challenge to anyone who questions her ability. ‘Put a sterile tent over the body immediately, please. I’ll get started before my colleagues arrive.’

  ‘Thanks for coming all this way, Dr Gannick,’ Madron offers. ‘You’ve had a long journey.’

  ‘No problem, Chief Inspector. I’ve got relatives on St Mary’s; this gives me a chance to visit them.’

  The DCI and Lawrie Deane escort Keillor back downhill to the waiting boat, leaving me and Eddie to find the white polythene tent in Gannick’s box of equipment. My deputy’s expression stays blank as he studies the remains again, as if he can’t believe that a murder has been committed half a mile from his flat in Lower Town. Once the canopy is securely in place, I use sterile gloves to ease the victim’s wedding ring from his blackened hand then drop it into an evidence bag. The design is unusual – white gold, etched with stars and crescent moons.

  ‘Take a picture, Eddie, then see if Marie can identify it.’ His older sister works as a goldsmith in the only jeweller’s shop on the islands.

  The young sergeant looks relieved to be given a specific task. His fingers are white when he grips his phone, as if he’s clutching a lifeline. I call some of the islanders while he’s busy speaking to his sister, asking them to spread the word that there will be a public meeting in the old lifeboat house at two o’clock. Liz Gannick is on her hands and knees beside the corpse, running a UV light across the ground, its blue beam tracing every rock and pebble. When I ask what she’s expecting to find she offers a look of barely controlled irritation.

  ‘Blood spatter, obviously. Contrary to popular opinion, rain doesn’t destroy all trace evidence. The torch picks up microscopic splashes, and blood’s thicker than water, as they say. It often clings to the undersides of stones.’

  I let her continue in peace, noticing that Eddie’s face is sober when he finishes his call.

  ‘Alex Rogan commissioned that ring last summer, with a matching one for his wife. But someone could have stolen it off him, couldn’t they?’

  ‘Possible, but unlikely, I’m afraid.’

  My thoughts race while I gaze down at the ring, amazed that it survived the flames intact. Professor Alex Rogan was in his late thirties; he’d moved to St Agnes two years ago to marry an old school friend of mine, who now owns the island’s shop. The man wore his intellect so lightly I had no idea he was a well-known astronomer until I saw him on TV making a guest appearance on a science programme. When I spent a few evenings in the pub with him and Sally, he came over as a gentle, mild-mannered academic, happy in his relationship, with a wry sense of humour.

  Now that he’s been reduced to the disfigured skeleton at my feet, a wave of anger is swilling around in my gut. Alex Rogan was newly married, and well-liked here. Why would someone set out to kill him?

  4

  Forensics specialists bear no resemblance to ordinary human beings. The two scenes of crime officers who help Liz Gannick prepare the victim’s remains for transfer to St Mary’s Hospital seem fascinated by the corpse’s injuries, while I’m more interested in why Alex Rogan met such a terrible death, but I still need to confirm his identity. It bothers me that no one has reported him missing. My thoughts drift as the men in sterile white suits toil over the body, following Gannick’s instructions to the letter. One is a portly fifty-something, speaking in monosyllables as he wields his trowel. The other is younger, with a trainspotter’s haircut and a gap-toothed smile. He carries a huge camera, stopping to take pictures from every angle. They are working at such a slow pace that I have time to study the letters scratched into the stone beside the murder scene:

  AN TIR SANS MA YW DHYN NO AGAN HONAN, GWITHYS GANS MOR HAG EBRON. YNHERDHYORYON OMMA A VEROW YN SERTAN.

  I recognise a few Cornish words, so I type the message into a translation website and the result convinces me that it’s from the killer:

  This sacred land is ours alone, protected by the sea and sky. Intruders here are bound to die.

  Eddie says nothing when I show him the translation, his reply a low whistle of disbelief. The killer planned the murder with a cool head – scratching letters into the rock so neatly would have taken hours. Whoever killed Rogan is showing us their deep roots in local soil, and familiarity with a language that was declared extinct ten years ago. Only around 600 people still speak it fluently; Cornish survives now in local place names, although a minority of schools and societies are trying to revive it. The message is surprising too: St Agnes welcomes visitors all summer long, and conflict between islanders and tourists is rare, but someone must be concealing a hatred of incomers.

  It takes two hours for the remains to be dug from the ashes and placed in a body bag. The younger SOCO appears ecstatic to discover something inside the pocket of the sheepskin coat. He lays a ruined pair of binoculars on an evidence bag for yet another photo, while I study the fractured lenses and melted plastic. It’s not yet clear why an apparently organised killer would leave an obvious clue to their identity at the scene. The younger man gives us a jovial wave as he disappears back down the hill, as though discovering the grim remains has been the highlight of his year.

  ‘Freaks,’ Eddie mutters as the SOCOs disappear.

  ‘I couldn’t agree more.’

  Gannick is too far away to hear, busy scraping soil samples into an evidence bag before levering herself upright with one of her crutches in a single deft move. My respect for the forensics chief has risen throughout the morning; her appetite for work appears to be limitless.

  ‘Over here, Inspector,’ she calls out. She’s standing near two slabs of granite that tilt together, forming a natural shelter. ‘There are blood traces running back to the bonfire. Your victim lay between these rocks. If the blood’s his, a superficial wound must have shed droplets as he was dragged along; there’s a bigger patch at the base.’

  Gannick switches on her light beam again and a fifteen-centimetre-wide smear of blood becomes visible a foot above ground level.

  ‘How did it get there?’

  ‘He probably tried to free his hands by scraping them across the rock.’

  I step back to observe the slabs again. They’re tall enough to conceal a man’s body from local walkers who might venture up the hill on a cold winter’s day. ‘The poor sod must have been terrified.’

  ‘His state of mind isn’t my concern, I just want to know how he died. I’ll have the blood samples sent to the lab today. I’m taking leave on St Mary’s for a few days; let’s talk again when they email the results.’ Her pale brown gaze assesses me for an uncomfortably long time. ‘Feel free to consult me, Inspector. Once a case starts, I like to get a result.’

  ‘That’s good to know.’

  I consider offering to escort her back to the quay, but settle for thanking her instead. I’m curious to know why she switched from a police career to forensics, but it’s the wrong time for personal questions. Gannick gives a formal smile before setting off, feet barely touching the ground as she descends the hill with the grace of a downhill skier. Once she’s gone, I’m left to reflect on the victim’s horrible death. He may have been alone for hours, struggling to free himself, before facing the worst end imaginable. Whoever killed him is still on the island, relaxed and fancy free.

  My deputy is studying a list of names from the latest electoral role. Seventy-nine people live on St Agnes permanently, with three more on Gugh’s tiny settlement. But just over twenty islanders are working on the mainland until the tourist season starts, leaving sixty potential suspects. None of them have ever committed a serious crime, making them unlikely culprits for a cold-blooded murder. We need to visit Sally Rogan urgently. I want to rule out the possibility that another man was set alight with her husband’s wedding ring on his finger.

  *

  Eddie follows in silence as we walk towards Middle Town. Our ten-minute journey takes us past muddy fields and a herd of goats nib
bling winter sorrel. I can see Troy Town Maze in the distance as we reach the hamlet. The landmark is one of the island’s biggest mysteries, a scattering of white stones lying in a ragged circle. Some say that early settlers made it, while others claim that a lighthouse keeper built the maze to stave off boredom. I used to love hurling myself from one boulder to the next as a kid, never stopping to question who created the giant spiral of stepping stones. I’d like to walk around the circle and gather my thoughts before talking to Sally, but there’s no delaying the inevitable. People of the same age are tightly connected on the Scillies: we’re all graduates of Five Islands School on St Mary’s, which can be a blessing and a curse. You’re never short of friends at the pub, but there’s nowhere to hide when tragedy strikes.

  Sally’s workplace stands in the middle of the settlement. The shop has been in operation for over a hundred years, doubling as a post office. It’s a small one-storey building, constructed from local stone, with an apex roof and steps rising to its front door. There’s no sign of her as we approach, but my old school friend’s improvements are obvious: the window frames are freshly painted, winter flowers are flourishing in a tub by the door. The interior has been painted duck-egg blue, floorboards glossy with new varnish, and the shelves are loaded with hundreds of different items, from packets of soap to a fridge packed with local butter and cheese. Several minutes pass before Sally emerges from her stockroom to stand behind the counter.

  My memory spins back to our days at primary school. Sally was a tomboy back then, agile enough to beat most of us boys at football. Later she became Zoe’s closest friend when they sang in a band together. By sixteen she was a wild child with a fiery temper and black make-up caked around her eyes. She hated every subject at school, but could play bass guitar with the best of them, despite her dad’s attempts to keep her on the straight and narrow. Sally has turned that restless energy into a selling point in recent years. In addition to buying the shop, she’s started another business, offering walking tours of the islands. Today she looks more girl-next-door than rock chick, her sandy hair cut into a practical crop. Her attractive face breaks into a smile until she sees Shadow scratching at the door, prompting her to scowl at me in mock disapproval.

  ‘Shadow’s smarter than you, Ben. Don’t leave him outside.’

  It’s only when she steps out from behind the counter to stroke him that the penny drops: Sally is expecting a baby, her jumper taut over the dome of her stomach. We met for a drink at the Rock on Bryher three months ago but she never said a word; the news must have been too recent to share.

  ‘Come and sit down, I’ll put the kettle on.’ Her smile is burning too brightly, as if she’s unaware that two policemen on her doorstep might signal bad news. ‘You’re not arresting me are you?’

  ‘Not today. Is Alex at home, Sally?’

  ‘He’s in London seeing a TV producer, leaving me stranded like a beached whale.’

  ‘When did he leave?

  ‘Thursday morning. His phone must be on the blink, but he’s due back tonight.’

  ‘Can you put the closed sign on the door for a minute?’

  Sally glances from Eddie’s face to mine, as if we’re playing an elaborate joke, but she does as I ask. We wait for her in her small stockroom, surrounded by boxes full of tins and packets of coffee until she returns.

  ‘I want you to ring Alex’s hotel to check he’s okay.’

  I stand at her side while she makes the call, her relaxed manner starting to fray.

  ‘The receptionist’s been calling his mobile; he never checked in.’ Her hand settles on my arm. ‘Where is he, Ben?’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s bad news. Do you want your dad here while we talk?’

  ‘Are you kidding? I haven’t seen him since our wedding. What’s wrong? You’re scaring the shit out of me.’

  I explain that a man’s body has been found, which still needs to be identified, but she doesn’t let me finish. Her hands flail in the air before landing on my chest. Curses pour from her mouth as she lashes out, as if it’s my fault her husband won’t be coming home. Her fingernails tear my skin before I can catch hold of her arms. She collapses back onto a chair, while Eddie calls round for local support. Sally’s father, Keith Pendennis, is her only relative on the island, but since they’ve fallen out, Eddie asks one of the island’s elders to come to the shop. Sally’s cries are so raw, the keening sound is only one notch below a scream. I keep my arm round her shoulders as she weeps. Eddie and I offer to walk her home, but she’s too distressed to cover the short distance to the end of the village.

  Louise Walbert appears minutes after she’s summoned, and I step outside to give her the news. Her wavy grey hair is caught in a ponytail, revealing a round face that looks like it was designed to smile. She’s dressed in her usual eccentric style: a scarlet sweater with clashing green trousers and huge earrings that glitter with rhinestones. Despite her bohemian clothes, Louise balances her part-time job as a solicitor on St Mary’s with helping her husband Mike to run their farm. She listens in silence to the information about Alex Rogan, her expression stricken, but it’s clear we picked the right person to comfort Sally. My friend falls into the older woman’s arms immediately, weeping on her shoulder. I’d like to get her home where she’ll be more comfortable, but Louise shakes her head.

  ‘We can’t rush her, Ben. I’ll take her back when she’s ready.’

  ‘I’ll phone you later.’

  Eddie’s expression is sober when we finally leave. Sally Rogan was too upset to provide details; all we’ve learned is that her husband left home forty-eight hours ago to catch the early ferry to St Mary’s, carrying only an overnight bag and the kit needed for his short trip. I’m willing to bet that his mobile phone and laptop were incinerated with his body. Eddie’s head bows lower when I explain that we must speak to Sally’s father next. Keith Pendennis is well-known around the islands, with most people giving him a wide berth. I haven’t seen him since his wife’s funeral a few years ago, but it seems odd that he’s managing to avoid his daughter on such a minute island. The man must go to St Mary’s to buy food and plan his outings with military precision, to prevent accidental meetings.

  The walk to Pendennis’s house takes us through the heart of the island. There’s still hardly any breeze, but clouds are massing on the horizon as if the calm conditions are just a temporary reprieve. The landscape is organised into small, orderly fields as we approach Higher Town, with a few sheep observing us over dry-stone walls until they catch sight of Shadow and skitter away. We walk down to the sandbar that connects the islet of Gugh to St Agnes. It’s a larger, greener version of Burnt Island, with half a dozen houses and barns, and a sprinkling of ancient graves and cairns. Gugh is a popular destination for tourists each summer because of its pretty, secluded beaches and its air of secrecy, but you’d need to enjoy your own company to pick the islet as your home. It has only three permanent residents, whose homes are cut off from the main island for hours every day.

  Eddie maintains his silence as we cross the narrow causeway, as if he dreads informing the island’s toughest inhabitant that his son-in-law has been killed. Only Shadow seems to be enjoying the trip. The dog splashes through the shallows then chases back to join us with a stick between his teeth, begging for a new game.

  Keith Pendennis’s house is the first dwelling in sight as we step onto Gugh’s rocky beach. The building looks uncompromising: a two-storey grey edifice with black window frames and a tarnished steel letter box. There’s no sign of the owner when I ring the bell.

  ‘Let’s try the back entrance,’ I tell Eddie.

  Shadow traipses after us at a slow pace when we skirt round the side of the house, only growing lively again when Pendennis’s Jack Russell trots out to greet him, the two dogs racing away to explore new territory.

  The kitchen is empty when we look through the window, but the door to a small outbuilding hangs open. A rhythmic thudding sound emerges, but no human voices. The ou
tbuilding has been converted into a gym, with free weights and a bench press. The door is open and Sally’s father has his back to us, dressed in a vest and tracksuit bottoms, a line of sweat marking his backbone. Leather bindings are strapped across his knuckles while he beats a punchbag that’s suspended from the ceiling with steady, rhythmic blows, heavy enough to break an opponent’s jaw. He may have aged, but his golden career as a middleweight boxer shows in every movement.

  The sight of his brutal workout triggers uncomfortable memories. Keith Pendennis still runs the gym on St Mary’s, where I attended his boxing club as a kid until I grew tired of his bullying style of coaching and my interests switched to rugby. I can still remember his disdain when I swapped solitary combat for a team sport that I loved.

  Pendennis only notices our presence when he stops to adjust the strapping on his hands. He’s average height, but his build is pure muscle, his hatchet-jawed face as lean as his body even though he’s in his late fifties. I’m almost a foot taller and twenty years younger, but I’d still hate to receive the full power of his left hook. His bald head is slick with sweat when his dark blue eyes fix on us, then he lets out a bellowing laugh.

  ‘Why are you two skulking there? Are you rating my form, lads?’

  ‘You look fit as a fiddle,’ I reply.

  The man shrugs. ‘I have to keep in shape; it’s my livelihood.’

  ‘Can we talk, please, Keith? It’s best if we go indoors.’

  Pendennis’s slow response shows his reluctance to take instructions from a former pupil. His walk is a rolling swagger as he leads us back to the house. His kitchen has transformed since Zoe and I hung out with Sally here in our teens: all signs of his wife’s softness have been stripped away, leaving only black floor tiles, clinical white paint and units that gleam with cleanliness. I’m guessing that the man’s reaction to Jeannie’s death has been to redecorate his home with ruthless efficiency. He dumps mugs of coffee in front of me and Eddie without asking how we take it, but he looks ill at ease. The sweat on his arms must be turning cold when he finally lowers himself onto the stool opposite.