Burnt Island Read online

  ‘Can I join you?’ I pull up a stool before she can refuse.

  ‘Where’s Keillor?’ She looks like an angry sprite about to cast a bad spell.

  ‘I’ve just watched the autopsy. Why did you set up an unauthorised meeting?’ Irritation makes me ignore Madron’s warning to keep her sweet.

  She stares back at me. ‘I pride myself on doing things differently, Inspector. That includes sharing post-mortem notes with the pathologist. I’m a former detective like you, fresh from running a big forensics operation in Leeds. Check my track record online; it’s the best in the country. Believe me, a holistic approach solves cases faster.’

  ‘You may be reporting back to the top brass, but I won’t let you jeopardise my case.’

  ‘I want the killer found too, in case that slipped your notice.’ The air between us hums for thirty seconds, but she blinks first. ‘Will you forgive me if I buy you a beer?’

  ‘Throw in some food and I’ll consider it.’

  Gannick watches me plough through an outsized portion of cod and chips while she sips her gin and tonic. The woman fires questions at me over the next hour, as if I’m being interviewed for a vacancy. By the time coffee arrives she’s had my full resumé but revealed little about herself, except that she was born in Leeds forty-two years ago, and now lives in Penzance, visiting her aunt and uncle on St Mary’s several times a year. She’s as fierce and quick-witted as my old partner in London, but harder to read. I may already have blown my chance of a decent write-up by criticising her approach. I notice that there’s no wedding ring on her hand as we finish our meal. Potential partners would need a robust ego to cope with Gannick’s critical manner; it’s only when she finishes her third drink that her voice finally softens.

  ‘Alex Rogan came here expecting peace, quiet and dark skies.’ Her gaze levels with mine. ‘You spent the night guarding his body, didn’t you?’

  ‘I’ve had better evenings.’

  ‘Death by fire is the worst ever, and Rogan had special gifts. I heard him on the radio last year; he was a great communicator.’ She shakes her head. ‘The monster that set him alight is still strolling around St Agnes.’

  Her animated tone takes me by surprise. Forensic specialists normally obsess over physical evidence, rarely mentioning the psychology behind a murder.

  ‘Why did you leave the force?’ I ask.

  ‘Personal reasons.’

  ‘Cops don’t often sling in their day jobs for CSI.’

  ‘The old boys’ network stalled me at inspector rank, if you must know. I already had a master’s degree in forensic science and it’s satisfying work. I can solve cases where ordinary policing fails. Without me, you guys have no hard proof.’

  ‘So my job’s worthless?’

  ‘Your words, not mine.’ She finally cracks a smile. ‘I miss the excitement of a murder hunt, but not the bigots at the top level. My people skills are patchy, but DNA tracing gives me a kick – if it provides answers.’

  Gannick carries on discussing how Alex Rogan’s body arrived on Burnt Island, but her crime scene analysis has offered little help so far, the fire destroying most of the potential evidence. The woman’s approach chimes with mine: once a case starts I struggle to switch off until the killer’s found, and she seems determined to maintain her unbroken track record. I get the sense that she’s on a mission; no doubt she’d love to convince everyone who thwarted her police career that she made the right decision. We’ve both had a long day, yet she shows no sign of flagging as she describes tests the lab will conduct to reveal exactly how and when Rogan died.

  ‘How do you sleep after digging a murder victim out of a fire?’ The question slips out before I can retract it.

  ‘My loyalties are with the dead, not the living. If you’re skilful, a corpse can share all of its secrets.’ She levers herself upright then reaches for her crutches. ‘Don’t get up, Inspector. My aunt’s house is a stone’s throw away; I’m staying there till the end of the week.’

  Similarities between us hit home after she leaves. Many people would view us as freaks: my carthorse build means that women often press their phone numbers into my hand and men square up to me after a few drinks to prove how hard they are to their mates, but fighting isn’t my forte. No one would guess that I like to read, unless they saw my collection of vintage American novels. Gannick isn’t as tough as she seems either. Most SOCOs become hardened from witnessing fatalities, but emotions churned in her eyes when she described Rogan’s suffering. I get the sense that she’s alone for the same reasons as me: too proud to risk rejection.

  I assess the sea conditions carefully before firing up the police launch’s engine. The water is ominously calm, but I limit my risk of encountering a squall by returning to St Agnes at top speed, with a line of wash unreeling behind the boat like a spool of cotton. The journey passes easily, with no clouds to obscure a clean sweep of stars.

  *

  The Turk’s Head is empty when I walk through the doors at closing time. Ella Tregarron is alone behind the bar, polishing wine glasses, black hair spilling over her shoulders, looking more mysterious than the mermaid on the sign outside the pub I just visited. Her gaze is so vacant that I’d guess she’s spent the evening knocking back vodka. The smile of greeting she offers is running at half-strength.

  ‘Are you okay, Ella? I hear you spent time with Sally today.’

  She gives a slow nod. ‘The poor girl’s falling apart. This has come at the worst possible time for her; I still can’t get my head around it.’

  ‘We’ll know what happened soon. Can I stay here for the next few days?’

  ‘No problem, but have a nightcap with me before you go up.’

  ‘You don’t need to twist my arm.’ I settle on a stool as she pours a double shot of whisky then slides the tumbler into my hands. When she rests her elbows on the bar and gazes up at me, the sensuality in her gaze is hard to ignore. It’s just as well I’ve learned to avoid married women, despite being sorely tempted a few times.

  ‘Are you having any luck finding Alex’s killer?’ Her eyes connect with mine again.

  ‘We’re getting there. In a place this small it won’t take long.’ I can tell she’d love more details, but instead I take another sip from my drink. ‘You and Steve have been helping Jimmy Curwen, haven’t you?’

  ‘It’s not much.’ She looks embarrassed. ‘I just give him anything we can’t use. Our leftovers would be wasted otherwise.’

  ‘Have you ever seen him act violently?’

  She pauses before replying. ‘I doubt he’d hurt anyone without a reason, but he gets frustrated when he can’t express himself. I’ve got to know him well over the years. Jimmy knocks on the kitchen door every week, or I leave a box outside his flat.’

  ‘He’s lucky to receive so much kindness.’

  ‘Jimmy hates relying on charity, but no one’s ever given him a job.’ She waves the compliment away with a waft of her hand. ‘That must make him angry, too. I’d love to let him wash dishes here, but we’d struggle to pay another wage.’

  ‘Do you know where he might be hiding?’

  ‘He’ll be back soon, wherever he’s gone. Jimmy never neglects his birds. He’d rather starve than let them go hungry.’

  I smile at her. ‘Did you always plan to stay on St Agnes, Ella?’

  ‘When I was in my teens I dreamed of leaving. A modelling agency offered me a contract, believe it or not.’

  ‘I’m not surprised.’

  ‘Thank God I stayed, there’s nowhere more peaceful than Blanket Bay in summer. That’s why I hate all this violence.’ Her skin glows for a moment, then the sadness on her face deepens. I’d like to understand why she’s in pain, but there’s no point in asking until she volunteers an explanation. I’ve lived here long enough to know that islanders never reveal secrets until they’re ready.

  ‘Was Alex a regular visitor?’

  ‘He popped in every week without fail. The guy sat where you are now, reading
the paper or chatting to people. Everyone liked him.’

  ‘With a few exceptions?’

  ‘Sally’s dad wasn’t his biggest fan, and he clashed with Naomi Vine.’

  ‘Did you see them argue?’

  ‘They had a snappy conversation in here last week. Naomi was in tears, before storming out and slamming the door, but I bet she caused it. That one loves creating a fuss.’

  ‘What do you know about the Dark Skies Festival?’

  ‘Alex planned to build an observatory here. Steve loved the idea too; he was thrilled about the festival. Anything that attracts tourists helps our business. This place is already booked solid for that weekend, it’s awful that Alex won’t be around to enjoy it.’

  A tear trails down her cheek and I reach over to touch her hand just as her husband appears in the doorway. Steve assesses our body language, his expression murderous.

  I pull back slowly to prove that my gesture was intended as comfort. ‘Ella was telling me about Alex Rogan,’ I say.

  ‘My wife’s sensitive; his death’s upset her badly. We left a food parcel for Sally today to pay our respects.’ The landlord’s tone is polite, even though anger still burns in his eyes. His arm is braced around Ella’s shoulders, but her vacant stare has returned.

  ‘I’d better go up. Thanks again for your hospitality.’

  I’m so sleep-deprived that the landlord’s jealousy slips from my mind before I reach my room. The window has a direct view of the sea, merging with the dark sky. A text has arrived from Zoe telling me that Shadow is behaving himself and she’s coming over tomorrow to support Sally Rogan. The news is a relief but not a surprise – she’s always quick to help a friend in need. Zoe has returned at the worst possible time, just as a vicious murder case kicks off, limiting our time together. The sound of waves beating the shore is as relentless as a metronome. I peel off my clothes then climb into bed, my muscles slow to relax. My last thought is for the killer, drifting into sleep like me, certain he’ll never be found.

  9

  Sunday 7 November

  My head is still fuzzy with dreams when I wake up on Sunday morning to find the pub silent. It should be my day off, but all leave is cancelled until the killer’s found. Daylight filters through thin curtains, drawing attention to the room’s stylish furniture, including a flat-screen TV, plush grey carpet and a seascape on the wall that fizzes with colour. I assume that the décor has been a labour of love for Ella Tregarron, to offset the tedium of winter when the same tiny band of regulars visits the pub every night. The couple must love the place to plough so much of their profits back into it.

  I force myself through a brutal twenty-minute floor routine until my muscles burn from lunges, squats and press-ups, sweat dripping down my back when I get into the shower. I hate all forms of exercise apart from sea swimming, but it’s a necessary evil with a build like mine, to prevent muscle from running to seed, and it keeps my thoughts clear as the pressures of a case intensify.

  My first port of call is the lighthouse keepers’ cottages, to check whether Jimmy Curwen has returned. The door to his bedsit still hangs open, and it looks like his birds will soon go hungry: the seed tray is almost empty, their water supply running out. I can only think of two possible explanations for Jimmy’s continued absence: either he killed Rogan and he’s lying low, or he clashed with the killer and has come to harm.

  There’s no one around when I head for the quay to catch the ferry back to Bryher for a fresh set of clothes. Arthur Penwithick is as shy as ever during the half-hour ride home. The ferryman has known me since childhood, yet remains silent as the boat scuds over water that’s as flat as a mill pond, so I stand by the bow, watching the wake unfurl. There’s no wind today, but it’s bitterly cold, the sky only one shade lighter than the anthracite-grey sea.

  My dog bounds towards me as I step onto the jetty at Bryher, almost toppling me by planting his paws on my chest. One of Shadow’s best qualities is his inability to hold grudges. He’s still dancing at my feet when my uncle, Ray Kitto, steps through the doors of his boatyard. Ray’s shock of hair may have turned silver, but he’s still straight-backed with a lean build, his face so hard-boned it looks like it’s been carved from granite. Facing him is uncannily like confronting myself in thirty years’ time.

  ‘Zoe left Shadow here. One of the fishermen took her over to St Agnes earlier,’ he calls out. ‘Have you had breakfast?’

  ‘I can always eat.’

  Ray disappears inside and I step through the doors of the boatyard. His latest commission is an oak-framed dinghy, upturned on trestles, its lapping neatly dovetailed. I run my fingertip along one perfectly smooth seam. Ray has been a boatbuilder for thirty years; he can construct a fifteen-foot dinghy using instinct alone, never consulting a template, cutting and measuring every strake by eye. I used to fantasise about working with him when I spent my school holidays in his yard, but patience has never been my strong point. The smell of the place turns the clock back to my childhood, the air redolent with varnish, white spirit and decking wax.

  ‘Are you coming or not?’ Ray calls down the stairs.

  ‘Extra bacon for me, I’m starving.’

  I watch my uncle cooking the meal, aware that this is my second free breakfast in as many days, but Ray’s kitchen is minute compared to the industrial space at the Turk’s Head. My uncle has fashioned every surface from leftover wood, including the square-topped stools and work surface. He hums to himself while he turns rashers of bacon, as if he’s modelling the pleasures of bachelordom.

  We sit side by side to eat breakfast, on a bench I helped him build when I was nine years old, looking out at a colony of gulls hovering over New Grimsby Sound. Ray isn’t opposed to conversation, but he appreciates silence. If I keep my mouth shut, our meal will pass without a single word. He pours coffee from a battered metal pot, but I hesitate before accepting it: Ray always serves it black and thick as tar, the flavour bitter enough to corrode your taste buds.

  ‘That stuff smells toxic,’ I say.

  ‘If you make it weak you lose the flavour.’ He takes a long swig from his mug.

  I attempt a few cautious sips before turning to him again. ‘I need you to build me a boat, Ray. Nothing fancy, just a skiff with two berths, for travelling between the islands.’

  His expression remains neutral. ‘What’s your budget?’

  ‘Two grand, maximum.’

  ‘You’re dreaming, boy. That won’t even cover the materials. Build it with me next spring if you want to save on hired labour.’

  I consider his offer for moment. ‘I’ll book a fortnight’s leave in March.’

  ‘I thought you might go back to London.’

  ‘Why?’

  He takes another swig of coffee. ‘Missing the bright lights, aren’t you?’

  ‘No more than usual. I need a boat, like I said.’

  ‘Let’s schedule it when you’ve got firm dates.’ His shrewd eyes assess me again. ‘Borrow the lap-strake for now.’

  ‘Can you spare it for a while? I’m staying on St Agnes until I find out what happened to Alex Rogan.’

  ‘Take care on the water. There’s a storm over the Atlantic, a hundred miles west. If it tracks this way it’ll do damage.’ He keep his eyes trained on the grey expanse of sea outside his window. ‘I heard what happened on Guy Fawkes Night; I imagine it ruined your evening.’

  ‘Better for me than him. The poor sod had a bad death.’

  ‘You’ll have your work cut out on St Agnes.’ He wraps his hands tighter around his mug. ‘They’re decent folk, but old loyalties run deep.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Most families have lived there centuries; God-fearing people, wary of outsiders. I can’t see them telling tales on each other.’

  ‘I’m not looking for gossip, Ray. I just need to know why a man with a kid on the way was brutally murdered on Bonfire Night. What have you heard about Alex Rogan?’

  ‘Only that Sally’s dad wasn
’t best pleased about their whirlwind romance.’ My uncle turns to face me again. ‘Be careful, that’s all. The islanders won’t like being questioned; some will see it as meddling.’

  ‘What would you do in my shoes?’

  ‘Talk to Stan Eden at the lighthouse. People respect him; if you win his support, you’re halfway there.’

  Ray rises to his feet in silence to collect our plates. He stands at the sink, humming again as he rinses them under the tap, bringing our conversation to an end. I thought I’d kept my restlessness well-hidden, but my uncle is so observant, nothing escapes him. The dog is whining for exercise so I head back outdoors. While Shadow bounds across the shingle beach in a state of euphoria, I follow behind at a slower pace. Ray has issued a warning and a solution, but I’m no closer to understanding why a man of my age met such an agonising death.

  *

  I process the information while walking home. My house stands at the southern tip of Hell Bay, a one-storey granite cottage that my grandfather built when he was younger than I am now. It’s in need of repairs, but there’s no time to fret about DIY; I must get back to St Agnes before anyone else gets hurt. Shadow bounds across the threshold in high spirits, clearly anticipating food, pausing only to sniff at the post lying on the doormat. A small padded envelope bears my full title, and a slice of granite drops into my palm when I upend it. Letters have been scratched into the stone’s surface in a spiral, like the markings on a snail shell, but all I see is a whirling alphabet, failing to form words. I peer at the object again, then compare it to the photo on my phone from Burnt Island. The letters have been inscribed in the same neat style. The postmark on the envelope shows that it was posted second class from St Mary’s – to arrive after the body was found.

  I drop the stone into my coat pocket without caring about fingerprint evidence. If the killer is smart enough to discover my address, he’s got enough nous to sterilise his materials before sending me a package. He probably found the stone on a local beach, but I’ll have to wait until I get back to St Agnes to decipher it. It’s too soon to tell whether the coded message is intended as a warning or a threat.