Burnt Island Read online

  10

  Jimmy’s body aches when winter sunlight spills across his face, waking him from a night of fitful sleep. Panic overtakes him as he drifts back into consciousness and finds himself in unfamiliar surroundings. He’s lying on a pew in the island’s only church. Wooden eaves soar above him, long fingers of oak spliced together two hundred years ago. He remembers his mother explaining how the church was built from the remains of a shipwreck, its bell salvaged from a clipper that foundered near Tolgillian. The place has provided Jimmy with shelter from the cold, but he misses his own four walls and the prized possessions he has spent years gathering. It feels like the first strong wind could carry him away, his bones as fragile as a bird’s, but he must honour his promise to the burning man before the police put him in jail. His feet still ache from searching the island the night before, peering through windows, trying to work out who would set a man alight.

  The Birdman gazes through one of the arched windows at grassland rolling away to the sea. The earth is studded with ancient gravestones, grey and uneven as broken teeth. The sight makes him shudder. The man in the fire had no headstone to bear his name, only a bed of flames to lie on, and soon the church’s comforting silence will be out of bounds. Worshippers will arrive to sing hymns and whisper the prayers his mother loved.

  He can’t visit his birds again until nightfall, but wandering the island’s shores since childhood has revealed all of its secrets. If he listens hard enough, the fields and hedgerows will explain why the man died. Jimmy can hear the raw keening of a tern summoning him outside. He gathers his bag then hurries from the church, leaving no trace of himself behind.

  11

  I arrive back on St Agnes at 11 a.m. with Shadow chasing towards the boathouse. I won’t be able to return home until the killer’s found, but the island’s beauty is fair compensation. The wide sweep of sand on Blanket Bay would tempt me to take a dip – if the weather were ten degrees warmer. When I step inside the building, Mike Walbert has installed paraffin heaters, which blast out heat as I climb the stairs. Eddie is hunched over his notepad by the window. The young sergeant has abandoned his uniform for once, dressed in jeans, boots and a thick jumper, but his excitable expression remains. When I show him what the killer sent me, he gazes at the stone, as if ancient secrets lie below its dry surface.

  ‘What do you think it means, boss?’

  ‘It’s written in Cornish, but some of it doesn’t translate on the language website. We need to find an islander who’s fluent.’ I sit down opposite him. ‘It’s okay to use my first name, you know. I answer to Ben or Benesek, whichever you prefer.’

  He looks embarrassed. ‘DCI Madron says junior officers should always treat their seniors with respect.’

  ‘We’ve worked together all year. Why not drop the formalities when he’s not around?’

  ‘It feels weird. I was in the sea cadets for years and they made us address officers by rank.’ He looks at the chip of stone again. ‘Do you think the killer’s targeting you?’

  ‘He sent the package before the body was found, so he was smart enough to figure out I’d be running the investigation. The gift’s meant to keep me on my toes. We don’t know if he’ll strike again, that’s what worries me.’ I put the piece of granite back into my pocket. ‘There was no sign of Curwen at his bedsit last night. Have you had any sightings?’

  ‘Not a whisper, but Jimmy wouldn’t go on the attack. He’s so timid he runs away if you try to speak to him.’

  ‘What about those kids he chased? He almost got arrested for threatening behaviour.’

  ‘The little sods were raiding gulls’ nests on the cliffs.’ He puts down his notebook. ‘Jimmy must have a reason to hide from us.’

  ‘You haven’t seen him lose control?’

  ‘Never. He’ll be terrified if he found Alex’s body.’ Eddie looks uncomfortable when he speaks again. ‘Jimmy was the first person to welcome me and Michelle to our flat. He left shells and wildflowers on our doorstep; I can’t believe he’d do something like this.’

  ‘The report says those children were terrified. People agree he’s got a nasty temper, but we’ll find him soon enough with everyone keeping watch. Have you found out who Alex spent time with, apart from Sally?’

  Eddie still seems concerned, as if he wants to continue defending the Birdman’s corner. ‘I often saw him on the quay last summer, fishing with Stan Eden and Liam Poldean.’

  ‘We need to speak to them, but let’s visit Sally again first. If we search the place thoroughly we might find out why Alex was targeted.’

  I make a vain attempt to lock Shadow inside, but he’s wise to all my tricks, sprinting through the fire escape before the door’s closed. Our walk takes us past St Agnes’s church, where a handful of worshippers are filing inside, dressed in sombre winter clothes as if their God disapproved of brightness. The slim figure at the back of the line is Martin Tolman, the architect, his wife Deborah standing beside him as they follow the other members of the congregation into the building. Seeing the couple reminds me to interview Tolman soon. Our brief conversation in the boathouse raised as many questions as it answered, but I envy him his faith. I’d love to be able to rely on a greater power, even though I’m a natural sceptic. My belief system doesn’t extend far beyond the here and now.

  Sally’s home lies at the edge of Middle Town, fifty metres from her shop. It’s a typical Scillonian building; two storeys high, crafted from local stone, with slate roof tiles and a deep porch to provide shelter from bad weather. The entire island appears to have visited before us. Cards, bunches of flowers and containers of food have been left by her front door. I can see the two women huddled together on the sofa through the front window. Zoe is clutching Sally’s hand while she cries, which doesn’t surprise me. Her kindness is bone-deep, but I can tell she’s shaken when she greets us. She leads Eddie and me through to the kitchen, dressed in faded jeans and an old blue jumper, still managing to look gorgeous, even though her eyes are glossy with tears.

  ‘How’s she doing?’ Eddie asks.

  Zoe shakes her head. ‘She’s ranting and raving, which beats keeping it all inside. Her GP came over from St Mary’s to check she’s okay. He’s left sedatives to help her sleep, but it’s hard keeping her indoors. Sal keeps taking walks by herself. I think it’s her way of staying sane.’

  ‘Has she had many visitors?’

  ‘I’ve sent most of them away.’

  ‘Keep a list of names and times, please. Can you stay here for the next few days?’

  Zoe looks confused but nods her agreement. Murderers enjoy watching the pain they’ve caused, often remaining close to the victim’s family; I’ll need to keep a close eye on Sally’s most frequent callers.

  ‘I’ll keep her company for as long as she needs, but Sal’s desperate for news. Will you speak to her, Ben?’

  ‘If she’s strong enough to talk. Stay here, Eddie. It’s best if I see her alone.’

  Shadow lingers in the kitchen, clearly hoping for food. I can hear Sally murmuring through the closed door of her living room, but I raise my hand to knock regardless. Her appearance has changed dramatically since yesterday. There’s no sign of the outgoing, chatty woman who greeted me and Eddie in her shop, or the rebellious girl I knew at school. My old friend is slumped on the sofa, her dark blue top stretched tight across the mound of her belly, eyes swollen from crying.

  I glance round her living room while she blots her face with a tissue. I’ve been here often, but have never studied her possessions with forensic interest before – now I’m searching for anything to explain Alex Rogan’s brutal murder. A wedding photo taken outside the Turk’s Head stands on the mantelpiece, with Ella and Steve Tregarron smiling in the background and most of the island community surrounding them with glasses raised. Despite the man’s public profile, the couple chose a modest ceremony, followed by a party at the local pub. Rogan is a slim, dark-haired man with a good-natured grin, clearly relaxed in front of the camera, b
ut all I know for certain is that he was an expert in his field, writing books and presenting occasional TV programmes about the night skies. I feel a stab of regret about spending so little time in his company. I should have visited him and Sally more often, then he’d have confided in me if something was bothering him.

  ‘Try to say what you remember, Sal. It could help us find Alex’s killer.’

  ‘It won’t bring him back.’ Her voice is a flat drone.

  ‘I’m sorry you’re suffering like this.’

  Her head snaps in my direction, her cheeks reddening. ‘People keep saying how fucking sorry they are. Do you think I care? My son will never meet his dad.’

  ‘I promise to find out what happened.’

  ‘I’ll kill whoever did it.’ Sally’s stare is fierce enough to burn. ‘You don’t know how it feels, Ben. You’ve never lost someone you love.’

  I could recite a litany of names, starting with my parents, then my old work partner Clare who took her own life, but none of that’s relevant. Her grief is still so raw, she can’t see or hear anything else. I’ve never been much good at comforting people, but this time there’s no choice. When I put my arm round Sally’s shoulders she collapses immediately, her face pressed against my collarbone. I rest my hand on her back, waiting for her emotions to flood out, some of my own tension releasing as her tears flow.

  I scan the room again while she weeps. The couple’s shelves are filled with books, on topics ranging from meteorites to the history of jazz. Rogan may have been a committed stargazer, but the couple’s home is earthy and unpretentious, the well-worn furniture proving that they kept their feet on the ground. After several minutes, Sally pulls back, her breathing unsteady. When her gaze catches mine again there’s shame as well as grief in her expression.

  ‘You don’t need this, I’m sorry,’ she mutters. ‘I’ve messed up your shirt.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  She notices the marks on my neck. ‘Did I leave those scratches?’

  ‘Don’t worry, Sal. They’ll soon heal.’

  ‘I’m turning into a monster. Thank God it was you that told me, not some stranger who’d never met Alex.’ She leans forwards to clutch my wrist. ‘Find out why he died, Ben, please. I can’t sleep till his killer’s in jail.’

  ‘It’s only a matter of time. Are you up to answering questions?’

  She dabs her eyes again. ‘I can try.’

  ‘Did Alex have his laptop with him the morning he left?’

  ‘He takes it everywhere. It’s his lifeline.’

  ‘How do you mean?

  ‘All his contacts are on there, and everything he’s written.’

  She slumps forwards suddenly, covering her face with her hands. I want to press harder, but it would be unwise to rush a pregnant woman whose world has just fallen apart. When Sally reaches for my hand again her eyes are so reddened by tears it looks like she’s got conjunctivitis.

  ‘I want every detail.’ Her voice quakes with a fresh wave of tears. ‘Promise not to hold anything back; give me an update every day.’

  ‘If it helps, of course. Has your father been in contact?’

  Her frown deepens. ‘Dad can’t forgive me for being a difficult teenager; he thinks it made Mum ill.’

  ‘You’re a businesswoman now. Why can’t he move on?’

  ‘He was never around when I needed him. It’s got to the point where we can’t even listen to each other.’ She shakes her head wearily. ‘That doesn’t matter anymore; I have to focus on Alex.’

  ‘How did he spend the night before he left?’

  ‘He went to the pub for a quick pint. He was home by ten.’

  ‘Can you think of anyone Alex had argued with?’

  ‘Only Dad, but I stayed out of it. Getting him to change his mind is like trying to shift Everest. Alex wanted the rift healed before the baby comes.’

  ‘What about Naomi Vine?’

  ‘It pissed him off that she fought his application to turn the lifeboat house into an observatory, but we don’t know her personally. She’s not the sociable type.’ Sally wipes her hand across her face, clearly exhausted. ‘Sorry, my brain’s stopped working, I can’t think anymore.’

  ‘We can talk again tomorrow. Is it okay to search Alex’s office?’

  ‘Just find out what happened, please. It’s killing me not knowing.’

  ‘Have you got his email address and password?’

  Tears ooze from her eyes again. ‘There’s a notebook in his desk drawer. Alex could hold all those huge theories in his head, but forgot anything practical.’

  There’s no point in telling her to keep calm for the baby’s sake; grief isn’t an emotion you can suppress. I sit with her for a few more minutes, relieved when Zoe arrives. Sally’s vulnerability makes me even more determined to find the truth, but it’s frustrating that she’s still too upset to describe the run-up to her husband’s death in detail.

  Rogan’s office is an annexe downstairs. It contains a battered leather sofa and shelves stacked with papers, files scattered across his desk. A book still lies open, as if he might return at any minute: The Universe in Your Hand: A Journey through Space, Time and Beyond. I glance at the opening paragraph, but lose the thread before the first description of quantum physics ends. Eddie scans Rogan’s documents while I inspect the rest of the room. There’s a large sheet of black paper pinned to the wall, which turns out to be a star map, with galaxies and nebulae circled with white pencil marks. His stargazing equipment is stacked by the wall, ranging from an antique telescope that’s barely a foot long to one that must weigh 150 pounds, attached to a trolley that can be dragged over rough terrain. The man’s love for his subject hits me for the first time. He threw all of his energy into organising a festival for stargazers, purely to share his passion for astronomy with like-minded souls under some of the darkest skies in Europe.

  Rogan’s notes confirm that he was establishing an international reputation, working at Harvard before gaining a research fellowship at Oxford. Recently he had been visiting the Roseland Observatory on the mainland before coming home to write up his research; I find his articles about distant planetary systems in copies of the Journal of Cosmology, but nothing to explain why he was targeted. His emails reveal that he was making friends on St Agnes, arranging a fishing trip with Mike Walbert and trips to the pub with Liam Poldean.

  It’s only when I rummage through his desk that an envelope just like the one I received slips into my hands. Rogan’s name is neatly printed on the front, the postmark showing that it was sent – again from St Mary’s – a week ago. It contains a strip of wood bark, with some Cornish words inscribed in small black capitals. When I check the image on my phone, the words are identical to those left at Rogan’s murder scene. The killer sent his victim a warning, then repeated the message when he died, which means I may be next on his list.

  I’m about to leave Rogan’s office when some scorch marks on the window frame catch my eye, confirming Martin Tolman’s claims about a previous murder attempt. The killer planned to start his blaze here, meaning Rogan’s telescopes would be consumed first. There may be little evidence of his attempt to set the house alight, but it’s worth asking Liz Gannick to complete a detailed search. Eddie’s phone rings while I’m still gazing down at the burned paintwork, his brow furrowed with concentration until the conversation ends.

  ‘A dog walker from Middle Town says they saw Alex the night before he went missing. He was visiting Naomi Vine’s house.’

  ‘That’s interesting. He told Sally he was going to the pub, and those two didn’t see eye to eye. What do you know about Vine?’

  He shakes his head, frowning. ‘Not much, she stays in her big old house most of the time. I haven’t seen her since the bonfire party.’

  My interest lifts, because Vine was one of the few people to miss our meeting after Rogan’s body was found. ‘Let’s pay her a visit.’

  *

  It feels good to exchange the
grief trapped inside Sally’s home for a practical task. We head south, the landscape revealing that the only reliable form of work on St Agnes is farming; dozens of small fields are full of sheep grazing, or green shoots of winter barley. It’s only when we reach the edge of Wingletang Down that the natural order fragments. Nothing can be built on the half-mile of rocky heathland that extends to the southern coast because it’s a designated Site of Special Scientific Interest. Walkers can wander freely, provided they stick to the paths, but all other activities are illegal. Last summer I had to shift a gang of teenagers who pitched tents there, hoping to avoid camping fees. The land may once have been tended by Neolithic farmers, but no one has cultivated it for thousands of years.

  ‘Spooky, isn’t it?’ Eddie mutters. ‘My dad says the down is like a rabbit warren, with Bronze Age graves connected by access tunnels. Most are blocked off in case they collapse.’

  The landscape is beautiful but barren. The down looks particularly austere in winter, descending to the dunes at Horse Point, with few interruptions except oddly shaped outcrops of rock. Cairns mark the sites of ancient graves, their peaked outlines too numerous to count, the dead outnumbering the living on St Agnes by a significant majority. Suddenly the wind feels colder than before, making me long for shelter.

  Naomi Vine’s place stands at the edge of the down, the final building before the land reverts to wildness. I’ve never been inside, but my brother and I were fascinated by it as kids. The mansion is easily the grandest building on the island. It’s ringed by high walls, ironwork gates protect the entrance, with only its top storey and slate roof visible from outside the compound. I don’t know much about the woman who lives there, apart from her success as a sculptor. The papers called her an enfant terrible when she won the Turner Prize two decades ago: she used to appear regularly on TV shows about art, her style witty but combative. Her house looks like a fairy-tale castle, barricaded from reality, but it’s more likely that the walls were built decades ago to protect it from winter’s vicious winds.