Burnt Island Page 8

  My curiosity increases as we reach the gates, their embossed ironwork yielding to rust. Overgrown tamarisk and elder bushes almost block our path, but the gardens must once have been impressive. There’s a marble fountain at the centre, surrounded by gnarled rose bushes and a terrace spanning the width of the property. The swimming pool is empty, apart from a silt of dark brown mud and a residue of leaves. Dozens of lead-paned windows gaze down at us, but there’s no sign of the sculptor’s presence, apart from a pair of ten-foot-high steel obelisks guarding her front door. Eddie gives a low whistle, impressed by so much grandeur.

  ‘This place must be worth a mint,’ I say, pushing the doorbell.

  ‘A million for the land alone,’ Eddie replies.

  When no one responds, I peer through the letterbox and see no sign of life, only a row of paint cans dumped by the wall.

  Suddenly the dog releases a frenzy of barks. He stands on his hind legs, scratching at the door handle, and my concerns for Naomi Vine rise. She could have met the same fate as Alex Rogan in such an isolated place.

  ‘Stop fussing, Shadow. I’ll find a way in, Eddie. You search the grounds.’

  We walk in opposite directions, circling the building, but it looks impenetrable, with most of its shutters bolted. It’s only when I reach the back that I manage to prise open a sash window. The dog whimpers pitifully as I force my hand through the opening.

  ‘Calm down, drama queen,’ I say, but his whining intensifies when I boost myself over the window ledge.

  I land on an expanse of parquet, my boots clattering on the slick surface. Naomi Vine’s drawing room must have been grand decades ago, with an ornate marble fireplace and a candelabra hanging from the ceiling. The place looks like a work in progress, with too little furniture to fill the space, the pervasive silence convincing me that no one’s home. Shadow is still barking frantically outside, as if he’s afraid of being abandoned.

  My eyes scan the woman’s furnishings, looking for clues to explain her absence. The state of Naomi Vine’s living room suggests that she’s not interested in comfort, despite owning the island’s most valuable property. There are few luxuries, apart from sculptures in the woman’s own distinctive style. An elegant steel column stands in the corner, almost touching the ceiling, and half a dozen bronze sculptures grace her mantelpiece, showing an abstracted female form slowly rising from a crouching position, until her arms greet the sky. An old-fashioned phone stands on a coffee table, and a few colourful but threadbare rugs cover the parquet.

  There’s a sudden clattering when I reach the back of the house. It comes from behind heavy oak doors, but once I barge through, breaking into the property seems like a big mistake. Naomi Vine stands in front of me, aiming a blowtorch at my chest, a stink of molten iron filling my airways. The sculptor is wearing black jeans and an emerald green vest, the headphones over her ears explaining why she didn’t hear my footsteps. She looks like a grown-up version of the warrior girls in video games who I fancied as a kid: ugly-beautiful, with sinews straining in her arms as she angles the torch in my direction, the tattoo snaking from her shoulder to her wrist undeniably sexy. Her auburn hair is cropped shorter than mine, and although her stance is combative, her skin is milk-pale. The expression on her face looks more like fear than fury.

  ‘Who the fuck are you?’ Vine spits out the words.

  ‘DI Ben Kitto.’ I hold out my badge at eye level.

  She lets out a shaky laugh, but fear still shows on her face. ‘You almost gave me a heart attack.’

  ‘Switch off the flamethrower, please. Why aren’t you answering your phone?’

  ‘I never pick up when I’m working.’

  It looks like she ignores basic physical needs like eating and sleeping, too. There are blue-black circles under her eyes, her cheekbones are hollow and her mouth is too large for her delicate bone structure. Vine’s studio reveals how hard she’s been working: light spills from a skylight window onto a huge aluminium sculpture, with metal leaves spiking out from its core. Ghostly white plaster heads peer down from shelves high above us and welding gear litters the floor. The sculptor’s frown returns when she catches me assessing her studio with interest, but at least she’s turned off her blowtorch.

  ‘Can we talk, please, Ms Vine? I’m investigating Alex Rogan’s death.’

  A look of sadness crosses her face. ‘Come and sit down, but watch out for solder; it’ll damage the soles of your shoes.’

  I walk past the huge tree-like sculpture to a sitting area at the back of the studio, noticing broken floor tiles. Naomi Vine seems comfortable with her property’s shabby grandeur, even though she moved in a year ago. She keeps her back to the wall while she gestures for me to sit on a battered wooden chair, arms folded tight across her chest. It looks like the first loud noise could shatter her nerves, although the cause of her anxiety is unexplained. She reaches for a cigarette before meeting my eyes again.

  ‘I was upset about Alex. I didn’t know him well, but he called by recently.’

  ‘He was seen here the night before he died. Can you say why?’

  ‘The pair of us were vying for the same building. It seems ridiculous now, but we’d had a row in the pub about the relative value of art and science. He gave a charming apology, so I forgave him. Alex asked if guests could stay here during his festival. There aren’t enough hotel rooms on the islands to accommodate them all.’

  ‘Did you agree?’

  She nods her head. ‘I felt obliged to say yes, but regretted it straight away. I hate having my privacy invaded. We had a glass of wine to be neighbourly, then he went home.’

  ‘How long did he stay?’

  Vine shrugs her shoulders. ‘Less than an hour.’

  ‘Had he ever called round before?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘He didn’t tell his wife he was coming here.’

  She stubs out her cigarette, keeping her gaze averted. ‘That’s odd, it must have been a spur of the moment thing.’

  ‘Do you get many visitors, Ms Vine?’

  ‘Naomi, please.’ She hesitates before answering. ‘I don’t seek out company. I left London to escape social obligations and focus on my work, but Rachel Carlyon calls, and the Birdman occasionally.’

  ‘Jimmy Curwen comes here?’

  ‘I always call him Birdman. The name fits him perfectly; he never settles anywhere for long. The guy’s face is extraordinary, I’ll have to sculpt him sometime.’

  ‘He’s hidden from us since Alex was killed. If you spot him, please call me immediately, and don’t let him inside.’ I’d like to press for more details about Rogan, but the woman still looks as fragile as spun glass. ‘No one’s seen you since the bonfire.’

  ‘I’m preparing for a big show in Paris.’

  ‘How did you hear about Alex’s death?’

  ‘Rachel phoned. The poor thing’s terribly upset about his wife being widowed; I did my best to console her.’

  ‘Forgive me for saying this, but you seem tense, Naomi.’

  She folds her arms tighter across her chest. ‘I left London because I was attacked. A mugger assaulted me near my house at night; I managed to fight him off, but the shock affected me for months. I thought the islands would be a safe place to stay.’

  ‘They are, most of the time.’ I let my gaze wander round her studio again. ‘This is a great house, but it needs work, doesn’t it?’

  ‘The views sold it to me.’ She offers her first full smile since I arrived. ‘I’ll give it an overhaul this spring, if I can find a decent builder. It’s a perfect creative retreat.’

  ‘Unless policemen disturb your peace.’

  She gives me a wry look. ‘I’ll keep my windows locked in future.’

  ‘You shouldn’t be here alone, until the killer’s found. He might be targeting newcomers to St Agnes. Why not take a room at the pub or let someone stay with you?’

  ‘That wouldn’t work.’ The fear in her eyes remains, even while she defends her solitud
e.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I grew up in care. Sharing a crowded dormitory cured my need for company on a permanent basis.’

  ‘At least keep your phone switched on.’

  ‘I can’t change the habits of a lifetime. I need silence to concentrate.’ She pauses before addressing me again. ‘There’s something else you should know, Inspector.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  Her gaze fiercens again. ‘I can protect myself. It’s tragic that Alex died, but it won’t drive me from a place I love.’

  ‘Promise to keep your property secure, Naomi.’

  She gives a grudging nod. I’m not convinced by her explanation for Alex Rogan’s visit, but her contradictory manner is fascinating to observe; she can oscillate between toughness and vulnerability in the blink of an eye. I have to remind myself to stay focused. In a place this small, outsiders can seem exotic, and Naomi’s energy is pulling at me.

  ‘I saw your show at the Tate in St Ives last year,’ I say. ‘Books normally appeal to me more than art, but your work fitted the space perfectly. The exhibition was impressive.’

  ‘I’ve never met a cop with artistic interests before.’ Finally the woman has relaxed enough to mock me. ‘Come back, if you’re interested. You can see my new pieces.’

  ‘You wouldn’t mind?’

  ‘My store room’s full to bursting, and it would give me a break from hard labour. Drop by – when you’re less busy.’

  I pass her my card. ‘I’ll call first to check you’re free. Can I search your gardens before I leave?’

  ‘Go ahead.’ Her eyes narrow again as the conversation ends.

  Vine’s tension returns as we walk to her back door, as if she’s dwelling on Alex Rogan’s death, or her previous attack. Her wariness remains when she says goodbye, and I’m glad to hear the bolt slide shut behind me, proving that my security advice is being taken seriously.

  Shadow’s barking reaches fever pitch when I walk back along the path that circles Vine’s property. Eddie is coming towards me from the opposite direction, but the dog stays glued to my side while I look for evidence Rogan may have left behind. The overcast sky makes the mansion look ghost-ridden, its tall roofline haunted by a flurry of gulls. The dog barks again as we reach a ginnel stacked high with firewood, but all I see is a neglected garden with trees planted so close together they seem to advance like predators, gnarled rosebushes blocking out the light.

  Eddie joins me a few minutes later. ‘Did you find Naomi Vine?’

  ‘Something’s spooked her. The most likely scenario is that she and Alex were having a flirtation. Why else would he lie to Sally about paying her a visit? She’s been attacked before. My guess is that she’s afraid to leave the house in case the killer’s targeting her too. Let’s check the grounds and outbuildings again.’

  There’s no need to mention that Vine’s intense manner and creativity intrigued me. All traces of Rogan’s final visit appear to have vanished, but my main concern is that the sculptress could be facing the same threat. Shadow is still on edge, snapping at my heels as I search the overgrown gardens. I find two unlocked sheds and an outbuilding packed to the rafters with rusting metal, but no sign of damage. The dog’s barking continues until the ironwork gates finally clang shut behind us.

  12

  Shadow’s calmness is restored once we leave the old mansion house, but I’m still processing why Naomi Vine reacted defensively to questions about Alex Rogan’s visit. She claims it was a one-off, but her property is so isolated he may have visited many times without anyone noticing.

  Eddie returns to the lifeboat house alone while I set off to interview Martin Tolman again, hoping for more details about the killer’s attempt to torch Rogan’s house two weeks earlier. Tolman lives above St Warna’s Cove in a house he designed himself. It’s a pristine white box with double-height windows, the front door steel grey. The ultra-modern structure looks more suitable for upstate New York than a cliffside at the edge of the world, its outline too sharp-edged for its ancient surroundings, with the fields behind unrolling like a length of bottle-green velvet.

  Tolman’s appearance is as austere as his home when he answers the door. The man’s dark suit, hollow cheekbones and well-cut grey hair remind me again of an old-school film star. His wife hovers in the background, dressed in the same sombre clothes. Deborah has an elegant tennis player’s build and jaw-length silver hair that hangs in a neat curtain. She used to be a medic, but her manner would unnerve most patients; there’s little warmth in her smile when she shakes my hand.

  ‘Can you leave your dog outside, please? We prefer not to have animals in the house.’ Deborah Tolman delivers her request with polite firmness.

  I turn to Shadow then fling my arms wide, giving him freedom to roam. The dog bounds away without a backwards glance.

  My opinion of the couple’s home changes once I see the interior. I was expecting minimalism, but the walls are drenched in rich greens and blues, a few stylish paintings adding interest to their living room. I spot a small cast-iron sculpture of a woman saluting the sky on one of their shelves, similar to the ones in Naomi Vine’s home, suggesting that the couple are on close terms with their celebrity neighbour from across the bay.

  ‘It’s good to see you, Ben.’ Tolman gestures for me to sit by the window. ‘Is it okay if Deborah stays? She may be able to help.’

  ‘Of course, I was hoping to see you both. I’d like to hear about your conversations with Alex. How well did you know him?’

  ‘I’m afraid I only chatted to him at church,’ Deborah Tolman replies. ‘I’m not much of a pub-goer.’

  The architect frowns as if he’s recalling precise details. ‘He attended evensong for a few months last autumn; I sensed that he was troubled.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Spiritual questions seemed to bother him. He was allowing logic to cloud his beliefs. I took him to the pub one night to see if I could help. Alex said he loved it here, but believed some islanders resented incomers.’

  ‘Did he name anyone?’

  ‘He didn’t elaborate. I told him to tell the police about the arson attempt, then he admitted that he was still adapting to the smallness of the place. He asked if I’d ever regretted coming back to St Agnes.’

  ‘You lived here before?’

  ‘I was born in Middle Town like Deborah, but my parents moved away for better job opportunities.’ Tolman’s face is solemn. ‘I told Alex that my decision to come back has improved my life immeasurably. Deborah and I met when I travelled here from my home in France. How could anyone feel hemmed in when we’re surrounded by endless sea and sky?’

  His statement pulls me up short because it echoes the message left by the killer at the murder scene, but that could just be a coincidence. When I glance out of the window, Tolman’s question makes sense. The couple’s view must change constantly; granite boulders on the beach below are catching the light, while the Atlantic pales into the distance.

  ‘I hear you’re giving Jimmy Curwen a free place to stay.’

  He replies with a casual nod. ‘We bought the cottage to renovate, but it feels wrong to leave it empty when someone’s in need. It’s divided into two flats; Jimmy’s using the smaller one.’

  ‘Do you know where he is at the moment?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. Jimmy’s secretive at the best of times. I’ve been encouraging him to come to church, but shyness keeps him away.’

  ‘One more thing, please, before I go. I’m trying to build up a picture of Alex’s last twenty-four hours. We know he spent time with Naomi Vine before he died, but I need more details.’

  ‘Are you suggesting they were having an affair?’ Tolman’s movements freeze. ‘He never mentioned being unhappy at home.’

  ‘Alex wouldn’t be the first to stray, even in a place this small.’

  He rises slowly to his feet. ‘I’m sorry, that’s all I know. Come back any time if you have more questions.’

 
The Tolmans seem eager for me to leave, and I’d like to know why the architect looked surprised when I told him who Rogan visited. The man seems too worldly to be shocked by an extramarital fling. The couple lead me along the hallway before I spot a book of Cornish phrases lying on a table.

  ‘Which one of you is learning the language?’ I ask.

  ‘Both of us, but Martin’s far more fluent. He’s been studying longer than me,’ Deborah replies. ‘There’s little chance of improving when so few people here know the language.’

  ‘Let us know if we can help further,’ her husband says, steering me towards the door.

  The architect has retreated into himself by the time I say goodbye. Deborah Tolman soon vanishes inside, but he remains in the doorway when I look back, a funereal figure, dwarfed by the grandeur of his home.

  Shadow bounds across the grass to greet me once I get outside. The lighthouse is the first thing I see when I turn inland, reminding me of my uncle’s advice to speak to Stan Eden. I don’t know whether to be daunted or impressed that my dog is already racing towards the building, his telepathic skills growing stronger all the time.

  There’s a slow tapping of footsteps when I knock on the lighthouse’s door. Eden’s face is impassive when he greets me, clumps of white hair protruding from his scalp, his matching beard in need of a trim. He must be in his seventies, but looks in good health, his pale blue eyes inspecting me closely. I still remember Eden visiting my secondary school to speak about his long career as a lighthouse keeper. The job struck me as romantic back then, but his way of life had already vanished.

  ‘Come for a tour have you, young man?’

  ‘I was hoping for a chat about Alex Rogan.’

  ‘I don’t have much to say.’ Eden’s wariness fades by a few degrees when he spots Shadow. ‘Is that a police dog?’

  ‘He’d never pass the training. If I leave him at home he wrecks the place.’