Burnt Island Page 9

  The old man scrutinises my face again. ‘Ray Kitto’s nephew, aren’t you?’

  ‘That’s right, I moved back to Bryher earlier this year.’

  ‘Help me check the building if you like. The volunteers always miss things.’

  He’s already climbing the spiral staircase so I follow in his wake. The building’s history clings to its walls: the air smells of sea salt, brass polish and the keepers’ tobacco. We’re climbing higher now, and the ascent would be cruel for anyone with vertigo. The steps are made of perforated metal, giving a clear view down to the concrete floor, a hundred feet below. Our boots send echoes ringing around the lighthouse’s circular core, like coins dropping through a grate. Despite his age, Stan Eden has enough stamina to describe the building’s history as the steps wind upwards.

  ‘The first lighthouse stood here in the sixteenth century, but keeping was hard work back then. They lit fires in the brazier each night, hoping mariners would see the flames. Gaslight didn’t take over until the nineteenth century. It was still being used when I worked here.’

  ‘That sounds dangerous.’

  ‘Only if staff were badly trained. One of my colleagues got second degree burns from releasing too much fuel into the canopy before lighting the flame.’

  ‘Were you always stationed here?’

  ‘Trinity House could send us anywhere. The hardest light was Bishop’s Rock, five miles west of here. Sometimes the seas were so high we’d be stranded for weeks with little food. I preferred working here, while my wife was alive.’

  By now we’ve reached the gallery with its high glass walls. I can see the ring of metal where the beacon once rotated, but the circular room is empty, apart from winter light flooding through the windows.

  ‘The building’s had its guts ripped out. I’m campaigning for the lantern to be replaced, but it won’t happen in my lifetime.’ There’s a frown on his face when he turns in my direction. ‘We worked long hours in those days and the discipline was brutal. If you missed a minute of your shift, the head keeper could get you sacked.’

  I spot a chair with pillows and a blanket draped over it, facing out to sea. ‘Do you sleep here sometimes?’

  He replies with a fierce stare. ‘Old habits die hard, young man. I’ve spent hundreds of nights here over the years.’

  ‘You must have saved a lot of lives.’

  Eden’s wizened features relax suddenly. ‘Many ships would have foundered on the western rocks without this light.’

  I’d like to ask about Alex Rogan but the man slips into a reverie as we circle the glass-walled room. I can see the entire island from the gallery, all the way down to Wingletang Bay. Eden must enjoy keeping watch over familiar terrain during his long vigils. He peers out at the Atlantic, as if it’s still his responsibility to protect mariners from harm. The man’s expression is calm as he surveys the ocean and I understand why his opinion carries so much weight on St Agnes. His work has given him a long view, letting him see past every obstacle. I’d like to request his support, but sense that a direct appeal would be rejected.

  ‘What is it you want to know?’ he asks.

  ‘Why Alex Rogan’s body was found on Bonfire Night. You understand the island better than anyone.’

  ‘That’s a terrible business. It makes no sense at all.’

  ‘You fished with Alex sometimes, didn’t you?’

  ‘He joined me some evenings last summer, if the water was high.’

  ‘Did he seem afraid of anything?’

  ‘Only fatherhood. He was nervous, but excited . . .’ Eden’s voice quietens. ‘I’ll fish with anyone who wants to drop bait off the quay, but Alex interested me more than most. He never bragged about his achievements; I liked his dry sense of humour.’

  ‘People aren’t giving much away. I need to interview Jimmy Curwen, but he’s nowhere to be seen.’

  ‘The Birdman was at his flat last night.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I saw him from up here, outside the keepers’ cottages. Jimmy’s a neighbour of mine. He always feeds his birds just before bedtime.’

  ‘Call me if he comes back, please. It would help the investigation.’

  He studies me again. ‘You went to Naomi Vine’s house earlier today, didn’t you?’

  ‘You don’t miss a trick, Mr Eden.’

  ‘Call me Stan, but you should know, that woman’s not popular here. Most people wish she’d pack up and leave.’

  The boldness of his statement shocks me. ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘We welcome incomers who respect our ways, but Naomi Vine only thinks of herself. I don’t want her sculptures littering our beaches. She’ll be trying to buy the lighthouse next.’ His voice is filled with disgust. ‘She’s almost persuaded the council to let her dump her rusting bits of metal all over Blanket Bay.’

  It interests me that the island’s most respected citizen has taken such a strong dislike to its most creative newcomer, as if he’s terrified of change. ‘Alex visited her the night before he died.’

  ‘Maybe that was his mistake. I should go now, it’s time to lock up.’

  ‘Thanks for your help,’ I say, pressing my card into his hand.

  ‘Give my regards to your uncle. That man builds the finest boats in the Scillies.’

  ‘He’ll be glad you think so; he sends you his best wishes.’ I take the piece of granite from my pocket, then hand it him. ‘Before I go, could you translate these words for me, Stan?’

  ‘Someone’s not keen on you.’ Eden speaks in a lilting Cornish accent: ‘Gas kres dhe Sen Agnes na gaffo tan dha enev.’

  ‘What does it mean?’

  He seems in a hurry to pass back the stone. ‘Leave St Agnes in peace, or fire will claim your soul.’

  13

  Jimmy is hiding in a thicket of alder trees at the edge of Wingletang Down. He saw the police leave the old mansion empty-handed; they must be looking for whoever set the man on fire, so he’s following in their footsteps, determined to complete his promise. Jimmy wishes he could visit Naomi Vine too, but he’s afraid the policemen will return. He tips his head back to inspect the sky. Shearwaters are winging down to the island’s south coast in search of a fresh shoal, reminding Jimmy that his own hunger is growing, his food supply almost exhausted.

  He waits at the edge of the down, keeping watch over the grand house. Before it fell into disrepair, its windows gleamed, but he won’t be safe to steal through the gates until nightfall, even though the woman who owns it has always been kind. Curiosity made him peer through her windows months ago until she beckoned him inside: Vine let him stand in her studio, watching her work, then gave him a food parcel to take home. He’s returned often since then, and she never sends him away.

  Gusts of wind blast his face with cold and Jimmy knows he must find better shelter. Fear hits him as he emerges from the thicket, but the landscape is deserted. The other islanders will be eating Sunday lunch at home, the drizzle heavier than before. His mother used to take him rambling over the rough grass, but the shapes that jut from the scrubby soil seem too human to be rock formations. Jimmy recites their names as he passes: Saddle Rock and Carn Adnis, then the Devil’s Punch Bowl. Its towering form looks like a giant’s cup carved from granite, balancing on the land’s wide palm, yet it has always stood there.

  Jimmy’s throat is tight with anxiety, until he spots a cormorant’s feather on the grass, as sleek and glossy as black satin. He tests its softness with his palm then places it in his pocket to add to his collection. The find gives him enough courage to go on as the rain thickens, until the back of his neck prickles with anxiety. Jimmy senses that he’s being watched, but when he spins round, there’s only open land descending to the shore. The sensation could just be electricity from the gathering storm. He hurries on at his quickest pace, feet slipping on the mud while he heads for a cave in the middle of the down.

  14

  I stand by the boathouse window, watching bands of rain mark the sky with h
ard black lines. Right now I’d happily swap places with the lifeboat crew that worked here years ago, despite the storm warning that’s currently in place. I love my job most of the time, but at this point in the investigation, nothing is certain, apart from the killer’s desire to rid the island of outsiders. Madron’s voice is terse when I call to give him an update. The DCI waits at the end of a crackling line while I explain about the new message written in Cornish.

  ‘It sounds like the killer wants the island all to himself. He’s watching you, so don’t spend time alone, Kitto. Do you hear?’

  ‘Loud and clear, sir.’

  ‘Any risky behaviour and I’ll take over.’

  DCI Madron hangs up abruptly. The man always reacts badly to pressure, and there’s nothing more chaotic than a murder investigation – until it starts to make sense. I’d love to discuss strategies with him, but his knee-jerk reactions to every new threat make each case harder to manage.

  I push my resentment aside to focus on Alex Rogan’s death. It’s already 3 p.m. and the vital forty-eight-hour period since discovering his body has almost passed; so far no unusual behaviour has been reported among the islanders. Rogan seems to have been accepted by the local community, but I haven’t seen him and Sally recently enough to judge if their marriage was happy; it’s possible that he was neglecting his pregnant wife to enjoy a fling with Naomi Vine, complete with lovers’ tiffs. The only person he had a serious dispute with was Keith Pendennis, yet I’ve found no hard proof against Sally’s father. And the elusive Birdman is still out of reach, even though he was seen tending his rescued gulls last night. No one has come forward with information about potential suspects yet. It’s starting to feel like the islanders have signed an oath of secrecy.

  The Helston family are next on my list. The last time I visited their home was during the summer, after Adam completed his community service for starting the fire that destroyed the Walberts’ hay barn. I doubt that a seventeen-year-old boy could commit such a violent, well-organised crime, but it would be remiss not to interview the island’s only confirmed arsonist. Shadow shows some good sense for once when I head for the door. He remains curled up on an old blanket under the table, unwilling to face the elements. I set off alone to the island’s sheltered eastern side, with rain spitting at my face.

  The Helstons supplement their income as farmers by running a bulb shop each summer so tourists can grow St Agnes’s famous plants in their own gardens. There’s nothing celebratory about the bulb shop today: a closed sign hangs in the window, but someone must be inside the dilapidated farmhouse next door, because a light glows in the hallway.

  Julie Helston offers me a cautious smile of greeting. She’s carrying a few extra stone, her skin puffy with tiredness, and even though she’s around forty-five, she’s dressed like a pensioner: her blouse is a drab shade of brown, buttoned up to her throat, mousy hair pinned into a bun. She ushers me into her kitchen, then gestures towards a table loaded with baskets of fabric and cotton reels. I notice that one of the containers is packed with tiny leather shoes.

  ‘Let me clear this mess away,’ she says.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ve got plenty of room. Have you been sewing?’

  ‘I make rag dolls for a mail order company each winter, while the shop’s closed.’

  My gaze falls on rows of two-inch-wide faces, with lips and eyes neatly stitched into place. It doesn’t surprise me that Julie Helston needs a second income, but such repetitive work would send most people mad.

  ‘How many can you sew each day?’

  ‘Twenty, if I start early.’ She picks up a half-finished doll, and I can tell she would rather continue than deal with my intrusion, her shoulders rigid with tension.

  ‘I’m investigating Alex Rogan’s death. Have you heard about it, Julie?’

  Her gaze is glued to the doll’s crimson smile. ‘Sam was at your meeting; he told me what happened. It’s tragic that Sally’s been widowed so young.’

  ‘Are your husband and son here today?’

  ‘They’re in the fields, but they’ll be back soon.’

  ‘How’s Adam doing?’

  ‘Fine, thanks. Sam keeps a close eye on him; he’ll never do something that stupid again.’

  ‘Did you ever find out why he started that fire?’

  Her defences slip by a fraction. ‘I wish to God he’d say. He still claims he had nothing to do with it, but he’d been in so much trouble at school it fit the pattern. I felt awful for Mike and Louise, even though their insurance covered the damage. The Walberts have been friends all our lives.’

  ‘What was Adam doing, in the run-up to Bonfire Night?’

  Her expression hardens. ‘So that’s why you’re here. My son’s been in trouble before, so you’re coming after him again.’

  ‘I have to check everyone’s alibi for the fourth and fifth of November.’

  ‘He was working with his dad.’

  ‘Are you sure Adam never left the farm?’

  ‘The pair of them stayed in the flower shed till late. We’ve only let Adam see his mates at the weekend since his arrest.’

  My gaze drops to a deep crack in the wall opposite, just above the skirting, with a smear of mud beside it. Someone must have kicked it hard to cause so much damage.

  ‘Did Adam put that hole in your wall?’

  Her eyes blink shut. ‘My son’s easily upset, like most teenagers. He’d never do anyone serious harm.’

  I glance around the cottage-style kitchen while she blusters; a framed photo above the range reveals a family that no longer exists, preserved in celluloid. Sam and Julie Helston are an attractive couple smiling for the camera, with their only child giving an impish smile. Adam looks around twelve years old: a handsome, fresh-faced lad, already morphing into adulthood, but not yet renowned at Five Islands School for truancy and bouts of fighting. When I look up again, Julie Helston’s scowl has deepened.

  ‘You can’t really believe our boy killed someone. He’s seventeen, for God’s sake.’

  ‘The murderer’s still here, Julie. I’m checking everyone’s movements.’

  She rises to her feet in a hurry. ‘Search his room, you won’t find anything there.’

  ‘That’s not necessary at this stage.’

  ‘Do it now, please. Then you won’t bother us again.’

  I feel uncomfortable following her upstairs, the woman’s footsteps heavier than before. Adam Helston’s bedroom is typical of any teenage boy. The air reeks of cheap tobacco; there’s a Plymouth Argyle FC poster on the wall and pictures of Paloma Faith pouting into the camera, crumpled T-shirts thrown across his unmade bed. I search the drawers of his bedside cabinet and under the furniture, with Julie watching my every move, guarding her son’s reputation like a security officer outside a mausoleum.

  I point to a stack of boxes on top of his wardrobe. ‘Can I see those please, Julie?’

  ‘Stay there, I’ll get them down,’ she snaps.

  She places half a dozen cardboard containers on the bed. The first holds old football programmes, tickets and certificates, the next a brand new pair of Adidas trainers, but it’s the largest one that draws a dull squeal from the boy’s mother. It contains strips of rag, a box of matches and dozens of firelighters, individually wrapped in cellophane, releasing a sharp tang of chemicals.

  ‘He promised us he wasn’t involved,’ she whispers.

  Before I can ask another question, footsteps thunder up the stairs. Sam Helston looks shocked to see me when he bursts into the room, his face soon clouding with suspicion. He appears older than a man in his mid-forties; his son’s exploits have painted deep lines on his face. Adam lingers behind. The boy’s dark hair is cut into an arrogant rock star’s quiff, but he’s refusing to meet my eye. If he’s surprised to see his fire-starting kit on display, he’s wise enough to keep his mouth shut. Sam Helston positions his stocky frame to block my exit, while Julie cowers in the corner.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Helston asks, hi
s voice gritty with anger.

  ‘Investigating Alex Rogan’s murder.’

  ‘Get on and find Jimmy Curwen then. The bloke’s a fucking freak.’ He steps closer, his gaze boring holes in my skin.

  ‘We’re searching for him, don’t worry.’

  ‘Leave now before I chuck you out. Julie’s had more than she can take from your lot.’

  ‘Stop it, Sam, please,’ she murmurs. ‘I asked him to search Adam’s room; I thought it would get them off our backs.’

  Helston’s anger changes direction when he sees the contents of the box. He shoves his son’s shoulder so hard that the boy bounces off the wall. ‘What have you done? You stupid little shit.’

  ‘It’s not mine,’ Adam blurts out. ‘I’ve never seen it before.’

  ‘Bloody liar.’ His father spits the words into his face.

  I lay a hand on the man’s arm before he can throw a punch. ‘Let me speak to Adam alone, please, Mr Helston. You can wait downstairs.’

  Julie scuttles out of the room immediately. Her husband raises a warning finger to his boy then trudges away, leaving an ominous silence hanging over the room. Adam Helston’s body language is more defensive than ever, just like when I arrested him for starting the fire in August. The boy’s behaviour struck me as odd at the time. Mike Walbert found him standing at the edge of the field, transfixed by the blaze, making no effort to escape. I insisted on a blood test, but toxicology results came back clean. The lad must have been stone-cold sober when he threw the match. His arms are folded tight across his chest, as if he’s expecting a sudden attack.

  ‘Where did this box come from, Adam?’

  ‘How would I know? I never put it there. I didn’t start the barn fire either.’

  ‘Why doesn’t that convince me?’

  ‘I watched, that’s all. The fire had already caught when I got there; that building was past saving.’ The boy shoots a furious look, his hands bunching at his sides, and it occurs to me that his teenage rage could easily translate into murder.

  ‘You’ve got six months left on your suspended sentence. One wrong step and you’ll serve it in a juvenile detention centre. Do you understand?’