Prologue
The coloured lights strung along the marina swung wildly overhead as the Skylark bobbed and strained against her moorings. A summer storm had been lashing the island of God’s Folly all night, turning Sam Heston’s haven for quiet thought into a rocking, bouncing fairground ride. He sat squeezed behind the table in the cramped cabin, trying to ignore the rattle of the companionway hatch as it battled the wind. He took off his mariner’s cap, threw it on the table and rubbed his balding head.
Now in his seventies, the years had begun to tell on the island’s harbourmaster. As a former lobsterman, he was popular among the fishermen of God’s Folly, but the fleet’s fading fortunes at sea as they lost out to industrial trawlers, and the rise of a modest tourist trade, had changed the harbour beyond recognition. The fish market had been razed to build the museum, and the fishing fleet had shrunk to a handful of mostly small craft, the others replaced by visiting yachts and pleasure boats. Many former fishermen now ferried tourists out to see the playful seals that gathered on the island’s quieter shores, or the abundant birdlife on its cliffs.
God’s Folly sat in the middle of the English Channel. It was claimed by the UK, though Heston epitomised the independent spirit of the place, rejecting the idea of nationhood in favour of an identity he considered the island’s own. He rubbed his sore knuckles. How much longer would they resist the creep of arthritis, after too many years of immersing them daily in freezing saltwater?
His hands were rough, too, from hauling lines and mending nets. An old girlfriend had once given him a tube of hand cream as a gift. He’d thrown it scornfully in a bait bucket and then had to pick it out later and apologise. She was long gone now, like the others, not that there had been many. He did have his eye on someone, but was too set in his ways to make room for a companion in his life of relative solitude. Work forced him to interact with folk, and he enjoyed the pub on a Friday night, but would retreat to his own company after a couple of pints and a round of dominoes.
The Skylark was Heston’s private pleasure boat, his pleasure being a four-pack of cider and the knowledge that his presence should deter thieves from indulging their worst instincts around the marina. The cabin’s minimal and inexpensive furnishings reflected Heston’s practical nature, but also his concern over the recent spate of thefts that had plagued his beloved patch. He caught his can as it slid towards the edge of the table, took a swig and shoved it between his legs.
His phone buzzed with a message: more photos from Jeremy Flack, the owner of the island’s museum, and a shifty little creep if ever there was one. A knot formed in Heston’s stomach as he zoomed in on the first image, though he’d seen it from a dozen angles already. A uniform jacket on a mannequin in a glass case. A swastika band on the arm. He swiped to the next image: the glass broken, the mannequin naked from the waist up, but still wearing his Nazi helmet, like the stripper at a fascist hen party.
Unlike the Channel Islands, God’s Folly hadn’t been occupied during World War Two, but it had its own wartime history. The image was unsettling: a reminder of things best left buried, not paraded in a bloody museum. Heston had told them just that, but the tourist pound was highly prized, and—as usual—money had won the day.
A sudden thump from above made him jump to his feet. Someone was on his deck. But who would be out in this weather? Heston instinctively looked at the window. Had they been watching him through the grimy net curtain? Even over the drumming rain he made out the creak of the loose guardrail as someone leaned against it. Maybe it was Jeremy, about the stolen museum exhibit. Heston hadn’t texted him back. Or maybe it was whoever was breaking into boats on the marina. They’d have to be a cheeky bastard to steal the harbourmaster’s own gear, he thought.
He’d have them this time. He’d ‘accidentally’ shove the bugger in the drink and let them freeze before he hauled them out and dragged them to the police station. And if it was Jeremy, well, a little scare wouldn’t do him any harm. He cast around for a weapon, just in case, grabbed an empty whisky bottle by the neck, and crept towards the companionway ladder.
Heston threw open the hatch and burst out into the wind and rain, arm raised to threaten the would-be thief. A shadow crossed his path. He lurched forward, winded, the bottle smashing on the deck. He’d taken his share of punches, from men who knew how to throw them, but this was more intense, sharper. He looked down. A gloved hand pulled a blade out of his stomach. As he crumpled to his knees on the soaking deck, Heston slumped against the intruder. His misfiring brain fixed on something unexpected: a musty smell, like damp wool. His eyes drifted up his killer’s arm up to a familiar red band, where a swastika stood proud.
1
Boyish, bookish and built like a scarecrow, the man in the window was easy to ignore. He’d occupied the window table every day for a week, even moving to it from another when he arrived late one day and missed his spot. He was polite and smiled, though kept apart from the café’s other customers. The owner, Agnesa, couldn’t blame him; many of her regulars looked as if they’d stick to the chairs. Her café, in a part of London’s New Cross that seemed immune to gentrification, didn’t attract much passing trade.
The man, somewhere in his early forties, would frequently put his head in his hands, his lips moving as though he were giving himself a talking-to. He looked as though he dressed in a hurry, and had gone from designer stubble at the start of the week to a patchy beard, which he’d scratch before making a herculean effort to get back to whatever he was reading. He seemed on the edge of something, a precipice avoided so far, but which he may yet tumble over. He radiated waves of tiredness that could have felled a raver on speed.
Perhaps he was a mature student, though who knew what he was studying. His reading material ranged from books on ancient Egypt and anatomy, to a fresh pile of newspapers he would plough through every day, scribbling notes as he went. Agnesa couldn’t say why, but he made her wary. She’d known men with easy smiles before, whose charm evaporated when they caught the scent of what they really wanted. So, other than top-ups, she kept her distance and surveilled him from behind the counter, wondering why he kept coming back. Her coffee really wasn’t that good.
Occasionally he’d check his phone, and a couple of times took calls that sent him scurrying out of the door, sometimes returning later. His exit at the end of the day also seemed hurried, as if he was late again, torn between an urge to stay and some distant emergency.
One morning, when Agnesa opened up at seven in time to make breakfast for the builders working nearby, she found the man waiting on the doorstep, the usual bag of books and newspapers under his arm, and the usual hang-dog look on his face. He shuffled in, said politely, “Morning, coffee, please,” and settled himself by the window.
He sat reading until lunchtime. They were alone in the café and Agnesa was behind the counter, pouring herself a mug from the pot, when two police vans screamed along the road, pulling up sharply outside. They had barely come to a stop before black-clad armed officers piled out into the street, taking up positions around the vans.
The man in the window froze. His stricken reaction made Agnesa wonder if the police were here for him. What could he have done to warrant an armed response? Was she about to be taken hostage? She grabbed a cake knife, dropped to her knees and peered over the counter. If they were going to storm the café, she at least wanted to see them coming, and what the man did in response.
Only they didn’t come. In fact, now her panic was starting to ebb, she realised that their positioning was all wrong. They were standing on her side of the vans, primed for action facing the low-rise block of flats across the road. Suddenly they moved, dashing in single file toward the flats and around the back of the building. The man in the window stared, transfixed, as did Agnesa, her heart thumping.
Another police vehicle appeared, a luxury saloon which rolled into a space in front of the café at a stately pace. A door opened and a large man appeared in what Agnesa guessed was a senior officer’s uniform, judging by the amount of silver on show. He threw a peaked cap on his head, grabbed a folder from the car and looked around, catching the eye of the man in the window. Neither gestured; the policeman simply strode to the door and threw it open. Agnesa straightened up behind the counter as he removed his cap again and called to her.
“Tea, one sugar, a bacon sandwich, and whatever he’s having, please, Miss.” He waved a finger at the man in the window. “We’re celebrating.”
***
Chief Superintendent Geoff McGovern looked like a copper: a tall, broad Glaswegian in his fifties, with a face that could take a punch. Legend had it that in less enlightened days, as a constable, he’d once headbutted a mugger and left a perfect imprint of his helmet badge on the guy’s face. He marched over to his quarry, plonked his cap and folder on the table and himself on the chair opposite.
“Celebrating, Sir?” said the younger man, feigning ignorance.
“Don’t be coy with me, son. I figured you’d be nearby,” said McGovern. A commotion outside drew their eyes. A middle-aged man was struggling against two officers who were leading him in handcuffs to one of the police vans. His dressing gown flapped open in the breeze, to reveal a pot belly and a pair of pale spindly legs sticking out of a pair of saggy underpants. What must on its best day have been an unconvincing comb-over was now a greasy sail blowing straight up like a cockerel’s comb.
“Funniest thing,” McGovern continued, “we get a message on Crimestoppers. Short, anonymous, but a full-house at trigger phrase bingo: escalation, imminent threat, you name it. SCO19 practically jammed themselves in the door like Laurel and Hardy on the way out of the station.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Sir. I just came in for a cuppa.”
At that moment, the café owner appeared with a tray with two steaming mugs. The man in the window realised he’d been too preoccupied to ask her name, despite his daily visits. He wasn’t to know that Agnesa had taken quite an interest in him, and was at that moment trying to wrap her brain around the idea that he appeared to be a police officer.
McGovern took a slurp of his tea and sat back.
“You live miles away, and you didn’t even hide your voice when you called in. So, you’ve proved your point. You found a murder suspect without any police resources, and I know, because I checked. The team haven’t heard from you since… well, you know.” He took another sip of tea. “Come on, Swan. How?”
Detective Inspector Gabriel Swan, or at least, the man who hoped he could still command that title, looked down at his coffee. He was sure he’d solved the case that was dominating the headlines, but when the armed unit had rolled up, he’d almost had a heart attack.
“Cats,” he said.
“Excuse me?” McGovern laughed. “You solved a murder with cats?”
“Technically I also solved an old cat killer case. Same guy,” said Swan, allowing himself a smile.
“Don’t bloody tease me, get on with it.”
“Well, your victim, Dale Lewis, lived a few streets from here, but his body was found in Epping Forest. National media picked up that his cat had gone missing the day before he was murdered. I figured maybe he was out looking for it when he was attacked, and as cats don’t roam very far, his attacker might be local, or at least had reason to be here, but dumped the body on the opposite side of the city to divert attention from the area.
“What the nationals didn’t pick up was an interview on the local rag’s website with an elderly neighbour, who said other cats have gone missing, something she thought had stopped years ago, after a ‘horrid business’ in the eighties. The library has digitised copies of that same local rag going way back, so I trawled the archive and found a spate of cat killings, with the dead pets left preserved on their owners’ doorsteps.”
“What do you mean, preserved?” McGovern asked. “Stuffed?”
“Not quite. Stuffing involves putting the pelt onto something like a frame, whereas this guy embalmed them, which preserves the body intact.”
McGovern raised an eyebrow and nodded.
“The paper ran a few pieces,” Swan continued, “but it was the first one that caught my attention. Photographed alongside the owner of the first cat killed was her seventeen-year-old grandson, Gary Nickle. Something about him just seemed off. What sort of seventeen-year-old wants to be in the paper with his Nan when she’s interviewed about her dead cat? Luckily for me, Gary made the local paper again when he went down for GBH a year later, and there are no more preserved cat stories after that. He ended up doing a long stretch—kept getting into trouble inside—and wound up back at his Nan’s flat when he got out. He’s been living there ever since. She died a few years ago, but I found the address in an old phone book at the library.”
“So our friend out there took a leaf out of the serial killer’s handbook, and escalated from cats to people?” McGovern chuckled.
“I think he lay low for a while after coming out, but the urge must have overcome him eventually. The cats haven’t reappeared since going missing this time, so maybe you’ll find them in the flat.” Swan watched McGovern wince. “Maybe attacking Dale Lewis was opportunistic, if he came across him at night looking for his cat, or maybe he planned it. I guess you can ask him at interview. I’d ask him about the attack that landed him in prison, too. He tried to pour formaldehyde down his best friend’s throat.”
McGovern sat back as the final piece fell into place.
“Jesus.”
“The papers said Dale Lewis’s body was embalmed when they found him. That’s what brought it all together for me.”
“Aye, ‘The Undertaker’, they’ve called him. Dickheads.” McGovern slurped his tea. “So, you started what we might generously call a bit of off-the-books surveillance of his flat, especially seeing as your relationship with the books is currently to be determined. You must have spent a fortune on coffee and buns.”
“I had to be sure. Besides, it gave me time to read up on what he might have been doing in there, and to follow the case.” Swan indicated his mobile phone and the books and newspapers piled next to him. “He came home last night with carrier bags from a DIY shop and a large container of some kind of liquid. I was afraid he might be preparing for another go, so I figured it was time to call.”
McGovern pulled an Airwave radio from his pocket, twisted the knob and pressed the speak button. “This is Gold Commander. Are we happy, over?”
“As a pig in the proverbial, Guv,” replied a tinny voice Swan recognised as Baz Ahmed, an SCO19 sergeant. “Looks like bloodstains around the bath and weird shit all over the place. Dead cats. Tell that skinny geek he’s a legend, over.”
“A legend,” McGovern repeated. He dropped the Airwave on the table and looked Swan in the eye. “But this legend is running around in the here-and-now solving my cases, when he told me, with much foul language, that he wouldn’t be coming back to work. Am I to assume you’re grateful for the compassionate leave I told my bosses you deserved, and that you wish to return as the conquering hero?”
The truth was that Swan had needed to pursue Nickle or he would have gone mad. He’d practised his ‘Take-me-back’ speech a hundred times. He’d be contrite, make his case, keep it professional. His mouth went dry.
“I’m ready to come back. And you need me.”
Shit, where did that come from? Now wasn’t the time for ballsy truth-telling.
“Very gracious, I’m sure.” McGovern drained the last of his cup. “But it’s not quite that simple.” His expression softened. “The doc says the counselling went well, when you actually showed up, but you’ve been through a hell of a lot.”
Swan could feel his face flush. “Look, I know I screwed up after Laura’s…” He didn’t finish. The word ‘accident’ didn’t fit, because for him a hit-and-run wasn’t an accident from the moment the coward drove away and left his wife lying in the road. And it didn’t do justice to the heart-rending reality: the sleepless nights, crying till he threw up, knowing he would never stroke her hair again. Laura’s laugh tinkled in his brain. He scratched the back of his head and stirred his mug, focusing on the swirl of coffee foam as the clink of the spoon rooted his thoughts firmly in the present.
“I know you stuck your neck out for me, and I’m grateful, but I’ve sorted my head out now. I’m ready.”
McGovern looked out of the window. Swan had seen that look often enough to know he’d come to some kind of conclusion.
“You grew up on God’s Folly, didn’t you?”
Swan hadn’t seen that coming. A thousand guesses wouldn’t have got him to that being the next sentence out of the boss’s mouth.
“And I left as soon as I could afford a ferry ticket. Why, Sir? Are you banishing me in chains?”
“Not quite.” The Chief Super leaned back and steepled his fingers over his ample stomach. “You just might be the luckiest man ever to shout at me in public. The Commissioner’s agreed to return you to active duty. But you’re going to the island.” Swan sat in stunned silence as McGovern continued. “The Powers-That-Be have scoured the country for someone to lead a murder investigation on God’s Folly, and you’re uniquely qualified. They left the final decision to me. If you’re ready for work, this is the job.”
Swan felt sick. The island was the last place he wanted to go. He’d made light of his departure to McGovern, but shame at his own cowardice all those years ago was starting to rekindle in his chest. He’d been selfish and immature to leave the way he did. And a murder? It seemed hard to imagine murder in that sleepy place, but he had enough experience to know it could happen anywhere. He sat with the proposal while McGovern looked at his watch.
“I haven’t looked at my warrant card lately, Sir, but I’m pretty sure it says Metropolitan Police. Why can’t the locals handle it?”
McGovern grimaced. “The Island Council have fallen out with Dorset Police, who should have been sending a team yesterday morning when the body was found, as the island is technically on their patch. The Council have been on the phone to the Home Office making their feelings about outsiders clear, whatever police jurisdiction says. The island has all of two coppers: a constable old enough to have known Robert Peel, and a sergeant who did a stint at CID in Bournemouth as a DC, but went back to uniform for some reason. From what I can see, this sergeant has wasted the first twenty-four hours. The Council at least had the sense to let Dorset’s SOCOs in, but not CID. You’re the closest thing we can find to a local, given your background there, and they’ve accepted you’ll take over and lead their people.”
Swan wondered how freely that acceptance had been given, of some random guy from the Met being dumped on them as SIO, even one who grew up on God’s Folly. He could hardly blame them for resenting the idea, especially after the Met’s recent scandals involving male officers.
At that moment, Agnesa arrived with McGovern’s bacon sandwich. The boss took a huge bite, and carried on talking through it.
“To be fair, we couldn’t spare a full murder team if we wanted to, thanks to the miserly arseholes at the Home Office, who’ve also been kind enough to pressure us into getting this wrapped up as quietly as possible. They don’t want the Island Council stirring up trouble about local autonomy while some bill or other is going through Parliament. So, you’re it, Swan.”
The Island Council. Swan hadn’t thought about those old codgers in twenty years. A group of what might be considered the island’s great and good, they managed God’s Folly’s limited public services—the library, bin collection and a single bus, from what Swan could remember—and they were re-elected year after year till senility or the grave came calling.
“But I haven’t been back… And I don’t...” Swan trailed off as memories tugged at him: people he’d left behind, weak excuses for not staying in touch. “There’s no other way?”
“This is your lifeline, son. I suggest you grab it. It’ll be someone with a grudge against the victim, and on an island that size, they shouldn’t be hard to find. It’ll be the Wild West out there, in terms of protocol, but do your best and we’ll see about getting you back on a murder team.”
Swan’s copper’s instincts fought through his shock with a question.
“Who’s the victim?”
“Harbourmaster. An old boy called Sam Heston. Know him?”
The name sounded familiar, but nothing more. Swan shook his head.
“He was murdered on his boat. Gruesome stuff. Local plod will meet you off the last ferry from Weymouth tonight. Be on it.”
McGovern picked up the folder and held it out. Swan reached over, but the boss held it firm till the younger man’s eyes met his own.
“Fresh start, OK?” McGovern gave Swan a sympathetic smile. “Get a suit back on and forget about London for a while. You’re murder police, and you don’t have to prove that to anyone but yourself.”
This so-called lifeline felt more like a lead weight, ready to drag Swan into the murky depths of a life he’d left behind more than twenty years ago. He took the folder with numb fingers and stood to leave.
“Just one more thing,” said McGovern, looking up from his mug. “Who’ll look after your daughter while you’re gone?”
2
The small evening ferry ploughed through the English Channel, paying no heed to the rolling waves. Swan stood on deck near the bow, glad he’d decided against the sausage and egg muffin on the train from London. Beside him, Holly seemed to have no such qualms as she chomped on a cheese sandwich in her pushchair. It was hardly a dinner of champions, but the best Swan could do for his daughter as they’d passed a snack kiosk at the ferry terminal. A stray shred of cheddar fell on to her lap and was snapped up and shoved into her mouth with her free hand, around the sandwich already being demolished. She grinned, closed her eyes and nodded in satisfaction—a recent habit that made Swan laugh out loud, prompting an even wider grin from Holly.
He hadn’t even entertained the idea of leaving her in London. Besides, there was no-one to leave her with anyway. Some frantic Googling had yielded a nursery on the island that was accepting new children and could take her in the morning. Guilt piled on guilt at the standard of his parenting, but it wouldn’t be a long stay, he told himself. He had to have her with him, or he wouldn’t take the case. He’d hurriedly packed their bags that afternoon and was already remembering a dozen of her things he’d left behind.
Holly was a three-year-old whirlwind. She’d abandoned daytime naps six months ago, to the consternation of a parade of childminders, and now charged through her days until she collapsed on the sofa after her nightly bath. Swan would berate himself as he carried her snoring to bed, for failing to get her in there first. She had coped remarkably well with Mummy’s absence, asking after her less frequently as the days turned into months, and then a year. Swan couldn’t decide if it broke his heart more or less that she might be forgetting Laura. He’d never said outright that Mummy wasn’t coming back. How do you explain that to a toddler? Instead, Mummy being ‘away’ had extended indefinitely.
As the only child of parents who had both died in her twenties, Laura had no immediate family. Swan knew that their friends as a couple had really been her friends, and after a few months of checking in, their calls had tailed off. He’d realised then how limited his own friendships were: colleagues mostly, good for the occasional drink after closing a case, but it rarely went beyond that. He’d drifted away from his mates from training college, and now bumping into them at refresher courses verged on awkward. Laura had become his social world, and then she was gone.
Now Holly was his only anchor. Her need for him had kept him from the darkest impulses of his grief. The bare semblance of a routine he’d managed to provide for her had kept him going, lurching from task to task without stopping for any thought that might drag him under. Pursuing his off-the-books investigation of the Nickle case had helped too, but Holly was the reason he didn’t curl up in a ball and stay there.
She hurled her sandwich crust onto the deck, as though a single bite more would do her irreparable damage, and wriggled in her restraints.
“Get me out, Daddy. Get me out now.” She reached her buttery fingers up to Swan. He wiped them with a much-abused tissue, unclipped the pushchair straps and hauled her into his arms, her tufty hair blowing in his face. Growing hair had not proved a high priority for Holly’s little head, so she still had the look of a fluffy chick.
“Down, Daddy!” she demanded with another wriggle. Swan stood her carefully on the deck and held tight to the back of her hood as she gripped the railing. This far past her bedtime, she was edging towards the over-tired, manic phase that her father struggled to bring her back from, and he was too exhausted himself to chase her around an unfamiliar hotel room.
Swan had last made this journey more than twenty years ago, and that had been in the other direction. That night was now a half-forgotten blur. He supposed that the conscious effort, aged eighteen, to put the past behind him and make a new life in London had been more effective than he’d realised. Over the years, he’d downgraded his sudden departure to simply moving on, and the night itself had dimmed in his memory.
Other memories were much sharper, and there were people to whom he owed apologies, but after so long he had no desire to seek out that kind of drama. He planned to get this case wrapped up quickly and discreetly—get in, do the job, and avoid past acquaintances altogether, if possible. Guilt gnawed at him as he realised that he was about to make himself a coward for not facing up to his past behaviour.
A thick fog rolled in as they approached God’s Folly, swamping the ferry and reducing the view to a wall of grey, punctured by the hazy blinking of the lighthouse at its northernmost tip. The island sat alone in the Channel, its teardrop shape giving the impression that it was falling directly south from Weymouth to Guernsey but had frozen partway there. Known by some as The Channel Island That’s Not A Channel Island, it had no French heritage, being much closer to England. Not that the insular islanders cared much for the idea of belonging to either nation.
The thunder of invisible waves slamming into the cliffs beneath the lighthouse seemed ghostly and unreal. Swan recalled how quickly the weather out here could change, with sudden storms rising up to batter the place faster than any weather bulletin could provide a warning. Instead, the islanders had learned to read the signs for themselves: cloud formations, the weight of the air, sudden changes in the behaviour of wildlife. Swan had forgotten most of those island instincts that had once been second nature.
So many years on, how many people would even recognise him on the island? Holly might serve as a form of camouflage, as a rampaging toddler tends to draw the eye away from the hapless father in pursuit.
“You on holiday?” A man with a thick hipster beard had appeared at the railing, interrupting Swan’s musing. He held the hands of twin girls, older than Holly by a few years. They looked impassively at her, as though a toddler were a separate and uninspiring species. Undeterred, she waved, grabbed her sandwich crust from the deck and lobbed it over the railing. Holly loved an audience. One of the twins half-smiled.
“No, business. Just business.” Swan was tempted to add that there would be no pleasure involved.
“This is our second trip this year. You should head up to the folly, where the lighthouse is. It’s a load of underground caves that all link up. You wouldn’t want to get lost in there, mind. Some of them drop right off into the sea.” He grinned and looked down at the children. “I’m thinking of taking these two.”
The children looked horrified, too young to get the joke. Swan smiled politely. A hooter sounded, before the captain announced that they would soon be arriving. Swan took it as an excuse to escape, though the man’s description stayed with him. He remembered the folly quite clearly, though couldn’t pinpoint an occasion when he’d actually visited it. Like all the island’s children, he’d been warned off the geological mystery that gave the island its name, as only tourists with an experienced guide were supposed to enter its labyrinthine natural tunnels.
As the ferry approached the harbour, a bite taken out of the rounded swell of the island’s southern end, the lights of God’s Folly began to take shape through the gloom. The only town—officially known as Folly Harbour, but simply ‘the town’ to islanders—was nestled between the harbour itself and a grassy hill that extended to the north of the island, where the lighthouse kept watch over the sheer cliffs beyond. On the approach to the lighthouse, Swan could just make out the dark peppering of the folly’s caves.
Further down the slope, bordered by tall fir trees, lurked Darrow Manor, a gothic monstrosity of weathered stone that seemed to hover menacingly above the pastel-coloured jollity of the town. Swan remembered almost nothing of the Darrow family. ‘Rich’ was about all he could dredge up. As the ferry drew up alongside the jetty, he found himself having to force down a growing sense of panic. Of all the places to resurrect his career, he wouldn’t have chosen this one.
He spotted a marked police car from the gangway, complete with a uniformed constable leaning against the door. Swan was no good at guessing ages, but she must have been close to retirement. She was thin and slightly hunched, with a world-weary, disapproving demeanour. Swan struggled to get Holly’s pushchair and a large suitcase down the bumpy surface of the gangway. The constable watched him with undisguised amusement, which turned to shock as he approached her.
“DI Gabriel Swan.” He put out his hand. “Call me Gabe.”
She looked at the hand, then at Holly sat in her pushchair, gripping the hem of the leggings she’d pulled up to her knees. Swan withdrew his hand.
“Thomasina Cooper. Don’t call me Tommy,” Cooper said distractedly, still staring at Holly. “Sarge sent me to take you to where you’re staying. Nothing much we can do tonight. She didn’t mention…”
Holly looked up. “Who’s this old lady?”
Swan tried to freeze his face into a mask. “I don’t suppose there’s a finishing school on the island?” he said. Cooper seemed too shocked at Holly’s presence to take offence. She simply moved to take Swan’s case and wheeled it round the back of the car.
“You’d best put the buggy in here too,” she said, opening the boot. “I don’t have a child seat, so you’ll just have to belt her up. Illegally.”
***
They drove with Swan and Holly in the rear. Swan caught Cooper’s frequent bemused glances in the rear-view mirror. Her face reddened as she saw Holly licking her fingers and wiping them on the window to make patterns with her spit.
“Should have just got a dog instead,” said Swan, trying to break the tension. Cooper offered only a withering look in the mirror in reply. Hedges and drystone walls whipped by as they wound their way along narrow roads, the occasional gap offering views of the sea under a pink evening sky. The earlier fog had disappeared; the island’s weather was a mercurial thing, even in summer. Sheep grazed on grass lush from the frequent rain, their coats still short from shearing. The island’s beauty hadn’t diminished in the years Swan had been away.
They drove away from Folly Harbour and then looped back around to its northern edge, where The Rook Inn sat alone on a small bluff above the town. A hand-painted sign swung in the breeze outside the mock-Tudor main building, the eponymous black bird perched on the frame of a gallows. The sinister image was at odds with the glow from the inn’s windows and the sound of folk music playing inside. Swan lowered Holly to the ground and hauled their belongings out of the boot. He took her hand “nd walked round to Cooper’s side of the car.
“Drink?’ he offered, hoping in vain for a second chance at a first impression.
“I’ll meet you at the police boathouse at 9am,” said Cooper. “We towed Heston’s boat in there. It’s on the marina, not the harbour.” Her tone suggested every word could be replaced with Get off my island.
“Maybe next time, then.” Swan realised he was relieved as they walked away. He was completely exhausted, his back ached, and he wanted nothing more than to get Holly, and then himself, to bed.
Inside, The Rook was quaint in a dated sort of way, with a cartwheel nailed to the wall and dark wood furniture arranged haphazardly over a red carpet. Holly immediately pulled away and stood mesmerised by the flashing lights of a fruit machine. The place was completely deserted, despite the music playing from speakers in the corner. Swan rapped on the bar, and a handsome middle-aged black man appeared from the back room. In true landlord fashion he was polishing a pint glass with a tea towel. He smiled broadly.
“Let me guess—Inspector Swan. I’m Royston Quick, I own this place.” He gestured at his empire with his tea towel.
“You guess right,” Swan smiled. “Quiet tonight?”
“Ah, you noticed.” Quick shook his head. “Business isn’t exactly booming. Maybe it’s something I said.” He laughed warmly and handed over a key fob, before noticing Holly.
“Oh, they didn’t mention…”
“No, they didn’t. To anyone, it seems. We’re fine sharing a double.”
“Well, she’s very welcome. I think I’ve got some of those little boxes of cereal, if she likes those?”
“Those and every sausage you can cook,” said Swan.
“Not a problem. You’re round the back, number seven. Leave your things here and I’ll bring them over in a bit. I’d offer you a drink, but you might want to see your visitor first. He’s waiting in the room for you.”
“Visitor?”
“Yeah, he said he’d prefer to wait in private. I’m sure he’s done no harm.” Quick smiled, winking knowingly, though Swan had no idea what he was supposed to know.
He vaguely remembered The Rook as a haven for underage drinkers—cheap cider and a fumbling kiss in the old stables. He wondered how bad business was, and his concerns had nothing to do with the decor. Royston Quick put a brave face on it, but the island had never been overly welcoming to outsiders, whatever the tourist brochures said, and he couldn’t recall a single non-white face from his childhood.
The infamous stables today housed a row of numbered rooms. The door to number seven opened outwards, the only sign of its former life. Swan unlocked it and ushered Holly in. The room was as quaint as the bar, neat and comfortable. He had by now guessed the identity of his visitor, though how he’d known of Swan’s arrival on the island was a mystery. Next to the bed, grinning from ear to ear, the Reverend Roderick Lucas sat in his wheelchair. Swan had guessed right.
“Is that you, Gabriel?”
“That chair’s got wheels, like my buggy,” Holly cut in before Swan could respond.
“Oh my, who’s this?” said Lucas, lowering his head, his blind eyes invisible behind dark glasses.
“That’s my daughter, Holly,” said Swan. “Say hello, missus.”
“Hello,” said Holly, though she was already distracted by a new room, with frilly lampshades to poke and a bathroom to explore.
Lucas was frail now, but Swan’s foster-father still had a natural warmth that drew you to him. He wore a dog collar under a tatty green jumper, just as Swan remembered, never seeming to take the collar off, as if he was permanently on call. In the years since Swan had fled the island, most of Lucas’s hair appeared to have done likewise, and what little remained was white and wispy. The scars behind his glasses had become less visible, lost among the deep wrinkles of a face now into its nineties.
Before he knew it, Swan was kneeling in front of the wheelchair. Lucas pulled him closer and ran his gnarled fingers over his face.
“A man now,” Lucas said. “I thought I might never see you again, son.”
“Well, technically you haven’t,” Swan joked lamely, hoping Lucas still regarded his blindness with the same blithe attitude he remembered.
“Still too cheeky by half.” Lucas pushed his glasses up his nose and grinned. “Emily wanted me to wait and see if you came by the vicarage, but I just couldn’t. I didn’t know if you’d come.”
Emily Swan was Lucas’s housekeeper and Swan’s foster-mother, despite her relationship with the old man being purely, and emphatically, platonic. She had given Swan her surname when he’d arrived in their lives, though he’d never been formally adopted. The baby had needed a name, so she’d volunteered her own, an act entirely in keeping with Emily’s character. She’d be at least in her seventies by now, though Swan realised with shame that he had no idea how old she actually was. Of those he’d left behind, he felt most guilty about her.
“Truth be told, I didn’t know if I’d come by, either.” Swan didn’t want to hurt him, but Lucas could spot a lie a mile off. “I always meant to visit…” He trailed off, his excuses inadequate. The truth was that he’d written, and knew Emily read them aloud to Lucas, but his letters had become fewer and shorter over the years, until they’d petered out altogether. As for the phone, he didn’t have an excuse for not calling, other than knowing that a friendly voice might have broken his heart, or driven him home. And he’d been too big a coward to face either of those.
“Oh, never mind that. You’re here now. Besides, I have to forgive,” said Lucas, tapping his dog collar. “It’s in the job description.” He adjusted himself in his chair with a wince. “This cursed thing hasn’t got any more comfortable. I wish I could jump out of it and come and help you. Awful thing, murder. People are very unsettled.”
“I’m sorry. It seems surreal, being here under these circumstances.” Swan wanted to say they would find the perpetrator, but he’d learned to avoid such promises. He sat on the bed, scooping Holly up next to him as she passed by with a complimentary toothbrush in her hand.
“And Holly, how old are you?” Lucas asked.
“I’m three. Are you old?”
“Oh yes, extremely.” Lucas turned to Swan. “And where’s Mummy? I’d have thought the little one might be at home with her?”
Swan swallowed, realising that he hadn’t written since the wedding, four years ago now, when he’d posted a few photos for Emily to describe to Lucas. He’d known they wouldn’t have been able to travel, but the distance had also been a convenient excuse to keep his past where he thought it belonged. He hadn’t even told them about Holly. He’d been forced to speak of Laura’s death in front of her before, but tonight he was too exhausted.
“Uh, she’s not with us. It’s just Holly and me. How did you know I was here?” he asked, desperate to change the subject.
“Emily’s friendly with PC Cooper, or at least as friendly as Tommy gets. Emily used to babysit for her daughter, once upon a time.” Funny, Swan thought; he imagined Cooper would have eaten her young.
“And how is Emily?” He tried to sound casual, but the walls he’d spent years building were crumbling at the slightest pressure. Emily had raised him with Lucas, and loved him like her own.
“She’s well. Can’t wait to see you.” Lucas reached out again, and Swan took his hand. “We hoped you’d come back…” Now it was Lucas’s turn to trail off, his lower lip quivering. Swan wasn’t sure if it was down to his general frailty or the emotion of their reunion.
“I thought you said I was forgiven?” Swan looked down, shamefaced. He’d been naïve to think he could waltz back onto the island after so many years, or that it wouldn’t hurt people he’d chosen to leave behind.
“There’s nothing to forgive, my boy. We just worried, like any parents.” Lucas paused, looking unsure how to continue. “I know we weren’t your—”
Swan cut him off, a lump forming in his throat. “You were the best parents, and I didn’t leave because of you. It was just… time.”
Lucas’s brow furrowed above the black squares of his glasses. He sat for a moment, before the smile returned.
“You’re welcome to stay at the vicarage, you know. There’s plenty of space, and Emily’s promised a full English breakfast every day. That’s more than I get! And we’d be happy to look after this little one. Can you imagine how thrilled Emily will be to have a little girl to entertain?”
Swan was glad Lucas couldn’t see his anguished expression. “That’s very kind, but I wouldn’t want to impose. We’ll be fine here, and I’ve found a nursery.” The man’s kindness was making him feel worse by the second; Swan wanted to wallow in self-hatred like the selfish bastard he clearly was.
“Well, the offer’s there if you change your mind. You might feel differently in the morning. I won’t keep you, though.” Lucas patted the arms of his wheelchair. “Just come for breakfast, won’t you? For Emily’s sake.”
“You got sausages?” Holly piped up, suddenly interested in this curious man in the chair with wheels.
“The best on the island!” He beamed.
Swan could hardly say no, and he knew he had to face Emily. He realised with some surprise that he wanted to see her, regardless of the guilt it would stir up.
“We’ll be there. We’d never turn down a full English.” He stood and touched Lucas’s shoulder as he walked round the chair, the feel of the rough wool jumper flashing an image of falling asleep on his lap as a child. He wheeled his foster-father to the door but struggled to get him over the doorstep.
“Still a weakling, I see,” Lucas chuckled.
“Quiet, old man, or I’ll find us a steep hill.”
He left Lucas in the bar, drinking a half of mild with Royston Quick, who’d offered to give him a lift home afterwards. Swan grabbed their suitcase and the pushchair, waving away Quick’s entreaties to let him help. Holly trailed him back to the room, zombified by such a busy day. Swan managed to haphazardly run her toothbrush round her mouth before she passed out on the bed.
A murder file was the last thing he wanted for bedtime reading, but he was keen to bring the case to a quick resolution, so he could return to what might still resemble a career back in London. The file was thin: just a limited description of the scene, an even more limited victim profile, and some hastily-taken photos. The Chief Super had been right: it was gruesome. Swan had plenty of experience of violent, even brutal, killings from his time on murder teams, but this appeared to have a ritualistic element that, whatever Hollywood would have us believe, was extremely rare in the real world.
He shuffled the papers back into the file and stuffed it into the bottom of his suitcase, away from Holly’s curious eyes. He lay back on the bed and wondered about his new team. Cooper hadn’t exactly welcomed him with open arms, so he hoped for a better reception from her sergeant. He was struck by an odd uncomfortable possibility, but quickly dismissed it. What were the chances? Slim, he reasoned. She’d be long gone by now. He drifted off, amused by his own paranoid speculation.