Skye gasped and moved forward, pulling something from her pocket – a bottle of red paint. As Kristian pulled his fist back, groaning in pain and rubbing his knuckles, Skye took aim. She squirted the bottle with propellant force, soaking his face with the paint.

  He sputtered and went for her again.

  “Woah, woah, that’s enough!” Remy said, grabbing Kristian’s arms and pulling them behind his back. “Kristian Nobel, you are under arrest for attempted assault.”

  “Me?! What about all of these protestors? I’m covered in paint!” Kristian bellowed. “You’ll regret this, Inspector!”

  “Officers – get him back to the station for processing please.”

  The police officers took over, clearing away the protestors and taking Kristian off in a police car, still dripping red down the front of his suit. Roisin was nowhere to be seen.

  “Are you okay?” Genny asked.

  “I’m fine,” Remy assured her, taking a café napkin from his pocket to wipe some paint from the sleeve of his shirt. “Nothing a good dry cleaner can’t fix.”

  The protestors started to scatter, signs hung at their sides dejectedly, but Genny managed to catch Skye, who had started to walk away with the paint bottle still in her hand.

  “Skye Devon?” She asked.

  “Who wants to know?” Skye asked, crossing her arms defiantly. “I don’t talk to reporters for free. If you want to write about me, it’ll cost you.”

  “No, I’m with the police,” Genny clarified, Skye’s expression changing to one of hatred.

  “Ah, the pigs,” she scoffed. “What do you want? We were protesting legally, you know. It’s our right to do that.”

  “I know,” Genny said, practicing keeping her cool like Remy. “It’s actually about the murder of Mitchell Collins.”

  “What?!” Skye said, a flash of horror crossing her face. “Why would you think I had anything to do with that?”

  “We don’t know for sure that you did,” Genny said. “But asking you some questions could help us catch his killer.”

  “I barely knew the man,” Skye shrugged. “He was just some builder from a posh house in Market Yaxley.”

  She flipped her blue hair back from her face and pursed her lips.

  She was lying.

  “We know you were dating Jake Collins,” Genny said, watching Skye instantly soften. “You’re not in any trouble Skye, we just need to know what you know.”

  Her body language changed from defensive to vulnerable. Despite their argument outside The Water’s Edge, it seemed there was real affection there.

  “About Jake?” Skye said quietly. “He’s not responsible for this.”

  “Maybe not,” Genny said. “But what you know about him and his Dad could lead us to the real killer.”

  “Everyone liked Mitchell,” Skye shrugged. “He was easy to talk to and he cared about his family, even if he and Jake did argue sometimes.”

  “About his debts?”

  “Yeah,” Skye admitted. “About his debts. But he was helping Jake to sort those out. When he found out… he was so mad. Jake moved in with me for a few days to get away from the shouting. But Mitchell came around, promised to help him get his life together.”

  “And Jake was helping his Dad with the lighthouse?”

  “They took on the project for some extra cash – Kristian paid pretty well.”

  “That must have been a source of tension between you and Jake, given your protests,” Genny suggested.

  “It was,” Skye admitted. “He was upset when I protested the car park plans – said that someone had to do the work and wouldn’t it be better if it was his Dad’s company so that they could get the money? But I couldn’t see it like that – the lighthouse renovations posed a real threat to the local wildlife.”

  “So, you continued your protests and he continued to take money from Kristian Nobel. That must have been hard.”

  “Nearly impossible,” Skye nodded slowly. “It all came to a head after his Dad was killed, and I ended things.”

  “Did you want to end things with him?” Genny asked gently.

  “No,” Skye admitted, biting her lip to try and halt the tears. “But I couldn’t see any way forward. We’re just so different. And he’s changed since his Dad died.”

  “He’s grieving,” Genny offered. “That changes people.”

  Skye didn’t reply, clearing her throat and trying to compose herself, her thumb tapping against the side of the paint bottle anxiously.

  “Is that the same paint you used in the lighthouse protests?” Genny asked softly.

  Skye looked down at the bottle.

  “Yes,” she admitted. “Kristian Nobel is so dramatic. It’s just an eco-friendly chalk-based paint. It washes off with water.”

  Genny looked at the label – Mistress Shadow’s EcoLife.

  “Still, you can see why he was upset. What you did at the lighthouse was technically vandalism.”

  “It made a statement,” she replied tersely. “That’s all that matters.”

  “And spraying paint in his face today?”

  “He was going to punch me! You saw!” She said indignantly.

  “And you retaliated.”

  “This island really has gone down the pan if defending yourself against an attempted assault is worse than the initial crime,” she countered.

  Genny sighed. It wasn’t a defence, it was revenge. They both knew that. The difference was minimal, and she was lucky that the police weren’t going to arrest her too.

  “Genny?” Remy approached.

  “I think we’ve got all the information we need, Skye,” Genny said. “Thank you for your time.”

  They headed back to the car.

  “Anything?” Remy asked hopefully.

  “Just more confirmation that Jake is not our killer. Whatever family tensions we’ve picked up on, I don’t think they explain the murder.”

  “Back to square one,” Remy sighed. “I’ve got paperwork for Kristian’s arrest, though I’m sure he’ll spend no more than a few hours in our cells before his daughter bails him out.”

  “That’s frustrating,” Genny sighed.

  “Although,” Remy added. “The lab just called while you were talking to Skye. I found out some more about the paint – the lab were able to confirm that it was not the same paint used on the lighthouse. Not Dilbury’s. In fact, it wasn’t even the same shade of red, or masonry paint as we had initially thought. It was actually chalk-based acrylic. The sort you use for painting pictures.”

  “Really?” Her mind started to whir. “The paint Skye uses was chalk-based.”

  “That’s interesting,” he said, his eyes scanning the treeline behind them as he thought. “But surely we’ve ruled her out.”

  “I think so,” Genny nodded. “But it’s more evidence for our theory that someone was trying to copy Skye’s MO. They wanted us to draw that link. It also confirms that it wasn’t spur of the moment. Someone had to buy that paint and take it up there with them.”

  “Maybe,” he said. “But I can’t think how we will prove that without randomly searching suspects’ houses. And even on this tiny island getting a search warrant without a concrete lead is not easy.”

  Genny thought for a moment.

  She knew there had to be another way.

  “Leave it with me,” she told him. “I’ll think of a way to sort this.”

  “Okay. I’ll drop you back at the inn on the way back to the station.”

  The streets of Whitebourne were quiet as the sun was starting to set. Genny had decided to take Pip for a walk past Foxglove Cottage, in the hopes that her home and business might be ready soon. From the outside, she could still see work to be done inside.

  She stopped and admired it, trying to imagine what she had first seen when she had found it on the estate agent’s website. The history of the place had appealed to her most – generations of bakers, starting with an unmarried woman, Josephine Seabridge, in 1844, who had borrowed money from her father, the local pastor, to set up the bakery, after locals had complimented the cakes she made for church events. She had faced no end of backlash – she was effectively a spinster, and the community saw her as a pariah. That was until she opened. The cakes flew from the shelves, and with each passing year her talent and success grew until the Whitebourne bakery was famous across the island.

  Josephine eventually married aged 35 to the town’s chief steelworker and had one daughter, who inherited, ran and passed on the bakery.

  The history had caught Genny’s attention as much as the beautiful old building, but she hadn’t realised how extensive the renovations would be until she visited earlier in the summer.

  “Oh my goodness – you’re my new neighbour, aren’t you!” A voice trilled from behind Genny.

  She swung around to see a woman ten or so years older than her stood in the front garden of the house next door. She had wavy brown hair, pinned up into a claw clip, and was wearing a green turtleneck jumper which accentuated how long her features were.

  “I guess so,” Genny smiled.

  “I’ve heard a lot about you since you arrived,” the woman said, opening the gate of her front garden and coming out onto the pavement. “I’m Pearl Linman. I’m sure you’ll meet my husband, Saul, soon enough.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Genny said. “I’m-”

  “-Like I say, I know all about you,” Pearl interrupted, tittering to herself. “You are the talk of Whitebourne. People are saying that you used to be a detective with the police.”

  “Yes,” Genny replied simply, wondering what exactly people had been saying about her.

  “Oh, don’t look so worried,” Pearl giggled. “Gossip moves fast on a small island like this, but it’s harmless. Everyone was just very excited to see you helping out with the murder case. Terrible business. DI Cochran should be glad to have a more experienced pair of hands on the team.”

  “DI Cochran is more than capable of solving the case without me,” Genny said firmly. “I was just at a loose end and thought I’d put myself to use.”

  “Oh, of course, of course,” Pearl cooed. “I just meant because you are older than him, and besides, I’m sure there were far more murders in London than here.”

  “Crime is worse in the city,” Genny agreed. “But I think that has more to do with population density than anything else.”

  “Of course,” Pearl nodded with a condescendingly bright smile. “But I’m not surprised that this murder took place here.”

  “How so?” Genny crossed her arms.

  “Well, that lighthouse has caused nothing but trouble during its lifetime. Countless deaths backs in the 1800s, or so they say,” she said. “Not to mention the accident twenty years ago.”

  “Accident?” Genny asked.

  The lighthouse had been closed for twenty years, supposedly due to the last lighthouse keeper leaving. She hadn’t presumed that there was more to the story than that.

  “A boat crashed,” Pearl said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “I can’t remember exactly what happened after that, but I know that the lighthouse was closed pretty soon after that.”

  “And that was the reason?”

  “That’s what I heard, but I don’t know any more about it,” Pearl admitted. “I was not surprised when I heard that it was Mitchell who was murdered, either.”

  “Why not?” Genny asked. “I’ve heard that he was well liked in the community.”

  “In the community, I’m sure, but there were issues in his family.”

  “His son, Jake? We’ve already spoken to him,” Genny suggested.

  “No, not Jake,” Pearl said, coming close and looking around as if someone might be listening in. “That new wife of his, the young one. They didn’t have a happy marriage, despite Mitchell splitting with poor Loretta in order to marry her.”

  “What makes you think that?” Genny asked. “It is hard to judge someone else’s marriage from the outside.”

  “It is easy to judge when you see one of the spouses out with another person,” Pearl grinned salaciously. “I told Loretta – when a marriage begins with cheating, it always ends with cheating.”

  “You think Mitchell was cheating on his wife?”

  “No,” Pearl laughed. “Although that wouldn’t surprise me. It was Yolanda, and what’s worse, she cheated with Mitchell’s best friend, Paul.”

  Genny remembered what Yolanda had told her and Remy: We met at the cycling club, Mitchell often went up there with his friend Paul.

  “You’ve seen them together?” Genny asked, surprised. She had been so sure that Yolanda was the heartbroken widow she had made out to be.

  “Better than that – I have video footage,” Pearl giggled, opening a home security app on her mobile phone.

  The camera faced out of Pearl’s front window, towards the street.

  The video footage played – Yolanda and a man with strawberry blonde hair walking down towards the river.

  It was innocent enough at first. They were side by side but not touching, talking quietly back and forth, too quietly to hear what they were saying.

  When they were nearly out of view of Pearl’s camera, near to Genny’s cottage, Yolanda turned to face Paul. He ran a finger tenderly down her cheek and then cupped her chin before leaning in to kiss her.

  They broke apart a few moments later, Yolanda looking around with a worried look, but Paul laughed her worry off. They continued down the street, out of view.

  “See?” Pearl twittered. “She was with Mitchell for the money, I always said that to Loretta. She put in all the hard years, supported him when his business was just a one-man operation and they could barely afford nappies for Jake, and then he turned around and betrayed her for a skank like that.”

  Genny hummed disapprovingly. How had she misjudged Yolanda’s grief so much? It had felt so real.

  “Well, that’s very interesting,” Genny said. “Thank you. I think it would be best if you turned your camera over to DI Cochran in the morning.”

  “Pardon?! Why on earth would I do that?” Pearl huffed.

  “Well, I don’t think you would want to withhold evidence from a murder investigation,” Genny pointed out. “Plus, it is illegal to record more than your own property. I’m sure DI Cochran would hate to have to give you a fine and a blot on your record.”

  Pearl’s face contorted in horror.

  “No!” She stammered.

  “I’m sure he won’t, if you come with me to the police station tomorrow and show him what you showed me,” Genny assured her.

  “Fine,” Pearl said.

  Genny was unable to keep back slight smirk of satisfaction.

  “Thank you.”

  “If DI Cochran has time to see me, of course,” Pearl said pointedly. She was clearly not one to let someone else have the final word.

  “I’m sure he will.”

  “Maybe not – I hear it was a busy day at the station.”

  “Oh?” Genny queried, watching Pearl closely. She had the puffed-out chest of a gossip with information.

  “I hear that Kristian Nobel was arrested up at Peartree Acres. Maureen Glover lives opposite the station. She saw him being hurried inside dripping in blood.”

  “It was paint,” Genny assured her. “He was arrested at the protest.”

  “Ah, Skye Devon and her nasty lot of good-for-nothings?”

  “I believe it was a group calling themselves The Earthchildren.”

  “Yes, that’s them,” Pearl grumbled. “Did you hear that they put toilet paper all over the town? And then the paint at the lighthouse! And now this! Who do they think they are? Who do they think will clean up all their messes?!”

  Genny nodded silently, watching Pearl get more and more angry.

  “The paint was apparently easily washable,” she offered, seeing that the assertion made Pearl even more annoyed.

  “No doubt she stole it from that horrible little hippie shop she works in,” Pearl said with a firm shake of her head.

  “Hippie shop?”

  “In Westmarsh,” Pearl answered. “It’s called Devil’s Wares or something equally horrible. Run by some witch.”

  “A witch?”

  “That’s what they say,” Pearl nodded, completely serious in her assertion.

  Despite the strangeness of Pearl’s information, it was a lead to follow that she didn’t need Remy for.

  “Well, thank you,” Genny said. “I should be getting back to the inn now. It was nice to meet you. See you tomorrow.”

  “Yes,” Pearl said sulkily. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  The last thing she needed was a nosey neighbour recording her property and spreading gossip around the island about her, although she had to admit the footage of Yolanda and Paul was very compelling.

  But she would need Remy’s help pulling on that thread.

  For now, she could follow up on the paint herself.

  7

  Genny took Pip back to the inn before taking a bus out to Westmarsh as the evening drew in. She knew she wouldn’t have long to find the shop if she hoped to speak to the owner before it closed.

  Luckily, Westmarsh high street contained very few shops.

  A bakery stood at one end, next to an old schoolhouse which had been turned into a hotel. Further along was a public park, and then an estate agent.

  At the end of the high street was a charity clothes shop, a candle-making shop and a café.

  She was about to give up, when she noticed the sign of the café – a wiccan symbol with horns like a devil. Underneath were the word’s Witchy Wares and Café.

  She entered the café and a bored teenager behind the counter put down her phone.

  “Sorry to bother you,” Genny said. “I’m looking for a shop? Eco-friendly things?”

  “Upstairs,” the girl said, gesturing vaguely to a spiral staircase at the back of the café. “Mistress Shadow is about to close up though.”

  Mistress Shadow…

  “Thank you,” Genny said, trying to keep a straight face as she took the stairs at the back of the café up to the next level.

  She was immediately hit with the smell of incense.

 

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