Poe walked back through the bedroom and into the hallway.
The other door opened into a treatment room. An examination table, the kind used in GPs’ surgeries, was in the middle of the room. White cupboards covered the wall. Poe opened them. They were full of things related to Atkinson’s acid burn. Ointments, bandages, antibiotics and spare masks. Atkinson didn’t need to leave the island for medical treatment – he could do it all himself.
Poe went back to the living room. By process of elimination, the other door would have to be the kitchen. He was right.
It was a decent sized, well-equipped room. At the far end was another door, the un-widened one that Nightingale had knocked on earlier. Poe could see it hadn’t been opened for a long time.
Everything in the kitchen was at an accessible height. It was clean but not so clean it looked unused. Judging by the pots and pans attached to low-hanging ceiling-hooks, Atkinson could cook. A packet of coffee beans and a grinder lay next to a modern kettle. They reminded Poe that he was thirsty.
It was time to join Atkinson on the terrace.
Chapter 65
Poe’s landscape changed over the course of a season, Atkinson’s over the course of a minute. When he picked up the scalding black coffee the sky was a colourless sheet; by the time he’d taken a few sips, the sun had cracked through the cloud cover and the seascape was transformed.
The choppy waves refracted the light; turning the sea into a glittering pool that Poe couldn’t drag his eyes from. He’d never lived near the sea, had always thought it a bit too busy, a bit too much sensory overload, but the view from Atkinson’s terrace was mesmerising. No wonder he’d been sitting out there.
Poe didn’t have to ask Atkinson why he lived here – he knew. A few years back he’d been in much the same position: a tabloid pariah, the cop who’d taken the law into his own hands. Instinctively he’d sought isolation and inaccessibility. He’d found what he needed on Shap Fell.
Atkinson had taken his self-imposed exile even further. Poe was awestruck by his commitment. At Herdwick Croft if Poe needed civilisation he could pop into Shap Wells Hotel for a meal or a pint, or drive into Kendal and beyond. On Montague Island, in a wheelchair, Atkinson had put down roots impossible to dig up.
‘Nice coffee,’ Poe said.
Atkinson raised his mug in acknowledgement. ‘I spend serious money on it. Jamaican Blue Mountain. Get it shipped in, literally, from a specialist in York.’
Poe had heard of Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee but he’d never expected to taste it. Only a limited amount of the bean was grown each year and most of it was sent to Japan or used to make coffee liqueur. It was smoother and less bitter than any coffee he’d tasted before – the kind of brew you could drink all day without getting a caffeine-induced headache.
Taking the expensive coffee as a cue, Poe said, ‘How much did all this set you back?’
‘The land or the modifications?’
Poe shrugged.
‘The house cost me a quarter of a million.’
‘Seems expensive?’
‘Cheap, actually. The island’s a designated SSSI so there are limitations with how it can be developed. Made it unattractive to prospective buyers and the owner was struggling to sell it. And, because the old admin building is responsible for the upkeep of the graveyard, the surrounding land couldn’t be sold separately.’
‘You own the graveyard as well?’
Atkinson nodded. ‘It’s consecrated land so it’s virtually worthless. It can’t be built on and, as the graves are all designated as infectious, they can’t be exhumed.’
‘The island’s an SSSI because of the seals and toads?’ Poe said, remembering Bradshaw’s briefing.
‘And the marsh harriers,’ Atkinson said. ‘We have a nesting pair and some of their chicks from previous years still visit.’
‘Wow,’ Poe said. He’d never seen a marsh harrier before. He lived too far from the coast and they weren’t particularly well established in Cumbria as it was. ‘Is it the marsh harriers that control the rabbit population?’
Atkinson raised what was left of his eyebrows.
‘I live in the middle of Shap Fell,’ Poe explained. ‘We don’t have a huge rabbit problem there, partly because they’re competing with sheep for food and partly because of predation from the air. Lot of buzzards.’
‘The marsh harriers do take some of the smaller rabbits,’ Atkinson agreed. ‘Buzzards take a few and we occasionally get golden eagles, but by and large the rabbits manage themselves. It’s a small island and food isn’t abundant. Enough to sustain a small warren but not much else.’
They stopped talking and finished their drinks. Atkinson refilled their mugs.
‘Anyway, I was limited with how much work I could do,’ he continued. ‘Inside, I could do what I wanted, but I needed permission for any material changes to the building. In the end the extension was granted as I was able to prove I needed a dedicated and sterile treatment room.’