Two and half hours to convince Atkinson that they were there to save his life.
Montague Island had its own microclimate. Cold air from the Irish Sea was forced up the steep cliffs where it mixed with the island’s warmer air, forming unstable clouds.
According to Bradshaw, the island was ten acres in size, the same as five football pitches. It was egg-shaped and rose out of the sea like a door wedge. The eastern side, the side with the pier and steps, was the lower side. The west side ended abruptly with sheer cliffs.
Like Snab Point on Walney Island, it was also a designated Site of Special Scientific Interest, partly because of the grey seals that frequented the western rocks and partly because of the small colony of natterjack toads that had made their home in the dunes on the more sheltered eastern side, the same dunes that housed the islanders’ boats.
No sheep were allowed on the island but the grass was kept short by the well-established colony of rabbits. Glistening droppings and a series of holes gave away the warren’s location. Poe wondered how deep the burrows were. Not as deep as they’d have liked, he suspected; it looked like they’d only be able to dig a few feet before they’d hit the island’s bedrock. Then again, rabbits were invasive pests and could adapt to all but the harshest environments.
There were six houses on the island. They were all squat and drab and rain-lashed. According to their guide they were only occupied during the summer months. Atkinson’s building was the oldest. It had originally been the administrative building for the isolation hospital and was situated away from the others on the west-facing side of the island, the opposite side to where they’d landed.
To get there they had to cross land belonging to two other houses. The boundary of each primitive-looking property was delineated by the remains of a dry stone wall network. With livestock no longer allowed on the island, it seemed it wasn’t just the hospital that had been requisitioned as building material.
It started to snow but, despite it being cold enough, it wasn’t lying. The ground was far too salty. Poe had expected it to be squelchy and soft but it wasn’t, it was dry and solid – Montague Island was obviously fast draining. The short grass was tough and springy and easy to walk on.
John stayed on the public land and the two cops got on with ensuring the properties on the eastern side of the island were definitely unoccupied. Poe and Nightingale made their way to the western side where Atkinson lived.
The complete absence of man-made sound was eerie. Gulls and terns squabbled and squawked and the wind whistled through the rocks and crevasses but otherwise it was peaceful. Poe could see the attraction. He removed his BlackBerry, turned around and snapped a pic. He attached it to a text and sent it to Bradshaw.
A red exclamation mark appeared beside it. He checked for a signal.
Nothing. Just a ‘No Service’ message where the bars should have been.
Nightingale saw him staring at his phone.
‘No signal?’
‘Not even one bar,’ Poe replied.
‘It’s a dead spot apparently. The two clowns who came out last night said exactly the same thing. Their radios barely worked. They said it was why they came back without checking in with me.’
Bradshaw would worry – she’d read stories of people drowning in the Walney Channel trying to reach the islands – but there was nothing he could do. He doubted Atkinson would have a landline. Doubted it would be possible to even have a landline this far out.
‘There it is,’ Nightingale said.
Poe looked up.
Chapter 61
Edward Atkinson lived in a recently extended bungalow of unevenly sized grey stones, the same type as the remnants of the island’s hospital and dry stone walls. It had a slate roof and crouched low in a grassy embankment near the steeply sloping cliffs. Before its extension, it had been shaped like a shoebox. A central door bisected two salt-pocked windows no bigger than a tabloid newspaper. The annex was newer and windowless. It had been constructed with the same stone but it hadn’t yet weathered the elements for one hundred and thirty years. A chimney topped it all, a thin, silver trail of smoke curling from the flue before being whipped away by the wind.
It looked like Atkinson had spent a chunk of his settlement money renovating the bungalow before he moved in. Whereas the other houses had grass and weeds pushing up against the walls, Atkinson’s had smooth, wheelchair-friendly paths and ramps. The equipment they’d seen beside all the other houses – equipment Poe recognised from Herdwick Croft: septic tanks, water pumps, gas bottles and the like – were all there but arranged so that they could be managed by someone sitting down.
Making Herdwick Croft a viable place to live had been a challenge for Poe; he had nothing but admiration for someone who could make a go of it in an even harsher environment while confined to a wheelchair.
Nightingale rapped her knuckles on the sturdy door. There was no bell and no knocker. There was a keyhole and after waiting a minute she leaned down and looked through it.
‘Anything?’
‘Key’s in the door but I can’t hear anything,’ Nightingale said. She sounded concerned.
‘You stay here, I’ll have a wander round the back.’ Something didn’t make sense. Everything about the bungalow was wheelchair friendly but the doorframe hadn’t been widened and the keyhole hadn’t been lowered. Why spend all that money only to scrimp where it mattered?
Unless it didn’t matter …
Poe skirted around the side of the bungalow, sticking to the smooth tarmac of the path. As he rounded the corner, a rush of sea wind caught him in the face making his eyes water. When they’d cleared, two things were apparent: what they’d assumed was the front of the bungalow was actually the back, and the reason Edward Atkinson hadn’t answered his door was because he wasn’t inside.
From the back, Atkinson’s house was as drab and unwelcoming as the rest of the houses on the island; from the front it was jaw dropping. The builders he’d hired had excelled themselves.