A woman’s dead, Lesley stopped herself from saying. After all, it was August, and this man ran a business ferrying holidaymakers back and forth across Poole Harbour. She could understand his disgruntlement.
“I’m sure someone will let you know as soon as you can start sailing again,” she told him.
She turned away and struggled through the crowd. Johnny was a few metres away, talking to a slim man with thinning hair who wore a National Trust t-shirt. The man held out a hand as Lesley approached. She took it.
“You must be DCI Clarke,” he said. “I’m Ed Rogers, island manager. Call me Ed.”
“You’re going to be able to get us over there?” she asked. “Despite the ferry not running?”
He looked past her at the crowds around the kiosk. “Poor Sam,” he said. “His job won’t be easy today. I’ll send a couple of volunteers over to give him a hand, it’s not like they’ve got anything else to do.”
She nodded: no compensation, but at least he was aware of the ferry owner’s problems.
“Come with me,” Ed said. “We’ve got our boat here.”
Johnny was staring past the island manager towards a small boat with no more than ten seats. Lesley gave him a squeeze on the arm. “Don’t worry, it’s not far.”
He swallowed and nodded, his expression grim.
They approached the boat, which had a tiny cabin on the front and rolled in the sway of the water.
“Christ,” muttered Johnny. He looked over at the out-of-service tourist boat with its fully enclosed lower deck, and at least a hundred seats up top.
“It’ll be fine,” Lesley told him. The day was bright, the harbour sparkling in the sunshine and the water calm. “Look, perfect weather for a sail.”
Ed was unhooking ropes from a mooring next to the boat. “You’re not happy on the water?”
Johnny shook his head. “I’ll be fine, don’t worry.”
Lesley smiled. Johnny was going to struggle to keep this from Dennis.
She took Ed’s proffered hand and let him guide her into the boat, taking a seat as close to the centre as she could. Johnny sat in front of her, his gaze intent on the horizon. She looked behind them at the large boat, empty of tourists. Hopefully, they’d let Sam get back to business soon.
Ed untied more ropes and clambered down into the boat, making it sway. He went to the open cabin at the front and started the engine. Lesley wanted to start asking questions, but as soon as the engine came to life, its noise covered her voice. She slumped into her seat as the boat headed out into the harbour. Johnny gripped his seat. His mouth was a straight line, his eyes closed. She wanted to lean over and reassure him, give him a friendly tap on the shoulder, but she worried that might make him worse.
Just don’t chuck up on me, she thought.
Fifteen minutes later, they were approaching the island. The boat had taken a looping route towards the mouth of the harbour and then made a right turn in towards the castle, which dominated this side of the island. They passed a wide lagoon, the air above filled with birds. The noise was like nothing she’d ever heard.
Lesley wished she’d taken some time to gen up on this place, to discover what that castle was and who she might expect to find here. Were there many people living on this island, or did most of the workers and volunteers commute across the harbour every day?
As they neared the quay, she saw two figures waiting. Gail, the crime scene manager, and her colleague Gavin, the ridiculously tall CSI. Gail heard the boat and turned, raising an arm to shield her eyes from the sun. She gave a wave which Lesley returned. It was good to see a familiar face. Gail wouldn’t be fighting nausea, she’d have investigated the lie of the land and would be able to fill Lesley in.
The boat pulled in next to the quay and Ed climbed out. A man and a woman in National Trust t-shirts helped him secure the boat. The woman held out a hand and Lesley let her help her up the steep steps. Lesley turned to see Johnny climbing up behind her, his face grey, his movements slow.
She grabbed his hand, which was clammy. “Are you going to be alright?” she muttered.
He nodded, then clenched his eyes shut, regretting moving his head.
Lesley took a deep breath as she spotted a bench over to one side. The quay was quiet, a low building behind it and the castle beyond that. Birds swooped and dived above their heads, and all around was the smell of the sea. The tarmac was spattered with bird droppings.
“Sit down there,” she told Johnny. “Put your head between your legs, you’ll be right as rain in five minutes.”
She turned to Ed. “OK,” she said. “Show me where they found her.”
Chapter Six
Gail hurried to keep up with Lesley and Johnny as they walked behind Ed through the buildings beyond the quay. She was lugging a flight case and had a large black holdall slung over her shoulder. She wore sturdy walking boots. Lesley had on her brown leather ankle boots, not as practical as she’d have liked but better than the heels she’d been in the habit of wearing back in Birmingham.
“Have you been to the crime scene yet?” Lesley asked.
“Not yet,” the CSM replied. “We only just got here. They brought us in on their cargo boat.”
She pointed past Lesley out into the harbour where a flat-bottomed boat was moored.
Lesley eyed Johnny. “Think yourself lucky you didn’t come in on that.”
He shook his head, silent. The colour was coming back to his cheeks but he hadn’t spoken since they’d left Poole Quay. She hoped he was going to be more use to her once he recovered.
“D’you know the island well?” Lesley asked Gail.
“I’ve been out here about half a dozen times. Day trips, looking for squirrels, watching the birds. My ex was into that sort of thing.”
“Are there people who live here?”
“I think there’s about forty of them.”
Ed, who was walking ahead of them, turned. “There are forty-two people living on the island currently,” he said. “Thirty-three of those are National Trust employees, the others work for John Lewis.”
“John Lewis,” Lesley asked. “I don’t understand the connection?”
Ed pointed towards the castle they’d passed as they left the boat. “That’s leased by John Lewis, they use it as a hotel for their employees, or rather their partners. The nine people who live there work in the hotel.”
“And do you work closely with them?” Lesley asked.
He shook his head. “They tend to keep themselves to themselves. We see their people coming in and out on their own boat, but they don’t mix with the tourists, and they don’t have much to do with our team.”
Lesley nodded. “We’ll need to talk to them as well as your people.”
“Fair enough,” he said. “You’ll need to speak to the hotel manager. Yolanda Harte.”
They were walking past tall gates that led to the back of the castle, heading towards a broad grassy area with a church beyond.
“Does that church serve the people who live here?” Lesley asked.
“It runs one service a week,” he said. “People come over from the mainland especially. We get a good crowd in, generally not National Trust staff. Older people from Bournemouth and the surrounding areas.”
Lesley looked at the church. It was imposing, much bigger than you’d expect on a small island like Brownsea. She wondered how it had come to be built. Surely the place hadn’t had much of a population at any time in its history?
They took a left turn and walked across the grass. Lesley heard a shriek and stopped walking. Johnny stumbled into her and groaned.
“Sorry, Johnny,” she said. “What was that?”
Ed smiled at her. “Our resident peacock. Noisy bugger.”
Lesley breathed a sigh of relief. She’d never heard a noise like it. She scanned the grassy area looking for the bird, but couldn’t see it. The sound had come from the church. She wondered if there was just one of them, or a whole flock.
; “This way.” Ed strode past a set of dilapidated buildings onto a narrow lane that seemed to lead back towards the coast.
“This is the old farm,” Gail said. “When the old woman who used to own this place lived here, it was a working farm. Now they use it as a museum.”
Lesley nodded. “You’ve got people who work here?” Lesley asked Ed.
“Not full time staff. Volunteers. Adam Stanley’s the volunteer manager, you’ll meet him. He’s one of the couple who found the body.”
“Where are all your staff?” Lesley asked. The island had been eerily quiet so far.
“I told them to go home, to wait until they were summoned by police. I trust that was the right thing to do?”
“It was,” she replied. Forty-two people, she thought. They would need more bodies over here, uniformed constables to knock on doors and ask questions.
“Wait a moment,” Lesley said to Ed.
She turned to Johnny. “How are you feeling?” she asked him.
“I’ll do,” he replied. “You need me to start the interviews?”
Lesley smiled, relieved he was back to being a copper instead of an invalid. “Start talking to some of the people who live here. Get some names, find out who knew the dead woman.”
She looked to Ed. “Who were the couple that found her?”
“Adam Stanley and Frankie Quinn,” he replied. “She’s a bird specialist. They live in one of the houses up past the church, on the Poole side of the island. Do you want me to show you?” he asked Johnny.
Johnny looked at Lesley.
“No,” she said. “I need to see the crime scene first. Johnny, do you think you can find your way?”
“Is there a path, mate?” Johnny asked Ed.
“Go up to the church, turn left and keep walking past the lagoon and the reed beds. You can’t miss it. It’s a heavy building on the right-hand side split into two houses. Frankie lives in one, Simone in the other.”
Lesley knew that name. “Simone Browning, the victim?”
Ed nodded.
“Does anybody else live there with her?”
Ed shook his head. “She lived alone. Frankie lives with Adam.”
“And they’ll be at home right now?”
“I asked everybody to stay home.”
Lesley turned to Johnny. “Let me know how you get on.”
“Will do, boss.” He hurried away.
Gail was ahead of them. Lesley and Ed increased their pace and caught her up. “How far are we from this beach?” Lesley asked.
“A couple of minutes tops,” Ed said. “Not far now.”
“Good.” Lesley didn’t much relish undertaking this journey every time she had to visit the crime scene. All the way across the harbour, and then the walk to the beach.
“Is the beach accessible for a boat?” she asked.
“It had better be,” Gail said. “We’ll need to bring kit in. And search for evidence out in the shallows.”
Ed frowned. “Just don’t let the public know,” he said. “I don’t want people thinking they can just moor up on these beaches.”
“Don’t worry,” Lesley told him. “I think you’ll find we’re a special case.”
Chapter Seven
Dennis circled the desks for the fourth time. Mike kept glancing up at him, his body language uneasy. Tina stared at her screen, pretending she hadn’t noticed his agitation.
He checked his phone again. He didn’t like this, the boss and Johnny off to the crime scene, the rest of them back in the office not knowing what was going on. Dennis was used to going out to crime scenes with Johnny, or at least with the DCI.
He called her again. No answer, again.
He slammed his phone onto his desk. “Do you know what the signal is like over on Brownsea Island?” he asked no one in particular.
Mike looked up. “I can’t see why they wouldn’t have any. There’s plenty of people over there.”
Dennis raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been doing some research?”
“I have, Sarge.”
Mike gave him a wary look, as if he was weighing up whether he should provide Dennis with more information. It might calm the sergeant down, but it might have the opposite effect.
“Go on,” Dennis snapped. He sank into his chair. “Tell me what you’ve got, it’ll take my mind off it.”
Mike cleared his throat and looked at his screen.
“So,” he said, “Most of the people living over there work for the National Trust, conservation people, volunteer and visitor management, maintenance workers, that kind of thing.”
“How many of them?” Dennis asked.
“Well, there’s forty-two in total… I’m not sure how many of those are National Trust. Then there’ll be people who work there and commute across the harbour.”
“How many? A hundred?”
Mike shrugged. “No idea. There are also people from John Lewis.”
“John Lewis?”
Mike nodded. “They’re in the hotel, the castle. You know it?”
Dennis nodded. “I always thought it was National Trust, like the rest.”
“It’s leased by John Lewis, only their staff can stay there.”
“Nice. Why don’t the police do things like that?”
Mike laughed nervously. Calm down, Dennis told himself.
It was a few years since he’d been to Brownsea Island, him and Pam going for a picnic on a sunny Saturday afternoon. But he remembered the castle appearing on the shoreline as they approached the island in the boat. Pam had been disappointed that it was closed to visitors; she’d been expecting a tour of a stately home.
Dennis slumped into his chair. “But our victim, she was National Trust. Yes?”
“Yes, boss,” said Mike.
“I’ve got more information,” said Tina. “I’ve spoken to the National Trust.”
Dennis pushed his chair over towards her. “Well done. What have you got?”
“Names. Ed Rogers, he’s the manager for the National Trust over there. He supervises the various teams that manage the island. And then there’s a woman called Yolanda Harte. She’s in charge at the hotel, the castle, she works for John Lewis. The person I spoke to at the National Trust only had her name from the John Lewis lot, but they can send us a list of all the National Trust people over there.”
“Good,” Dennis said. “Get on to John Lewis as well. I want the names of the people working in that hotel.”
“What about visitors?” Mike suggested “No reason why one of them couldn’t have seen what happened.”
“Or have been involved.” Dennis felt a shiver run down his spine. “Any more names?” he asked Tina.
Tina nodded. “Natasha Williams, she’s a team leader for the Conservation team. The woman they found dead, Simone, she works for Natasha.”
“Right,” said Dennis, “So we need to talk to Natasha Williams, find out what we can about our victim.”
“I’ll let Johnny know,” said Tina.
“It’s all right,” replied Dennis. “I’ll call the boss.”
He grabbed his phone from his desk and was about to dial the DCI yet again when it rang. He felt relief wash through him. At last they were being brought into the investigation.
“Looks like she’s got there before me,” he said.
Chapter Eight
Simone Browning’s body was still on the beach where it had been found. The tide had gone out and her body lay on the rough sand, surrounded by driftwood.
Two uniformed officers were stringing tape across the edge of the beach. One of them looked out to sea, trying to work out how he might close off the scene in that direction.
Gail gripped her bag tightly and rushed ahead. She knelt on the ground next to the body.
“Poor woman,” she muttered as Lesley approached.
Lesley stood over her, peering down at their victim. Simone Browning lay face upwards, her eyes staring at the sky. She had long blonde hair, frizzy and matted with sand, and sh
e looked to be in her mid-thirties. She wore a National Trust fleece and a pair of worn jeans. No shoes.
Lesley wondered what had happened to this woman in her final moments. Had she done this to herself or had somebody done it to her?
“There’s bloating,” Gail said. “Her skin’s puckered, but there’s no gloving.”
Gloving was the process of the skin peeling off the body after it had been submerged in water for a period of time.
“So she hasn’t been there all that long?” Lesley asked.
Gail looked up at her. “We’ll need the pathologist to confirm it, but I don’t reckon so.”
“When d’you think she washed up?”
“I’ll have to check the tide charts,” Gail replied. “I imagine on the last high tide before she was discovered.”
“How often does the tide come in here?”
“Twice a day,” Gail said. “Just like the rest of the harbour.”
Lesley looked out to sea. The harbour on this side was quiet, the view of the dark Purbeck hills to the south. A few boats moved slowly in the water, closer to the mainland.
“We need to check for abandoned boats,” she said. “She might have been pushed off one.”
“Or pushed herself,” Gail added.
Lesley nodded. “Is there anywhere on the island she might have gone into the water?”
“Plenty of spots. There are other beaches and the quay. More than that, I imagine.”
Lesley looked down at Simone. What would it take for a person to wade into the sea and allow themselves to be overcome by the water?
She needed to know what was going on in this woman’s life, if she’d been suicidal, if she’d fallen out with any of her colleagues. And then there were the hundreds of visitors coming here every day. She needed names.
She looked up to see Ed standing at the top of the beach, watching them. He held his hands by his sides, clenching and unclenching his fists. The man clearly didn’t want to come any closer. Lesley trudged back up the beach, glad she’d worn sensible shoes, and stood next to him.
The Island Murders (Dorset Crime Book 3) Page 3