He reached out a hand and one of his assistants pulled him up to a standing position.
“So, there are traces of foam around her mouth,” he said. “That would indicate drowning.”
Lesley nodded. She’d spotted that herself.
“When was she found?” he asked her. “Who was here?”
“Last night,” she said. “By two National Trust employees. Around ten pm.”
Another grunt. “Did they think to make a record of what state the body was in at the time?”
Lesley hadn’t had a chance to ask that question herself. She beckoned Ed over. He was standing at the back of the beach, surveying proceedings.
He approached very deliberately, careful not to look in the direction of the body.
“This is Ed Rogers,” she said. “He’s the manager for the National Trust on this island.”
Whittaker nodded at the man. “Were you here when she was found?”
“I didn’t come down onto the beach,” Ed replied. “The paramedics told me not to disturb the scene.”
“Very sensible of them. So there were paramedics?”
Ed nodded. “They came in with the coastguard, first people who could get here.”
“And did they say anything about the state of the body at the time?”
A shrug. “She was stiff, from what I remember them saying. They didn’t talk to me, they came in, barked a few things at each other, and then hurried away. They weren’t interested once they knew she was dead.”
Lesley frowned. Normally paramedics had the best bedside manner of all health professionals. They were used to dealing with members of the public right at the beginning of their journey through the health system. But being called out to Brownsea Island at almost midnight wouldn’t make anybody particularly sympathetic.
“But they said she was stiff?” she asked.
Ed nodded.
“She still is,” said Whittaker. “As a general rule of thumb, decomposition takes twice as long when a body is submerged in water. When was the last high tide?”
Lesley turned to Ed.
“Yesterday evening. Early, about seven.”
Whittaker nodded. “She could have been washed up then, or possibly in a previous tide. Do people come down here a lot?”
“They don’t,” said Ed. “Sometimes you get visitors down here, but none of my team are working on this part of the island right now.”
“We need to find out if any tourists spotted anything,” said Lesley. “Are you working on that list?” she asked Ed.
“I’ve got someone in the admin office collating it right now.”
“Thanks.”
“So,” Whittaker said, balling his fists into the small of his back and stretching. The skin on his face was loose. However he’d lost the weight, it had come off fast.
“She definitely drowned,” he said. “The foaming around her mouth. I’ll be able to confirm when I look at her lungs during the post-mortem. And I estimate, based on the fact that rigor is still visible, that she died around twenty to thirty hours ago.”
That was too wide a window. “She wasn’t seen yesterday,” Lesley said. “She called in sick on Tuesday morning, yes?”
Ed nodded. “Her line manager is Natasha, she’ll be able to tell you more.”
“My DC’s already talking to her.”
“Right.” Whittaker grabbed Lesley’s arm, making her flinch. He gave Ed a leave us look as he pulled Lesley down towards the body. He pointed to the woman’s neck.
Lesley bent to get a better view. There was bruising on the side of her neck. Circles, purple with yellow edges.
“Fingerprints,” she muttered.
Whittaker nodded. “Cause of death is drowning, as far as I can tell right now. But someone did that to her.”
She looked at him. Ed had moved away and was on his phone.
“It’s a murder case,” she breathed.
“That’s how it looks, yes,” said Whittaker.
Lesley looked back towards Ed, who’d pocketed his phone and was approaching. She stood up.
Whittaker let go of her arm. “We’ll move her now. If you can all stand aside.”
He nodded towards his two assistants. They opened a large black holdall and brought out a body bag.
“Hang on a minute,” Lesley said. She waved Gail over. “Are you ready for them to move the body yet?”
“Fine by me,” Gail said. “Keep her out here any longer, what with the sand and the sea, and any evidence on the body could be contaminated.”
“OK,” said Lesley. She nodded at Whittaker’s two assistants.
He gave her a harsh look, his small blue eyes flashing in the low sun. “Glad to see I’ve got your permission, Detective Chief Inspector.”
She ignored the barb. “Let me know when you’re doing the post-mortem, won’t you?”
Chapter Twelve
Natasha Williams lived in a low cottage beyond the crime scene, looking through trees towards the harbour and the Isle of Purbeck beyond. Johnny stamped his feet and hunched his shoulders as he waited for the door to be opened. He didn’t like being this close to the cliffs and he certainly wasn’t looking forward to the return trip to the mainland. He pushed the thought of it out of his mind and focused on the questions he was going to ask this woman.
The door opened, and a thin, curly-haired woman wearing a National Trust fleece stood looking at him. She blinked into the brightness of the day.
“You must be the police,” she said.
He gave her a grim smile. “Sorry to bother you, but your colleague, Frankie Quinn, she told me…”
Natasha waved her hand in dismissal. “I know what she told you. It was me who called the coastguard. Well, it was Bernard, my husband, but I told him to. I wanted to see the body.”
Johnny nodded. “Can I come in please?”
“No problem.”
The woman held the door wider and stood back to let him pass. She gestured towards a door to the left, and Johnny shuffled through into a cosy kitchen. A pot of tea sat on the table and he could smell meat roasting. He inhaled, glad that the nausea had passed.
“Sit down,” she said. “Do you want a coffee?”
“Cup of tea, please, if you don’t mind.”
Tea would do him good, get some liquid into his system. Even better if she had biscuits. His eyes roamed the kitchen, looking for a tin. Sure enough there was one sitting next to the teapot on the table. He salivated in anticipation, hoping she’d offer him one.
He thought of the times when he was a kid and had been travel sick on long journeys. His mum had fed him Rich Tea biscuits, something plain to settle his stomach, she’d told him. At the very least they’d distracted him, kept his mouth busy sending things down instead of bringing things up. It was illogical, but it seemed to work.
He took a seat at the table, facing the window and the sink in front of it. Natasha filled the kettle and turned to him while it was boiling.
“What’s your name?” she asked him.
“Sorry,” he said. “DC Chiles.” He ferreted in his pocket and pulled out his badge, but she waved it away. “I’m here with the senior investigating officer, DCI Clarke.”
The woman raised an eyebrow. “So there’s been a crime?”
He felt himself blush. “We don’t know yet. Hopefully you can help us get a better understanding.”
Natasha turned away towards the kettle. It clicked and she picked it up. She frowned, peering around the room until her gaze landed on the teapot in the middle of the table. She put the kettle down and grabbed the teapot, taking it to the sink where she emptied it and then refilled it again. She brought the teapot to the table with two mugs and sat at right angles to Johnny, not meeting his eye.
“We need to know about her frame of mind,” he said. “I’m sorry to have to ask, but do you think there’s a chance she might have been suicidal?”
Natasha poured two mugs of tea. She looked up at him briefly, holding out a suga
r bowl. Johnny shook his head. She placed a mug in front of him. It was brightly coloured with rainbow spots.
Was she going to answer the question?
He sat back and slurped his tea, watching her over the rim of the mug. She poured her own cup and shuffled into her chair, her body language uneasy.
She let out a long breath. “She was… She wasn’t quite herself.”
Johnny sipped more tea. It was hot. It was good.
“In what way?” he asked.
A shrug. “She rang in sick. She spoke to Bernard, that’s my husband, told him she had a stomach bug.”
“When was this?” Johnny asked.
“Yesterday morning,” she said. “About half past six, I think.”
“And that was the first day she rang in sick?”
“Yes.” Natasha slurped at her tea, still not meeting his eye.
“Had she shown any signs of illness the day before?”
Natasha looked at him. “I didn’t see her the day before. I hadn’t seen her for a few days.”
“You’re her manager, aren’t you?”
“That doesn’t mean I see her every day. She spends most of her time over at the lagoon, I tend to be up in the woods. I’m mainly working on the conservation side of things. But she’s got a team who help with maintaining the reed beds.”
Johnny nodded. He had no idea what that would entail.
“So is there anybody else who would be able to tell me about her state of mind?” he asked. “Anybody who was working with her?”
“Mostly she was working with volunteers,” Natasha replied. “None of them are here now. I can get you their names though, or at least Ed can. Have you met Ed?”
“He brought us over from Poole.”
“Ed’s alright, he’s a good boss.”
Johnny smiled, thinking of his own bosses. Dennis, and then the DCI. Dennis he’d known since he was not much more than a kid. The DCI, he was just getting to know. But she’d shown concern when he’d felt ill on the boat. Maybe she was worried he couldn’t do his job, or perhaps she cared about how he was feeling. It didn’t matter either way.
“I’ll get that list,” he said. “But it would be helpful if you could tell me if she was having any problems. Were there any issues between her and other members of the team? Any family troubles, relationships?”
Natasha shook her head briskly. “Simone was single. No husband, no kids, no boyfriend, as far as I know. She didn’t fall out with anybody, she wasn’t that sort of woman. She was easy, Simone was. Turned up in the morning, always five minutes early. Got her job done with a smile. Brilliant with the volunteers, motivated them really well.”
“So she enjoyed her job?” Johnny asked.
“Loved it,” said Natasha. She met his eye properly for the first time. “We all do. It’s a privilege to work on this island, especially when you live here, too.”
“Do you live here with your husband?” Johnny asked her.
She nodded. “Bernard’s a freelance journalist, works from upstairs in the spare room.”
Her gaze went up to the ceiling.
“Is he there now?” Johnny asked.
A small nod. “Sometimes he goes over to Poole chasing a story, talking to an editor. But generally he works out of this cottage.”
“That must be strange,” Johnny said. ‘Everybody else here works for the National Trust, their job involves the island.”
She sipped her tea. “He never complains.”
Johnny wondered if Bernard was really as happy as his wife claimed, living here surrounded by National Trust stuff, cut off from the mainland where he would find it easier to work. But it was Natasha who’d gone down to the beach with Frankie and Adam. Natasha who’d seen the body.
“So tell me about yesterday evening,” Johnny said. “I’ve been told that Frankie Quinn knocked on your door, after finding Simone.”
Natasha nodded, looking down at the table. “We had a team meeting,” she said. “Me, Frankie, Anya. Simone didn’t come. I just assumed it was because of the tummy bug.” She sipped her tea, her eyes glazed. “I wish I’d checked.”
Johnny gave her an encouraging smile. “Did anything happen at this meeting?”
“Just the usual,” she sighed. “Frankie left at about ten o’clock, a little bit before, and then twenty minutes later she came back. She had Adam with her, her boyfriend. They were panicking, shouting about Simone.”
“They’d found her?” Johnny asked.
Natasha cleared her throat, then wiped at her eye. “Yeah.”
“And what did you do?”
“I didn’t believe them.” Natasha looked up. “I felt I should take charge, check what was happening. So I made them take me down to the beach. I shouldn’t have, I know. I should have left well alone.”
Johnny wondered how much damage they’d done. Gail would be there now, grumbling about members of the public trampling all over her crime scene.
“Did you get close to Simone?” he asked Natasha.
Natasha gave him a slow nod. “I knelt down by her. I wanted to check if she had a pulse.”
“And did she?”
“No. She was pale, grey in the darkness. Her eyes, they…” She closed her own eyes. “They stared up at the clouds, it was, oh it was horrible.”
She turned away, her shoulders hunched.
“It’s OK,” Johnny said. “You’ve had a shock.”
Natasha turned back to him. “Sorry. You don’t need me to be like this, you’ve got questions you need answering.”
“It’s not easy finding a body.”
“No.” Her eyes were wet.
“And then you came back here straight afterwards?”
“We did. Bernard had already rung for the coastguard, he said they were on their way.”
“So do you have to call the coastguard out a lot over here?”
“No, we look after ourselves. We’ve got our own boats. We know better than to mess around on the water, people are well drilled on safety. Particularly those of us who live here.”
Johnny nodded. “So how was your relationship with Simone?”
Natasha gripped the handle of her mug. There were dark circles beneath her eyes. “I didn’t see much of her between team meetings, but we got on well. She was a good team member. Enthusiastic, well motivated, she kept people happy.”
“And you enjoyed working with her?”
“I don’t know what you’re trying to imply?”
Johnny heard the door opening behind him. A heavily built man with thinning grey hair stood in the doorway.
“Who are you?” he asked.
Johnny stood up. “DC Chiles, Dorset Police.”
The man grunted. “You here about Simone?”
“I am,” Johnny replied.
“Nice girl,” the man said. “Doesn’t deserve it, whatever happened to her.”
Johnny looked at the man’s face. He seemed drawn and had deep crow’s feet around his eyes.
“You’re a freelance journalist?” Johnny asked him. “You don’t work for the National Trust.”
“No such luck,” the man said. “I’m the muggins who has to go across on the ferry every other day. Running errands, grubbing for what little work I can get, that kind of thing. I look after Natasha here, let her get on with her job.”
Natasha had gone very still in her chair. Johnny wondered what was going on between this couple, if they’d had an argument before he’d arrived.
The boss would want an update. They didn’t need to ask anybody for alibis until they had a time of death.
He stood up. “Thanks for your time,” he said. “I’ll be back if I’ve got any more questions.”
“I’m sure you will,” said Bernard, his voice tight.
He stood back to let Johnny pass and opened the front door for him. Johnny walked out into the bright sunshine. The sun glinted off the harbour and a boat was passing silently.
He turned back to the front door. He opened his
mouth, about to thank the couple for their time. But instead, a blank blue door stared back at him.
He hoped everybody on this island wasn’t as unfriendly as the Williams.
Chapter Thirteen
Lesley left the pathologist and approached Ed Rogers. So now she had a murder to investigate. She shivered as a light breeze hit the back of her neck.
Ed was looking grim. One hand was plunged in his pocket, the other played with the National Trust fleece lanyard around his neck.
“What’s the verdict?” he asked her.
She eyed him.
“We need to do a post-mortem,” she said. “To confirm cause of death. But it’s looking like someone did this to her.”
He opened his mouth and tugged at his lower lip. “Poor Simone.”
“Did you know her well?”
“As well as any of the full-time staff here.” He shook his head. “Not that well, no.”
“Did you see her in the last few days?”
He shook his head. “Sorry. Natasha Williams will be more use to you than I can.”
“Yes.”
Ed scratched his chin. “I’ll make sure people know.” He looked at her, blinking. “They need to know there could be a killer on the island.”
“Let’s not get people too alarmed just yet.”
“Alarmed? They might be at risk.”
Lesley took a step towards him. Nine times out of ten, a murder victim had been killed by a relative or friend. There was more chance one of Ed’s staff would be arrested, than that they would be the next victim.
“Please,” she said. “Let us conduct some interviews first.”
He frowned. “I don’t see why…” He nodded. “OK. But I’ll be calling a staff meeting this evening.”
“What time?”
He sniffed. “Seven.”
“OK.” So they had until seven before people started lying to them. “I’ll help you with that.”
He looked at her as if the idea hadn’t occurred to him. “Of course.”
“I’d like to interview all of your employees, and possibly the John Lewis folks too.”
“Yes.” He stared towards the beach, where Simone’s body still lay.
The pathology assistants were preparing to move her. They needed to take the body somewhere where no more damage could be done to her.
The Island Murders (Dorset Crime Book 3) Page 5