The Island Murders (Dorset Crime Book 3)

by Rachel McLean

  “We need to know if he saw Anya yesterday, or if he knows anything about why Simone wanted to get off the island.”

  “She didn't want to get off the island. She just wanted to move sites.”

  Lesley raised an eyebrow. “Either way, your husband might be able to help us.”

  “He's busy,” Natasha said. “He's got a commission for the Daily Mail.”

  “We know,” Johnny told her, his voice thin.

  Lesley gave the woman a smile. “Thanks for your time.”

  She exchanged glances with Johnny, wondering why Natasha was so anxious about the prospect of them speaking with Bernard.

  “Where can we find your husband?” Johnny asked.

  “No idea,” Natasha said.

  “Hasn't he been hanging around near the beach?”

  Natasha looked at him. She shrugged. “Not sure, you'd have to go and look.”

  “We will,” said Lesley.

  She gestured to Johnny and turned back towards the beach, questions buzzing in her head.

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Tina had spent much of the morning helping Gail and her team of CSIs. They had equipment to lug back and forth between the quay and the lagoon.

  They'd found a shortcut, cutting around the front of the houses on the quay. But even so, the wet ground meant they had to cut inland to reach the spot where Anya had been found.

  She walked back towards the quay. There was one last trip to make, one last bag of equipment. The morning was heating up and she’d removed the jacket of her uniform. Even so, she was sweating. The nylon trousers that uniformed constables wore weren't suitable for traipsing around Brownsea Island on a day like today.

  As she approached the quay, Tina spotted a boat approaching from the harbour. She stood, glad for the opportunity to take a short rest, and watched it as it closed in.

  She squinted, trying to identify the people on board. Just one figure, as far as she could make out.

  The boat was small, a day boat. The kind of thing you'd hire to go up and down the river. Not to come out into the harbour and travel across to Brownsea Island. It certainly wasn't one of the police boats.

  Maybe it was the pathologist. Alone? Never. He’d have his assistants in tow.

  The boat slowed as it passed the quay and then picked up speed. It drifted past the castle towards the beaches on the south side of the island.

  Tina frowned. The National Trust had stopped any boats landing on the island. The police boat and the one used by the CSIs were right in front of her at the quay.

  She ran up towards the castle, passing around its walls and skirting past the old farm buildings. If she was right, that boat was making for one of the beaches. It was the closest place you could moor a boat and it was ideal for a small craft like that.

  She looked around as she ran, checking if any of her colleagues were nearby. But everyone was back at the lagoon. The only noise was the sound of the peacock shrieking over by the church.

  She ran to the first beach. There were steps down, they were steep and sandy. She hurried down, panting as she went.

  She stopped as she spotted the boat. It was on the beach, two people dragging it onto the sand.

  Tina was sure she'd only seen one person. In which case, who was the other one? Somebody from the island?

  She raised her hands to her eyes to shield them from the low sun. A woman and a man, neither of them wearing National Trust uniform.

  There was gorse next to the path. She stepped to the side and huddled behind it, peering down at the beach.

  The two people dragged the boat onto the sand and pushed it a few times to check it was secure. They turned to each other and spoke briefly. She couldn't make out the words.

  As she watched, she realised she recognised the man.

  He turned towards her. She ducked down below the shrub. As she did so, she remembered who the woman was, too.

  Sadie Dawes, from the Bournemouth press. She was the one who’d called the office and told them she was coming over here.

  But what was Bernard Williams doing helping her onto the island?

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Lesley and Johnny walked towards the beach where Simone had been found on Tuesday night. The heat was picking up, only the faintest of breezes rustling through the trees around them.

  They came to the beach and stood at the clifftop looking down at the sand. Gail's team had removed all their equipment, and there was no sign that this had recently been a crime scene.

  Now it was the turn of the lagoon to be full of forensic equipment. Lesley hoped Whittaker had arrived by now. She needed to get back there and check his findings.

  “He's not here,” she said to Johnny.

  He shook his head. “He could be anywhere. It’s a big island.”

  “Let's keep looking,” she said.

  They turned away from the beach and walked back inland. There were a series of beaches along here, connected by paths. To reach each one you had to go inland, walk along the cliff and then follow another path down to the shore. It was tiring work. Not what Lesley had realised she was signing up for when she’d joined Dorset Police.

  As they approached the next junction, she saw Tina coming the other way. She looked agitated.

  “Boss!” Tina called.

  Lesley and Johnny hurried to join the PC.

  “What's up?” Lesley asked her.

  Tina pointed down towards the next beach. “I've just seen a boat come in.”

  “A National Trust boat?” Lesley asked.

  Tina shook her head. “A day boat, the kind of thing you'd hire to use on the river. Sadie Dawes was on it and Bernard Williams was helping her get onto the island.”

  “Sadie Dawes?” Johnny said. “What’s she doing here?”

  “Carrying out her threat,” Lesley told him. “But more importantly, why’s Bernard Williams helping her?”

  “Fellow journalist,” Johnny muttered. “All troublemakers.”

  “We're looking for him,” Lesley told Tina. “Show us where you saw him.”

  “He was down on that beach.” Tina turned back the way she'd come. The beach was invisible from here, trees and shrubs hiding the path.

  “Come on, then,” Lesley said.

  They jogged towards the path leading down to the beach. As they reached the steps, Tina ran ahead. Lesley did her best to keep up with the younger woman.

  Halfway down the steps, Tina stopped. The beach ahead of them was empty.

  “That makes no sense,” the PC said.

  Lesley came to a standstill, almost crashing into her. “There's no one here.”

  Tina turned to her. “They were definitely here five minutes ago.”

  “You sure?” Johnny said. “Have you got the right beach?”

  Tina gave him a look. “Of course I've got the right bloody beach, Johnny.”

  Johnny smiled. “OK, calm down.”

  Lesley looked at Tina. “You definitely saw a woman coming in on a boat? You’re sure it was Sadie Dawes?”

  Tina nodded. “I know her from the telly. And Bernard Williams. I reckon he'd arranged to meet her here.”

  Lesley looked down towards the beach. Sure enough, there were marks on the sand. Footprints and what looked like scraping from the bottom of a boat. “So where have they gone?”

  Tina ran down to the beach. She stopped at the water’s edge, her hand raised to shield her eyes. “No sign of the boat.”

  “They’ve gone to another beach,” Johnny said. “Maybe they heard us.”

  “That means she's on the island somewhere,” Johnny said.

  “Right.” Lesley looked between Johnny and Tina. “Tina, radio your mates in uniform. The two of you, search the beaches along here. Find out where they've come in and stop them.”

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Lesley hurried away from Johnny and Tina, towards the clearing where she'd spoken to Natasha earlier. There were more beaches up here, and Natasha might know wh
ere her husband would have taken Sadie Dawes.

  As she headed along the path, her phone rang. She stopped, out of breath, and pulled it out of her pocket.

  “DCI Clarke,” she panted.

  “Lesley, it's Gail.”

  “Gail, how's it going? Has Whittaker arrived yet?”

  “He's just got here.”

  “Good. What does he say?”

  “Nothing yet. I'm steering well clear of him, he's in a foul mood.”

  Whittaker was always in a foul mood.

  “Tell him to ring me when he's got a cause of death, will you?” Lesley said.

  “No problem,” Gail replied. “But I've got the preliminary results back on that blood we found on the boat.”

  Lesley turned towards the clifftop and the harbour beyond. A large sailing boat passed, looking peaceful on the water. Her breathing was heavy and uneven. She didn't like not having access to a car. Why didn't they use goddamn bikes here?

  “What is it?” she asked Gail. “Have you got a match?”

  “I'm afraid not,” Gail replied. “It's not even human.”

  “What?”

  “It came from a bird.”

  “What kind of bird?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “No.” Lesley felt herself deflate. “Were there any more forensics on the boat? Any prints, hair strands, fibres?”

  “Nothing,” Gail said. “I don't think that boat was used in the crime.”

  “No.”

  Damn.

  Lesley considered the boat that Tina had seen being pulled onto the beach. Was that the boat they were looking for?

  “I can't come back over there right now,” she told Gail. “We've had a development, we're trying to find a boat that we think has come into the island.”

  “A boat?”

  “Long story. Tell Whittaker to ring me when he's got a cause of death, yes?”

  “Of course.” Gail hung up.

  Lesley plunged her phone in her pocket and carried on running.

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  “Sally Farthing speaking. Can I help you?”

  Mike glanced at his screen again, checking the handwritten note from Simone Browning that he'd found in her HR file.

  “I hope so,” he said. “My name is DC Legg, I'm calling from Dorset Police. I gather you're the person who provided us with Simone Browning's HR file.”

  “Simone Browning?”

  “She worked on Brownsea Island.”

  “Oh. The one who was murdered?”

  How could this woman have forgotten the name of a murder victim so quickly? “Yes,” he said. “You gave us a copy of her file and we found a letter requesting a transfer off the island.”

  “Oh.”

  Mike wondered how many files this woman had to deal with and whether she could remember the content of any of them.

  “I'm calling to find out if you know the reason that Simone requested a transfer.”

  “Have you spoken to her line manager?”

  “Her line manager's Natasha Williams. We’re trying to get hold of her, but I was also hoping to speak to somebody less closely involved.”

  “OK,” Sally said. “I get you. Hang on a minute, I'll need to speak to my manager.”

  Mike rolled his eyes as the on-hold music kicked in. What was it about dealing with corporate offices? Nobody ever took responsibility, they always wanted to pass it up the line.

  “Everything all right?” Dennis was looking across the desk at him.

  “On hold to the National Trust HR team,” Mike replied. “I don't expect I'm going to get anything useful.”

  “Keep trying,” Dennis told him, “You never know.”

  Mike nodded. He leaned back in his chair, looking up at the ceiling. One of the lights was flickering, casting an eerie light show over the office.

  “Hello?”

  Mike sat up in his chair, almost tipping it over.

  “Yes,” he said. “I'm still here.”

  “OK.” It was a different voice. “This is Rebecca Hewitt. I gather you want to know about Simone Browning.”

  “Yes. Did you speak to her?”

  “I called her to follow up on the letter she sent us. We always conduct an interview with any staff member who requests a transfer.”

  “So what can you tell me?”

  “To be honest, It was all a bit odd.”

  “Odd?”

  “She told me she was scared.”

  “Scared of what? Was she being bullied?”

  “No. I asked her about workplace harassment, and she said that wasn’t the case.”

  “Who was she scared of? Her manager, Natasha?”

  “This is confidential.”

  “It’s a murder investigation.” Mike bit down frustration.

  “Yes.” A pause. “She was scared of Natasha's husband.”

  Mike waved across the desk to get Dennis’s attention.

  “Did Simone tell you why she was scared of Bernard?” he asked.

  “She didn’t say,” Rebecca replied. “She was nervous about talking about it. But reading between the lines, I got the feeling she'd confronted him about his relationship with his wife.”

  Mike felt himself tense. “Confronted him about what, specifically?”

  “Like I say, she wouldn’t go into detail. But I suggest you talk to Natasha.”

  Chapter Sixty

  Lesley spotted Johnny up ahead of her, standing at the head of one of the paths leading down to the beaches.

  She picked up speed and strode towards him. He was on the phone.

  He turned as he spotted her, his face flushing.

  “Ah, yes,” he said. “That's all fine. Yes, of course. OK, I'll speak to you tomorrow.”

  He hung up and gave her a tight smile.

  “Everything OK?” Lesley asked him.

  “That was my wife.”

  Lesley nodded. “Another scare?”

  Johnny looked at her for just a moment longer than felt comfortable.

  “Er, no. No, she's fine. She just wanted to check on me, that's all. She knows I get seasick.”

  “You were fine this time,” Lesley said. “You told me.”

  He nodded, not meeting her eye. “Yeah.”

  “So have you found that boat yet?” she asked.

  He shook his head. He looked down at his phone and then put it in his inside pocket. Lesley caught a glimpse of the screen as he did so.

  Johnny straightened. “I was just about to try this path,” he said. “I can’t see anything from up here, but you never know.”

  “What about Tina?” Lesley asked. “And the other PC's?”

  Johnny shrugged. “She ran off, said she was going to radio them. They’ve probably found the boat by now.”

  “Let's hope so,” Lesley said. “Call Tina, make sure she reports in as soon as she finds something. I need to go to the lagoon, see what Whittaker’s got to say for himself.”

  “OK.”

  Johnny gave her a sheepish look then turned away. He realised he was walking in the wrong direction, and then turned again towards the path to the beach. He hurried down it, occasionally glancing back at her over his shoulder.

  Lesley watched him, her heart pounding in her ears.

  She'd seen his phone screen as he'd put his phone back in his pocket. A name, the person he'd been talking to.

  She couldn't remember his wife's name, but she was damn sure it wasn't AK.

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Elsa threw herself into the car. She'd parked on double yellow lines by the entrance to the station. She'd hoped to go into the office early, run over some sensitive files. But it was half past nine and she was going to be late for her court appearance.

  A traffic warden was heading towards her. She had to move.

  She tossed her phone into its holder and flinched as its ringtone burst out of the car speakers. She muttered under her breath, pulling away. She could see the traffic warden in her rear-view mirro
r, frowning in frustration. The woman hadn't had time to put a ticket on Elsa's car.

  She hit the button on her steering wheel to answer the phone.

  “Elsa Short.”

  “Elsa, how are you?”

  She knew that voice.

  He rarely called her himself, preferring to let his associates do it. She knew a personal call was bad news.

  “Arthur,” she replied, trying to keep her voice as light as possible. “How are you?”

  She pulled out on to Holdenhurst Road and heard a Cross Country train going under the bridge behind her. She hoped Sharon was on it. She hadn't been entirely happy about having to bring Sharon to the station instead of Lesley doing it, but Lesley had to attend a crime scene. This was what being in a relationship with a copper meant. It wasn't that different from being a lawyer. Particularly with the clients she’d been dealing with lately.

  “Let's dispense with the pleasantries,” Kelvin replied. “Where have you been the last three days?”

  “Nowhere,” she said.

  “I find it difficult to believe you disappeared off the face of the earth.”

  Elsa stopped at a traffic island, cursing the traffic. She needed to get into town.

  “I've been in the office,” she said. “Or at home.” It paid to speak plainly with the likes of Arthur Kelvin.

  “I've been expecting a call from you,” he said, “About the Leonard case.”

  Steven Leonard was an associate of Kelvin’s. He’d been fined for possession with intent to supply a few months back, and had been stupid enough to get himself caught with drugs again last week. Even with a ‘friendly’ magistrate or judge, she’d struggle to get him out of a custodial sentence this time.

  She glanced in her rear-view mirror. A BMW was right up her arse. She scowled at it and pressed on the accelerator.

  “Sorry, Arthur,” she said. “I was planning on looking through the paperwork this morning, making a few calls, but something came up.”

  “I gather that. Who's the sprog?”

  She felt her chest clench. “What sprog?”