The Island Murders (Dorset Crime Book 3)

by Rachel McLean

  “You're up,” Dennis said. “You lied to me.”

  “I don't know what you're talking about. I’m sorry, Sarge, but I can’t talk. We're looking for a guy who we think might be the killer.”

  “Johnny,” Dennis said. “How long have you known me?”

  “Eighteen years, Sarge. Look. Can we do this another—“

  “And how long have you been lying to me?”

  Silence.

  “Johnny?”

  “I told you I'd stop, Sarge. I am stopping.”

  “So why did the DCI overhear you on the phone to Arthur Kelvin?”

  Dennis felt tension grip his chest.

  If he couldn't trust Johnny, who could he trust?

  He'd told Lesley that Johnny was his best DC, that he was reliable. And now, there he was, proving to her that he was a liar and fraud. A criminal at that. And Dennis was here, unable to do anything about it.

  “Johnny, I have no idea what she’ll do,” he said. “But you need to understand that the DCI knows that you've been working with Arthur Kelvin.”

  “Sarge,” Johnny whispered. “Why did you tell her?”

  If he could have, Dennis would have reached down the phone and grabbed Johnny by the scruff of the neck.

  “That's not the question, Johnny. The question is why you have continued to make contact with Kelvin, despite promising me that you would stop.”

  Silence again.

  “Johnny?”

  More silence.

  “Johnny, talk to me.”

  The line went dead.

  Dennis threw his phone down on the desk.

  Outside, Mike was looking through the glass that separated the DCI’s office from the main room. Dennis stared at him, fighting to control his breathing.

  He grabbed his phone and went to ring Johnny again, then thought better of it.

  This was a conversation that needed to happen face to face. And so was the conversation he’d need to have with the DCI.

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  Tina was frustrated.

  There were five of them now, scouring the island looking for the boat. Looking for Bernard, and that journalist.

  Why hadn't they found them yet?

  She knew this was a big island, that it took an hour to do a circuit of the place. But even so, there were only so many beaches. And there'd been no sign of a boat.

  She'd covered the area near the scout camp, checking the huts, but there was nothing there. Now she was heading into the woods past the Williams house.

  She'd tried the door, but there'd been no answer. She'd go up to Penelope Park where Natasha worked. Ask her where her husband might have gone.

  She was about to turn off the path when she heard a voice in the woods behind. She stopped and listened.

  There it was, again. A shout.

  Tina scanned the woods.

  The trees were dense here and she couldn't see anything other than green.

  She slowed her breathing and closed her eyes, focusing on her hearing. There was a scream. It was off to the right, in the direction of the lake where they'd gone looking for Anya.

  She grabbed her radio.

  “PC Abbott requesting urgent assistance.”

  “PS Dillick here. What’s happening?”

  “I heard a scream in the woods.” She grabbed her mobile and opened the What3Words app. “Words. Veal. Shell,” she snapped.

  “Got it. Be with you in four minutes.”

  She let go of her radio and started running towards the voices.

  She tried to listen as she ran, but the sound of her body crashing through the undergrowth was too loud. She waded through, trying to move quickly. Plants pulled at her legs.

  She should have taken the path. It was further, but it would have been quicker.

  She looked off to the left, towards the path. If she ran towards that and then took the path round, would she get there quicker? Or should she carry on going?

  Carry on. She was almost there.

  She heard another scream and a yell.

  Two women, two voices. Then there was a shout, a man.

  Tina picked up pace, thundering through the woods. Brambles clawed at her, tugging at her skin. She'd pay for this later, but she didn't care.

  At last she saw them.

  She stopped, her breathing heavy. Up ahead in a clearing were four people. Natasha Williams, Frankie Quinn, Bernard Williams, and that journalist woman, Sadie Dawes.

  Were they all working together?

  No. Bernard had hold of Frankie. He held her in front of him, his hand gripping her neck. Her eyes were wide and she kept throwing her feet out in front of her. She was trying to bring them around, to trip him up.

  Tina grabbed her radio. “PC Abbott here. Assault in progress. Male suspect with female in his grasp. Two more women watching.”

  Were the other two women suspects, or witnesses?

  Sergeant Dillick responded. “On way. Two minutes.”

  Tina watched the four people ahead of her. They hadn't seen her. She had to intervene.

  She stepped forward and the plant life crackled around her.

  Frankie turned towards her, followed by Bernard.

  “Help!” Frankie called. “Get him!”

  Tina didn’t want to hurry in case she spooked Bernard. Even though she couldn't see one, she couldn’t tell for sure if he had a weapon.

  The TV reporter stood outside the group. She had her phone up. She was filming.

  Bloody hell. How inhumane could you get?

  “Hold it right there!” she called. “Don't move.”

  Bernard pushed Frankie to the ground. He turned towards Tina.

  He pulled something out of his pocket. From this distance she couldn't tell what it was.

  A knife?

  “Don’t move!” she shouted.

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  Frankie felt the wind knocked out of her as she fell to the ground.

  She looked up at Natasha, who was staring between her and Bernard, her eyes full of panic.

  “What did he do, Natasha?” she asked. “What's he been doing to you?”

  Natasha shook her head. “Nothing.”

  “Shut the fuck up,” Bernard told his wife. He turned to Frankie.

  Frankie looked up at him. He plunged his hand into his pocket and brought out a knife. It was a Swiss Army knife, the kind of thing most people on the island carried. He flicked the blade out and waved it at her.

  Frankie raised an eyebrow in contempt. “You think I'm scared of that?” She turned to Natasha. “Nat, take your bloody fleece off. Show me what he's been doing to you.”

  “No!” Natasha cried. “It's none of your business.”

  “It is my business,” Frankie said. “He killed Anya and Simone, didn't he? They found out. That's why Simone wanted off the island. That's why you argued with Anya. They knew, didn't they? They confronted you about it.”

  Natasha was crying. “It's none of their business,” she wailed. “It's none of yours, it's between me and Bernard.”

  Bernard was looking at his wife, chewing his lip.

  Now.

  In one swift move, Frankie pulled herself upright and threw out a fist. She caught Bernard on the cheek.

  He reeled backwards, shocked as much as injured. Bernard wasn't a tall man and Frankie was well-built and ten years younger. Her job kept her fit. His, sitting in front of a computer and writing, didn't.

  She hurried towards Natasha. “If he's been abusing you, it is our business. You're my friend. I care about you.”

  Natasha threw out her arms to stop her. Frankie stopped walking, two paces away from her friend.

  Natasha looked at Bernard. “I'm sorry, love.”

  “Why are you sorry for him?” Frankie cried.

  “How dit right there!”

  Frankie turned to see the policewoman advancing on them. She crashed through the bushes. “Don’t move!”

  Frankie turned back towards Natasha.r />
  She stopped breathing.

  Natasha was next to Bernard. She’d grabbed the knife and was holding it out, staring at her husband. She glared at him, her eyes glinting.

  “Nat!” Frankie cried. “Don't!”

  Natasha glanced at her and then back at Bernard.

  Bernard pushed himself up. He advanced on Natasha. “You wouldn’t. I know you wouldn’t.”

  He turned back to where Natasha’s tool kit had been left on the ground. He grabbed a hammer.

  “No!” Frankie cried.

  Bernard lunged at Natasha, but he was too slow. She ducked below his arm and threw her arm forward. The knife went into his side.

  Frankie stood up, her heart deafening in her ears. Natasha grabbed Bernard and held him as he fell to the ground.

  “You've been terrorising me for months,” Natasha said to him, her voice low. “You killed Anya and Simone because they knew.”

  “No,” he gasped. “No.”

  “Liar!” Natasha screamed.

  “Stop!” the policewoman shouted. She fumbled behind her back and brought out her baton.

  Natasha leaned down over Bernard and plunged the knife further into his side.

  Frankie ran for them. She grabbed Natasha.

  She pulled her friend’s arm away, flinging the knife into the bushes.

  The policewoman was on her. “Let go of him,” she said. “He's injured.”

  “Yes, I know he's fucking injured,” Frankie panted. “But he did it, he killed them.”

  The policewoman looked at her. “Stand back. I need to administer first aid.”

  There was a crash as two more police officers ran through the bushes towards them. Frankie looked from them to their colleague, who had her hands over Bernard’s wound. Blood seeped between her fingers.

  “Bernard!” Natasha screamed. She lunged forward. One of the officers, a young man, grabbed her and held her back.

  Natasha’s face was white, her mouth open.

  “Bernard. Bernard, I'm sorry.”

  Frankie stepped towards her friend and put her arm around her shoulders. Natasha stiffened and then sank into her.

  Frankie held her as she sobbed into her chest.

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  Lesley was heading past the scout camp when her phone rang.

  “Ma'am, it's PS Dillick. We’ve apprehended a suspect.”

  “Who?”

  Lesley looked round at Ed, who was running behind her.

  “Natasha Williams,” said the sergeant. “She stabbed her husband.”

  “Say again?” Lesley almost tripped over her own feet. “Natasha?”

  She looked at Ed, who frowned.

  “She stabbed Bernard?” Lesley repeated.

  “Yes, ma'am,” PS Dillick replied. “Although according to PC Abbott, it was probably in self-defence.”

  “Right,” Lesley said, “I'll be there as quick as I can. Where are you?”

  “I'll text you the coordinates,” he told her.

  “Thanks.”

  She put her phone into the inside pocket of her jacket and turned to Ed. “We need to run.”

  He nodded.

  She wasn't sure about bringing Ed. But if there were members of his staff involved in an attack, it might be helpful to have him there.

  They ran along the path above the cliff tops on the south of the island, Lesley unsure where she was heading. She grabbed her phone from her pocket and saw a text from PS Dillick: grapes.glee.quick. Typing what looked like nonsense into What3Words brought up the map.

  “What's the quickest way to get there?”

  “Along the heathland walk,” Ed said. “We'll take a right at Rough Break, and then we'll be right there.”

  “How long?” she asked him.

  “Five minutes if we run.”

  Lesley pulled in a breath, unsure if she could run for five minutes. When she'd been in the West Midlands, she used a car to get everywhere. In truth, she'd spent most of her time behind a desk.

  But here, things were different. She'd already lost three inches around her waist. She'd come here for rest, for respite from stress after being involved in a terror attack. She hadn't expected to get fit.

  She panted as they ran, forcing herself to go on. Every muscle in her body screamed at her to stop, but she knew she couldn't. There was a crime scene ahead, an assault. She didn't know if there was another murder.

  She was tempted to grab her phone and call PS Dillick for an update while she ran, but she knew that if she did that her breath would give out on her.

  “How long?” she panted to Ed.

  “We're two thirds of the way there.”

  Thank God for that. She could do this.

  At last she heard voices up ahead. She scanned the woods. The undergrowth was thick, the trees dense.

  “Where?” she asked Ed.

  “Turn right, this path coming up.”

  Neither of them knew exactly where they were going. They ran blindly along the path. Lesley brought up her phone. The coordinates were off to the left.

  She grabbed Ed's arm and stopped. She'd heard voices again. She peered through the woods.

  “There!” she shouted.

  She could see two uniforms, high-vis jackets clear through the bushes.

  “I'll go first,” Ed told her.

  He wove a route through the bushes and brambles. Lesley followed him, glad to have someone familiar with the island to guide her. At last they stumbled out of the bushes, and came upon a scene of organised chaos.

  Bernard Williams lay on the ground, covered in a thermal blanket. Tina crouched over him, PS Dillick at her side. The two other constables stood nearby. One of them had hold of Natasha, who was handcuffed. On the other side of Bernard stood Frankie Quinn and that bloody TV reporter.

  “What’s your name?” Lesley snapped at her.

  “Sadie Dawes,” the woman replied. “He helped me onto the island.” She pointed at Bernard.

  “I don't care how you got here,” Lesley said. “You shouldn't have come.”

  “She was filming it!” Frankie called out.

  “What?”

  Lesley went to the journalist. She held out her hand. “Hand it over.”

  “It's news,” Sadie replied.

  “It's evidence, hand it over.”

  Sadie gave her a look of irritation. Reluctantly, she fished in her pocket and brought out her phone. She slammed it into Lesley's open palm.

  “I want it back when you're finished with it.”

  “Perhaps,” Lesley replied. It depended on what was on it. “Of course, if it turns out you were assisting a murderer, we might need to keep hold of it. For your trial.”

  She gave the sweetest smile she could and turned to Tina and Dillick before the woman could think of a reply. “How is he?”

  “Alive,” PS Dillick replied. “We need paramedics asap. I called it in.”

  Lesley looked over at Natasha. She stood next to PC McGuigan, her gaze down at the ground. Frankie was a few steps away from her. She, too, was looking at the ground, but kept glancing up at her friend.

  What had she seen?

  “We need the air ambulance,” she told Dillick.

  He looked up at the trees. “It'll never get through.”

  “It can use the open land over by Penelope Park,” Ed said. “There's a spot.”

  “How will they know?” Lesley asked.

  “They've been here before,” Ed said. “There was a heart attack last year.”

  “OK,” she said. “You talk to Sergeant Dillick, make sure they know where to come.”

  Lesley walked towards Bernard. He lay on the ground, muttering incomprehensibly. Tina knelt over him, her hands on his chest.

  “Are you OK?” Lesley asked her.

  Tina nodded. Her hair was in her face, damp with sweat.

  “I'm fine. Not so sure about him though.”

  Lesley looked down at Bernard. “What happened?”

  Tina s
hrugged. “There was a confrontation. I think he's the killer.” She glanced over at Natasha. “He was abusing his wife, and when it looked like he was going for Frankie too, Natasha finally snapped.”

  Lesley sank back on her heels. She looked up at Natasha.

  Whatever Bernard had done, she would have to arrest his wife as well.

  Chapter Seventy

  Lesley looked up as Detective Superintendent Carpenter's door opened. He stood in the doorway, smiling at her.

  “Lesley,” he said, “Come on in.”

  She stood up and smoothed down the skirt of her suit. It was good to be back in the office, somewhere she wouldn't have to get muddy. Somewhere she wouldn't have to run. But this was a meeting she wasn't looking forward to.

  She followed the Super into his office. He walked to the low sofa by the window and gestured for her to take the armchair next to him. A pot of coffee stood on the table.

  “Would you like one?” he asked.

  Lesley eyed the coffee. This was only the second time she'd been asked to sit here, the first time she'd been offered a drink. For once, he wasn't pissed off with her.

  That wouldn’t last long.

  He poured her a coffee and gestured towards a jug of milk. She shook her head and pulled the cup towards her. She drank. It was strong, better than she'd expected.

  Good enough even for Zoe Finch, she thought.

  She tried to lean back and relax, but her skin was on fire. She'd come straight here this morning, not stopping off at her office, not ready to face her team just yet. What she was about to do was something she didn't want to discuss with them first. If she did, she might not have been able to go through with it.

  “So,” he said, “we've made two arrests, I hear?”

  She cleared her throat. “Bernard Williams has confessed to killing Simone Browning and Anya Davinski. Natasha Williams is pleading self-defence.”

  “And the witnesses?”

  “Frankie Quinn witnessed it, PC Abbott saw some of it. We think Natasha Williams’s case is good. CPS are unlikely to prosecute.”

  “Ah,” he said. “I know what the politics of these things are like. Women defending themselves against abusive husbands.”

  Lesley frowned. In her experience, it wasn’t as straightforward as that. “She had burn marks on her arms. Her husband smoked a cigar, he'd been putting it out on her skin.”