‘Jasper would never give me a divorce, and you’d leave me for the first pretty boy or girl who crossed your path.’
Dr Pakefield is sitting three seats ahead while Phillip teases me. The medic is gazing out of the window, lost in thought, while the plane’s engines roar. Taking off in the ten-seater aircraft is like being catapulted into the sky, but Mustique is waiting for me at the end of our journey, which makes any discomfort bearable. Dusk is already falling and the captain must be eager to reach the island, because landing in darkness is forbidden. The artificial lights of St Lucia fade as we head south, miles of ocean rippling below us. I don’t know why a chill travels across my shoulders when the island drifts into sight; it’s still so thick with trees and undergrowth it looks like an emerald, afloat on a skein of dark blue velvet. The island’s original wildness still lingers in my memory, when feral cows and goats ran through the jungle, the air teeming with mosquitoes. Our plane skims over Mustique’s highest peak, then Phillip’s hand grips mine again as we drop like a stone to the tiny runway.
4
DARKNESS FALLS MINUTES after we touch down. I can just make out the plain that lies at Mustique’s heart, once part of an old cotton plantation, still rimmed by two-hundred-year-old palms. My heart lifts once we step off the plane, to be greeted by warm air and the scent of orchids. Staff are waiting outside the small terminus to welcome us, and the building speaks volumes about the island’s relaxed atmosphere. Mustique’s glamorous guests arrive and leave every day in high season, yet the building remains simple. Palm leaves cover its peaked roof, the words ‘arrivals’ and ‘departures’ daubed on hand-painted signs above two small doorways. The airport manager gives me a bow, not bothering to check my passport, as if I still owned the island. He enquires after Lord Blake with great courtesy and even though I love the kindness I’m shown on Mustique, it takes so long to exchange pleasantries I’m relieved to get outside.
My butler has delivered my dune buggy to the car park, which has space for only a few cars to accommodate the island’s tiny fleet of vehicles. I enjoy walking everywhere in Mustique under normal circumstances, but tonight I’m glad of the transport when Phillip and I set off for his villa, with my suitcase on the back seat. The island’s smells fill my lungs as we drive: the sweetness of decaying leaves, sea salt, and paprika drifting from someone’s kitchens. I can feel my shoulders relaxing already, but Mustique has changed in the six months since my last visit. The paths through the casuarinas and lush undergrowth have been paved, and soon the whole island will be criss-crossed with formal walkways, instead of the sandy tracks I love. Many of my friends’ holiday homes stand empty. There are no lights on in Mick Jagger’s property, so there will be less excitement on the island, and none of the impromptu cricket matches he organises. David Bowie’s house lies in darkness too, so trips to Basil’s Bar will be less fun than usual, until both men fly in for Lily’s party.
Phillip’s villa lies due west from mine, overlooking Plantain Bay. It’s one of the few homes on Mustique with no fences protecting it from the winds that thrash the island in hurricane season. It’s named after the jacaranda trees that surround it, still heavy with purple blossoms. Jacaranda is just a simple cottage, clad in bleached timber, and topped with a slate roof. It speaks volumes about Phillip that he adores the simplicity of the place, and employs only two staff – an elderly maid, and Jose to tend his garden. He invites me inside for a drink, but I’m keen to see Lily, so I invite him over for a late lunch tomorrow instead. He promises to bring fresh papayas from his tree, before saying good night.
I slow down to listen to the peace on the last stage of my journey through thick stands of trees. There’s no evidence of human activity, just the mosquitoes the island is named after, and cicadas chirruping like a round of applause. It’s the sound I imagine when I’m in England, that quiet hum lulling me to sleep. Then I hear a new noise: footsteps, slow and regular on the path behind me, but when I look back, all I can see is a dark mass of palms, and the stars gleaming overhead. The footsteps pause for a moment, then draw closer.
‘Come and join me, whoever you are,’ I call out.
Simon Pakefield blunders out from the undergrowth. I can read his discomfort from twenty yards, shoulders hunched like a schoolboy awaiting punishment.
‘How are you, Simon? I tried to catch your eye on the plane, to say hello, but you seemed in your own world.’
‘Sorry about that, Lady Vee.’ The man gives an awkward smile. ‘I didn’t see you.’
‘Never mind, let me give you a lift home.’
The doctor appears to relax as he steps into the buggy. We’re heading in the same direction, because he always stays in Dr Bunbury’s villa while he’s away. Pakefield talks about his plans to continue our doctor’s work during his two months on the island, raising funds for new X-ray equipment, and to upgrade the medical centre’s small ward with new beds and furniture.
‘That sounds marvellous, I’ll organise a fundraiser. Is your wife over with you this time?’
‘Chloe stayed with the children; we didn’t want to uproot them again.’
‘That’s a pity. You must come to dinner soon; it doesn’t pay to spend too much time alone.’
‘That’s very kind, but my patients keep me busy. I’m fine, honestly.’
‘Let me arrange a date anyway, we’d love to see you.’
When we come to a fork in the path, the doctor says good night and heads back to his borrowed villa, leaving me full of sympathy. Simon Pakefield relies on his wife’s social confidence; he’ll need extra support during his stay, to avoid isolation. The encounter has reassured me that Lily probably imagined being followed home this week. I’m still surprised she chose to return to Mustique, after returning from California this summer. The island must hold many painful memories, yet she’s determined to use the boat her mother left behind for her conservation work, and build up the Reef Revival charity. I would never dream of wrenching her away but sometimes wish she could forget the past.
My heart lifts when I catch sight of Eden House, through the dense tangle of branches. Jasper christened our villa before the first brick was laid, and it felt like heaven to live in luxury, after the tents we camped in at first. The three-storey house looks striking from a distance, particularly at night, dozens of tall windows glittering in its facade. It was designed by Oliver Messel, an architect famed for his sense of drama and gingerbread style. The pure white building has his trademark blend of modern and classical features, ornate woodwork adorning the roof, and the delicate balconies on the top floor. It looks romantic enough to be a film set for Romeo and Juliet, the marble terrace on the ground floor sweeping out to greet me. The gardens look glorious too, with outdoor lights glancing across the pool that lies on the far side of the lawn, our wooden pool house freshly painted.
I call out Lily’s name once I’m inside, but no one replies, which isn’t surprising. My staff have left for the day and my flight here was delayed. I feel an odd sense of discomfort, even though the quiet elegance of the place is always welcoming. Maybe it’s because I’ve rarely been alone in the house Jasper and I have adored for so many years. There’s no reason to be on edge apart from my long journey. I push the feeling aside, then walk through the ground floor. I chose the décor myself, with a little help from my friend Nicky Haslam, whose taste is impeccable. The rooms have tall ceilings, and white walls, celebrating the light that floods inside every day. The corners of each room are filled with pieces I’ve collected on my travels with Jasper and Princess Margaret, in India and the Caribbean. Tall mirrors hang from the walls, their silver frames engraved with mythical figures by skilled craftsmen in Jaipur a hundred years ago. My spirits are reviving by the time I go upstairs. My wardrobe contains the clothes I left here last time, and our collection of paintings still gives me pleasure. The vivid landscape I bought from a local artist fizzes with colour above the bed, and the delicate vase I found in Japan remains on the dressing table, waiting to be f
illed with flowers.
I could walk down to Britannia Bay, to look for Lily in Basil’s Bar, but combing my hair and putting on a fresh dress feels like too much effort. I take my time walking down the corridor, picking up objects I haven’t seen for months. When I look through the open doorway Lily’s room is less chaotic than usual. An old pair of sandals lie on the floor with some crumpled beach towels, but everything else looks tidy. She hasn’t changed the décor since she was a child, evidence of her passion for the oceans visible in every corner. A great white shark launches itself at me from the poster above her bed, and a chart showing different species of tropical fish is pinned to the wall, beside an underwater photo of a flourishing bed of coral.
Once I’m downstairs I switch off the swimming pool lights, then relax in a deckchair. Starlight is always the best form of illumination; the universe glitters overhead, a million stars like chips of diamante scattered across a giant blackboard, the moon drawing a path across the ocean’s surface. The only sounds are old-fashioned calypso music drifting from someone’s villa, faint laughter, and snakebirds singing their night-time chorus. It feels wonderful to bask in tropical air instead of Norfolk’s autumn cold. My memories of this place are already helping me unwind. Princess Margaret and I often sat here, watching the sunset with our eyes trained on the horizon, hoping to see the fabled green flash in the sea that’s meant to appear when the sun vanishes. We never did witness it, but had plenty of fun chatting as we kept watch.
When I hear footsteps on the path, I know immediately that something’s wrong. They’re tapping out a frantic rhythm. My goddaughter is running at full pelt until she comes to a halt at my feet, panting for breath, yet she still looks like a starlet. She’s blossomed into a genuine beauty, resembling a taller version of Audrey Hepburn in her white capri pants and black sleeveless top. Her black hair is cropped close to her skull, ocean-blue eyes wide with shock. Lily’s expression changes to delight in a heartbeat. When I rise to my feet she hugs me close, then pulls back to inspect me, her hands resting on my shoulders.
‘I’m so glad you’re here.’
‘Are you all right, darling?’ I ask. ‘Why were you running, just now?’
‘I got spooked coming home. Someone followed me again.’
Lily looks so vulnerable I have to remind myself that she’s a fully grown adult. She lived in America for three years and thrived there, on her own.
‘I wish you’d let me know your arrival time, I’d have waited at the airport. I hope you didn’t rush here because of me.’
‘Not at all, but I’ve been longing to see you, and the island.’
‘Get a mobile phone, please. It would make life so much easier.’
‘I can’t stand those shrill ringtones. Were you at Basil’s just now?’
‘I went to the Cotton House, looking for Amanda, but no one’s seen her.’ That note of anxiety is back in her voice, impossible to miss.
‘Have you seen each other much since she arrived?’
Lily nods vigorously. ‘She’s her usual self – full of wild energy, the most talkative girl I know.’
‘Have you spoken to security?’
‘When I went there at lunchtime the building was empty. Did you know there’s only one policeman patrolling the whole island?’
‘That’s because no one ever commits crimes here. Jasper and I know him well, his name’s Solomon Nile. He’s an Oxford graduate, probably the cleverest man on Mustique.’
‘He sounded too laidback for my liking on the phone. Amanda’s never let me down before; she’d say if she’d made other plans. We’ve been together almost every day this summer.’ Lily drops her gaze. ‘Someone scrawled an ugly message on the side of my boat a few days ago written in Creole. It said Leave Mustique or die like the coral.’
‘Why on earth didn’t you say? I’d have flown here sooner.’
‘There was no point in worrying you. The Layton brothers saw the damage before I washed off the paint, but they didn’t seem bothered.’
‘Solomon’s different, he’ll find where Amanda’s hiding in no time.’
‘Let’s hope so.’ The girl flops into the deckchair next to mine, then kicks off her beach shoes, just like she did as a child.
‘Phillip tells me Jose’s been acting strangely. Is that true?’
Lily looks surprised. ‘He seems fine to me, in fact he’s amazing. He spends most of his spare time helping me on the boat.’
‘Take care, darling. He’s always had a crush on you.’
She looks amused. ‘Rubbish, Vee. He’s just like you and me, except he can’t speak. That’s the only difference.’
‘I’m concerned for you, that’s all.’
‘Tell me how you’ve been,’ she says, squeezing my hand. ‘Give me all the news about everyone back home. I’ve been missing the gang like crazy.’
Lily’s face fills with delight, when I tell her about the family. She’ll be thrilled when they all fly in for her party. Lily is watching me, thoughtful as ever.
‘I probably overreacted to those noises in the jungle. I’ve been a bit strung out.’
‘It’s a tough time of year for you, isn’t it?’
‘I haven’t been thinking about the anniversary of Mum’s death that much, but I’m having trouble with my grant application. If the Oceanographic Society don’t renew our funds, the charity will have to rely on private sponsorship.’
‘Jasper and I can increase our donation.’
‘You’re already far too generous.’ She stares out at the sea. ‘It may sound weird but I feel closer to Mum now I’m spending more time on her boat, completing her project. Do you think she’d have been pleased?’
‘Emily was passionate about the island’s marine life, like you, but she was a generous spirit. She’d be happy whatever path you choose, if you enjoy it.’
‘Why do I miss her sometimes, even though I barely remember her?’
‘It’s only natural.’
‘You’ve been my real mother, Vee, and Jasper’s great too. He may be a crazy genius, but he’s always kind.’
‘You’re easy to love, Lily.’
She leans closer, inspecting my face. ‘You were so sad after Princess Margaret died. Are you feeling better?’
‘I think about her every day, but that’s to be expected. We were together longer than most marriages.’
We fall into silence and let the insects’ hum take over. We’re gazing in the same direction, at starlight glinting on the ocean’s surface. I argued with Jasper for months about where to build our villa. I wanted to live on the island’s sheltered side, overlooking the Caribbean, but he insisted we face the wild Atlantic. Jasper wanted to watch every storm gathering on the horizon, before it arrived. I hate to admit that he was right. The ocean’s drama still fascinates me. I’ve spent countless nights on the terrace, watching the sky darken over the shore below our villa, but the unexpected absence of Lily’s friend makes me concerned. There may be a new threat here that’s unforeseen, capable of arriving from any direction.
I push the thought from my mind and concentrate on Lily instead, teasing her about finding a boyfriend. Her conversational style is just like her mother’s, funny and animated. She’s completely unaware of her beauty, which adds to her charm. When I check my watch again, two hours have passed in the blink of an eye, and my journey is catching up with me. It’s tempting to spend more time chatting, but we’ll have the next month to enjoy each other’s company. I remind Lily to lock the front door when she comes up, before saying good night. I’m exhausted when I reach my bedroom, but glad that Mustique has retained its old magic.
I’m about to get into bed when I take a final look outside, tempted by the moonlight pouring through a gap in the curtains. The night sky is so clear I can see the impact craters on the moon’s face far clearer than in the UK, and the white line it’s drawn across the ocean. The scene is perfectly tranquil until I catch sight of movement in my garden. It looks like plants swaying in
the breeze, but someone is on my lawn, half-hidden by trees, his pace slow and predatory. I hold my breath until the figure emerges. It’s Jose Gomez, my young gardener. He stands on the path for a moment, his face silvered by the moon, then looks up at my window. He’s gone in a blink and I can no longer see where he’s hiding. Why would a staff member hang around our villa late at night, hours after his duties are finished?
5
Sunday, 15th September 2002
NILE WAKES FROM a nightmare at dawn. He lives through that same Oxford crime scene almost every night, even though his DCI forced him to see a counsellor for a few weeks. He considered resigning from the force, but his new job should help him decide whether to stay in the profession or walk away.
It still feels odd to be back in the cabin where he grew up. It stands in the middle of Lovell Village, a community of small wooden homes scattered across the hillside. The first thing he sees this morning is the coral from Amanda Fortini’s room. It’s on his windowsill, tainting the air with its odour of seaweed. It’s as brittle as dried bone, yet it once pulsed with life, each frond a separate organism. He studies its structure carefully, running a fingertip across the carved arrows, then sets it back on the windowsill. His eyes scan the small room before he grabs a towel from his chair. It was his childhood sanctuary; he spent countless hours here, studying for exams, and dreaming about his future. The desk his father built from old banana crates is still wedged between the door and his narrow bed, suitable for a twelve-year-old, but not a fully grown man. There’s nowhere to hang his clothes except a hook behind the door. It’s a far cry from the luxurious flat he shared with two other cops in the centre of Oxford, yet part of him is glad to be home. The city’s polluted air left a sour taste on his tongue, and night-time brought the sound of juggernauts on the ring road, instead of the sea’s slow heartbeat, lulling him to sleep. Nile’s reduced circumstances strike him as fitting: no one punished him for his mistake in the UK, but it’s a piece of natural justice.
Murder On Mustique Page 3