Death Knocks Twice

by Robert Thorogood

  Praise for Robert Thorogood

  ‘Very funny and dark with great pace. I love Robert Thorogood’s writing’

  Peter James

  ‘Deftly entertaining…satisfyingly pushes all the requisite Agatha Christie-style buttons’

  Barry Forshaw, The Independent

  ‘A treat’

  Radio Times

  ‘Fans of the Agatha Christie-style BBC drama Death In Paradise will enjoy this book from the show’s creator’

  Mail on Sunday

  ‘This brilliantly crafted, hugely enjoyable and suitably goosebump-inducing novel is an utter delight from start to finish’

  Heat

  ‘A brilliant whodunnit’

  Woman

  ROBERT THOROGOOD is the creator of the hit BBC One TV series Death In Paradise.

  He was born in Colchester, Essex, in 1972. When he was 10 years old, he read his first proper novel – Agatha Christie’s Peril at End House – and he’s been in love with the genre ever since.

  He now lives in Marlow in Buckinghamshire with his wife and children.

  For Penny and Jack

  Contents

  Cover

  Praise

  Title Page

  About the Author

  Dedication

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Copyright

  CHAPTER ONE

  Detective Inspector Richard Poole was in a bad mood.

  This wasn’t in fact all that unusual. Not to say that he was always in a bad mood, far from it. Sometimes, he simmered without quite boiling over. And at other times he felt too worn down by the whole shooting match of life to get a proper grump on. But today wasn’t one of those days. Today he was in a fury so complete that he was in grave danger of going ‘the full Rumpelstiltskin’.

  As was so often the case, the object of Richard’s ire was Police Officer Dwayne Myers.

  ‘Then how about you try this one, Chief?’ Dwayne said as he stood by his desk holding up a brightly-coloured Hawaiian shirt.

  There was a stifled laugh from the direction of Camille’s desk.

  ‘What’s that, Camille?’ Richard asked.

  ‘Nothing, sir,’ Camille said in her most grown-up voice. ‘But I think Dwayne’s right. That shirt would really suit you.’

  ‘It wouldn’t,’ Richard said.

  ‘I think it would, sir.’

  ‘It wouldn’t, Camille. I just said.’

  ‘But why not? It’s fun.’

  ‘Fun?’ Richard squeaked in a high falsetto that, frankly, surprised all of them. He coughed to put the gravel back into his voice. ‘You call that aberration of a shirt “fun”?’

  ‘I reckon so,’ Dwayne said. ‘And Camille’s right. You’d look great in it.’

  ‘Right, that’s it,’ Richard announced, standing up from behind his desk. Having commanded his team’s full attention, he shot the cuffs of his white shirt, did up the middle button on the jacket of his woollen suit and stepped out into the centre of the Police Station.

  A trickle of sweat slipped down from Richard’s hairline, and he glanced at Police Officer Fidel Best’s desk, to check that he had gone back to his work. As the youngest member of the team, Fidel generally stayed out of the skirmishes and outright civil war that could sometimes engulf the office. Richard was pleased to see that Fidel was looking at his monitor in a way that suggested that he was indeed keeping himself to himself.

  Richard pulled a hankie from his jacket pocket, wiped the sweat from his face and turned to face Dwayne.

  ‘I’m your commanding officer, and I’m telling you to put that…garment down. Right. Now.’

  ‘But seriously, Chief,’ Dwayne said. ‘I’m only trying to help. You have got to get into some lighter clothes. That woollen suit in this climate will be the death of you.’

  Richard jutted out his jaw. He found his subordinates’ desire to get him into more casual clothes deeply irritating. Didn’t they appreciate just how very elegantly he was already dressed? And hadn’t they any idea just how hard it was keeping his black brogues polished to a parade ground sheen when most of the island was covered in fine grade aggregate – or, as the tourist brochures were so intent on calling it, ‘sand’?

  ‘I’ve worn a suit every day of my working life, and I’m not going to stop now just because I’ve had the misfortune of being posted to the bloody Caribbean.’

  Dwayne exhaled.

  ‘Okay, Chief.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Dwayne’s face brightened as he grabbed up another shirt from the pile of clothes on his desk.

  ‘Then how about you try this one?’ he asked, before realising that the shirt he was now holding was a billowing confection of gold satin with silver tassels.

  Even Dwayne was surprised.

  ‘Okay, maybe not this one. But how about this?’ he said, putting the disco shirt down and picking up a far more acceptable shirt in a sky blue colour.

  ‘Dwayne,’ Richard said with the rattle of death in his voice. ‘That shirt doesn’t even have sleeves.’

  It was true. It wasn’t so much a shirt as a vest with ideas above its station.

  Richard strode over to Dwayne, grabbed the shirt from his hands and dashed it back onto the pile of clothes on the desk.

  ‘Dwayne. Let me be clear. Hell would have to freeze over before I’d wear any of these clothes.’

  ‘Although, sir,’ Fidel said, finally joining the conversation. ‘If hell did freeze over, you wouldn’t want to be wearing shorts and Hawaiian shirts anyway.’

  Richard turned and looked at Fidel to see if he was winding him up. It was clear from his helpful smile that he wasn’t.

  ‘Tell you what,’ Dwayne said. ‘The guy on the market said there was no rush getting these back to him. He was having problems selling them anyway. So how about I just put them in the back office? You can look at them another time, when you’ve got a moment. What do you reckon to that?’

  As though Richard had just agreed with his plan, Dwayne picked up the pile of shirts and shorts from his desk and went through the bead curtain that led to the cells.

  Richard finally let out a breath that he hadn’t even known he’d been holding. At least that was that problem dealt with.

  ‘Good morning, team,’ a mellifluous voice announced, and the island’s Commissioner of Police, Selwyn Patterson, sauntered into the room, his hands thrust deep into the trouser pockets of his rumpled khaki uniform.

  ‘Good morning, sir,’ Richard said, knowing that the Commissioner’s arrival was never good news.

  Selwyn removed his peaked cap, held it delicately between forefinger and thumb, and gave the office a once over.

  ‘So,’ he said. ‘Busy?’

  ‘Of course, sir,’ Richard said, knowing that he and his team were nothing of the sort. In truth, things had been frustratingly quiet for the last few weeks. The only incident that had required any proper policing was a dispute between two neighbours, one of whom owned a cockerel that had taken to crowing every night from midnight to dawn. The dispute had threatened to escalate into violence until Dwayne had taken the offending rooster into custody, killed it, cooked it, eaten it, and then pronounced the case closed. Such was island life sometimes.

  ‘Then I’m sorry,’ Selwyn said, looking nothing of the sort, ‘but I’ll be adding to your burdens.’

  ‘What have you got, sir?’

&
nbsp; ‘A very important case.’

  ‘Of course,’ Richard said, reaching into his inside jacket pocket and pulling out his notebook and silver propelling pencil. He flicked the notebook open to a fresh page and waited in anticipation.

  ‘You see,’ Selwyn said, ‘I was at a charity rum tasting yesterday afternoon, and I got into conversation with the man who owns the Fort Royal Hotel.’ Richard knew the hotel well, having once solved the murder of a bride there. ‘And he says his hotel guests are being scammed by a ruthless criminal with no concern for the consequences of his actions.’

  ‘They are, sir?’ Richard said, his interest piqued. Finally, was this going to be a case worthy of his and his team’s talents?

  ‘Apparently so.’

  ‘And what’s this criminal doing?’

  ‘Well, he’s set up a roadside stall and he’s selling bottles of bootleg rum.’

  Richard’s pencil remained hovering above his notebook.

  ‘He is, sir?’

  ‘It’s affecting sales in the bar at the Fort Royal.’

  ‘And… that’s it, is it?’

  Selwyn pursed his lips.

  ‘We rely on tourists on this island, Inspector.’

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  ‘And the tax revenue from duty being paid on legal alcoholic beverages.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And above all else, we still make rum on Saint-Marie. I won’t have the island’s reputation as the best rum producer in the world tarnished by this man and his dangerous, third-rate product.’

  ‘Well, sir, we’ll look into it,’ Richard said, somewhat disappointed. When was he going to get a decent criminal case?

  There was a ‘ting’ from the front desk of the office, and Richard and his team turned and saw a woman with her hand hovering over the little brass bell on the counter top.

  ‘You’ve got to help me!’ she said in desperation.

  Knowing that his team would have to attend to the young woman, Selwyn put his peaked cap back onto his head and smiled for Richard’s benefit.

  ‘I’ll expect a report on the bootleg rum seller,’ he said, before sauntering out of the office.

  ‘Yes, of course, sir,’ Richard said, already heading over to the woman. She was about thirty years old, had pale skin, straight black hair and was wearing an old black cotton dress that was now faded to grey. But what Richard noticed most was how jittery she was. She looked like a startled deer who could bolt at any second.

  ‘Can I help you, madam?’

  ‘You’ve got to,’ the woman said, her voice breaking as she spoke. ‘There’s someone stalking me. Up at my house. And I’ve just seen him and chased him. But he got away. You’ve got to come with me!’

  ‘Someone’s been stalking you?’ Richard said, unable to keep a note of excitement out of his voice. This was more like it. A proper case.

  ‘And he could still be there,’ the woman said in desperation. ‘We’ve got to get back at once. See if we can catch him.’

  ‘Of course. Do you live nearby?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Do you live nearby?’ Richard repeated. ‘Have you come to the station on foot?’

  The woman looked at Richard in surprise.

  ‘Don’t you know who I am?’ she asked.

  ‘Should I?’

  ‘You’re Lucy Beaumont, aren’t you?’ Camille said as she joined Richard at the desk.

  Richard realised he’d heard of the Beaumont family when he’d first arrived on Saint-Marie, but he’d never really listened to what he’d been told. All he could remember was that they were some kind of ancient British family who’d been on the island for generations, and they ran a coffee plantation half way up the south-western slopes of Mount Esmée, the island’s active volcano. Oh yes, Richard realised, that’s why he’d never been interested in finding out any more about the Beaumonts. They lived on an active volcano.

  But if this young woman was being stalked, then it was their duty to investigate, volcano or no volcano. Richard turned to Dwayne.

  ‘Dwayne. Take Fidel to the Fort Royal hotel. See what you can find out about the Commissioner’s bootleg rum seller, would you?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Dwayne said.

  ‘Which leaves you and me, Camille,’ Richard said. ‘And I suggest we accompany Ms Beaumont back to her house and find out exactly what’s going on.’

  After Richard had first arrived on Saint-Marie, it had taken him quite a few months to get his head around the fact that there was a live volcano on the southern half of the island. Admittedly, Mount Esmée was such a huge geological feature that it could be seen from everywhere on the island, but it seemed so improbable to Richard that people would share an island with an active volcano that he’d presumed that, at some level, it wasn’t real. Even when he heard about the Great Eruption of 1979, which had apparently shot lava hundreds of feet into the air and sent a terrifying pyroclastic flow down the side of the mountain at a hundred miles an hour – wiping out dozens of homes and killing 34 people – he remained in denial.

  Now, as Camille drove the Police jeep up the tight hairpin bends towards the Beaumont Plantation, Richard found himself suffering an existential crisis. He was sitting in the sweltering heat of a vehicle that he knew hadn’t been serviced for over a decade while a Frenchwoman was driving it ever-higher up a real life volcano. What had gone wrong with his life?

  ‘Watch out!’ Richard shouted as an oncoming motorbike took a wide line around a tight bend in the road.

  ‘Will you please calm down,’ Camille said.

  Richard could sort of see Camille’s point. After all, she was an excellent driver and he knew it probably didn’t help that he kept shouting ‘Brake! Brake! Brake!’ as they approached every corner, so he instead decided to grab hold of the dashboard and not let go.

  He was still holding onto the dashboard when, ten minutes of stomach-sloshing fear later, Camille brought the Police jeep to a juddering halt by a row of wooden farm buildings half way up the mountain. Richard took a moment to calm himself. It seemed even hotter – if that were possible – this high up the mountain. There wasn’t a hint of a breeze, and all he could hear was the ticking of the jeep’s diesel engine as it started to cool down. Richard looked through the windscreen and saw that there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Typical, he thought to himself. He was about to get roasted by the scorching heat again. With a weary sigh, he opened the passenger-side door and stepped out of the jeep.

  It started raining. And not just any rain, either. Richard found himself standing in a full-on torrential downpour. He looked up at the sky, but couldn’t see anything close to a cloud either directly above his head or even nearby. He was always prepared though, so he went to the boot of the jeep, grabbed his emergency umbrella and put it up with a satisfying whomp. There, he thought to himself, that was better.

  It stopped raining.

  Only now did Camille step out of the jeep, and Richard had a brief out of body experience where he could see that his partner, Detective Sergeant Camille Bordey – who was wearing dark green cotton trousers and a short-sleeved checked shirt – was now standing next to a pasty-faced middle-aged Englishman who was wearing a black suit, black brogues and was holding a funeral umbrella in the bright sunshine.

  ‘It’s not raining, sir,’ Camille said.

  ‘I know that, Camille,’ Richard said, trying to keep his dignity intact as he lowered his umbrella and returned it to the boot of the jeep. There still wasn’t a cloud in the sky, but Richard knew that he hadn’t imagined the brief tropical downpour. His woollen suit was damp with water, and he could see that the dry mud he was standing on was now covered in little craters where the raindrops had drilled hard into the ground. When would the tropics ever make any sense to him?

  ‘Okay, sir, so what do you know about the Beaumont family?’ Camille asked her boss as they watched Lucy park her car a little way away.

  ‘Not much,’ Richard replied, trying to ignore the fa
ct that his suit was now steaming. ‘Other than the fact that they’re very rich.’

  ‘Very rich and extremely secretive. Sir, could I say something?’

  ‘Of course. What is it?’

  ‘You seem to be on fire.’

  ‘It’s not fire, Camille. It’s steam.’

  ‘Oh, I see. You’re steaming, sir.’

  ‘It’s the rain in my suit. The sun’s making it evaporate, okay? It’s just basic physics.’

  ‘Of course it is, sir.’

  Ignoring the smirk on his partner’s face, Richard turned and looked at the plantation buildings as Lucy headed over. There were old barns, workshops, and other structures all made from the same grey stone, and they were all arranged around an ancient cobblestoned yard. In fact, if it wasn’t for the palm trees and jungle pressing in on all sides, Richard could imagine the farm buildings fitting just as well into a village scene back in Dorset. Oh, and the active volcano looming above the plantation, Richard noted to himself – that was the other clue that he wasn’t on a farm in Dorset.

  As Lucy reached the Police, Richard took charge.

  ‘We’d better not waste any time,’ he said. ‘So can you tell us what you saw and when?’

  ‘I’ll try,’ she said, nervously. ‘But I don’t really know where to start.’

  ‘That’s okay,’ Camille said, knowing that if her boss was all clanking metal cogs, she had to be the oil. ‘Just tell us what happened in your own words.’

  ‘Well, I suppose it started a couple of weeks ago,’ Lucy said. ‘And I didn’t know it was happening at first. If you see what I mean. It was just a feeling I got. That someone was watching me. You know, that feeling where your skin prickles?’

  ‘How do you mean?’ Camille asked.

  ‘You know, when your skin creeps because you think someone’s looking at you? Well, I had that feeling a couple of weeks ago. When I was down here. But I couldn’t work out if anyone was actually looking at me. It was just this sensation I had that I was being watched. So I told myself I must be imagining it – even though it’s happened quite a few times since then. Mostly when I’m down by these buildings. Or out in the coffee fields.’ Here, Lucy indicated the land as it sloped down the mountain from the courtyard, and Richard could see that the whole hillside was covered in neat rows of densely-packed bushes, each about ten feet high.