So, when Richard was the first member of his family to be sent to private school, his father had managed to give the impression that it was only because no one thought Richard was clever enough to get into the local state-funded grammar school, where Graham had himself gone. And as top scholar—a fact Graham managed to mention nearly every time he was alone with his son, which, if truth being told, wasn’t that often.
Seven years later, when Richard got a place at Cambridge University, he finally felt that he’d proven to his father that he did indeed have a brain, but on the one occasion that Graham Poole visited his son in the three years he was there, Graham spent the day pronouncing that he himself had of course gone to the ‘University of Life’ where he’d learnt the real lessons in life, got the rough edges knocked off him quicker, and he’d not turned out too badly, had he?
When Richard announced that he was going to join the police force—as his father had done—Graham had sucked air in through his teeth as though Richard was making a very brave choice indeed. And then, when Richard threw a party to celebrate his promotion to Detective, his father was too busy at a local Rotary event to attend. His mother came, though, and did the buffet beforehand and hoovering afterwards.
In short, Richard would have been hard pressed to know which of his two parents he’d have more difficulty spending two weeks with: his dad, who always looked at him with such disappointment; or his mum, who always looked at him with such hope.
There was a loud honk from outside his shack and Richard snapped out of his reverie. His mother wasn’t due to arrive on the island until later that afternoon, so who was that outside trying to get his attention? The car horn honked again. And, before Richard could even get up, it honked again another two times.
Richard’s shoulders sagged. There was only one person on the whole island who’d so rudely interrupt his peace like this, so he went through his galley kitchen and opened the back door. Or rather, he tried to open the back door, but, as was typical, it was jammed shut by a build-up of sand on the other side. This was merely one of the almost infinite number of ways that the Caribbean tried to spoil his entire existence, Richard knew. All it took was a light breeze and a sunny day to loosen the individual grains of sand on the beach—and it was always a bloody sunny day—and whole dunes would start to build up against the walls of his shack.
Giving the door a proper shove with his shoulder, Richard finally got the door moving, the whole lean-to annexe to his shack shuddering as he finally managed to scrape the door open.
Richard briefly flinched at the sudden burst of sunlight—he never got used to how much sunshine there was in the Caribbean—but he saw that his initial suspicions had been correct. Detective Sergeant Camille Bordey was waving a happy hello to him from the driver’s seat of the battered police Land Rover.
Camille’s skin glowed in the sunshine, her hair was glossy and untamed, and she wore an electric-blue vest top, but Richard didn’t much notice any of this, if only because he knew that the staff rota had Camille down as having a day off, so why had she turned up at his shack?
‘Careful of that sand, sir!’ Camille said with mock seriousness as he awkwardly picked his way across it. ‘It might get into your socks.’
Richard knew that Camille found it incomprehensible that he insisted on wearing a dark woollen suit, polished shoes, a white shirt and a tie in the tropics, but, for him, the matter was a simple one. A policeman wore a dark suit, and Richard didn’t see why he should have to lower his standards just because he’d been posted to the Caribbean.
‘What are you doing here?’ Richard asked.
‘Oh, and a good morning to you, too,’ Camille said, now a lot less jauntily.
‘But it’s your day off,’ Richard said, unable to stop himself from glancing at his wristwatch to make sure his mother hadn’t in fact landed on the island yet.
‘What’s up?’ Camille asked, sharp as a knife, and Richard cursed silently to himself. His subordinate never missed a thing.
‘Oh, nothing,’ he said with what he hoped was insouciance.
‘Why are you looking so guilty?’
‘I’m not looking guilty.’
‘You are.’
‘I’m not.’
‘You are.’
There was a long pause while both of them realised that the conversation wasn’t going anywhere.
‘I’m not,’ Richard said.
‘You are.’
‘Look,’ Richard said. ‘Much as I’d love to continue this game of “You are, I’m not”, can you please tell me what on earth you’re doing at my house on your day off?’
Camille’s jaw set in instant irritation, and Richard wondered what he’d done wrong this time. As ever, he found Camille’s inner thoughts impossible to divine. On the one hand this was because she was female, spontaneous, passionate and always wanted to think the best of people, and—on the other hand—it was because she was French, which, Richard felt, was what military analysts would very much call a ‘force multiplier’. So, as Richard stood sweating on the white sand in his Marks & Spencer suit, he genuinely didn’t know how he’d managed to cause offence, and had even less of an idea about how to mend the situation.
‘Okay,’ Camille eventually said. ‘I’ll tell you what I’m doing here, but on the condition you tell me what that book is.’
Camille indicated the book in Richard’s hand. He’d picked it up just before he’d left his shack. It was his intended lunchtime reading.
‘Oh this?’ Richard said, only now realising that the book wouldn’t be that easy to explain. ‘It’s just a … you know, a field guide to the insects of the Caribbean.’
Camille’s eyebrows rose at this news. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘I, um, I found it at the station, and I thought it would be fun to learn about the insects of the Caribbean.’
‘You thought it would be fun?’
‘Yes.’
‘Learning about the insects of the Caribbean?’
‘Anyway, I’ve told you what I’m reading. You’ve now got to tell me why you’re here.’
‘Oh,’ Camille said, as though it were of no consequence. ‘There’s been a suspicious death.’
‘What?’ Richard blurted.
Camille grinned, and said, ‘Sorry. Should I have said sooner?’
Richard dashed round to the passenger side of the police jeep, opened the door and climbed in.
‘Yes you bloody well should have said sooner!’ he huffed, belting himself into the passenger seat as fast as he could.
Camille watched her boss make sure that his buckle was properly clicked into its housing, then check there were no twists in the belt itself as it went over his shoulder, before then giving two tugs on the strap to confirm that the auto-lock mechanism was indeed working satisfactorily.
‘Come on,’ he said impatiently. ‘What are you waiting for?’
Camille couldn’t help but smile to herself as she put the jeep into a low gear and drove off across the bumpy sand in the direction of the main road.
As Richard walked into Polly Carter’s house for the first time, he sneezed. This was because it may have been a grand villa in a stunning jungle setting—with orange-painted shutters to the windows, a bright blue front door and a red-tiled roof—but it was as messy as hell on the inside, and everything was covered in dust. Artefacts from Polly’s world travels, random pieces of furniture, local artworks and stacks of old magazines, books and photos were piled pell-mell so that sharp-edged Perspex awards sat next to ancient tribal masks, the antique dining table had modernist chrome chairs arranged around it, and the walls were just as crammed with modern collages as they were with faded oil paintings.
But it was only when Camille showed Richard the garden that he knew the meaning of true horror, because he discovered that the house was built near a cliff, and he was now expected to walk down the stone steps that had been carved into it so he could reach the body on the beach below.
‘But there’s no safety rail!
’ he said as he stood looking at the Health and Safety nightmare that lay ahead of him.
‘Come on,’ Camille said. ‘We need to get to the body. And it’s not as bad as it looks.’
Richard looked at the stone steps again and saw that maybe Camille had a point. They were roughly hewn, but they were a good four or five feet wide. What’s more, although there was a vertical drop to almost certain death if you fell over the edge, there was actually a little escarpment of dirt and scrubby bushes and thorns running along the edge of the stairs to give the appearance of safety. And to divide the challenge into more manageable chunks, Richard could see that the whole staircase doubled back on itself four or five times as it wound its way down the cliff face. In fact, Richard realised, even if he fell over the edge, there’d be a chance he’d perhaps have his fall broken by the stone steps on the flight of stairs directly beneath.
In conclusion, Richard decided, it was scary, but he could do it. It helped, of course, that he was wearing such sensible shoes, he kept telling himself in a repeated mantra as, arms wide, he took six or seven minutes to pick his way down to the beach far below.
Once there, Richard could see, with relief, that Sergeant Fidel Best and Police Officer Dwayne Myers were already working the scene. Or rather, he was relieved to see that Fidel was working the scene. Richard’s feelings towards Dwayne were a little more nuanced. This was because, whereas Fidel was young, fresh-faced and lived and breathed correct police procedure, Dwayne had been on the force a number of decades, had refused every offer of promotion in all that time, and felt that following correct procedure was for ‘other people’. For Dwayne, in fact, his work was only partly about catching criminals, because it was also about making sure he knocked off on time so he could take one of his many and apparently concurrent girlfriends out partying every night. And the problem for Richard was, much as he’d like to chastise Dwayne for his lax attitudes, on an island like Saint-Marie, it was often Dwayne who got the results, if only because he drank in the same bars as the island’s dealers, grifters and general ne’er-do-wells. And, more improbably, he was accepted by them, to Richard’s eternal frustration.
Richard saw that there was a churn of footprints in the sand that led from the bottom of the stone steps to the body—and a similar mess of footprints around the body where Fidel and Dwayne were working the scene—but there weren’t any other footprints on the beach leading to or from the body. In fact, Richard could see, there weren’t any footprints anywhere else on the beach. In particular, there weren’t any footprints leading to or from the gently lapping sea in any way.
Having noted this, Richard said his hellos to Dwayne and Fidel and got down on his haunches to inspect the body. There was white sand stuck to the dead woman’s cheek and hair, but he also noticed that, apart from that, her face seemed almost entirely undamaged.
‘Sir,’ Fidel said. ‘You do recognise her, don’t you?’
‘The victim?’ Richard asked.
‘Told you,’ Dwayne said with a deep chuckle.
‘What on earth are you talking about?’
‘Well, sir,’ Fidel said, ‘I know it’s a bit disrespectful, but Dwayne here said he didn’t think you’d recognise the victim, and I said that you would.’
Richard looked at his team and once again marvelled at how often he seemed to operate in an alternate universe to them all.
‘What on earth are you both talking about?’ he asked.
‘You really don’t recognise her?’ Camille asked, just as surprised.
‘No I don’t,’ Richard snapped. ‘Because if I did recognise her, I’d have said that I did, wouldn’t I? But I didn’t, so I didn’t.’
‘It’s Polly Carter,’ Camille said.
‘Right. Good. And who’s she?’
‘You really don’t know who Polly Carter is?’
Richard jutted his jaw out. He didn’t want to have to say it again.
‘Okay,’ Dwayne said, happy to act as peacemaker. ‘She’s one of the most famous supermodels in the world. And you’ve not heard of her?’
Richard looked at the body. He looked up again.
‘Can’t say that I have. Now,’ he said, suddenly wanting to move the conversation on, ‘could someone please tell me what we’ve got so far?’
Dwayne was grinning as Fidel flipped his notebook open.
‘Well, sir, so the victim’s name is Polly Carter. She’s a top model. Or was. She’s British by birth, and she’s in the papers the whole time. She parties hard, gets into fights, and she’s got houses around the world, but lives on Saint-Marie most of the year. There are a number of guests staying with her at the moment, but I’ve only managed to speak to a woman called Sophie Wessel so far. She’s a nurse for Polly’s twin sister.’
‘Polly’s got a twin sister?’ Richard asked.
‘That’s right. Her name’s Claire Carter. And her nurse, Sophie, said that Claire and Polly were in the garden together at about ten o’clock this morning when the two sisters started having an argument. Sophie doesn’t know what it was about. But when she heard a scream, she went to find out what was going on and found Claire—upset—at the top of the cliffs, and Polly Carter dead—just here—on the sand below.’
‘Any suggestion that Claire maybe pushed her sister off the cliff?’
‘That’s unlikely,’ Fidel said. ‘Claire’s in a wheelchair. I don’t see how she could overcome an able-bodied person. And, according to Sophie, Claire’s saying Polly had just announced that she was going to commit suicide before she ran down the cliff steps and threw herself to her death.’
‘She did?’
‘Apparently so.’
‘I see,’ Richard said, looking down at the body of Polly Carter as she lay twisted in death on the sand. Richard couldn’t help but notice how at peace her face looked. Almost as if she were only sleeping. Richard looked up at the cliff that loomed above the body and tried to guess at the state of mind someone would have to be in before they could jump to their death like this. Despite the heat, Richard shivered.
‘And were there any other witnesses to this suicide?’
‘I don’t believe any of the other house guests were nearby at the time, sir.’
‘Then can you tell me who the other house guests are?’
‘Of course,’ Fidel said, turning to another page in his notebook. ‘There’s Polly’s twin sister Claire Carter, I’ve mentioned her. Sophie Wessel is her nurse. She’s been hired from an agency in London for the duration of the holiday. Then there’s Max Brandon, Polly’s agent and manager. And the film director, Phil Adams.’
‘Phil Adams?’ Richard had seen a few Phil Adams films before now and hadn’t liked any of them.
‘That’s right, sir. Polly also employs a husband and wife team who live in a cottage in the grounds and look after the house when she’s not here. Name of Juliette and Alain Moreau. But they were off at church this morning and have yet to return.’
‘I see,’ Richard said. ‘So what have we been able to discover about the body?’
‘Well, sir,’ Fidel said, ‘with a death from a height like this, it’s hard to know what injuries were pre- or post-mortem until we get the results back from the autopsy. However, there is something we noticed.’ Fidel got down on his knees and carefully turned Polly’s right arm so that Richard and Camille could see the inside of her forearm.
There was a deep gash running five or six inches along the inside of her forearm—from just below her elbow to just above her wrist. But what got Richard’s attention was the dirty tinge of green that seemed to smear around the edges of the cut.
‘What’s this?’ Richard asked, indicating the green tinge to the wound.
‘She’s got green marks on her hands, as well, Chief,’ Dwayne said.
Fidel opened the fingers on the victim’s right hand and Richard could see similar green smudgy marks on her palm and fingers.
‘Looks like she tried to grab hold of a bush or something on the way down,’ Ca
mille said.
Richard opened the victim’s left hand and saw the same mossy markings on her left hand as well. Maybe Camille was right. The green marks on the victim’s two hands and inside forearm—and the deep cut down her right forearm—were consistent with the victim having tried to grab hold of something woody before she fell.
Richard looked back up the cliff and didn’t immediately see any kind of bush directly above the body that the victim could have clung to on the way down. However, with a cut as deep as that, Richard knew it would be easy to identify whatever it was she’d clung to. It would almost certainly have a good smear of the victim’s blood on it.
‘Fidel,’ Richard said, ‘I want you to work out what on the cliff face the victim grabbed onto before she fell.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Fidel said, seemingly unbothered by the fact that his boss had effectively just asked him to search a vertical cliff face.
For his part, Richard strode off to the base of the cliff, now interested in the horizontal distance the body had fallen on its way down.
Camille stood up from the body as well. ‘So, what are you thinking?’
‘That suicides don’t leap,’ Richard said, but Camille already guessed where her boss was going with this as Richard started to put one foot in front of the other to measure the distance the body had fallen from the cliff. It was a well-known fact that jump suicides tended to drop from whatever height they’d chosen to commit suicide from. They didn’t leap out to their death. Although, Camille found herself thinking, if the victim had announced her suicide in a heated argument, maybe she’d run for the cliff edge and then jumped.
‘Seventeen feet,’ Richard announced as he reached the body, which gave him pause.
‘Much further than you’d expect,’ Camille agreed.
‘Yes.’
‘Maybe it wasn’t suicide?’
‘Indeed,’ Richard said, once again checking his wristwatch. It was still long before his mother was due to arrive on the island. There was every chance he’d be able to finish up here and still have time to meet her at the airport.
‘Fidel, keep working the scene and supervise the removal of the body with the paramedics. Dwayne, I want you to search the victim’s house. See if you can find any kind of suicide note. As for you and me, Camille, I think we need to talk to the witnesses, don’t you?’
Killing Of Polly Carter Page 2