‘Who’s not done any work since her overdose last September. And, in that time, she’s continued to spend, continued to keep up the houses, but that’s nearly a year without any kind of income at all. And, if you ask me, you should look at Max, her agent. Even when she was earning, she never seemed to have as much money as she should if you ask me. I think he’s been rooking her for years.’
‘You think Max Brandon is a crook?’ Richard asked.
‘I’m not saying that, but I know I don’t trust him. And you know what? Only last week, I was in this very room with Polly. She was sitting there.’ Phil pointed at a dusty old wingback. ‘It was just before midnight. And she told me she was so skint she was going to have to put this house up for sale. And her flat in Los Angeles. And her apartment in London. It’s why I think she flipped at the end and killed herself. She had no work, no money, and she decided to end it all.’
‘The thing is,’ Richard said, leaning forwards in his chair as he spoke, ‘she didn’t commit suicide. She was murdered.’ Phil blinked once. Twice.
‘What?’
‘She was killed.’
‘You’re kidding me?’
‘It looks as though Claire was right,’ Richard explained. ‘There was someone already on the cliff steps before Polly went down them—very possibly this person in the yellow raincoat—who then pushed her to her death.’
‘She was pushed to her death …?’
‘I’m sorry,’ Camille said, ‘but the evidence is conclusive.’
‘It’s just not possible.’
‘And why’s that?’ Richard asked.
‘Because, well, she was infuriating, don’t get me wrong, but murder? Who’d want to kill her?’
‘That’s very much what we’re trying to find out.’ Richard and Camille saw Phil frown as a thought occurred to him. After a few further moments of introspection, he looked back at Richard. ‘But you’re saying she was pushed from some way down the steps?’ he asked.
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Because, I suppose if you’re looking for someone who might have wanted to kill Polly, Claire wasn’t joking when she told you she and Polly didn’t get on. In fact, I can well imagine Claire wanting Polly dead. But seeing as she’s in a wheelchair, there’s no way she could have got down the steps, if that’s where she was killed.’
‘But you think Claire might have wanted to kill Polly?’
‘Hell yes. Of course.’
‘Why do you say, “of course”?’
Phil looked at the police, puzzled.
‘Don’t you know how Claire lost the use of her legs?’
‘No.’
‘Well,’ Phil said after only a moment’s hesitation. ‘If I do one thing for Polly, I’ll do this. I’ll tell you the story before you hear it from anyone else. So, Polly and Claire are twins. As you know. But the key thing about their relationship is that Claire was born a few seconds before Polly. She’s the older sibling. And in her family, that meant that about from the moment she could understand English, Claire was told that she was going to inherit everything. The everything in this case being a mansion in Lincolnshire, a dairy farm, a fishing lake, and hundreds of acres of prime arable land. It’s worth millions. And Claire would get it all while Polly wouldn’t get a penny.’
‘Because Polly was the second born.’
‘And the way Polly told it, when they were growing up, Claire made Polly’s life a misery, always treating her as inferior. The poor relation—which, in fact, she was. And her parents were just as bad. Claire was the “heir”, and Polly the “spare”. If you ask me, it’s why Polly ended up like she did. She spent her life looking for approval in others because she never got any at home. Anyway, when Polly was old enough to escape her crazy family, she did, and moved to London. And it was there where she was talent-spotted at a party and started her life as a fashion model. And before too long, she’d earned a shedload of money, spent more, and travelled the world working and partying. But—and there’s always a “but” when you’re talking about Polly—she had to go back to Lincolnshire from time to time. She couldn’t cut the ties with her family completely.
‘About ten years ago, her dad was ill—dying, as it turned out—and Polly was summoned home for a family Christmas because everyone thought it was going to be his last. Anyway, in that part of Lincolnshire, the Boxing Day foxhunt meets at their house every year. So, the way Polly told it was, she’d had to endure a terrible Christmas—with Claire and her parents belittling her at every turn—and then, on the day of the hunt, she woke up to find hundreds of beagles barking like crazy and a load of posh arseholes wearing red tailcoats and black top hats outside the house while hundreds of locals watched on as though it was a privilege to see rich people sit on a horse. Polly hated the whole lot of them, so before the hunt set off, she tried to join up with the hunt saboteurs. And she said it wasn’t hard to find the sabs, they were at the end of the driveway holding placards.
‘I don’t think any of them knew who she was, actually. But the sabs’ plans were always to try and get in the way of the hunt, so Polly took a few of them off to a back lane she knew would probably be used at some point that day, and she was right. An hour or so later, they saw a rider coming along it. I reckon Polly knew it was her sister at once, and she told her gang that they should give this rider a special surprise. So they hid behind a hedge and, when Claire came riding past, they jumped out and shouted.
‘Polly said it was only supposed to be a stupid joke, but Claire’s horse startled, reared and threw her to the road. The other hunt sabs scarpered, but Polly ran to her sister to offer her help—of course she did—you can see what I mean about Polly having terrible judgement. If you’re going to injure your sister, you don’t go to her aid. Or maybe that’s just me. Anyway, it turned out that Claire had broken bones in her legs, her pelvis and she’d also broken her back. She was airlifted to hospital and spent the next six months in traction. By the time she got out, the doctors had been able to patch up her back and pelvis, but she’s not been able to walk since then.’
‘And it was all Polly’s fault?’ Camille asked.
‘It was. Which was why Claire always hated Polly—although I never agreed with Polly that she was now using her wheelchair to spite her.’
Richard looked up sharply from where he’d been writing in his notebook. ‘What’s that?’
‘Well, Polly used to think that Claire’s disability wasn’t quite as bad or as permanent as she made out.’
‘Really?’
‘But this was just a typical Polly flight of fancy if you ask me.’
‘But how could Claire’s injury not be permanent?’
Phil sighed before going on. ‘Look. I don’t believe any of this, but Polly suspected that Claire was only pretending to remain injured. It’s called “conversion disorder”, she told me. It’s a condition where someone is physically capable of walking but, for some crazy psychological reason or other, they can’t. But to be clear: I’ve spent the last week with Claire. There’s no question she needs that wheelchair. And think about it. Even though I’m sure Claire hated Polly with every fibre of her being, it’s pretty delusional for Polly to think that Claire would then pretend to be disabled just to spite her.’
Richard considered what Phil had just said.
‘Is it possible that it’s Claire who’s been sending the anonymous letters to Polly over the last few months?’ Phil looked puzzled. ‘I don’t know anything about that. What anonymous letters?’
‘They’ve been made from the cut-out letters of newspaper headlines. And they’re of a very threatening nature.’
‘And they were addressed to Polly?’
‘We assume so. We found them in the filing cabinet in her study.’
‘Then I’m sorry, that’s the first I’ve heard of any threatening letters.’
Once Richard had thanked Phil for his answers, he led Camille out of the sitting room, where he briefly paused at the bottom of the stair
case.
‘I think we need to talk to Claire, don’t you? We need to find out if she hated her sister as much as Phil says.’ As Richard said this, he headed up the wide wooden staircase to the landing above, Camille falling in step with him.
Once on the landing, Richard looked out of the windows that overlooked the gardens and the Caribbean sea beyond.
‘It’s interesting, isn’t it,’ he said to himself as much as to Camille. ‘You really can’t see the steps down the cliff from here, can you?’
It was true. The wide lawn outside swept down and to the right, and then it disappeared behind a thick border of bushes, shrubs and trees that blocked any kind of view of the cliff top.
A door opened further along the landing, and Richard and Camille saw Sophie emerge from a bedroom holding an old fashion magazine in her hand. She stopped, surprise on her face as she saw the police.
‘Oh, sorry. Hope I’m not interrupting,’ she said.
‘Far from it,’ Richard said. ‘In fact, I think you can help us.’
‘I can?’ Sophie said as she approached.
‘It’s quite a simple thing,’ Richard said. ‘It’s just, when you were out on the lawn before Polly died, and you saw someone up here looking out of the window, can you really not remember which window you were looking at?’
‘I’m sorry,’ Sophie said. ‘I’ve been trying to think about it since then, but the truth is, I was in a bit of a panic at the time. It really could have been Max if he was standing here. But Phil’s room is just there.’ Here, Sophie indicated the first door that led from the landing. ‘It could just as easily have been Phil I saw at his window. I just don’t know.’
‘Very well,’ Richard said, unable to hide his disappointment. ‘Then can we ask, do you know where Claire is? We’d like a word with her.’
‘Yes. She’s in the bath. She’ll be there a while and then I’ll be helping her out.’
‘Of course. Because she can’t walk,’ Richard said.
‘That’s right,’ Sophie said, quietly offended at Richard’s lack of sensitivity.
‘It’s just, we were wondering if Claire was quite as disabled as she lets on,’ Richard asked.
‘I’m a trained nurse, and I can tell you categorically that my client has absolutely no use of her legs,’ Sophie said, appalled that the police would doubt this fact.
‘I see,’ Richard said, not really appreciating the offence he’d just caused. ‘Then can you tell me, you mentioned earlier that Claire and Polly didn’t get on—were always sniping at each other—is it possible that Claire might have wanted to kill her sister?’
Sophie was now aghast.
‘I’m sorry?’
Richard explained to Sophie how they now considered the death to be murder, and all the colour drained from Sophie’s face.
‘No … it’s not possible,’ she said.
‘I’d agree it’s not probable,’ Richard demurred, ‘but it is unfortunately what happened. So I repeat the question: in your opinion, is it possible Claire might have wanted her sister dead?’
‘No, there’s no way,’ Sophie said loyally. ‘I mean, they didn’t get on that well, that’s true, but there are lots of siblings who don’t get on. And anyway, I ran straight for the cliff top the moment I heard Polly scream. And when I got there Claire was still in her wheelchair at the top of it. There’s no way she could have been the killer—if you’re saying Polly was already down the steps when she fell. Claire couldn’t have got down those steps in her wheelchair, let alone back up again without me seeing her.’
‘Then can you tell me, if Claire couldn’t be the killer, do you by any chance have any insights into who in the household might have wanted to do harm to Polly Carter?’ Sophie thought carefully before answering. ‘I don’t think anyone would.’
‘But if you had to guess?’
‘I’m sorry, but I don’t get to spend much time with the other house guests, so I don’t know them that well. To be honest, they mostly treat me like I’m staff.’
Camille could hear the note of bitterness in Sophie’s words, and she remembered that Dwayne had said that Sophie had recently left her agency.
‘Yes, that’s right. You’ve been with your agency a long time, haven’t you?’
‘That’s right. Since I qualified as a nurse and chose to go into the private sector.’
‘But I understand you no longer work for them?’ There was a look of slow surprise in Sophie’s eyes. ‘Perhaps you could tell us why that is?’ Richard asked. ‘You want to know why I left the agency?’
‘That’s why I asked.’
‘Okay. I left the agency because they sacked me.’
This got Richard and Camille’s attention.
‘And why was that?’
Sophie flushed bright red as she said, ‘Well, if you must know, I was … I was caught thieving.’
‘You were?’ Camille said, surprised. ‘What did you steal?’
‘Look,’ Sophie said, launching into a speech Richard could see she’d rehearsed many times to herself. ‘I know it sounds bad, but the thing is, you don’t know what it’s like working for rich people. They’ve got so much money, I don’t know … it’s like they don’t feel they need to have manners. You get the wrong client, and you’re less than human sometimes to them. And it wears you down, particularly when they show off about how much money they’ve got while also refusing to let you claim expenses.
That’s what happened on the last job I had with the agency. I was working for this guy who hadn’t even earned his money. He’d inherited it all from his dad, this big banker. And it was the dad I was there to help look after. He’d had a stroke and was a lovely man. With such kind eyes. So he was all right. It was just his son I had a problem with. Mainly because he was mean. Mean to me, mean to his dad—and he also left these piles of fifty pound notes around the house as though it was all so much small change to him. Which, it has to be said, it was. And, one day, he’d been really nasty to me, making me go and pick up his dry cleaning, which wasn’t in my job description at all, and I saw four fifty pound notes folded up on the mantelpiece … and I couldn’t help myself. I took them.’ Richard asked, ‘But you were caught?’
Sophie sighed deeply. This was her shame. ‘It turns out one of the other staff members in the house had already been stealing, and my employer had left these notes out to trap them. They were covered in that blue police dye. I was so ashamed when the police arrived and got out the UV light. But I was lucky, too. My boss’s dad—the guy who I’d been caring for—convinced his son not to press charges. I of course had to leave the agency. But, if I’m honest, by then I was happy to go. I’d been getting more and more fed up with the people I’d been working for over the years. I got a job in a local hospice soon after. It’s been far more rewarding being back in the real world. Dealing with real people. With real problems. It’s why I became a nurse.’
‘But if you’ve got a new job at a hospice, how did you end up working for Claire?’
‘Because I’m a good nurse,’ Sophie said, her chin rising with a touch of pride as she said this. ‘So when the agency rang and said Claire had asked for me by name, I was happy to take some of my annual holiday allowance to come to Saint-Marie and earn a bit of extra cash in the Caribbean sunshine. Although I don’t think that now, of course.’
An alarm went off on Sophie’s phone. She pulled it from her pocket and swiped to turn it off.
‘I’m sorry, but that’s my timer. I need to get Claire out of her bath. Would that be okay?’
‘Yes, that’s fine,’ Camille said.
‘But can you be sure to tell her we need to talk to her?’
‘Of course.’
As Sophie left to get Claire out of her bath, Richard considered what he’d just learnt. He could certainly believe that Sophie was treated as a lowly member of staff by Claire and the others in the house—which would cause resentment with Sophie—but he didn’t quite see how this would necessarily escala
te into murder. After all, as Sophie had just told them, she must have learnt long ago how irritating wealthy people could be. Unless, of course, Polly’s death was somehow connected to Sophie’s previous history of stealing money. But then, if Polly had no money to her name—as Phil was now claiming—then it was hard to see what money Sophie might have stolen that would then have been worth killing over. They had to get to the bottom of Polly’s finances as soon as possible, Richard decided.
But with Sophie gone, Richard realised he was at a bit of a loose end—until he remembered how Camille had said that he’d find Polly’s bedroom interesting, so he suggested they both go and give it the once-over.
When they entered Polly’s bedroom, Richard saw that Camille had been right. It was fascinating—if only because it was the one room in the whole house that seemed to be spotlessly clean. A glorious old brass bed had a freshly laundered duvet on it, and the pillows were soft and damask, Richard noted, impressed. As for the wardrobe and dresser in the room, they were polished antiques without a speck of dust on them anywhere. And best of all to Richard’s mind, there was even a cream-coloured wall-to-wall carpet.
Richard had reverently taken his shoes off before he’d even entered the room, and while he searched through the tidy rack of clothes inside the wardrobe, he found himself musing that there really was nothing finer in life than that feeling of wiggling your toes into the plush pile of a deep and expensive carpet. As for the rows of smart clothes and shoes he found neatly lined up inside the wardrobe, Richard’s thoughts returned to the woman who’d owned them. After all, just what sort of person would live in such a mess of a house and yet have an entirely pristine bedroom?
Once he’d finished looking through the wardrobe, Richard turned to Camille. ‘You’re right. This isn’t how I’d imagine Polly’s bedroom to be.’
‘I know. So how come it’s so tidy in here when it’s so messy elsewhere?’
‘Maybe someone tidied it up before she died? Or afterwards?’
‘Why would anyone want to do that?’
Richard didn’t have an answer. But he could see that there was nothing here that suggested a personality that was in any way impetuous, slapdash or irresponsible—as Phil had said Polly had been. So had Phil misled them and the room was the ‘real’ Polly, or was it the other way round, and the rest of the house—in all its dusty disorder—was the real Polly, and the bedroom was a stage-managed fiction? Either way, it was a puzzle, Richard felt. People with spotless bedrooms didn’t live in messy houses, and vice versa.
Killing Of Polly Carter Page 9