Killing Of Polly Carter

by Robert Thorogood

  ‘And then, one day, Polly came back.’

  ‘That’s right. And then she came back.’

  ‘When exactly was this?’ Richard asked.

  ‘The last week of March. And she told me that my words to her had been what she’d finally needed to get her life together. She didn’t want to lose me as well, so she’d spent the last two months in rehab, and was now entirely drugs-free. And I’d like to say I resisted her, but I didn’t. We restarted our affair the first day she got back.

  ‘And the amazing thing was, Polly really was clean of drugs. I could tell. And I found it humbling. The fact that, after a lifetime of abuse, she’d kicked the habit so she could win me back.’

  ‘But Juliette got suspicious, didn’t she?’ Richard said.

  ‘From the moment Polly returned,’ Alain agreed. ‘But I lied to her. Told her nothing was going on. It was like I was the drug addict now, only my drug was Polly, and there were no lies or deceptions I wouldn’t do to spend time with her.’

  ‘Including assignations in the secret smugglers’ tunnel?’ Richard said.

  Alain looked at Richard in shame.

  ‘At first,’ he said. ‘We couldn’t not see each other. So we’d meet up in the tunnel—but with Juliette off training so hard, we soon found we could meet in Polly’s bedroom.’

  ‘Which is where Juliette finally managed to trap you both,’ Richard said.

  Alain nodded.

  ‘Which was only last month,’ Richard added.

  Alain nodded.

  ‘You’re right. The recordings are only three weeks old. And when Juliette played them to me, it went real bad real quickly. She told me she’d taken me back when any other woman would have kicked me out, and now I was sleeping with the harlot again. That’s the word she used to describe Polly. She called her a harlot. And there was something in her anger, in how vindictive she was, that made me realise. Whether or not I’d done what I’d done, I had to leave Juliette. So that’s what I told her. It was over between us, I was going to leave. And that’s when she went real crazy. Spitting and kicking at me that I couldn’t abandon her. To be honest, the more she reacted so mad, the more I knew I had to leave her.’

  ‘Did you tell Polly you were leaving your wife?’ Camille asked.

  Alain nodded once.

  ‘And what did she say?’

  ‘She said she wanted to come with me.’

  ‘She did?’

  ‘She said she’d not worked in nearly a year, her rehab had cost her a fortune, she didn’t think she had any money left, but even if she was a pauper, she said she wanted to be with me.’ Alain took a sharp breath in, readying himself to finish his story. ‘So we made a plan. Polly wanted to mend her relationship with her sister Claire more than anything—that’s what she told me—so she said she and I should go and move in to the family farm back in the UK. She couldn’t offer me any glamour, she said, but there’d maybe be work for her and me. And we could be together.’

  ‘Did Claire know anything about this?’

  ‘Not as far as I know, but it’s why Polly invited Claire out here. She wanted to make amends with her and ask her if we could go and stay with her.’

  Alain looked at Richard with such pain that he had to remind himself that whether or not Alain had been through the mill emotionally, he was still a murder suspect.

  ‘Do you know what I see?’ Richard said to Alain. ‘A man who is religious, that rings true—and a lifelong churchgoer, we know that’s also true. But I also see a man who’s riven by guilt. Who’s conflicted by the fact that he’s cheated on his wife. Cheated on his vows. Cheated on God.’

  Alain dipped his eyes, unable to deny Richard’s words.

  ‘And I also see a man who’s been lying to us—lying to his wife. But let’s say your affair started with Polly back at Christmas. And that she put herself into rehab soon after. And that your relationship started up again when she returned to the island. We know that much is true. But if you were feeling guilty before, I think that when you rekindled your affair, you were consumed by guilt. And I think you were so eaten up by confusion and shame at your feelings for Polly that you realised there was only one way out, and that’s if Polly was put beyond temptation’s reach.

  ‘Did you mean to kill her that morning? Maybe not. But you were certainly prepared to wait in hiding and then attack her—the object of your love, the object of your hate. And now she’s dead, you’re finally able to return to being what you always knew you should have been. A good Christian. A dutiful husband.’

  Alain stood up from the bench and looked Richard square in the face.

  ‘Don’t you get it? I loved Polly.’

  ‘Then where were you on the morning she died?’ Richard said, happy to meet fire with fire. ‘Because you weren’t at church, were you?’

  There was a buttoned-up fury to how Alain was holding himself that Richard recognised. It was the anger of someone who felt desperately wronged by life.

  ‘Very well,’ Alain said, ‘I was at the airport.’

  Richard didn’t know what to say—he certainly hadn’t expected Alain to suddenly reveal another alibi.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘You’re right. I wasn’t at church. I was at Saint-Marie airport.’

  ‘So what were you doing at the airport?’

  ‘Buying two single tickets from Saint-Marie to London Stansted. For me and Polly to use. Because I’m not lying when I said we were serious about each other. She and I were going to elope to the UK once she’d cleared it with her sister. To start our new life together.’

  ‘So if we get in touch with Saint-Marie airport,’ Richard queried, ‘they’ll be able to confirm your story?’

  ‘One hundred per cent.’

  ‘But I don’t understand. If you’ve got an alibi for the time of the murder, then why didn’t you tell us?’

  Alain finally broke Richard’s gaze, as he looked back at his bungalow.

  ‘I should have done, but the first time you asked me where I’d been, I didn’t know Polly had died, so I told you the cover story—because I didn’t want Juliette to know where I’d really been. That I’d been buying the airline tickets that morning. And while I was doing that, that’s when Polly was killed. I mean, it’s as though God doesn’t want me to be happy, isn’t it?’

  Richard could see how bitter Alain was. But if he was elsewhere at the time of the murder, it didn’t much matter how messed up he was, he couldn’t be the killer. But did his new alibi check out? That was the question.

  Leaving Alain by the pool, Richard and Camille returned to the police jeep with Camille calling the airline desks at the airport. While Camille was on the phone, Richard saw Juliette return to the cottage in her battered Citroën and he went over to talk to her.

  ‘What do you want?’ she said irritably, getting bags of shopping out of the car’s boot. Richard saw that Juliette was in her tight-fitting Lycra running kit again, with running shoes stained in red dust from the roads nearby.

  ‘We know your husband was still having his affair with Polly when she died.’ To her credit, Juliette only paused for the briefest of seconds as she picked up a shopping bag. ‘And before you ask, we know this because we’ve worked out the recordings you gave us were from last month, weren’t they? And that means you lied to us when you said their affair was over. Why was that?’

  Juliette carefully put her shopping to the ground so she could talk to Richard properly.

  ‘I didn’t want to air my laundry in public.’

  ‘I don’t buy that,’ Richard said. ‘You were already airing your laundry by admitting to the affair that your husband had with Polly back at Christmas. So why didn’t you want us to know it was still going on?’

  ‘Is it so hard to understand?’ she said.

  ‘I’m sorry, I think you’ll have to explain it to me.’

  ‘I didn’t want anyone to know it was still going on.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Don’
t you get it? I love my husband.’

  ‘Even though he doesn’t love you.’

  ‘How dare you say that!’ Juliette hissed at Richard. ‘He loves me, he just needed to get out from under the spell of that witch!’

  ‘You mean Polly?’

  ‘Of course! I mean, he was a fool, but it wasn’t his fault, not the way I saw it. And when she died, I made Alain promise he couldn’t tell you that his affair with her was still going on. I didn’t want you snooping around our lives, I just wanted to get my husband back to myself.’

  ‘I see,’ Richard said, now deciding that while he’d previously known that Juliette was a hard woman, he’d had no idea how close to the edge she was. ‘So you think that you and Alain will be together now?’

  ‘Yes,’ Juliette said with a sense of desperate finality. ‘I’ve been married before. Twice. But this time, it’s going to work out. We’re husband and wife. Forever.’

  Before Richard could ask Juliette whether she knew about her husband’s plans to skip the country with Polly, Camille came over, her notebook in her hand.

  ‘Sir,’ Camille said, ‘Alain was telling the truth. He was at Saint-Marie airport at 10am.’ Here, Camille mentioned the name of a local airline and explained that not only did she manage to speak to someone who remembered Alain buying two tickets to the UK in cash, the computer confirmed that the tickets were bought at 10.06 that morning.

  Alain had an alibi for the time of the murder. He was no longer a suspect.

  ‘What are you saying?’ Juliette asked, puzzled. ‘Alain was at church that morning.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Camille said, deciding to be tactful. ‘But maybe you should ask him where he was yourself.’

  ‘What do you mean? Where was he?’

  Richard realised that he didn’t have anywhere near his partner’s scruples, so he decided to dive in. ‘Your husband was buying two one-way tickets to the UK for him and Polly at the time she was killed.’

  Juliette recoiled. ‘No! It’s not possible.’

  ‘Because he was leaving you, and I think you knew it.’

  ‘No. He wasn’t! He wouldn’t leave me.’

  ‘And, as you told us, you do love him—in a warped, possessive and controlling way, if you ask me. Remember, we discovered the surveillance bug you placed to catch your husband cheating. I know how calculating you can be when you want to be. But the thing is, Juliette, now your husband has a watertight alibi, I can’t help noticing that you still don’t.’

  ‘But I’ve told you. I was out running that morning.’

  ‘But we can’t find a single person who saw you on that run.’

  ‘It was Sunday morning, there weren’t many people about.’

  ‘So what I’m wondering is, what if you weren’t in fact on your run that morning, but were instead on the cliff steps waiting for Polly?’

  ‘No! And anyway, how could I possibly have known Polly would come down the steps right then?’

  ‘I don’t know. Why don’t you tell us? Was there another bug we don’t know about?’

  ‘No, of course not!’

  ‘But let’s see, shall we?’ Richard said. ‘Because I can well imagine you waiting on the steps to intercept Polly. Maybe you even tricked her into thinking Alain was already in the underground tunnel waiting for her? Because it would be poetic justice to kill her when she thought she was going to meet him, wouldn’t it? But whether or not you were planning to do any more than confront her, when Polly announced she was going to commit suicide and ran down the steps, I think it was too much temptation for you. You picked up the branch you found lying on the steps and knocked her off the cliff to her death!’

  Juliette was looking at Richard as though he were mad. ‘But if I was down the steps, how do you think I got off the beach?’

  ‘You carried on down the steps and hid in the tunnel, didn’t you? After all, it was you who first told us that this used to be a smuggler’s house.’

  ‘What tunnel?’ Juliette asked, wide-eyed.

  ‘Oh come on,’ Richard said. ‘You’ve been cleaning the house for years—and for the previous owners before Polly bought the house. You know about the tunnel behind the bookcase.’

  Juliette blinked—a moment of indecision—and Richard knew he’d got her. She knew about the secret tunnel.

  ‘I see,’ he said. ‘Another thing you’ve lied to us about.’

  ‘I didn’t hide in the tunnel! All I did that morning was go on a 10k run and then meet Alain for a coffee in Catherine’s bar at 10.30,’ she said.

  ‘Which I can’t help feeling was rather clever of you—to make sure you were seen in the one bar on the whole island which is run by the mother of a police officer.’

  Before Juliette could reply, they all saw a defeated Alain head over from the swimming pool area.

  ‘Tell them!’ Juliette squawked as her husband approached. ‘You weren’t leaving me, were you? You’d not leave me! Tell them!’

  Alain looked at his wife with quiet contempt.

  ‘Why are you still lying?’ he said to her.

  ‘What?’ she said, horrified, as Alain turned to the police.

  ‘I told Juliette I was leaving her the day before Polly died.’

  ‘He didn’t! He’s lying to you!’ Juliette pleaded.

  ‘Enough!’ Alain barked at his wife, finally asserting his dominance over her. Very calmly, he turned back to the police. ‘I told my wife I was leaving her the day before I went to the airport. On the Saturday. That’s the truth.’

  Juliette had no answer to this and looked at her husband in despair.

  Alain turned to Juliette. ‘I’m going inside now. I suggest you do the same, woman.’

  Alain left his wife standing among her bags of shopping, and Richard realised that he’d rarely seen anyone look more forlorn than Juliette did at that precise moment.

  But if she had known that her husband was leaving her for a new life with Polly, Richard had no doubt now. Juliette could be the killer.

  But how to prove it?

  Chapter 13

  Once Richard and Camille had returned to the police station, Richard discovered that Fidel and Dwayne had been making heavy weather with the scraps of newspaper print he’d left them to process.

  ‘There’s tonnes of text on the other sides of these bits of paper, sir,’ Fidel said. ‘But none of it makes sense. It’s just half a word here, half a word there.’

  ‘I see,’ Richard said, disappointed that the evidence still hadn’t given them any leads. He went to Dwayne’s desk where the squares of paper were all laid out, and started to look at the fragments of newspaper for himself. It was just as Fidel had said. On the other side of each cut-out letter was sometimes a scrap of text, sometimes it was blank, and sometimes there was the ink of what had perhaps been a picture or an advert, but it was hard to see what could be gleaned other than the fact that the newspaper was English-language.

  As Richard was looking at the newspaper fragments, Dwayne sidled up to him with an ice-cold bottle of water from the fridge.

  ‘Thanks, Dwayne,’ Richard said, taking the bottle.

  As Richard unscrewed the lid and took a glug of water, Dwayne dipped his head to his ear and quietly said, ‘Your mum won’t stop texting me, Chief.’

  Richard froze—mid-gulp—and then turned to look at Dwayne, who had the good grace to look suitably awkward himself.

  ‘In fact, she keeps saying we should go for a drink.’

  Richard coughed in a wild splutter, the water going down the wrong hole in his throat, the liquid dribbling down his chin and onto his shirt and tie.

  ‘Hold on, hold on,’ Richard said, heading over to the little kitchen area to the side of the main office and grabbing himself a tea towel to dab at his shirt and tie.

  Once he’d re-established a suitable level of sartorial decorum, Richard looked back at the office. Camille and Fidel were both working at their desks—pretending not to have noticed his and Dwayne’s exchange—and D
wayne was still standing to the side of his desk looking back at Richard with a desperate look in his eyes that reminded Richard of a rabbit facing a shotgun barrel.

  Richard folded the tea towel, placed it by the sink, and remembered how Camille had said that her mother had offered to help him. Richard exhaled, but this wasn’t a sigh of defeat. It was the sigh of a man who knew that he was about to strap on his boxing gloves and go into the ring.

  ‘All right, everyone,’ Richard said. ‘Dwayne, help me get those scraps of newspaper into an envelope. I’m going to look at them down at Catherine’s bar.’

  Camille looked up from her monitor, guessing why Richard was going to see her mother, but Richard avoided her eye as he helped Dwayne get the bits of paper into an envelope.

  A few minutes later, Richard was sitting at the outside seating area of Catherine’s bar with the scraps of newspaper spread out on the table in front of him. It was one of those stultifyingly hot days when there wasn’t even a hint of a puff of a breeze anywhere on the island and Richard realised he was slowly roasting inside his dark suit.

  ‘Here you are,’ Catherine said, bringing over a cup of tea in a china cup.

  ‘Thank you,’ Richard said.

  ‘No, thank you,’ Catherine lilted, before hovering by Richard’s table.

  Richard realised he didn’t know how to broach the subject of why he was there, so he did what any self-respecting Englishman would do and prevaricated.

  ‘No, thank you,’ he repeated, before taking a sip from his cup. ‘Lovely cup of tea by the way.’

  ‘Camille just rang me,’ Catherine said. ‘She said you’d not be able to tell me why you were here, but you were here to talk about your mother.’

  ‘Oh. Ah. She said that, did she?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Um. Oh.’

  Richard took another quick sip of tea.

  ‘This really is a lovely cuppa.’

  Catherine dragged over a chair and sat in it.

  ‘All right, I’ll speak and you can listen. Because your mother is a wonderful woman. A little highly strung perhaps, but she can also be funny, kind, and she loves you very much. But if she sees that you’re happy, she herself is unhappy.’