Killing Of Polly Carter

by Robert Thorogood

  ‘What’s that?’ he said.

  Richard’s father turned from his son and went back to staring out at the view of the Caribbean sea sparkling in the harbour. Richard could see that his father was mentally geeing himself up.

  ‘You see, when your mother just upped and left like that, I decided I wouldn’t chase after her. God knows why. I’m too stubborn. I’m sure you’d agree with that. But I decided I’d just stick my head in the sand and do nothing. I don’t suppose you can imagine reacting to a situation in your life like that?’

  Richard, of course, knew that he basically reacted to every situation in his life precisely like that, but he kept his counsel, and his father continued.

  ‘And then I got a phone call from your Commissioner. I guessed it was a fit-up from the start, but it also made me realise. I wanted to be on the next plane out here. I wanted to get your mother back. So thank you, son. For what you did for me. For what you did for your mother.’

  Richard was stunned. Had his father just paid him another compliment? What was going on?

  After a few more moments of silent wonder, Richard decided that maybe he’d give the balustrade a go as well, and so he tentatively leant his forearms on it and took up position at his father’s side to look out at the view. Admittedly, he found that he had to squint against the reflected sunlight on the water of the harbour, but he also found this silent side-by-side communion strangely peaceful.

  In fact, as Richard screwed up his eyes against the headache-inducing brightness, he realised that this was the closest he’d ever come to any kind of accord with his father. And, as he threw a glance sideways, he noticed for the first time how his father’s neck didn’t quite fill the eighteen-inch shirt collar he knew he wore, and the skin of his neck had fluted in wrinkles as well. His father was getting old, Richard realised.

  Richard decided that this was the moment that he should say something meaningful, but he was at a loss. You don’t spend over four decades petrified of someone, he realised, and then have something nice lined up to say after one sideways glance.

  Jennifer beetled out of the police station and was delighted to see father and son leaning against the balustrade, side by side.

  ‘Graham, our plane will be leaving soon,’ she said. ‘And you know how we have to be there at least two hours before the desk opens—in case of any last-minute problems.’

  ‘Oh?’ Richard said, surprised. ‘Are you going back to the UK?’

  ‘Oh no,’ Jennifer said, delight in her eyes. ‘Actually, we’ve decided to go on to Cuba. I’ve always wanted to go there.’

  ‘You are?’ Richard said, amazed. And then he realised what his mother had actually said. ‘Sorry, you’ve always wanted to go to Cuba?’

  Jennifer beamed and Graham stood up from the balustrade. He looked at Richard.

  ‘Sure. It was something we used to talk about. Going to Cuba. Hiring a classic 1950s Chevrolet, touring the island, and learning to dance the Salsa.’

  Richard was sure that his ears were deceiving him this time.

  ‘Your tie’s come loose, son,’ Graham said with a smile.

  ‘It has?’ Richard said, his hand instinctively going to the knot in reflexive panic.

  ‘No it’s all right,’ his mother said. ‘It looks nice a little loose.’

  Richard no longer knew which way was up and which way was down, because if his father had recently paid him at least two compliments, his mother had now quite clearly said that she was prepared to accept less-than-perfect sartorial standards in him.

  He tightened the knot on his tie anyway.

  You had to have some standards in life.

  And then, with a few more parting words that they should all stay in touch more—and with the promise that they’d send their son a postcard from Cuba—Graham shook Richard’s hand, Jennifer kissed him on both cheeks, and then husband and wife left down the steps together.

  As Richard watched his parents head down into the street together and hail a taxi, Camille, Fidel and Dwayne came out of the police station and joined Richard on the verandah.

  Dwayne turned to his boss. ‘I don’t know how you did it, but you did it.’

  Richard was just as surprised as Dwayne. ‘I did, didn’t I?’

  ‘Nice one, Chief.’

  ‘Thank you, Dwayne.’

  ‘And I can second that,’ Fidel said. ‘Nice one, Chief.’

  ‘Thank you, Fidel.’

  Richard turned to Camille, knowing that now—finally!—she’d do the decent thing and call him ‘Chief’. And, as he looked into his Detective Sergeant’s eyes, he could see the knowing twinkle that showed him that she knew perfectly well what he was expecting her to say.

  ‘Nice one,’ she said, before pausing dramatically. ‘Sir,’ she then finished.

  Richard blinked.

  She hadn’t called him Chief. The wilful, insolent, pig-headed—and frankly insubordinate—Camille still hadn’t called him Chief! And as he saw smirks begin to play around Dwayne and Fidel’s mouths, he realised that they’d realised the same thing, too.

  ‘Don’t you all have some work to do?’ he barked.

  ‘Not really, Chief,’ Dwayne said. ‘You see, we’ve already caught the killer. She’s in the cells.’

  ‘Then what about processing the evidence and writing up the reports? Have we done all that?’ Richard asked, refusing to back down.

  ‘All processed and written up, sir,’ Fidel said, also deeply amused by his boss’s grump.

  ‘Then there must be some on-going training you all need to be getting on with?’ Richard finally said.

  Dwayne just laughed.

  ‘The amount of overtime we’ve clocked over the last few weeks, I’m not even on shift any more, Chief. So I’m suggesting we all go to Catherine’s bar for a celebratory drink.’

  And with that, Dwayne tripped down the steps and started to head off to Catherine’s bar.

  With a guilty smile and quick bob of his head—’Me too, sir’—Fidel turned and followed Dwayne before Richard could call him back.

  Now it was just Camille and Richard left on the verandah.

  Camille smiled for her boss, happy now that she’d scored her point to put their usual bickering to one side.

  ‘Dwayne’s right, sir. You should come for a drink. Tell you what, seeing as we’re celebrating, if you come to the bar, I’ll even promise to buy you a drink.’

  As Richard looked at Camille, an odd feeling began to seep through him. Maybe, for once, perhaps he did want to have a drink with Camille and the rest of the team.

  But Camille’s recent refusal to call him Chief still smarted, and he knew that if she was too stubborn to accommodate his wishes—well then, two could play at that game, couldn’t they?

  So—rather cleverly, he thought to himself—Richard refused even to give an answer to Camille’s question, and instead he just stood there, knowing that his lack of answer would be all the answer he need give.

  Richard saw the hope in Camille’s eyes fade. He then knew he’d ‘won’ when she sighed to herself, turned, and headed away from the police station without another word, shaking her head to herself.

  Yes, he thought to himself, that showed her who was boss.

  And anyway, he now realised, he didn’t want to spend the evening in a rowdy bar toasting their success with endless bottles of beer—or, heaven forbid, having to drink one of Catherine’s near-lethal cocktails. No, Richard instinctively knew what he’d much rather be doing.

  He was going to have a quiet evening at home with a nice cup of tea and finish reading his book on the indigenous insects of the Caribbean. Now that was how to spend an evening.

  And with that thought, Richard almost smiled to himself.

  Almost.

  But not quite.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I’d like to thank Tony Jordan, Belinda Campbell, Alex Jones, Tim Key and James Hall for all the work they do on the TV series. It’s mostly because of them that it re
mains so succesful. As for the Death in Paradise books, I am blessed in having a phenomenal team at Mira/Harlequin: Alison Lindsay, Nick Bates, Darren Shoffren and Taryn Sachs in particular have all worked their socks off promoting the first book, and I’m extremely grateful for their good cheer and support over the last year. And, of course, an even bigger thanks has to go to my editor, Sally Williamson. Her continued enthusiasm has kept me sane through the long months of writing, her incisive notes have kept the story on track, and her ability to escort me from the annual office party before I embarrassed myself any further has kept my reputation (just about) intact.

  I would also like to thank the fabulously-talented Louise McGrory, the designer of both this book’s cover and the cover for A Meditation on Murder. There’s no point writing a novel if no-one picks it up in a shop, and I’m thrilled with how brilliantly she’s represented Richard, Saint-Marie and the world of each book in her cover designs.

  I’d like to thank my literary agent, Ed Wilson, for his support during the writing process; my TV and film agent Charlotte Knight, for her support at all other times; and also a special thanks—as ever—to Molly Ker Hawn, who has always given fabulous advice, and always at the drop of a hat. You need champions cheering you on when you start writing a novel—it really is a lot of words to put one in front of another—and so I’d also like to thank Richard Westcott and Georgie Bevan, who both read an early draft of the book, and their notes and enthusiasm helped me get through these last few months of writing and re-writing.

  Finally, I would also like to thank my wife, Katie Breathwick, and our children, Charlie and James. Katie’s notes on the early drafts of the novel proved critically important (as ever), and her tolerance of my neurotic self-absorption during the writing process is nothing short of heroic. As for Charlie and James, I’d like to thank them for putting up with a father who is sometimes grouchy and nearly always absent-minded during the writing process. And not just then, now I think about it. But everything I write—one way or another—is for you. Love you.

  Robert Thorogood

  Marlow, October, 2015

  Read on for an extract from A MEDITATION ON MURDER by Robert Thorogood

  Prologue

  Aslan Kennedy had no need of an alarm clock. Instead, he found he woke every morning quite naturally as the sun began to peek over the horizon.

  In fact, he’d been waking with the sun ever since he’d decided a few years back that he no longer believed in alarm clocks. Any more than he believed in money, the internet, or any kind of ‘one cup’ tea bag. For Aslan—hotel-owner, yoga instructor and self-styled Spiritual Guru—the wristwatch, with its arbitrary division of seconds, minutes and hours, was a potent symbol of enslavement. A manacle mankind wore while they worshipped at the false idol they called progress.

  It made making appointments with him a little trying, of course. But that wasn’t Aslan’s problem. Not the way he saw it.

  On this particular morning, Aslan lay quietly in bed (mahogany, Belle Epoque) until he felt his chakras align. He then swung his legs out onto the teak floorboards (Thai, imported) and padded over to a floor-length mirror (gilt-framed, Regency) where he inspected his reflection. The man who stared back at him looked much older than his fifty-six years—if only because his flowing white hair, beard and white cotton nightshirt gave him a Jesus/Gandalf vibe. But, as Aslan would be the first to admit, the miracle was that he was alive at all. And, as far as he was concerned, the reason why he’d been able to turn his life around was entirely down to his wonderful wife, Rianka.

  Aslan turned back to look at Rianka as she slept twisted in the cotton sheets of their bed. She looked so at peace, Aslan thought to himself. Like a beautiful angel. And, as he’d told himself a thousand times over the last decade and a half, he owed everything that was now good in his life to this woman. It was that simple. And debts like that could never be repaid.

  Once Aslan had got dressed, he swept down the mahogany staircase of The Retreat, careful his white cotton robes didn’t knock over any of the artfully arranged ethnic icons or trinkets that variously stood on pedestals or hung from the wall. At the bottom of the stairs, he turned into the hotel’s ultra-modern kitchen and was pleased to see that someone had already laid out a willow pattern teapot and porcelain cups on a tray for him.

  Aslan started the kettle boiling and looked out of the window. Manicured lawns stretched down through an avenue of tall palm trees to the hotel’s beach, where the Caribbean sea sparkled emerald green as it lapped against the white sand. With a smile, Aslan saw that the guests for the Sunrise Healing were already on the beach, stretching and taking the air following their early-morning swim.

  Mind you, his eyesight wasn’t what it once was, and, as he looked more closely at the five people in their swim things, he found himself frowning. Was that really who was going to be in the Sunrise Healing session with him? In fact, Aslan realised, if that’s who was attending the session, then something had gone seriously wrong.

  Aslan’s attention was brought back to the room as the kettle came to the boil with a click. He poured the water into the pot and let the familiar smell of green tea calm him. After all, he had much more in his life to worry about than who was or wasn’t attending one of his therapy sessions. Perhaps this was no more than karma realigning itself?

  He couldn’t hide from his past forever, could he?

  By the time Aslan took the tray of tea outside, he’d decided that he’d just carry on as normal. He’d lead the guests to the Meditation Space. Just as normal. He’d lock the room down. Just as normal. He’d then share a cup of tea with them all and start the Healing. Just as normal.

  ‘Good morning!’ Aslan called out to get the attention of the five guests down on the beach. They all turned and looked up at him. A few of them even waved.

  Yes, he decided to himself, it was all going to be just fine.

  It was half an hour later when the screaming started.

  At the time, most of the hotel guests were finishing their breakfast in the outdoor dining area, or were already wearing white cotton robes and heading off to their first treatment of the day. As for Rianka Kennedy, Aslan’s wife, she was sitting out on the hotel’s verandah, a wicker basket of sewing at her feet as she darned one of her husband’s socks.

  The scream seemed to be coming from one of the treatment rooms that sat in the middle of The Retreat’s largest lawn: a timber and paper Japanese tea house that Aslan and Rianka had christened the ‘Meditation Space’.

  When a second scream joined the first, Rianka found herself running across the grass towards the Meditation Space. It was a good hundred yards away and, when Rianka had covered about half the distance, Dominic De Vere, The Retreat’s tanned and taut handyman, appeared as if by magic from around the side of a clump of bougainvillea. As usual he was wearing only cut-off jeans, flip-flops and a utility belt full of various tools.

  ‘What’s that racket?’ he asked somewhat redundantly as Rianka flashed past him. After a moment, he turned and trotted after her.

  Rianka got to the door of the Meditation Space, and, as there was no handle on the outside of it, tried to jam her fingers into the gap between the door and the frame with no success. It wouldn’t budge—it was locked from the inside.

  ‘What’s going on?’ she called out over the sound of screams.

  Dominic finally flapped over on his flip-flops and caught up with Rianka, if not the situation.

  ‘What’s happening?’ he asked.

  ‘Dominic, get that door open!’

  ‘I can’t. There’s no door handle.’

  ‘Use your knife! Just cut through the paper!’

  ‘Oh! Of course!’

  Dominic grabbed the Stanley knife from the pouch at his belt and clicked the triangular blade out. He was about to slash through the paper of the tea house’s wall when they both saw it: a bloody hand pressed up against the inside.

  They then heard a man’s voice, thick with fear: ‘Help!’
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  And then a different female voice: ‘Oh god! Oh god!’

  There was a scrabbling while someone wrestled with the lock on the inside of the door. A few moments later, the door was yanked inwards by Ben Jenkins, who then just stood there in lumpen horror.

  Ignoring Ben, Rianka stepped into the Meditation Space and saw that Paul Sellars was lying on his back on a prayer mat, having difficulty waking up. Ann, his wife, was kneeling at his side shaking his shoulders. Rianka could see that both of them had spots of blood on their white cotton robes. As for Saskia Filbee, she was standing off to one side, her hands over her mouth, stifling another scream. There was blood on her sleeve as well.

  But it was the woman standing in the centre of the room that drew Rianka’s attention. Her name was Julia Higgins. She was in her early twenties, she’d been working at The Retreat for the last six months, and in her left hand she was holding a bloody carving knife.

  At Julia’s feet a man was lying quite still, his once white robes, beard and hair now drenched in blood, a number of vicious knife wounds in his back.

  Aslan Kennedy—hotel-owner, yoga instructor and self-styled Spiritual Guru—had clearly just been viciously stabbed to death.

  ‘I killed him,’ Julia said.

  And now it was Rianka’s turn to scream.

  Chapter One

  A few hours before the murder of Aslan Kennedy, Detective Inspector Richard Poole was also awake. This wasn’t because he’d trained himself to turn delicately to each day’s sunrise like a flower; it was because he was hot, bothered, and he’d been awake since a frog had started croaking outside his window—inexplicably—just before 4am.

  But then, Richard thought to himself, this was entirely typical, because if he wasn’t being assaulted by frog choruses in the middle of the night, it was torrential downpours like a troupe of Gene Kellys tap-dancing on his tin roof; or it was whole dunes of sand being blown across his floorboards by the hot Caribbean wind. In fact, Richard considered, in all ways and at all times, life on the tropical island of Saint-Marie was a misery.