Murder in the Caribbean

by Robert Thorogood

  ‘He’s one of Pierre’s gang members, isn’t he?’ Fidel said.

  ‘It’s what it looks like to me,’ Dwayne agreed.

  ‘And, sir,’ Camille said, ‘that would fit with what I’m getting on him, because his company Frost Property Services was founded twenty years ago. Just under six months after the original jewel robbery. And it had seed capital of three hundred thousand dollars.’

  ‘That came from the robbery, didn’t it?’ Richard said.

  ‘Just like Conrad set up his record label with his money,’ Camille said.

  ‘But whereas Conrad’s business failed, Jimmy’s went from strength to strength. So we now know the identity of three members of the gang of four. Pierre Charpentier, Conrad Gardiner, and Jimmy Frost.’

  ‘And, sir,’ Fidel said, looking up from his desk, ‘you should know, I’ve been checking the fingerprint on the fake ruby you found in Jimmy’s mouth, and it belongs to Pierre Charpentier.’

  ‘Hang on,’ Richard said, stunned. ‘Pierre left his print on the ruby this time?’

  ‘He did.’

  ‘Why would he do that?’ Dwayne asked.

  ‘It’s obvious,’ Richard said. ‘He knows we’re onto him, doesn’t he? And he’s letting us know he doesn’t care.’

  ‘But why leave his print at the scene?’

  ‘He really doesn’t think we’re capable of finding him, does he?’

  Richard decided that the time for half measures was over. He took his jacket off. He then realised he felt all wrong, so he put his jacket back on and did the front button up as he went to look at the whiteboard.

  ‘He thinks he’s one step ahead of us,’ he said. ‘So he’s taunting us. Letting us know that whatever clues we process and leads we follow, he’s always going to be one step ahead of us. You know what?’ Richard said, a dangerous thought beginning to form in his mind. ‘If Pierre thinks we’re just the local Plod, why don’t we do the last thing he’d expect?’

  ‘And what’s that, sir?’ Camille asked.

  ‘I don’t know. But I want to shake his sense of superiority.’

  ‘Well, sir,’ Camille said, joining her boss at the whiteboard, ‘I agree with you. There’s an arrogance to Pierre. And it’s all because he thinks he can pick off all the members of the gang before we can stop him.’

  ‘Agreed.’

  ‘So how about we get to the fourth member of the gang before he does?’

  ‘But how can we do that?’

  ‘Well, there’s one way I can think of. Let’s go to the Saint-Marie Times, give them everything we’ve got, and make front page news. How Pierre’s on the loose. How he’s a suspected killer. How he’s already killed two of the members of his gang, and the last member of the gang’s life is now in grave danger. And either this fourth person takes his chances on his own, or he presents himself to the Police. And we might be able to save him.’

  ‘That’s a brilliant idea,’ Fidel said.

  ‘I agree,’ Dwayne said. ‘And while we’re doing that, how about we get Pierre’s mugshot printed up? You know, if we’re going to throw a grenade into the room, let’s really throw a grenade – with pictures of Pierre’s face plastered on every street corner and lamppost on the island. You know, proper old-fashioned “Wanted” posters.’

  ‘Great idea!’ Camille agreed. ‘Because someone must have seen Pierre since he left his halfway house. Let’s use the whole island to flush him out, sir.’

  Richard looked at his team and had a fleeting epiphany – squashed by his conscious mind even as his subconscious suggested it – that this was why he loved policing: to be part of a team that was purely focused on bringing criminals to justice.

  Mind you, he thought to himself as he returned to the safety of his desk, what Camille was suggesting went against all known Police protocol. It just wasn’t the done thing to reveal your hand to the killer like this.

  And yet, Pierre was laughing at them. There was no denying it. And Richard really didn’t like the idea that a double killer felt that he was superior to him.

  Richard looked at his team and made his decision.

  He took off his jacket and hung it on the back of his chair after all.

  ‘Let’s do it,’ he said. ‘Let’s do it all.’

  CHAPTER TEN

  The following day, the headline in the Saint-Marie Times screamed ‘Serial Killer on the Loose’. Even so, Richard wasn’t entirely happy, although this was mainly because of the picture of him that accompanied the article. Did he really look that old? So pasty? And so very . . . sweaty?

  But then, it was fair to say that the hastily arranged press conference hadn’t gone quite how he’d expected from the start. Richard was used to dedicated meeting rooms and Constabulary signage being used at similar events in the UK. Here, on Saint-Marie, the press conference had actually been one man called Francois visiting the Police station when he got off from his day shift as a tourist guide in the rum museum.

  But for all that Francois was old and wheezing, he got the gist of what Richard needed right from the get-go. In his article, he made it clear that the Police urgently wanted to interview Pierre Charpentier in connection with the murders of Conrad Gardiner and Jimmy Frost. And that there were four gang members who had carried out a robbery twenty years before, and now the fourth member of the gang’s life was in danger if he didn’t present himself to the Police.

  Putting aside his feelings about his photo, the article was everything Richard had hoped it would be. And if it wasn’t enough to put a pep in his step, Richard had also made what he considered to be a major breakthrough in the case.

  ‘So I’ve just been to the Bricolage,’ he announced to his team as he strode into the station.

  ‘You have, sir?’ Fidel asked.

  Richard could see that Fidel had a host of fingerprint cards on his desk. He’d clearly been working through the remaining prints they’d been able to lift from the scene of Mr Frost’s murder. But Richard could also see that while Camille was at her own desk, Dwayne hadn’t yet arrived for work.

  ‘I have,’ Richard said, ‘and I think I’ve got something. Because it turns out that the little pieces of gravel we found in the tread of the Citroën CX aren’t just generic, they’re actually five-millimetre bleached pea shingle.’

  Richard announced this fact in the same way that a magician might announce ‘was this indeed your card?’, but he was surprised to discover that neither Camille nor Fidel seemed that interested.

  ‘What’s that, sir?’ Camille asked, barely looking up from her monitor.

  ‘I said, the pebbles we found in the tyre of the Citroën CX aren’t just any common-or-garden shingle. I’ve been able to check them against the gravel that’s for sale at the Bricolage, and I can tell you that they’re a perfect match for the five-millimetre bleached pea shingle they sell.’

  Again, this didn’t seem to land as he’d expected.

  ‘I’ll do this,’ Camille said to Fidel. ‘But why is that of interest?’

  ‘Well, it’s of interest,’ Richard said, ‘because it’s a specific brand of pea shingle, and I got the manager at the Bricolage to check his records. They’re the only shop on the whole island that sells this particular brand. But it gets even better than that, because he showed me some of the five-millimetre shingle he’d got on an area of driveway outside, and it was seriously discoloured. It wasn’t anything like the perfect samples we found in the grey Citroën’s tyre treads. Which suggests to me that the gravel that was picked up in the tyres of the Citroën must have been bought recently because it was still bright white.’

  Camille and Fidel were impressed, despite themselves.

  ‘You’ve worked out the exact shop where the gravel came from?’ Camille asked, once again privately marvelling at how obsessive her boss could be.

  ‘And it gets better than that, because I got the manager to give me a record of every sale he’s made in the last six months, and guess what, he’s only sold the stuff on seventeen
different occasions. So, seeing as I can see that Fidel is working hard on identifying fingerprints, Camille, I’d like you to go through the list of all of the people and companies who’ve bought bleached five-millimetre shingle in the last six months.’ With a flourish, Richard pulled a printout from his inside jacket pocket and handed it over to his Detective Sergeant. ‘Contact each person on this list and ask them if they saw a grey Citroën parked on their shingle on the day Pierre was released.’

  Camille took the piece of paper.

  ‘Okay, sir.’

  ‘Now where’s Dwayne?’ Richard asked, heading over to his desk.

  ‘It’s a Thursday, sir,’ Fidel said. ‘So he’s at home studying for his sergeant’s exam.’

  ‘And we know that that’s definitely what he’s doing?’

  ‘Of course, sir. If he has Thursday morning off for studying, then that’s what he’ll be doing. I’m sure.’

  ‘We’ll see about that,’ Richard said, picking up the phone. He dialled Dwayne’s home phone number, and heard the call start ringing at the other end.

  Dwayne didn’t pick up.

  After it had continued to ring for a good minute, Richard slammed the phone back down on its cradle.

  ‘Typical! He’s with his new girlfriend, isn’t he?’

  ‘No, sir, he’ll be studying,’ Fidel said, but Richard could see that even Fidel didn’t believe what he was saying.

  ‘That’s it, he’s had his last warning. He’s going to be getting an official caution the moment he walks in here!’

  ‘What’s that, sir?’ Dwayne said as he ambled into the station.

  ‘Where have you been?’ Richard all but squawked.

  ‘Well, I know I’m supposed to be studying this morning, but I reckoned we needed to hit the ground running with the article appearing in the Times this morning. So I got up at 4am, and I’ve spent every second since then putting up our “Wanted” posters for Pierre Charpentier. And I reckon they’re now on every lamppost, bus stop, community noticeboard, road sign and bench I could find within five miles of Honoré. Why are you asking?’

  ‘You’ve been working?’

  ‘I know, Chief, and I’m sorry, but I can make up the study time over the weekend. I won’t get behind.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s what the Detective Inspector meant,’ Camille said.

  ‘Oh? Then what did you mean?’ Dwayne asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ Richard said, and turned back to his computer monitor. He started typing to make it look as though he was in the middle of writing a report.

  ‘Sir,’ Fidel said, ‘your computer’s not turned on.’

  Richard paused in his typing.

  Very carefully he reached out, turned his machine on and then waited for it to make its start-up chime. As he waited, he grumbled to himself about how it was just bloody typical that Dwayne would be lackadaisical every second of his working life, but on the one occasion that Richard called him out on it, it turned out that he was being extra diligent. But this didn’t change anything, Richard told himself. Dwayne was still flaky, self-absorbed, and there was no doubting that he’d become even more unreliable since he hooked up with this new girlfriend. Amy McDiarmid. A woman who was prepared to answer the door to a complete stranger wearing almost no clothes. And who, in case anyone forgot, had clearly stopped Dwayne from studying for his sergeant’s exam at least once.

  Richard looked up and saw that Camille was staring straight at him, her right eyebrow raised. He shrugged as if to say, ‘what are you staring at me for?’ and then he got back to his work, which he was able to do now that his computer had finally booted up. But he couldn’t quite shake the feeling that Camille felt that it was him who’d somehow overstepped a mark, not Dwayne. Life was so unfair sometimes.

  ‘Okay, I think I’ve got something, sir,’ Fidel said from his desk.

  ‘You have?’ Richard asked.

  ‘I have,’ Fidel said. ‘I’ve been processing the fingerprints we were able to lift from the glass sliding door that led into Mr Frost’s study. And they all belong to Mr Frost or his wife. As you’d expect. But there were three prints we lifted that didn’t match either of them.’

  ‘Maybe they belong to a cleaner or maid?’ Dwayne offered.

  ‘That’s what I thought, but I reckoned I’d better check them against the exclusion prints we’ve already taken, and the thing is, I’ve got a match.’

  ‘You have?’ Camille asked. ‘Do they belong to Pierre Charpentier?’

  ‘No – that’s the thing. Pierre was the first person I checked.’

  ‘Then who does the fingerprint belong to?’

  ‘Natasha Gardiner.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘She’s left three fingerprints on the door to Jimmy Frost’s study.’

  ‘A man she very specifically told me on the phone she didn’t know,’ Richard said in quiet fury.

  Richard had to resist the urge to bang his fist on his desk in frustration.

  ‘Camille,’ he said, ‘give Mrs Gardiner a ring, and tell her we’d like to interview her, but this time I’d like her to come into the station.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Camille said, all thoughts of points scoring about Dwayne long forgotten as she picked up her phone to make the call.

  Ten minutes later, Natasha walked through the door.

  ‘You wanted to see me?’ she asked, and Richard saw that she was nervously holding a little clutch bag in front of her.

  ‘If you’d please sit here,’ Richard said, indicating the chair he’d already set in front of his desk.

  Natasha crossed the room and sat down in the chair.

  ‘You see, I’ve got a problem,’ Richard said by way of an opening. ‘Because we have clear evidence that your husband was murdered by Pierre Charpentier. And just as clear evidence that Pierre went on to murder Jimmy Frost. But I have no hope of getting to the bottom of your husband’s murder if you continue to lie to us.’

  As Richard said this, Natasha fumbled with her clutch bag and it dropped to the floor.

  ‘Oh sorry,’ she said, and bent down to pick it up. It took her a few moments to gather it and when she straightened up she was unable to hide the look of fear on her face.

  ‘I haven’t lied,’ she said.

  ‘You have, and you know it. You knew Jimmy Frost.’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘We’ve found your fingerprints on the door to his outside office.’

  This brought Natasha up short.

  ‘You have?’ she asked in a small voice.

  ‘If you don’t want us to arrest you for his murder, I suggest you start telling us the truth. And now.’

  Richard pulled out his notebook and put it down on his desk with a little slap.

  He clicked his retractable pencil and looked unflinchingly at Natasha.

  Natasha’s eyes lowered. She couldn’t meet the Police officer’s gaze.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘But you have to believe me, I couldn’t murder Jimmy. You see . . . I loved him.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ Richard asked.

  ‘Or I thought I did,’ she said in a voice steeped in shame. ‘For a spell.’

  ‘So you’re admitting you knew him?’

  Natasha nodded.

  ‘And therefore lied to us before?’

  Natasha nodded again.

  ‘Very well. How did you meet?’

  ‘He came to the house. About six months ago. As I said to you, I didn’t like him being friends with Conrad, but we’d not met before. I’d always stayed out of his way.’

  ‘Why did he visit that day?’

  ‘He said he wanted to see Conrad. I told him he was out on his boat. Jimmy laughed, and said he was happy to wait. I felt awkward, so I invited him in and offered him a coffee. But he wasn’t like I expected him to be. He seemed so charming. So interested in me and Conrad, and he wanted to know all about our daughter, Jessica. How she was getting on in St Lucia. And then he told me . . .’

 
Natasha gulped, summoning the courage to carry on with her story.

  ‘Yes, he told you . . .?’

  ‘That Jessica was attractive, but then it was no surprise as she had such an attractive mother. He meant me.’

  ‘So what did you say?’

  ‘Oh, I just blushed. I was so embarrassed, but Jimmy didn’t seem bothered at all. He told me I was beautiful. And normally I’d have been so offended, but he was so matter of fact about the way he said it. And I could see that he was being sincere. Or I thought he was being sincere. And I can’t deny it was quite something to have a man take an interest in me. Conrad . . . well, I can’t remember the last time he paid me a compliment or said I looked pretty. And he spent all his time on his boat. It’s not like I even saw him, so I couldn’t help but feel a flutter of excitement that something was happening in my life that was a little exciting. But I had no idea. No idea at all.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘As he left, Jimmy told me that he owned the Presidential Suite at the Fort Royal Hotel. And then he said to me, like it was all acceptable and above board, that if I wanted to go there tomorrow, I could collect the key to the suite from reception. All I had to do was say that I was with Mr Snow and the key was mine. And then I could use whatever spa facilities I wanted. Get a haircut. Have a facial. Whatever I wanted. I should make myself as pretty on the outside as I was on the inside. And then, if I wanted, he’d come to the suite at 4pm. If I wasn’t interested in being there for him, that would be fine, too. He wanted me to have a good time. But if I wanted more, no strings attached, all I had to do was be in the suite at 4pm. And then with a smile, he left. I didn’t know what to think. I was so shocked. Offended that he thought he could pick me up so easily.’

  Richard couldn’t quite equate the extraordinary story he was hearing with the dowdy woman sitting in front of him.

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘That’s the thing, I did nothing. But when Conrad finally got home, I didn’t tell him that Jimmy had come to the house. I think that was my first act of rebellion. Or the first time that I realised I was maybe thinking about going to the suite. And this isn’t like me, you have to believe me. I’m a good, church-going woman, you just ask Father Luc. I’ve never done anything like this before. But everyone has a right to some happiness, don’t they? And I was so flattered, I can’t deny that that was part of it as well. So I didn’t tell Jimmy, and then Conrad announced that he and some friends were going away for a couple of days for a big fishing trip. Just like that. Like I wasn’t even part of his plans. Which I realised I wasn’t.