‘Is that true?’ Becks asked, so horrified at what she was hearing that she didn’t notice a strawberry roll off her plate.
Judith didn’t answer immediately.
She looked about herself. At the sunlight sparkling on the water, at the cows cropping the grass in the field, and a feeling of contentment overtook her that was almost startling. Suzie had been right when she’d said she could trust her two friends with her life.
She leant forward with a little smile.
‘I couldn’t possibly comment,’ she said, but there was a twinkle in her eye that made it clear that she was indeed commenting. ‘Now then, who’d like a glass of champagne?’
Acknowledgements
Thanks to my editor Finn Cotton, whose enthusiasm, understanding of story, and laser-like attention to detail has made this book so much better than it would otherwise have been. Thanks also to Dominic Wakeford, who I first shared this story with, and also to Anne O’Brien for her diligence during the copy-editing process. When I emailed her the manuscript, I was convinced there were no issues with the timeline. I was wrong. Very, very wrong. She fixed what was fixable; all of the other mistakes are mine.
Thanks also to my literary agent Ed Wilson and all the team at Johnson & Alcock. Ed was the first person I pitched the idea for this book to during a very enjoyable lunch in Marlow, and his immediate enthusiasm was something I clung to during the long months of writing. I’d also like to thank my film and TV agent, Charlotte Knight, and all her team at the Knight Hall Agency. Charlotte’s instincts for what makes a good story are unparalleled, and her wise counsel and friendship over the years has kept me on the straight and narrow, or at least when cocktails aren’t involved.
I must also thank the retired Police Officer Rebecca Bradley. She explained to me how a Detective Sergeant could end up leading a murder inquiry, and therefore gave me the fig leaf I needed to keep Tanika centre stage. I should add that all of the other police procedural inaccuracies in the novel are very much my own. Similarly, I owe a debt of gratitude to Aaron Neil, who quite brilliantly, and slowly enough so I could take notes, described the intricacies of a Muslim funeral to me.
In many respects the book in general, and the character of Judith Potts in particular, is a love letter to my Great Aunts Jean and Jess, Grandma Betty, and, of course, my mother, Penny. It was my mother who first taught me how to do cryptic crosswords, and my childhood memories are filled with the sound of laughter as she and her fiercely intelligent female friends set the world to rights over one more glass of Cointreau, or one more cigarette. (My mother will want me to point out that she no longer drinks Cointreau or smokes.)
Finally, I would like to thank my wonderful wife, Katie Breathwick, and our children, Charlie and James. I couldn’t get through the writing process without them. Katie reads multiple drafts, suggests improvements and cuts – in fact, my favourite moment in the novel was her idea – but the whole family have been my sounding board for this story. I can only apologise to them that, over the last couple of years, pretty much every dog walk, family meal or car journey has been tarnished by me either being distracted, distant, or, worse still, trying to elicit their help, which they always gave freely. I really couldn’t have done this without the three of you. Thank you.
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A Meditation on Murder
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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 cove
red 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!’
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.
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The Marlow Murder Club Page 29