‘Of course there aren’t. If I was some sort of black widow, I’d one, not come on a reality television show. And two, I’d hope to be a hell of a lot richer from all the men I’d married and murdered.’ She folds her arms across her chest. ‘But as you can see, I’m here and I’m not that rich.’
I nod and make a note on my pad about Jack’s behaviour. I don’t really need to write it down; Jack’s brashness and the fact that he seemed to have pissed everyone off is the recurring theme. But the act of writing something down gives me a moment to think about my next question. It has the added bonus of giving Carly a moment to stew over the fact that if she is guilty, I’m somewhat suspicious of her. Even if I don’t actually think she is a serial killer.
In interviewing, I’ve always found that the things that aren’t said can be just as valuable and powerful as the things that are. But silence isn’t comfortable and it took a lot of practice to fight my natural instinct to fill it. Yet it was a valuable lesson to learn because if the investigating officer isn’t filling the silence, often the interviewee does.
I look up from my notepad and am disappointed to find that the trick isn’t working here. Carly doesn’t say anything, she doesn’t fill the silence; she waits dutifully and cleverly to be asked a question.
This isn’t going well so far. I’ve only managed to catch Carly off her guard once and it was with a question that I already knew the answer to. At least, I would have been floored if Carly had admitted to murdering multiple men on national television. I need to dig deeper.
‘Last night, witnesses have told me that they saw you and Jack having an argument. Is that true?’
‘Witnesses?’ she replies with a smirk. ‘By witnesses you mean Valentina.’
‘Is it true?’
Carly sighs and, sounding bored, says, ‘I wouldn’t call it an argument. But he… pissed me off.’
‘How so?’ Carly looks down at her lap and picks at her nail varnish; flecks of black polish fall onto her bare thighs and she brushes them off and onto the linen couch. ‘Carly?’ I press.
‘He…’ Her lips twitch and her face softens in a way I’ve not seen before. It’s as if she’s letting her guard down. ‘I don’t really know how to explain it. He talked… talked like he…’
‘Talked like he knew stuff?’ I question, regurgitating the words Valentina spoke. Carly stares at me, the soft expression gone in an instant.
‘Yes, if you want to know. He talked to me like he knew things about me. But before you jump to conclusions, I didn’t kill him. I’m not even sure if he did know anything. I can be paranoid sometimes.’
‘Paranoid? What’s happened to make you paranoid?’
‘Nothing that’s relevant here,’ she snaps. I eye her up. I’m onto something but I’m not sure what. It’s an unusual word to use. And from what I’ve seen, Carly is an unusual person. Her reaction to Jack’s death and seeing Jack’s body was different from the others too. Like she’d seen it before, like death was nothing new to her, just a normal part of life. Maybe she worked somewhere before where this was a thing.
‘How long have you been an actress for?’ I ask. Carly considers the question for a moment before replying.
‘It’s something I’ve always wanted to do. But I’ve been paid to be an actress for the last couple of years.’
‘And before becoming an actress what did you do?’
‘I think people are born to act.’
I grit my teeth. ‘OK, before you pursued being an actress professionally, what did you do?’
‘Bits and bobs,’ she says, pulling a face.
‘Such as?’ I push.
She flicks bits of her discarded nail varnish from the couch and onto the floor, the black dots looking like ants scuttling across the marble. ‘You know, the typical stuff a wannabe actress would do. Bar work, waitressing.’
I nod and note this down. ‘Why are you so uncomfortable with me asking about your work? What are you not telling me?’
‘There’s lots I’m not telling you because none of it is relevant here.’
‘Don’t you find it weird that you’re so uncomfortable now discussing your past and yet seeing a dead body doesn’t seem to faze you at all?’ I ask.
‘No,’ says Carly, a little too forcibly. I grip my pen and make a note. ‘What are you writing?’ she asks, leaning forward. I put the paper down, clasp my hands together under my chin and lean forward. ‘Why does not being affected by the sight of a dead body matter here?’
‘Because your reaction to seeing Jack’s body was that of someone who’s seen dead bodies before. It was the reaction of someone for whom death is a simple part of life. I didn’t expect to see Jack’s body this morning, but my reaction was more surprise than horror and shock. I used to be a police officer; I’ve seen lots of dead bodies. His body didn’t scare me. And it didn’t scare you and that makes me think you killed him.’ Carly bites her lip and I suspect she’s trying to decide how much she should reveal.
‘So, because I didn’t react like the others, you assume that I killed him?’ Carly laughs forcefully. ‘That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. But to put your mind at rest, I didn’t react like the others because my life hasn’t always been so easy. I’ve been in some dangerous situations before and I learned to control my emotions, especially outwardly.’
I think back to last night, when Jack said something to her and she went completely white. ‘So, what about when Jack said he’d missed you when you were gone?’
‘What about it?’
‘You didn’t hide your outward emotions that well then; his words practically drained the colour from you. What was it about what he said that freaked you out?’ At my question, Carly turns her face away from me and closes her eyes. She gives her head a little shake.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘For God’s sake,’ I shout, making her jump. ‘Why are your purposefully impeding this investigation? Whatever Jack said to you or made you feel could be important. Just tell me.’
Carly grits her teeth and I can tell she doesn’t like the audible accusation that she is hindering my investigation. I get the impression that Carly’s reputation is almost as important to her as her life.
‘Fine,’ she says, eventually, ‘but just to show that I’m not impeding this investigation.’ Carly leans in closer to me and cups her hands around her mouth, seemingly to avoid her words being caught on camera. ‘I used to earn money in a way I’m not proud of,’ she whispers, ‘but about two years ago I had earned enough to leave it behind me. I changed my appearance, slightly, not dramatically, but I changed my hair, my clothes, took out the coloured contacts I had been wearing. And I moved to a different place. There was something about the way Jack said he’d missed me, as though he knew, and it freaked me. But I was a bit tipsy and therefore more sensitive. If I was really worried about exposure I wouldn’t have come on the show.’
Carly pulls away from me and narrows her eyes, as if ready to pounce on any comment or judgement I might make. I don’t say anything because I’m thinking about what she has just told me and what it might mean. There is something about the word ‘exposure’ that gives me room for pause. Both Carly and I have different lives, past lives that we are no longer living. Maybe even past lives that we are running away from. Valentina talked about her past too. Is this an important clue to uncovering who the Judge is and who killed Sophia and Jack?
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Carly and I jump in unison as an alarm blares into the living room. It’s a sound I’ve come to recognise. And whatever it is, it isn’t good.
‘What the hell is it now?’ I say, aloud. Time can’t be already up, can it?
Beep. Beep. Beep.
The alarm continues. I press my hands against my ears; it’s incessant. It seems to permeate my body and vibrate my bones.
‘Islanders, report to the Fire Pit,’ shouts a voice like an airport tannoy. I tilt my chin towards the sky; t
he voice seems to come from above as if from heaven. This is no God, though. This voice is the Devil.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
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Chapter Twenty-Eight
Kimberley
Sunday 27th July, 13:37
23 Minutes Until The Next Murder
‘Islanders, report to the Fire Pit. Immediately,’ the voice repeats.
Nausea squeezes my stomach. Has someone else died? Carly and I lock eyes. I jump from the couch; papers fly everywhere. I race to the door, stopping for a second to hold onto the doorframe. My head swims; I’m dizzy and light-headed.
Beep. Beep. Beep. The alarm continues to blare.
‘Islanders, report to the Fire Pit.’
Carly pushes past me, and I follow after her, ignoring her look of scorn at my weakness. I don’t need her judgement. Not now, not ever.
The neon countdown timer tells me there are twenty-three minutes to go before the next killing. The countdown timer is a stark reminder of what’s at stake. The fearful faces of the other Islanders study me as I walk towards them as if I understand the reason for the alarm.
‘Sit down, Kimberley,’ says the Judge, screened once again on the outdoor television, his mighty throne. He still wears his costume and his face is still in darkness. Not in the mood to argue any more, I oblige and plonk myself down on the tiered wooden seating area facing the outdoor television.
‘Good,’ says the Judge. ‘You’re all here. For now.’ His voice mimics that of LoveWrecked’s presenter. It’s upbeat and chirpy as if everything were absolutely normal and he was speaking to us on a normal day in the villa. ‘Stop the clock.’ The neon countdown stops. The coloured lights show that there are now twenty-two minutes two seconds left. My heart begins to race; what has he got planned? ‘I thought we’d play a little game – wouldn’t that be fun?’
The reaction to the Judge’s words is immediate. The Islanders and I are now so entwined together by circumstance that we have a single emotional response to the Judge.
The swear word that shoots from my mouth comes out almost in unison with Mo’s. My shoulders tense just as Valentina’s do. The Judge has made us a unit, united in anger and fear.
Rosalind darts out a hand to grab my arm and, though her squeezes on my flesh are uncomfortable, I don’t budge. I want to offer my support in whatever small way I can.
Play a little game? That was what he said. What the fuck does he think we’re doing right now? My heart is in my mouth. I shouldn’t antagonise him, but I do anyway.
‘No, I don’t think playing a little game with you sounds fun at all,’ I reply with as much sarcasm as I can muster. ‘I think that sounds sick; aren’t you toying with us enough as it is?’
But the Judge continues as though I haven’t spoken, not that I expected him to. ‘As you all know, LoveWrecked challenges are famous. The British public absolutely love them. So I thought, Why should this series be any different?’
My stomach tightens and sweat prickles in my armpits at the thought of another challenge. I have my hands quite full with the first one.
‘What if we don’t want to participate in your little challenge?’ shouts Valentina, speaking aloud the question that formed in my mind. The Judge turns his shadowed face towards Valentina.
‘Oh, you will want to participate, because I’m going to make it worth your while.’
‘How?’ shouts Mo. ‘How can you possibly make it worth our while?’
‘I’m going to ask Kimberley here a question, a question with three correct answers. For each correct answer Kimberley is able to give to my question, I will add an extra fifteen minutes onto the countdown timer. Surely the chance to live that little bit longer is a good enough incentive?’
There is a flutter of excitement. It doesn’t take much for my fellow Islanders to take the Judge’s bait. They look to one another with whispers of positivity. Stockholm syndrome has really set in, it seems.
I don’t flutter or get excited by his words. My jaw tenses. The Judge is playing with us; he’s like a cat holding the tail of a mouse between his claws. He has released us momentarily, allowing us to scramble away from him, but he intends to get us in the end. I’m sure of that.
‘And what if we get the answer wrong?’ I ask, jutting my chin into the air. I want to know all the facts before I make a deal with this devil. The others sigh collectively, realising later than me that what the Judge says might just be too good to be true.
‘You’re so suspicious, Kimberley King,’ he says in his cool, calculated voice. I narrow my eyes at the screen; I hate that he keeps calling me Kimberley. Nobody calls me Kimberley, not any more. The Judge whistles through his teeth. ‘I am feeling generous today. For every wrong answer, I will only drop your time by fifteen minutes,’ said the Judge.
‘Well, that’s no good, we’ve only got twenty-two minutes left,’ says Rosalind. ‘What if we get all the answers wrong?’
‘Better hope you don’t,’ replies the Judge matter-of-factly.
‘And what if we don’t answer at all?’ I ask, my fists clenched. The Judge tilts his wigged head towards me.
‘I don’t understand the question,’ says the Judge, feigning intrigue.
‘What if we refuse to answer. There’s already a gun placed against our heads; what else will compel us to do this?’
‘Shut up, Kim, he’s offering us extra time,’ hisses Valentina.
‘So what? An extra fifteen minutes before he kills one of us. That isn’t enough incentive for me.’ I fold my arms across my body. I’m done being pushed around by an invisible enemy.
‘I’m sensing a bit of tension here. Let me put that to rights.’ At his words, the Judge’s image again diminishes to a small box in the bottom left-hand corner of the screen. The image that replaces him makes my mouth fall open in despair.
It’s a photograph of a woman. It’s taken from far away; the image is grainy and slightly out of focus.
‘Who is that?’ ask Mo.
My mouth is dry, and I rise ever so slightly from my seat. I know this woman. I know her dark almond eyes; I know her long, braided hair; I know her warm, friendly smile. The woman in the photograph is laughing at something, completely unaware she is being photographed.
‘Zoe,’ I whisper.
‘That’s the problem with people nowadays, they put everything online. And even those who aren’t prolific social media users such as yourself, Kimberley, there’s still enough there to do stuff with. To find people. To learn about them.’
‘Who is that?’ asks Rosalind, looking from me to the screen. I can’t answer her. I feel as if my anger has snatched my voice away from me. The Judge is displaying an image of my friend.
‘If you hurt her—’ I start to shout but the Judge interrupts me.
‘Who? Zoe Pearce? I wouldn’t dream of hurting her. Well, unless you refuse to play with me.’
My nostrils flare. Part of me wishes he’d just kill me, save me this torture. But Zoe’s smiling face and her complete lack of knowledge that this photograph
is being taken makes her seem so innocent in comparison to this monster. Nothing about this situation is fair, but the Judge wants to play this out and right now, I’m not in a position to stop him.
The Judge claps his hands together; he has me in a bind and he knows it. ‘So, I bet you’re all dying to know what the question is. Oops,’ he says, lifting a hand to cover the place where his mouth would be. He’s feigning embarrassment. ‘No pun intended.’
His words make me feel as though I’m back on the boat, being thrown around on the open sea. I desperately want the motion to stop.
The more the Judge speaks, the more destructive he sounds. He must be completely unhinged. Is this all nothing more than a madman’s vendetta?
Nobody responds to the Judge’s remark. How are we meant to respond to words like that? We all sit on the wooden seating around the fire while the afternoon sun beats down on us. Like zombies, we stare, silent and expectant, at the big screen.
I assume that my fellows are saturated, that the shock has consumed them and they’re now incapable of reacting. I don’t blame them. The Judge beats his hands on his lap, the drumroll sound echoes around the garden, the beat works its way up to a crescendo.
‘Kimberley King, you have ten minutes to figure it out. For every right answer, you will gain fifteen minutes. For every wrong answer, you will lose fifteen minutes. Three of your number have killed before – can you tell me who? Ready, steady, go!’
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Sunday 27th July, 13:46
Clock Stopped At 22 Minutes Until The Next Murder
My jaw slackens at the Judge’s words. I don’t know what question I was expecting but it certainly wasn’t that. It’s as if someone has punched me in the stomach. I almost double over from the force of it. Any defiance I felt against the Judge seconds earlier has gone. I’m momentarily unable to speak.
The Islanders Page 14