The Islanders

by S. V. Leonard

  I could go and ask my neighbour. But Mrs Rahman is in her seventies; would she even have Wi-Fi? And it’s probably not fair or appropriate to knock on her door at this time. There’s also the fact that the entire country potentially thinks I’m a mass murderer. I don’t want to scare Mrs Rahman to death by turning up demanding Wi-Fi that I don’t even know she has. No, that won’t work. I need to go out.

  There has to be an Internet cafe or something on the high street.

  My body aches from tiredness as I change out of my pyjamas. I pull on a pair of jeans; they hang loose around my hips and I’m forced to keep them up with a belt. Evidently, I’ve lost quite a bit of weight during my ordeal. I pack my laptop and charger into my backpack and, zipping up my jacket, I head out into the night.

  As the door to the street swings open, the evening wind hits my cheeks and I pull my coat a little closer. The heat of the day has completely evaporated now and it’s colder than I thought. Why am I doing this? It would be so much nicer to just curl up in bed and wait for the police to solve it.

  It was my task to find the killer. I need to know who did this. It isn’t just my reputation at stake; if I am the only known survivor, perhaps my innocence is too. The cold and tiredness are nothing in comparison to the indignity I feel at being forced into the centre of all of this. It’s a twenty-minute walk to the city centre and every moment that passes makes it more unlikely there’ll be somewhere for me to get Wi-Fi.

  The streets are dark and deserted, the only light coming from the orange glow of the streetlamps. I glance behind me, half expecting to see the figure beneath my window following me. But it’s only my imagination; the street is completely empty.

  Turning back around, I keep my eyes trained ahead. I’m close to the high street now. End of this street and it’s there on my left. I speed up. I’m nearly there; soon I will know who was lying to me.

  When I reach the high street, I’m relieved to see some signs of life. Light glows through glass-fronted restaurants filled with people sharing tables and bottles of wine. I stand for a moment, mesmerised by the normality of it all. Will I ever feel normal again? Normal enough to sit in a restaurant with a bottle of wine without worrying what might happen to me. I continue onwards; right now I don’t have time to dwell on what I’ve lost. I continue down the high street but the only places open are restaurants. Given my current notoriety, I don’t feel like I can just waltz in, take a seat and open my laptop. Surely there is an Internet cafe. There has to be. Doesn’t every high street have one? Somewhere.

  A side street comes up on my left. I peer down it and my heart does a little leap. A sign sticks out from the wall, swinging stiffly in the brisk wind. TJ’s T’Internet Temple, reads the sign. The ridiculousness of the name doesn’t deter me. I step into the side street and march towards the sign.

  I push the door open. It doesn’t budge. A sticker in the door says Closed. Closed. No, no, it can’t be closed. But there’s a light on inside. I rap impatiently on the door. A man, youthful and chubby, walks to the door.

  ‘We’re closed,’ he mouths at me through the door. I press my hands together in prayer.

  ‘Please,’ I mouth back. ‘Please it’s really important. Fifteen minutes. I only need fifteen minutes.’ I press my face up close to the glass, hoping he will see the desperation in my face and take pity on me.

  The man’s eyes widen as he registers my face. He unlocks the door and pulls it open a fraction. ‘Aren’t you that girl? That girl from LoveWrecked? Kimberley King?’ His breath smells of beer and cigarettes. I can’t decide if saying yes will make him more or less likely to accept my request and let me in. But there’s something in his hungry expression that makes me think it’s the former.

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I’m Kimberley King. And if you know who I am, you probably know what I’m accused of. But I didn’t do it. That’s why I’m here. I’m here to find proof.’

  The man breaks into a smile and he gives a deep chuckle. ‘Well, ain’t that exciting. Fine, I’ll let you in. On one condition.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You let me take a Polaroid of you at one of our computers and you sign it. I’ve always wanted to have one of those walls of celebrities who’ve visited.’

  ‘Right. Who else do you have?’ I don’t really know why I ask this; I guess it’s because I want to know what company I will be among. Does TJ of TJ’s T’Internet Temple have a host of notorious visitors?

  ‘No one. You’d be the first.’

  I don’t really want to do it, but I’ve come all this way and I don’t want to turn back now.

  ‘Fine,’ I say.

  ‘Nice one. Come on in then, let me get you set up.’

  TJ pulls open the door to reveal his bulging belly over which a large Games of Thrones T-shirt hangs loosely. Computers are lined up in a row on all three sides of the shop. The many screens are dark. My heartbeat quickens as I’m reminded of the LoveWrecked producer’s room. My legs go wobbly and I reach a hand out to grab the back of one of the computer chairs.

  ‘You’re not in the villa. You’re OK,’ I whisper to myself.

  ‘What?’ asks TJ.

  ‘Nothing. I’m fine,’ I say but my fluttering voice gives me away. TJ just grunts and gets back to the computer.

  ‘Right, it’s ready,’ he says, gesturing to the seat. With every step I take closer to the computer, my heart thuds more forcefully against my chest. Who was lying to me?

  I roll the chair back and take my seat. The search engine is open and at the ready. The cursor blinks expectantly. I glance over my shoulder and see that TJ is sitting in front of the counter watching me. He clears his throat.

  ‘Better leave you to it,’ he says, turning away.

  My fingers hover over the keyboard. What should I search for first? I think about typing in the names of the Islanders, but I don’t. My invitation to the island was personal and I realise to uncover the truth I need to look where all of this started. The thought of this trip down memory lane isn’t a welcome one but I take a deep breath and type Emily Cadman into the search tool.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Spyland.co.uk – News, Scandals and all the latest Gossip from your favourite celebrities

  Emily Cadman: the police failings that led to the death of a young woman

  Since the murder of Emily Cadman, her friends, family and boyfriend have called for an investigation into the circumstances that led up to her death. They want to understand why the police failed to take her reports of harassment by her former colleague seriously.

  Earlier this year, Emily Cadman was stabbed by her former colleague Roger Bartlett, who was later sentenced to life for her murder. Bartlett, with whom Emily had been on two dates, refused to accept her decision not to take their relationship any further and began what became months of harassment.

  Emily was murdered just days after she reported him to police for constantly ringing and texting her, as well as bombarding her with gifts. Emily also reported that her car and house keys had gone missing and that she suspected Bartlett had taken them to stop her travelling. She felt that he wanted to stop her from seeing her new boyfriend with whom she had recently started up a serious relationship. Emily only went to the police that one time, as she was murdered by Bartlett in her home soon afterwards.

  Following Emily’s murder, an investigation was conducted to review the police officer’s handling of Emily’s complaint and whilst ‘no further action will be taken’, the investigation did find that although the officer’s actions were proportionate, they did not report that Emily’s car keys had been stolen but rather the officer believed that Miss Cadman had simply ‘misplaced’ them. In the inquiry, the officer defended her actions by stating that Miss Cadman ‘by her own admission was absent-minded’ and ‘although she thought Bartlett had stolen her keys she really couldn’t be sure’. Emily’s family believe that had the officer taken Emily more seriously and believed Bartlett had stolen her keys then the matter might ha
ve been investigated more thoroughly and Emily might still be alive.

  Jeffrey Goodrum, one of the investigators handling the complaint, said: ‘My sympathies remain with Emily’s loved ones following her tragic murder. It is clear that the handling of Emily’s complaint was inadequate, and the police officer was ill-equipped to properly assess the threat to Emily’s life. Our investigation gives recommendations for the force on how to provide a better response to victims in the future.’

  Chapter Fifty

  Kimberley

  Sunday 3rd August, 23:07

  Within seconds, the search returns thousands of results. The feeling of nausea that always comes when I think about Emily and the mistakes I made rises in my stomach.

  Man, guilty of Emily Cadman’s murder, ‘acted because of police intervention’.

  What should the police learn from the death of Emily Cadman?

  There is no need for me to read the articles; I know what they say, and how I’m the police officer they all refer to. Instead, I click on the header that says Images, and instantly photograph after photograph of Emily Cadman fills the screen: her face is heart-shaped; her dark brown hair hangs long and straight, draping over the front of her shirt; her skin is pale, and the whiteness of her face is broken up by her thick, dark eyebrows and plump pink lips. The memory of that young woman and the tragedy surrounding her death comes rushing back like a flood. I feel as if I’ve been winded and I fight the urge to look away.

  I don’t need to see photos of Emily. I know what Emily looked like because her face will be forever branded in my mind. But it isn’t Emily that I’m looking for; it is the people that surrounded her: her friends, her colleagues, her family. One of them is responsible for this; one of them sought revenge.

  My eyes gloss over the images of Emily until I find what I’m looking for. I move the mouse and select the image to enlarge it. The image is of a group of people standing in a huddle behind a man whose bony fingers are wrapped around a piece of paper. The man is grey-haired and grey-skinned, and I remember that at the time he was in his mid-fifties, although in this image he looks like one of the undead. It’s a picture of Emily’s father as he read his statement following the verdict against her killer. A hand clings to his suit, hanging off his upper arm. A woman, with hollow cheeks and hair scraped back in a low bun, stands just behind him. Her thin, lipsticked mouth is clamped together in a way that makes her look as if she is stoppering a scream. Joan Cadman, Emily’s mother, is the exemplification of a picture speaking a thousand words.

  There are other people huddled around; will I recognise any of them? I click on the image again; I need to enlarge it further because I can’t quite make out the background faces. The page changes and I realise that I’ve accidentally selected to move to a webpage. It’s a newspaper’s digital site. The headline of the article reads: Father speaks out against police failures that killed daughter, and underneath it is the image. Except, I now see that it isn’t an image but rather a still from a video. A large red play button is slashed across the image, partly obscuring Alan and Joan Cadman from view. My finger trembles as I move the cursor and press the play button.

  Alan speaks in a slow, monotonous voice, conveying the extent to which reading from his pre-prepared statement is an effort. The paper shakes as he grips it fiercely.

  The waves of sadness I felt when I heard this speech live come over me again and I’m transported back to that moment. I stood shoulder to shoulder with Zoe, watching from the background, just out of shot of the cameras. Every word Alan spoke was like a knife to the heart. My heart broke as Emily’s dad thanked the jurors for placing the maximum penalty on the man guilty of murdering his daughter and then my sadness turned to horror and I fought to keep my face neutral as Alan continued on to place the blame of his daughter’s death on the police that stood around him and who watched from afar. He chastised our faults and failings and highlighted not only our inability to stop the man, the murderer, from being captured before he could inflict the worst of crimes on his daughter but the fact that we, and he meant me, in the course of our investigation had alerted Bartlett to the fact that Emily had reported him. Alan Cadman concluded that he would never ever forgive us for it and I knew then that I’d never forgive myself either.

  My chest tightens, and I feel my breath become ragged as the sadness and horror hit me again almost as powerfully as it did then. I inhale slowly through my nose, trying to master my emotions, but as I breathe out I realise that my emotions are accompanied by another feeling.

  Recognition.

  I pause the video and lean forward, my nose almost touching the screen. Is this who I think it is? Standing behind Alan Cadman is someone that I’ve met before. Someone that looks very different now but there in that face is the glimmer of the person I met in the villa. A person who, I think, must be very much alive. My suspicions are confirmed when I read an article about the Islanders. There, in black and white, is the name I’m looking for.

  ‘So,’ I whisper, ‘it was you, all along.’

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Sunday 3rd August, 23:25

  The computer screen goes black from my inaction. I move the mouse, bringing the image back. I feel like I should tell someone, but who? It’s not as if I can call anyone. No, I need to finish this myself and to finish it, I need to go to the place where it all started. Something tells me that is where my assailant is.

  ‘Time to go, Kim,’ says TJ. I give him a curt nod, log off quickly and push myself away from the computer.

  ‘Could you please call a taxi for me?’ He gives my request a thumbs up. ‘Oh, and there’s something else I need.’ I can’t believe I’m going to go to the house at this time, but this can’t wait. Every second that the killer is free is a second too long. TJ nods as I tell him what I need and reaches for one of the shelves to retrieve the package.

  ‘Look, this is none of my business,’ he says, shaking his shaggy head of hair as he helps me get set up. ‘But are you sure you want to do this?’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure. And if I don’t come back, you know what to do?’

  ‘I’m not super happy about this,’ he says with a look that seems to say he is actually thrilled to be involved in my scheme. ‘But yeah, if I don’t hear from you in one week, I know what to do.’

  ‘Thanks, TJ,’ I say, reaching out and shaking his hand before exiting the shop. The bell tinkles above me and once the door has closed, I hear TJ bolting it behind me.

  The night is colder than before but that could be due to the chills making their way down my spine. It is only a couple of minutes before the taxi pulls up outside the Internet cafe and I bundle myself into the back. The thirty minutes it takes to get to the address seems to drag onwards. It is as if time is purposefully trying to eke out every moment, giving my adrenaline time to course through the entirety of my body.

  ‘Here you are, love,’ says the driver. I tap my card against the reader.

  I slide out of the car, slamming the door behind me. The taxi speeds off, not waiting for so much as a wave from me.

  The road is deadly silent. The street lamps are few and far between and the nearest one flickers jumpily. Every breath brings icy air into my lungs, stabbing at my chest like a knife. Standing here, in front of it, makes my body turn to ice.

  21 Beech Drive is a small, unassuming bungalow. It looks exactly like the bungalow on its left and exactly like the bungalow on its right. Pale red bricks; a grey, tiled roof; black-rimmed windows and matching front door.

  The bungalow had belonged to Emily’s grandmother and she left it to her two granddaughters in her will. This is where Emily’s body was found, murdered. This is where it all began and ended for me. This was the crime that made me realise how awful I was as a police officer and what a horrifying result my failings had for that innocent woman.

  My mind pulls me back to that time.

  The door creaked as I pushed it open. Ominous, like it knew. My chest tightened. The noise of activity
buzzed around me, but the sound of my heart drowned it out. Step by step I walked down the corridor. An arm pointed me to the room where it was. Where she was. I nodded at the arm’s owner. I knew him; we’d worked together before. Our paths never crossed under pleasant circumstances, but of all of them, this seemed like the worst. I reached the threshold of the room, the safety of the wooden-floored hallway distinctly separate from the horror of the carpeted living room. The tightness in my chest closed in further. My foot raised and stepped forward. My boss was talking to me, his hands gesturing to different points in the room and then down. My eyes followed his fingers and I looked at her. Her pale wrists were bound in fraying rope. Her eyes were wide and vacant as she stared at the ceiling. Blood pounded in my temples so hard I could barely think. But two things were clear. The young woman was dead. And it was entirely my fault.

  A strong gust of icy cold wind shunts me back to the present day, back to my current reality.

  What am I doing? I shouldn’t be here; this is so dangerous. But I’ve come all this way so maybe I shouldn’t run, maybe I should go in. This might be the only chance I have to find out the truth.

  Before I have time to contemplate my decision any further, something hard and circular presses against my back.

  ‘I wondered how long it would be until we met again. In you go.’

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  From: contactme@jd.co.uk

  BCC:

  Subject: The Islanders

  Message:

  Dear Joanna, Sammy, Tristram, Matteo, Kevin and Daniel,

  Thank you for all of your messages. I am so sorry to hear about the difficulties you have faced and how let down you feel by a system that refused to properly punish those who brought you harm. I have connected with you all on an individual level but now we have all agreed it is time to move forward as a collective. But before we do, I want to say another thank you also for your honesty; it can’t have been easy to share your stories with me and I think it is only right that I share my story with you. Well, I’m going to tell you. I hope you’re sitting comfortably. This won’t make easy reading but, given what you’ve all been through, I’m sure you will be able to handle it.