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‘There aren’t?’ Richard asked, surprised.
‘It’s the wrong time in the growing season. But the rest of my family should be up at the house.’
Richard looked at Camille, who got the message.
‘I’ll accompany you back to the house,’ she said. ‘We’ll need to bring whoever we can down here to see if they can identify the body.’
‘Of course,’ Lucy said.
‘And call Dwayne and Fidel, Camille,’ Richard said as Camille led Lucy out of the room. ‘Pull them off the bootleg rum case. We’re going to need them and the Crime Scene Kit up here pronto.’
Once Camille and Lucy had left, Richard started to work the scene. First he took stock of the room. It was about forty feet across, entirely circular, and the walls and floor were constructed of stone. And from the way that the stone on the walls and floor was worn away, Richard could tell that the building was very old. Halfway around the room, there was an old metal-framed window to let light in, and on the far side of the room there was a slatted bench with a neatly-stacked pile of white towels waiting to be used.
The shower area itself consisted of two tall sheets of glass, one either side of a mosaic-tiled area where the shower and control unit were.
Richard went to the centre of the room and looked up at the cone-shaped roof as it rose high above his head. He could see that the wide opening at the very top of the cone had been blocked off and there was now just an old metal vent of some sort. There was no way a human could have come in or out of the building through the ‘chimney’.
Richard had only seen the one bullet wound in the man’s chest and yet he’d definitely heard two shots being fired when he’d been in the jungle, so he decided to see if he could discover what had happened to the other bullet.
Richard ‘walked the grid’ of the floor and soon found two bullet casings where they’d skittered to a stop on the tiles about five feet from the body. So if two bullets had been fired – as the two bullet casings suggested – where was the second bullet? Richard returned to the body, and it was only as he crouched down and really started checking it over that he found the second wound.
When he unclasped the dead man’s right hand from the handle of the pistol, he saw a bullet hole in the base of the man’s right palm. Richard hadn’t noticed it when he’d first seen the body because the man’s hand had been holding the gun. And the hand had been in the wash of water that was flowing around the body, so most of the blood that had come out of the wound had been washed away. But now, as Richard looked more carefully, he could see a red sheen to the tiles that lay in between the man’s hand and the plughole.
Now he thought about it, Richard realised he’d failed to notice this wound the first time around because, although there was an entry wound as the bullet had punched through the man’s palm and into his wrist, there was no exit wound. Richard guessed that the bullet had maybe hit the bones inside the wrist, and then stopped dead in its tracks.
This was puzzling. If two shots were fired by this man, then he must have shot himself in the wrist first before shooting himself in the heart – seeing as the shot to the heart would have been the killing shot. Therefore, it was only logical to presume that the shot to the heart had come second. The shot to the wrist must have come first.
But seeing as the man had died holding the gun in his right hand – suggesting that he was right-handed – how on earth did that first bullet get into his right wrist? The man would have to have been holding the gun in his left hand to fire it. And why would a right-handed man fire a gun with his left hand? And, having smashed the bones in his right wrist with that first bullet, the man would then have had to transfer the gun over to his right hand, somehow grip the gun with his broken hand, and then pull the trigger, firing the fatal shot into his heart.
It didn’t seem in any way possible, did it?
And now that Richard was thinking about it, what sort of suicide attempt was so botched that the first bullet missed the heart and hit the wrist instead?
As Richard looked down at the body, he remembered how the area of tiles between the body and the drain had been dry when he’d broken into the room, suggesting that the shower had perhaps been turned on after the body had hit the ground.
When understanding came to Richard, it was almost as a physical shock.
This wasn’t suicide.
This was murder.
But what exactly had happened here? Richard took a step back and imagined a shooter aiming his gun at the old man. It seemed only natural that he would try to plead for his life, or – yes, maybe this was it! – he’d even try to grab the gun out of the killer’s hand. But when the old man raised his hand to grab the gun, the killer fired the shot that drilled through the man’s palm and shattered the bones in his right wrist. Then, before the old man could run away or shout for help, the killer fired the second shot, and this time the bullet went straight into the old man’s heart.
Jesus, Richard thought to himself. This wasn’t a murder. This was an execution. But it was an execution that hadn’t quite gone to plan. The killer had been forced to use two bullets rather than the one. And then what had happened next? Well, Richard considered, seeing as he’d just found the victim in an empty room with the gun in his right hand, it was pretty obvious that the killer’s plan had always been to make this murder look like a suicide. And even though there were now two bullets in the victim, the killer would have known that the gunshots had been very loud. Loud enough for anyone nearby to come and investigate. He or she would also no doubt have been panicking at the fact that the murder had been botched. There wouldn’t have been time to finesse the situation. So the killer had decided to go through with the plan of making the scene look like a suicide – and hope that the Police didn’t work out the truth.
So far, so understandable. But there was still an aspect of the scene that didn’t quite make sense. Having committed murder – when time was surely at a premium – why did the murderer then linger at the scene long enough to turn on the shower? Was it to wash away the blood? It seemed a possibility, but Richard couldn’t see how washing away the blood might be of any benefit to the killer. After all, it didn’t wash away the body or the two bullets, did it?
So what was the killer trying to wash away?
Richard went over to the shower controls and inspected them. There were two dials. One that turned the water on and off, and one that controlled the temperature. There was no timer. So it hadn’t come on automatically, Richard realised. It could only be turned on manually. As Richard peered at the second dial, he saw that it was twisted all the way around to its highest setting. Richard was surprised. Why was the shower set to its hottest temperature?
There was a discreet cough from the doorway. Richard looked over and saw Camille.
‘Sir. I’ve brought the occupants of the house to identify the body.’
Richard could see a clutch of people waiting behind Camille. ‘How many people are there?’
‘Three, sir. But a fourth is on the way. He was out in the coffee fields.’
Richard tried to work out the best way of proceeding.
‘Okay, then would you send them in one by one please.’
The first person to enter was tall, thin, had a glossy mane of blonde hair, and was wearing a faded pair of blue jeans, a long-sleeved shirt in blue denim, and very old Converse trainers. Richard guessed that the man was about fifty years old, and from the way that he was carrying himself – and the patrician way he swept his eyes over the scene and the dead body – Richard guessed that this was maybe the plantation owner.
‘Hugh Beaumont,’ the man said with a smile as he went over to Richard and shook his hand firmly. ‘I’m Lucy’s father. I’m in charge here.’
‘Detective Inspector Richard Poole,’ Richard said, quietly impressed by Hugh’s bearing. After all, it took a certain type of person to make sure that introductions were completed satisfactorily while a dead body lay only a few feet away.
‘So, this is Lucy’s Peeping Tom, is it?’ Hugh said, turning to look at the victim.
‘Apparently so,’ Richard said.
‘Amazing. We all thought she was making it up.’
‘You did?’
‘Well, only in the sense that none of the rest of us saw anyone lurking down here. Anyway, I’m sure you’ll have plenty of questions in due course, but let me see if I recognise him.’
Hugh took out a pair of gold-rimmed glasses from his shirt pocket and put them on. He then walked a couple of paces to the side so he could better see the dead man’s face. He bent over to get a closer look, shook his head sadly to himself, and then stood up again.
‘I’m sorry. I’ve no idea who he is.’
‘You don’t?’
‘I’ve never seen that man before in my life.’
‘I see. And you’re sure?’
‘Quite sure.’
‘Might he perhaps be a plantation worker who used to work here?’
‘I don’t think so. I don’t recognise him. And I’m pretty sure I would. I’ve got a good memory for faces. Sorry not to be more help. Shall I send the next person in?’
‘Yes please. Thank you, Mr Beaumont.’
‘Please,’ Hugh said with an easy smile. ‘It’s Hugh.’ He then left, saying, ‘I’ll send Sylvie in next. She’s my wife.’
A few moments after Hugh left, a woman – also in her fifties – entered. And whereas Hugh was tall and thin, Sylvie was far shorter, far rounder, and she was wearing a dark blue trouser suit that wouldn’t have been out of place at a cocktail party at Government House. Richard had the suspicion that Sylvie had put it on specially to meet the Police.
‘So this is the man who’s shot himself?’ she said in plummy tones that were ninety-five per cent regal, Richard realised, and five per cent… what? He wasn’t sure. But there was maybe something forced about just how posh Sylvie was being.
‘How macabre,’ she said, pronouncing ‘macabre’ with a suitably French roll to her tongue. ‘I mean, it’s ghastly, isn’t it? Finding a dead man in one’s shower room. Although, I suppose you’re used to this sort of thing.’
Richard recognised a put-down when he heard one, and decided that he didn’t much like Sylvie.
For her part, Sylvie turned from the body and looked at Richard.
‘You’re that British policeman, aren’t you?’
‘If you mean, am I Detective Inspector Richard Poole, then yes I am. Could you tell me if you recognise the body?’
‘I’m so sorry, but I don’t,’ she said without a hint of regret.
‘Are you sure?’
‘I’m not the sort of person who consorts with tramps.’
‘So that’s who you think this person is? A tramp?’
‘Or vagabond. I never know the difference. I suppose you do?’
Richard decided that he’d had enough of Sylvie.
‘So you definitely don’t recognise him?’
‘I don’t.’
‘Then thank you very much for your time. If you could send the next person through?’
‘Of course,’ Sylvie said with a superior smile, and left the room.
Richard briefly considered the differences between the welcoming charm of Hugh and the dismissive manner of his wife, but he was interrupted by the arrival of the third witness.
He was a young man – a boy, really, Richard thought to himself – aged about eighteen years old.
‘Oh,’ he said in a light voice as he saw the dead body on the tiles, and Richard took a moment to notice that the man seemed to be a perfect copy of Hugh, but thirty years younger. In fact, as Richard looked at the man’s smart haircut, slender build, and easy manner, he wondered – not for the first time – how a certain class of Brit managed to breed effortlessness into their children. But, more troubling than that, Richard saw that this boy-man was wearing the sort of casual clothes that Richard wished he had the confidence to wear: an old pair of brown suede shoes, khaki chinos smartly held up with an old leather belt the same shade of brown as his shoes, and a somewhat billowing white shirt that was tucked in at the waist, rolled up at the sleeves, and open at the neck. Before he could stop himself, Richard had a little epiphany. He realised that this elegant young person – who had only uttered one syllable so far – embodied pretty much all of the conflicts he felt about the British upper classes. Their inherited wealth and sense of entitlement made him sick to his bones, but he quite liked how they dressed.
Richard snapped out of his reverie as he saw the young man grimace.
‘Bloody hell,’ he said. He then turned to Richard with an apologetic smile. ‘Sorry. My first dead body.’
‘I understand. It can be very distressing. But you only need to look at his face. Just tell me if you recognise him.’
‘Okay,’ the young man said, turning back to look at the victim’s face. After a few seconds, he turned back to Richard.
‘Sorry. No idea.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I think so.’
‘Okay. Then can I ask your name?’
‘Oh, of course,’ the young man said, coming over to shake Richard’s hand in a perfect facsimile of Hugh’s manners. ‘Sorry. Matthew Beaumont. I’m Hugh and Sylvie’s son. Lucy’s brother.’
‘Detective Inspector Richard Poole,’ Richard said before internally wincing. He was supposed to be in charge here, not this callow youth. But before he could stamp his authority back on the interview, the light in the doorway was blocked as someone stood on the threshold.
‘No way, you have got to be kidding me!’ Richard heard the person say in a Caribbean accent, and then in walked what Richard could only call an anomaly.
Whereas Hugh, Sylvie and Matthew were all types of Brits abroad that Richard recognised well – they were patrician, posh, and very much in charge – this young man was barefoot, was wearing a frayed pair of swimming trunks and a filthy T-shirt with a massive logo of a cannabis leaf on the front.
Matthew saw the confusion in Richard’s face and smiled in understanding.
‘This is my older brother, Tom,’ he said, indicating the man in the doorway.
‘So it’s true,’ Tom said. ‘A real live dead body. On our land. I can’t believe it.’
Richard went to say something, but realised he still couldn’t get over how this one member of the family had a Saint-Marie accent.
‘The Inspector just wants you to see if you recognise his face,’ Matthew said.
‘Okay,’ Tom said and went and inspected the body.
After a few moments, he did a complicated flick with his right hand that produced a clicking noise.
‘A bullet to the heart. That’s sick.’
‘I agree,’ Richard said.
‘You do?’ Tom asked, surprised.
‘Of course.’
‘That’s sick.’
‘What is?’
‘It’s sick that you think it’s sick.’
After a moment’s reflection, Richard decided that he and Tom almost certainly had very different working definitions of what the word ‘sick’ meant.
‘Okay,’ Tom said, standing up from the body, ‘I’ve never seen this guy before.’
‘You haven’t?’
‘No way.’
