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‘He went to Eton, did he?’ Richard said, Matthew’s easeful manner clicking into place for him. This was because Richard had come across quite a number of Old Etonians while he’d been at Cambridge, and, to his abiding irritation, every single one of them had been entirely and effortlessly charming. Not that that excused or justified their background of privilege, Richard felt. And nor did it mean that Richard could ever bring himself to trust or like someone who came from such a wealthy background. To his mind, it was simply wrong that so much should be given to so few, and he couldn’t help but resent the opportunities that were afforded to this wealthy minority – no matter how charming they always were when you met them in the flesh. As far as Richard was concerned, if private boarding schools like the one Richard had been sent to were ‘wrong’ – and Richard knew that they were very wrong – then schools like Eton were wrong to the power of ten.
‘Hang on, though,’ Richard said, suddenly realising something. ‘You’re saying that Matthew – the youngest sibling – was sent to Eton, but Tom – his older brother – went to the local comprehensive school on Saint-Marie?’
‘That’s right,’ Camille said, already knowing where Richard was going with this. ‘As was Lucy.’
‘There’s a story there,’ Richard said.
‘You could be right, sir,’ Camille agreed.
‘Then what have we got on Lucy?’ Richard asked. ‘What do we know about her?’
‘Well, sir, she’s pretty interesting,’ Camille said, picking up another set of notes. ‘Because she left Notre Dame school when she was seventeen years old without finishing formal education, and since then she doesn’t seem to have done much of anything. She doesn’t have a job at the plantation as far as I can tell, she doesn’t file tax returns – even though she’s twenty-eight years old. But better than that, I found two hits for her on the Police computer.’
‘You did?’
‘First, she was pulled in for shoplifting when she was twenty years old. She’d been caught stealing a dress from the market in Honoré, but was let off with a caution.’
‘And the second time?’
‘It was shoplifting again. When she was twenty-three. This time, it was a silver necklace that she was caught stealing from the Caribbean Sands hotel.’
‘And was she charged?’
‘That’s the thing, sir. She wasn’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘I’ve no idea. Seeing as it was her second offence. But you should know, sir, Charlie Hulme was the arresting officer.’
Charlie Hulme had been the corrupt Detective Inspector who’d preceded Richard’s arrival on the island, and Richard could well imagine how the Beaumont family might have leant on him to make sure he didn’t press charges.
‘Ah, I see,’ Richard said. ‘But there’s a streak of criminality in her, is that what we’re saying?’
‘That’s what it seems like to me.’
‘Now that is interesting,’ Richard agreed, going to look at the names that he’d written up on the whiteboard that acted as the focus for all of his investigations.
‘So, in summary,’ he said, ‘we’ve got Hugh Beaumont running the family plantation with a gentle hand on the tiller. He’s married to the one-time holiday rep Sylvie, who now thinks herself something of a grand dame of the island. And as for their three children, we’ve got something of an enigma in Lucy, although we know she’s been light-fingered in the past; a popular party animal in Tom who just happens to have a heap of qualifications including an Agricultural degree; and the eighteen-year old Matthew, who’s only just returned to the island having been educated at one of the most privileged schools in the world. Something of a mixed bag, then.’
‘And none of them has a clear alibi for the time of the murder,’ Camille added.
‘Not so,’ Richard corrected. ‘None of them has a clear alibi for the time of the murder apart from Lucy. Because, no matter how criminal her past might have been, you and I were with her when the two gunshots were fired, so she’s the only member of the family who can’t be our killer.’
‘And we still don’t even know the identity of our victim,’ Camille added.
‘Or how the killer then escaped from a locked room afterwards,’ Richard agreed. ‘Or whether the three-wheeled vehicle that was up at the plantation before it rained was part of the murder or not. So we’re going to have to redouble our efforts. And I suggest we focus on our victim’s identity, because I don’t see how we’re going to get anywhere with this case until we work out who he was. So, let’s snap to it.’
As the afternoon wore on, Richard and his team made steady progress, but none of it seemed to take them any closer to uncovering the identity of the victim.
Richard even realised that he couldn’t presume that the victim – if indeed he were a Brit travelling on his own – had even arrived on the island by plane. What if he’d arrived by boat? So he put in a call to the Harbour Master in Honoré and learned that while it would theoretically be possible to get a list of every solo Brit who’d arrived by boat and cleared customs in the last month or so, there were so many bays on Saint-Marie that there was nothing stopping any potential solo sailor from dropping anchor in a quiet cove and illegally accessing the island from there. When Richard asked if the Harbour Master knew of any boats who’d recently arrived unannounced like this, the man had just laughed at how naive the question was.
Richard was left deeply frustrated. If their victim had arrived by plane, it was going to take until the following week to get a list of British arrivals. And if he’d arrived by boat, it would have been possible to sneak onto the island past customs and immigration anyway. How were they going to work out who the victim was?
It was Dwayne who made the first breakthrough.
‘Okay, sir, the weapon we found in the victim’s hand is a Glock 19,’ he reported back to Richard. ‘It’s not listed on the gun register of the island – meaning it must have been acquired illegally. And although I’ve been able to lift three partial fingerprints from the handle, they all belong to the victim. As for the rest of the gun, it’s been wiped clean. So, whoever carried out this murder must have worn gloves. Or wiped the gun of fingerprints before putting the victim’s hand around the handle after he was dead to make it look like suicide. But the fact that the gun has been obtained illegally – and has been wiped of prints, sir – suggests we’re dealing with a killer who knew what he or she was doing.’
‘I’d agree with you there,’ Richard said.
‘But the big news is, I’ve been able to lift a fingerprint from one of the bullet casings we found at the scene. And the fingerprint doesn’t belong to the victim.’
‘It doesn’t?’ Richard asked eagerly, heading over to Dwayne’s desk.
‘It doesn’t,’ Dwayne said. ‘Meaning, the killer may have wiped the gun clean of his fingerprints, but he forgot to wipe the bullets he used. Or didn’t know that one of his fingerprints was already on one of the bullet casings.’
‘And you’re sure the fingerprint on the bullet casing doesn’t belong to the victim?’ Richard asked.
‘One hundred per cent. It belongs to someone else.’
‘Then see if you can match it with the exclusion prints we took from the Beaumont family this morning. As a matter of urgency. The fingerprint could belong to our killer.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Dwayne said.
As Dwayne went to gather the family’s exclusion prints to start his comparison, Fidel called over from his desk.
‘Sir, I think I’ve identified the make and model of our three-wheeled vehicle.’
‘You have?’ Richard asked, thrilled that the case was finally picking up momentum.
‘I think so. The dimensions of the axle, wheel width and tyre patterns mark the vehicle out as almost certainly being a “Piaggio Ape 50”.
‘And what’s one of those when it’s at home?’ Richard asked.
Fidel pulled up a picture of the vehicle in question, and Richard realised that he knew the type of vehicle well. There were hundreds of the bloody things all over the island: vans that were no more than souped-up three-wheeled mopeds like the tuk-tuks of Thailand, but with a flat wooden loading area at the back for carrying goods instead of space for two passengers. As far as Richard was concerned, he’d spent far too many hours stuck in the Police jeep behind these over-loaded menaces, and his eyes narrowed at the prospect of identifying what this particular vehicle had been doing at a murder scene.
‘Right, Fidel,’ he said, ‘I want you to make this your top priority.’
Fidel was surprised. ‘You do, sir?’
‘I just said, didn’t I? We know this particular Piaggio has a distinctive cut in its front wheel. So I want you to get a list of all the registered Piaggio 50s on the island, and then take that plaster of Paris cast to visit every single one of them until you’ve identified whose vehicle was up at the murder scene just before our victim was killed.’
‘But sir, these sorts of vehicles are bought and sold for cash all the time. I’m not sure all that many are correctly registered up at Government House.’
‘I know, Fidel. So maybe this is our chance – finally! – to bring one of these illegal vehicles to justice!’
Richard realised a bit too late that he was possibly coming across a bit too much like a tinpot tyrant, but he didn’t much care. As far as he was concerned, these vans were a scourge of the island, and he, through the agency of Fidel, was going to be the sword of truth that finally managed to skewer one of them. Assuming that Fidel could identify the van, of course. And prove that it had indeed been up to no good when it had been up at the plantation. But these were mere details to be worked out once the van was identified.
Richard looked at his team, hoping to see the same sense of missionary zeal in their eyes, but didn’t. He could tell from the way that Camille was now cocking her head slightly to one side, that she was maybe considering whether he needed psychiatric help or not.
Luckily for Richard, the awkward silence was broken by the sound of footsteps on the veranda outside. They all turned and saw a little old lady standing on the threshold. She was wearing a purple dress and had tightly-curled grey hair.
‘Hello,’ she said in a friendly voice.
‘Hello,’ Dwayne said. ‘Can we help you?’
‘I don’t know, but I hope I can help you,’ she said. ‘My name is Rosie Lefèvre. I’m the Beaumonts’ housekeeper.’
‘You are?’ Richard was surprised. The tiny old woman in the doorway looked as though a strong breeze could knock her over.
‘Then come in, come in,’ Camille said.
Camille fussed around Rosie and set her up on a chair in front of Richard’s desk. She then got a bottle from the office fridge and poured the old woman a glass of cold water.
‘Thank you so much,’ Rosie said. ‘It’s really quite a steep climb up to the Police station from the harbour.’
‘It is, isn’t it?’ Camille agreed.
‘Anyway,’ Richard said. ‘You said you could help us?’
‘Well, I don’t know about that, but Hugh rang me and told me the terrible news.’
‘And when was this exactly?’ Richard asked, pulling out his notebook and pencil from his inside jacket pocket.
‘Just after I’d arrived on Montserrat.’
‘That’s right. Sylvie said you’d gone to visit family.’
‘I had. Although it’s not immediate family. I never had the good fortune to marry. And although I had a brother once, he died many years ago now.’ Rosie smiled sadly at the memory. ‘Anyway, I’ve got a cousin on Montserrat I go and stay with for a few days every year.’
‘I see. Then can I ask, when did you go to Montserrat?’
‘This morning.’
‘And what time ferry did you catch from Saint-Marie?’
‘I was on the 11am sailing.’
Richard made a note.
‘And what time did the ferry dock on Montserrat?’
‘At about 12.30. And then Hugh rang me just after I’d cleared Customs. He told me about that man being found in the old drying shed, and I just knew I had to return to Saint-Marie at once. The family needed me. But Hugh also said the man might have been murdered, and no-one had been able to identify the body. So that’s why I’m here. To do my civic duty.’
‘You’d like to try and identify the victim?’
‘Oh yes,’ Rosie said, straightening in her chair as she spoke. ‘I know I’m old, but that doesn’t mean I can’t be useful.’
Richard could see a sparkling intelligence behind Rosie’s eyes, and he realised that she might have looked frail, but her mind was still perfectly sharp.
‘Of course,’ Camille said, and then instructed Fidel to choose the least distressing crime scene photos that would nonetheless allow their witness to identify the victim.
‘Can I ask,’ Richard said, while Fidel gathered the photos together, ‘how you came to be working for the Beaumonts? They referred to you as Nanny Rosie.’
‘That’s right. I first started as a nanny for the family just after Matthew was born. And he was such a kissable little thing. All fat arms, chubby legs and a round belly, you just wanted to scoop him up and squeeze him. Not that I didn’t adore the other two of course. But there was such an age gap. Tom was already four when I joined the family, and even then, he was a young man who always knew his mind. When he wanted his tea. What clothes he wanted to wear. You couldn’t fight him, he had to get his own way. As for Lucy, well she was at that tricky age, you know? Twelve I suppose she was. Not quite a child, but not quite a teenager either. As tall as a beanpole, and clumsy as you like. Always forgetting things. That’s Lucy.’ Rosie sighed in pleasure as she considered her life with the Beaumonts. ‘I love those children as if they were my own.’
‘How lucky for you,’ Camille said.
‘I know. I’ve had a good life.’
Fidel came over with three photos of the victim’s face that they’d taken at the scene of crime.
‘Just so you know,’ Fidel said to Rosie. ‘You may find these photos distressing. They were taken after the man had been shot.’
Rosie nodded her head.
‘I understand.’
Fidel handed over the three black and white photos and Rosie looked at the top photo in silence. However, Richard could see that she didn’t recognise the victim’s face. Rosie then very carefully moved on to the second photo – again without any apparent recognition – and then she studied the third. After this, she made sure the stack of photos was squared off neatly before returning them to Fidel and turning to speak to Richard.
‘I’m sorry, but I don’t recognise his face.’
‘You don’t?’
‘No. How frustrating.’
Richard was bitterly disappointed. After all, if the family didn’t recognise the victim – and now Rosie didn’t, either – then who would?
‘But while we have you,’ Camille said perching on the edge of Richard’s desk – somewhat proprietorially he found himself thinking – ‘it’s clear you know the Beaumont family well.’
Rosie smiled. ‘Oh yes.’
‘You like them?’
‘Of course.’
‘You’ve told us something of what the family were like in the past, but can you tell us something about what they’re like now?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘How do they get on? Are they a happy family?’
‘Well, yes. I mean, they have their ups and downs. We all do.’
‘For example?’
Rosie’s brow furrowed as she tried to work out what she should say.
‘Anything you tell us will be treated in the strictest of confidence.’
