A Meditation On Murder

‘Yes,’ Richard said. ‘And who are you?’

‘Dominic De Vere. The Retreat’s handyman.’

Dominic was British and Richard could tell from his drawling accent that he was from a moneyed background. In fact, Richard knew the type well. Posh, dim, wealthy, entitled—and therefore able to waft through life exploring the counter-culture as a hobby. No doubt, if Dominic’s money ever ran out, he’d make a phone call to one of his old school chums, land a high-paid job in the City and then, for the rest of his life, complain that ‘the youth of today’ were feckless layabouts.

It was fair to say that Richard disliked Dominic on sight.

‘If you could just take us to the body,’ he said.

‘Sure thing.’

Richard had no interest in continuing the conversation with someone who wore a shark tooth on a string around his neck, so they all walked on in silence until they reached the corner of the house, which is when Dominic stopped and frowned. Richard looked at him.

‘Sorry, is there a problem?’ Richard asked.

It was clear that there was, but Dominic didn’t know where to start.

‘Go on,’ Camille said altogether more tolerantly.

‘Okay,’ Dominic said. ‘Well, it’s just …’

As Dominic stopped speaking, he started to waft his hands near Richard’s body.

‘What on earth are you doing?’ Richard asked.

‘I’ve never seen this before.’

‘I’m a police officer, would you stop stroking my arms?’

‘But this isn’t possible.’

This got Richard’s attention. ‘What’s not possible?’

Dominic exhaled as if he was about to deliver some very bad news.

‘You don’t have an aura.’

Richard looked at Dominic a long moment.

‘I know I don’t. Auras don’t exist. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like you to stay exactly where you are while we go and inspect the body.’

‘But your team all have auras.’

‘We do?’ Camille said eagerly, holding up her hand for her boss to wait. She wanted to hear this out.

‘Of course you do,’ Dominic continued, smiling easily for Camille’s benefit. ‘Yours is yellow, golden … it’s like sunlight. Warm. Impetuous. Open. Sexually adventurous.’

Camille seemed delighted by this analysis as Dominic held her gaze much longer than he needed to, and Richard found himself noticing that Dominic wasn’t just tanned, muscly and heroically square-jawed, he was also extremely good-looking. In a slightly obvious way of course, Richard found himself adding as an afterthought in his head.

Dominic next turned his attention to Fidel and considered the air that encompassed him.

‘As for you, you’re blues and greens … of kindness … valour. Hard work. Hey, you’re one of the good guys.’

Fidel blushed. He was clearly just as thrilled with his ‘reading’ as Camille had been with hers.

‘Oh for heaven’s sakes!’ Richard said. ‘Thank you, Mr De Vere, but I can see that people are congregated over there’—Richard pointed at the Meditation Space as it sat some way away on the lawn—’and I want to make this clear: my colleagues and I are going over to the crime scene right now, and you’re going to stay right here.’

‘But what about me?’ Dwayne said, eager as a puppy dog. ‘What’s my aura?’

Richard huffed in indignation as Dominic turned to Dwayne and took his time to consider. But then a knowing smile slipped onto Dominic’s lips.

‘You’re like me. A shape-shifter.’

Dwayne beamed at what he perceived to be the highest of compliments.

‘I knew it.’

Dominic turned back to Richard. ‘But I’m telling you, when I look at you, I don’t see … anything.’

‘Whereas I see a murder scene over there, so thank you very much for your help. Team, you’re with me, but if you try to move even an inch’—Richard said this to Dominic—’I’m going to arrest you for wasting police time.’

Richard strode off across the lawn, his team trying not to catch each other’s eyes as they got into their boss’s slipstream. After all, it wouldn’t do to turn up at a murder scene giggling.

But then, there was no chance of Richard or his team laughing by the time they arrived at the Meditation Space, where they found six shell-shocked Brits sitting or standing on the grass. Five of them were wearing white cotton robes that were variously spattered in drying blood. The sixth of them—Rianka—was sitting on the grass on her own. She was wearing a long Indian-style skirt with little mirrors sewn into the hemline, a light summer blouse, and leather sandals.

‘Okay, my name’s Detective Inspector Richard Poole,’ Richard said. ‘And this is Detective Sergeant Camille Bordey. Can any of you tell me what happened?’

‘That’s simple,’ said a well-tanned man in his fifties with a Yorkshire accent, a thick gold chain just visible around his neck. Richard also had time to notice a chunky gold watch on the man’s wrist. Clearly he was seriously wealthy.

‘The name’s Ben Jenkins,’ the man said. ‘And you should know, that woman over there, she says her name’s Julia Higgins. And she’s admitted it all. She killed Aslan Kennedy.’

Richard could see that Ben was pointing at a young woman in a bloodied white robe who was standing on her own on the grass. She was in her early twenties, had long blonde hair that was tied up in a ponytail, and she was looking back at Richard with doe eyes, seemingly as dismayed by the accusation as everyone else. But she wasn’t denying it, either, Richard noted.

With a quick nod of his head, Richard indicated that Dwayne should ghost over to Julia and make sure she didn’t make a run for it. As Dwayne started to move, Richard turned back to Ben.

‘And where’s the body?’

‘In there.’ Ben pointed at the Meditation Space.

Richard turned to the group. ‘Then if you’d all just wait here, please. The Detective Sergeant and I will only be a moment. Camille?’

Richard headed over to the Meditation Space, Camille coming over to join him, but Richard found himself stopping at the threshold to the building.

‘One moment,’ Richard said as he held his hand up for Camille to pause, because it was only now as Richard approached that he saw that the walls to the building were made of paper. In fact, as he looked closer, he could see that the paper was waxy, clearly very strong, and was even somewhat translucent. Richard put his hand on the other side of the door and noticed that he could still dimly see his hand’s shape through the paper.

‘What are you doing?’ Camille asked.

Richard ignored Camille as he took a moment to inspect the door to the building. He saw that there was no handle on the outside, but there was a Yale-style latch lock on the inside of the door that was screwed deep into the wooden frame—and that there was a corresponding housing on the door frame that it slotted into when the room was locked.

But without a keyhole on the outside, it appeared as though the door could only be locked and unlocked from the inside. Richard filed this information away for later consideration.

Stepping into the room, Richard immediately understood why the walls and roof were made of translucent paper, because every inch of the walls glowed with brilliant sunshine. And not only was it brighter inside the room than it was outside, it was significantly hotter too, like being at the heart of a supernova. Which was just bloody typical, Richard thought to himself.

Camille joined Richard inside and looked at her boss as he prickled in his suit.

‘Hot, isn’t it?’ she said, helpfully.

Richard decided to ignore his partner and instead, squinting against the light, saw that the body of a man lay sticky with blood in the middle of the floor. His hair, beard and white robes were now thick with blood. And there was a bloody knife on the floor by the body.

Richard gave the room a quick once-over, but there wasn’t much to see. The floor was polished hardwood planks; there were six woven prayer mats arranged in a circle around a tray of tea things. Six pairs of fabric eye masks and six wireless headphones were also lying here and there, but other than that the room was empty. No furniture—no cupboards, tables, chairs, statues or other ornaments—to hide behind or conceal murder weapons in.

To all intents and purposes the room was entirely bare.

Richard bent down and picked up one of the wireless headsets. He put it to his ear and frowned.

‘What is it?’ Camille asked.

‘I don’t know,’ Richard said, listening, but unable to work out what the noise was.

It was a strange keening.

He listened a bit longer, but, as far as he could tell, it was just more of the same yawling noise. And then dread filled his heart as he realised what it was.

With a shudder, he said, ‘It’s whales singing.’

Richard lowered the headphones, sharpish, and put them back down on the floor, before he joined Camille at the centre of the room to inspect the victim.

Crouching down, Richard could see that the murder weapon to the side of the body was a carving knife of some sort. Utterly vicious. The blade was covered in blood, although the handle seemed to be clean.

‘We’re going to need to get this bagged and tested for prints,’ Richard said.

Camille was inspecting the body.

‘There are no signs of a struggle … no fabric or skin caught under the victim’s fingernails … and no cuts to the hands, wrists or arms. It doesn’t look like he tried to defend himself from the attack.’

Richard looked at the tray of tea things on the floor by the pool of blood that had spread from the body. The teapot was willow pattern and there were six bone china cups that had all been turned upside down on the floor, one cup in front of each prayer mat. Richard tried to work out what had happened.

If the mats and cups were to be believed, there’d been six people in here. They’d all been sitting on the prayer mats around the tray of tea things. They’d all then had a cup of tea and turned their cup over and placed it down on the floor in front of them to show that they’d finished their drink.

But how did the eye masks and headphones fit into this? And how exactly had the victim been killed?

Camille inspected the stab wounds in the victim’s back.

‘There appear to be five separate sharp force injuries in the victim’s neck, shoulder and back,’ she said. ‘Two wounds on the right side of the neck, and three wounds on the right side of his shoulder and back. I’d say the assailant was standing behind the victim—and was almost certainly right-handed.’

Richard came over and could see the sense of what Camille was saying. The pattern of wounds suggested that the victim could only have been killed by someone who was standing behind him and striking into his neck and back holding a knife right-handed.

Richard made himself look at the face of Aslan as it lay in a pool of blood on the floor. Who was this man? What had he done to warrant such a violent death?

Richard exhaled. This was his job. To start with the end of the story: the body; the murder. And then he had to uncover the evidence that would allow him to wind time back until he could prove—categorically prove—who’d been standing above the body when the victim was killed; who it was that had wielded the knife.

Richard always made a silent promise to the victims of murder, and he made it once again now: he’d catch their killer. Whatever it took. He wouldn’t rest until the killer was behind bars.

A flash of light caught Richard’s eye in the far corner of the room. He turned back to look, but the little flash of light had gone as soon as it appeared. So he moved his head a fraction. No, still nothing. He moved his head back. There it was again.

There was something shiny on the floorboards he hadn’t noticed before.

‘What are you doing?’ Camille asked as Richard went over to the wall at the end of the room and got down on his hands and knees to inspect the floor.

‘What’s this doing here?’ he asked.

‘What is it?’ Camille asked as she came over to join her boss.

Richard found himself looking at a shiny drawing pin. It was just sitting there loose on the floorboards.

‘It’s a drawing pin.’

‘And why’s that of interest?’

‘Didn’t you see all of the witnesses out there?’ Richard said.

‘Of course. What about them?’

Richard turned to his partner as though he was a magician about to reveal the end of a particularly impressive trick. ‘Because, I’m sure you noticed, Camille, that most of the witnesses were barefoot.’

Camille was utterly unimpressed. ‘So?’

‘So who would leave a drawing pin like this loose in a room where people were going about barefoot?’

Camille waited a moment before answering. ‘That’s it?’

‘What do you mean, “that’s it”?’ Richard asked, irritated.

‘Your big revelation? That there’s a drawing pin at the scene of crime?’

‘No, Camille, that’s not what I said.’

‘But it is. I just heard you.’

‘No you didn’t. You heard me say that it’s loose on the floor. That’s what’s interesting. For example,’ he said, standing up and indicating the rough-hewn wooden pillars and beams that made up the internal structure of the paper house, ‘if I found a drawing pin in one of these wooden pillars, that would be less interesting. It would just mean that someone had pinned something to a pillar. But here?’ Richard pointed at the drawing pin as it sat blamelessly on the polished hardwood floor. ‘How did it get there? Who dropped it?’

‘You’re right,’ Camille said, deadpan. ‘We’ve got a dead body over there that’s covered in knife wounds, so let’s concentrate on a tiny piece of metal we’ve found on the floor over here. In fact, I think you’re right! What if the carving knife we found by the body is a double bluff and the killer used this tiny drawing pin to stab the victim to death?’

Richard decided to ignore his subordinate entirely. Without another word, he went outside again, pulling his hankie as he went and mopping his brow. Really, he thought to himself, his life on Saint-Marie was blighted by bloody sunshine. His shirt collar chafed at his neck; the dark wool of his suit trousers stretched hot and tight across his thighs; and his suit jacket pressed heavy and scorching against his shoulders and back. Wearing a suit in the Caribbean was like living inside a bloody Corby trouser press. But what could he do? He had to wear a woollen suit. He was a Detective Inspector. And Detective Inspectors wore dark woollen suits, that’s just how it was.

Richard saw that an ambulance had arrived over by the main house and paramedics were getting out a gurney.

‘Very well, Camille,’ he said. ‘While I talk to our apparent murderer, I want you to take the remaining witnesses off. And I want you to get the paramedics to take samples of the witnesses’ blood and urine.’

‘You think the tea they were all drinking was maybe drugged?’

‘I don’t know, but that was a pretty frenzied attack, I’d be interested to know if anyone was under the influence of anything.’

Richard next turned to the youngest member of the team. ‘Fidel, I want you working the scene—but be sure to bag the drawing pin that’s loose on the floor by the far wall.’

Fidel looked at his boss. ‘You want me to bag a drawing pin, sir?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s on the floor by the far wall?’

‘That’s right,’ Richard said again.

Before Fidel could ask why his boss wanted a drawing pin bagged for analysis, Richard turned and started heading for Julia, who was still being guarded by Dwayne.

As he approached, Richard pulled a little notebook and silver retractable pencil from an inside pocket. He clicked the lead out and said, ‘Hello. My name’s Detective Inspector Richard Poole. I’m investigating the murder of the man we’ve just found in that paper and wood structure just there.’

Richard indicated the tea house and Julia nodded slowly. She understood. Richard looked at Dwayne and he shrugged as if to say that Richard was right, the witness was indeed this slow.

Richard was at his most gentle and coaxing as he tried to find out who the woman was and what had happened. In truth, Richard didn’t really have a ‘gentle’ or ‘coaxing’ side—his idea of doing either was to leave slightly longer pauses in between each of his questions—but he found his manner softened anyway as Julia was so naturally beautiful. It brought out Richard’s paternal side. Or that’s what he told himself. As she talked, he was able to notice how sparkling and blue her eyes were; and how her skin was bronzed by a golden tan; and how her blonde hair seemed to capture the Caribbean sunlight and radiate it back out in golden strands of light.

It turned out that the young woman’s name was Julia Higgins. She was twenty-three years old and had graduated from Bournemouth University the year before having completed a degree in alternative medicine. Since then, she’d been working and travelling, but at the beginning of the year she’d come out to The Retreat for a holiday. She’d loved the experience so much—and had got on so well with the owners, Rianka and Aslan—that she’d asked if she could stay on.

Julia was surprised when they said yes, but, apparently, her timing couldn’t have been better. Rianka and Aslan had been looking for help in the office for some time, so they offered Julia free lodging, a small wage—but, most importantly, free access to all of the treatments and therapies—and in return all Julia had to do was a few hours of secretarial support each day. It was an arrangement that had suited both parties and Julia had been happily working at The Retreat for the last six months.

As Julia told her story, Richard tried to work out what he found so puzzling about her. After a while, he realised what it was. Julia was clearly still numbed from the shock of what she’d done—of course she was—but she was also acting as though she was just as keen as Richard to identify the murderer. Which was odd, considering that she was the apparent murderer.

‘Then tell me,’ Richard finally asked, knowing it couldn’t be put off any longer, ‘did you kill the man we found in there?’

Julia blinked back tears as she looked deep into Richard’s eyes and said, ‘His name’s Aslan Kennedy. And I think so.’

‘You think so?’

Julia gulped. She then decided that maybe Richard was right to want this point clarified. ‘I know so.’

‘You know so?’

Julia nodded slowly, frowning.

‘Then can you tell me what happened?’

‘That’s what I don’t get. I don’t know.’

‘You don’t know how you killed him?’ Richard exchanged a quick glance with Dwayne. What was this?

Julia explained how she’d been looking forward to the Sunrise Healing, it was the only therapy Aslan still had time to lead himself.

‘So we all went into the Meditation Space,’ she continued.

‘Meditation Space?’ Richard asked.

Julia indicated the Japanese tea house. ‘It’s what Aslan and Rianka call that building there.’

‘And who went inside with you?’

Julia thought for a moment. ‘Well, Aslan … and four other hotel guests. Their names are Saskia, Paul, Ann and Ben.’

‘So there were only six people in total in there?’

‘That’s right,’ Julia said. ‘The five of us plus Aslan when he locked us inside.’

Richard caught Dwayne’s eye, both thinking the same thing.

‘I’m sorry,’ Richard said. ‘He locked you in?’

‘That’s right,’ Julia said, puzzled. ‘It’s a Yale lock. You know, one of those latches that closes itself. And Aslan locked it before we all sat down. He said he didn’t want us to be disturbed.’

‘I see,’ Richard said making a note in his book. ‘And then what happened?’

‘Well,’ Julia said, ‘we then all sat on our prayer mats and shared a cup of tea. It’s a way of relaxing before the session starts. And then we put on our eyemasks and headphones and lay down on our prayer mats. Although Aslan tends to stay sitting up, cross-legged. He’s far more advanced in reaching an autogenic state than the rest of us.’

‘I see,’ Richard said, not really seeing anything at all. ‘And what’s an autogenic state?’

‘It’s a state of perfect relaxation, and it’s what the Sunrise Healing’s all about. You lie down, put on some headphones and an eye mask and the idea is to let your mind wander as the sounds of nature and the rays of sunlight overwhelm you. It’s like being plugged into a recharging station. You wake up half an hour later full of energy. But this time, the next thing I knew, I was standing over Aslan’s body holding a knife … I killed him.’

As Julia was saying this, she lifted her bloodied hand and looked at it as if she couldn’t understand how it was attached to her body.

Richard noticed that Julia was holding up her left hand.

‘Tell me,’ he said, as though it wasn’t of much consequence, ‘are you left-handed?’

‘That’s right,’ Julia said, puzzled by the question. ‘Why?’

Richard smiled blandly. ‘No reason.’

‘It was like an out of body experience. I could see myself with the knife … but if I’m honest, I don’t actually remember the moment. You know … I was just standing there, the knife in my hand. And that poor man was at my feet … not moving …!’

Julia was overwhelmed by her memories and started to weep. Richard flashed a panicked look at Dwayne. What was he supposed to do now?

Dwayne stepped in.

‘Hey. We don’t have to do this now. We can take you in, get you a lawyer. Take your statement later.’

Julia turned to Dwayne with a look of gratitude, and she wiped her tears from her cheek.

‘No,’ Julia said, after a moment’s thought. ‘You have to know what happened. I owe that to Aslan.’

Richard was frankly baffled. Since when did self-confessed killers feel they owed anything to the corpse they’d just created? Dwayne looked over at his boss and shrugged that maybe they should carry on.

‘Okay,’ Richard said. ‘But don’t worry. Only a couple of questions, then we’ll be done.’

In short order, Richard got the remaining details. Julia was able to explain how she had no particular grudge against Aslan. In fact she liked him. Which was why she was stunned to discover that she’d just killed him. What’s more, she not only hated knives, she had no idea where the knife came from that she’d just used to kill Aslan, or how she’d managed to smuggle it into the Meditation Space.

In fact, Richard had to conclude, Julia seemed no less baffled by the murder than he was.

‘So, to sum up,’ Richard said checking over the notes he’d taken. ‘You say you have no motive—you have no idea where the knife came from—you don’t know how you got it into the Meditation Space with you—you have no clear memory of actually killing the victim—but you’d noneth-less like to confess to his murder?’

Julia looked at Richard.

‘But I have to. It was me. I killed him.’

Richard looked at Dwayne. Dwayne looked at Richard. Oh well, a confession was a confession. Dwayne got out his handcuffs and started to bind them to Julia’s wrists. As he did this, he cautioned her.

‘Julia Higgins, I’m arresting you on suspicion of murder. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’

‘But before you go, can I ask you one last question?’ Richard said.

‘Of course.’

‘Do you know why there’s a drawing pin on the floor of the Meditation Space?’

Julia didn’t really understand the question.

‘What drawing pin?’

So that was the end of that.

As Dwayne led Julia off, Richard took a moment to look about himself. The old plantation owner’s house that was now the main hotel building sat in a sea of manicured lawns, and wouldn’t have looked out of place in the French Quarter of New Orleans. It was all wrought-iron balconies and horizontal planks of white-painted wood. But Richard also noted the other structures that were dotted around the hotel’s grounds. There was what looked like a red and gold Shinto shrine off in one clearing; a colonnade of vine-entwined Corinthian pillars straight out of Ancient Greece in another; and, up on a bluff that overlooked the sparkling sea, there appeared to be a Thai temple, with sharply sloped roofs in copper green.