A Meditation On Murder

Fidel looked at his boss. ‘You want me to lift whatever prints I can find on the drawing pin I found on the floor of the Meditation Space?’

‘That’s right,’ Richard said, a little irked. Hadn’t he made himself clear? ‘Whatever prints you can lift from the drawing pin.’

‘And you want me to do that before I start processing the actual weapon that was used to kill the victim?’

‘Yes. I said. As for you and me, Camille, I want to have another chat with our killer. And this time I want her to tell us why she killed Aslan Kennedy and how she smuggled a knife into the murder room without anyone seeing.’

Richard led through the bead curtain into the cells at the back of the station. This was his least favourite place on the whole island—which, whenever Richard thought about it, was really saying something. There were just two steelbarred rooms, an iron bed in each, a high strip of window above them both, and ancient paint that was peeling from the wall, exposing the crumbling bricks underneath.

Richard and Camille found Julia with her eyes closed and sitting in a lotus position on the floor of the first cell. Richard could see that she was now far more sensibly dressed—although he found himself musing that he’d personally not choose to go to prison wearing cut-off jeans and a tight T-shirt in bright lime green promoting hashish, but he supposed it was each to his own.

Julia opened her eyes as the police approached.

‘What have I done?’ she asked, so grief-stricken that neither Richard nor Camille said anything for a moment.

‘You know,’ Julia said, ‘I’ve been trying to put myself into a trance and go back in time.’

‘You have?’ Richard asked, already pre-emptively weary. This was what he found so tiresome about the New Age movement: they seemed to use the most cumbersome methods to reveal things that were actually already known. Like trying to go into a trance when a normal person would just use their memory. Or inventing ley lines to explain the mystery of Glastonbury Tor, when really it was just a hill in a surprising place. As for Stonehenge, Richard had always felt that the guy who’d commissioned it had probably only wanted a nice side table, but had made the mistake of asking a bunch of druids with too much time on their hands to do it.

Correctly interpreting her boss’s dismissive look, Camille tried to move the conversation on. She asked Julia, ‘And have you been able to access your memories?’

Julia looked at the police. ‘Not consciously.’

‘Not consciously?’ Richard asked, exasperated.

‘But I could access them subconsciously, I’m sure of it. If I could just get Dominic’s help.’

Richard’s antennae twitched. For a man who wasn’t a suspect, Dominic’s name was appearing a little too often in the investigation for his liking.

‘You mean The Retreat’s handyman?’

‘That’s right. He’s a wonder.’

‘Well, we can both agree about that, he’s certainly a wonder. But this case is peculiar enough as it is without bringing in a handyman to extract a confession.’

Julia smiled slowly. ‘But he’s not a handyman. He’s a Seer.’

‘A Seer?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Please could you tell me what a Seer is.’

‘He can see things.’

Richard took a deep breath and waited for the surge of irritation to wash away.

It didn’t, so Camille stepped in. ‘And what sorts of things can he see?’ she asked.

‘The future of course. But he can also see the past.’

‘And how does he do that?’

‘Well, in this case, he’d put me into a trance state. You see, he used to be The Retreat’s hypnotherapist.’

‘Used to be?’ Camille asked.

‘That’s right. He stopped doing that just after I arrived.’

Richard and Camille shared a glance.

‘Is that why Dominic and Aslan have been arguing?’

Julia was puzzled. ‘You know about that?’

‘Why don’t you tell us?’ Richard said, probing.

Julia smiled sadly. ‘It’s hard to talk about without making it sound worse than it is, but they weren’t ever going to get on. You see, Dominic’s a Capricorn and Aslan’s a Libran,’ Julia said as if that explained everything. ‘And I think Aslan felt that Dominic was taking advantage of the guests in his hypnotherapy sessions. Not that he was. Dominic’s hypnotised me often enough. So I know how gentle and supportive he is. He doesn’t take advantage of anyone. But Aslan told Dominic he didn’t want him offering any more hypnotherapy sessions. Dominic was furious, but there wasn’t much he could do. The hotel belongs to Aslan and Rianka. But here’s the thing, Aslan said Dominic could stay on as the hotel’s handyman. That’s the sort of guy Aslan was. He still offered Dominic a job even though they’d argued so badly.’

‘And Dominic took it?’ Richard said, surprised.

‘It allowed him to stay on the island,’ Julia said.

‘I see,’ Richard said, even though he couldn’t.

‘But the thing is, you have to believe me, Dominic is amazing at getting people to remember memories they’ve buried because they find them too upsetting. And if you let him hypnotise me, I bet I’ll be able to tell you how I got the knife into the Meditation Space. And why I … did what I did,’ Julia finished with a gulp.

‘Unfortunately,’ Richard said, ‘that would be totally unethical. So why don’t we just leave you here for a bit longer, and when you remember anything that might help us, you just call out. We’re only next door.’

Sensing that Camille was disappointed with this ruling, Richard returned to the main office, calling out to Fidel as he entered through the bead curtains.

‘So have you dusted the drawing pin?’

Fidel looked up from his desk in surprise.

‘Yes, sir, I have.’

‘And what did you find?’

‘Well, sir, I was only able to dust the flat bit you press down on with your thumb.’

‘Of course. But is there a fingerprint there?’

‘No, sir. There’s no print on it, it’s entirely clear.’

‘Now that is interesting,’ Richard said, excitedly.

‘Yes, sir,’ Fidel said, baffled by his boss’s sudden enthusiasm.

‘But doesn’t that just mean it’s never been used?’ Dwayne asked.

‘And that’s where you’d be wrong,’ Richard said as he started writing on the board.

‘I would?’ Dwayne asked, puzzled.

‘Yes, because I think that drawing pin was part of the killer’s plans—and they then wiped it clean of prints once it was used.’

Richard wrote up this latest development on the whiteboard, and then he took a step back to look at his handiwork.

The Murder Five guests go for a swim Paul hands out robes Aslan prepares the tea 5 guests + Aslan go into Meditation Space Aslan locks it down from inside Drink tea—all cups turned over 10-15 minute window for murder, (8.00-8.10/8.15) Right handed killer? Investigation / Leads How did the knife get into the room? Was the tea drugged? WHY KILL IN PAPER HOUSE? WHY A DRAWING PIN? Who wiped it of prints? Who was in Aslan’s office @6pm the night before shouting ‘You’re not going to get away with it’? Outside the Meditation Space Rianka Kennedy Wife Has no idea who’d want Aslan dead Dominic De Vere Ex-hypnotherapist. Now handyman Sacked by Aslan Argued with Aslan Inside the Meditation Space Aslan Kennedy Victim Everyone says he’s nice Julia Higgins Worked at The Retreat last 6 months Confessed to murder But NO MEANS: where did she get the knife from? NO OPPORTUNITY: how did she get the knife to the room? NO MOTIVE: why kill Aslan? PLUS: left-handed, but the killer was right-handed? Ann Sellars Housewife Married to Paul Paul Sellars Handed out the white robes Pharmacist Saskia Filbee Single, 45 yrs old Here on her own. Says she arrived night before Heard argument in office night before—at about 6pm—a man, but couldn’t identify him Ben Jenkins Property Developer. Portugal. Brush with authorities before?

‘Okay, Dwayne,’ Richard eventually said. ‘I want background checks on our suspects. One of the five people locked inside the Meditation Space with Aslan Kennedy killed him. Who was it? And why?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘As for you, Fidel, I want you trying to lift whatever fingerprints you can from the murder weapon. And if you can’t get any admissible prints from the handle, at least see if you can tell if it was wielded left-handed or right-handed.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Which leaves you and me, sir,’ Camille said, ‘and I think we should go back to The Retreat.’

‘You do?’ Richard asked, already suspicious of his subordinate’s motives. ‘And why exactly is that?’

‘Well, sir,’ Camille said, her eyes shining with innocence, ‘you said it yourself. There’s something about the Meditation Space that meant Aslan had to be killed in there and nowhere else. I think we need to inspect it again.’

Richard took a step towards Camille and drew himself up to his full height.

‘And this has got nothing to do with finding Dominic so we can ask him to put Julia into a hypnotic trance, has it?’

Camille was shocked by the suggestion. ‘Of course not, sir. You’ve already said that would be unethical. But there’s also the matter of the murder weapon to consider. Because if Julia didn’t have the carving knife about her person when she went into the room, it must have already been hidden in the Meditation Space beforehand. I think we need to work out how Julia got the carving knife into the murder room.’

Richard looked at Camille a very long moment.

‘And you promise that this has got nothing to do with asking Dominic to put Julia into a trance?’

‘Of course not, sir,’ Camille said, shocked by the suggestion.

‘Very good,’ he said. ‘Then I think you’re right. We should go back to The Retreat.’

Satisfied that he’d clipped Camille’s wings for once, Richard went off to get his briefcase. But what he didn’t see was the sly grin and slow wink that Camille gave Dwayne and Fidel the moment her boss’s back was turned.

Getting Dominic to put Julia into a trance was precisely why Camille wanted to go to The Retreat.

Chapter Four

Richard didn’t know when exactly it had been established that Camille would do all of the driving when they were in the police jeep. It’s not that he disliked her driving—Camille drove very well, if a little fast for Richard’s liking—but he didn’t like ceding control over any aspect of his life, and the jeep was no exception. In particular, he didn’t like how Camille would agree to drive him to one destination, and then drive him to a different one entirely.

For example, her mother Catherine’s beachside bar—which is where Richard now found himself sitting at a rickety table, being served a cup of tea by Camille’s entirely baffling mother, Catherine. But then, if Richard didn’t understand Camille, he found her mother off-the-scale impossible to comprehend. As far as Richard could tell, she only ever spoke in riddles. For example, she’d tell Richard he’d only find the answers he was looking for when he stopped looking. Which just irritated Richard; he wasn’t looking for answers. Or—on another occasion—that he wouldn’t be able to start running until he learnt how to stand still. Generally, Richard just nodded along as politely as he could to whatever she was talking about and then tried to change the subject to the weather. That was a much safer area for discussion. You knew where you were with the weather.

On this occasion, though, Camille had stopped off at her mother’s bar because she knew that Catherine had holidayed at The Retreat a number of times and knew Aslan well.

Wearing a floor-length orange dress, big silver hooped earrings and with her hair tied up in a purple silk scarf, Catherine swished over and joined them both at their rickety table on the bar’s little verandah that overlooked the bay.

‘How’s your tea?’ Catherine asked silkily as she sat down.

This was an area of conversation where Richard felt entirely on safe ground. Catherine, despite being French, made a cracking cup of tea.

‘Perfect, thank you.’

Catherine smiled in pleasure. ‘So. How can I help you both?’

‘Well, Maman,’ Camille said, ‘have you heard about the murder?’

‘Of course. Poor Aslan. I liked him very much.’

‘Camille said you knew him,’ Richard said.

‘Of course. A little.’

Catherine had run her bar for years. There weren’t many people on the island she didn’t know.

‘Then can you tell us a bit about him?’ her daughter asked.

Catherine was happy to. According to her, Rianka had come to the island a couple of decades before and had set up The Retreat on her own. In fact, as far as Catherine was concerned, Rianka was an inspiration to all single women trying to run their own business. But Catherine then explained that it was only when Rianka met and fell in love with Aslan that the business really took off. It was such a sweet romance as well. Catherine remembered it well.

‘They were both in their forties, but found love,’ she said with an encouraging smile that Richard noted seemed to be for his benefit. Why was Catherine looking at him like that?

Catherine sighed at Richard’s lack of comprehension, and carried on with her story. It was Aslan who introduced a spiritual side to what they were doing at The Retreat. Before then, it had just been a normal spa hotel. But Aslan’s interest in mysticism transformed the place. What’s more, the way Catherine explained it, Rianka and Aslan were a formidable team. Rianka was the brains behind the business; the person who did the books and looked after the money.

‘Whereas Aslan was hopeless with money. Had no interest in it. But he was the public face of The Retreat,’ Catherine said, ‘and what a face it was! You only had to look into his eyes to know the wisdom he had. He was soulful, you know?’

As Catherine continued to explain Aslan’s various virtues, Richard found himself looking over the sparkling sea to the far distant horizon. Somewhere over there was England. Where you could go about your business without sweat clinging to every inch of your body. And where your feet didn’t throb from the heat trapped inside your shoes. Richard felt his love for England like a physical yearning.

‘Are you even listening to me?’

‘Of course, Catherine,’ Richard lied as he returned his attention back to the conversation. ‘And it’s very interesting what you’re saying, but I just want to know, do you think anyone could have killed him?’

Catherine seemed shocked by the suggestion. ‘No. Aslan liked everyone. Everyone liked him.’

‘Even his wife?’ Richard asked.

‘How do you mean?’

‘Well, he wafts around in white robes going “om”, it would test any relationship, you’d have thought.’

Catherine smiled tolerantly at Richard’s description. ‘But that’s where you’re wrong. Rianka worshipped Aslan and he worshipped her back even more. I remember him once telling me that he owed his life to his wife.’ Here, Catherine leant forward conspiratorially. ‘In fact, I got the sense from Aslan when he was telling me this that something very bad had happened to him in his past, and Rianka had saved him somehow.’

This got Richard’s attention. ‘Did he say what the bad thing was?’

‘Oh no. This was just me reading between the lines. But I’m telling you. Those two loved each other. Whoever killed him, it wasn’t Rianka. And I don’t know who else it could be. Everyone liked Aslan.’

Richard considered what Catherine had said before downing the last of his tea.

‘Well, thanks for your time, Catherine, but I really think we must get on.’

As Richard got up from the table and left without so much as a backwards glance, he didn’t see the amused look that passed between mother and daughter. Because what Richard never knew—and would certainly have never understood—was that both Camille and Catherine were set on reforming him. They’d get him to loosen up. To relax. Admittedly, it hadn’t worked yet, but neither of them were prepared to give up. Not yet.

With a kiss for her mother, Camille followed Richard out.

Half an hour later, Richard and Camille arrived back at the murder scene and Richard found himself pausing before he entered the building.

‘Problem?’ Camille asked.

Richard turned on the spot—taking in how the Meditation Space sat isolated on the wide lawn, the main house standing bright white against the blue sky—and a few shrubs of colourful tropical flowers in bushes dotted here and there.

‘Why here?’ he said.

‘You mean, why commit murder inside a Japanese tea house?’

Richard nodded. It still didn’t make any sense to him. The tea house was extremely exposed, but its translucency and lack of any kind of sound-proofing also seemed to make it the least likely place you’d want to carry out something as private as a murder.

He started walking around the structure. It was a large rectangular box-shape just sitting in the middle of a lawn with thick cream paper for walls and thick cream paper for the roof. What was more, the light that was trapped inside it made the whole thing seem to glow. It was as if a strange spaceship had landed in the middle of the lawn.

As Richard got closer, he could see thick vertical bands of dim shadows through the paper walls. These were the wooden pillars that made up the building’s internal structure. There seemed to be about a dozen such vertical pillars along each of the long sides of the room. But how was the paper attached to each of these pillars? Richard looked closer at the walls and saw hundreds—if not thousands—of staples attaching the paper to the pillars. The staples were deeply embedded into the wooden frame, were all quite rusty, and had all clearly been there for some time.

‘I wonder how the walls survive hurricane season?’ Richard asked.

Camille watched her boss press his hand against the paper wall. Clearly it was thickly waxed; extremely strong. But even so, there’d be no way it could survive the worst of the region’s weather.

‘The frame would be okay, but you’re right, I’m sure they need to replace the paper from time to time.’

Richard finished his circumnavigation of the Meditation Space. There were no rips or tears in the paper anywhere, and the rusting staples made it clear that this current batch of paper walls had been in situ for many months.

‘So what do you think?’ Camille asked. ‘Could the killer have got through the paper walls?’

‘No way,’ Richard said. ‘Not without damaging the paper. And the staples all around the outside of the building make it clear that no one’s tampered with any of the walls any time in the recent past. They’re all rusty.’

‘Then what about the door? Could the killer have got in that way?’

Richard considered the wood and paper door. It was like the rest of the building: a simple wooden frame with thick white paper stretched across it tight like a drum.

Richard looked back at the hotel, a hundred yards away. A considerable distance, perhaps, but he could see that the Meditation Space was slap bang in view not just of the verandah, but of everyone who’d been up at the hotel. If Rianka said no one entered or left through the door to the Meditation Space once her husband had gone inside with his guests, then she was almost certainly right: no one had entered or left through the door.

Richard said, ‘The door’s kind of a moot point, isn’t it? As everyone says the room was locked down by Aslan before they even sat down. But let’s see anyway.’

Richard opened the door and inspected its latch lock. It seemed an entirely normal Yale lock such as could be found on the inside of any front door in the UK. It was screwed firmly into the wooden frame of the door—just as the housing was screwed firmly into the doorframe that it slotted into.

‘Camille, could you go inside the room and lock me out please?’

‘Of course.’

Leaving Richard outside on the grass, Camille entered the Meditation Space and shut the door, the bolt of the Yale lock automatically slotting into the frame as it locked the door fast with a firm metallic clunk.

Richard could see that there was no handle on the outside of the door—or any other way to get purchase on the smooth papered surface. There was no keyhole on this side of the door, either, and the door fitted tight within the doorframe. Richard tried to get his fingers into the gap—tried to imagine how the door could have been opened or jemmied from outside without damaging it—and failed.

‘Okay, so I think that answers that question,’ he said. ‘Once locked down from the inside, there’s no way anyone could have broken in through this door from the outside. Not without damaging the frame or ripping through the paper walls.’

Richard heard the bolt clunk back, and Camille pulled the door open.

‘So no one got in through the door any more than they got in through the walls,’ Richard said as he entered the Meditation Space and once again was hit by the pounding heat and searing light. He yanked out his already-sodden hankie and dabbed at his forehead. Really, the heat was unbearable.

‘You can take your jacket off,’ Camille said.

Richard looked at his partner as though she were insane. He then returned to the job in hand.

The room was a perfect rectangle and Richard was pleased to see that he’d been right. There were twelve vertical wooden pillars running down each of the long sides, just as he’d expected. The paper attached to the outside of the pillars was translucent—of course it was, it was cream paper—the floor was highly polished hardwood planks, and there was nothing else in the room to break the perfect geometry of the space apart from half a dozen prayer mats, the wireless headphones and the cotton eye masks.

There was no way the killer could have been hiding in the room before the witnesses arrived. And Richard had just proven to his own satisfaction that it wasn’t possible to break into the room after the door had been closed and locked down from the inside.

This meant that there were only five possible people who could have killed Aslan Kennedy: the five people of the Sunrise Healing who were already in the room with him when he closed and locked the door.

Richard’s irritation spiked. He could feel in his bones that there was something about the room that was important. Something to do with it being made out of paper. After all, why was it inside this building that Aslan was killed? At the very least, it offended Richard’s sense of the natural order of things that paper could prove so impregnable. It was only paper for heaven’s sakes, but Richard knew that for all that it was possible to break in from the outside, the Meditation Space’s wall and ceiling might as well have been constructed from stone, and the door from iron.

‘It really is a locked room. Isn’t it?’ Camille said.

‘I’d agree with that. Which means that if Julia’s not our killer, then it has to be one of Saskia, Paul, Ann or Ben.’

‘But why would any of them want to kill Aslan?’

‘Precisely,’ Richard said just as he saw a flash of light across the room where the wooden floor met the paper wall.

‘Camille?’

‘What?’

‘You know what, I think that’s another one.’

Richard went over to the paper wall and dropped to his knees to inspect the floor.

‘Another what?’