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As the dense vegetation finally swallowed Camille, Lucy turned to Richard.
‘We’d better follow her,’ she said, before pushing into the jungle and soon disappearing herself.
Richard looked about himself in a panic. While he felt just about okay-ish letting one woman go into the jungle on her own – especially seeing as she was a trained Police Officer – he felt he couldn’t very well let two women vanish into the unknown while he stayed back here on the fringes, even though that was precisely where he wanted to stay. So, taking a deep breath to steady his internal shriek of terror, Richard stepped into the jungle.
Within seconds, he was lost. The vines and vegetation pressed into his face, the fetid smell of the jungle was revolting – it seemed to be a pungent mix of rotting fruit and decaying animals – which, when Richard thought about it, was very possibly because the jungle was full of rotting fruit and decaying animals. He felt whole rivers of sweat run down his back. Where had the women got to? Richard heard some branches snapping up ahead of him, and he made himself push through the sticky vegetation another ten or so paces until he saw the figures of Camille and Lucy through a thick screen of vines. Before he lost his nerve entirely, Richard covered the remaining distance like a mad marionette – his legs and arms lifting as high and wide as possible – until he burst through the wall of vines into a little clearing.
As Richard dashed the burrs, berries and sticky godknows-whats from his jacket and trouser legs, he could see Camille looking directly at him and smiling broadly. He gritted his teeth. As far as Richard was concerned, it wasn’t his fault he didn’t function well in a tropical jungle, was it? His last posting had been in Croydon, for heaven’s sake.
‘You okay, sir?’ Camille asked, pretending to be concerned.
‘Yes. I’m fine,’ he said.
‘Then I think you need to see this. I’ve found something.’
Richard went over and saw that Camille and Lucy had found an area of ground that was littered with empty water bottles, paper bags that had once contained fresh food, crushed cigarette packets and an empty bottle of cheap vodka.
‘Someone’s been here,’ Camille said, indicating the food.
Richard saw a column of bright red fire ants – each seemingly the size of his thumb – marching up to and engulfing a bag that had once contained a pastry of some sort, and he took a couple of steps back.
‘Although I don’t see any evidence of anyone sleeping out here,’ Camille said, looking about herself. ‘No tent’s been pitched. Or bivouac. Or rain cover of any sort.’
‘I see,’ Richard said, lifting his feet up one by one to check that an army of fire ants weren’t already marching up his legs. ‘So tell me, Ms Beaumont, is there anything else you noticed about the man you saw earlier today?’
‘I’m sorry,’ Lucy said. ‘I’ve told you everything I can remember. He was definitely a man. And he was definitely old. I didn’t really notice his clothes, but he had this beard – sort of whitish, sort of grey – and long-flowing grey hair. That’s all I saw. And I had no idea that he had any kind of camp in the jungle here.’
Richard looked about himself. It wasn’t much to go on, was it? An old tramp had been spying on Lucy from the jungle. And when Lucy had tried to confront him, he’d run away.
There was a sudden bang from nearby – followed by a flock of parrots squawking into the air above the jungle.
‘What was that?’ Lucy asked.
‘That sounded like a gunshot,’ Camille said to her boss.
‘What?’ Lucy said, panicking.
‘Quiet!’ Richard ordered, trying to work out where the sound had come from. Like Camille, he’d already guessed that the sharp retort had been from a gun of some kind. But where had it come from?
There was a second bang, and, without thinking, both Camille and Richard started running towards the noise – Richard this time pushing through the vines and vegetation without any thought for his personal safety – or that of his suit – and they soon burst out of the jungle and back into the blinding sunlight of the cobbled yard. There was no-one nearby. So where had the gunshot come from?
Lucy joined them only moments later.
‘What do you mean, that was a gunshot?’ she asked.
‘Stay here,’ Richard said, before turning to Camille. ‘There might still be a shooter on the premises. We need to check the farm buildings.’
Camille marvelled at how a man so personally timid could be so apparently brave when there was clear procedure to follow, but Richard was already heading off to investigate the nearest farm building.
‘Saint-Marie Police!’ he called out before entering the open door.
Over the next few minutes, Richard and Camille announced themselves before entering the nearby farm buildings one by one, but there was no sign of anyone who might have fired the two gunshots, let alone any sign of what the gunshots might have been aimed at.
Richard reconvened with Camille in the centre of the cobbled yard.
‘It was definitely a gunshot, sir.’
‘Two gunshots, Camille. I agree’.
Lucy came over to join the Police, and Richard turned to her.
‘Do you have any idea why we just heard gunshots?’
‘No,’ Lucy said, but even as she said this, Richard and Camille could see the young woman’s gaze slide towards one of the few buildings they hadn’t yet searched. It was a long stone barn – a bit like a stables – with five evenly-spaced openings along the side, although Richard could see that the middle opening had a thick wooden door built into it. And while there was a gabled roof of red tiles running the length of the building, the area of roof directly above the central wooden door rose high into the air in a cone-shape that was shorn off at the top in a way that reminded Richard of the main body of a windmill. Or perhaps – more accurately – a Kentish oast house. But it was as Richard was looking up at the cone structure in the middle of the building that he realised he could see puffs of smoke or steam gently rising out of the top of it.
‘What’s that building over there?’ he asked Lucy.
‘It’s the old drying shed,’ she said.
‘Let’s check it out,’ Camille said, and started jogging towards the building.
Richard and Lucy followed, and by the time they arrived at the building, Camille was already trying the handle to the heavy wooden door, but it wasn’t budging.
‘It’s locked,’ she said.
‘Is there a key to this room?’ Richard asked Lucy.
‘I don’t think so. There’s just an iron bolt you slide across on the inside.’
Richard looked at the door and could see that it was ancient – maybe over a hundred years old – and it had wide black iron hinges holding it in place. It was the sort of door you’d expect to find on a safe-room in an old castle. Entirely solid, entirely impregnable, and with a locking mechanism that could only be accessed from the inside.
‘Saint-Marie Police!’ Richard called out. ‘Open up this door!’
There was no answer. As Richard saw Camille go to investigate through one of the open doorways nearby, he turned to face Lucy.
‘Is there another way in?’
Lucy shook her head. ‘No, it’s just an old room we’ve converted into a shower room. This is the only way in.’
Richard stepped back from the door and looked up at the raised area of roof. Steam was now very definitely billowing out of the cone. So he took a deep breath, steadied himself a moment, and then ran for the door and shoulder-barged it.
His left shoulder exploded in pain, and he recoiled in a whimper.
‘Bloody hell, that hurt.’
Then, as he rubbed his shoulder to get some feeling back into it, he saw Camille re-appear from the nearby doorway, but now she was holding a massive sledgehammer. Where the hell had she got that from?
‘Is there any other way in?’ he asked her.
‘Not that I can see, but I found this,’ she said.
‘A sledgehammer?’
‘We need the strongest person here to smash that door in.’
‘And you think that’s me?’
‘As it happens, no, but you’d be offended if I didn’t ask you first. So please be as quick as you can, sir, we need to get in there.’
Camille shifted the weight of the sledgehammer over to a now speechless Richard and went to stand with Lucy.
Richard now realised that he was wearing a beautiful woollen suit while also holding a super-heavy weapon of destruction. The sort of super-heavy weapon he’d always seen manly men use. The tiniest hint of a smile appeared at the corner of his mouth.
He turned to face the door and took a moment to steady himself. And then, knowing that he was now holding hundreds of pounds of power in his hands, Richard opened his mind to all of the resentments he felt at being posted to the tropics. How he couldn’t get a decent pint of bitter, a slice of bread, or even a proper cup of tea. How he’d found a black scorpion lurking in one of his slippers that morning. Then Richard thought about how bloody hot it was at all times, and how desperately he craved just one morning of crisp winter, with mist hanging in the air, and frosted grass crunching underfoot. And, as he gave in to his normally-suppressed feelings of frustration at the almost infinite vicissitudes of his life, Richard felt a powerful wave of emotion rise up inside him and, before he even knew he was doing it, he was swinging the sledgehammer through the air and thumping it dead-eyed into the door just beneath the handle with a thunderous crack.
Richard exhaled. Oh, that had felt good. But had it worked?
Richard saw the door swing back an inch on its hinges, and he could see that the frame had splintered where the bolt had torn free of its housing.
Richard caught a look of wonder on Camille’s face, but she was quick to hide it when she realised that her boss was looking at her, and she pushed past him to enter the shower room. Richard dropped the sledgehammer to the ground as Lucy entered the room after Camille, and then he followed .
As he stepped into the room, Richard was almost instantly swallowed by a fog of hot steam. Remembering that Lucy had called this building ‘the shower room’, Richard guessed – and could also hear – that a powerful shower was turned on somewhere nearby.
Richard wafted the door open and shut a few times to help clear the steam, and he was soon able to see that the room was empty – although, now he was looking, he could see that there was an object slumped on the floor to the left hand side of the room.
The object looked like a human body.
A human body that wasn’t moving.
As Camille went to inspect the body, Richard was pleased to see that Lucy had kept her distance and was standing on the other side of the room.
‘Please don’t move or touch anything,’ he told Lucy, indicating that she was to stay exactly where she was, and he went over to the shower that was built into the side of the wall, and which was thumping hot water down onto the mosaic-tiled floor to the side of the body. As Richard twisted the dial on the wall to turn the shower off, he saw that the body belonged to a man.
‘He’s dead, sir,’ Camille said.
Richard saw that the dead man looked to be in his sixties. He was wearing old jeans, a cheap grey shirt that was frayed at the collar and seams, and a tatty old pair of trainers that had once been white but were now grey and falling apart. Richard also saw that the man had matted grey hair that went down to his shoulders, and a nicotine-stained beard that was similarly straggly.
But what was perhaps most noticeable was the handgun that Richard could see was loosely held in the dead man’s right hand where it lay on the floor. And seeing as there was no-one else in the room when they’d smashed the door in, Richard realised that it was pretty obvious what had happened here. The man – whoever he was – had come into the shower room, bolted the door from the inside, and then committed suicide by shooting himself with the handgun.
Before Richard rolled the body over to reveal the dead man’s face, he briefly noticed that the man lay on the floor directly between the shower and the drain that was set into the centre of the mosaic-tiled room. And although the water from the shower had run down to the old man on its way to the metal-grilled hole in the floor, his body had formed something of a barrier, and the water had gone around him on either side on its way to the drain. In other words, Richard realised, the shower hadn’t been running long enough to really drench the man’s clothes and start seeping underneath the body as it ran away. The area of floor that lay directly between the body and the drain was still bone dry.
This briefly puzzled Richard. After all, it made sense that the man would have turned on the shower before committing suicide. It was a well-known – if somewhat macabre – fact that most suicides were carried out with some consideration for those who were about to discover the body. This was why so many gun suicides happened in bathrooms. The person about to commit suicide knows that bathrooms are altogether easier to clean of blood than any of the other rooms in a house. And the fact that this man had turned on the shower and positioned himself by the drain before he shot himself suggested that this suicide was no different. The man had wanted to make sure that whatever blood he created with his death would be sluiced away afterwards.
But if the shower had been turned on before the man had taken his own life, the tiles should have been wet all the way between the shower and the drain. After all, while it was plausible that the body became a barrier to the water after it had collapsed to the floor, it didn’t seem possible that no water at all had made it to the drain before the man had killed himself. And yet, the tiles between the dead body and the drain were entirely dry. Maybe there was some kind of timer on the shower that had turned on after the man had killed himself, Richard wondered to himself. Either way, Richard filed away the puzzle of whether the shower had been turned on ante or post mortem for later consideration.
It was time to turn the body over and discover the man’s identity.
Richard took hold of the body’s shoulders, and Camille looked over at Lucy.
‘I think you should leave.’
‘I want to see his face.’
‘But we don’t know how damaged the body is.’
‘I don’t care,’ Lucy said desperately. ‘I have to see.’
Camille looked at Richard. He nodded. It was okay by him.
With a grunt of effort – cadavers were always surprisingly heavy – Richard turned the body over, but he and Camille needn’t have worried about gore. There was only the smallest of blooms of blood seeping onto the man’s grey shirt above the heart area. But, once again, Richard noticed that although the back of the body was wet with water, the clothes to the front of the corpse – where the body had been touching the floor – were still bone dry. It was looking increasingly as though the man was dead and on the tiles before the shower had been turned on.
As for the body itself, Richard could see that the man’s face was hollow-cheeked and craggy-lined from age. And although his skin was greyish-white, his cheeks and nose were a purple starburst of burst veins. He had clearly been a drinker. Adding to the impression of an old man who didn’t look after himself was an unruly pair of grey eyebrows and a long beard that seemed almost yellow rather than white, and which was very distinctly nicotine-stained around the mouth – from the cigarettes, Richard could smell from the man’s clothes, that he smoked.
‘It’s him,’ Lucy said simply.
‘This is the man you saw stalking you this morning?’
‘It is.’
‘And who you then chased into the jungle?’
‘That’s right,’ Lucy said, but Richard could see that something was making her frown.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes. It’s definitely him. It’s the man I chased into the jungle.’
Lucy was still troubled by something.
‘What’s wrong?’ Richard asked.
Lucy kept on looking at the man on the ground.
‘Ms Beaumont, what is it?’
‘It’s just, I don’t know who he is.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, I only got the briefest of glimpses of him before now. But I always reckoned I’d maybe recognise him if I ever got up close.’
‘And you don’t?’
‘I don’t,’ Lucy said. ‘In fact, I’ve no idea who that man is at all.’
Richard looked at Camille.
And then he looked from Camille back to Lucy.
‘Then who the hell is he?’
CHAPTER TWO
‘You’re sure you don’t recognise him?’ Richard asked.
Lucy was troubled as she looked at the old man.
‘I don’t. But he’s definitely the man I saw this morning.’
‘Then, is there anyone else at the plantation who might recognise him?’
‘I don’t think there are any workers on the plantation at the moment.’
‘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.’
