The Island Murders
Dorset Crime Book 3
Rachel McLean
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
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Chapter One
Frankie knocked on the door of the low-roofed cottage and pulled her arms around herself, wishing she’d brought a jacket. She caught movement out of the corner of her eye and turned to see a rabbit disappearing around the side of the building. She smiled. Rabbits got the visitors excited, but they were as common as rats on Brownsea Island. Red squirrels: now they were more of a rarity. The visitors came here every day, seeking them out, marvelling over their rareness. What they didn’t know was that once the visitors had gone home, the squirrels came out to play. Walk through the woods on an early morning or an evening, and there were plenty of them leaping between the trees.
The door opened and Frankie pulled on a smile. Natasha was her line manager, a good one, if a little distant at times. More distant recently.
Frankie would have preferred not to have the team meeting at Natasha’s house. But by 8pm on a Tuesday, all the visitors gone, the island had been closed for the evening, and inspections were complete. The public buildings were closed, and there was nowhere else to meet.
Of course, there were plenty of suitable rooms in the so-called castle. But those were reserved for the John Lewis staff. The National Trust team had to make do with what they could get.
Frankie followed Natasha through the narrow hall. A door was closed on the left-hand side and Frankie could hear a TV beyond it. That would be Bernard, Natasha’s husband. She could just about make out the sound of the news. She followed Natasha through to the kitchen to find Anya already there, her fingers wrapped around a mug of coffee. Anya glanced up, her eyes looking tired.
“Hi, Frankie.”
“Hey, Anya.” Frankie took a seat opposite her.
Natasha flicked on the kettle. “What can I get you Frankie? Tea, coffee, wine?”
Frankie eyed Natasha’s glass, sitting on the table half full of red wine. She shook her head. “Coffee for me, please.”
It might be OK for the team leader to drink during team meetings, but she preferred to keep her wits about her. Natasha rattled around while Frankie made herself comfortable. The table in the centre of Natasha’s kitchen was old, made of rough pine with mismatched chairs surrounding it. Every time she came here, she had to turn her chair a few degrees to stop it from moving up and down on the tiles. Anya smiled as she watched Frankie making herself comfortable.
“Good day?” Anya asked.
Frankie shrugged. “Northern hide was busy today, plenty of birds.”
Anya took a sip of her coffee. “Squirrels are busy too. I think we might have a nest up by Rough Brake.”
“Nice,” said Frankie, “The tourists will like that.”
Anya laughed. “So will I.”
Frankie checked her watch. Quarter past seven. She looked up at Natasha. “No Simone?”
Natasha didn’t turn from her position at the kettle. “She called in sick.”
Simone lived next door to Frankie in a building on the north of the island. It was handy for the lagoon and the birds that Frankie liked to watch over.
“You should have told me,” she said. “I would have popped in to check on her.”
Natasha turned and placed a cup of coffee on the table. “Sorry, I’ve been busy. Head office has got some new schemes they want us to try out.”
The door opened behind Frankie, and Bernard entered. He was a few years older than Natasha, and significantly taller.
He rubbed at the stubble on his chin and yawned. “Evening ladies,” he said.
Frankie stiffened and nodded.
Anya gave him a wide smile. “Evening, Bernard.”
He smiled back at her, his eyes glistening. He went over to the sink and put his arms around his wife. “Hello gorgeous,” he said.
She turned to him. “Hi, you.”
He burrowed his face into her neck and inhaled her scent. She shivered as he did so.
Frankie watched all this. Bernard liked to demonstrate possession of his wife when other people were in the house. He liked to put his hands on her and remind them that despite the fact that she was one of the most senior members of the team here, and he was just a lowly freelance journalist, she was still his wife. He rubbed Natasha on the top of the head, like she was a dog. Not caring that her hair got messed up. She frowned but didn’t raise her hand to straighten it. He pinched her waist, and she laughed and flapped a tea towel at him. Frankie narrowed her eyes. Bernard reminded her of her own ex-husband; he’d been all hands, too.
Bernard looked at Frankie and tipped his fingers to his forehead. “You alright there, Frankie?”
“Fine, thank you, Bernard.”
His smile broadened. “I’ll leave you ladies to it then.”
“See you soon,” said Anya.
Frankie grunted. She didn’t like the patronising way he called them ‘ladies’.
He turned back to his wife and gave her a final kiss which she returned. He left the kitchen and she sat at the table, her cheeks flushed.
“Shouldn’t we put this off until Simone is better?” Frankie asked, sipping at her coffee.
Natasha shook her head. “I want to update you on these plans from head office. It will affect the hides, Frankie.”
Frankie sighed. She liked her job the way it was, and she knew the wildlife did, too. But head office was head office. They liked to experiment, they liked to try out new ideas.
Two hours later, the meeting finally d
rew to a close. The plans from head office didn’t look like they would go anywhere, and Frankie wasn’t about to champion them. She pushed her chair back and made for the door, muttering her farewells to the other two women. She left the house to find a dark figure sitting out front, perched on a wall and swinging his feet.
She approached him. “Are you waiting for me?” she asked.
He grinned, his face dim in the low light from the front windows of the house.
“Fancy a walk home?” he said.
“I’m a big girl,” she told him. “I don’t need escorting.”
He grabbed her around the waist and pulled her into him. She leaned against him, inhaling the warm smell of his fleece.
Adam was still wearing his National Trust fleece, the one he wore all day when he was volunteering.
“You need a bath,” she told him.
He laughed and pulled back. “Later,” he said. “Let’s get down to the beach.” He raised an eyebrow.
She yawned. “I’m tired. That meeting, God.” She put her hand to her forehead.
Adam gave her a hug. “I know. But it’s your dream job, it’s worth the occasional hour of admin.”
She nodded and looked up at him. They were walking together, heading back towards their house on the north side of the island. Adam was five inches taller than her, and when she looked up at him she could just about make out the moonlight behind him.
“Go on then,” she said.
He turned to her and grinned, then pulled on her hand and led her off towards the south of the island where the beaches sloped down to the sea. Their house overlooked the Poole side of the island. If you walked into the woods from their back door, you could see Poole Harbour and the massive ships. But over on this side of the island, where the accessible beaches were, it was completely different. Opposite was the dark shape of the Isle of Purbeck. The hills nothing more than shadows at this time of night.
But Frankie and Adam knew these paths and beaches. They’d lived here for the last year and a half, and it had become as familiar to them as their own skin. They hurried down towards the beach. Frankie shivered, whether from the chill or anticipation she wasn’t sure. As they reached the end of the path, Adam let go of her hand and went on ahead. She followed him down the steep steps that led down to a small beach, one of many on this side of the island.
They liked to come here at night, when everybody else was asleep, and the island was quiet. The visitors were gone, the staff were tucked up for the night, and they had the beach and the views to themselves. As they reached the sand, he turned and opened his arms wide, and she ran into them, whooping. He laughed and swung her around. She loved this man. Her relationship with him couldn’t be any more different from her first marriage. He plonked her down on the sand and gave her a kiss on the forehead.
“Race you!” he said.
This beach was short, but they liked to run along it kicking up sand as they went. If she was lucky, he might grab her and lead her behind the rocks further up. She felt a chill run through her.
He ran on ahead and then suddenly stopped. She caught up with him and put a hand on his back.
“What is it?” she panted.
He was staring ahead of them, his eyes catching the dim light.
“What is it?” she repeated.
He pointed. “What’s that?” he murmured.
She followed his gaze. There was a shape on the sand down by the water’s edge, waves washing over it.
“A seal?” she said.
He turned to her. “You don’t get seals in Poole Harbour.”
She shrugged. “We might get lucky one day.”
He shook his head. “That’s no seal, it’s wearing clothes.”
Frankie felt a shiver run across her skin. This time she knew it wasn’t anticipation. She swallowed and took a step forward.
Adam put a hand on her arm. “It’s okay love. I’ll go.”
“No,” she said, “Don’t be ridiculous.”
She walked on ahead, pulling in deep breaths. It would be an animal, she told herself. Some driftwood washed up to the beach. It wasn’t what she was thinking.
As she approached the shape the trees receded overhead and the light became brighter. She stared at it, her mouth dry.
She put her hand to her chest and turned to her partner. “Adam!” she called. “Adam, come here quickly!”
Chapter Two
Lesley opened and closed the cupboard doors in between scratching an itch on her arm. “Where’s the blue mug?” she said. “It’s the best one for black coffee.”
Elsa smiled as she rose from her spot on her sofa. “It’s in the dishwasher. You used it earlier.”
Lesley turned to her. She batted at the itch on her arm and slumped against the counter. “Did I?”
“Yes, honey. You want me to get it out for you?”
Lesley eyed the dishwasher. She knew what happened if you opened the door while it was running: a face full of warm water. “No.”
She opened the cupboard door again and rooted through the mugs, looking for an alternative.
Elsa came up behind her. She slipped her arms around Lesley’s waist. “You’ve already picked your favourite mug,” she said. “It’s nice.”
Lesley tensed. She’d heard rumours about women doing this. Three dates, and they were hiring a U-HAUL and moving in together. Lesley wasn’t even divorced from her unfaithful husband yet. She wasn’t ready to start cohabiting.
She pulled her arms in to her sides and stepped out of Elsa’s embrace, turning to face her.
“I’ve got my place in Wareham,” she said.
Elsa’s dark eyes roamed Lesley’s face. “It’s OK.” She stroked Lesley’s cheek. “It’s normal to be scared.”
“I’m not scared,” Lesley said. She was a Detective Chief Inspector. She didn’t scare easily.
Elsa raised an eyebrow. “Not that kind of scared. Commitment scared. You’ve not long come out of your marriage to Terry.”
Lesley shrugged her shoulders and reached round for the mug. “I don’t want to talk about Terry.”
She still hadn’t seen him since she’d caught him with his mistress three months earlier. A surprise trip back to Birmingham, and she’d been rewarded by the sight of another woman standing in her kitchen. Wearing Lesley’s own dressing gown.
She grabbed a mug, a chipped white one, and slammed it down next to the kettle.
“Hey, calm down,” Elsa said. “What’s up?”
“Nothing,” Lesley replied.
She slopped water into the mug, realising she hadn’t put coffee granules in yet. Elsa reached out and moved the mug aside.
“What are you doing?” she said. “Use the machine.”
Lesley shook her head. “This is fine. I just want something to keep me awake.”
“But it’s almost ten o’clock. You’ll be buzzing, you won’t sleep.”
“I’ve got work to do,” Lesley replied, her back still to Elsa. “Paperwork.”
“Here?” Elsa asked her.
“No.” Lesley turned. “I’ll go back to the house.”
Elsa frowned. “Your little cottage in Wareham. The one you hate.”
Lesley looked at her. “I don’t hate it. I’m getting to quite like it, you know.”
“The doorways are so low you have to stoop your head when you move around, the TV is about two feet away from the sofa, and as for the kitchen…”
Lesley curled her lip. “Don’t knock it,” she said. “It’s not as bad as you think.”
Elsa raised her arms in supplication. “OK, OK. It’s your cosy little cottage.” She sighed. “Jeez, I didn’t know I was getting into this.”
“Getting into what?”
Elsa looked into Lesley’s eyes, biting her bottom lip. Normally Lesley found it cute when she did this. But tonight…
Lesley watched as Elsa walked into the living room and sat on the sofa. Her flat was on the third floor, just a few streets back from the b
each. The kitchen and living room were open plan, with wide windows and low sunshine silhouetting the furniture. She picked up the remote control and started scrolling through Netflix.
“Into what?” Lesley approached the back of the sofa.
Elsa looked up at her, her face dark. “You’ve been off with me, ever since they arrested Priscilla Evans.”
“Priscilla Evans,” Lesley said. “What’s she got to do with anything?”
Elsa paused the programme she’d picked and dropped the remote in her lap. “Is it because you had to rescue me from her, or because she killed Harry?”
Priscilla Evans had been having an affair with Elsa’s business partner Harry Nichol. She’d killed him after discovering he was also seeing a junior partner. At one point, she’d believed him to be in a relationship with Elsa, too.
“No,” Lesley said. “It’s not that.” But it was, at least in part.
Elsa looked away from Lesley. She’d hit play on the programme but wasn’t focusing on the screen.
“You’ve just been weird ever since then.” She looked up again at Lesley. “I know Priscilla thought I was shagging Harry, but you didn’t, did you?”
The Island Murders (Dorset Crime Book 3) Page 1
