Ed Rogers stood to one side, talking to a round-faced brunette next to him. She was tugging at her fingers, looking uneasy. Ed was doing his best to deflect questions. As he spotted Lesley, he beckoned her over.
“Everybody please,” he said as she took her place next to him. “Let’s all sit down and do this in an orderly manner. This is DCI Clarke, she’s heading up the investigation into Simone’s death.”
Lesley gave the gathered staff a curt nod. She scanned the group for faces she recognised, but Johnny had done most of the interviews and she wasn’t sure what Simone’s team looked like. She wanted to watch them, observe their body language.
She put a hand on Ed’s arm and turned away from the crowd, hoping he would do the same. He did. The brunette watched them, her eyes wide.
“Ed,” she said to him. “Can I ask you a favour?”
“Of course you can.”
“Natasha’s team, identify them for me will you? In a way that’s not obvious.”
He nodded and turned back towards the room. He leaned his head towards Lesley as he spoke.
“Frankie Quinn, she’s the one who found him. The black woman at the back, tall blonde man standing next to her, she’s wearing a bright pink jacket.”
“I see her,” Lesley said.
“Then there’s Anya Davinski, she’s two rows in front of Frankie, thin blonde hair, wearing a National Trust fleece.”
Lesley squinted. Half the room were wearing National Trust fleeces. Some of them were red, some green. A few of them had lanyards around their necks.
“Which one?” she asked him.
“The slim woman with bags under her eyes, chewing her fingernails.”
“I see her.”
Anya looked like it had been a few weeks since she’d had a square meal. She looked younger than her 44 years, and uncomfortable at being here. She’d been the last person to see Simone alive, so Lesley wasn’t surprised she felt that way.
“And this is Natasha,” Ed said, bringing his voice up so that the woman standing beside them could hear him. “Natasha Williams, Lesley Clarke. Lesley’s the senior detective on this case. You don’t mind me calling you Lesley, do you?”
“I don’t.”
Natasha gave her a nod. “Have you got anyone yet?” she asked. She had her hands in her pockets but Lesley could see she was fidgeting nonetheless.
“We don’t have a suspect yet, but we are working on evidence that we hope will lead us to one.”
Natasha took a shallow breath and looked away, into the crowd. Frankie Quinn, at the back, locked eyes with her. Lesley wondered which one was Diana Berry, the woman who’d overheard the argument.
She leaned in towards Ed. “I’ve got a potential witness,” she muttered. “Diana Berry. Can you point her out to me?”
He squinted across the room then shook his head. “She’s not here.”
“No?”
“Uh-uh. She’s got two young children, she’ll be at home with them. Her husband’s over there. Roger, large guy with thinning blonde hair, rainbow lanyard.”
“I see him,” Lesley said. “Does she normally not come to staff meetings?”
“They take it in turns,” Ed said. “We’ve got a few couples on the island who work in much the same way. We don’t have a lot of families, but we do have some who homeschool their kids or whose kids are below school age.”
Lesley wondered why Diana hadn’t answered the door, if she was at home. Ed cleared his throat and raised his hand to get people’s attention.
“OK, everyone,” he said. “Let’s try and make this as brief as possible. I know you all want to get back home.”
“We’ve been stuck in our homes all day,” a man at the front said.
Ed turned to him. “Paul, I’m sure you understand why...”
“Yeah, yeah,” the man, Paul, replied. “I just want to know when I’ll able to do my job again.”
“Tomorrow, I expect.” Ed glanced at Lesley, who nodded. No point keeping them all locked up now the boats weren’t running.
The man pursed his lips and muttered something indistinguishable.
Ed looked out at the assembled staff. Lesley counted twenty-seven people, most of them standing, some in chairs at the sides.
“I’m going to ask DCI Clarke to update you on where the investigation is,” he said. “I’m sure you all want to know.”
Lesley scanned the assembled staff. They’d gone quiet, waiting for news.
“Thank you for coming, everybody,” she said. “As Ed told you, my name is DCI Clarke. I’m the senior investigating officer into Simone Browning’s death.”
There was a cough from the back.
“I’m sure word has got round that we examined Simone’s body this morning and have determined that her death was suspicious. This means we’re conducting a murder inquiry. I’m sure you’ll all understand that means some changes to the way you work until we’re able to conclude the investigation. Boats won’t be allowed on or off the island without police authorisation, and there will be no visitors until the investigation is concluded.”
Muttering ran through the room. “What about volunteers?” somebody called out.
Lesley shook her head. “Volunteers will be staying on the mainland for now. Only those of you already living here will be allowed to stay on the island.”
“How do we get supplies?”
Lesley had expected them to be more worried about Simone’s murder than about the logistics of being confined on the island.
“I’m sure Ed will help you manage that,” she said. “We can authorise essential boat departures. But I imagine you’re more concerned about the investigation into Simone’s murder.”
There was a sob from somewhere in the group. Lesley knew some SIOs liked to use euphemisms. But these people needed to know how one of their number had died. And that another of their number might well have killed her.
“I have to inform you,” she said, “that our working theory is that somebody on this island killed Simone. We believe she was taken out in a boat and pushed into the harbour where she drowned. There’s also evidence of a struggle between her and her attacker.”
She paused, waiting for the words to sink in. Four people who had been standing sank into chairs. People’s gazes shifted: away from Lesley and towards their colleagues. They were scared.
“I know our officers have spoken to many of you today. We need to know if you saw Simone in the last few days, or if you know anything that might help us identify her killer. We’ll have uniformed officers and members of CID on the island over the next few days continuing with those interviews. Please, if you think of anything, no matter how small, tell us. Speak to Ed and we’ll arrange an interview with you. Even if you’ve already spoken to one of my officers. If you have anything relevant to share, please tell us.”
“Is there a phone number?” somebody asked.
It didn’t seem worth setting up a hotline when the potential witnesses were all right here on this island, most of them in this room.
“Not right now,” Lesley replied. “I’m sure you’ll find it straightforward enough to get our attention if you need to speak to us. Like I say, whatever it is, no matter how inconsequential, if you saw or heard anything unusual over the last few days, or if you have any reason to suspect that somebody on this island or outside it might have wanted to hurt Simone… tell us, please.”
More muttering.
Lesley turned to Ed. “I need to talk to you about the boat.”
“Your crime scene manager has already updated me,” he replied. “It’s being impounded.”
Lesley nodded. “I know it’s inconvenient, but it’s a potential crime scene.”
He pursed his lips. “I’ll have to ask John Lewis if they’ll let us use their boat, until we can source another one. Hopefully regional office will help us out.”
“Thanks.”
Lesley turned back to the room. “We’ve established that Simone died between
Monday evening and Tuesday morning. So if you saw or heard anything unusual during those times, please come forward. I’ll be staying here on the island until the investigation is concluded and my colleagues will be here in the daytime.”
More muttering. They wouldn’t like the idea of a detective here full-time, but she knew it brought her closer to the case and to potential evidence.
Her phone buzzed. Sharon, Terry, or Johnny, she thought. Maybe Gail. She assumed Gail had gone back to the mainland with the uniformed constables, or she might still be working on that boat.
“OK, folks,” said Ed.
Lesley’s phone buzzed again.
Ed stepped forward to get the attention of the group. “If you have anything you want to tell the police, tell your line manager. They’ll speak to me and I’ll arrange for you to be interviewed. I’m in close contact with DCI Clarke, and we want to get this done as quickly as possible so we can get the island back to normal. Is everybody with me on that?”
There were murmurs of assent. Lesley’s phone buzzed repeatedly in her pocket. Not a text, but a call.
“I have to take this,” she muttered to Ed. She slipped out the room, aware that people were watching her.
She pulled out her phone: Terry. She felt her heart sink as she picked up.
“Did you get my message?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said. “I’m worried sick. Do you know where she is?”
Lesley leaned against the wall. “What?”
“Sharon. She’s disappeared.”
Lesley pushed against the wall with her fingers, making her knuckles turn white. “Disappeared?”
“I came home from work today and she wasn’t here,” he said. “She’s taken her rucksack.”
Lesley swallowed. She could see tiny pinpricks in front of her eyes, like motes of dust. She hadn’t eaten all day. She felt lightheaded.
“Have you called her?” she asked Terry.
“Of course I’ve bloody called her, I’ve been doing nothing else all night. That’s why you couldn’t get through to me. Where is she, Lesley?”
“How am I supposed to know?”
Ed’s head came round the door. “Everything all right?”
She nodded and waved him away.
“I need you to come home,” Terry said. “We’ve got to find her.”
Home. Lesley put her hand to the back of her neck, massaging the ache that was brewing. She’d been injured in a bomb attack eight months ago and stress brought the pain back.
“I can’t just come back,” she told him. “I’m on Brownsea Island. I’m staying here overnight.”
“What? Where? Your daughter’s more important, surely.”
Lesley clenched her fist, drilling it into the wall. Even if she did go back to Birmingham, it would be hours.
“Find her, Terry. She’s probably gone to a mate’s house. Track her down and tell me when you’ve found her.”
She hung up and left the building. It was almost dark, the island eerie in its quietness.
She didn’t have Sharon’s friends’ phone numbers. But there were some mums whose numbers she’d saved when Sharon was younger. She started dialling, hoping this was a panic over nothing.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Frankie was approaching Natasha’s house when she heard an unexpected sound.
She stopped walking and slowed her breathing. It was eight am and already the sun was warm, rising out to sea beyond the mouth of the harbour. She’d taken a stroll down to the quay, anxious to clear her head, and watched the light intensify, illuminating the Sandbanks peninsula as the mainland came to life.
Here by Natasha’s house the air was still, the only sound the birds in the nearby trees. They were always more active in the morning, although the noise would have been twice as loud two hours ago.
But today there was another sound, a human sound. Somebody was crying.
Frankie approached the house and scanned the windows: nobody in sight. The sound intensified, interrupted by a sob.
She’d known Natasha for eighteen months, since she’d taken this job. Natasha’s team was tight-knit, the four women depending on each other for company and support, both professional and personal.
But Simone had been closer to Natasha than Frankie was. Simone was one of those people it was impossible not to like. Fun when fun was called for, quiet and attentive when that was required. And bloody brilliant at her job.
Simone would have known exactly how to deal with Natasha crying.
But Simone wasn’t here.
Frankie licked her lips, permanently dry and chapped from the sea air. She pulled in a breath and knocked on the door.
The crying stopped.
Frankie waited.
The crying started again.
She knocked for a second time.
“Natasha, it’s Frankie. Are you OK?”
Silence.
Frankie stared at the door, wondering what she should do. If Natasha was crying in the privacy of her home, then maybe she would prefer to be left to it. And Bernard might be there to console her.
Simone would never have walked away.
Frankie cleared her throat and knocked. Firmly.
At last the door opened. Natasha stood in front of her, her face blotchy. She dragged the back of her hand across her cheek to wipe away tears.
“Frankie. Sorry, I didn’t hear...”
“Are you OK?”
Natasha nodded. She sobbed, then wiped her nose with the sleeve of her hoody.
Frankie delved in her pocket and brought out a tissue. It was clean, if crumpled. She held it out and Natasha took it.
“Thanks.” Natasha blew her nose. “You need something?”
“I just wanted to check you were OK. You seemed… distracted at the team meeting last night.”
Natasha smiled. “I’m fine. It’s all been a bit of a shock.”
Frankie looked downwards. She felt insensitive, being in control of her emotions when Natasha was like this. Frankie had been fond of Simone too. It just hadn’t sunk in yet.
“Is Bernard with you?”
A frown. “He got up early, went to the beach.”
“The beach where…?”
Natasha nodded and sniffed. “The crime scene.”
Frankie was horrified. If she never saw that beach again, it would be too soon. “Why?”
Natasha pulled in a shaky breath. “He’s got a commission. One of the Nationals got wind of the fact that there’s a journalist living on the island and…”
Frankie understood now. “Ah.”
But still. How could you take work reporting on the death of a friend?
“He’s over there now?” she asked.
“Yes.” Frankie rubbed her nose with the corner of the tissue then stuffed it up her sleeve. “You need my help with something?”
“No. It’s fine.”
She had to get to work. They were allowed out of their houses now, safely marooned on the island with no boats running. She’d heard a rumour that the Trust’s boat had been impounded by the police.
Frankie reached out and touched Natasha’s arm. “Call me if you need me, OK?”
“I’ll be fine. It’s a lot to deal with.”
Frankie nodded. She turned away and made for the woods in the centre of the island, wishing she could shake this numbness.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Lesley woke to find the sun streaming through the thin curtains of the cottage she’d been allocated. It was a squat, narrow building, looking out over the water towards Poole. It had the shadow of damp running up the walls and a sense of neglect. She wondered who normally used it, if anyone.
She grabbed her phone and checked messages and voicemail. Nothing. She raised her phone, standing up on the bed. No signal.
Damn. Sharon, where are you?
She could only hope Terry had found her. Her daughter was Terry’s responsibility when she was in Birmingham, and she was sixteen. But that didn’t stop he
r worrying.
She jumped to the wooden floor, wishing she’d been able to get a change of clothes brought over. She’d slept in her underwear, and yesterday’s shirt hung over a chair in the corner, along with her suit. She picked it up, flapped it out to get some air into it and considered putting in on. No, she told herself, have a wash first.
She’d grabbed Diana Berry’s husband at the end of the staff meeting and asked if she could speak to his wife. But he’d insisted that Diana would be fast asleep by now. Apparently she was in the habit of hitting the sack the moment her youngest child fell asleep. Lesley’s first job today would be to go and find the woman.
She walked into the pokey bathroom, relieved to find soap on the sink, and washed herself. She returned to the bedroom, flapping her arms to dry herself off and wishing she had something to use as a towel. She cracked the curtains open and peered through. Sunlight glinted off the harbour. It would have been idyllic if only the house was nicer.
She pulled her hands through her hair, peering into a small mirror over a chest of drawers that looked like it would collapse if she touched it. Next came her shirt. It smelt sweaty. She’d wear her jacket to cover it up, heat be damned.
Lesley liked to present herself well. Her smart suits and crisp blouses might not be the latest fashion, but they made her look professional and trustworthy. If she smelt like a tramp, people wouldn’t open up to her.
She shrugged on her jacket and clattered down the stairs. There was no point going into the kitchen, there were no supplies. She hoped she could get something in the café.
On the doorstep, she could see the quay. Gail had been here till eleven o’clock last night, examining every inch of that boat before it had been lifted onto a haulage boat and transported over to Poole. Gail and her colleague Gavin had gone with it, leaving Lesley the only member of the investigating team on the island. She could only hope Johnny would be back soon with Tina and her colleagues. They needed to get a crack on with these interviews.
She yawned, tugged at the skin under her eyes and turned towards the castle and the admin building in its shadow.
The Island Murders (Dorset Crime Book 3) Page 9
