How to Kill Your Best Friend

by Lexie Elliott

  “Yes. Steve is on the way; didn’t you hear Lenny say?” Suddenly reality floods back in, breaking whatever awful trance I’ve been in: Poor Steve. She’s a person, or she was; not an offering, or a sacrifice. She was a colleague here at the hotel; a friend to many, presumably. How utterly awful for Steve to have to help recover her body. And then other questions rush in: What happened to her? Surely she didn’t trip and fall? I look up the cliffside, to peer at the path leading from the top of the staircase, which is much wider and more established than the trail we’re on, and then down again, calculating the likelihood that a fall from there would result in landing where she currently lies. Not likely, as I judge it. That path sits back from the edge of the cliffside, and in any case the initial slope is gradual. You’d have to be several meters off the path before you’d be in danger of sliding so quickly that you couldn’t stop. From where we are standing, though . . . I kick at a stone and watch it bounce—once, twice—then fly through the air until it splashes into the water below with minimal fuss, some five meters to the right of the body. Yes, from here it’s perfectly possible. Only this path doesn’t lead anywhere: one couldn’t even get to the main reception on it; it just peters out. She wouldn’t have been walking on this tiny trail as a route to her staff quarters. Perhaps she was taken here by force? And then I finally make the connection that I should have made immediately, and a shudder runs through me. Those arms, banded like steel around me . . . Would he have dragged me up here just so he could watch me tumble and fall?

  Adam is looking at me, his head cocked. He takes my hand, his mouth still in that tight, grim line. “Are you okay?”

  “Yes.” I pause. “I don’t know.” I start to move back along the path. “Do you think it was an accident?”

  “No. And nor do I think it was suicide.”

  “Oh.” I hadn’t even contemplated that. “Me neither.” I’m watching my footing carefully; I can feel Adam watching me, too, hovering, ready to grab me if I make one false move. “It could have been me. It must have happened last night; it could have been me.”

  He doesn’t deny it, and I feel my stomach clench. I had been wishing he would protest, that he would find some fault with my logic. “The police will have to take the attack on you rather more seriously now.”

  “You’d think so.” I need to get off this damn cliffside. I need a cool drink in a locked room: somewhere safe to stop, to calm down and think. Only—is anywhere safe? Without knowing what’s going on, how can I tell?

  “Georgie,” Adam says, catching at my hand to make me halt reluctantly. “I don’t know what’s going on, but this is serious.” I can’t see his eyes through the dark lenses of his sunglasses, but I don’t need to; the tension around his mouth is unmistakable. “Promise me you’ll be careful. No more running off alone to Kanu or anything stupid like that. Promise me.”

  “I—” I stop: there’s the faint buzz of an engine. We both turn to see the familiar shape of the resort speedboat making its way through the mouth of the cove, buffeted by the ocean waves before it reaches the relative calm afforded by the shelter of the inlet and makes for the cliff wall. Steve is at the helm, with two other members of the water sports team in the boat, and the distinctive stocky, uniformed figure of the chief of police, too. Steve pulls back on the throttle and spins the wheel to turn the pristine white craft broadside. I look away; I don’t want to see them manhandling her into the boat. She would have been more peaceful out at sea. For a moment I picture her, drifting slowly with the relentless current under the water, silent and calm in the embrace of Kanu’s kingdom. But her long, dark hair won’t stay dark; it turns to blond as I watch, and as she turns in a lazy spin under the water, I see that she’s actually Lissa.

  “Georgie,” says Adam insistently. “Promise me. Nothing stupid.”

  “Oh.” It takes me a moment to follow what he means; I’d lost track of that conversation. “Yes, I promise.” Of course I promise; who wouldn’t? Though I doubt it will make much difference. If you don’t know what’s going on, how can you tell what’s stupid?

  HOW TO KILL YOUR BEST FRIEND

  Method 5: Shooting

  Shooting. As in, with a gun. An actual gun. I mean, I can see that it scores pretty highly on effectiveness, but . . . Well, I suppose you could make it look like a robbery gone wrong, so it’s got believability going for it, too. The problem is execution: could I get hold of one? I have to think that it’s actually possible: there’s a couple of people I know who might know someone . . . And right there is the problem: it’s far too traceable. I’d cause too much of a stir just sourcing the weapon.

  Could I steal one? I suppose that’s possible, too. There’s one or two idiots I know of whose gun cabinet is not as secure as it should be. I couldn’t travel with it, though. She’d have to come to me. Which would happen at some point, but when?

  A gun. It bears thinking about, actually. A gun.

  THIRTEEN

  BRONWYN

  A body. On the rocks. At Kanu Cove, no less—Kanu again. It was Kanu where Lissa went missing, and Kanu where Georgie was attacked, and now Kanu where a body has been found. If I was at all superstitious, I might be inclined to give some weight to all the local legends about the cove. I’m not, of course, but even so, nothing on earth would get me to take a stroll to Kanu Cove right now.

  For probably the fifth or sixth time, Duncan has got up from the table and is peering over the edge of the terrace balustrade, as if he might magically see round the headland. His left leg is visibly jiggling as he stares out, watching for the return of the boat that took the chief of police out to see what his colleague found; but for that twitching leg, he could be an advert for the resort, leaning thoughtfully against the stone barrier, with his white shirt in sharp contrast to the backdrop of the sea, so brilliantly blue that it hurts the eyes. That is the holiday I want to be on, the one promised by an ad just like that, where my most pressing mental calculation each day is whether to apply factor 30 or factor 50. Instead, I’m sitting here at the table worrying about a body, for God’s sake: an actual dead body. Presumably Cristina. Who else could it be, after all? And if it is Cristina, what does that mean? Is it a tragic accident, or foul play? Is it related to everything else, or is this just a horrific confluence of events? I’m trying to think it all through, but my mind won’t settle; it skips around, as jittery as Duncan’s left leg.

  Perhaps there’s no point in trying to analyze until we have more facts. I press the heels of my hands to my temples, conscious that this oppressive windless, airless heat is bringing on a headache, though it seems inappropriate to complain of that when Cristina may be dead. Dead. Her face swims into my mind: somewhat pretty in a very high-maintenance kind of way; I don’t imagine anyone ever saw her without lashings of heavy mascara, perfectly coiffed hair and bright red lipstick over those startling white teeth. I close my eyes briefly and refuse to think about what the seawater will have done to all that mascara.

  Dead. It’s scarcely credible, and yet, here we are, awaiting the return of the chief of police. I should have known that our pleasant lunch was too good to be true; if I’d closed my eyes, it could almost have been any one of the meals we’ve had on so many previous swimming holidays. But only if I closed my eyes, and I couldn’t do that, even metaphorically. With them open, it was impossible to miss the gaping hole where Lissa should have been. But if Lissa had been here, then what? The lunch would have been more raucous, I suppose; Georgie would surely have been drinking, too, as would I. Or perhaps she would have been in one of her nervier states, and then we’d all have been drinking even harder, for a nervy Lissa is like having a constant background noise of nails dragged down a blackboard: it puts everyone on edge. But either way, it wouldn’t have been better if Lissa was still with us, because what she was doing, doing to me, would still have been bubbling away under her carefree facade. I would have been like those animals in the nature programs—a
ntelopes or some other kind of horribly vulnerable grazing beast—calmly milling around in the sunshine, blithely unaware of the predator only meters away. Which, in fact, is exactly how I feel right now; except I’m not blithely unaware. I know there’s a danger, a terrible, implacable danger; only I don’t know where it’s coming from.

  A familiar whine from one of the electrical engines turns my head; Adam and Georgie are arriving on the back of one of the laundry carts. Georgie looks positively exhausted; Adam physically lifts her down.

  “Duncan,” I call, and he turns, then leaves the balustrade at once.

  “Is it her?” he asks Adam urgently, as soon as the pair reach the table. “Is it Cristina?”

  “Most likely,” Adam says with a grimace. Duncan drops into a chair with an indistinct exclamation; his leg is finally still. “I was too far away to see her face clearly, but everything fits: hair color, build, uniform. Have you got any water?”

  “Here.” I pass across a bottle, only a third full, and he pours a full glass for Georgie then takes the remaining mouthful or two straight from the glass bottle before looking round to order some more, but there are no waiting staff to be seen. “Could it have been an accident?”

  “Highly unlikely,” says Georgie, between glugs of the water. She has tiny beads of perspiration on her upper lip and tracing a line down the center of her sternum.

  “Wait,” says Duncan, leaping up again. “That sounds like the boat. Should we go down to Horseshoe Cove?”

  “It’s not a spectator sport.” The acid in Georgie’s tone is unmistakable; Duncan colors at her words, and for a moment I think he just might try to mount a challenge, but after a second he subsides in his chair. Then he pointedly asks Adam, rather than Georgie, what they saw, but the snub is rather lost on her, as she’s busy arranging two chairs so that the seats face each other in a makeshift bed. Before long she’s slumped down, legs outstretched and eyes closed, though I’m absolutely positive she’s not sleeping. Duncan runs out of questions rather quickly. Even with Adam and Georgie here, too, the known facts are limited, and nobody seems keen to indulge in speculation.

  “So, what, we just wait here?” I ask.

  “Jimi and Lenny are coming here when they’ve finished with the body,” says Adam. Out of everyone, he has remained the most like himself on this trip except, if anything, even more watchful, as if permanently half turned to check on Georgie. I wonder if Georgie quite knows what she’s got herself into; Adam is not the sort of man that can be picked up and put down at whim. “We might as well wait.”

  I lean back in my chair and wonder what the police will do with the body when they’ve “finished” with it. Will they take it away with them or will a coroner’s van need to be arranged? If the latter, where will they put it until the vehicle arrives? Will it need to be somewhere cold, like the walk-in fridges that I assume all hotels have, or will they lay her out on one of the pristine white beds in an empty villa, like a guest who has just forgotten to leave? Will she stain those pristine sheets, with all the salt water and the smudged mascara and the smeared lipstick . . . I shake my head to dislodge the train of thought, but that only serves to remind me that my headache is getting fiercer. I’m not sure I can take any more of this hideous inaction. “I’m going to find some water,” I say, pushing my chair back decisively.

  That gets attention from both men. “I’m not sure—” begins Duncan, but then he stops. He’s looking over my shoulder; I twist to see the junior policeman—Lenny?—approaching, and sink back into my chair.

  “Georgie,” says Adam quietly, and she sits up immediately.

  “Is it Cristina?” asks Duncan, when Lenny is still meters away.

  Lenny waits until he has reached the table before answering. His face is grave. “Yes. Steve was able to confirm for us.”

  “What happened? An accident, surely?” The words tumble out of me. Georgie glances at me briefly, and her expression—something akin to pity—causes color to rush into my cheeks, as if I’m being embarrassingly gauche and naive.

  Lenny is shaking his head. “Not an accident.” He catches sight of something and turns slightly. “Ah, it’s the chief.” He clasps his hands behind his back as if waiting respectfully for the senior officer before continuing, but Duncan dives in anyway, voicing exactly my own thought: “Surely you can’t tell that without an autopsy?”

  “Au-autopsy?” Lenny stumbles slightly on the unfamiliar word, frowning slightly, by which point Chief Jimi has reached the table, too. He rattles off a phrase in the local language, and Lenny’s face clears in understanding. Then the chief turns to the rest of us. “Normally, yes, you are right, there would have to be an autopsy, as you say. But in this case, it’s clear that we must proceed with a murder investigation. Because she was shot.”

  FOURTEEN

  GEORGIE

  Shot. The stark finality of that is the most shocking thing to me. Lissa’s death is like a picture with no hard edges: each possible scenario blurs into the next, and you can’t interpret it without bringing something of yourself to it. By contrast, Cristina’s death is a pin-sharp photograph, with everything clearly defined. She is dead because a bullet tore through her—through her stomach, actually; when I hear that, I find that I’m pressing one hand to my own vulnerable belly and the other to my mouth. She probably wasn’t dead when she went over the cliffside, but she would have bled out very quickly in the water; or so Chief Jimi said. A forensic team is combing the cliffside right now, looking for any blood that might show her path down, whilst we continue to sit in the restaurant, with the others attempting to answer questions that I can’t, seeing as I never met her in life. Questions like: When did we last see her? How did she seem? Can you think of anyone who would want to harm her? And all the while, I see the riot of color at the base of the cliff, only this time the skirt is not the only red in the image. A ribbon of deep scarlet streams endlessly from her abdomen, even as the featureless face grows paler and paler until it matches the white froth of the breaking waves.

  Only, perhaps I don’t need to have actually met Cristina to answer that last one: Can I think of anyone who would want to hurt her? Well, no, except . . . Jem. There’s a pregnant pause after Jimi voices that question. I look around the table. It makes no sense not to say it, even if it’s ridiculous to think of Jem actually shooting anyone; a fight, a push, a tragic accident—that I could believe, but not a gun. Duncan is studiously looking at his glass, and Bron is methodically shredding a napkin; I can’t help thinking that both of them are deliberately avoiding my eyes. Adam meets my gaze, though, and I can see that he’s thinking exactly the same thing. He shrugs minutely, and I take it as a cue to speak up. “Well, there seems to be some money missing from the company,” I say awkwardly. “Jem’s company, I mean; has he told you?”

  Jimi inclines his head. “I’m aware of it.”

  “Well, I’m not suggesting he killed her, but I suppose if Jem thought Cristina was behind the missing money, he wouldn’t exactly be thrilled with her—”

  “There’s a big difference between being pissed off and actually shooting someone,” Duncan objects.

  “I know, I know. I’m just trying to be—”

  Duncan talks over me. “Jem would never have hurt Cristina; he adored Cristina—though not in a romantic sense,” he adds hurriedly to Jimi, color flaring quickly in his cheeks as he realizes how his words could be misinterpreted. “Purely professional. Surely this was some kind of madman, and Cristina was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “Perhaps,” says Jimi. He has nothing in his hands; no notebook or pen. It irritates me that he’s not even taking notes. Lenny is, though. “The company; that is the company owned by Jem, Lissa and yourself, Duncan?” Duncan nods. “If I remember rightly, Lissa’s shares went to Jem, is that correct?” Duncan nods again. “And she owned a sixth?”

  I look sharply at Duncan. Only a sixth
? Surely Lissa had owned much more than that? “That’s right,” Duncan says, somewhat reluctantly. “Together Jem and Lissa owned fifty-one percent.” Bron looks up from the napkin, her hands momentarily stilled by that. Fifty-one percent. Which means that Duncan holds forty-nine percent: a much bigger investment than I had imagined. I’m surprised Lissa never told me that. I’m surprised Duncan didn’t, either. I look across at Adam and find that he’s studying Duncan thoughtfully.

  “Miss Ayers,” says Lenny suddenly, as if he’s just remembered something. “I may have something for you.” He reaches into a pocket and pulls out what looks like a paper bag—

  “My phone!” The screen is miraculously uncracked, despite having been hurled with force into the undergrowth. Lenny explains that he found it, and several other items—a hair clip, a hairbrush, a lens cloth so sandy that its lens-cleaning days are over—that must have fallen out of the ripped bag to lie strewn along the path from Kanu Cove.

  “Will all of this stop us getting on the plane tomorrow?” asks Bron suddenly. It might be the first thing she’s said since we heard Cristina had been shot, and even for her, it’s a remarkably tone-deaf question. Duncan glances across at her, mild surprise registering on his face.

  Jimi takes a second or two before he answers. “I don’t think so,” he says carefully. “If we have more questions, we can contact you by phone.” He pushes back his chair to rise. “Well, thank you for your insight,” he says, despite the fact that I can’t think of a single thing any of us have said which was particularly insightful.

  “Presumably you’ll be looking at whether this is linked to the attack on Georgie,” Adam says, rising himself. A complicated dance of handshakes begins.

  “We’ll be pursing all avenues,” Jimi says blandly, and my fingers curl into my palms at the anodyne response.