BODY ON THE ISLAND a gripping murder mystery packed with twists (Smart Woman's Mystery Book 2)
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BODY
ON THE
ISLAND
A gripping murder mystery packed with twists
VICTORIA DOWD
Smart Woman’s Mystery Book 2
Joffe Books, London
www.joffebooks.com
First published in Great Britain in 2021
© Victoria Dowd
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The spelling used is British English except where fidelity to the author’s rendering of accent or dialect supersedes this. The right of Victoria Dowd to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
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ISBN: 978-1-78931-662-9
CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1: SHIPWRECKED
CHAPTER 2: TWENTY-FOUR DAYS BEFORE THE SHIPWRECK
CHAPTER 3: TWENTY-FOUR HOURS BEFORE THE SHIPWRECK
CHAPTER 4: LANDING IN ANOTHER WORLD
CHAPTER 5: THE LESSONS WE DIDN’T LEARN
CHAPTER 6: TITANIC DECISIONS
CHAPTER 7: COFFIN BOY
CHAPTER 8: DON’T GO OVERBOARD
CHAPTER 9: AN ANCIENT WORLD
CHAPTER 10: A LOST NIGHT
CHAPTER 11: FEAR
CHAPTER 12: ABANDONED
CHAPTER 13: THE FERRYMAN
CHAPTER 14: DEAD MEN DON’T NEED SHOES
CHAPTER 15: THE HOUSE
CHAPTER 16: SOMETHING ELSE LIVES HERE
CHAPTER 17: SKULDUGGERY
CHAPTER 18: A DEATH
CHAPTER 19: THE MADNESS OF VATICINATION
CHAPTER 20: THE THREE BAREFOOTED DEAD MEN
CHAPTER 21: MORE BODIES
CHAPTER 22: AN UNEXPECTED GUEST
CHAPTER 23: ANOTHER DEATH
CHAPTER 24: THERE ARE NO SILVER LININGS
CHAPTER 25: ALL THAT GLITTERS
CHAPTER 26: TRUTH OR DIE
CHAPTER 27: A PICTURE TELLS A THOUSAND LIES
CHAPTER 28: THE BAREFOOTED MAN
CHAPTER 29: THE CHAPEL OF UNREST
CHAPTER 30: DEAD MEN DON’T WEAR SHOES
CHAPTER 31: A BLASTED HEATH
CHAPTER 32: THE SINS OF THE FATHER AND THE MOTHER
CHAPTER 33: WE ALL NEED SAVING
ALSO BY VICTORIA DOWD
FREE KINDLE BOOKS
A SELECTION OF BOOKS YOU MAY ENJOY
GLOSSARY OF ENGLISH USAGE FOR US READERS
For Kev, Delilah, James, Sarah & Catherine
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I’ve never really felt worthy of doing this before, but if I miss anyone, I’ll make sure you’re in Book 3 (cunningly slipped in a mention of third book there!).
First of all, a massive thank you to Joffe Books, which is like a great big, warm family, and not at all like the Smarts! Jasper, I will never be able to thank you enough, for taking a chance on me. You have not only given me my dream, but you’ve made it the best job in the world! Thank you. And thank you to lovely Emma, who has been so inspiring and constantly supportive. And is a very wonderful person! To Nina, Annie and Laura for being utterly wonderful, kind and always having the answer! You guys are amazing. Also, to Cat and Laurel and all the editorial team for so much care and attention. To all the lovely people in promotions. Jill, Bev and Alyson especially have taken me under their wing from that very first sausage roll and a drink. Your parties are the best online! And to all the other Joffe authors, Janice, Joy, Helen, Charley, Judi, Charlie, Jeanette and all of you who have been so warm and welcoming. Especially Margaret Murphy who has always been ready to help and give advice. Thank you so much, Margaret. You are fabulous!
Thanks also to everyone at EAA and for the opportunity to do the wonderful Story sessions. Thank you to the D20s for all your help, inspiration and Friday zooms. To Venetia and everyone at the Barnes Bookshop for your support over the years. And to all the fabulous Smart Women readers who send me such lovely gifts and messages, and post wonderful reviews! It’s nothing without you!
To my amazing family, who have supported me all the way. Thank you for putting up with all the talk about the book and the endless Agatha Christie films. Delilah and James, I love you beyond any words I can put in a book. Thank you. You are the best kids a mother could wish for. Thank you to my darling Delilah for your incredible brilliance, ideas and love. And to James for always being ready to talk about a plot or Lego or, as we discovered, both combined. And for all the hugs and love. Especial thanks to Sarah, you have always been there with love, support, reading and advice. Thank you. Catherine, thanks for all the reading and for being there to help whenever I’ve asked. Thanks to my mother for maintaining a full library of my work and to Amanda for getting me my celeb shots!
And finally, to Kev for all the years of love and support. For the wonderful days. For quietly lifting me up whenever I fall and for taking such good care of all my dreams. I love you.
CHAPTER 1: SHIPWRECKED
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As I’m drowning, I see my dad’s murdered eyes below me. They are wide in warning. I hear his voice below the waves. ‘Do not come over to this side. There is nothing good here, Ursula. Stay. Stay alive.’
‘Stay alive,’ I call back. ‘Stay alive.’
‘I’m trying!’ It’s not Dad who answers but Mother’s voice shouting back at me, her mouth filling with icy saltwater, before she is thrown out from me on another high wave.
‘Don’t die!’ I shout.
‘That had occurred to me.’ Her eyes are wide like Dad’s. She spins out from me as if she’s been carelessly thrown away.
‘Mother!’ I scream. ‘Hold my hand.’
She reaches and grabs me. We are so small among this broken sea. The freezing spray pits my skin.
‘Ursula,’ Mother shouts. ‘Stay with me!’ Always a command. She scans the mineral black waters quickly. ‘Charlotte?’ Her mouth is wide but the sound is washed away in another wave.
I see a hand rise up across the bow of the listing boat. Aunt Charlotte’s fist, strong and capable above the waves.
‘Mirabelle?’ Mother calls.
No response.
‘Mirabelle?’
There are heads floating all around, rising high on the waves before plunging down fast, roller-coastered against the wet shale sky. The water is bitter, and I’m pushed under again. The cold shocks my head as if I’m being baptized in ice water. I can’t feel or move my limbs, yet I’m moving so fast that my eyes, raw with burning salt, are unable to process the changing snapshots of sky and water. I catch a glimpse of Mother’s face again, her eyes are ripe with fear.
Somewhere in another great swell, I lose Mother’s hand.
‘Mother? Mother? Mother!’
I am that lost child in a crowd again, feeling her hand slip from mine.
I’m fall
ing.
I hear screams and see the faces of my other travelling companions full of panic. They don’t seem to see me. I lock with a pair of bewildered eyes for a moment. A woman’s, sea-green and two perfect mirrors of the water. Her head turns before I can make out the face. Then the hands grab her.
I’m thrown high again by another wave.
The hands are on Green Eyes’s shoulders, making their way spider-fast to the crown of her head. Her eyes are wide and pleading now. Fear, desperation reflect on their surface. Then the thin-boned hands push down on her delicate head and the green eyes disappear beneath a spume of white water. Her small hands reach up and twist with tiny dancer’s fingers.
Whoever reaches out and pushes the woman down again has their back to me.
She struggles free for a moment, her mouth gasping above the water, her head tilted back against the waves. The mouth lingers open as if caught on a word that is instantly swept away. Her head is forced below once more.
In that moment, it’s as if I’m looking at them from the other side of a window. I see the final push below the waves. Those perfect stained-glass eyes linger on the surface of my thoughts before dissolving into the sea. She is gone.
Another swathe of water covers me. I’m washed below the waves and carried. I claw to the surface and scream out, ‘Stop!’ There’s no one there.
Green Eyes has gone, eaten by the sea. Was there even a man there at all or something else that’s in these angry waves? I look down. I’m being crazy. I try to calm my fast breaths. There were hands that pushed her down, I know there were. But whoever it was has collapsed into nothing but foam.
I can’t find the light of the green eyes anymore either. They linger in my imagination, thick with a film of watery fear, pleading for help. I was the last thing she saw before the sea took her. What can I do?
I feel the panic rise. I swing my head from left to right. Nothing. I try to shout but another great slope of water collapses on me, forcing me down. This time, I don’t surface.
I dream of Dad’s open arms beneath the waves. They are balm to me, weaving effortlessly through the fierce currents. I close my eyes so I can’t see the body falling lifelessly towards the sea’s deep floor.
I can’t see Mother or Aunt Charlotte anymore. I even look for Mirabelle. But they are all gone. I look into the dark green forest below. Such tiny, clean white bones we’ll make one day on this ocean floor’s abyss — then we shall form small fields of fragile coral. It is a calming thought as I drift down.
But not yet. There is more life to contend with. Death will have to wait. Death is always waiting.
CHAPTER 2: TWENTY-FOUR DAYS BEFORE THE SHIPWRECK
‘I’m not going. I’m not doing it. I never will. Does that answer your question thoroughly enough?’
It was one of Mother’s negative days. She attempted to raise her eyebrows but was cosmetically challenged. She’d paid a recent visit to Brighter You in a hope that they could make her look less disappointed with life. Mother likes to visit salons that would sound more at home in a sci-fi novel. Whatever they’d done, it hadn’t worked. It would be better if they were called Tighter You, although a name like that could give the wrong impression, I suppose. But it would be more accurate given the only effect they’d managed to achieve was that her face looked as shrink-wrapped as a Sainsbury’s chicken breast.
‘All I’m saying, Mother, is that we need to be tougher. We need to get out there and be strong and learn how to—’
‘What, gut a fish? Piss on our hands?’
‘Piss on our hands?’ I frowned. ‘What the hell have you been watching?’
‘You know, all that Bear Grilling nonsense.’
‘It’s not cooking endangered species — you know that don’t you? He’s called Bear Grylls.’ I watched her confusion unfold slowly like a used paper napkin. ‘That’s his name, Mother.’
‘Of course I know that! I don’t care what he does or how naked he is when he does it, I’m not going to put myself in harm’s way. And I’m certainly not stepping away from mobile phone signal or Wi-Fi ever in my life again. You have no idea the therapy bills I still struggle to meet.’ She folded her arms, caught sight of a bobble on the cashmere and, with the concentration of a cat, instantly became distracted.
‘He’s still charging you? I mean, I thought, what with you two, you know . . .’
‘What?’
‘Well, does he charge all his girlfriends?’
The Look. Mother’s principal weapon of minor destruction, issued randomly yet effectively, is The Look. It creates that deathly moment filmmakers employ when the bomb drops and there’s a silence, a pause where everyone braces for the destruction about to unfold.
‘I’m not his girlfriend.’
‘I don’t know what else you want me to call someone your age who sleeps with their therapist. Desperate? Pathetic? Needy?’
She tried to look shocked, but Mother’s skin didn’t have room for extra emotions. Recently, it had begun to take on the look of a death mask.
I’m not sure what Bob the Therapist would make of me imagining such things. I don’t share my real thoughts with him since he’s Mother’s therapist too. He did her a two-for-one deal. That was before Bob and my mother started seeing each other. He just feeds back everything I tell him to Mother. Basically, he’s like Mother’s paid spy inside my head. He thinks I don’t know what he’s up to. My best lie so far has been that I’ve won the lottery but I’m not telling Mother because I don’t want it to change us. Obviously, he told her immediately and within a week she was doing the ‘big shop’ at Fortnum & Mason and giving me knowing little smiles.
‘All I know is that you’re sleeping with a guy who is then telling you how you should feel. Doesn’t it seem remarkably . . .’
She waited.
‘. . . impolite of him to then send a bill? Isn’t that a little bit like a surgeon shooting you and then asking for payment when he’s removed the bullet?’
‘He’s fulfilling a need.’
‘How many needs have you got now, Mother?’
She looked somewhere beyond the window, as if she was being wistful, although I knew she was watching the neighbour and checking the number of bottles the woman was putting in the recycling. Mother takes ours out in the dead of night to avoid any judgement. One of her greatest life skills, which she has honed over many years of practice, is being able to stack bottles absolutely silently.
‘Mother, I’m asking what you’re going to do with the rest of this life you’ve been gifted?’
‘I haven’t been gifted anything. I survived That House by virtue of my stealth, grit, determination and—’
‘You’re not talking to the papers now, Mother. I was there, remember? “Blind luck” and “chance” don’t sound quite as catchy though, do they? Words like that don’t sell as many papers.’
She watched me as closely as a hypnotist. I know this because she sent me to one of those as well. When it didn’t work, she blamed my ‘obstructive brain.’ It was exactly the same as when she sent me to someone to ‘read my colours.’ Mine came back as black, and she said I’d done it on purpose.
‘Oh, and what a marvellously heroic sidekick you made!’ she sneered.
‘Sidekick?’
‘Listen to me, Little Miss No-Money-or-Pennies, the cash from those stories is what keeps a roof over your head. Don’t forget that. If I have a loose grip on the truth, it’s for your benefit.’
Bob the Therapist has recommended that I should pause sometimes with Mother and just let the silence flow. It’s one of the few useful things he’s ever said. But Mother doesn’t do meaningful silences.
‘We survived being murdered, so why not make a little money out of it? God knows, there’s no other pot of gold waiting for us. Your angst poetry isn’t going to keep us. And don’t go thinking we were left anything by your father.’
The word landed like a grenade between us. We both looked down to the floor as if he was stil
l lying there. The fact that he was taken from us is a daily ache — our mutual scar that binds and numbs us. There’s always a lingering voice wondering how long he’d have lived if he hadn’t been killed. It’s the black noise behind every day.
I often imagine a parallel world exists where he hasn’t been murdered and I’m living with him, completely oblivious to this post-death world I exist in now. I watch that other self from the shadows like a spurned lover, hiding, spying on life — the life I could have had. And I loathe it.
I’m fascinated by other people’s happiness now. It’s a new hobby — watching happy people. I watch the children go to school, screaming, running, unaware their parent could casually fall under the wheels of that passing car. I watch the parent taking their teen shopping — the parent who could fold in on themselves, an undetected illness, an unseen killer who strikes without thought and suddenly they just blow away like ash. When Dad died, I googled how much cremated people weigh. I did Troubled Teen very well. Two kilograms, if you were wondering. It didn’t matter anyway. They buried him — until they dug him up again. Technically, they exhumed him. There’s no special occasion for that though. No standing round reminiscing with people you barely know.
All I have now are fragile images that actually weigh nothing at all. They’re useless really — remnants of a life I barely remember, heavily embroidered to make them seem real and, let’s be honest, mostly made up. Memories can be so delicate and easy to manipulate.
I just thank God I have Mother to correct my recollections and make them much less fanciful.
‘Anyway, Mother, why are you watching something you think is a cookery show? You can’t cook.’ It’s very important for both of us that we pull the conversation back round to something trivial.
‘I don’t cook. That is not the same as can’t.’ She tilted her head as if she’d said something important. It was a little seagull-esque — the bird, not the play. Mother doesn’t do profound. She hates the theatre and says it’s full of people trying to look intelligent. Which is not something that has ever troubled her.