BODY ON THE ISLAND a gripping murder mystery packed with twists (Smart Woman's Mystery Book 2)

by VICTORIA DOWD

  This seemed extraordinary given the figure of the man standing in front of us.

  ‘Alexa, stop,’ he commanded. The music continued and was now at maximum volume. ‘Alexa, stop!’ he said more forcefully. ‘Alexa, stop!’ he shouted. ‘Please, just stop!’ He stared at us and we stared back.

  The dog began barking.

  ‘You’re scaring Mr Bojingles,’ Bridget said.

  Kempmobil looked around in confusion at the silent faces. Finally, there was a click and then silence. Mother stood, looking fierce, with the plug dangling from her hand.

  She marched back to her seat. Kempmobil waited, nodded once, and saluted her. I don’t think anyone has ever saluted Mother before.

  ‘Not exactly Lewis Collins, is he?’ Mirabelle murmured.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Shut up, Charlotte,’ Mother hissed. I took another virtual drink.

  ‘Right, so why are we here?’ Kempmobil began, a keen smile on his face. He attempted to put a foot up onto a chair but couldn’t seem to raise his leg high enough. He put the leg down and smoothed his hand down his trousers.

  ‘Why indeed.’ Mother crossed her arms across her chest. I could feel her anger settling on me like a mosquito, ready. I didn’t look at her.

  ‘Someone else, please. I like this to be a joint experience.’ His smile remained fixed in place. ‘Why are we here?’

  I looked at the other captives. A couple of rows back, four weighty mid-ranking, middle-aged executives sat in a line of fresh new combat trousers. Somewhere in the City, a bank or finance house was lacking a substantial proportion of people who wear Tough Mudder T-shirts to the gym. Every ounce of them screamed, ‘Team builders who’d rather be anywhere else — except work, of course.’

  On the row near the back of the room, there were two serious-faced women with exceptionally tight ponytails that gave them a severe, almost pained expression. They’d clearly perfected a look of complete focus over many years of dull boardrooms and conferences. In the hours of boredom that rolled on, they informed us that they were ‘influencers’. Although, they didn’t seem to have any influence whatsoever on our party.

  Kempmobil looked at the room with tired, slightly jaded eyes and I wondered how many times he’d delivered this lacklustre introduction. ‘This course is designed to heighten your connection with nature, to make you mindfully aware of the world around you—’

  ‘Sorry, can I just have my light on for a moment?’ Bridget had a distinct talent for making her voice so acerbic that it cut through any room. ‘When you say “mindfully aware”, I was just wondering if there is another way of being cognitively aware of something rather than through your mind or brain?’ Bridget unleashed the vicious smile which, in conjunction with the voice, was a truly toxic combination. ‘What I mean is, whether you’re suggesting you can be mentally aware of something without it being processed in your brain? I’m fairly sure all such functions are performed in the brain anyway so, if you’re aware, you are, by definition, using your mind — you are being mindful.’

  He looked at her blankly.

  ‘It’s a tautology, you see.’ The sharp smile persisted.

  ‘Been reading the dictionary again have you, Bridget?’ Mirabelle muttered.

  ‘You would have no idea what I’ve been reading as you failed to invite me to any book club meetings since the Slaughter House holiday.’

  A distinct look of concern flashed across Kemp’s face.

  ‘Bridget,’ I said slowly, ‘do you think book club continued after the weekend away became known as “the Slaughter House book club holiday”?’

  She looked away.

  ‘Book club is dead!’ I said. Firmly, yet compassionately, I thought.

  She gasped and recoiled before covering her dog’s ears. ‘Don’t say such things.’

  ‘Wait, so that’s shocking to you and Mr Bojingles, but staying in a house where four people were brutally killed is not a genuine reason for ending book club?’ I shook my head and slumped back in my chair. ‘And anyway, that dog wasn’t even there so I don’t know why you’re covering his ears.’

  Kemp, who’d been keenly following our conversation, looked a bit shocked. He cleared his throat and began again. ‘Ladies, ladies, this little escape pod we’ve got here is all about mindfully listening to one another—’

  Bridget shifted her gun sights. ‘I’m sorry to be pedantic—’

  ‘She’s not,’ I couldn’t help myself.

  Bridget continued with strained patience. ‘Again, I would like to clarify whether you think you can listen to something and interpret the sounds without the use of your mind? If, as I suspect is the case, you do need to use your mind to perform that cognitive function, then I’m afraid you may have inadvertently committed another tautology.’

  Kemp sighed. ‘Apologies for the . . . the ology thing. But we’re not going down the astrology route on this particular tour of duty. Don’t get me wrong, I think there is scope to include it. I am naturally a very inclusive person, but at the moment we’re just going to be focusing on getting off-grid, washing away those stresses and dialling out.’

  ‘My own experience has been that any form of dialling out is completely detrimental to survival,’ Mother said.

  He ignored her, presumably in a mindful way. ‘We are going to set some intentions and recapture our own flow by some Blue Mind meditation—’

  ‘Disgusting.’

  He paused for a moment and looked at Aunt Charlotte.

  ‘We’ve got mindfu . . . we’ve got some yoga, sensory walks, foraging, some meditation sessions and immersive experiences designed to create a positive ripple effect through your lives. Because after all, how can we survive the world if we can’t understand the world?’ He nodded slowly in response to his own question.

  ‘Just one thing—’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Bridget,’ Mirabelle shifted forward and stared at her.

  The smile melted from Kemp. ‘Why is there always one?’ He shook his head. ‘Listen, we’re going to do a little mindfu . . . a little walk and then do some sensory awareness through paddle-boarding.’

  ‘No, we’re not.’ Mother straightened up. ‘Absolutely not.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No.’

  Kemp moved awkwardly from foot to foot as if he was trying to end this as quickly as possible. ‘Well then, we can start with the survival element. Everyone enjoys that bit! We can have a little look at some of the kit and talk through a few strategies for ultimate survival in the wild. It’s camping but for the brave!’ He gave a little forced laugh, followed by an ill-advised wink.

  No one winks at Mother. Mother doesn’t do friendly. His smile fell away quickly.

  ‘So—’ he rubbed his hands together — ‘what do you say we get survivaltastic?’

  ‘I say fu—’

  ‘Mother dear,’ I said quickly, ‘have you taken your meds today?’

  Kemp’s face fell into the large folds of his chin, which seemed to create a collar of pleated skin all round his neck. As he turned away, I could see there were three large rolls of flesh resting under his skull as if propping up his head. He had the obligatory pseudo-military tattoo on his neck, which from a distance looked like a spider’s web but was in fact a compass. I couldn’t stop looking at it and only realized why it held my attention for so long when I noticed that the compass points were in the wrong places.

  Underneath all the positive words, he had that thinly disguised haunted look men in the pub have when they’ve spent too much time contemplating how they came to this. His voice had the dry rasp of a man thinking about his next drink. I tried to imagine him as the younger, motivational man he was trying to present but the image was too distant. Whatever disappointments and sorrows he’d walked through, they had left their mark. Every part of him seemed hollow as if the threadbare outfit might just crumple to the floor at any moment and leave nothing more than an empty pile of clothes.

  ‘Now, what are our priorities w
hen we’re faced with a survival situation? Anyone?’

  ‘Not to die,’ Aunt Charlotte offered confidently.

  He readjusted his trousers and stood with his hands on his hips and legs spread. He shoved his thumbs under the utility belt and thrust the buckle forward. This was a man proud of his utility belt. And so he should be. Batman would have been proud of it. It seemed to have everything for every conceivable situation, except perhaps those involving Mother. There was obviously his mobile phone, which had to be stored on his belt in a pouch to enhance survival safety rather than in a pocket like everyone else. There was a torch, pocketknife, another bigger, serrated knife and a roll of gaffer tape. It was quite disturbing just how much his survival equipment bore a striking similarity to the equipment a psychopathic killer might take on a night out.

  The heavy belt seemed to be dragging his gut down, as if he was being pulled towards the floor.

  ‘See you looking at my belt there, missy.’ He’d suddenly adopted the persona of a Scottish cowboy.

  My mouth fell open and he nodded with mistaken pride. ‘This ain’t just any belt. Say hello to my little friend.’ He slapped his sweaty fingers into the belt and left a dull, wet mark.

  Aunt Charlotte leaned very close towards his middle and smiled. ‘Hello.’ She wriggled her fingers as if she was staring at a newborn baby rather than Kemp’s belt struggling for survival under his stomach. She was now inches from Kemp’s buckle.

  Kemp paused to look down at her.

  ‘Does he or she have a name?’ Aunt Charlotte leaned further forward and there was the rising thought that she might actually reach out and touch the belt.

  ‘No.’

  Her smile faded and she looked cautiously around us in that way she has when she’s not sure if this is acceptable or not.

  ‘Right,’ Kemp took a step back and shuffled into his wide-legged stance a little more as if he was settling himself in. He patted the belt but then gave a swift look at Aunt Charlotte. He took another step back. ‘So, yes, right here you’ve got everything you could need to survive. Swiss army knife, hunter’s knife, compass, torch, mirror, rope — all top-of-the-range. What you’ve got here with this little baby, the Beaver Special, is your ticket to survival.’ He flicked the buckle and, as it released, his trousers slipped two inches further down. He held up the belt, gripping his trousers with the other hand and gave Aunt Charlotte another quick nervous look. ‘With this little friend, you can drag a body to safety.’ He mimed dragging a body with his belt. ‘It can pull your food behind you.’ This looked remarkably the same. ‘It can bind two things together.’ He acted out, in careful and precise detail, binding someone’s hands together.

  We watched, mesmerized and more than a little concerned.

  ‘It can haul you to safety or be an improvised weapon — a whip, perhaps.’ He whipped the ground with his fully loaded belt. Everyone stared. ‘Use the buckle end—’ He took the other end of the belt and began whipping the floor with the buckle — ‘and you got yourself a flail.’ The only noise in the room now was his belt buckle thrashing the floor. Finally, his phone fell to the ground with a crack and the torch flew backwards and landed in Mirabelle’s lap.

  ‘God damn it, that’s the second time this month,’ he murmured as he picked up the phone to inspect its newly cracked screen.

  Mirabelle didn’t flinch but merely stared down at the torch in her lap. We sat in silence as he gingerly walked over, belt in hand, and reached into her lap to retrieve the torch. She didn’t look down, her eyes remaining in a fixed stare straight ahead.

  All eyes followed his slow walk back to the front of the room. The City boys now had puzzled looks on their faces as if they were beginning to doubt the fully fledged Tough Mudder credentials of this particular course. The thought was spreading across each face in turn — was this really a life-changing experience or was it possible that this man might just be an utter clown?

  ‘Integrity!’ Kemp jerked suddenly. The syllables came out fast, in a sound similar to a child imitating gunfire. Everyone jolted in their seats.

  Aunt Charlotte leaned over to me. ‘Is he all right do you think, dear?’

  I shrugged.

  ‘What’s the most important part of that word? Come on! Think! You have to think to live.’

  ‘Not necessarily, Mr Wild Geese.’ Mirabelle let her eyes travel over the dome of his camouflaged belly.

  ‘Wild what?’

  ‘Shut up, Charlotte.’ I’d given up on the ‘shut up’ drinking game. It was too exhausting, especially since I was the only player.

  ‘Grit!’ he shouted. It was as if the words were surprising his own mouth. He waited for some sort of understanding to arrive in the room. It didn’t.

  ‘Grit,’ he repeated, still energetically keen.

  ‘Filthy bugger,’ Aunt Charlotte muttered and closed her legs.

  I frowned at her but she just shook her head slowly as if I knew what she meant.

  ‘You see? Grit is the most important part of in–te–grit–y.’ Kemp waited, smiling into the silence. ‘InteGRITy.’ A fine seam of spit had gathered on his lower lip.

  The room shuddered to another gust of the brutal wind. The windows chattered in the loose frames. It dislodged a cup from the side table which fell onto the Alexa, letting a slow stream of cold tea run silently into the holes.

  ‘God damn it!’ Kemp waddled over to the machine, still holding his trousers up with one hand and the belt in the other.

  We watched in silence as he tried to organize his trousers before finally letting go. Mercifully, they stayed up but slipped just enough to create an uncomfortable moment for us all.

  ‘Technology, eh?’ He shook his head and hoisted his trousers back up. ‘Who needs it?’

  ‘Hospitals, schools, financial institutions,’ Bridget began, ‘law enforcement, government, the—’

  ‘OK.’ He held both his hands up as if they were a large pause symbol. He took a breath, then continued carefully as though he thought every word he said was under scrutiny. It was. ‘What I meant was that we all need to unplug, get off-grid, reconnect.’ He held his hands up again in defence. ‘Occasionally! And I guess that’s why you’re all here, right?’

  ‘Wrong.’

  He looked at Mother for a moment with a sort of desperation, as if he could see every single hour of the next few days stretching out ahead of him.

  ‘So, when do we start, I hear you cry.’

  Silence.

  ‘Right here, right now.’ He attempted to point to a spot in front of him but the trousers slipped again and he was forced to make a quick grab for the waistband.

  ‘We don’t mind if you want to take a minute to put the belt back on,’ one of the City boys offered tentatively.

  ‘Thank you,’ Kemp said in a low voice. He began to grapple the belt around himself, sweating and panting. The belt was squeezed so tight that he bore a remarkable resemblance to a camouflaged balloon tied at the bottom. Finally, he let out a great exhausted breath. ‘OK, let’s go survive!’

  ‘Yeah!’ One of the bankers shouted and punched the air. The word lingered in the room on its own.

  We slowly filed out in a single line, heads bowed in an awkward monastic silence. None of us was really sure what had happened in the last half an hour but it certainly wasn’t what we’d expected.

  ‘This is not how it looked on the website,’ one of the tight-haired women commented to him as we were leaving.

  ‘Ah,’ Kemp said, ‘life never is!’ His warm voice almost sounded hopeful. He looked round for acknowledgement but no one could meet his eye. There was a strange sense of embarrassment among us that we just wanted to leave behind in that room. Sadly, it followed us for the rest of the day.

  We broke into groups and the remainder of the morning was spent learning how to light some damp kindling while being buffeted by the wind. When the answer came to us, it was in the form of some lighter fluid and matches.

  Kemp spoke a little abou
t Taransay, the island that would be our home for the next week. There’d been a TV series set there years ago which had sparked a lot of interest in off-grid living and inspired hordes of ill-equipped urbanites to spend a week being hungry and cold before going home to tell people they’d found themselves. Kemp proceeded to talk us through his three ‘Shhhs’ — shelter, sheffing and shitting. Which, judging by the schoolboy grin he’d adopted, he thought was amusing. It might have been previously to some other group. But not this group. Not this time.

  The shelter element of the course he described seemed to involve finding what the TV crew had left behind on the island and making use of that. No one could fault Kemp for seeing a cheap business opportunity. Toilet facilities involved a lot of sphagnum moss, which Kemp demonstrated in detail for us. As for ‘sheffing’, the food was foraged.

  ‘The answer to poverty and hunger is that we all need to slow down and look at Nature’s supermarket.’ He smiled in a distant way as if he was remembering some old grocery store from long ago.

  ‘No way. I’m not getting involved in that again,’ Mother said. ‘It’s all poisonous black magic.’

  I was watching Mother closely for signs of a relapse.

  ‘Food foraging is for privileged, middle-class people, not the genuine poor and hungry,’ I began.

  ‘And what exactly do you know about it?’ Bridget watched me with her unblinking, doll-like eyes. ‘Other than the “privileged” part, of course.’

  ‘I do know that people without money don’t head out into the wilderness and rummage around for various morsels of possibly edible foliage. They are hungry and desperate, not on a wild food retreat. They couldn’t give a stuff about Nature’s supermarket. That’s for people who feel the need to invent a new life.’

  Bridget inclined her head. ‘Which is why you’re here, isn’t it?’ She gave me another sharp smile and carried on stroking her dog.

  ‘It’s why we’re all here.’ Kemp tried to sound reassuring, then pulled out one of his large knives. He spent the rest of the morning showing us that there really is only one way to skin a rabbit and, frankly, it’s brutal.