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

by VICTORIA DOWD

  I could smell the coppery, stale blood the minute he slit along the skin. The sound was just as if he was pulling out a piece of tape in stuttered sections. The slow trail of guts slopped out from the wound. My blood seemed to pool in my feet and ankles, and a sparkle of black stars clouded my eyes.

  I’m no stranger to this sensation. Ever since I can remember, I’ve had a tendency to faint. Bob the Therapist says it could be a heightened sense of anxiety. Such magnificent displays of intricate diagnostics are why I call him House, but he doesn’t get the reference. I stopped using it when I saw him write on my notes, ‘Strange obsession with Bingo.’ Mother just blames it all on Dad for dying.

  The sweat had gone cold on my face. The world dimmed and I felt the floor rushing up towards me.

  CHAPTER 6: TITANIC DECISIONS

  ‘We saddle up at daybreak!’ Kemp announced dramatically to a Portakabin of dejected faces. The rest of the day had been as desperate as first impressions had suggested and after my small fainting incident, I’d spent most of it hiding in bed with the brandy flask that I keep inside a cut-out section of Dad’s old Bible. The others had attempted to follow a training exercise but Mother had retired early when the mindful role-playing started.

  The day had never really broken through the thick layers of cloud and now there was only a dusting of light left on the edge of the hills. Dinner had been the butchered rabbit so we were all going to bed hungry.

  ‘Well, I’m not saddling up anything, even you, Bravo Two Zero! I hate riding.’

  ‘No, Aunt Charlotte. He means—’

  ‘OK. We set sail at first light!’ Kemp called as he tried to edge his way out of the room.

  ‘No one mentioned sailing. I hate sailing.’

  ‘We’re going to be staying on an island, Pandora dear. How else did you think we’d get there?’

  ‘Shut up, Charlotte. I’m not getting in a boat with all these fat men in technical clothing.’

  They all looked around for who she might be talking about.

  Kemp was at the door looking concerned, bemused and possibly even a little bit less enthusiastic than this morning. It seemed to suit him more than the forced-fun version of himself he’d been selling us. ‘OK, what I meant was that we board the RIB at zero nine forty-five hours.’ The keenness was definitely fading and I wondered what he’d be like at the end of all this. My family sometimes have this draining effect on people.

  ‘So, to confirm, it’s not “first light” or “daybreak”, and we’re not riding anywhere,’ Mirabelle folded her arms. ‘I mean, you did originally say “first light”, but I suspect that’s quite a lot earlier than you intended, isn’t it?’

  ‘Sunrise is zero seven nineteen hours. Breakfast at zero eight forty-five hours and off—’

  ‘Zero eight forty-five hours? Off?’ Aunt Charlotte said. ‘Can you speak normally, please?’

  ‘We’d be setting off then usually, but I’m out tonight with someone who’s coming in and I need to feel fresh tomorrow, if you know what I mean.’ He winked again but this time did it twice so it looked more like a twitch. The fact that someone was ‘coming in’ seemed to be something he thought we should be impressed by. He bent his head into his underarm and sniffed deeply. ‘So, no, ladies. It probably won’t be first light.’ He gave us all a smile before letting out a long, satisfied breath.

  I looked out of the dark window. Granite hills lifted through the low rain clouds and fields stretched out into nothing. The sea tremored in the wind, iridescent colours flashing across its black surface like light off a rook’s wing. The water stretched round every border I could see. It was hard to imagine where he would be going out to. I could just make out the sign of a small bar swinging in the wind a little further down from us, by the harbour front, but it didn’t look like the sort of place you’d linger in. It was a place to wait for something else to happen — a boat to come in, a boat to go out. It wasn’t a place to stay after that had happened.

  Kemp was still standing in front of us gently sweating in polyester. He frowned at me as if he’d noticed my look of distaste. ‘We might need to get you up to speed. You’ve missed a lot of training today. Are you sure you’re going to be OK? You gave us all a little scare back there, missy, you know, with Mr Flopsy.’

  ‘Mr Flopsy?’

  ‘My rabbit. Well, he was my rabbit.’

  ‘He means the bunny-skinning exercise where you fainted,’ Aunt Charlotte clarified. ‘You know, Mr Flopsy — or dinner, as he became known.’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Aunt Charlotte,’ I sighed, ‘I realized that. I’ll be fine, thank you.’

  ‘She’s always doing it. Favourite little attention hook,’ Mirabelle said.

  ‘My daughter has a few problems.’ Mother made it sound like I had an unpleasant infection.

  ‘Right.’ He was watching me with increasing concern. ‘Well, perhaps you should have mentioned them on the forms.’

  ‘They’re not those kind of problems.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘She’s just . . . sensitive.’

  ‘Mother, stop! Please.’

  ‘I’m not going to say any more.’

  Mirabelle tutted. ‘What more would you say? There’s nothing bloody wrong with her, unless you count being self-indulgent and spoiled.’

  ‘Spoiled?’ I stared at her.

  Kemp stood awkwardly at the door, unsure if he should enquire further or just make a run for it. The exit seemed much more attractive. ‘Right, well, ladies and gents. I’ll see you all in the morning.’

  He edged out of the door as if we were dangerous animals that he should maintain eye contact with and not turn his back on at any point.

  ‘By the way,’ I asked as he was about to leave. He flinched. ‘What’s your real name?’

  ‘Real name?’

  ‘You know . . . We can’t go on calling you K—’ I paused. ‘What would you like us to call you?’

  ‘My name is Brendan. Brendan Brown. The Brown Watch?’ He waited.

  ‘Oh, oh yes. Now I understand!’ I laughed in what I thought was a friendly manner. ‘I thought . . . Well, you know, Brown Watch . . . I thought given all the references to toilets . . .’

  His eyebrows raised.

  ‘Never mind,’ I said quietly.

  He left, looking confused and worried.

  * * *

  The next morning, we were lousy with exhaustion. Mother blamed my screaming in the night but I think the crippling cold of our dank tomb and the wind howling at the window like some sort of loosed beast may have had something to do with it. I’d spent most of the night sipping on the hip flask of brandy before finally putting it back inside my hollowed-out Bible. I held it tight until dawn.

  It had been one of Dad’s few possessions that Mother hadn’t sent to a charity shop or landfill after he died. I closed my eyes and smelled the familiar memory of his whiskey-tinged breath. He somehow converted cigarettes and the stale remains of a night’s drinking into a cosy perfume, a safe cloud. I held the worn black leather Bible as tight as a wayward preacher desperate for some salvation. It was still warm with the memory of him. He’d never needed salvation. There’d been no sin, no impurity — until the end of course. Perhaps if I reached out my arms now into the darkness he’d be there, a solid body, not just smoke and memories.

  ‘Go to sleep, Ursula.’ The only voice in the darkness was Mother’s, thin with suspicion. She knew. She could smell the sour trail of brandy soaking through the darkness. Perhaps it reminded her of Dad. Perhaps that’s why she sounded irritated. For a man who did no wrong, ambling through memories of him is still like walking through nettles to Mother. I don’t ask. Some things have to be unspoken between us.

  * * *

  Breakfast was dry bread and instant coffee with UHT. I could feel the acid rising in my stomach almost as soon as we stood on the pier at Leverburgh, looking down at our backpacks piled between us as if we were on a cheap dance floor. The pontoon cut a single line through the r
ippling black waters. The quick wind dragged at an old flag strung from a pole, its colours faded. Only a flimsy light hung on the edges of the low mist. Heavy clouds threatened to keep it this dark all day, their reflections barely moving across the water’s surface.

  ‘What the hell are we doing here?’ Mother shot me a murderous look.

  ‘Waiting for the zero eight forty-five RIB, remember, Mother.’

  ‘Don’t start with me. I’m cold. I’m tired. I’m not in Fulham.’

  ‘We need to do this. It will—’

  ‘Will what? Exhaust us? Kill us?’ She turned away. ‘We could have found better ways to die at home and at least we’d have been warm there.’

  ‘Not if you were dead.’ Aunt Charlotte pulled up the collar of her thick tweed jacket.

  I didn’t respond to Mother but adopted a look that suggested I was considering what she’d said. This was another one of Bob the Therapist’s tricks that actually worked. When I began to speak, I used a quiet, slow voice to keep her calm. ‘It will hone our survival skills.’

  ‘Skills? Trailing around after old Bravefart wiping his backside on moss? I think not.’

  ‘Well, we’re here now, so we might as well make the best of it. You never know, you might like it, Mother.’

  ‘Like it in the same way as last time? You know, when we stayed somewhere that ended up being renamed the Slaughter House.’ Mirabelle was always quick to see an opportunity to cast me in a bad light.

  ‘Mirabelle, I did not arrange that. It was your—’

  ‘Look out,’ Aunt Charlotte said, ‘action stations! Wicked Witch of the West and Tonto are here.’

  ‘Toto,’ I corrected. ‘The other one’s the Lone Ranger.’

  Aunt Charlotte looked confused.

  Bridget and the dog trotted in tandem down the pontoon, legs perfectly synchronized. As she drew closer, I could hear the rhythmic rustle of her polyester waterproofs.

  ‘Good morning!’ she called. ‘You weren’t trying to leave us behind now, were you?’ She grinned with her scalpel smile.

  ‘No,’ Mother turned away. ‘We’d actually forgotten all about you.’

  ‘Even if you have started calling yourself “The Lone Ranger”,’ Aunt Charlotte added. I stared at her for a moment but decided any attempt at explanation would be far too long and painful.

  Pulling in at the end of the pontoon was a small red boat with a large angry man dressed in army combat uniform leaping from the back unnecessarily early. I know nothing about sailing but clipping the end of the pontoon with the boat probably wasn’t an indication of advanced-level steering. The unmoving man at the wheel could easily have been dead judging by his Old Man and the Sea look, and the fact that his eyes were completely shut. There were two or three other people wedged in the boat, but their hooded heads were bowed in what looked like solemn penance.

  Angry Army Man was running towards us and shouting. We looked behind us. There was no one there. He was shouting at us. His words sailed away on the wind but it was fairly obvious he was not a happy angry army man. Strangely, none of us moved. We were like rabbits in the headlights and we’d all seen what they did to rabbits here.

  ‘We’re late. Come on, move it. Move it. Move it.’ His combat waistcoat flew behind him in slow motion, his giant boots reverberated on the pontoon and the weak sun repeatedly sparked like a flashlight off the hilt of his extraordinarily serrated knife. ‘Come on. Packs on backs.’

  We didn’t move, even though it was becoming increasingly obvious that Angry Army Man wasn’t going to be able to stop in time.

  He slipped on a pile of bird mess which seemed to slow him down a bit. When he came to a standstill in front of us, his chest was heaving and droplets of sweat were running down his temples, framing his furious face. His hair was short in a way that suggested he disliked hair intensely. Everything about him was clean and scrubbed with anger.

  ‘Survivalists?’ He shot. His voice had traces of a Scottish accent but, unlike Kemp, there was none of the soft edge to it. Every syllable came with an aggressive little stab.

  I nodded, although it somehow felt like I was sealing our fate.

  ‘We got zero eight fifty on the clock and no disembarkation. Let’s saddle up.’

  ‘We were told there would be no riding of horses.’

  ‘Shut up, Charlotte.’ Mother stepped forward. ‘Now, you listen to me Steven Siegel—’

  ‘Who?’

  Mother continued, ignoring Aunt Charlotte. ‘I believe you’ll find we were here on time. You are the late one.’

  He looked at her as if he’d just been stung. ‘My captain had a few morning issues to deal with.’

  Our eyes travelled down the pontoon to Captain Birdseye retching over the side of the boat.

  ‘Bit too much grog?’ Aunt Charlotte laughed.

  ‘He was out last night. Now, come on, grab your stuff and let’s get tough.’

  ‘May I just ask something?’ I attempted a smile. ‘Does all survival speak rhyme?’

  He watched me closely for a moment as if he was considering the best way to skin me. ‘Right ladies, I’m Spear.’

  ‘Of course you are.’

  ‘And I’m going to be leading this tour of duty. You need to listen hard, dig hard and stay hard.’ We watched in appalled silence as he clenched both fists. He seemed quite pleased with himself, albeit still in an angry way. ‘That’s my personal motto.’

  ‘Stay hard?’ Aunt Charlotte frowned. ‘Your personal motto is “stay hard”?’

  He leaned closer towards Aunt Charlotte and narrowed his eyes. Everything about this man was as sharp as his name. Even his beard had been meticulously clipped and shaped to look perfectly rugged — ‘artfully army’ would be a perfect name for this kind of look. It could be the name of his aftershave. ‘Artfully Army . . . by Spear.’ He glanced over at me and saw me smiling. I let my face drop quickly.

  Spear didn’t wait for us and was striding down the pontoon as if he was heading into battle. We grabbed our bags and walked quickly behind, Mother swearing spitefully all the way. Mr Bojingles trotted along looking fretfully between us all like a child watching the grown-ups argue.

  We stood by the side of the boat and watched it nudge repeatedly into the pontoon.

  ‘Well, hello there, ladies.’ The old captain coughed and wiped away something from his beard with the back of his hand. He held out the offending hand and we watched the lingering piece of food dangling from his fingers. When it became obvious we weren’t going to touch him, he saluted and the small foodstuff shot from his finger onto the floor. Mr Bojingles immediately busied himself with eating it. ‘Welcome aboard The Terror. Captain Bottlenose reporting and ready for duty.’

  ‘Bottlenose,’ Aunt Charlotte leaned her head to one side, curiously, ‘like the dolphin?’

  ‘Nope, he’s called Bottlenose because he’s always got his nose in a bottle,’ Spear said. ‘And if he doesn’t smarten up a bit, we might need to find ourselves a new captain.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Oh, leave him alone,’ a woman’s voice called from the cabin. ‘Old Bo-No just likes a little drink sometimes. Who doesn’t?’

  ‘Meet Nell,’ Spear announced as the woman climbed up on deck, ‘our foraging expert, shelter organizer and my wife.’

  We watched her surface, her skin the colour of smooth sand. Her pale hair was roughly tied back, her sea-green eyes a perfect mirror of the water. She moved like someone who was very aware of just how attractive they were. She didn’t take any of it for granted. On the contrary. Every movement looked carefully manipulated to create exactly the desired effect.

  ‘Nice to meet you all.’ The blue-grey sunlight lit her face as though it had been designed to frame her. When she spoke, there was a timeless sound to her voice, traces of Celtic rippling under each word as if she was about to deliver an old folk tale, not the introduction to a boat trip. My eyes were drawn to a dark pendant artfully hanging low on her chest. It caught the faint
light and moved like liquid silver. In fact, all of her moved as effortlessly as the water around us. She held out her hand and a vast number of leather bracelets and friendship bands slid down her arm. She was the very essence of annoying festival chic.

  ‘Bo-No,’ Aunt Charlotte said, ‘as in the millionaire rock star who tells us how we can help the poor?’

  ‘No. As in Bottle — Bo. Nose — No.’ The woman’s smile didn’t shift. ‘Sounds like Boho but not quite as Mossy, hey?’ She laughed and nodded towards the staggering captain.

  ‘Mossy?’ Aunt Charlotte said.

  ‘Kate?’ The woman’s smile was fading now. ‘Kate Moss?’

  Aunt Charlotte shrugged in bemusement. We stood for a moment in an awkward silence.

  ‘Anyway, welcome aboard and you’re going to have to excuse me looking a little worse for wear.’ She curved her mouth down in mock sadness as if she knew very well she didn’t look anywhere near as disastrous as the rest of us. She gave a finely tuned laugh. ‘Huge night last night, if you know what I mean.’ She tilted her head coquettishly.

  Mother, Aunt Charlotte, Mirabelle and Bridget just looked at her blankly. They clearly didn’t know what she meant.

  I glanced back at Leverburgh. There was the closed café on the front, and a sparse collection of houses. That was it. Where was everyone going out to?

  Mother smiled and said, ‘Charmed,’ in that voice she reserves for people she has taken an instant dislike to.

  We looked around for somewhere to sit. On the opposite bench, there were two miserable-looking people, a man and a woman, dressed in outdoor trekking gear. So far, we hadn’t seen anyone who looked happy in technical clothing. The couple’s clothing was entirely matching, as were their stern expressions.

  ‘They’re Tecnica CAS, if you were wondering,’ Technical Man said, following my gaze down to his shoes. He had a severe face and dark-rimmed spectacles in the manner of an architect who was into weekend trekking but really wanted to be taken a lot more seriously than just a weekend trekker. High-end technical clothing was definitely a necessity. Everything about him was serious — hair, coat, trousers, kit bag and shoes, of course. ‘The Tecnica CAS are the best money can buy.’ This was clearly very important to him. ‘CAS — Custom Adaptive Shape?’ He looked at us as if this should be familiar. ‘Heat-formed custom mouldable hiking boots with a Vibram sole?’ He held his foot up for inspection.