Murder On Mustique

by Glenconner Anne

  ‘Could I see the damage, please?’

  When the musician leads him to his living room, the air stinks of booze, a drinks cabinet upended, leaving shattered bottles lying on the floor. The bifold doors have been smashed with a sledgehammer that’s still lying on the ground, a river of glass fragments pooling on the stone tiles. The paintings on the wall have been slashed to ribbons, a wide-screen TV in pieces on the floor. Furniture has been ruined too, a sofa sliced apart, with padding spilling from the gaps.

  ‘Was much stolen?’

  ‘Bugger all, as far as I can tell. They trashed the place and left; I think it may have been just one guy. I caught a glimpse of him climbing over the back wall.’

  ‘Didn’t your staff hear anything?’

  ‘I only employ one assistant. He’s here nine to five, Monday to Friday. At the weekends I fend for myself.’

  ‘So it was you that phoned earlier? I thought you’d have a team.’

  ‘An entourage, you mean?’ Belmont releases a snarl of laughter, his voice suddenly bitter. ‘I can’t stand that shit. Being alone is sorting my head out, at last.’

  ‘Do you know what time it happened?’

  ‘Around 3a.m. last night. I sleep well normally, but a noise woke me, so I chucked on some clothes and ran down. The bloke had no time to nick anything. I went back to bed after that and slept till morning.’

  Nile stares at him. ‘Thieves vandalised your home, but you just went back to sleep?’

  ‘I’ve lived through worse.’

  ‘Are you sure about only seeing one person?’

  ‘I only caught a glimpse of him, and the damage is nothing compared to hotel rooms I’ve trashed. I loved breaking stuff when I was young; maybe that’s all they wanted.’

  ‘Do you mind if I look outside?’

  ‘Be my guest.’

  Nile picks his way over the broken glass, observing how the intruder escaped. The garden is surrounded by white-painted walls, at least ten feet high, so whoever trashed Belmont’s sitting room must be agile. The intruder left scuff marks from clambering over it fast, when the musician came downstairs, but he can’t understand Belmont’s reaction. Even the coolest individual would be too shaken up after a violent burglary to go straight back to sleep when the thieves could return at any time.

  Keith Belmont beckons Nile closer and the detective assumes he’s got more information about the burglary, but he leads him into a recording studio instead. The musician’s only sign of personal vanity is a collection of gold and platinum records that covers the end wall.

  ‘I’m glad they didn’t nick this lot. I’d have been gutted, even though I took it all for granted at the time.’

  ‘It’s a big achievement.’

  ‘You’re only as good as your next album. I’ll be recording solo tracks later this year.’ Belmont’s expression remains impassive. ‘Play me a rhythm, can you?’

  ‘I should be going.’

  ‘Don’t make me beg. It’ll take you a minute, tops.’

  Nile senses that refusing will delay him further, but still feels embarrassed. It’s so long since he held a pair of sticks that they feel foreign in his hands. The beat is hesitant at first, but memory helps him tap out a few bars of reggae, followed by a long drum roll.

  Belmont finally cracks a smile. ‘Where’ve you been hiding? I’ve scoured the whole bloody island for a decent drummer. Come round Sunday night, some guys will be here for a jam and a few beers.’

  ‘I’m afraid I’ll be working, Mr Belmont …’

  ‘… Keith. I need you, man. Don’t make excuses.’

  ‘You must have heard that Amanda Fortini’s missing; it’s keeping me pretty busy.’

  The musician stares back at him. ‘That girl’s a sweetheart. I saw the smoke from her villa last night.’

  ‘Do you know her well?’

  ‘She does yoga here every week, and we play tennis occasionally. Do you know what’s happened?’

  ‘I need to talk to her ex-boyfriend.’

  ‘Tommy Rothmore’s pretty strung out. I invited him to yoga too, but he couldn’t hack it. The boy can’t sit still for five minutes.’

  ‘If you see him, please call me straight away. I’ll write an incident report, for your insurers.’

  The two men are returning to the living room when Nile spots something on the ground. It’s a lump of coral, like the two he’s seen before, but the carving is different when he crouches down to examine it. A simple U shape has been cut into its surface.

  ‘Is this yours?’

  Belmont drops down beside him. ‘It’s coral, but not from my collection. The stuff fascinates me. I learned how to dive, so I could see it up close. I’ve been gathering fragments from all over the world, but mine are harvested sustainably.’

  ‘How come you’re so interested?’

  ‘Coral’s unique on this planet. It can regenerate from a single cell, it’s got thousands of sub-species, and it can break down some of the worst poisons we chuck into the sea.’ He shakes his head in disgust. ‘Some idiot’s hacked that out with a bloody machete.’

  ‘You own a Bayrider XR7 speedboat, don’t you? I’ve seen it in the harbour.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with it?’

  ‘Nothing, probably, but do you use it sometimes, to visit the reef?’

  ‘I normally use a kayak these days, if I want to go for a snorkel. It’s stopped Lily Calder nagging me about putting a hole in the ozone layer.’

  ‘When’s the last time you took the Bayrider out?’

  ‘Weeks ago. Why?’

  ‘A launch just like yours was seen in Britannia Bay, when Amanda Fortini was last seen, taking a swim early on Friday morning.’

  ‘I was here by myself. Getting up late’s a bad habit of mine.’

  The musician watches Nile pick up the coral, his face unreadable. Belmont repeats his invitation to the jam session on Saturday night, but Nile offers no guarantee that he’ll attend. Nile tells him to keep his place secure and consider staying with friends or at Firefly until the culprit’s found. It’s only after the metal security doors click shut behind him that Nile realises the musician’s only flicker of emotion was when he talked about the coral. Their conversation has proved that Belmont has the diving skills needed to harvest the coral that keeps appearing at each crime scene.

  18

  JASPER IS UNUSUALLY calm when he calls in the morning. My husband is at his best with a task to keep him occupied and he’s been busy collecting the costumes for our party guests and getting them stored at the airport. They will be flown over once the storm warning lifts. My biggest fear is that Lily’s celebration might be eclipsed by Amanda’s absence, but Jasper seems glad of a distraction.

  ‘I’d rather fret about the party than talk to those wretched architects.’

  ‘You’ll bring them round, darling.’

  ‘Don’t bet on it; they never listen.’ His voice quavers when he replies.

  ‘Please don’t let it worry you too much.’

  Jasper’s mental health has been shaky for years. I do my best to shield him from stress, but it’s not always possible. My seven decades have taught me many valuable lessons – some unpleasant, others salutary. I have learned that physical exercise stops me worrying about my husband, so I make myself do thirty laps of the pool. After some initial discomfort, it becomes a pleasure. Last night’s fire and Jasper’s volatility are distant memories while I’m floating on my back, listening to hummingbirds overhead, and my own quiet breathing.

  I’m almost finished when Phillip arrives on the terrace. He’s keen to help me plan where to locate our guests, between his home, mine, and the island’s two hotels. The man looks like he’s stepped out of a play by Noel Coward, dressed in high-waisted trousers and a crisp white shirt.

  ‘Join me,’ I call out to him.

  ‘I can’t, the doctor would have a fit.’

  ‘Spoilsport.’

  ‘If I swim, my hearing will suffer.’ Phillip
taps his ear, then motions for me to continue, so I complete another lap. My skin’s glowing by the time I stop. Half an hour in the water has cured life’s ills, for the time being. I wrap myself in a towel, then wander over to Phillip.

  ‘You look like a water nymph, gliding through the waves,’ he tells me.

  ‘More like a crocodile these days.’

  ‘Nonsense, I’m still keen to elope.’ My old friend smiles, but I can see he’s troubled.

  ‘What’s wrong, darling? You haven’t been yourself since I got back.’

  ‘I should have told you this sooner.’ He hesitates for a moment. ‘Tommy called at my villa last week, terribly upset about breaking up with Amanda. I should have listened more carefully. I didn’t exactly say there are more fish in the sea, but I was too blasé.’

  ‘Maybe he’s been depressed for ages, and Amanda leaving him was the final straw.’

  ‘I should have figured that out.’ Phillip’s gaze settles on me again. ‘Do you think he’s hurt her?’

  ‘Whatever happened, it’s not your fault.’

  ‘You shouldn’t let me off the hook so easily.’ He reaches out to touch my hand. ‘The boy came to me for advice, but I’m not getting any wiser with the passing years. Rejection hurts me just as much as it did in my teens. I wish I’d given him more solace, but it’s enough work keeping myself on the straight and narrow.’

  ‘Don’t be so hard on yourself; I can’t imagine you being mean to anyone. You’ve given me and Jasper so much support over the years.’

  ‘What a sweetheart you are, Vee. If you could transport yourself back to any time in your life, when would it be?’

  ‘When my children were small, I think. How about you?’

  ‘Straight after acting school, earning nothing, and playing in off-Broadway shows. I had a dream last night that I was back in a tiny theatre, doing The Cherry Orchard. It was glorious.’

  ‘How perfect, I can imagine you as a handsome young thespian.’

  I drop a kiss on Phillip’s cheek, leaving him drinking mint tea while I go upstairs to dress. I always choose pale colours to combat Mustique’s heat, and this morning I pick white linen trousers, a light blue shirt, with a string of agate beads. My friend looks pleased with my appearance, as if a lapse from elegance would be a cardinal sin, but the damage to the Fortinis’ property overshadows our chat. The smell of burned timber still lingers on the air, and it’s still hard to believe that such a grand building has been reduced to rubble. I make a deliberate effort to focus on Lily’s party, instead of fretting about something I can’t fix.

  ‘Around a hundred and fifty people are coming. Half of them are flying in on private planes.’

  ‘You’re pushing it, aren’t you?’ he says, narrowing his eyes.

  ‘Josephine and Georgia are flying in next week to give us a hand, bless them. They can take twenty people each at their villas, Firefly are taking fourteen, and another thirty at the Cotton House. I’m sure we can sprinkle the rest liberally across friends’ villas, can’t we?’

  We’re talking about a welcoming committee at the airport, and decking the building with night-sky decorations, so the party’s theme begins as soon as guests touch down, when I catch sight of someone running across the lawn. There’s a fierce look on Jose Gomez’s face when he grabs my wrist and pulls me to my feet. He drags me towards the steps, like he’s desperate to show me something.

  ‘What are you doing here, Jose? It’s your day off.’

  A guttural noise issues from his mouth, but he carries on pulling me towards the steps that lead down to the beach, until Phillip comes to my aid.

  ‘Stop that, right now,’ he tells the gardener. ‘What on earth’s wrong?’

  The young man backs away, his expression terrified, until Wesley appears.

  ‘Go home, Jose,’ my butler snaps at him, until I’m finally released. ‘I’ll talk to you about this tomorrow.’

  ‘What’s happened to him?’ Phillip says. ‘He did exactly the same thing to me last week, when I was having breakfast.’

  Jose is already slipping away between the trees. I still don’t know who broke into my villa to leave the dead coral outside Lily’s room, but Jose’s behaviour is so odd, I can’t help suspecting he’s involved. He’s had many opportunities to watch Amanda in the neighbouring garden, and I know he’s been following Phillip and me. My gaze catches on the Fortinis’ villa again, while Wesley and Phillip discuss the gardener’s behaviour. The property’s scorched framework looks darker than ever, my memories of pool parties and dancing in that wild garden reduced to ashes.

  ‘I’d better call Solomon,’ I tell Phillip.

  ‘Good plan, we need to get to the bottom of this.’

  I hurry inside to call our detective’s mobile, but there’s no reply.

  19

  IT’S AFTER 11A.M. when Nile receives a voice message from Lady Vee about her gardener behaving strangely, but working alone makes it impossible to respond. There’s a bigger problem to deal with before he can go to Eden House. Someone has seen a fishing boat stranded off Old Plantation Bay, and St Vincent’s marine rescue service aren’t prepared to launch a rescue with a storm on its way. Nile resents the new distraction but can’t ignore it. Currents will carry the boat out to sea if he doesn’t act fast. He can’t see the fishing boat’s outline from the jetty when he reaches the harbour, so the vessel may already have been dragged miles from the island.

  He twists the key in the ignition three times before the police launch finally revs into life. He’s making slow progress when a large speedboat cuts across the bay, travelling at top speed. Its wash sends artificial waves rippling across the water, the words ‘Aqua Dream’ inscribed on its prow. Nile feels discomfort prickling the back of his neck, almost certain the mysterious boat is connected to Amanda Fortini’s disappearance, but his boss’s refusal to provide a warrant leaves his hands tied. He increases his speed, scanning the ocean ahead, but there’s still no sign of the stranded vessel, only the speedboat racing back across the bay. Kellerman seems to be parading his freedom in front of his face, as a deliberate taunt.

  Nile takes half an hour to spot the fishing boat drifting helplessly on the tide. The vessel is like the one his father used to sail, a handmade dinghy, painted vivid yellow, with no shelter from the sun and only a small outboard motor. Hosea still talks about the days when fishermen caught only what they needed to eat, plus a few more for their neighbours, then cast the rest back into the ocean alive. These days trawlers operate out of St Vincent, dredging tons of fish from the sea every day, leaving slim pickings for Lovell’s tiny fleet. Nile can read the old man’s relief in his body language, both hands waving in welcome. It’s one of his father’s closest friends, Claude Boulez, but he’s still annoyed. He’d rather be looking for Amanda Fortini and her disturbed ex-boyfriend than rescuing lost fishermen. The old man is bare-chested, wearing a pair of frayed shorts, with no hat to protect him from the sun.

  ‘What are you doing, Papa? Couldn’t another fishing boat tow you home?’

  Boulez beckons him closer, and Nile sees that he’s had a good morning. The basket at his feet is heaving with flounder, yellow-tailed snapper and squirrelfish. The man should be jubilant, but his expression is blank.

  ‘You need to see why my engine broke.’

  ‘Why? You can fix it after you’re back at harbour.’

  The old man’s eyes blaze at him. ‘Come on board right now, Solomon.’

  Nile tuts under his breath, but follows Boulez’s request. A culture of respect still exists in Lovell, the old free to advise the young. If a village elder makes a request, you’re duty-bound to obey, and Nile’s police badge makes no difference. He uses his mooring rope to tie the two boats together, then steps aboard. Papa Boulez’s age shows when he’s up close. The man’s chest is covered in knots of white hair, his eyes turning milky, hardly any fat covering his bones.

  ‘What’s wrong, Papa?’

  Boulez shakes his head. ‘I
saw petrels all diving together. I thought they’d found a school of grouper, so I sailed out here fast.’

  ‘What did you find?’

  ‘Something so big, I couldn’t haul it on board. I’m not strong enough to pull up my net by hand.’

  ‘Is it a reef shark?’

  ‘It’s bad luck to talk about it at sea.’ The old man shuts his eyes. ‘Take a look for yourself.’

  Nile steps past the old man, the boat reeling drunkenly on the waves, while sunlight warms the back of his neck. He works up a sweat hauling in the net, hand over hand, with half a dozen red snapper landing at his feet. Something heavy is snagged at the bottom, but the catch still comes as a shock, making his heart rate soar. The sole of someone’s foot appears first, tangled in the fishing net. He takes a deep breath and hauls with all his strength until a man’s body flops, face down, into the hold. The corpse is dressed in a ripped blue shirt and shorts, a Rolex watch still attached to his wrist. Nile’s vision blurs when he rolls the man’s body over: Tommy Rothmore’s face is almost unrecognisable. One light green eye has been plucked from its socket, his skin littered with cuts, forcing Nile to stare at the horizon, to clear his nausea.

  Papa Boulez is on his knees, praying over the body. Nile wishes he still shared his faith, but there are few signs of a divine being’s existence today. There’s only the pitiless ocean, while Mustique drifts from sight. When he glances east, his gaze catches on the Aqua Dream, moored so close by, every porthole is visible. Amanda Fortini disappeared into its shadow and now her ex has been dredged from the same stretch of water. There’s a sudden cacophony overhead; birds are gathering again, directly above Rothmore’s body, expecting a free meal.

  PART TWO

  Tropical Weather Outlook

  National Hurricane Center, Miami FL

  Monday, 16 September 2002

  For the North Atlantic and Caribbean Sea

  The National Hurricane Center is issuing advisories on Tropical Storm Cristobal, located over central Cuba, causing damage to property. 90 mile per hour wind with predicted storm surges.