Murder On Mustique

by Glenconner Anne

  Cyclone tracking south, current risk rating: moderate

  20

  PHILLIP HAS GONE home for a siesta when Jasper calls again. His voice is flat with despair, before I’ve even said hello.

  ‘The wretched builders are working at a snail’s pace. I need you here, Vee. Things are falling apart.’

  ‘It’s the same on Mustique. Amanda’s still missing, and no one can find Tommy Rothmore either. She hasn’t been seen for three days, and it looks like he burned her villa to the ground.’

  ‘Good Lord, are you serious? The boy’s a billionaire, isn’t he?’

  ‘What difference does that make?’

  ‘He’s got the entire world at his feet.’

  Jasper’s frustration is replaced by curiosity when I distract him with the investigation. One of my husband’s strengths is that – although easily upset – he rarely nurses grievances. He demands precise details, like Hercule Poirot, but I’m relieved his voice is steady when we say goodbye.

  The phone rings again moments later. Solomon Nile’s tone is sober; sea gulls are bawling in the background when he asks me for a favour. He wants the island’s only ambulance sent to Old Plantation harbour. I sense immediately that the matter is serious when he issues another instruction.

  ‘Bring Dr Pakefield with you please, Lady Vee.’

  My heart sinks at the request; Nile’s sombre tone suggests that he’s found a corpse, not a living person. It takes me ten minutes to convince the receptionist at the medical centre that the locum’s services are needed urgently, even though he’s making house calls, but my forceful tone has the desired effect. Simon Pakefield is waiting outside the medical centre when I arrive in my buggy. I haven’t seen him since the Fortinis’ villa was on fire; he gives me a courteous greeting but the man looks tired, as if some private worry is nagging at him, but it’s the wrong time to fret about his state of mind. We work together to empty the ambulance of its contents, piling boxes of medication and bandages in the medical centre’s small lobby. It’s a typically eccentric feature of island life that the ambulance doubles as a pick-up van and is often driven by the doctor himself. Pakefield looks bemused by my request to go straight to Old Plantation harbour. We set off at a steady speed, because attempting to drive fast on some of the island’s worst tracks would result in a broken axle. Neither of us bothers with small talk. We both know that an urgent request for an ambulance rarely signals good news.

  Solomon is on an old fishing boat when we reach the jetty, talking to Claude Boulez. I’ve known the fisherman for years, because he brings his catch to my villa, selling lobster or swordfish steaks to Wesley. Boulez is normally all smiles, but today he barely greets me before hurrying away.

  ‘What’s happened, Solomon?’ I ask. ‘Is it Amanda?’

  ‘Let’s talk at the medical centre, Lady Vee.’

  Nile says a few hushed words to Dr Pakefield, and my fears are confirmed when they lift a bulky shape from the boat’s hold, wrapped in a tarpaulin. Its outline is unmistakably human. When I return to the passenger seat, my hands grip the dashboard like a safety blanket. Neither man speaks as we make the return journey, and I can only stand by and watch the body being carried inside the medical centre.

  ‘Wait outside please,’ Solomon tells me. ‘You don’t want to see this.’

  ‘You need a witness to identify the victim.’

  ‘It should be a relative, or next of kin.’

  I stare up at him. ‘I see everyone on this island as my extended family. I can’t just walk away.’

  Nile sighs loudly before allowing me into the room, where the victim’s face is already exposed. It’s fortunate that I’m standing by the wall, because I need to lean against it hard to remain upright. I’ve always had a strong stomach, but the young man’s injuries will fill my nightmares for weeks. I recognise Tommy Rothmore’s ash-blond hair immediately, but his features are ruined. Even our restrained locum appears moved by seeing a young man’s life ended so violently.

  Solomon is taking photos with his mobile while the doctor removes the tarpaulin. Tommy is dressed in tattered jeans, his torso bare. His form is so slender he looks more like a boy than a man. Now the Rothmores will have to experience the desperate suffering of losing a child, and my heart breaks for them. I’ve been afraid he might take his own life since witnessing his disturbed behaviour last night.

  Dr Pakefield puts on a white coat and surgical gloves to examine the body, while Nile towers over the gurney like a giant trapped inside a lift compartment. The detective is busy scribbling words in his notebook.

  ‘How long ago did you find him?’ the doctor asks.

  ‘A fishing boat trawled him from the sea two hours ago.’

  ‘We need a pathologist brought from St Vincent when the storm’s passed, but I can tell he drowned. His lungs are full of water. If his corpse had been thrown into the sea, that wouldn’t be the case. Dead men can’t inhale.’

  ‘He must have been held somewhere,’ Nile answers. ‘There’s a rope around his ankle.’

  The locum examines the man’s feet, pushing back the torn legs of his jeans, and my breathing quickens. Rope has been bound tightly around Tommy’s right ankle, with the end frayed apart, his calves covered in cuts and scratches. I’m coming to terms with the young man’s horrible death, but force myself to stare at the poor boy’s wounds without flinching. A few chalk-white spikes protrude from an injury on his calf, long and thin, like dismembered fingers.

  ‘It looks like he was tied to the seabed,’ I say. ‘Those fragments in his cuts are spikes of dead coral, aren’t they?’

  Nile nods in agreement. ‘I’ll take one as a sample.’

  ‘There’s so much debris in the sea, we can’t prove how he got those injuries,’ the doctor replies. ‘We’ll need to keep his body here for the time being. There’s a medical refrigerator in the building.’

  I watch in silence as Nile places a shard of coral in a plastic tube, then helps the doctor lift Tommy’s corpse into a body bag, until his head lolls to one side, like he’s desperate to make a final statement. My hands tremble when his one remaining eye meets my face, like he’s begging me to find his killer, and I make an internal promise to do my best. When Dr Pakefield zips the bag closed, the boy’s brief life is over. His body is wheeled next door, where a drawer is pulled from the wall. The two men handle Tommy’s body respectfully but it still feels like an abandonment. Now there’s no evidence of his existence, except the number one on the metal drawer, and a blast of cold air.

  I bid goodbye to Solomon and the doctor immediately. I know how quickly information spreads across this minute island, and I want Lily to hear the news from me, not another source. Despite Solomon’s wish to keep Tommy’s death secret until his parents are informed, his chances are slim, so I climb back into my buggy and set off for Eden House at top speed.

  21

  NILE HAS HATED the smell of hospitals since his father made him say a last goodbye to his mother as a child. He’s blocked out the memory, except for that reek of medicine and antiseptic. The corridor has the same odour today and he wishes that Dr Bunbury had returned from his holiday. Pakefield’s reticent manner makes it hard to get clear answers; it looks like he’s been spending far too long indoors, with no trace of a tan on his pallid skin. The locum always seems ill at ease, but a man can’t be arrested just because there’s a guilty look about him.

  ‘Can we talk in your consulting room, please, doctor? I just need to confirm a few points.’

  Pakefield leads Nile down the corridor, then positions himself behind his desk, his expression solemn, like he’s about to share a fatal diagnosis.

  ‘This doesn’t sit comfortably with me,’ he says quietly. ‘Tommy came here last week, suffering with anxiety, insomnia and intrusive thoughts. I prescribed mild antidepressants and advised him to accept some counselling, but I may have missed something.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Psychoactive drugs can trigger de
lusional behaviour in a tiny number of patients. It might sound bizarre, but he could have committed suicide, couldn’t he?’

  ‘What about the rope tied around his leg? It looks like his feet and calves were grazed from scraping across the reef, as if he’d used all his strength to break free.’

  ‘I still think Tommy could have taken his own life. Suicides sometimes fill their pockets with stones; he may have attached a weight to his leg then thrown himself off a boat. A dinghy could drift for miles, carried by a riptide.’

  ‘That’s unlikely, doctor. We’d have found it by now.’

  ‘That’s a relief. I’d hate to think he’d harmed himself because of his mental state.’

  The doctor’s manner seems to lift suddenly, his scowl vanishing.

  ‘Do you mind me asking what brought you to the Windward Isles?’

  ‘I trained at London’s biggest teaching hospital, staying there for years as an assistant registrar, then fancied a career change.’

  ‘You gave up a senior job, to become a GP here?’

  ‘My wife and I wanted our kids to see the world.’ Pakefield blinks rapidly. ‘Sorry, but how is my professional background relevant to Tommy Rothmore’s death?’

  ‘Forgive me, it isn’t. I was just curious.’

  ‘That’s fine, but I should phone the coroner then write my report.’

  Nile’s mind is crammed with information when he leaves the consulting room. The idea of a young man attaching a weight to his body to quicken his death seems unnatural, whatever his mental condition. But when he calls his boss on St Vincent, DI Black latches onto Pakefield’s theory. He seems relieved to be handed a credible story for the press and families: the young man took his own life after killing his ex, in revenge for breaking his heart. Amanda Fortini’s body hasn’t yet been found, but Tommy’s fury at her rejection is common knowledge. He may have ended her life then abandoned her corpse at sea, before taking his own.

  ‘The doctor sounds like a wise man, Nile. Get him to put that in his report.’

  ‘It’s guesswork, sir, and we both agreed Rothmore was probably abducted while he was drunk, then tied up somewhere to drown. It looks like he was dragged across the reef; we found pieces of coral in his wounds.’

  Black scoffs at the idea. ‘There’s never been a homicide on Mustique, Nile. Phone the parents, then announce the tragic circumstances. Mr Thomas Rothmore has taken his own life and Miss Amanda Fortini is missing, presumed dead. The islanders can draw their own conclusions and the case is closed.’

  ‘His body was found near the Aqua Dream. I still need that search warrant urgently, sir.’

  ‘Forget it,’ Black replies. ‘The CEO of Aqua Dream Ltd has friends in high places, and the crew have diplomatic immunity in our waters. Stay away, do you hear? I expect you to follow my orders; you’ll be fired if you go on board. Get that story about the suicide on the radio today, Nile. Make home visits too. The islanders need to know it’s over, before they panic.’

  The detective shoves his phone back into his pocket, then catches sight of the mega-yacht again on the horizon, its presence taunting him. He follows a path behind the hospital, into a thick group of trees, a remnant of the tropical jungle that used to cover Mustique. Green light surrounds him as he passes between trees, the temperature cooling rapidly. He sits on a fallen stump and watches late-afternoon sunlight sifting between the banana palms. Nile feels calmer as he recalls the names of trees his father taught him to identify as a child: incense, fustic, chenet and cordia. He’s glad to inhale the jungle’s scents instead of the hospital’s raw chemicals. Streamertails and kingbirds fly overhead, a palm crow shrieking in the distance. The island’s beauty is unchanged, but he’s convinced Rothmore may have been tied up for hours before being killed. He’s about to leave when something rustles among the trees. Instinct makes him jump to his feet and follow the sound, remembering that Lily has been followed, but whoever’s been tailing him is travelling fast. Birds scream overhead at the sudden commotion, but there’s no one in sight.

  Nile emerges from the trees unsure how to push his investigation forward on his own. But his gut tells him to follow his instincts; he will always live with the guilt of failing to do so back in the UK. He observes his boss’s instruction to make the radio station announce Rothmore’s death, and the unexplained disappearance of Amanda Fortini, but there will be no house calls until he knows the truth. He flicks through the notes scribbled in his pocketbook. Sacha Milburn is the one person on Mustique with a history of conflict with both of her former friends. She fell out with Amanda, then Tommy Rothmore was infuriated by her suggestion to take guidance from the island’s priest. Milburn would have to be deeply disturbed to kill her ex, but she struck him as a troubled soul.

  The detective knows where she lives because her parents’ villa lies close to Lovell. He used to admire it on his walk along the beach to school, always arriving with sand in his shoes. The house juts straight out from the hillside, seeming to hover on thin air, by some feat of magic. He takes his time walking there, because it’s too late to help Rothmore, and the same attacker may have killed Amanda Fortini. All he can do now is work out why and prove his smug boss wrong.

  The path to Stargazer villa winds up the hillside, with only a handrail protecting visitors from a hundred-foot drop. Nile feels relieved to arrive on the terrace, surrounded by waist-high glass fences, allowing drunken partygoers to admire the coastline without fear of tumbling down the rockface. Nile spots four large telescopes placed on each corner of the terrace, and a mosaic depicting zodiac signs by the pool. The house’s upstairs windows hang open, with pale curtains flapping from the openings, ice melting in a glass on the outdoor table. Nile recognises the red notebook and pen Sacha Milburn was using last time they met lying on an outdoor table. There’s a chance it contains vital information, but he restrains his impulse to flick through the pages.

  The young woman looks uncomfortable when she finally emerges. She’s wearing another drab outfit that renders her anonymous, her red hair in need of a comb.

  ‘I saw you from upstairs,’ she says. ‘Has something happened?’

  ‘Have you heard the local radio today, Ms Milburn?’

  She shakes her head. ‘I’ve been writing all morning.’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s bad news. Tommy Rothmore was found dead a few hours ago.’

  Nile watches her reaction, but Sacha Milburn’s resilience surprises him. She keeps her head up, blinking tears away, but her voice is cracking.

  ‘I knew something awful would happen, I even wrote about it a few days ago.’

  ‘There’s a chance he committed suicide.’

  ‘I don’t believe it. Tommy wasn’t a coward. The last time we spoke, he told me Amanda’s rejection wasn’t going to break him.’

  ‘Something you said at Firefly stayed with me, Ms Milburn, about it being common knowledge that Amanda Fortini visited Lovell at night. Is that true?’

  She frowns at him. ‘I saw her myself. Someone has to keep track of what’s happening on the island.’

  ‘That’s my job, Ms Milburn.’

  ‘I’ve kept watch all year. You could call me Mustique’s conscience. I saw her walking there, after she met a guy on the beach.’

  ‘You’ve been spying on people?’

  ‘I’m just monitoring what goes on.’ Her gaze is defiant. ‘The telescopes aren’t just for stargazing, they’re good for people-watching too. I keep track of everything and write it down.’

  ‘You said you’re writing a children’s story.’

  ‘Call it a parable, about good and evil. Some people treat each other with no respect; they break laws and tell lies, Detective. I’ve been treated badly myself. Don’t you care about that?’

  ‘What are you saying, Ms Milburn?’

  ‘A few islanders have been kind to me all summer, like Mama Toulaine and Dex Adebayo, but others don’t care how you’re feeling.’

  ‘I’m investigating a specific crime, Ms
Milburn. That means looking for a murderer, not policing innocent people’s behaviour, or spying on them.’

  She releases a slow laugh. ‘I’ve been watching that big yacht out in the bay, the Aqua Dream.’

  ‘What have you seen?’

  ‘The crew come ashore most nights. They drink at a bar in Lovell, even though no one invited them here.’

  ‘It sounds like you enjoy keeping watch.’

  She gives a narrow smile. ‘People fascinate me, especially ones like Tommy and Amanda.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘The beautiful ones. I didn’t realise how different they were as a child, but I see it now. They drift through the world so easily.’ Her voice is wistful.

  ‘Not this time,’ Nile replies. ‘Can I use one of your telescopes?’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  He chooses one that overlooks the outskirts of Lovell, where dinghies lie beached on the sand like a colourful shoal of fish. The magnification is so high, Nile can read the name of each boat, and see paint peeling from their sides. When a local woman goes by carrying a bag full of vegetables, he can see the beads woven into her hair. The level of detail makes him uneasy. The telescopes have been there since the house was built. Maybe the Milburn family saw him walking to school each day, but more importantly, Sacha has been intruding on people’s privacy. He carries on speaking while he looks through the telescope.

  ‘When did Amanda visit Lovell?’

  ‘Tuesday and Thursday, late afternoon last week, I wrote it down in my book. She met a guy on the beach and they walked round the headland together.’

  ‘Do you know him?’

  ‘He works at Basil’s Bar. I don’t remember his surname, but his first name’s Lyron.’

  Nile’s head jerks back, his vision blurred from staring down the telescope. ‘Are you certain?’

  ‘One hundred per cent positive; I’ve seen him loads of times. He was rough with Tommy the night he got drunk, until Dex walked him back to his villa.’