Letting out the Worms: Guilty or not? If not then the alternative is terrifying (Kitty Thomas Book 1)

by Sue Nicholls

  Sam stared at her. ‘How are we going to manage that? I may have earned money from my painting, but it won’t take me to Mauritius.’

  Kitty was already lifting and patting papers in search of her phone. ‘I think I can sort something out,’ she said.

  40 KITTY

  To Kitty’s disgust, her trusty Jim refused to advance her the money. ‘Ye’re not getting a fortune frae me to have a grand jolly wi’ some man,’ he grunted in his Glaswegian accent.

  Affronted, Kitty raised her voice half an octave. ‘It’s not a jolly, it’s an important assignment, and Sam is like a brother to me. He is not my lover.’

  It made no difference what she said. She flirted and begged, reasoned and flounced, but the aging Editor was firm. ‘It’s a wild goose chase. If you want to go then talk to your bank manager.’

  At her look of frustration, he conceded, ‘Tell you what: If the story turns out well, I’ll reimburse you.’

  Well, that was something. She was in no doubt that the story would run, so she slapped twelve hundred pounds on her credit card and tried not to think about the interest.

  Before they left, Sam made a phone call to the local police on the island and organised a meeting at their headquarters, on their second day.

  Once on the plane, Kitty sat, squashed against the window by a sleeping Sam, and pulled the well-thumbed court transcript from her bag. She knew it by heart, but still she read it again. In his testimony, her father said he followed Fee and hid behind a bush to watch her sit on the ground and dangle her feet over the cliff edge. In the distance, Max exited the restaurant carrying two wine glasses and looked around, as though searching for his wife. When he noticed her at the top of the crag, he dropped the glasses and crept up behind her, empty-handed. She turned towards him, unbalancing her body, and with a shove, he sent her plunging onto the cruel rocks below. He must have seen his chance and acted on impulse.

  For his part, Max told the court he was carrying two glasses of wine across the wide stretch of ground between the restaurant and the outcrop. He had taken a few steps, when Paul broke from the scrub and charged at Fee’s back. When she turned her head to see who was behind her, Paul’s palms crashed into her back, and she disappeared over the edge. Max dropped the glasses and rushed to the place where, on his knees, he was confronted by the distressing sight of Fee’s body splattered on the rocks below, washed back and forth by the waves. Staring down at her, he struggled at first to take in what had happened, and when he forced his eyes away, Paul had already run about two hundred yards and was crouched near the bushes, talking on his phone.

  ~~~

  To Kitty’s relief, they landed with hardly a bounce. She stared out at the hot tarmac and the distant sea, recalling her first visit, all those years before.

  In the airport concourse, they hefted their bags from the carousel and tramped outside into the shivering heat, in search of a cab.

  ‘Francaise? Alemande?’ demanded their driver.

  ‘English.’ Sam said.

  ‘OK. English is good,’ the driver returned.

  He propelled his Toyota Corolla along well-maintained roads towards the south of the island. ‘You are here on holiday? Honeymoon maybe?’ He winked in the mirror, then, at the silence from behind, muttered an apology.

  ‘We’re here to work.’ Kitty told him. ‘Journalists - investigating a murder that occurred in the eighties.’

  His eyes opened wider. ‘A murder? Was it not solved?’

  ‘Not to our satisfaction.’ Kitty glanced at Sam. ‘Maybe you remember it. The woman was here on her honeymoon. She was killed by her new husband.’

  In the small rectangle of mirror, the eyes narrowed in thought. ‘Was that near here?’

  ‘To the south. Where we’re heading. There was a restaurant nearby, Le Chamarel?’

  ‘It is still there. I am familiar with it because it is owned by my in-laws - is that how you say it; the parents of my wife?’

  ‘Yes, your in-laws. Your English is very good.’

  The eyes blinked at Kitty, and she pressed on, ‘How long have they owned the place?’

  ‘Forever.’ The corners of the eyes, crinkled. ‘My father-in-law’s father took it over from his father. A long history.’

  ‘Wow. Does your wife help there too?’

  ‘We have seven children. She has no time for such a thing.’

  Sam broke in. ‘Seven children. You have your hands full. That’s a lot of taxi trips.’

  The driver looked puzzled, and Sam explained, ‘I mean, you need to work hard to support your family.’

  ‘Ah.’ The driver, whose name according to his license on the dashboard, was Michel, nodded fast. ‘Yes. Many taxi trips.’ He threw back his head and laughed. ‘Yes, I work hard. Fortunately, there are a lot of tourists wanting lifts at all times of the day and night.’

  There was a brief silence, and they watched the unexceptional scenery fly past, then Kitty persisted, ‘Do you remember the crime we’re talking about?’

  ‘I do, but not well. I was a teenager. I was more interested in cars and girls than what was happening on the island.’ He shrugged his shoulders, his eyes flicking to the road to negotiate a car and a lorry, then back to the mirror to look at Kitty. ‘I remember much agitation. I think my wife’s papa, Sebastien, will be able to tell you more about it.’

  Kitty murmured to Sam, ‘Perhaps we should try Le Chamarel while we’re here.’ She raised her voice. ‘Do you think your father-in-law would meet with us some time?’

  ‘You can always find him at the restaurant. He is there day and night but go midmorning or late afternoon and he will be less busy.’

  The taxi pulled up outside a guest house with a narrow, unadorned frontage and a door that opened straight onto the busy pavement. While Sam dragged their bags from the boot, Kitty dug in her wallet for the wad of currency she picked up at the airport. As she passed a note through the driver’s open window, she said, ‘Keep the change, Michel. You’ve been an immense help.’

  The man beamed out at her. ‘I hope I can be of service again.’ He passed over his business card, and Kitty slipped it into her worn wallet. She shoved the wallet into her back pocket, where it formed a carbuncle on her buttock, and said, ‘You never know.’

  Despite the grim objective of their visit, in the sunshine with the sound of the sea in the background and the scent of garlic wafting from a nearby bistro, Kitty’s spirits rose. A shower tonight and a change of outfit into something looser, would be pleasant. And tomorrow they would enjoy a snack and a beer at Le Chamarel.

  ~~~

  The shady veranda of Le Chamarel smelled of cedar and wine. Above their heads, large fans turned lethargically in the afternoon heat. Inside the restaurant, which they could just make out through its smoky windows, white tablecloths glowed in the gloom, while some distance away, on the other side of a pewter coloured track and beyond a deep band of scrubby grass, the dazzling sky was punctured by a jagged mass of black rock. A footpath created by countless feet snaked from the base of this promontory to meld with the ragged lava at its peak, and out of sight, the sea crashed in muffled explosions at its foot. Was that the place where Mummy had fallen to her death? Kitty quailed at the prospect of climbing that mound to look down at the murderous rocks.

  Kitty looked back at the route that had brought them here. Side by side, she and Sam had climbed a steep path from the town, resisting the wares of a boy with a motorbike, who was peddling deep-fried food he told them was called Gajak. The air, as they drew passed him, was filled with the aroma of garlic, spices and fish. They continued climbing past a smattering of whitewashed houses and paused beside the partial screen of shrubs that protected the homes from the sea wind and salt. An opening between the bushes gave a view of the track that led across a grassy area to the restaurant, about three hundred yards away. This was where Paul must have crouched to watch Fee, all those years before. Now, on the veranda of the restaurant, Kitty and Sam stood where Max might h
ave stood, waiting for his bride to appear.

  Kitty and Sam sat at a table, and soon a young waiter came from inside to take their order. Sam ordered two beers, and when they arrived, the glass dewy with cold, he asked to see Sebastian. The waiter asked their business and Kitty explained.

  Moments later, a small, swarthy man appeared. His off-white linen shirt hung over loose, khaki trousers, and bare toes poked from his leather sandals. ‘M’sieur ‘Damme, you wish to see me?’

  They introduced themselves. Sebastian was expecting them since Michel had mentioned their visit. He drew up a chair from a neighbouring table, and the waiter returned with a small white cup and saucer containing black coffee. Sebastien nodded in acknowledgement and took a sip, his eyes fixed on Kitty over the rim. ‘I was not working on that day. I cannot remember why, but I do know what happened because everyone was talking about it on the following morning.’

  Kitty took a gulp of her beer. ‘Is there anyone who might remember what happened?’

  ‘Jean was in charge on that night. I don’t know about the waiting staff, they come and go, but Jean was one of our managers then. He has retired now but he was certainly here. He still mentions it sometimes.’

  Sebastien wrote down details of the bar frequented by Jean. ‘He is a lively fellow,’ Sebastien remarked, ‘You will find him with an audience and a skin full of rum.’

  The smell of the Gajak had made Kitty and Sam hungry and they asked for a menu.

  When Sebastien brought it to them, he had a twinkle in his eye. ‘There are many interesting dishes on this menu that are typically Mauritian. We are proud of them. Many of our guests from England, like to be safe. They choose white fish or something with chips, but I feel you two might like a little gastronomic adventure, am I right?

  Kitty nodded and on Sebastien’s recommendation, ordered octopus curry. Sam, who was a little more cautious, was persuaded to try a tomato-based fish stew called Rougaille.

  Both were delicious.

  41 JOSH

  Josh stood under the warm cascade of his shower, trying to enjoy its heat as it washed away the sweat and cement dust, and eased his aching shoulders. Later he would walk to the pub to spend this Friday evening with the same men he worked with every day - the gang of builders, less educated, less complicated, and less serious than his academic ‘siblishes.’ These men, many of whom he had known for years through working on numerous building projects, were mates. In their company, he never mentioned his past - did not want to because that was not the kind of relationship they had. In moments of introspection, he understood that dropping out of university and frequenting pubs and clubs with a bunch of labourers was escapism. He understood he was running away from his childhood but could see nothing wrong with that.

  The other week, with Kitty and the others, he was the one to decide it was time to face up to the past. He was the one who suggested opening that ‘can of worms.’ Even so, he did not wish the little blighters to wriggle into every corner of his life.

  He squeezed a glob of shower gel onto his wet palm and rubbed it into his hair as if trying to irradicate the source of his irritation. After his conversation with Anwen in the van, he was furious with Kitty. What the hell was she trying to achieve by digging into the whole sorry mess? And getting Anwen involved - that was plain wrong. He longed to have this out with Kitty, but that would be an unpleasant conversation. She was touchy, not to mention stubborn, and he berated himself for agreeing to talk about it all. Tonight, he decided, he would drink too much and forget about Anwen and Kitty, and his mother, of whom he remembered little, anyway.

  He put on clean jeans and a tee shirt and walked to the pub. His mates were outside in the warm air, pints balanced on window ledges and feet planted on paving slabs. Jokes abounded and women were eyed up. Most of these men were married, some with small children. Josh knew that most were faithful, but it did not stop them fantasising – or perhaps it was bravado that made them loud in their analysis of breasts and bottoms. He was not in the mood, though, and the beer that he bought himself, did not have its desired effect. Instead of becoming raucous and laughing like his mates; he grew morose.

  Someone suggested a meal, and he went along with the idea, thinking they meant a take-away or curry. He did not expect to fetch up in Mick and Luc’s restaurant, embarrassed at being a member of an antisocial and inebriated crowd in Churchills’ subdued atmosphere. His friends crowded round a table seeming noisier than ever and he chastised them. ‘Shush guys. You’re making a nuisance of yourselves. You sure you wouldn’t prefer a Chinese?’

  They would not, and Josh decided to leave them to it. He did not wish to meet Lucas, surrounded by a group of drunken construction workers. ‘I might get off,’ he said and stood up.

  The others grinned at him. ‘Can’t take the pace, eh?’

  ‘Something like that.’ He pulled on his jacket and was pushing his seat under the table when a voice behind him called, ‘Josh? Is that you?’ He turned to find Lucas coming from the kitchen, dressed in spattered chef’s whites.

  ‘Hi Luc. Good to see you.’ Josh took a step towards his friend, realising he was glad to see him. ‘I was about to leave this lot to it. It’s been a long day.’ He lowered his voice and jerked his head at the rowdy group. ‘I hope they’re not being too noisy.’

  Lucas smiled. ‘Don’t worry. They’re fine. We don’t mind a few high spirits.’ Realising his double entendre with the word spirits, he laughed and said, ‘If you see what I mean.’ Then he looked hard at Josh. ‘Are you OK, mate?’

  Josh shrugged. ‘I’m OK.’

  Unconvinced, Lucas nodded towards the staff door. ‘Need a chat?’

  Josh did. Maybe it was the drink, but he wanted to discuss the matter of Kitty and Anwen’s so-called investigation.

  42 KITTY

  After lunch at Le Chamarel, Kitty, with Sam hovering near, climbed the threatening rock. At its peak, she dropped to the ground and swung her legs over the edge to sit at a spot she thought Fee might have sat. Sam squatted beside her and together they leaned forward to gaze down at the foaming waves attacking knife-like spikes of larva. Fee would have had no chance on those cruel shards. Kitty swallowed and whispered, ‘At least it would have been quick.’

  Sam caught her hand and pulled her to her feet. saying, ‘Come on. We’re not doing any good here, and we’ve got work to do.’

  Kitty nodded and wiped her eyes with the heal of her hand. They scrambled back down the slope and retraced their steps to the town.

  Among the shops and bars on the sea front stood an imposing hotel that Kitty seemed to recognise. With a tingle of apprehension, she ventured, with Sam, up its white stone steps and through a sleek entrance. The hushed and efficient atmosphere in the cool foyer was as she remembered - as it had been on her arrival here with Fee and Will after their wedding.

  Through an archway to her left she could see part of a dining room. Nobody was eating now, and staff were laying the tables, placing cutlery on white cloths and polishing glasses with care that was almost like reverence. This was where she, Mummy and Max had eaten after the ceremony. She did not recall what they ate but remembered being captivated by the vivid flowers scattered across the tablecloth. Her mother shone with happiness, and Max, attentive to both their needs, had winked across the table at Kitty, acknowledging their conspiracy. And she winked back, proud to have been part of the surprise. Scores of times had that moment returned to Kitty over the ensuing years, and with it a deep sense of shame that she had conspired in her mother’s demise. It was this guilt that fuelled her journalistic drive to uncover inequity and crime.

  As she gazed around the elegant foyer, she murmured to Sam, ‘This is where Max and Fee stayed.’ She used her mother’s name to impose emotional distance. When Sam fixed his eyes on her face, she glared back. ‘What?’

  ‘You OK?’

  ‘I'm fine.’ She folded her arms across her chest and kept her eyes on the reception desk. ‘Don’t be kind or I won’t be
.’

  An exit beside the desk led outside to a swimming pool. Two women with thin, sagging thighs, wearing one-piece swimsuits and wrapped in towels, shuffled in, letting the heavy doors close behind them in a burst of children’s shrieks and splashes. Then the doors closed once more, and the foyer retuned to its church-like hush.

  Behind the desk two women and a man dressed in uniforms trimmed with gold carried out administrative duties. They chatted in low voices as they worked. Kitty approached them wearing her ‘honest’ face: eyebrows raised, eyes wide and a Mona Lisa smile. ‘Good afternoon,’ she said and leaned her elbows on the counter.

  One of the women returned her smile. ‘Good morning Madam, how may I help you?’

  ‘Gosh, is it only morning. It’s been a long day already.’ Kitty laughed and slid her business card across the polished surface.

  The woman frowned. ‘You are a reporter?’

  ‘A journalist. Following up a story from a long time ago.’ As Kitty explained their mission, the young woman’s face grew cagey and after consulting with the man, returned to Kitty, saying, ‘I am sorry. We cannot help you.’

  Kitty retained her disarming expression and thanked her for her trouble. To Sam she muttered, ‘Come on,’ and the pair strolled towards the pool entrance, in the hope of finding a chatty bar tender. But the determined young man left his post and rushed to block their way. There was no option but to give up, and Kitty and Sam descended the steps and wandered back to their accommodation, dawdling in shops and cafés on their way.

  At half past seven, following Sebastien’s directions, they found the crowded bar. Inside, the air was steamy; ceiling fans toiled with little effect so that perspiration must be their sole protection. They ordered two beers at the bar and carried them to a table, where they sat, opposite one another and breathed in sweat, olive oil and garlic. Kitty felt nauseous after the rich food she had consumed earlier. A wiry little man at a table behind Sam was holding court over a group of grinning, potbellied old chaps. One, burst into loud laughter and slapped him on the arm, and the name, Jean, carried across the room. Kitty kicked Sam and he glanced over his shoulder. The movement attracted Jean’s eye, so Kitty raised her glass, and Jean raised his eyebrows and chin with an enquiring smile.