‘Mo, let her go, you’re hurting her,’ says Daniel, appearing beside us. The camera pointed directly at Mo, like a weapon.
‘Get that camera away from me. I’ve told you before,’ he snarls at Daniel. I’m taken aback by the change in Mo. My first impression was of an even-tempered man but that is not what I see right now; now he is a man who has let fear control him. ‘She has to agree to do this. We’ll all be dead if she doesn’t. You know that, right?’
‘She will, Mo. Let her go,’ says Daniel, taking a step backwards, one hand raised conciliatorily. His voice is soft as if talking to someone threatening to jump off a ledge.
‘Will you?’ hisses Mo, pulling me in tighter.
‘Let me go. I won’t talk to you until you let me go,’ I reply.
I’m no coward and I won’t be intimidated by his brawn. Does he think he is the first man to try and push me around? Mo surveys my face as if trying to assess how much of a flight risk I am. Not that it matters; we’re trapped in here – doesn’t he remember that?
Clearly deciding that I’m not a risk, Mo’s fingers loosen, and I’m released from his bind. My shoulders sag a fraction and I rub my arm; that is going to bruise.
‘Sit down, Mo,’ I snap. ‘And you, Carly.’ Carly is hovering near us, watching our interaction. Both nod, responding to my authoritative tone. ‘Rosalind, get up off the floor and go and sit down. I’ll be with you in five minutes; I need to think. Then, we all need to talk.’
‘And me?’ asks Daniel.
‘You just do what you’ve got to do,’ I say to him as I walk away from them.
I pace around the pool. The rough decking, subjected to the intense rays of the sun, scorches the soles of my feet but I continue to walk. The sharp pain grounds me somehow and keeps my mind on track.
The game has changed. No longer is this about winning; this is about surviving. Something I’m well practised at, particularly recently. I also now realise that this isn’t about me accepting the challenge. This isn’t a case of Do I want to do this or not; that would never have been a choice. There are bigger things at play here. This is a plot, part of someone’s masterplan. I glance over at the five people locked in the villa with me; they look back, waiting patiently for my instruction.
What more do they know? Who else is involved?
There is more than one crime and more than one culprit here. There is a murderer and there is a games master. Maybe they are one and the same, maybe they aren’t, but I’m determined to find out. But I can’t figure out whether finding Jack’s killer will lead me to the real culprit. Or culprits.
‘Kim?’ Rosalind calls out from the other side of the pool. I raise my index finger at her.
One minute.
I’m not ready to face them yet. There is still one thing I need to accept. One important thing. I can’t do this as the Kim I came into the villa as. The person I became as I tried to cope with the mistake I had made, the person who eventually turned her back on the police force. I changed then. I turned my back on the serious, driven, responsible officer and became Kim, the scatter-brained, reckless party girl. But I can’t be her any more. She isn’t someone who can deal with this sort of crisis. I need to try to emulate the woman I once was, and that woman wouldn’t conduct a police investigation in wet pyjamas.
‘Right,’ I say, clapping my hands together and striding towards the Islanders. ‘I need everyone to stay here and stay calm, I’ll be back in five minutes.’
I ignore the blank looks on their faces and head to the bedroom. Grabbing my face wash from my pink, monogrammed make-up bag, I lean over the sink and remove the remnants of last night’s make-up and scrub as if physically washing away my new self, allowing my old self to be revealed like the layers of wallpaper hidden for years unseen. I never have been one for make-up, really.
I stare at myself in the light-studded mirror under the golden lettering scrawled across it that proclaims the viewer as gorgeous. I can’t believe I ever agreed to come here in the first place. The old Kimberley would be ashamed of what I’ve become. Who am I kidding? I’m ashamed of what I’ve become. It wasn’t a quick transition to where I am now; it sort of happened in peaks and troughs. After the incident it became impossible for me not to think about, I stopped sleeping and my constant tiredness made me irritable and unable to concentrate at work. Colleagues noticed and tried to help; they meant well but they didn’t understand. Leaving work somehow made things better and worse at the same time: I felt better because I knew I deserved to no longer do a job I loved, but I no longer had the stability of loyal colleagues or the routine of my shifts. Thread by thread, everything started to unwind.
I tear through my suitcase, cursing myself for not packing anything appropriate. Although what is appropriate in these circumstances? I settle on a pair of khaki cargo pants, pairing it with a black Lycra top. In an outfit that makes me feel more equipped to deal with the situation presented to me, I re-join the group. Carly is the only one who outwardly reacts to my mini transformation, giving me a half-raised eyebrow as I approach.
There’s more where that came from. If my new attire surprises her, they’re about to be even more surprised by the shift in my tone, my new seriousness. But then what else am I meant to do?
I walk towards them. Daniel’s camera follows me as I walk; eventually he gets up and stands behind me. So the camera, like me, can take in the four people sitting before me.
The four others sit, their expressions running the gamut of human emotions. Anger, fear, suspicion, disbelief and, worst of all, hope. They’re silent now, their wide eyes looking up at me. Silent, waiting for me to speak. As if what I’m about to say will solve the problem, calm their fears. But it won’t, of course. I place my hands behind my back, so the others can’t see me wringing them.
‘This is a situation unlike one I have ever, ever been in. Even after being in the police force for almost seven years. As you may, or may not, have gathered, I used to be a police officer.’ I clear my throat quietly. ‘I left the police five years ago and have since been working as a barmaid.’
‘Why did you le—’ Mo tries to interrupt but I raise my hand to silence him. I’m not answering that question right now.
‘If I’m completely honest with you all, I don’t have a fucking clue what is going on, why it’s happening or who is behind it. But if the Judge is to be believed, one of you committed this crime, one of you is capable of murder.’
Rosalind whimpers, Mo averts his eyes, Valentina fiddles with her necklace, Carly scoffs, and, most suspiciously of all, Sophia is still nowhere to be seen.
‘And if the Judge is to be believed, the death of Jack Peaks wasn’t an anomaly. There will be more. Whoever is doing this murdered someone and is threatening to murder again.’
‘Will you do it?’ asks Mo, his chestnut eyes wide. ‘Will you try to solve it?’
‘I will do what is asked of me because I have no choice.’ The group lets out a collective sigh of relief like they’ve just received particularly important medical test results. ‘But I’m going to lay down a couple of ground rules.’ They look up at me with blank expressions. ‘From now on I want complete transparency. From everyone. Anything you think you might know, anything you might have seen. Anything, no matter how small it might seem, I want you to tell me. Information is the most important asset we have at our disposal.’ Sometimes asking for all information doesn’t always yield the best results; it can be a real mixed bag. It often means wading through heaps of shit like finding a needle in a haystack. A haystack that is the boring, mundane details of people’s lives. But sometimes, it is the smallest pieces of information that make the difference. The eureka moment. I allow this to percolate with them before continuing.
‘I want you to all stay together from now on. At the very least in pairs. No one must go anywhere alone, understand?’ They nod.
‘OK, Kim,’ says Mo, giving me a half smile, a kind one that shows willingness, not mal-intent, as if trying to make
up for his past aggression. ‘Whatever you need from me, I’m at your service.’
I nod at him in thanks and give him a tight-lipped smile. A smile that tries to hide the fact I have less than one hour to solve a murder with an audience of by now probably millions and absolutely no idea where to start.
Chapter Twenty-One
LoveWrecked @LoveWrecked
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Share your thoughts on this year’s season of LoveWrecked.
@adammcboy: Does Kim seriously think she can change her hair and we’ll suddenly believe she’s a policewoman? What logic is that?
@safariprincess: Kim be like, I don’t wear make-up now and that makes me a police officer.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Kimberley
Sunday 27th July, 12:10
50 Minutes Until The Next Murder
I hold the shot glass in front of the group for the second time today. I realise that the best way forward is to keep things simple, be logical. I need to start at the beginning, at the thing that started this off.
‘I am convinced that this is what killed Jack. The bright colour, the sweet smell could easily be mistaken for a sour shot, but I think it is something more dangerous, anti-freeze for example.’
Carly laughs. ‘Anti-freeze. You do realise where we are?’ She gestures her arms around us. ‘It’s Greece; where would we get anti-freeze from? I doubt it is something the villa just has.’ Carly twists her body to look at Rosalind, who cowers under Carly’s condescending gaze.
‘Carly is right,’ says Rosalind. ‘Temperature is one thing but there isn’t a garage here because cars can’t come to the island so there’d be no need for it.’
I place my hands on my hips and pace up and down in front of the group; both arguments are compelling.
‘So you’re saying someone brought it with them?’ asks Valentina, her voice coming out in a squeak. ‘Because they wanted to kill Jack.’
‘Or,’ I reply, ‘it is another substance entirely.’
I’m not an expert in the matter but if memory serves there are a whole host of household items that if administered would have exactly the same effect, that of poisoning. I rule out bleach, nail polish, cleaning fluids because the shot smelled sweet and alcoholic, not clinical.
‘I didn’t kill him,’ says Mo, getting to his feet, ‘but I know what it could have been.’ Everyone turns to look at him and he clears his throat, obviously disliking the scrutiny. He takes a step closer to the Fire Pit and bends down to inspect its base. The Fire Pit comprises a square slab of stone upon which a smaller square, filled with charcoal, is cut out in the centre.
Mo stops and slides back a section of the stone base to reveal a cupboard which I assume was designed to house the things necessary to start the Fire Pit and keep it going.
‘Is this what you’re looking for?’ asks Mo. In his hand is clasped a ribbed plastic bottle, three quarters of the way filled with bright blue liquid. Mo is holding fire starter gel. Colour-wise, it fits the bill. I take it from him and sniff; it smells sweet. If this is what killed Jack, which the evidence strongly points towards, then it means I can’t rule out anyone yet. The Fire Pit is easily accessible to all of us and though it was Mo who pointed it out, that doesn’t mean that one of the others doesn’t secretly know the lethal qualities it has.
I also don’t yet know where the Judge fits in; did he incite someone to murder in order to prepare the game for me or is an accomplice of the Judge among us who had their own reasons for killing Jack? Either way, I need to learn more about my suspects. I don’t know anything about these people; not yet anyway. I head away from the group and beckon Rosalind over to me.
‘How much information do you have on us, on the Islanders?’ I ask, keeping my back to the group and my voice low. The microphones hidden around the garden might pick up my words, but I don’t want the Islanders to know where I’m starting.
‘I have files on everyone; they contain mostly background information,’ says Rosalind, following my lead and turning away from the group. ‘I don’t know how much use they will be, but shows like this usually have files to help the producers to create…’ Rosalind swallows. ‘…drama.’ She finishes her sentence awkwardly and blushes as though ashamed of what she had planned to do.
‘Great, please could you collect them for me?’
‘Of course, whatever you need.’
‘Bring them to the living room, that’s where I will be. Oh, and some pens and sticky tape, if you have them.’
I enter the living room for the first time since arriving at the villa. Unlike the other areas, it remains in pristine condition, unsullied by us. The glass coffee table stands where I saw it yesterday. I almost laugh at how I was worried about one of us smashing it by accident; I realise now that the dangers were far less obvious than shards of glass. The linen couch stretches out for almost the length of the room and has the distinct advantage of looking out into the garden, the view unobstructed thanks to the broad glass doors.
I look out into the garden and towards the outdoor television screen. Carly catches sight of me and, for a moment, watches me before returning to her conversation with Mo. I sit down and run my hand over the fabric, its texture rough and thick like a wire-haired dog. Cool air flows from slits in the ceiling, drying the sweat that has formed on my brow, in my armpits and on my back.
The dread rises again; will the Judge have already thwarted my attempts to gather information? Will he have removed it all to make things even more difficult?
‘Kim,’ says a voice from behind me and I turn to find Rosalind standing in the doorway, her arms laden with a pile of documents. My shoulders drop in relief at the information she has been able to source. Daniel and his camera stand behind Rosalind, its lens trained on me.
‘I need to find Sophia,’ says Rosalind as she hands me the documents. Her bottom lip quivers and her breathing is short and shallow.
‘Yes, you do. But please don’t go alone. Take the others with you and search the villa together.’
She nods and turns away, slipping past Daniel, who hovers in the doorway silent as a ghost.
‘Need any help?’ he asks, tilting his head away from the camera. His voice is soft, and he gives me a gentle smile. I don’t answer his question immediately; I should really do this alone. Suddenly, my body tightens as I get a stab of embarrassment about how I behaved around him last night. Talk about trying to keep things professional after that! And LoveWrecked crew or not, as far as I’m concerned, Daniel is a suspect.
But the pile of papers weighs heavy in my hands; there are more documents than I expected and, given the time limit, it will be impossible for me to wade through these alone. I have less than one hour until the next murder and no idea where to start. Daniel waits patiently for my answer, but I can see from the way his teeth tear into his bottom lip, he is in desperate need of distraction. I sigh; it’s not as if anything else about this is going to follow procedure.
‘Help would be welcome.’
Daniel gives me a tight smile. He detaches the camera from its holster and sets it down on the coffee table, its lens still pointing it at me. He unclips the straps from around his broad chest and sits down on the couch a little along from me. I hand him half of the documents.
‘Divide these into person-specific piles. Once we’ve done that we’ll go through them.’
He nods and sets to work. I try to ignore the fact that what we’re about to discuss is a clear violation of the privacy of the Islanders but I don’t really have much of a choice and as far as I see it, it isn’t the worst crime committed in this villa. I rub my forehead; I’m about as ready as I’m ever going to be.
‘I think the best place for us to start would be try to establish any links between the Islanders and Jack Peaks,’ I say, in a voice louder than I would normally use. This isn’t the time for conspiratorial whispers; my words need to be captured. I’m not just speaking to Daniel, I’m speaking to the Judge and whoever else is
involved in this horrid scheme. I need them to see that I’m complying with their request.
I get to my feet and, collecting the photographs of the Islanders from the files, gather them up and carry them so I’m facing the wall of glass. I flick through the pile and pull out Jack’s photo, hold it against the wall with one hand and say over my shoulder, ‘Sticky tape, please.’
Daniel hands me the roll and, using my teeth, I break off a small piece. I stick Jack’s photo on the wall. His face hangs there smiling out at me, his bright white teeth and gelled hair the same as it was last night.
What happened to you, Jack?
I do the same with the other photographs until all five of the Islanders stare at me from the wall.
‘Even yourself?’ says Daniel, his head tilted to one side.
‘Even myself,’ I reply and, returning to the sofa, I rip off three pieces of paper over which I scrawl: Daniel Oni, Rosalind Jenkins and Sophia Dance.
‘The crew need to be investigated too?’ he asks as I stick the three names on the wall next to the photographs.
‘Yes, someone has a motive to kill Jack either because they’re working with the Judge or because the Judge knew this person wouldn’t be able to resist. I just don’t know which of those options is correct or who did it.’
‘In that case,’ he says, lowering his voice slightly, ‘Sophia Dance might be a good place to start.’ I raise my eyebrow at his words and sit back down on the couch.
‘What makes you say so?’ I encourage.
‘The producers and assistant producers of shows like these know lots of secrets about the contestants and they use those secrets to make good TV. Good producers know how to run their Islanders. And Sophia, she was a good producer. From what I saw, she was running Jack all night.’
‘Woah, wind back,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘Run them? Sophia was running Jack, what does that even mean?’
The Islanders Page 10
