Map out the Islanders’ stories and secrets. So, Daniel was right and it confirms that Sophia probably knew things about us all.
‘Please sit down, Rosalind,’ I say, waving my hand to the sofa. I don’t have time for her tears. Rosalind wipes her cheek with the back of her hand and pads across the marble-tiled floor towards the sofa. She sits facing me, her back straight and hands clasped in her lap in a pose that seems to say she understands the seriousness of this all and she is here to help.
‘Last night, Daniel said that Sophia was whispering to Jack at regular intervals, that Sophia was using him and the secrets you’ve just mentioned to create drama. But it does appear that this drama got Jack killed. What did Sophia know?’
‘Producers are in charge of their own contestants and they use the weeks leading up to the show to dig into their past,’ says Rosalind, her voice coming out in a rush. ‘I don’t get told the secrets unless the producers want my advice on how best to use them.’
I close my eyes; she can’t be serious. ‘So you’re telling me you don’t know?’
‘I don’t but it should all be in the files I gave you.’
‘Well, it’s not,’ I snap. I feel my temperature rising; I’m not getting anywhere. ‘Tell me what you know about Sophia. How long has she worked for you? Do you think she has anything to do with this?’ Rosalind picks at the leg of her pyjamas and avoids my gaze. ‘Look at me, Rosalind; I need you to tell me the truth.’
Rosalind clears her throat and shakes her head as if trying to get a grip. ‘Sophia is new, she only started about six months ago. She’s new to production too but her experience lends itself well to this. She knows…’ Rosalind looks at Daniel as if unsure what to say or how much. ‘She knows how to make good television.’
‘And…’ I prompt. I can see in Rosalind’s eyes there is more that she wants to say.
‘And – please don’t take this the wrong way. But as awful and horrible as all of this is, this is good TV.’
I draw back from her. ‘Sorry, are you suggesting Sophia did all of this for TV? She murdered someone for ratings?’ It’s hard to keep the incredulity out of my voice.
‘No, no, that’s not what I’m suggesting at all. I just think, if anyone was going to come up with something like this, it would be a producer. Or someone who works in the business.’
Almost imperceptibly Rosalind glances at the suspect wall and I wonder if she’s glancing at Carly, the actress, but I don’t follow her gaze.
‘So,’ I say instead, ‘Sophia Dance knows how to make good TV, Sophia Dance knows our secrets, and Sophia Dance is missing while all of this rages on.’ I jump up from the bed and storm to the suspect wall, grab my pen and draw a big circle around Sophia’s name. I turn back to Rosalind. ‘So how do I know that you’re not behind all of this? You’re a producer.’
She picks at the leg of her pyjamas again. ‘I guess you don’t.’ Her voice trembles. ‘I can only tell you what I know and hope that you believe me.’
‘Did you notice anything unusual last night?’
Rosalind squeezes her eyes shut. I wait while she thinks, trying not to notice every beat of my heart and how it corresponds to every passing second.
‘Before I went to bed,’ says Rosalind, opening her eyes. ‘I was in the producer’s room watching some of the live footage. There was so much happening. I remember radioing for Daniel to capture interactions multiple times. If Sophia was filling Jack’s head with secrets, he was a busy bee revealing them all last night.’
‘Can you remember anything specific?’ Daniel has already told me about Valentina, but it seems as if there’s more.
Rosalind scratches her head. ‘Jack and Carly got into a bit of a tiff at some point, but she was also angry at you, wasn’t she? For spilling wine down her.’
Frustration builds inside me; this isn’t getting me anywhere. I stand up.
‘I want to see the tapes,’ I say. Time might be tight, but it’s more tangible than this. Rosalind bobs her head and jumps to her feet.
‘Of course. Good idea!’
When we enter the production room, we find the safe still hanging open and the debris of broken phones scattered on the floor. Rosalind plonks herself down, drags her chair towards her switchboard and begins to fiddle with the knobs.
Suddenly, every screen is filled with the image of Jack’s body as he floats face down and lifeless in the water. The lights at the bottom of the pool give his body an eerie quality, like a spectre in the night. Oh God, it’s so horrible. My stomach drops; if this was being screened on live TV last night then the public might already know what has happened to Jack. Maybe they’re sitting at home screaming at their television screens. It’s obvious, Kim, you idiot. I push the image from my mind; my priority is solving this.
Rosalind turns a dial on the switchboard. The image of Jack wobbles and the timestamp in the corner reverses. Seven in the morning, six in the morning, five in the morning, then like a scene from a horror movie at just before 5 a.m., Jack’s body starts moving. As the image rewinds, his body is lifted out of the water as if by some invisible force and dropped onto the poolside where he sits in a slump. Then he stands, walks backwards around the pool several times and then stops a couple of metres away from the pool’s edge on the grassy verge where I found the shot glass. His position is off far to the side of the camera, but he is just in shot. The image shows Jack holding the glass, it re-filling as he takes it from his lips and him handing it over.
‘Stop,’ I say, and Rosalind obeys. Jack stands frozen on the screen in front of us, the timestamp reads 12 a.m. ‘Right, now, roll it forward, slower than normal if possible.’
Jack sways unsteadily on his feet but the way he is holding out his hand and the fact that someone handed him that shot suggests that there’s someone off camera that he’s talking to. ‘Who is he talking to? Can I see it from another angle?’
‘Yes, hang on.’ Rosalind clicks a couple more buttons. ‘It should come up here.’ She points at a monitor, but the screen is blank.
‘What’s going on?’ I ask. Rosalind turns her chair to face me, her forehead knotted in concern.
‘I’m not sure, it isn’t working. Either it’s faulty or…’
‘Or?’
‘Or someone cut its wires.’
‘Of course they have,’ I say through gritted teeth. ‘OK, keep playing the one with Jack. Slow the speed of it.’ Rosalind nods.
In slow motion, Jack reaches out his hand and accepts the shot glass and its bright blue contents. He lifts it up to his face; a distant smile spreads across it. The speed makes for even more uncomfortable viewing. His head jolts back and he downs the shot in one go, then drops the glass onto the floor to be found in the grass by me many hours later. He stretches out his arms to the person out of shot, giving a wobbly thumbs up in what I can only assume is thanks.
And then, nothing happens; Jack just turns away from the camera and blunders around on the grass for a while.
‘Move it forward, faster this time.’ Jack continues to move around; he starts circling the pool, his hand clutched against his stomach and his face twisted in pain. An hour passes on the timestamp. I grip the back of Rosalind’s chair as I watch Jack’s legs no longer able to hold him in a standing position and he plonks himself down on the side of the pool, his feet dangling in the water. Then his body twists and he tips sideways hitting the water where he bobs, face up, for forty-five minutes before flipping over and the water around him grows still.
This confirms for me that it was whatever was in the shot glass that killed him, and timing-wise it fits. I think of the shot Valentina and I did together when Jack interrupted us; he was annoyed we didn’t offer him one. He was drinking so excessively last night, it would hardly have been a chore for someone to get him to drink the shot, and the video confirms that Jack took the shot eagerly and without question. Whoever gave it to him wanted him dead.
‘Oh God,’ says Rosalind, pitching forward, her head in h
er hands.
‘What? Rosalind, what is it?’ I look down at her and my heart starts hammering against my chest.
‘This is all my—’ She breaks off and turns to face me. Her eyes glisten over and she bites her lip as if pulling herself back from the brink of tears. My breathing slows; she is fine, just upset.
‘All of this is what?’ I ask but she struggles to catch her breath. ‘Tell me,’ I say, softly but firmly, reaching out to place a hand on her arm.
‘Yeah, sorry. Being silly. I just—’ Rosalind pauses, biting her lip again. She averts her eyes from me and picks at the fray in the pyjamas. If she keeps on like this she won’t have any pyjamas left.
‘What?’ I prompt. ‘Whatever it is you can tell me.’ Rosalind’s shoulders hunch and she begins to cry.
‘This is all my fault,’ she sobs. I lean into her; is she about to tell me she was involved? Might this explain why she has been so upset?
‘What is all your fault?’ I’m firmer now. She doesn’t answer immediately; her crying stops her ability to speak. ‘Look at me,’ I say, hoping to get her to focus. ‘What is all your fault?’
‘This. Jack. The Judge. Sophia. I’ve—’ Rosalind’s lips quiver. I hold my breath. ‘Someone I was meant to be caring for is dead. I’ve allowed everyone to be put in danger. This villa. It’s meant to be in my control and it’s not.’
‘Oh,’ I say, releasing the breath I was holding and trying my best not to sound too disappointed. It was obviously too much to ask for, a shotgun confession.
‘And do you know the worst part?’ says Rosalind, leaning in closer to me, her voice in a low whisper. ‘When we found him. Jack. When we found Jack dead, do you know what the first thing I thought was?’ Rosalind sniffs loudly. ‘The first thing I thought was, I hope this is caught on camera because this will be good ratings. Then I realised how awful that was. Someone is dead. But then I thought, If it’s my fault he’s dead my career is over. All I could think of were ratings and my career. I’m an awful, awful person.’ At this, she howls a cry of anguish and starts up a fresh set of sobs. I can’t help myself, but I pity her; guilt is a horrible thing. I know that more than anyone. ‘Don’t you think that makes me a terrible person?’ Rosalind asks, her eyes boring into mine as if desperate for some relief from the pain. I place my hands on her shoulders and look her square in the eyes.
‘No, it doesn’t make you a terrible person. It makes you human. Our natural state is survival. But do you know what you can do to make up for it?’ I ask. Rosalind shakes her head. ‘Help me catch his killer. Give me everything you can on the people here and make sure no one else dies at his hands.’
Rosalind sniffs again, a pathetic, gurgling sound. She wipes away her tears and nods.
‘Chin up,’ I say, with as much wartime spirit as I can muster. ‘I need you to focus.’ Rosalind lifts her head back up and looks at me. Her expression is tighter than it was before.
‘Do you think we can do this?’ she asks.
‘I know we can,’ I reply, giving Rosalind a thumbs up, to better hide my lie. This game was rigged from the start but I’m not about to let someone else carry that worry.
Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.
‘What the—’ shouts Daniel, his words barely audible over the noise. Rosalind and I clamp our hands over our ears. The blaring seems to bore into my brain.
‘Islanders, report to the Fire Pit,’ says the voice over the tannoy. It’s as if a dead weight has been dropped into my stomach. The Judge is back.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Sunday 27th July, 12:55
5 Minutes Until The Next Murder
I tear from the production room, my bare feet slapping against the marble floor. Daniel and Rosalind run behind me. The clink of Daniel’s camera equipment adds to the noise as the alarm blares on.
Beep. Beep. Beep. ‘Islanders, report to the Fire Pit.’ Beep. Beep. Beep.
I sprint through the garden. Up ahead, Valentina, Carly and Mo sit on the wooden seating, pressed together like penguins huddling against the cold. They turn their faces towards me, desperation written all over them.
The outdoor television screen is switched on and the Judge faces directly into the camera. His robes are as dark and billowy as before. His wig as white and coiffed. The only difference now is what he holds in his hand. A shiver takes hold of me when I see it. He’s holding a gavel. There are only four minutes left on his killing clock and this evil man is holding a gavel.
‘Sit down, Rosalind. Kimberley, you remain standing. And Daniel, you should be filming this.’
Rosalind shuffles towards the others and gently lowers herself into the space on Valentina’s side. She hooks her arm through Valentina’s and squeezes her hand tightly. Daniel, on the other hand, climbs to the top of the tiered seating and sits at the top, his camera seemingly able to take us all in from this angle.
‘Thank you,’ says the Judge. ‘Kimberley King, there are three minutes until the next murder. This should be just enough time for you to explain who killed Jack Peaks and save one of the group from elimination.’
‘Oh my God,’ whimpers Rosalind, pulling herself closer to Valentina, who sobs silently. Fat, mascara-filled tears roll down Valentina’s face, streaking her cheeks with inky smudges.
I stand before them, tensing my muscles to stop them from shaking. This cannot be happening. They’re all sitting here. How can one of them die right in front of me? It’s impossible. But I don’t want to take any chances. I clear my throat, hoping it will stop my voice from quivering.
‘Are you telling me you don’t have any ideas?’ says the Judge before I have the chance to speak. I can almost feel the lens of Daniel’s camera zooming in on my face and I fight to keep it steady. But my heart is beating so violently I feel as if I’m being shaken from the inside.
‘I… I…’ My voice fails me; I don’t know who killed Jack but I’m not about to announce that to the Judge. I need to give him something, I need to make some attempt at solving this. And the easiest person to point the blame at is the person who isn’t here to defend themselves, so instead I say, ‘Last night, Sophia Dance was filling Jack Peaks’ head with secrets. Secrets about all of you.’ I’m looking at the Islanders now. ‘I know that from what I saw at dinner and from gaining a better understanding of how producers on shows like LoveWrecked work. All of you have secrets and it seems one of you was willing to kill for that secret. Did Sophia know that you’d be willing to kill to keep Jack quiet? Because if she did Sophia is either working with the Judge, or is the Judge, and she set Jack up to be murdered. When Jack came to you and teased you about the secret you knew you had no choice but to kill him. And by doing that you played into her hands.’
‘No,’ shouts Mo, his dark eyes blazing. ‘That is so ridiculous, that can’t be true.’ Valentina’s body curls over herself and she rocks backwards and forwards while Rosalind strokes her back.
I spin around and face the television to speak to the Judge. ‘Based on the limited evidence I have been able to gather in one hour and the fact that Sophia has gone missing, the best assumption I can make is that she is responsible for the death of Jack, either by killing him herself or by inciting someone else to do it.’
Even as I’m speaking I know that I’ve got it completely wrong; it’s a guess made on incomplete evidence.
‘So, Kim,’ says the Judge. ‘Your judgement is that Sophia Dance is behind this. Final answer?’
The honest answer is I don’t know but there are two minutes left on the clock.
‘Final answer,’ I say. The Judge raises the gavel in his right hand and brings it down. There’s silence for a moment and we stare, as a collective, at the screen. When nothing happens, I turn to look at the Islanders.
What is going on?
One minute left on the clock.
I sink to my knees, breathing heavily. Relief washes over me; this isn’t real, this is not real. It is a challenge. I was being tested for good television. I can�
��t believe how stupid I’ve been. Jack Peaks isn’t dead, I was wrong.
Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep.
‘You said Sophia killed Jack. That is the wrong answer and now time is up. Another one of your number is dead,’ says the Judge. I look from Daniel, to Rosalind, to Mo, to Carly, to Valentina and then back at the Judge. ‘You didn’t do that good of a job looking for poor Sophia, now, did you? Did you even bother to look near the pool?’
Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God. I nearly fall over myself as I run towards the spot where she would have stood had she been the one handing the poisoned shot to Jack. The point is at the back side of the villa, facing away from the main areas we would congregate.
‘No,’ I cry, falling to my knees beside the lump of blue plastic that would normally cover the pool. Of course I hadn’t thought to look here before; I thought we were looking for a person, not a body. I rip the plastic back.
Limbs are sprawled at unnatural angles. Sticky, dark blood has dried in a halo around Sophia’s head. I brush away the red curls that cover her face. Her expression is frozen in horror. Sophia Dance lies broken on the earth like a china doll.
Daniel, Carly, Rosalind, Mo and Valentina gather behind me. If they’re reacting to Sophia Dance’s dead body, I can’t hear them. My ears are ringing. My hands shake as I press them against her cold cheeks.
‘Sophia,’ I call out to her, ‘Sophia, it’s Kim. Can you hear me?’ I grab Sophia’s shoulders. Digging my fingers into her flesh, I rattle her shoulders.
‘Is she alive?’ asks Valentina, coming around to the other side of Sophia’s body. Valentina’s cheeks are devoid of colour and she presses her hand against her mouth in a way that suggests she’s stopping herself from throwing up.
Shaking my head is the only reply I can make.
‘What happened to her?’ asks Mo.
‘It looks like she fell,’ says Carly, pointing up to the second floor of the villa; all of us follow the direction of Carly’s finger. A perimeter of balcony runs around the second floor of the villa; the panes of glass dividing the balcony from the air aren’t high. It would be easy enough to push someone off, especially someone as petite as Sophia Dance.
The Islanders Page 12
