It all began in the early nineties. I was two years old and in an instant my life changed. Though, of course, I didn’t know it at the time, and wouldn’t really know it for a while. But when I was two years old someone was born who would go on to completely change my life. She changed the course of my life then and eleven months ago she changed the course of my life again. This woman was very, very important to me.
What can I say about her that will properly do her justice? For starters, she was beautiful; just looking at her could make you smile. I acknowledge that it isn’t fair to judge someone on their beauty alone, it’s conventional and boring of me, but I’m trying to paint a picture. More than that, though, she was kind, likeable, and funny. Everything that I wasn’t. She was the day, I was the night but we fitted together. I’d tell her when she was being naive and stupidly optimistic, which she was a lot, and she’d tell me was when I was being an arsehole, which I was a lot. Of course, her being her she’d never have used the word ‘arsehole’. Grump, she’d call me a grump. When I would work late, she’d slip into my apartment and leave dinner on my worktop. All I had to do was come home and heat it up. And unlike other people in my life she never moaned when I worked late into the evenings or at weekends. She knew my job was important to me and she not only respected that but actively supported it. She really was one of a kind.
She had always dreamed of being a teacher and she was thrilled when she got a job as a teaching assistant at a school in the city centre. She loved working with children and they loved her. Reading this you might think I’m exaggerating but I’m as cynical as they come and I can guarantee it was like Miss Honey stepped off the pages of Matilda and bounced into the classroom.
All of the staff loved her too. After a couple of months working there one of the staff, the sports teacher, approached her and asked if she fancied going for a drink with him. I remember her telling me she was a bit uncomfortable about mixing business with pleasure but she hadn’t been out with anyone all year and I wanted her to meet someone nice. Ever since she hit her twenties she was desperate to have a child and she wouldn’t make much progress if she refused to go on any dates. After a bit of persuading she agreed. She called me on her way home to tell me that he was nice but, perhaps, a little too keen for her. She said that he had a look about him that said he was the type of man who liked to have an object of adoration. I remember thinking this was typical her; she was humble and as such was often surprised that people loved her. I told her that she deserved be adored and that a second date wouldn’t hurt. How stupid I was.
She did go on that second date; it was right before the Christmas holidays and I remember her telling me she thought he seemed a bit miffed that she wouldn’t be able to see him again until January. School finished for the holidays and that was when the texting began. Text after text, call after call. She hadn’t officially broken it off with him but she thought ignoring him might help him get the message. In January, she decided she didn’t want to return to school. Luckily her contract was only temporary and she was able to find another role at another school. She never told the headmistress her reasons for moving.
About a month passed and the messages and calls had stopped and she was relieved and believed that he had probably given up. This coincided with her friend setting her up with one of her colleagues and she instantly knew this had a future. Her friend, pleased about her own success in matchmaking, posted a picture on Facebook, tagging them both in it and that was when Roger saw it. The calls and texts started again, along with gifts. I didn’t realise how bad things had become; I was working long, tiresome hours and wasn’t regularly checking my phone or when I did I’d see a missed call from her, followed by a text telling me not to worry. She never liked to worry anyone. And then her keys went missing.
She went to the police, where she was met by a police officer who took her statement and a full report of the harassment and made a note about her missing keys. The police officer wasn’t convinced they’d been stolen so it was just ‘noted’.
The very next evening, Roger Bartlett let himself into her flat and killed her because if he couldn’t have her, no one could. I will never, ever forgive myself for not answering the phone all those times she called in the lead-up and I will never, ever forgive the police officer who so obviously failed to protect her.
She was twenty-seven years old and her life was cut short by a man who was screwed in the head and a police officer who didn’t do her job properly. He’s in prison now where he’ll rot unless someone kills him in there first; stalking and murdering a young woman won’t exactly make you popular in prison. So, I live in hope on that side of things. But what about the police officer? Three words haunt me: no further action. No further action was taken because the police force believed that the officer’s response was proportionate.
Therefore, I will take action and I am hoping that you as a group want to take action too.
Joanna – Valentina Novak should be punished for the drugs she gave to an unsuspecting young man.
Tristram – Sophia Dance should be punished for meddling and for stealing money that was not hers to steal.
Daniel – Carly Chu for entrapping men unfairly and blackmailing them until they bled dry.
Sammy – Jack Peaks for raping an innocent woman and robbing her of a happy future.
Kevin – Mo Khan, whose carelessness killed a beloved daughter.
Matteo – Rosalind Jenkins for the drunk-driving that has forever changed a couple’s life.
And for myself, Kimberley King, for failing to protect my sister.
Chapter Fifty-Three
Kimberley
Monday 4th August, 00:01
The feel of the gun against my back makes me inhale sharply and I follow its instruction to move forward towards the door. I push against it and it creaks, just like it did the last time I was here. The house is dark and, unlike the last time, completely silent.
‘How did you know I was coming here?’ I ask the gun’s owner as I cross the threshold of the house.
‘I’ve been following you since you arrived back in the UK yesterday. Not that you went many places: home, an Internet cafe, here. But after you left the Internet cafe, I followed in my car and it quickly became apparent where you were going so I sped ahead and waited for you to get out of the taxi. Go to the end of the corridor,’ says the voice. It’s familiar but different to before. Where previously the accent was neutral, belonging to nowhere in particular, it’s morphed into one distinctly more local.
Without argument I walk down the hallway. The sound of the door being closed and locked behind me makes me tense and I hurry to the end of the corridor, and turn to press my back up against the wall. I don’t want to be ambushed from behind. I run shaking fingers along the wall, feeling for a light switch. The wallpaper is bumpy to the touch and I’m reminded of the vintage wallpaper that covered the walls all those years before. My fingers brush a plastic square; finding the switch, I flick it. Despite the change, the hallway remains in darkness.
‘It won’t work,’ says the voice. ‘Electricity has been switched off for years. Go through the door at the end of the hall.’
I don’t want to obey the order but I’m not the one holding a gun. My arms reach out in front of me, feeling for the gap in the wall. When I find it, I step into another room of complete darkness.
‘You’ll be familiar with this room, I believe.’ The voice is closer now and I gulp. ‘This is where she was found. Emily, I mean. Murdered by Roger Bartlett. But she shouldn’t have been. Should she? He should have been arrested and charged but he wasn’t because of shitty police work.’
Light flares in front of me as a match is struck and, in spite of my fear, I can’t help but admire this ability to create an atmosphere. The match connects with a candle, then another, then another. Light glows at different spots in the room. Back then the room looked very different to the hall, as Emily, I learned, had been decorating one room at a time. The living
room was her first achievement: the carpet was new, and it wasn’t long since the walls had been given a fresh coat of paint. Now, the carpet has clumps of dust on it and the smell of fresh paint is replaced by the smell of damp mingled with the smell of struck matches. The candles illuminate more than just the signs of decay; out of the darkness looms the face of Rosalind Jenkins.
‘I come here sometimes to think about her, hence the candles,’ says Rosalind, answering a question I didn’t ask. The light is strong enough now for me to see her properly. She wears lace-up military-style boots, dark skinny jeans and roll-neck top, and a black denim jacket. Under a dark baseball cap, long auburn hair flows in front of her shoulders. It’s a colour that looks much more natural and striking on her than the mousy colour she opted for in the villa. Even though it’s only been about a week since we last saw one another she too has lost weight; the loss makes her cheeks appear sharper and her jawline more angular.
The disguise of Rosalind Jenkins has melted away and now she looks like she did back then. Up close, the realisation makes my stomach drop. I see her more clearly than I ever saw her in Greece and I can’t believe she was staring me in the face this whole time. Her real appearance, I’m now aware, makes her look very like her sister. She isn’t really Rosalind Jenkins and she never was: she is Beth Cadman.
‘What should I call you?’ I snarl.
A smile crosses her lips; it twists her thin face. ‘So, you do remember me,’ she says, keeping the gun pointed directly at my chest. ‘It took you a while to figure it out. I’d prefer Beth, if you don’t mind.’ Beth takes a step closer to me. ‘I did think you’d go for it,’ says Beth, taking a step closer to me. ‘The noose, I mean.’
I stare at her.
Of all the places she could have started our conversation, this is what she chooses and she does it with such nonchalance that I’m stunned into silence. I don’t need to reply; Beth continues regardless of my silence.
‘Your life took a path that suggested you blamed yourself for Emily’s death. Quitting the police, abandoning your friends and family, drinking yourself silly. I thought that once I’d shown you that you caused destruction wherever you went it would be enough to push you to do it.’ Beth tilts her head to one side like a curious Jack Russell terrier. ‘And yet you didn’t. Why?’
‘Sorry, you’re asking me why I didn’t kill myself?’ I ask with all the scorn I can muster. Beth’s cold, unemotional exterior makes me want to slap her; she must be a psychopath. That’s the only way to explain how she can talk about death in such a cruel and forthright way.
‘Yes. That’s exactly what I’m asking. Why didn’t you kill yourself? You know you deserve to die for what you did, and I gave you the means. So why didn’t you do it?’
Beth’s voice is monotone, unfeeling. Involuntarily, I give a bark of laughter. It’s such a harrowing yet simple question it’s almost ridiculous.
I feel offended to even have been asked this question let alone to have to answer it. But as much as I hate the woman standing in front of me for everything that she’s done, I can’t deny the guilt that I’ve carried with me about what happened to Emily. Guilt that forced me to consider myself unworthy of joy, of love and sometimes of life. And, in my darkest moments, when the guilt threatened to consume me, I did think about ending my life.
Yet when it was presented to me by Beth in the form of a noose, I realised I couldn’t do it. No, it was more than that: I didn’t want to do it. I realised in that moment that I had life in me and I was determined to live it and stop feeling sorry for myself. I lick my lips, dry and cracked.
‘I will answer your question once you’ve answered mine,’ I say, wanting to get her talking, otherwise my purchase from TJ will be a complete waste of time. ‘You want to kill me, I know that. You could have done it already but you brought me inside because I think you want to tell me how you did everything, I think you want to show me how much cleverer you are than me, a lowly police officer.’
The light flickers under Beth’s chin as she gives me a narrow smile. ‘I know,’ she says. ‘I have an idea – why don’t you interview me? Like one of your suspects; that would be fun.’
Before I can reply Beth strides towards one of the couches and flops down on it. Clouds of dust billow into the air and she waves them away. I’m willing to play along if it will get me what I need.
The room is still very dark, but I can just make out a dining table surrounded by wooden chairs. I grab one of them and drag it towards the couch. I position it so it faces opposite to where Beth is sitting. The need to get proper answers from Beth is accompanied now by a need to prove myself to her, a chance for me to display the investigative skills that Beth so clearly thinks I’m lacking, and I’m determined to do it properly. I clear my throat.
‘Jack Peaks, Sophia Dance, Mo Khan, Valentina Novak, Carly Chu and Daniel Oni were all invited to a villa in Greece where they were murdered; did you kill them?’
‘I didn’t murder Daniel,’ says Beth, narrowing her eyes at me. ‘He was never meant to die. The papers reported that he was stabbed, so if it wasn’t you then it must have been Carly. And I didn’t murder Carly either, that was Daniel.’
‘OK, you didn’t kill Daniel or Carly but there’s still Jack, Sophia, Mo and Valentina. Are you responsible for their deaths?’
Beth’s brow furrows as if she needs to contemplate her answer. ‘Yes… and no.’
I keep my face passive as I would for anyone I was interviewing. ‘Could you elaborate on what you mean, Beth? How are you both responsible but also not for their deaths?’
She chuckles. ‘It’s a simple one really. I killed them. For example, I encouraged Sophia to give Jack the shot and then come and meet me upstairs afterwards. When I pointed out what was happening to Jack she was so distracted by what she had done she didn’t notice me sneak up behind her and give her a big old shove. I put the oyster sauce in the meal. Carly, unknowingly but helpfully, drew attention away from me when she was screaming about the missing knife and I tampered with Valentina’s medication. But anyway, as I say, yes I murdered them but they were responsible for their own demise, really. I saw they were punished for their crimes, but they committed crimes in the first place, so they need to take responsibility for their own deaths, you understand?’
I lean away from her at these words and say, ‘I understand we were there to be punished but I don’t understand why that means you’re not responsible.’
‘Well then, that’s where we’re different,’ she says with a shrug.
‘I don’t remember this from when Emily was murdered because your job wasn’t really relevant but are you even a producer?’
‘Yes, actually I am a producer. In fact, LoveWrecked is my show. It was my idea over ten years ago.’
‘What? You created LoveWrecked?’
‘Yes, I’m surprised you didn’t know that, but then you’re not a great police officer. I created LoveWrecked and let me tell you, it made me a lot of money.’
‘If it was making you loads of money, why stop? Why did the show take a hiatus?’
Beth rolls her eyes at this. ‘Come on, Kimberley. It’s staring you in the face.’
I nearly slap myself in the forehead. She’s right, it’s obvious. The show stopped five years ago. ‘Emily. You stopped the show because of Emily?’
‘My sister was murdered; I didn’t have the bandwidth to think about it, and I didn’t want anyone else producing it. So, I stopped it.’
I rub my eyes. Hundreds of questions crowd my brain and I can’t stop them from coming out.
‘So you’re telling me you restarted the show for the sole purpose of revenge against me? Why would the production company agree to it and not want Beth Cadman involved? Why would they hire Rosalind Jenkins out of nowhere? And wouldn’t they recognise you on the show?’
Beth smiles again, her head nodding with every question I ask. ‘All good questions. Yes, for five years I stewed, letting my anger build inside me, until
the desire for revenge became too strong. I was reading a lot about revenge at the time and I realised, like Agatha Christie’s book, I too had the capability to lure people to an island to kill them. It all spiralled from there really. I made a telephone call, as Beth Cadman, to the management of the channel that usually shows LoveWrecked and told them I’d been approached by a production company who wanted to restart the show. I told them that I was ready for the show to be restarted and liked the vision this company had. I said I wouldn’t be involved but that I had every faith in the production company as I’d talked with them in depth about their plans. The channel was so desperate to get LoveWrecked back that they didn’t ask any more questions. That’s what happens when you have talent; something you wouldn’t understand.’ I ignore the dig. ‘Also, the channel was only streaming the show; with my assurances they were quite happy to let this production company be in charge of everything else. And so the production started. And when it all went wrong the management team at the channel weren’t close enough to the show to interfere.’
I stare at her in disbelief, everything she has said is ludicrous and yet, she did it. She stands before me having pulled it all off.
‘And it went is exactly as you intended?’ I ask, strangely desperate to see some weakness in her plan. She clicks her tongue at my question.
‘Close to it but not exactly,’ she replies, crossing one leg over the other. ‘I hadn’t intended to appear on the show. Rosalind Jenkins was meant to be an Islander, she even worked in production. But the real Rosalind Jenkins died in a car accident before I could invite her to work on the show; she always was a reckless driver. There was nothing else to be done, the show must go on, so I took her name and pretended to be her. We weren’t hugely dissimilar looking, she had a background in production and, luckily, I had only spoken with the television channel on the telephone. I’ve changed a lot in the last five years, aged in advance of my years from the grief and the stress. I doubt they recognised me on screen. Then, I picked Daniel Oni as my camera operator and off I went. If I’m honest with myself, I don’t think it will be too long before the police piece it all together, if they haven’t already. Rosalind Jenkins, the producer, on LoveWrecked might ring alarm bells for her family, and add to that the fact that fake-Rosalind’s body has gone walkabout. I’m also sure the police are looking for Beth Cadman to speak to about this mysterious new production company. But what can I say? It was fun while it lasted. And,’ she says, nodding her head towards me. ‘I should say aside from not doing what I wanted of you at the end, overall, I thought you did a pretty good job in there.’
The Islanders Page 23
