A Meditation On Murder

Crouching down, Richard could see that the murder weapon to the side of the body was a carving knife of some sort. Utterly vicious. The blade was covered in blood, although the handle seemed to be clean.

‘We’re going to need to get this bagged and tested for prints,’ Richard said.

Camille was inspecting the body.

‘There are no signs of a struggle … no fabric or skin caught under the victim’s fingernails … and no cuts to the hands, wrists or arms. It doesn’t look like he tried to defend himself from the attack.’

Richard looked at the tray of tea things on the floor by the pool of blood that had spread from the body. The teapot was willow pattern and there were six bone china cups that had all been turned upside down on the floor, one cup in front of each prayer mat. Richard tried to work out what had happened.

If the mats and cups were to be believed, there’d been six people in here. They’d all been sitting on the prayer mats around the tray of tea things. They’d all then had a cup of tea and turned their cup over and placed it down on the floor in front of them to show that they’d finished their drink.

But how did the eye masks and headphones fit into this? And how exactly had the victim been killed?

Camille inspected the stab wounds in the victim’s back.

‘There appear to be five separate sharp force injuries in the victim’s neck, shoulder and back,’ she said. ‘Two wounds on the right side of the neck, and three wounds on the right side of his shoulder and back. I’d say the assailant was standing behind the victim—and was almost certainly right-handed.’

Richard came over and could see the sense of what Camille was saying. The pattern of wounds suggested that the victim could only have been killed by someone who was standing behind him and striking into his neck and back holding a knife right-handed.

Richard made himself look at the face of Aslan as it lay in a pool of blood on the floor. Who was this man? What had he done to warrant such a violent death?

Richard exhaled. This was his job. To start with the end of the story: the body; the murder. And then he had to uncover the evidence that would allow him to wind time back until he could prove—categorically prove—who’d been standing above the body when the victim was killed; who it was that had wielded the knife.

Richard always made a silent promise to the victims of murder, and he made it once again now: he’d catch their killer. Whatever it took. He wouldn’t rest until the killer was behind bars.

A flash of light caught Richard’s eye in the far corner of the room. He turned back to look, but the little flash of light had gone as soon as it appeared. So he moved his head a fraction. No, still nothing. He moved his head back. There it was again.

There was something shiny on the floorboards he hadn’t noticed before.

‘What are you doing?’ Camille asked as Richard went over to the wall at the end of the room and got down on his hands and knees to inspect the floor.

‘What’s this doing here?’ he asked.

‘What is it?’ Camille asked as she came over to join her boss.

Richard found himself looking at a shiny drawing pin. It was just sitting there loose on the floorboards.

‘It’s a drawing pin.’

‘And why’s that of interest?’

‘Didn’t you see all of the witnesses out there?’ Richard said.

‘Of course. What about them?’

Richard turned to his partner as though he was a magician about to reveal the end of a particularly impressive trick. ‘Because, I’m sure you noticed, Camille, that most of the witnesses were barefoot.’

Camille was utterly unimpressed. ‘So?’

‘So who would leave a drawing pin like this loose in a room where people were going about barefoot?’

Camille waited a moment before answering. ‘That’s it?’

‘What do you mean, “that’s it”?’ Richard asked, irritated.

‘Your big revelation? That there’s a drawing pin at the scene of crime?’

‘No, Camille, that’s not what I said.’

‘But it is. I just heard you.’

‘No you didn’t. You heard me say that it’s loose on the floor. That’s what’s interesting. For example,’ he said, standing up and indicating the rough-hewn wooden pillars and beams that made up the internal structure of the paper house, ‘if I found a drawing pin in one of these wooden pillars, that would be less interesting. It would just mean that someone had pinned something to a pillar. But here?’ Richard pointed at the drawing pin as it sat blamelessly on the polished hardwood floor. ‘How did it get there? Who dropped it?’

‘You’re right,’ Camille said, deadpan. ‘We’ve got a dead body over there that’s covered in knife wounds, so let’s concentrate on a tiny piece of metal we’ve found on the floor over here. In fact, I think you’re right! What if the carving knife we found by the body is a double bluff and the killer used this tiny drawing pin to stab the victim to death?’

Richard decided to ignore his subordinate entirely. Without another word, he went outside again, pulling his hankie as he went and mopping his brow. Really, he thought to himself, his life on Saint-Marie was blighted by bloody sunshine. His shirt collar chafed at his neck; the dark wool of his suit trousers stretched hot and tight across his thighs; and his suit jacket pressed heavy and scorching against his shoulders and back. Wearing a suit in the Caribbean was like living inside a bloody Corby trouser press. But what could he do? He had to wear a woollen suit. He was a Detective Inspector. And Detective Inspectors wore dark woollen suits, that’s just how it was.

Richard saw that an ambulance had arrived over by the main house and paramedics were getting out a gurney.

‘Very well, Camille,’ he said. ‘While I talk to our apparent murderer, I want you to take the remaining witnesses off. And I want you to get the paramedics to take samples of the witnesses’ blood and urine.’

‘You think the tea they were all drinking was maybe drugged?’

‘I don’t know, but that was a pretty frenzied attack, I’d be interested to know if anyone was under the influence of anything.’

Richard next turned to the youngest member of the team. ‘Fidel, I want you working the scene—but be sure to bag the drawing pin that’s loose on the floor by the far wall.’

Fidel looked at his boss. ‘You want me to bag a drawing pin, sir?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s on the floor by the far wall?’

‘That’s right,’ Richard said again.

Before Fidel could ask why his boss wanted a drawing pin bagged for analysis, Richard turned and started heading for Julia, who was still being guarded by Dwayne.

As he approached, Richard pulled a little notebook and silver retractable pencil from an inside pocket. He clicked the lead out and said, ‘Hello. My name’s Detective Inspector Richard Poole. I’m investigating the murder of the man we’ve just found in that paper and wood structure just there.’

Richard indicated the tea house and Julia nodded slowly. She understood. Richard looked at Dwayne and he shrugged as if to say that Richard was right, the witness was indeed this slow.

Richard was at his most gentle and coaxing as he tried to find out who the woman was and what had happened. In truth, Richard didn’t really have a ‘gentle’ or ‘coaxing’ side—his idea of doing either was to leave slightly longer pauses in between each of his questions—but he found his manner softened anyway as Julia was so naturally beautiful. It brought out Richard’s paternal side. Or that’s what he told himself. As she talked, he was able to notice how sparkling and blue her eyes were; and how her skin was bronzed by a golden tan; and how her blonde hair seemed to capture the Caribbean sunlight and radiate it back out in golden strands of light.

It turned out that the young woman’s name was Julia Higgins. She was twenty-three years old and had graduated from Bournemouth University the year before having completed a degree in alternative medicine. Since then, she’d been working and travelling, but at the beginning of the year she’d come out to The Retreat for a holiday. She’d loved the experience so much—and had got on so well with the owners, Rianka and Aslan—that she’d asked if she could stay on.

Julia was surprised when they said yes, but, apparently, her timing couldn’t have been better. Rianka and Aslan had been looking for help in the office for some time, so they offered Julia free lodging, a small wage—but, most importantly, free access to all of the treatments and therapies—and in return all Julia had to do was a few hours of secretarial support each day. It was an arrangement that had suited both parties and Julia had been happily working at The Retreat for the last six months.

As Julia told her story, Richard tried to work out what he found so puzzling about her. After a while, he realised what it was. Julia was clearly still numbed from the shock of what she’d done—of course she was—but she was also acting as though she was just as keen as Richard to identify the murderer. Which was odd, considering that she was the apparent murderer.