The Killing Of Polly Carter. Robert Thorogood

of something woody before she fell.

      Richard looked back up the cliff and didn’t immediately see any kind of bush directly above the body that the victim could have clung to on the way down. However, with a cut as deep as that, Richard knew it would be easy to identify whatever it was she’d clung to. It would almost certainly have a good smear of the victim’s blood on it.

      ‘Fidel,’ Richard said, ‘I want you to work out what on the cliff face the victim grabbed onto before she fell.’

      ‘Yes, sir,’ Fidel said, seemingly unbothered by the fact that his boss had effectively just asked him to search a vertical cliff face.

      For his part, Richard strode off to the base of the cliff, now interested in the horizontal distance the body had fallen on its way down.

      Camille stood up from the body as well. ‘So, what are you thinking?’

      ‘That suicides don’t leap,’ Richard said, but Camille already guessed where her boss was going with this as Richard started to put one foot in front of the other to measure the distance the body had fallen from the cliff. It was a well-known fact that jump suicides tended to drop from whatever height they’d chosen to commit suicide from. They didn’t leap out to their death. Although, Camille found herself thinking, if the victim had announced her suicide in a heated argument, maybe she’d run for the cliff edge and then jumped.

      ‘Seventeen feet,’ Richard announced as he reached the body, which gave him pause.

      ‘Much further than you’d expect,’ Camille agreed.

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Maybe it wasn’t suicide?’

      ‘Indeed,’ Richard said, once again checking his wristwatch. It was still long before his mother was due to arrive on the island. There was every chance he’d be able to finish up here and still have time to meet her at the airport.

      ‘Fidel, keep working the scene and supervise the removal of the body with the paramedics. Dwayne, I want you to search the victim’s house. See if you can find any kind of suicide note. As for you and me, Camille, I think we need to talk to the witnesses, don’t you?’

      A few minutes later, Richard and Camille were in the sitting room of Polly’s house and Richard was trying hard not to cough, because if the rest of the house was dusty, this room seemed to be where all the dust in the rest of the world came to when it wanted to die. The curtains, old sofas, stacks of books and piles of nick-nacks were all covered in a worn-in grime of ancient dirt, and Richard had noticed that when he shut the door, dust had fallen in a great cloud from the filthy crystal chandelier that hung in the centre of the ceiling and which was missing a good third of its pendants.

      As Camille made the introductions and explained to the four assembled witnesses that the police had a duty to investigate all suspicious deaths on the island, Richard took the opportunity to give them all a once-over.

      He could see that the victim’s sister, Claire Carter, was sitting in her metal-framed wheelchair wearing beige cotton trousers, simple slip-on shoes, and a light blue cotton top. She had a similar slender build to her sister, similar high cheekbones, but Richard could see that they had very different hair styles. While Polly’s hair was dark, long and unruly, Claire’s was similarly dark, but it was cut into a tight and tidy bob that fell just below her ears. As for her demeanour, Richard could see that Claire had turned entirely in on herself, her shoulders hunched in grief, her head bowed as tears rolled down her cheeks that she dashed away with the back of her hands. It was a sight that Richard felt he’d had to see too often in his career. The grief of the family member who was left behind.

      As for Claire’s nurse, Sophie Wessel, she was a plump woman who Richard guessed was in her mid-to-late forties. She had a friendly face, wide, trusting eyes, and dark hair streaked with plenty of grey that was tied behind her head in a loose ponytail. She was wearing a long dark green dress, simple leather shoes, and she even had a watch pinned upside down on her dress just below her left shoulder. Richard could see that Sophie was holding one of Claire’s hands while also not seeming to be that engaged with the situation, either. As a person who was paid to care for others, Richard felt he recognised the type. Sophie was caring and uncaring both at the same time. Like ‘Matey’—the matron of Richard’s boarding house at school—he thought to himself. Kind when she had to be, but only because it was her professional duty.

      Then there was Max Brandon, Polly’s agent. Richard could see that he was a thin man in his fifties who had an angular face under neatly parted jet-black hair—and he hid his eyes behind yellow-lensed sunglasses. A ratty looking man, Richard thought to himself. But what Richard found most interesting about Max was the way he was using the forefinger on his right hand to pick at the skin around the nail of his thumb. In fact, Richard could see that the skin around both of Max’s thumbnails had been picked raw and Richard found himself wondering what it was that was making Max so tense?

      As for Phil Adams, Richard guessed that he was also, like Max, in his fifties, but that’s where all similarities ended. Phil was tall, broad-shouldered, and he looked entirely at ease. His hair was blond and glossy—swept back from his handsome face—and his eyes were crinkled with laughter lines. He wore a collarless white cotton shirt that Richard guessed came from a Jermyn Street tailor, knee-length khaki shorts—that Richard noted, with irritation, Phil was able to make look good—and an old pair of flip-flops.

      Once Camille had finished the introductions, Richard said, ‘Thank you all for waiting for us. Detective Sergeant Bordey will be taking your formal statements shortly, but first I just wanted to get a sense of what happened this morning. For example, I understand that you, Claire, were with your twin sister when she died. Is that right?’

      Claire looked up at Richard, her eyes red-rimmed with grief.

      ‘That’s right,’ she eventually said, still disbelieving the words she was having to say.

      ‘Then perhaps you could take us through what happened?’ Camille asked gently.

      Claire thought for a moment and then slowly nodded.

      ‘Of course. Well … I’d gone to the kitchen for breakfast this morning and Polly was already there.’

      ‘What time was that?’ Richard asked.

      ‘I don’t know. Just before ten, I suppose.’

      ‘Thank you. And was that the first you saw of your sister today?’

      ‘It was.’

      ‘And how would you describe her mood when you saw her?’

      ‘I don’t know. She was her usual self. Somewhat snappy. Slightly irritating. But nothing out of the ordinary.’

      ‘You didn’t get on with her?’

      ‘Not always. Although I think it’s fairer to say that it was Polly who didn’t get on with me.’

      ‘And why was that?’

      ‘We didn’t have much in common,’ Claire said sadly. ‘Anyway, she said she wanted to take me for a walk in the gardens, so that’s what we did.’

      ‘And did you and your sister often go for walks together?’

      Claire hesitated a moment before answering. ‘Not really.’

      ‘Had your sister in fact gone for a walk with you before?’

      ‘Actually, no. We’d been out together of course, but only as part of a group. And always with Sophie in attendance.’

      ‘Is that right?’ Richard turned to ask Sophie.

      ‘Yes,’ Sophie said. ‘Agency rules say I should be available to assist my client at all times, but Polly insisted that she go out with Claire this morning on her own.’

      Richard and Camille exchanged a glance.

      ‘In fact,’ Claire said, equally puzzled, ‘Polly was insistent she didn’t want Sophie to come with us.’