Death Knocks Twice. Robert Thorogood

      Richard recognised a put-down when he heard one, and decided that he didn’t much like Sylvie.

      For her part, Sylvie turned from the body and looked at Richard.

      ‘You’re that British policeman, aren’t you?’

      ‘If you mean, am I Detective Inspector Richard Poole, then yes I am. Could you tell me if you recognise the body?’

      ‘I’m so sorry, but I don’t,’ she said without a hint of regret.

      ‘Are you sure?’

      ‘I’m not the sort of person who consorts with tramps.’

      ‘So that’s who you think this person is? A tramp?’

      ‘Or vagabond. I never know the difference. I suppose you do?’

      Richard decided that he’d had enough of Sylvie.

      ‘So you definitely don’t recognise him?’

      ‘I don’t.’

      ‘Then thank you very much for your time. If you could send the next person through?’

      ‘Of course,’ Sylvie said with a superior smile, and left the room.

      Richard briefly considered the differences between the welcoming charm of Hugh and the dismissive manner of his wife, but he was interrupted by the arrival of the third witness.

      He was a young man – a boy, really, Richard thought to himself – aged about eighteen years old.

      ‘Oh,’ he said in a light voice as he saw the dead body on the tiles, and Richard took a moment to notice that the man seemed to be a perfect copy of Hugh, but thirty years younger. In fact, as Richard looked at the man’s smart haircut, slender build, and easy manner, he wondered – not for the first time – how a certain class of Brit managed to breed effortlessness into their children. But, more troubling than that, Richard saw that this boy-man was wearing the sort of casual clothes that Richard wished he had the confidence to wear: an old pair of brown suede shoes, khaki chinos smartly held up with an old leather belt the same shade of brown as his shoes, and a somewhat billowing white shirt that was tucked in at the waist, rolled up at the sleeves, and open at the neck. Before he could stop himself, Richard had a little epiphany. He realised that this elegant young person – who had only uttered one syllable so far – embodied pretty much all of the conflicts he felt about the British upper classes. Their inherited wealth and sense of entitlement made him sick to his bones, but he quite liked how they dressed.

      Richard snapped out of his reverie as he saw the young man grimace.

      ‘Bloody hell,’ he said. He then turned to Richard with an apologetic smile. ‘Sorry. My first dead body.’

      ‘I understand. It can be very distressing. But you only need to look at his face. Just tell me if you recognise him.’

      ‘Okay,’ the young man said, turning back to look at the victim’s face. After a few seconds, he turned back to Richard.

      ‘Sorry. No idea.’

      ‘Are you sure?’

      ‘I think so.’

      ‘Okay. Then can I ask your name?’

      ‘Oh, of course,’ the young man said, coming over to shake Richard’s hand in a perfect facsimile of Hugh’s manners. ‘Sorry. Matthew Beaumont. I’m Hugh and Sylvie’s son. Lucy’s brother.’

      ‘Detective Inspector Richard Poole,’ Richard said before internally wincing. He was supposed to be in charge here, not this callow youth. But before he could stamp his authority back on the interview, the light in the doorway was blocked as someone stood on the threshold.

      ‘No way, you have got to be kidding me!’ Richard heard the person say in a Caribbean accent, and then in walked what Richard could only call an anomaly.

      Whereas Hugh, Sylvie and Matthew were all types of Brits abroad that Richard recognised well – they were patrician, posh, and very much in charge – this young man was barefoot, was wearing a frayed pair of swimming trunks and a filthy T-shirt with a massive logo of a cannabis leaf on the front.

      Matthew saw the confusion in Richard’s face and smiled in understanding.

      ‘This is my older brother, Tom,’ he said, indicating the man in the doorway.

      ‘So it’s true,’ Tom said. ‘A real live dead body. On our land. I can’t believe it.’

      Richard went to say something, but realised he still couldn’t get over how this one member of the family had a Saint-Marie accent.

      ‘The Inspector just wants you to see if you recognise his face,’ Matthew said.

      ‘Okay,’ Tom said and went and inspected the body.

      After a few moments, he did a complicated flick with his right hand that produced a clicking noise.

      ‘A bullet to the heart. That’s sick.’

      ‘I agree,’ Richard said.

      ‘You do?’ Tom asked, surprised.

      ‘Of course.’

      ‘That’s sick.’

      ‘What is?’

      ‘It’s sick that you think it’s sick.’

      After a moment’s reflection, Richard decided that he and Tom almost certainly had very different working definitions of what the word ‘sick’ meant.

      ‘Okay,’ Tom said, standing up from the body, ‘I’ve never seen this guy before.’

      ‘You haven’t?’

      ‘No way.’

      ‘Just like the rest of your family.’

      ‘What’s that?’ Matthew asked.

      ‘None of you recognise him.’

      Matthew frowned as he considered this.

      ‘So how come someone we’ve never seen before shot himself dead in our shower room?’

      Before Richard could answer, Camille stepped into the room.

      ‘Dwayne and Fidel are here.’

      ‘Alright,’ Richard said to Tom and Matthew, ‘I’ll need you to clear the room. Would you tell your family that I’d like to speak to them back at your house in a few minutes?’

      Once the room was clear and Dwayne and Fidel had entered with the Crime Scene kit, Richard explained his theory that the unknown man’s death wasn’t suicide, it was murder. He then tasked Dwayne with working the primary crime scene in the shower room, and he told Fidel to go into the jungle and collect whatever evidence he could find from the clearing where they believed the victim had been hiding.

      As for Richard and Camille, they were soon heading up the hill to the Beaumonts’ main residence. As they approached, Richard could see that the house was made of the same stone as the rest of the plantation, and its formal dimensions, white sash windows, and shiny black door gave it the look of a Georgian rectory.

      Hugh opened the door as they approached.

      ‘Welcome to Beaumont Manor,’ he said, and ushered Richard and Camille into the main hall.

      Richard realised that the name of the house wasn’t misplaced. The main hall was almost pitch black, smelt of furniture polish, and there was a wide wooden staircase that led up to the rooms above. As for why it was so dark, Richard could see that the two sash windows either side of the front door had their shutters firmly shut.

      ‘Sorry about the gloom,’ Hugh said, ‘but we have to keep our ancestors out of direct sunlight.’

      Once Richard’s eyes had adjusted to the dark, he could see that the hall was