Читать книгу The Killing Of Polly Carter - Robert Thorogood, Роберт Торогуд - Страница 9

It took a few minutes to liberate Claire’s mobile from the chandelier. In the end, it involved Richard scraping a coffee table over to the middle of the room so that he could stand on it and fish into the chandelier with one hand, his other hand clamping his hankie over his nose against the clouds of dust he was creating in the process.

Once he had Claire’s phone in his hand, Richard asked the assembled witnesses if they knew how it had got into the chandelier, but they were just as flummoxed as he was. It didn’t even begin to make sense.

As Richard put the phone into an evidence bag for processing back at the station, he saw an old Citroën estate car pull up in the driveway with a crunch of wheels on gravel. He then saw a man and a woman get out.

‘Who’s that?’ he asked the room.

‘That’s Juliette and Alain,’ Phil replied. ‘Polly’s staff. I think they’ve been at church.’

Going to the windows, Richard could see that Alain was perhaps in his forties, was of average height, and had short-cropped hair. He was wearing khaki trousers, smart black shoes, a long-sleeved white shirt—and, as he carefully closed the door to his car, Richard got the impression that he was a man who liked everything to be precise and neat. As for Juliette, Richard could see that she was of a similar age to her husband, had a cascade of dark hair that was constrained by a pink bandana, and she was wearing figure-hugging grey Lycra running clothes with bright lime green flashes down the side. It was pretty clear that if Alain had just returned from church, Juliette had been out doing exercise of some sort.

Richard told the witnesses that Camille would take their formal statements in due course, but first he had to break the sad news of Polly’s death to Mr and Mrs Moreau. If they hadn’t already heard.

Once in the hallway, Richard bumped into Camille as she was coming down the main staircase. She told her boss she hadn’t been able to find a yellow plastic coat in any of the bedrooms upstairs, or anywhere else obvious she’d been able to look. What was more, she hadn’t found anything else of note, either. Although they’d have to do a proper search of the house later on.

‘But you should see Polly’s bedroom,’ she said.

‘Why?’ Richard asked, puzzled.

‘Because it’s nothing like the rest of the house. It’s tidy and clean.’

‘It is?’

‘You should take a look at it. You’ll like it,’ she said, with a twinkle.

‘Unfortunately, we’ve got a more pressing job on our hands,’ Richard said, and he explained how Juliette and Alain had just returned.

When Richard and Camille stepped out of the house into the blinding Caribbean sunlight, they could see that Juliette and Alain hadn’t gone into their cottage yet and were instead looking at the police jeep that was parked in the driveway.

‘I’ll take this,’ Richard announced, before striding off.

‘Are you sure that’s a good idea?’ Camille said, knowing that her boss wasn’t exactly the most sensitive when it came to breaking bad news.

But it was too late. Richard had called out ‘One moment, if you please!’ in his most hail-fellow-well-met voice and was already approaching the witnesses.

Camille caught up with Richard after he’d already made the introductions.

‘But what are the police doing here?’ Juliette asked bluntly, her hand on her hip.

Richard could see that Juliette was the sort of woman who was used to getting her own way. As for Alain, Richard was unsurprised to see only meek obedience in the man’s eyes.

‘Just before I answer that,’ Richard said, ‘can I ask where you both were this morning at about 10am?’

‘Why on earth do you need to know?’ Juliette said.

‘If you could just answer the question,’ Richard said in his ‘police’ voice, and Camille’s heart sank because, while it was always useful to get someone’s alibi before they knew why they needed one, it was hardly the kindest way of breaking the news that a friend had just died.

‘Well,’ Alain said, stepping into the conversation bravely. ‘At ten this morning, I was at church.’

‘And you, Mrs Moreau?’ Richard asked. ‘Were you also at church?’

‘Dressed like this?’ Juliette said dismissively, indicating her exercise clothes. ‘No, I was in the middle of my run then. I’m training for a triathlon,’ she said proudly. ‘I then met up with Alain after the church service finished at about 10.30 and we went for a coffee together at a place called Catherine’s bar. I’m sure you know it.’

Richard did indeed know it. It was run by Camille’s mother—and his sometime nemesis—Catherine Bordey.

‘But why do you want to know where we were?’ Alain asked, his forehead furrowed with concern.

‘Forgive us for not saying sooner,’ Camille said. ‘But I’m sorry to say that Polly Carter died at about ten o’clock this morning.’

Neither Juliette nor Alain spoke for a moment.

‘What?’ Juliette eventually asked.

‘I’m sorry. She fell from the cliff at the end of the garden. Her death would have been instantaneous.’

Alain’s legs briefly went, and he put his hand out to steady himself against the car.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, still unable to process what he’d just been told. ‘She’s …?’

Richard and Camille steered Alain and Juliette into their cottage so they could recover from the shock in private. It also allowed Richard to check out the Moreaus’ home.

He was pleased to see that Juliette and Alain clearly lived neat and ordered lives. The furniture in the room was simple, the floor was tiled and the walls were white-painted. Little shelves with books on them were arranged by height, a piano sat in the corner with hymn books on—and there were a clutch of colourful pictures of saints on the walls. There were also white cotton curtains that covered French windows looking out over a little yard that contained a washing line, pot plants in a row, and a couple of chairs for sitting out in the sunshine.

It was a modest home, but it was comfortable, Richard decided. Perhaps like its owners.

‘I don’t understand,’ Alain said, still uncomprehending. Polly’s death had hit him hard. ‘You’re saying she jumped?’

‘It’s what it looks like,’ Richard said, not wanting to explain that he still wasn’t one hundred per cent convinced that Polly’s death had been suicide. After all, her body had been found too far from the cliff for a normal suicide. And there were plenty of aspects to the witnesses’ statements that suggested there was more to Polly’s death than first met the eye—not least the fact that the only witness to her death only heard the sound of her commit suicide, rather than saw it.

‘Does that surprise you?’ Camille asked.

‘Yes. She had everything to live for. Why would she want to kill herself?’

‘Well,’ Richard said, ‘I understand Polly could suffer from mood swings.’

‘You’re damned right about her mood swings,’ Juliette said. ‘She’d be happy one minute and snappy as hell the next. Isn’t that right, Alain?’

Juliette looked at her husband for confirmation, but Richard could see that Alain was a lot less comfortable speaking ill of the dead than his wife.

‘She could also be capable of great kindness,’ he said, wanting to defend his former boss. ‘Like the way she always brought gifts back for us whenever she went abroad. Or still paid you your salary even when you broke your foot the year before last. That was kind of her.’

‘It was the least she could do,’ Juliette said, more for her husband’s benefit than for the police. ‘And all those drugs she took didn’t help with her moods, I can tell you that much.’

‘So you knew about her drugs?’

‘It was impossible not to.’

‘But she’d stopped,’ Alain said, still trying hard to remain loyal. ‘All that was in the past.’

‘And how would you know?’ Camille asked politely.

Alain frowned. ‘Because she never hid her drugs from us. You’d be cleaning the pool, or tidying away after breakfast and she’d just get out her … you know, all that terrible paraphernalia in front of you. The foil, the filthy spoon, the whole thing, it was disgusting.’

‘She’d inject herself in front of you?’

‘She never injected. As far as I know. She used to smoke her heroin. She called it “chasing the dragon”. But that’s the thing. I’d not seen her do any drugs since she got back from rehab a few months ago.’

‘Yes, we understand she was in rehab in the States. Was that right?’

‘That’s right,’ Alain agreed. ‘And when she got back, I’m pretty sure she’d kicked the habit.’

Juliette snorted, and Richard looked at her.

‘A leopard doesn’t change its spots,’ she said. ‘And if we didn’t see Polly taking her heroin, that just means she’d found somewhere secret to do it, if you ask me.’

Richard looked at Juliette and couldn’t work out if he was grateful for her lack of sympathy for the deceased, or if he should consider it deeply suspicious.

‘Then can you help with something else?’ Richard asked. ‘Only, it’s possible that there was someone already on the cliff steps before Polly died. Someone who was wearing a yellow raincoat.’

‘There was?’ Juliette asked, sharply.

‘Apparently so,’ Richard said, trying to keep the interest out of his voice. It was clear that what he’d said had chimed with Juliette.

‘What sort of yellow coat?’ Juliette asked.

‘A bright yellow raincoat.’

‘With a hood?’

‘Do you know someone who owns a coat like that?’

‘I don’t. But a few days ago, I saw someone down at the bottom of the garden—you know, over by the cliff’s edge—wearing a shiny yellow raincoat with a hood, and I couldn’t work out who it was. I just presumed it was someone from the house.’

‘Did you see if this person was a man or a woman?’ Richard asked.

‘I don’t know. I was too far away.’

‘Then what about the person’s build? Or hair, even? Think. It could be important. What can you describe of this person?’

Juliette thought for a long time before answering.

‘I’m sorry. Whoever it was, I couldn’t see, but I remembered it because they had their hood up.’

‘This person had the hood up on their raincoat so you couldn’t see their face?’

‘That’s right.’

Richard frowned. This was the second time someone in the house had seen a mystery person wearing a yellow raincoat over by the top of the cliff. It couldn’t be a coincidence, could it?

‘But if you had to guess, who in the house could it have been?’ Richard asked.

‘I’m sorry. It could have been anyone.’

‘Maybe the person wasn’t from the house,’ Alain offered.

‘Is that possible?’

‘It might be. There’s an old smugglers’ path that goes around the headland up here. People sometimes use it as a shortcut to get around the coast even though they’re not supposed to.’

‘There’s a smugglers’ path up here?’ Richard asked, surprised.

‘That’s right,’ Juliette said, taking control of the conversation back from her husband. ‘This used to be a smuggler’s house. Because of its access to the hidden bay. Back in the day, illegal shipments would come in by boat and get unloaded on the beach at the bottom of the cliffs where the British customs officials couldn’t see. You know?’

‘So the general public have access to Polly’s garden?’

‘They aren’t supposed to, but there’s plenty of people who know about the paths. There are old smugglers’ paths all over the island.’

Richard was disappointed. As long as the mythical yellow-coat wearer was one of the people from the house, then proving that person’s identity might have been an achievable aim. But if it could have been anyone on the island who went down the steps wearing a yellow coat just before Polly died …?

‘I see. Then would you mind if we search your house for a yellow coat?’ Richard said and he noticed Juliette’s eyes narrow at once.

‘Why would you want to do that?’ she said, and both Richard and Camille could see the intelligence in her eyes as she asked the question.

‘Because it’s possible that Polly interacted with this person in the yellow coat just before she fell to her death. And we’re trying to find the coat.’

‘What?’ Juliette said. ‘Are you saying the guy in the yellow coat pushed Polly to her death?’

‘We’re very specifically not saying that,’ Richard clarified. ‘However, we’re not ruling anything out for the moment, either.’

Juliette looked at the police and Richard wondered if there was a hint of triumph in her voice as she said, ‘Search wherever you like.’

As the cottage was small, it didn’t take Richard and Camille long to discover that there wasn’t any kind of yellow raincoat anywhere—and nothing much else of interest, either. Once Richard and Camille had thanked the Moreaus for their time, they went back outside.

‘So what did you think?’ Richard asked.

‘I don’t know,’ Camille said. ‘He seemed shocked. Decent. But there was something about her, wasn’t there?’

‘She was happy enough to stick the knife into the deceased,’ Richard agreed.

Before Richard could say anything more, the alarm went off on his mobile phone—which he was quick to pull out of his pocket and silence.

‘What’s that?’ Camille asked.

Richard knew that it was a reminder he’d set earlier to tell him his mother would be touching down on Saint-Marie in an hour’s time.

‘Oh, nothing,’ he lied.

‘No, I don’t buy it,’ Camille said. ‘You’ve been checking your watch all day, and I’ve never known you set an alarm before. Something’s up.’

Richard looked at his subordinate and knew that he had no quick answer, so he decided that his best course of action would be to pretend that she hadn’t spoken at all. He started walking away from her.

‘Hey!’ Camille called out after her boss, before setting off to catch up with him.

‘I want to see this old smugglers’ path,’ Richard said, as though he weren’t sidestepping Camille’s question.

‘Okay, if you want to be like that,’ Camille said, ‘but I’ll find out what’s going on. You know I will.’

‘Nothing’s going on,’ Richard lied again. ‘But where’s this path?’

‘Don’t worry, it’ll be over by the cliff’s edge, I reckon. If it’s an old smugglers’ path.’

Once they’d passed the border of shrubs and plants that separated the main garden from the cliff top, Camille looked at where the garden stopped and the jungle began.

‘Yes, you can see it there,’ she said, pointing at an old dirt path that was set ten or so feet back from the cliff’s edge—and which started at the edge of the lawn and disappeared into the thick jungle that swept down the headland.

Now that he knew what he was looking for, Richard could see the old path as well.

‘And where do you think the path leads?’ he asked

‘All the old coastal paths around here lead back to Honoré.’

As Camille was saying this, Fidel appeared over by the cliff’s steps.

‘Sir, sir, I think I’ve found it!’

Richard and Camille went over to Fidel, and, as the three police officers descended the steps that were carved into the cliff face, Fidel explained how the paramedics had removed the body, and since then he had been trying to identify the place on the stairs from where Polly had jumped.

‘And I think I’ve found it, sir.’

As Fidel said this, he led around the first bend in the stairs, and, just a few steps further on, he pointed at the edge of the step. Richard could see there was a gap in the stubby thorn bushes that ran along the edge of the steps, and the escarpment of red dirt had given away a bit. Edging as close to the vertiginous drop as he dared, Richard looked over and could see that the gap in the thorns was directly above where Polly’s body had been found on the beach below.

Richard looked about himself and saw that this spot on the stairs was, as Claire had said had been the case, just beyond the first turn in the steps as they led down the cliff face. As such, this was pretty much the first place on the whole staircase where a person would have been invisible to anyone standing at the top of the stairs. Or sitting in a wheelchair.

This troubled Richard. After all, why didn’t Polly just jump to her death from the top of the cliff? Or from the first flight of steps? Why did she wait until she’d gone around the first bend and started down the second flight of steps before she jumped?

Putting the thought to one side, Richard looked again at how the gap in the thorns was directly above where Polly’s body had been found on the sand far below, and decided that Fidel was almost certainly right. This was where Polly had fallen to her death. In which case, what had Polly cut her arm on? Richard couldn’t immediately see any blood on the steps or anything obviously woody that might have imparted the green tinge they found on her hands and around the cut in her arm.

Fidel already had the crime scene kit to hand, so Richard got out a spray bottle of Luminol and the portable ultraviolet lamp. If Polly had already been bleeding when she went over the edge—as seemed likely—then there should be evidence of blood spatter on the red earth where she’d gone over.

Richard sprayed a fine mist of liquid Luminol over the dirt where he thought Polly’s blood might have dropped. He then shone the ultraviolet light over the same ground immediately afterwards. Blotches of blood immediately started to fluoresce a purplish silver under the UV light.

‘Okay, so there are drops of blood here,’ Richard said. ‘Good work, Fidel. This is now a secondary crime scene. Please secure and process it. In particular, I want you to check if there’s any trail of blood spots that leads to here, or whether the blood is in fact confined to this one site.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Richard creaked back to a standing position, pulled his hankie from his jacket pocket and tried to wipe the sweat from his face and back of his neck.

Camille could see that her boss was troubled.

‘What is it?’ she asked.

‘Well, don’t those spots of blood strike you as odd?’

Camille had played this game often enough to know that it was quicker if she just pleaded ignorance. ‘No, sir. Not odd in any way. So why don’t you tell me why they’re odd.’

‘Because,’ Richard said, ‘if this blood came from Polly’s wound in her arm—which seems to be a fair working assumption—then where’s the object that caused the cut?’

Camille thought for a moment. ‘Maybe she cut herself elsewhere and that’s where the object still is.’

‘But you’ve seen the blood spatter. It looks as though it’s localised to this one step here.’ Richard looked about himself, nonplussed. ‘Okay, let’s work this through. I think the moss on her arm means that she was cut by a branch or bit of wood.’

‘That seems reasonable.’

‘And it will have to have been of decent size to cause such a deep wound.’

‘That also seems reasonable.’

‘So where is it?’

‘Oh, I see what you mean. Good point.’

Richard and Camille started looking for any kind of loose piece of wood in the scrubby bushes that ran up and down the seaward side of the stone staircase. For Richard, this task required nerves of steel, if only because it involved going right up to the edge of the staircase—a vertical drop to almost certain death only inches beyond—and then reaching in to the bush to see if there was any loose branch hidden inside. And it really didn’t help that the bushes were all thorn bushes.

Richard called out a sudden ‘Ow!’ for the hundredth time as he removed his right hand from one of the thorn bushes, and Camille found herself having to suppress a smile. Watching her boss in his woollen suit pull thorns from his hand while halfway up a cliff face in the searing Caribbean heat, she couldn’t help but conclude that he was one of the most extraordinary men she’d ever met. And even though she mostly found him stubborn, arrogant and lacking in any kind of human warmth, there was no denying that, as a policeman, he got results. And for that, Camille could almost forgive him all his other personal failings. Almost forgive him.

‘Aha!’ Richard called out from further down the steps.

‘What is it?’

Camille headed down to join her boss, who she could see was standing at the next bend in the steps as they zig-zagged down the cliff face. Here—where the steps turned down for the next flight—some proper bushes had been allowed to grow up to about shoulder height in the red dirt, and Richard was on his hands and knees lifting the lower branches on a particularly vicious-looking thorn bush.

As Camille arrived, Richard called back to her, ‘Don’t come any closer.’

He then reached into the bush and carefully pulled an object out.

It was an old bit of driftwood about four feet long. And it was covered top to bottom in a green moss from being in the sea for so long.

‘Now, can you tell me what a piece of driftwood is doing hidden in a bush halfway up a cliff?’

Richard turned the branch over in his hands. At one end, there was still a bit of wood sticking out at a sharp angle where another section of branch had snapped off. This snapped-off bit of branch was only an inch or so long, but Richard and Camille could both see that there were dark stains on it—and around that end of the branch as well.

As the UV lamp and bottle of Luminol were soon able to confirm, the dark patches around the stubby bit of broken-off branch were blood. And the smears on the rest of the driftwood were also blood.

If this was Polly’s blood, then Richard realised that someone else must have hidden the branch after she’d fallen to her death.

In fact, Richard realised, the find was even more significant than that. His suspicions about Polly’s death had been right all along.

‘You know what?’ he said. ‘Polly Carter didn’t jump. She was murdered.’