The Island Murders (Dorset Crime Book 3) Read online

  “Of course not,” said Lesley, her skin bristling.

  “So what’s up?”

  “Nothing,” Lesley replied, looking at her mug. She blew on the coffee. She shouldn’t have made this, if she was planning to go back to the house. Truth was, she hadn’t been planning on doing that until a moment ago.

  But she’d been tense since the Nichol case. Lesley had discovered things about Elsa, about the clients she represented. She wasn’t sure if Elsa knew that she knew.

  She rounded the sofa and sat down next to Elsa, placing a hand on her knee. She rubbed it and Elsa leaned in towards her.

  “I’m sorry,” Lesley said. “It’s just my boss, he’s being a dick at the moment.”

  Elsa laughed. “That’s what bosses do. Particularly if you’re a copper.”

  “Yeah,” Lesley sighed. “But I need to get going.”

  “OK. When will I see you again?”

  Lesley shrugged. “Tomorrow maybe, day after?”

  “Good,” said Elsa. She placed her hand over Lesley’s, still on her knee. “You’re not pissed off with me?”

  “No,” said Lesley. She could hear tension in her voice.

  “Good.” Elsa pulled her hand away and stood up. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

  Lesley looked up at her. “I don’t get a kiss?”

  Elsa leaned over Lesley. She placed her hands on the back of the sofa, either side of Lesley’s head. “Of course you get a kiss, honey.”

  Chapter Three

  Frankie hammered on Natasha’s door.

  “Natasha!” she cried. “Open up!”

  Natasha would be getting ready for bed. Bernard wouldn’t appreciate being disturbed. But this house was the closest to the beach and they needed help, fast.

  Adam ran up behind Frankie, barrelling into the door. It shuddered under his weight.

  “Ow!” she cried.

  “Sorry,” he panted. “Anybody in?”

  “Of course they’re in,” Frankie said. “They’ll be going to bed.”

  She hammered on the door again. This time it opened.

  Natasha stood in front of them, light silhouetting her frizzy hair. She still wore makeup on one eye but not the other.

  “What is it?” she said, glancing over her shoulder. “Did you forget something?”

  Frankie shook her head. Her breathing was shallow.

  “No, it’s... it’s...” She stared at Natasha, the words refusing to come.

  “It’s Simone,” said Adam.

  Frankie put a hand out to the doorpost. “We found her.”

  “What? Where?” asked Natasha.

  Frankie felt her legs weaken. She leaned against the doorpost.

  “Where?” asked Natasha. Her eyes were wide, her face pale. “Is she OK?”

  Frankie shook her head.

  Natasha took a step forward, her eyes full of concern. “Is she sick?” she said. “Is it serious? Oh, shit.” She looked over her shoulder into the house. “Getting paramedics over here takes forever.”

  Frankie swallowed. “She doesn’t need paramedics. At least I…”

  “What then?” snapped Natasha. “What’s happened?”

  “We found her on the beach,” said Adam.

  Frankie lowered her head, listening to him speak. All she could see was the shape of Simone’s body on the beach. Her legs had been tangled in seaweed, and her hair had been matted. How long had she been there? When was it she’d called in sick?

  She raised her head and stared at Natasha. “Call the police.”

  “Why?” said Natasha. “What is it?”

  There was movement behind Natasha. Bernard appeared at the bottom of the stairs.

  “What’s going on, Nat?” he asked. “What’s wrong?”

  Natasha turned to him. “It’s Simone apparently, something’s happened.” She turned back to Frankie and Adam. “You found her? Where is she now?”

  “She’s dead,” said Adam. He had hold of Frankie’s arm, his fingertips sharp through her thin jacket. “We found her on the beach.”

  “Dead?” said Natasha. “Don’t be stupid. She was sick, she rang in.”

  “Did she?” said Frankie. “She rang you?”

  Natasha blinked at her. “She rang here this morning. First thing. She spoke to Bernard.” She turned to her husband. “Didn’t she?”

  He nodded. “They’re right, love,” he told his wife. “We should call the authorities.”

  Frankie looked into Natasha’s face.

  “Call the police,” she said. “Now!”

  “I need to tell Ed. He’ll know what to do.”

  Ed was Natasha’s boss, the person in charge of the full-time National Trust staff on the island.

  Frankie shook her head. “There isn’t time.”

  Bernard was behind Natasha, his hands on her shoulders. He looked at Adam. “It’s dark. You’re sure?”

  Frankie felt heat surge through her body. “We’re not imagining things.”

  He nodded. “No. Sorry. I’ll make the call.” He turned away. Frankie stared after him, wondering whether she should follow him inside, or go back to the beach.

  Natasha reached out to a set of coat hooks behind the door. She grabbed a coat and slung it over her shoulders. “Show me. I need to see.”

  Frankie stared at her. “You don’t.”

  Natasha glared at her. “Show me, Frankie.”

  Frankie exchanged a look with Adam. He shrugged. “OK,” she said.

  She turned away from the house and ran back towards the beach. She could hear two sets of footsteps behind her, Adam and Natasha.

  They were at the beach in moments, much quicker last time. She waved her arm in the direction of Simone’s body. She didn’t want to look at her again.

  “Down there,” she panted.

  Natasha ran onto the beach. Frankie followed, slowly, her footsteps uneven.

  “Is she still there?” she called, still holding out a glimmer of hope that she might have been wrong. That Simone might have stood up and walked away. Or that she might not have been there at all.

  “She is,” Natasha called. “It’s Simone. Oh my God.” The last word came out as a wail.

  Adam was behind Frankie. “What’s she doing?” he hissed.

  “I don’t know,” she whispered. “We need to call the police.”

  She called out to Natasha. “Come away! Don’t disturb her.” It might be a crime scene, she realised with a jolt.

  “Bernard’s already doing it,” Adam told her. “He’s on the phone.”

  Natasha was walking back from the beach, her body a shadow against the night sky. She stumbled towards Frankie and grabbed her arm. “You’re right,” she breathed. “It’s Simone, she’s dead.”

  Chapter Four

  A note was sitting on Lesley’s desk when she arrived in the office: Report to Detective Superintendent Carpenter’s office asap.

  There was no signature, no indication of when it had been left. She left it sitting on the desk and went out into the team room. DS Dennis Frampton was alone at his desk, yawning and stretching his arms above his head. When he saw her, he jolted to attention.

  “Have you seen anyone come into my office this morning and leave me a note?”

  Dennis wiped his glasses and placed them back on his nose. “No, boss.”

  “Have you been here long?”

  “I got here about ten minutes before you.”

  The door opened and DC Johnny Chiles entered.

  “Morning, Johnny,” Lesley said. “You’ve just arrived?”

  He shrugged. “Er, yes boss. Am I late?”

  It was eight thirty; he was early. “It’s OK, Johnny,” Lesley replied.

  It didn’t matter who’d left the note, or even when. She just needed to get to Carpenter’s office. She didn’t like the idea of him leaving her notes. Not that it was likely to have been him. When you got to the heady heights of Detective Superintendent, you had other people to do that kind of thi
ng for you.

  She hurried up the stairs, straightening her skirt, and knocked on his door.

  “Come in,” he called.

  She entered and closed the door behind her. Carpenter had a large office at the front of the building, above her own but twice the size. Next to her was a desk, chairs placed on either side of it. In the far corner was a tight arrangement of easy chairs. Carpenter was in one of those chairs, reading a newspaper.

  Lesley looked at him. “You wanted to see me, Sir.”

  He laid the newspaper down on the coffee table in front of him: the Bournemouth Echo. “Pays to keep on top of what’s going on,” he told her. “Not just the crime reporting.”

  She nodded. As a DCI, she didn’t have to worry about that kind of thing, thank God. If she ever wanted promotion, she’d have to put up with less detecting and more politicking. Lesley wasn’t sure she’d be very good at politicking.

  “I can imagine, Sir,” she replied.

  He indicated for her to take one of the easy chairs. She picked the one next to him and sat tidily. She’d rather sit at his desk, but if he wanted to try to put her at her ease, she wouldn’t argue.

  He leaned back. “We’ve got a death on Brownsea Island.”

  “Brownsea Island?”

  He steepled his hands in front of him. “It’s delicate.”

  “In what way?” she asked, wondering who the victim might be. A member of the force? A local bigwig? “Who’s the deceased?”

  “Member of National Trust staff, name of Simone Browning,” he told her.

  “I haven’t heard of her,” Lesley replied.

  “You wouldn’t have. She was a specialist in squirrels, apparently.”

  Lesley stopped herself from laughing. “Squirrels? Do people even have jobs being specialists in squirrels?”

  He cocked his head. “You don’t know that Brownsea Island is known for its population of red squirrels?”

  Lesley looked back at him, struggling to keep a straight face. “I didn’t, Sir.”

  “You do now.”

  “So why is it delicate?” she asked. “Are we looking at a murder?”

  “We don’t know that yet. A call was made to 999 late last night. Uniform went over in a boat along with a couple of paramedics, but they were too late for this poor woman. She’d washed up on one of the beaches.”

  “And she worked there?”

  “She did.” He leaned forward. “Like much of the area, Brownsea is owned by the National Trust. Although John Lewis does have a slice of it.”

  “John Lewis?”

  “The castle. You’ll see.”

  Lesley nodded. She didn’t understand what involvement a retailer would have with a castle on a National Trust island, but she’d find out soon enough. And there were more pressing questions than this one. “Have we closed the island off to visitors, Sir?” she asked.

  “We have. No boats have run since yesterday afternoon. The John Lewis people aren’t happy about it, they were due to have a delegation arrive today.”

  “I’m sure they’ll understand.”

  He eyed her. “It’ll be your job to smooth the waters.”

  She opened her mouth to object. Surely her job was to investigate Simone Browning’s death. But if that involved a bit of PR, then she’d have to put up with it.

  “Sir.”

  “Apparently she was a member of the island’s conservation team. Lived there, with a bunch of other tree huggers. We need to handle this carefully, the National Trust are a major player in this county.”

  Lesley nodded. She rose from her chair. “I’ll get straight over there. Take a team with me.”

  “We don’t want to go in there mob-handed. Just take DS Frampton.”

  Lesley considered. There would be a handful of people to interview, this conservation team Carpenter had mentioned. If the woman had drowned herself, there wouldn’t even be a crime to investigate. “No problem,” she replied, turning for the door.

  “Report back to me. And keep them sweet, will you?”

  “Of course, Sir.”

  Lesley returned to the office to find Dennis standing over Johnny’s desk. DC Mike Legg was with them. All three men were looking at Johnny’s screen, a news report: Body found on Brownsea Island.

  “So it’s public,” she said.

  The three men looked up.

  “Is this what Carpenter wanted you for?” asked Dennis.

  “It was,” she replied. “You and I need to go over to the island and find out if it’s suspicious.”

  Dennis moved away from the back of Johnny’s chair and walked to his own desk, still limping ever so slightly. His wound from when he’d taken Harry Nichol’s killer had almost healed, but not as much as he liked to make out. Would he cope with taking a ferry across to the island?

  Lesley knew better than to suggest to Dennis’s face that he might not be up to the job. She would make sure he didn’t have to do much yomping around once they got there. The tourists did the trip every day, and most of them were past their best from what Lesley had seen.

  “Right,” she said. “So how do we get over there?”

  Mike looked up. “The National Trust run boats. Private ones, as well as the tourist ones.”

  “Good,” said Lesley. “See if they’ll get us over there on one, will you?”

  “Boss.” Mike picked up his phone.

  Dennis looked at Lesley. “And I think you should take Johnny instead of me.”

  Lesley raised an eyebrow. Was he admitting that this was too much for him? “The Super mentioned you by name.”

  Dennis shook his head. “Look at me,” he said. “I’m in no fit state to be getting boats and tramping across the island. Take Johnny, it’ll be good experience for him.”

  Lesley looked between Johnny and Mike. “Just Johnny?”

  “I’ll need Mike here to help me collate evidence,” Dennis said, just as the fifth member of the team entered: PC Tina Abbott.

  Tina looked between the men, her face reddening. “Am I late? Was there a briefing?”

  Lesley smiled at her. “It’s fine, Tina. Carpenter’s got us on the Brownsea Island case. I imagine you’ve heard all about it already.”

  Tina placed her uniform jacket on the back of her chair. Her face was grave. “Nasty business, boss. Poor woman.”

  “I’m heading over there, with Johnny. We’ll find out if it’s suspicious, and if it is, we’ll allocate resources.”

  “Anything I can do while you’re gone?”

  “Don’t worry, Constable,” said Dennis. “I’ll keep you busy.”

  Tina looked from Lesley to Dennis and back again. “Of course.”

  “That’s settled then,” said Lesley. “Johnny, you drive.”

  It would be a quick jaunt over to Brownsea Island, discover they had a suicide on their hands, and then back to report to Carpenter. It didn’t really matter who she took.

  Chapter Five

  “So,” said Lesley as she and Johnny approached Poole Quay. “Brownsea Island, have you been there much?”

  Johnny poked his tongue between his teeth, concentrating on squeezing into the multi-storey car park.

  “Never, boss,” he replied.

  “Never?” she said. “I thought you’d lived down here all your life?”

  He turned a tight corner, eyeing a space ahead of them. “I’m inland, near Dorchester. I don’t go to the sea that much.”

  She laughed. For her, Midlands born and bred, the sea was the main attraction of being in Dorset. She liked to drag Elsa out for evening walks along the beach.

  “Never?” she said. “Not even when you were a kid?”

  “When I was a kid, yeah. Mum and Dad used to bring me down to Bournemouth beach all the time. I wasn’t that keen, though.”

  “How can you not be keen on the beach when you’re a kid?”

  He eased the car into the space and turned off the ignition.

  He turned to her. “You won’t tell the sarge
this, will you?”

  She smiled at him. “Depends what it is.”

  He gave her a serious look.

  “No,” she said. “I won’t tell him.” She wondered what Johnny’s big secret was.

  “I get seasick,” he replied. “I can’t stand being out on the water.”

  “Seasick?”

  He nodded. “I’m not much of a Dorset dumpling, am I?”

  “Dorset dumpling?”

  A smile played at the corners of his lips. “Local phrase, Dorset born and bred. I don’t fit though, not if I don’t like the sea. Poole Harbour dominates this county.”

  She shrugged. “I guess there are plenty of places inland.” She eyed him. “Anyway, are you going to be alright on this boat?”

  He grimaced. “I’ll hold my breath.”

  She closed the door to the car and followed Johnny out of the car park. Moments later, they were standing on the quay next to a hexagonal kiosk painted a bright orange. Brownsea Island Tours. Crowds of people flocked around it, queuing haphazardly to buy their tickets.

  Lesley checked her watch. It was two hours since Carpenter had called her into his office. She didn’t like this taking so long.

  The crowd was getting agitated. The man in the kiosk, an old guy with weatherworn skin, was trying to explain that he wasn’t sailing today. Lesley pushed through and approached him.

  “DCI Clarke, Dorset Police,” she muttered. “Everything alright here?”

  He looked at her. “National Trust have closed the island. Your lot told them to, apparently.”

  Good. She didn’t want hordes of grockles tramping all over a crime scene. “Makes sense.”

  “You going to compensate me?”

  Lesley pointed at her chest in a who, me? gesture. “Dorset Police?”

  He nodded, his lips tight.

  She laughed. “Sorry, mate. If the island needs to be closed off, it needs to be closed off. I suggest you take it up with the National Trust.” It wasn’t as if they were short of cash, what with the money they took from all the buildings, beaches and car parks they owned.

  He gave her a look that told her he’d have little joy in that endeavour. “The quicker you get your job done, the sooner I can get back to work. I’m losing thousands every day.”