The Killing Of Polly Carter. Robert Thorogood
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And to divide the challenge into more manageable chunks, Richard could see that the whole staircase doubled back on itself four or five times as it wound its way down the cliff face. In fact, Richard realised, even if he fell over the edge, there’d be a chance he’d perhaps have his fall broken by the stone steps on the flight of stairs directly beneath.
In conclusion, Richard decided, it was scary, but he could do it. It helped, of course, that he was wearing such sensible shoes, he kept telling himself in a repeated mantra as, arms wide, he took six or seven minutes to pick his way down to the beach far below.
Once there, Richard could see, with relief, that Sergeant Fidel Best and Police Officer Dwayne Myers were already working the scene. Or rather, he was relieved to see that Fidel was working the scene. Richard’s feelings towards Dwayne were a little more nuanced. This was because, whereas Fidel was young, fresh-faced and lived and breathed correct police procedure, Dwayne had been on the force a number of decades, had refused every offer of promotion in all that time, and felt that following correct procedure was for ‘other people’. For Dwayne, in fact, his work was only partly about catching criminals, because it was also about making sure he knocked off on time so he could take one of his many and apparently concurrent girlfriends out partying every night. And the problem for Richard was, much as he’d like to chastise Dwayne for his lax attitudes, on an island like Saint-Marie, it was often Dwayne who got the results, if only because he drank in the same bars as the island’s dealers, grifters and general ne’er-do-wells. And, more improbably, he was accepted by them, to Richard’s eternal frustration.
Richard saw that there was a churn of footprints in the sand that led from the bottom of the stone steps to the body—and a similar mess of footprints around the body where Fidel and Dwayne were working the scene—but there weren’t any other footprints on the beach leading to or from the body. In fact, Richard could see, there weren’t any footprints anywhere else on the beach. In particular, there weren’t any footprints leading to or from the gently lapping sea in any way.
Having noted this, Richard said his hellos to Dwayne and Fidel and got down on his haunches to inspect the body. There was white sand stuck to the dead woman’s cheek and hair, but he also noticed that, apart from that, her face seemed almost entirely undamaged.
‘Sir,’ Fidel said. ‘You do recognise her, don’t you?’
‘The victim?’ Richard asked.
‘Told you,’ Dwayne said with a deep chuckle.
‘What on earth are you talking about?’
‘Well, sir,’ Fidel said, ‘I know it’s a bit disrespectful, but Dwayne here said he didn’t think you’d recognise the victim, and I said that you would.’
Richard looked at his team and once again marvelled at how often he seemed to operate in an alternate universe to them all.
‘What on earth are you both talking about?’ he asked.
‘You really don’t recognise her?’ Camille asked, just as surprised.
‘No I don’t,’ Richard snapped. ‘Because if I did recognise her, I’d have said that I did, wouldn’t I? But I didn’t, so I didn’t.’
‘It’s Polly Carter,’ Camille said.
‘Right. Good. And who’s she?’
‘You really don’t know who Polly Carter is?’
Richard jutted his jaw out. He didn’t want to have to say it again.
‘Okay,’ Dwayne said, happy to act as peacemaker. ‘She’s one of the most famous supermodels in the world. And you’ve not heard of her?’
Richard looked at the body. He looked up again.
‘Can’t say that I have. Now,’ he said, suddenly wanting to move the conversation on, ‘could someone please tell me what we’ve got so far?’
Dwayne was grinning as Fidel flipped his notebook open.
‘Well, sir, so the victim’s name is Polly Carter. She’s a top model. Or was. She’s British by birth, and she’s in the papers the whole time. She parties hard, gets into fights, and she’s got houses around the world, but lives on Saint-Marie most of the year. There are a number of guests staying with her at the moment, but I’ve only managed to speak to a woman called Sophie Wessel so far. She’s a nurse for Polly’s twin sister.’
‘Polly’s got a twin sister?’ Richard asked.
‘That’s right. Her name’s Claire Carter. And her nurse, Sophie, said that Claire and Polly were in the garden together at about ten o’clock this morning when the two sisters started having an argument. Sophie doesn’t know what it was about. But when she heard a scream, she went to find out what was going on and found Claire—upset—at the top of the cliffs, and Polly Carter dead—just here—on the sand below.’
‘Any suggestion that Claire maybe pushed her sister off the cliff?’
‘That’s unlikely,’ Fidel said. ‘Claire’s in a wheelchair. I don’t see how she could overcome an able-bodied person. And, according to Sophie, Claire’s saying Polly had just announced that she was going to commit suicide before she ran down the cliff steps and threw herself to her death.’
‘She did?’
‘Apparently so.’
‘I see,’ Richard said, looking down at the body of Polly Carter as she lay twisted in death on the sand. Richard couldn’t help but notice how at peace her face looked. Almost as if she were only sleeping. Richard looked up at the cliff that loomed above the body and tried to guess at the state of mind someone would have to be in before they could jump to their death like this. Despite the heat, Richard shivered.
‘And were there any other witnesses to this suicide?’
‘I don’t believe any of the other house guests were nearby at the time, sir.’
‘Then can you tell me who the other house guests are?’
‘Of course,’ Fidel said, turning to another page in his notebook. ‘There’s Polly’s twin sister Claire Carter, I’ve mentioned her. Sophie Wessel is her nurse. She’s been hired from an agency in London for the duration of the holiday. Then there’s Max Brandon, Polly’s agent and manager. And the film director, Phil Adams.’
‘Phil Adams?’ Richard had seen a few Phil Adams films before now and hadn’t liked any of them.
‘That’s right, sir. Polly also employs a husband and wife team who live in a cottage in the grounds and look after the house when she’s not here. Name of Juliette and Alain Moreau. But they were off at church this morning and have yet to return.’
‘I see,’ Richard said. ‘So what have we been able to discover about the body?’
‘Well, sir,’ Fidel said, ‘with a death from a height like this, it’s hard to know what injuries were pre- or post-mortem until we get the results back from the autopsy. However, there is something we noticed.’ Fidel got down on his knees and carefully turned Polly’s right arm so that Richard and Camille could see the inside of her forearm.
There was a deep gash running five or six inches along the inside of her forearm—from just below her elbow to just above her wrist. But what got Richard’s attention was the dirty tinge of green that seemed to smear around the edges of the cut.
‘What’s this?’ Richard asked, indicating the green tinge to the wound.
‘She’s got green marks on her hands, as well, Chief,’ Dwayne said.
Fidel opened the fingers on the victim’s right hand and Richard could see similar green smudgy marks on her palm and fingers.
‘Looks like she tried to grab hold of a bush or something on the way down,’ Camille said.
Richard opened the victim’s left hand and saw the