Robert Thorogood - A Meditation On Murder

‘Oh, him ?’ Richard said, surprised.

‘Although Dominic was outside the Meditation Space when it was opened up, so I don’t see how he could be involved.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Richard said. ‘We’ll look into it. But if we come on to the events of this morning. Can I just start by asking, when did your husband get up?’

‘At sunrise. That’s when he gets up.’

‘I see. And you?’

‘I lay in bed for half an hour or so longer and then I got up as well. I had some breakfast, and then I remembered there was some sewing I could be getting on with. So I went out onto the verandah to do it.’ Rianka gathered her courage as she forced herself to remember. ‘I saw Aslan and the others go into the Meditation Space. They closed the door. And that was the last time I saw him …’

‘And do you know what time this was?’

‘I have no idea. Not really. Maybe half past seven? Or just after?’

‘Then can I ask, did you stay on the verandah the whole time your husband and the other guests were inside the Meditation Space?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you perhaps see anyone enter or leave the Meditation Space during that time?’

‘No. I didn’t.’

‘Are you sure?’

Rianka seemed to piece together her memories as she spoke. ‘I could see the whole lawn. The Meditation Space is in the middle of it. The only people I saw go inside it the whole time I was on the verandah were Aslan and the five guests. And once the door was shut, it didn’t open again. Not until later on, after I heard a woman scream. And that’s when I ran …’ Rianka trailed off as the pain of her memories overwhelmed her.

‘Thank you,’ Camille said. ‘We won’t be asking anything else.’

‘Just one more question, though, if that’s alright,’ Richard said.

Camille flashed a look at Richard that might have killed a lesser man, but Richard was impervious. He had a killer to catch. And Camille should have known by now that he wouldn’t be wasting Rianka’s time unless it was important.

‘Do you have any idea how a drawing pin ended up on the floor of the Meditation Space?’

‘I’m sorry ?’ Richard was surprised to see that Rianka had apparently said this without moving her mouth. And then he realised it had been his partner who’d spoken.

Ignoring the look of fire in Camille’s eyes, Richard turned back to Rianka.

‘You see, we found a drawing pin on the floor of the Meditation Space, and it could be important. After all, why would there be something as dangerous as a drawing pin left on a floor where people are walking around barefoot?’

‘I don’t understand. Are you asking me how a drawing pin got into the Meditation Space?’

‘Yes I am.’

‘Then I’m sorry. I don’t know.’

‘Very well then, thank you very much for your time.’ Richard turned to his partner. ‘Camille, if Rianka’s up to it, I’d like you to take her formal statement—and then I’d like you to take the statements of the other witnesses who were in the Meditation Space.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Camille said.

Richard could tell that Camille was irritated that he’d asked the grieving widow about a drawing pin, but he refused to apologise for what he felt was a valid line of inquiry, and that was that.

Outside again in the glaring sunlight, Richard tried to make sense of what he’d learnt so far, but it was hard to get a handle on everything. After all, they’d already arrested the self-confessed killer. Surely that made it an open and shut case?

But Richard wasn’t so sure. There was a long and ignoble history of weak-minded people admitting to murders they hadn’t committed. And there was no getting away from it, Julia hadn’t behaved like any kind of murderer he’d ever met before. After all, who’d confess to a murder and then be unable to explain to the police why they did it, how they did it or where the murder weapon came from? It also didn’t help her case that the wounds to the right side of the victim’s neck and back strongly suggested that the killer had been right-handed, and Julia said she was left-handed.

And then there was the mystery of the drawing pin. Richard didn’t care that Camille thought it was irrelevant. He’d learnt long ago that the most important object at a crime scene was sometimes something entirely humdrum that wouldn’t be of interest except for the fact that it was in the wrong place. And a drawing pin that was loose on the floor in a room where people went around barefoot was definitely a humdrum object in the wrong place.

He also couldn’t shake the feeling that the location of the murder itself was important. Aslan was killed inside a locked room that was only made of paper—and in front of a load of potential witnesses—but why was he killed there?

Richard looked through a heat haze at the Meditation Space as it sat shimmering in the middle of the lawn.

What had happened in there while it was locked down?

Richard considered that maybe Julia was their killer. Maybe she wasn’t. But if she wasn’t, then that meant that one of Saskia Filbee, Paul Sellars, Ann Sellars or Ben Jenkins had in fact done it.

But why on earth would any of them want to get a carving knife and viciously slay the owner of a hotel none of them had ever visited before?

‘Right then,’ Richard said when he and Camille had rejoined Dwayne back in the police station. ‘We have a killer to catch. Let’s get this up on the board.’

Richard dragged the ancient whiteboard on its juddering legs across to the centre of the room and took a moment to marvel—not for the first time—at how rudimentary the Honoré Police Station was.

There were four wooden desks for each of the station’s police officers—each with a computer on—and that was about it. Everything else that was piled around, and there was a lot of everything else, was generally broken or defunct somehow. The office noticeboard carried rotas for officers who’d long since left the station; the Wanted poster on the wall was for a man who’d apparently long since died; and there were ancient metal filing cabinets propped up around the walls like drunks at a party, their files spilling out of their drawers. And under all the mess of paperwork that littered everywhere, there were whole sedimentary layers of ancient office equipment that hadn’t been discontinued so much as abandoned in place.

Richard had come to the island of Saint-Marie just over a year ago when he’d been sent out to solve the murder of the incumbent Detective Inspector, a man called Charlie Hulme. Richard had hated the tropics from the moment he’d stepped off the plane, but he’d consoled himself at the time with the knowledge that he’d be able to go home just as soon as he’d solved the case.

But Richard hadn’t been counting on the political manoeuvrings of the island’s Commissioner of Police, Selwyn Hamilton, and by the time that Charlie Hulme’s killer had been caught, Richard was astounded to learn that he’d been invited to stay on as the island’s Detective Inspector.

Richard had been horrified, not least because it finally confirmed a suspicion he’d held for many years that his Superintendent back in Croydon had been trying to get rid of him. But now that Richard had had this fact confirmed, he decided that he was too proud to ask for his old job back. As far as Richard was concerned, no one should ever be made to beg to go back to Croydon. So, instead, he accepted the job on Saint-Marie as a stop-gap and spent every subsequent spare moment he had applying for jobs that would allow him to go back to a different station in the UK.

But a strange thing happened as the months passed, not that Richard was anything more than dimly aware of it. Because, separated from a Metropolitan Police hierarchy that he’d never quite fitted into—and now surrounded by a talented team who seemed to forgive him his idiosyncrasies while championing his strengths—Richard had finally started to find the sort of success that had proved so elusive in the UK.