The Killing Of Polly Carter. Robert Thorogood

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      As Richard walked into Polly Carter’s house for the first time, he sneezed. This was because it may have been a grand villa in a stunning jungle setting—with orange-painted shutters to the windows, a bright blue front door and a red-tiled roof—but it was as messy as hell on the inside, and everything was covered in dust. Artefacts from Polly’s world travels, random pieces of furniture, local artworks and stacks of old magazines, books and photos were piled pell-mell so that sharp-edged Perspex awards sat next to ancient tribal masks, the antique dining table had modernist chrome chairs arranged around it, and the walls were just as crammed with modern collages as they were with faded oil paintings.

      But it was only when Camille showed Richard the garden that he knew the meaning of true horror, because he discovered that the house was built near a cliff, and he was now expected to walk down the stone steps that had been carved into it so he could reach the body on the beach below.

      ‘But there’s no safety rail!’ he said as he stood looking at the Health and Safety nightmare that lay ahead of him.

      ‘Come on,’ Camille said. ‘We need to get to the body. And it’s not as bad as it looks.’

      Richard looked at the stone steps again and saw that maybe Camille had a point. They were roughly hewn, but they were a good four or five feet wide. What’s more, although there was a vertical drop to almost certain death if you fell over the edge, there was actually a little escarpment of dirt and scrubby bushes and thorns running along the edge of the stairs to give the appearance of safety. 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 СКАЧАТЬ