Murder in the Caribbean. Robert Thorogood

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      Within half an hour, the coastguard’s bright yellow rescue boat had arrived and was starting to winch the rear end of the boat onto its deck. This allowed Richard to order Fidel and Dwayne to stay with the coastguard and coordinate the safe return of the boat while he and Camille drove the Police launch in wide circles through the expanding spread of floating debris. All they found were various pieces of detritus – from plastic jerry cans to kitchen implements and even an old white plastic chair – but they couldn’t find anything that seemed to shed any light on exactly what had happened.

      Once it became apparent that there was nothing left to find on the surface of the water, Richard ordered Camille to drive them back to harbour. When they arrived, Richard saw a small crowd of locals gathered on the quayside. Richard couldn’t imagine why. After all, the explosion had happened hundreds of metres away, there was nothing much for the crowd to see, but then he noticed that everyone seemed to be clustered around one woman in particular.

      While Camille tied the boat up, Richard saw the crowd jostle the middle-aged woman forward, and he went to find out what was happening.

      ‘I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you all to move on,’ he announced as he came within earshot. ‘There’s nothing to see here.’

      ‘But is it true?’ the woman at the front asked.

      ‘Is what true?’

      ‘That it was Conrad’s boat?’

      ‘It’s still early in the investigation.’

      ‘But was it Conrad’s boat?’ she said again, almost begging.

      Before Richard could reply that he couldn’t possibly comment, Camille pushed past him and took the woman’s hands in hers.

      ‘Natasha,’ she said, ‘I’m so sorry. It was Conrad’s boat.’

      ‘Detective Sergeant?’ Richard said, irked that Camille had so effortlessly taken control of the situation.

      ‘Yes, sir?’ Camille replied.

      ‘You know each other?’

      Richard indicated the woman. He could see that she was perhaps in her late forties, and was dressed somewhat dowdily, with a simple skirt, blouse and cardigan.

      ‘This is Natasha Gardiner,’ Camille said. ‘Conrad Gardiner’s wife.’

      ‘Oh,’ Richard said. ‘I see.’

      ‘But it was definitely his boat . . .?’ Natasha asked, her eyes desperate with worry.

      ‘I’m sorry,’ Camille said. ‘It was.’

      ‘Then where is he?’

      ‘We don’t know. But we didn’t see him in the water, so maybe he got away before it happened.’

      Richard decided that enough was enough. If it was unprofessional that they should be talking about the incident before they’d even finished their first survey of the scene, it was doubly bad that they’d be doing so in front of a crowd.

      ‘Perhaps we could have this conversation somewhere a little more private?’ he asked Camille.

      ‘Good idea,’ Camille agreed. ‘Natasha and Conrad live only a couple of houses away, we can talk there.’

      Natasha’s house was precisely the last place on earth Richard wanted to visit, but he couldn’t see a diplomatic way of explaining this to his partner, so he just harrumphed by way of an answer.

      ‘Good!’ Camille said, and then started to lead Natasha off, telling her how she shouldn’t prejudge the situation, there were a million things that may have happened, and maybe they’d find a very damp and embarrassed Conrad already waiting for them back at her house. This seemed to settle Natasha a little, but it did nothing to improve Richard’s mood as he followed behind.

      Natasha’s house was a one-storey bungalow that led directly onto the little beach of Honoré. It had a green and white striped awning out front, and a couple of hanging baskets of flame-red flowers either side of the front door. The inside of the house was just as quaint, with simple furniture, and sea shells arranged on shelves.

      ‘Now, why don’t I get us all a glass of water,’ Camille said, heading to the sink. ‘And maybe you could tell us a bit about where Conrad was going this morning.’

      ‘Well, I don’t know. Not exactly. Only that Conrad always goes out fishing every morning.’

      ‘He’s a fisherman?’ Richard asked.

      ‘Oh no, he’s a music producer. Or he was for a time.’

      ‘So what does he do now?’

      ‘Well . . . you know. This and that. I mean, we don’t need so much money to get by, now we’re older.’

      ‘But he goes fishing every morning?’

      ‘Not every morning. Sometimes he doesn’t get up in time. But most days.’

      ‘And do you ever go out with him?’

      ‘Me? Oh no, I’m not welcome. You see, Conrad never catches anything much. For him, it’s more about getting away, I think. You know what men are like.’

      Natasha addressed this last comment to Camille as she came over with two glasses of water.

      ‘Here you go,’ Camille said.

      ‘Thank you,’ Natasha said gratefully as she took her glass. ‘And you think he maybe wasn’t on the boat when it went up like that?’

      ‘It’s a possibility,’ Camille said.

      ‘But we can’t really talk about specifics this early in the investigation,’ Richard said. ‘Although you should perhaps know that we found a smear of blood on the one remaining part of the hull we could find.’

      ‘Oh,’ Natasha said as this information sank in.

      ‘It may not be blood,’ Camille said with a warning glance at her boss to soften his approach. ‘And even if it is, it’s possible it belongs to someone other than your husband, of course.’

      ‘But he always goes out on his own. No-one else would have been with him. If you found blood . . .?’

      Richard could see tears forming in Natasha’s eyes.

      ‘Can I ask,’ he said, ‘was your husband’s boat safe?’

      ‘How do you mean?’

      ‘Well, are you surprised he had this accident?’

      And with that, the tears came.

      Richard looked at Camille, partly in helplessness, and partly in irritation. As far as he was concerned, it was entirely his partner’s fault that they now found themselves in this situation. This was far too soon to be talking to a key witness.

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