Murder On Mustique

by Anne Glenconner

Genres: Small Town & Rural; Cozy Mystery

Synopsis

A storm. A disappearance. A race against time...

Mustique is in a state of breathless calm as tropical storm Cristobal edges towards it across the Atlantic. Most villa owners have escaped the island but a few young socialites remain, unwilling to let summer's partying end. American heiress Amanda Fortini is one such thrill-seeker - until she heads out for a morning swim and doesn't return.

Detective Sergeant Samuel Wilton is just 28 years old and the island's only fully trained police officer. He quickly realises he needs to contact Lord and Lady Innerleithen, who bought the island decades ago and have invested time, money and love creating a paradise. Jasper is in St Lucia designing a new village of luxury villas but Lady Veronica (Vee to her friends) catches a plane immediately. Her beloved god-daughter, Lily, is on the island and this disappearance has alarming echoes of what happened to Lily's mother many years ago. Lady Vee would never desert a friend in need, and she can keep a cool head in a crisis.

When Amanda's body is found, a murder investigation begins. Wilton knows the killer must be an islander because flights and ferry crossings have stopped due to the storm warning, but the local community isn't co-operating. And then the storm hits, and someone else disappears ...

(P) 2020 Hodder & Stoughton Ltd

Release date: November 12, 2020

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 352

Sample

IT’S 5 A.M. WHEN Amanda Fortini strolls through the palm trees in a red bikini to Britannia Bay. She’s barefoot, still slightly drunk after last night’s party. Her skin is tanned from diving on the island’s coral reef, and lazing by friends’ swimming pools, her blond hair two shades lighter than when she arrived in Mustique six weeks ago. She pauses for a moment, inhaling the island’s smell of wild vines, hibiscus flowers and adventure. The scent lifts her spirits higher as she follows the track through shoulder-high ferns. She’s twenty-three years old and feels in charge of her life for the first time ever. She has made mistakes and picked the wrong men, even though her life as a New York socialite has introduced her to many eligible bachelors – but no more. Certainty fills her mind as the ocean comes into view, a glitter of turquoise filling the horizon.

The young woman smiles as she surveys the beach, its pink-tinged sand unfolding in a wide crescent. The heat is increasing already, even though she’s on the western side of the island, the newly risen sun warming her back. It’s still so early there’s no one in sight. The ocean beckons her closer, tempting her to sprint into the waves like an over-excited child. She can do just as she likes here. No journalists are hiding among the trees, waiting to ambush her like they do in Manhattan, making her permanently self-conscious. Celebrity is the price she pays for belonging to a wealthy family, but its demands are constant. Every detail of her life is pored over on the pages of the glossy magazines. Mustique is the one place she can relax, without witnesses. That heady sense of freedom makes her spin in a pirouette, taking in the jungle’s depths, a pristine white villa on the hilltop, and the sun dropping coins of light onto the water’s surface. The Caribbean is as calm as a basin of mercury, waiting to welcome her.

Amanda walks into the sea, slowly at first, letting it erase last night’s heat from her skin, when she danced by a fire on the beach. A huge yacht hovers on the horizon ahead, its decks glinting in the sunlight. She allows the next tall wave to lift her off her feet. Her muscles feel loose and relaxed as she sets out from shore, arms and legs cutting through the water in a rapid crawl.

She turns only once to catch her breath. Mustique looks like an advert for tropical holidays as she treads water: its hills rise above her, circled by acres of tall trees and deserted beaches. Amanda floats on her back, content to drift for a while, turning her face to the sun.

A faint noise starts up while she admires the island’s lush profile. She can hear the ugly mechanical whirr of a speedboat, growing louder all the time. It could be a local fisherman or the yacht’s owner, but why is it going so fast? Everyone knows that there are swimmers in the water all day long. When she spins round, a motorboat is racing straight towards her. Instinct makes her dive below the water’s surface, until her lungs burn. The boat’s propeller misses her face by inches. Didn’t the driver see her waving frantically to make it change course? The boat spins in a tight circle, panic flooding her system as she dives again. When it speeds towards her for a third time her reactions are too slow.

The boat’s prow tosses her into the air like a rag doll, until she plummets back down into the water. Faces of people she loves flicker past her eyes: her mother, her best friends. Amanda is barely conscious when she surfaces, the waves’ tumult ringing in her ears. Her gaze lands on the island again, like a camera lens, taking a last shot of paradise.

MY HANDS HOVER over a cardboard box with the words ‘Princess Margaret’ scrawled on its lid. I’m at home in my Norfolk farmhouse this morning, completing a task I’ve delayed for months. I already know what the box contains: every present the princess gave me, during my four decades as her lady-in-waiting. I’ve let it stand in my attic since her funeral seven months ago.

Princess Margaret’s letters lie in neat bundles, bearing my full title, Lady Blake, in her flamboyant handwriting. The sight of them brings a lump to my throat. She always wrote to me if we were parted by illness, or family duties, but I can’t bear to reread them yet. I only need to choose an item for my goddaughter Lily Calder’s twenty-first birthday, because the glamorous world the princess occupied has always fascinated her. The sight of so many presents makes time slip backwards. Delicate white china eggcups traced with gold, a turquoise silk scarf and a soap dish carved from ebony. The princess loved to give items with a practical value, taking great care selecting each one. They trigger memories of royal tours and the glitter of flashbulbs that surrounded her, flattering at first, then cruel, in the months before her death. I pick up the silk scarf to admire it again. It’s the first present the princess gave me after Jasper bought Mustique on a whim in 1955, long before the island had electricity or running water. It will make an ideal present for Lily, especially when she hears about its origin. I know the princess wouldn’t object to it being passed on; she always loved possessions being put to good use.

It’s a relief when the telephone rings at 9.30a.m., before the past can swallow me whole. I feel certain it will be my husband, offloading his worries, but the voice at the end of the line belongs to my goddaughter. I’ve looked after Lily for the past sixteen years, ever since her mother died. She lives in our villa on Mustique, but I wasn’t expecting her to call home; the island is five hours behind the UK, so she must have risen before dawn. Her voice sounds breathless, yet she doesn’t explain what’s wrong. I listen to her describe how she’s been spending her time, running the conservation project her mother started so many years ago, to save the reef that protects the island. She’s worked like a trooper on it every summer since she hit her teens, and full-time since completing her marine biology degree in July. Volunteers have been helping her replant live coral onto areas bleached white by pollutants and the sea’s rising temperature. Anyone with a less well-tuned ear would miss the anxiety in her voice.

‘There’s nothing else to report, Vee. I just wanted to touch base.’

‘You’re up terribly early, darling. Is everything okay?’

She hesitates for a beat too long. ‘Fine. I’m looking forward to seeing you, that’s all. You and Jasper will be here for my birthday, won’t you?’

‘We wouldn’t miss it for the world. I’m flying over next weekend, so we’ll have a week to decide what you’d like to do, and Jasper’s promised to join us.’ I hear her take a long breath, like she’s trying not to cry. ‘Something’s wrong, isn’t it?’

I wait for her reply; silence is always the best way to break down Lily’s reticence. The girl has a sunny disposition, but the anniversary of her mother’s death is looming, which always knocks her off balance.

‘Amanda was meant to come over last night, but she never arrived.’

‘Maybe she forgot. Why not pop round later today?’

‘It’s been a strange week. I heard footsteps on my way home from Basil’s Bar, a few nights ago. I think someone followed me.’

‘Are you sure? It could have been someone staggering back to their villa after too many cocktails.’

‘You may be right,’ she says, her voice steadying. ‘Let me know when you’re arriving, once you have details. I’ll collect you.’

‘Spend the day with friends, Lily. I hate the idea of you alone in that great big house.’

‘I’m okay, honestly. There’s plenty of work to do on my boat.’

‘You’re allowed to relax occasionally, darling. I shall distract you with picnics and gossip, the minute I touch down.’

She gives a quiet laugh. ‘That’s what I need, I’ve been missing you.’

‘Me too, but we’ll be together soon.’

I end our conversation by telling Lily I love her, then say goodbye. The tension in her voice stays with me after our conversation ends; she never makes a fuss unless there’s a genuine emergency. She must have been working too hard if she’s worried about being followed, in one of the safest places in the world. The girl is more inclined to fret about the needs of others than her own, which is why I’m planning a huge surprise party to honour her birthday. I want her to know how much she means to Jasper and me, and our grown-up children. Raising her has been a pleasure, yet she never seems fully confident about her place in our family.

My thoughts remain with Lily as I peer into the box again. The next item I select is a rope of citrine beads, which trigger happier memories. Princess Margaret gave them to me because they would look perfect with my favourite dress. I’m about to put the box back in the attic when my phone rings for a second time. I can tell it’s my husband from the angry silence at the end of the line. The man’s temper is so mercurial he can shift from charm to abject fury in moments.

‘Jasper, is that you?’

‘Who else would it be?’ he snaps.

‘A friend perhaps, or one of the children.’

‘Oh Vee, for God’s sake, everything’s falling apart out here. I should ditch the whole project.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The bloody architect’s an imbecile. The villas are a disaster, and the casuarina trees I wanted saved have all been felled. I might as well throw in the towel.’ His voice is rising in pitch, warning me that he’s set to explode.

‘You’ll get things back on track,’ I say calmly. ‘Listen to me, Jasper, please. I’m flying to Mustique next Saturday, to prepare for Lily’s birthday party. Promise me you’ll collect the costumes and bring them over in good time. It’s not just a family affair; people are flying in from all over the world.’

‘It’s a fortnight away, for goodness’ sake. You’ve spoken of nothing else for months.’

‘Remember it’s a surprise. You mustn’t breathe a word to anyone, especially Lily.’

‘I can keep a secret, Vee, you know that. Oh, I wish you could see the Caribbean, it’s crystal clear today, not a cloud in the sky. It’s like the days when we slept in a tent on Mustique. Weren’t they marvellous?’

‘Apart from the wretched mosquitoes.’

Jasper laughs. ‘Poor thing, one bite and the whole swarm descended on you.’

‘Don’t remind me.’

‘Phillip’s over here, cheering me up. Don’t you miss us all?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘Do you remember how it began, on Mustique? We fished for lobsters in the lagoon with our bare hands, then basked in the sun all day. It was my idea of paradise.’

The stress in Jasper’s voice has been replaced by yearning, his gentle side coming to the fore. My husband has been in St Lucia for the past fortnight, overseeing his latest project: creating a beachside community of villas to rival the cachet of Mustique. I won’t let myself ask how much it’s costing, because it’s already consumed a huge amount of his fortune. I’ve spent my life observing his mood swings, delighting in the highs and weathering the lows. It’s better to forget the money that flows so easily through his fingers and concentrate on the future.

When I put down the phone the apple trees outside my window are shedding their leaves. It’s the start of autumn’s slow decline, my least favourite time of the year, because it reminds me that I’m seventy years old. But my parents were inspired by a particularly stalwart heroine in a novel by H.G. Wells, choosing to give me her middle name, Veronica. I always try to follow her example. Instinct tells me to change my plans and fly to Mustique this afternoon, to be with Lily. I shall book my ticket and go, without delay.

DS SOLOMON NILE is in his office, wondering how to fill his day. He’s only been in post three months, his role as Mustique’s only fully trained police officer resting uneasily on his shoulders. He flew home from the UK in June, and summer has passed without a single incident, giving him no excuse to request a deputy to safeguard the island’s territory. The police chief on St Vincent would laugh out loud if he claimed that Mustique needed another officer. The island of his birth is just three miles long, by one and a half miles wide, with no record of crime. Any wrong-doing would result in a spell in St Vincent’s jail, twenty-five miles away, and permanent exclusion from the privately owned island.

Nile needs to impress his senior officers during his probation period; his father is sick, and at thirty, he’s the oldest of two sons. A large part of his wage is spent on the old man’s medicines. This police job isn’t the one he dreamed of, but loyalty, and a need to make decisions about his future, made him accept it. He’s helped his father raise his younger brother Lyron, ever since his mother died when he was seven years old. The job gives him breathing space, even though his workspace is only large enough to accommodate a battered desk and two plastic chairs, the air-conditioning unit grinding noisily all day long, but failing to lower the temperature. The starched white shirt and black trousers of his uniform may look smart, but they’re not fit for purpose when the temperature outside is touching eighty degrees.

The detective glances through the half-open door at his colleagues playing cards, Winston and Charlie Layton. The brothers are a decade older than him, out of shape from sitting down ninety per cent of the time, the word ‘security’ emblazoned on their yellow T-shirts. Nile wouldn’t trust either man in a crisis.

Nile does a double take when the phone on his desk rings for the first time in weeks. He listens to Lily Calder in silence, her voice low and compelling, already on his feet by the time she says that someone is missing. Her friend Amanda Fortini was meant to visit her last night, but she never arrived, and she’s not answering her phone. The young woman should be easy to trace; only a few dozen villa owners have remained on the island at the end of the season. The majority have flown home to avoid the tropical storm that’s making slow but inexorable progress across the Atlantic, their time on Mustique just a temporary break from reality.

The Layton brothers are too immersed in their poker game to say goodbye when Nile takes his leave. He glances back at the police building and feels another stab of disappointment. Nile won a place to study history at Oxford University at eighteen, certain that the world was his oyster, but his view has changed since he returned home. His office has badly fitted windows, two makeshift holding cells built from breeze blocks, and a corrugated-iron roof that’s sure to leak when autumn’s tropical rainstorms arrive. He plans to ask the police chief on St Vincent to modernise the place once he completes his probation in six months’ time.

The detective’s mood improves as he mounts the off-road dune buggy that comes with his role. It’s the quickest way to cover the island’s mixed terrain and the best perk of his job, even though it takes three attempts to start the motor. He could walk to the Fortinis’ villa, but the trade winds have stopped blowing, breathless heat surrounding him as the buggy sets off. The police station lies in a section of the island that few holidaymakers visit. Most simply check into their villas and remain there, only emerging for cocktails at Basil’s Bar, Firefly or the Cotton House, before jetting home.

Nile scans the dense thickets that lie beyond the stone-paved path. The island has changed a great deal since his childhood, but the developers have retained the illusion of a tropical jungle, even though almost a hundred villas lie hidden among the trees. When he was a boy, turtles still crawled onto the beaches to lay their eggs, and red-footed tortoises roamed the jungles. The island’s wildlife still includes plenty of birds. A green-tailed parakeet flits overhead as he passes Britannia Bay, where a few holidaymakers are taking a dip, their beach towels the only spots of colour on the pale sand.

The detective’s curiosity rises as he parks his buggy outside the Fortinis’ holiday home. It looks more like a fairy-tale palace than a villa, with huge terraces built into the side of the hill. It’s one of the most impressive properties on Mustique, which isn’t surprising. The Fortini coffee empire is the largest in the world. Nile has always wondered what the place looks like inside, and today he’ll finally see for himself.

One of his neighbours from Lovell is sweeping the porch when Nile climbs the steps to the entrance. He’s known the middle-aged woman all his life, yet suddenly she’s unwilling to meet his eye. It’s not the first time his police badge has drawn a cool reception. When he asks if Amanda Fortini is at home, she tells him to speak to the housekeeper.

‘She’ll be fussing in the kitchen by now.’

The cleaner shoos him inside with a waft of her hand, returning to her job of sweeping invisible dust from the terrace before he’s even said goodbye.

When Nile catches his reflection in a window, he’s suddenly reminded of the mismatch between his stature and his self-image. He’s six feet five, almost as tall as Usain Bolt, his shoulders thick with muscles earned from swimming all year round, but that’s where the similarity ends. Nile has the sprinter’s physique, but none of his swagger. His brown eyes are shielded by circular glasses with thin gold frames, which make him look studious rather than athletic. His gaze contains curiosity, but little confidence. The policeman stifles a whistle of admiration when he enters the hallway. It’s more like a cathedral than a private home. Marble stairs spiral through the building’s core, edged by gold handrails, with light pouring down from windows overhead. When he calls out a greeting to the housekeeper, there’s no reply, except his own voice echoing from the walls.

The grandeur of the place increases with each step. The sitting room is bigger than his entire home, and even though the views from his back porch are just as good, they look better framed by perfectly designed arched windows. There’s an infinity pool with tiles that mirror the bleached-out sky, strings of fairy lights hung between palm trees, and a confetti of bougainvillea petals on the lawn. He’s never been particularly interested in art, but the paintings strewn around the place look valuable. The only style he recognises is a seascape by Mama Toulaine, his father’s closest neighbour in Lovell Village. He pauses by her watercolour of Gelliceaux Bay, which catches the sunset perfectly, the sea turning oyster-shell pink.

It’s only when he’s surveyed the entire ground floor that Nile spots an open doorway, leading down to the cellar. It’s the one place in the Fortinis’ villa that carries no polish or glitter, with a bare concrete floor and hundreds of wine bottles lying on racks that line the walls. He spots a woman clutching a duster in each hand as he reaches the bottom of the stairs.

The housekeeper attends his father’s church. She’s around sixty years old, her round form wrapped in a housecoat, busy polishing dust from the bottles. She gives him a far warmer greeting than the cleaner upstairs.

‘Solomon Nile,’ the woman says, beaming. ‘Don’t you look fine in that uniform? Come by my house next Sunday afternoon; both my daughters need a decent husband. You can take your pick.’

‘I’d love to, Mrs Jackson, but it wouldn’t be fair. I’d sooner take a walk on the beach with you, any time.’

‘That’s a great big lie.’ She puts back her head, releasing a loud belly laugh.

Nile falls into the pattern of teasing and laughter that he remembers from childhood. He misses the ease of being universally accepted. He has struggled to fit in since his return after years in the UK.

‘I’m looking for Miss Fortini,’ he tells the housekeeper. ‘Lily Calder’s been trying to contact her.’

‘Is that right?’ The housekeeper’s relaxed manner suddenly cools. ‘That young lady doesn’t listen to anyone. She makes her own rules.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Miss Amanda’s from a good family, but she plays around. When her parents fly home she’s in the bars every night. I can’t say a word, even though I was her nanny, once upon a time. If she was my daughter I’d lock her in her room.’

‘When’s the last time you saw her?’

‘Thursday, two p.m. She wanted crayfish and saffron rice for her lunch, with no dessert, and no wine thank you, just ice-cold eau naturelle. I’ll bet she had a hangover, that’s why.’

‘Not since then?’

The woman looks thoughtful. ‘I made breakfast for her yesterday, but she never appeared, her bed wasn’t slept in either. You can draw your own conclusions.’

‘Is it okay to search her room?’

‘Go ahead, Mr Policeman. It’s on the top floor, last door off the landing, on your right.’

Nile thanks her before saying goodbye. Something about the property unsettles him as he climbs the stairs; it feels ghostly, even though the interior sparkles with light. The place is sterile too, every inch of the floor buffed to a high shine. The bedrooms are all decorated with modern furniture, just a few antiques thrown in, to give the place style. His curiosity peaks as he enters Amanda Fortini’s room. The bed is freshly made, shrouded by mosquito nets that drop down from the ceiling, to protect her as she sleeps. When he looks inside her wardrobe, there’s a pile of flip-flops . . .