‘Ah!’ said Craig, waving his milk-dipped spoon at her. ‘You’re saying “if”, so that must mean you don’t believe it was suicide!’
Kate sighed. ‘I didn’t say that. But… I don’t know. Yesterday, me and Francis got talking to this girl, one of the Bluecoats — Ellie, her name is. She was the one who found his body. She was marching the kids out, singing that alligator bedtime song like they did last night — and she marched them all into the pool complex, and that’s when he was found. She was telling us she couldn’t believe Martin would kill himself in the pool, knowing she’d be leading kids right past his body a short while later. And look — I don’t claim to have known him that well, but it’s hard to imagine anyone knowingly staging their death where kids could see it. So… you’re right, Craig. I suppose I don’t completely buy it.’ She didn’t mention the note on the sanitary towel. That had been a professional disclosure and wasn’t something she felt she could — or should — share.
‘So… we have to stay together,’ said Craig. ‘Until we can get the hell out of here, that is. I’m going to find that copper and tell her I’m heading home as soon as they’ll let me. I don’t want to stay another night.’ He shivered. ‘I’m sorry, but when I thought we’d be meeting up and getting slaughtered together, I didn’t think it would be literally.’
‘OK,’ said Kate. ‘Let me go and speak to the SIO and find out when they’ll let us go. They said they’d want to speak to each of us again this morning — now that we’re all fully sober. After that, you’ll probably be OK to leave.’
‘What’s to say whoever’s done in Martin and Julie isn’t going to come after us anyway… in our own homes?’ said Nikki, with a visible shiver.
‘Look — there’s a still a chance the two deaths aren’t related,’ said Kate, somewhat clutching at straws when it came to finding words of comfort. ‘It’s still quite possible that Martin’s was a suicide and Julie was just… in the wrong place at the wrong time. But… I agree… for now we stay together to stay safe. Nobody goes off alone. Except I’m going back to chalet 28 to speak to the officers there and find out what’s happening… which ought to be pretty safe in broad daylight.’
She drained her coffee and got up, flicking an awkward glance at Nikki. ‘And I guess someone should check on Bill, and get him to come and have breakfast and stay with the group.’
‘Not me,’ grunted Nikki, into her tea.
‘We’ll all go,’ said Talia. ‘We can take him some croissants and coffee.’
Kate left them to their nervous conversation and headed back to the police cordon area. It was fortunate that the block of chalets Julie had died in was set a good distance off the main path through the site. Hopefully, nosy guests would be at a minimum. Already, a barrier of white nylon tarp had been stretched across the path between the two chalet blocks, secured to the corners of each pebble-dashed chalet wall. A uniformed officer guarded the tent-flap door through it. She guessed there would be another tarp and another bobby at the other end, boxing the whole area in. She felt a pang for Gary — what a shitstorm to have to manage, just as the holiday season was kicking off.
Judging from the quiet behind the barrier, it appeared that the crime scene investigators had come and gone. Julie would have been photographed in situ, from every conceivable angle, and the area combed for every trace of evidence. The body was probably in the mortuary by now, being examined by one of Death’s East Anglian colleagues. She imagined a criminal psychologist would already be on the clock, too. Killings like this, with such bizarre setups, could hardly be explained as a burglary gone wrong. Leaving lard to set hard in Julie’s mouth and throat was a unique message. Kate had never heard of such a scenario, even among the London gangland killings she had helped investigate in her younger days, on secondment to the Met.
‘Is DS Stuart around?’ she asked, as she approached the officer. She flashed her ID and hoped he wouldn’t recognise her from last night as she stepped breezily towards the gap in the tarp.
He didn’t and he let her move on through it, although he dutifully noted her name and number in his scene log. ‘She’s gone back to the station, Inspector,’ he said. ‘But DS Upton is in there.’
‘OK — good,’ said Kate. Then, on a sudden instinct from nowhere, she added: ‘Did a note show up?’
‘Yeah,’ said the officer.
‘I’m guessing not on standard notepaper,’ she hazarded, feeling her pulse pick up.
‘Nope. Kerrymaid lard wrapper.’
She nodded. Bingo. ‘And just “I’m sorry”? Nothing else?’
‘That’s all,’ said the constable, shrugging. ‘Weird.’
‘Thanks,’ she said, and went to the chalet door.
‘Hi,’ she called across the X of tape. ‘DS Upton? DI Kate Sparrow.’
The DS was a stocky guy in his fifties with a tired face, standing just inside the opened patio door in a pair of blue cotton slippers, regarding the scene impassively. He glanced across at her with one eyebrow raised. ‘Shouldn’t be inside the outer cordon, should you, Inspector?’
Damn. He’d been fully briefed, then.
‘When do you think you’ll be done in here?’ she asked, noting that the smell of cold lard was still very much in evidence.
‘When we’re ready,’ he said, ducking under the tape and stepping out beside her.
‘Only, my friends aren’t so keen to go on with their weekend break now, as you can imagine.’
‘I hope you didn’t divulge the details of the manner of death,’ he said, turning to slide the door shut with latex-gloved hands.
‘Of course not,’ she said. ‘It’s not something I really want to share. But I
