Murder On Mustique Read online

  Contents

  About the Author

  Also by Anne Glenconner

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Part One

  Prologue: Friday, 13th September 2002

  Chapter 1: Saturday, 14th September 2002

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5: Sunday, 15th September 2002

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16: Monday, 16th September 2002

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Part Two

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26: Tuesday, 17th September 2002

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Part Three

  Chapter 41: Wednesday, 18th September 2002

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64: Monday, 23rd September 2002

  Chapter 65: Saturday, 28th September 2002

  Extract of Lady in Waiting

  About the Author

  Lady Glenconner was born Lady Anne Coke in 1932, the eldest daughter of the 5th Earl of Leicester. A Maid of Honour at the Queen’s Coronation, she married Lord Glenconner in 1956. In 1958 she and her husband began to transform the island of Mustique into a paradise for the rich and famous. They granted a plot of land to Princess Margaret who built her favourite home there. She was appointed Lady in Waiting to Princess Margaret in 1971.

  Also by Anne Glenconner

  Lady in Waiting

  MURDER ON MUSTIQUE

  Anne Glenconner

  www.hodder.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain in 2020 by Hodder & Stoughton

  An Hachette UK company

  Copyright © Anne Glenconner 2020

  The right of Anne Glenconner to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

  eBook ISBN 978 1 529 33636 8

  Hodder & Stoughton Ltd

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

  London EC4Y 0DZ

  www.hodder.co.uk

  For Colin who made Mustique a household name.

  ‘We must go on, because we can’t turn back.’

  Robert Louis Stevenson, Treasure Island

  PART ONE

  Tropical Weather Outlook

  National Hurricane Center, Miami FL

  Friday, 13 September 2002

  For the North Atlantic and Caribbean Sea

  The National Hurricane Center is issuing advisories on Tropical Storm Cristobal, located one hundred miles east of the South Carolina coast.

  Cyclone tracking south-east, current risk rating: mild

  PROLOGUE

  Friday, 13th September 2002

  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, unt
il 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.

  1

  Saturday, 14th September 2002

  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 pare
nts 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.

  2

  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.