Death Knocks Twice. Robert ThorogoodЧитать онлайн книгу.
around the body, so most of the blood that had come out of the wound had been washed away. But now, as Richard looked more carefully, he could see a red sheen to the tiles that lay in between the man’s hand and the plughole.
Now he thought about it, Richard realised he’d failed to notice this wound the first time around because, although there was an entry wound as the bullet had punched through the man’s palm and into his wrist, there was no exit wound. Richard guessed that the bullet had maybe hit the bones inside the wrist, and then stopped dead in its tracks.
This was puzzling. If two shots were fired by this man, then he must have shot himself in the wrist first before shooting himself in the heart – seeing as the shot to the heart would have been the killing shot. Therefore, it was only logical to presume that the shot to the heart had come second. The shot to the wrist must have come first.
But seeing as the man had died holding the gun in his right hand – suggesting that he was right-handed – how on earth did that first bullet get into his right wrist? The man would have to have been holding the gun in his left hand to fire it. And why would a right-handed man fire a gun with his left hand? And, having smashed the bones in his right wrist with that first bullet, the man would then have had to transfer the gun over to his right hand, somehow grip the gun with his broken hand, and then pull the trigger, firing the fatal shot into his heart.
It didn’t seem in any way possible, did it?
And now that Richard was thinking about it, what sort of suicide attempt was so botched that the first bullet missed the heart and hit the wrist instead?
As Richard looked down at the body, he remembered how the area of tiles between the body and the drain had been dry when he’d broken into the room, suggesting that the shower had perhaps been turned on after the body had hit the ground.
When understanding came to Richard, it was almost as a physical shock.
This wasn’t suicide.
This was murder.
But what exactly had happened here? Richard took a step back and imagined a shooter aiming his gun at the old man. It seemed only natural that he would try to plead for his life, or – yes, maybe this was it! – he’d even try to grab the gun out of the killer’s hand. But when the old man raised his hand to grab the gun, the killer fired the shot that drilled through the man’s palm and shattered the bones in his right wrist. Then, before the old man could run away or shout for help, the killer fired the second shot, and this time the bullet went straight into the old man’s heart.
Jesus, Richard thought to himself. This wasn’t a murder. This was an execution. But it was an execution that hadn’t quite gone to plan. The killer had been forced to use two bullets rather than the one. And then what had happened next? Well, Richard considered, seeing as he’d just found the victim in an empty room with the gun in his right hand, it was pretty obvious that the killer’s plan had always been to make this murder look like a suicide. And even though there were now two bullets in the victim, the killer would have known that the gunshots had been very loud. Loud enough for anyone nearby to come and investigate. He or she would also no doubt have been panicking at the fact that the murder had been botched. There wouldn’t have been time to finesse the situation. So the killer had decided to go through with the plan of making the scene look like a suicide – and hope that the Police didn’t work out the truth.
So far, so understandable. But there was still an aspect of the scene that didn’t quite make sense. Having committed murder – when time was surely at a premium – why did the murderer then linger at the scene long enough to turn on the shower? Was it to wash away the blood? It seemed a possibility, but Richard couldn’t see how washing away the blood might be of any benefit to the killer. After all, it didn’t wash away the body or the two bullets, did it?
So what was the killer trying to wash away?
Richard went over to the shower controls and inspected them. There were two dials. One that turned the water on and off, and one that controlled the temperature. There was no timer. So it hadn’t come on automatically, Richard realised. It could only be turned on manually. As Richard peered at the second dial, he saw that it was twisted all the way around to its highest setting. Richard was surprised. Why was the shower set to its hottest temperature?
There was a discreet cough from the doorway. Richard looked over and saw Camille.
‘Sir. I’ve brought the occupants of the house to identify the body.’
Richard could see a clutch of people waiting behind Camille. ‘How many people are there?’
‘Three, sir. But a fourth is on the way. He was out in the coffee fields.’
Richard tried to work out the best way of proceeding.
‘Okay, then would you send them in one by one please.’
The first person to enter was tall, thin, had a glossy mane of blonde hair, and was wearing a faded pair of blue jeans, a long-sleeved shirt in blue denim, and very old Converse trainers. Richard guessed that the man was about fifty years old, and from the way that he was carrying himself – and the patrician way he swept his eyes over the scene and the dead body – Richard guessed that this was maybe the plantation owner.
‘Hugh Beaumont,’ the man said with a smile as he went over to Richard and shook his hand firmly. ‘I’m Lucy’s father. I’m in charge here.’
‘Detective Inspector Richard Poole,’ Richard said, quietly impressed by Hugh’s bearing. After all, it took a certain type of person to make sure that introductions were completed satisfactorily while a dead body lay only a few feet away.
‘So, this is Lucy’s Peeping Tom, is it?’ Hugh said, turning to look at the victim.
‘Apparently so,’ Richard said.
‘Amazing. We all thought she was making it up.’
‘You did?’
‘Well, only in the sense that none of the rest of us saw anyone lurking down here. Anyway, I’m sure you’ll have plenty of questions in due course, but let me see if I recognise him.’
Hugh took out a pair of gold-rimmed glasses from his shirt pocket and put them on. He then walked a couple of paces to the side so he could better see the dead man’s face. He bent over to get a closer look, shook his head sadly to himself, and then stood up again.
‘I’m sorry. I’ve no idea who he is.’
‘You don’t?’
‘I’ve never seen that man before in my life.’
‘I see. And you’re sure?’
‘Quite sure.’
‘Might he perhaps be a plantation worker who used to work here?’
‘I don’t think so. I don’t recognise him. And I’m pretty sure I would. I’ve got a good memory for faces. Sorry not to be more help. Shall I send the next person in?’
‘Yes please. Thank you, Mr Beaumont.’
‘Please,’ Hugh said with an easy smile. ‘It’s Hugh.’ He then left, saying, ‘I’ll send Sylvie in next. She’s my wife.’
A few moments after Hugh left, a woman – also in her fifties – entered. And whereas Hugh was tall and thin, Sylvie was far shorter, far rounder, and she was wearing a dark blue trouser suit that wouldn’t have been out of place at a cocktail party at Government House. Richard had the suspicion that Sylvie had put it on specially to meet the Police.
‘So this is the man who’s shot himself?’ she said in plummy tones that were ninety-five per cent regal, Richard realised, and five per cent… what? He wasn’t sure. But there was maybe something forced about just how posh Sylvie was being.
‘How macabre,’ she said, pronouncing ‘macabre’ with a suitably French roll to her tongue. ‘I mean, it’s ghastly, isn’t it? Finding a dead man in one’s