Genny swallowed down the echo of his words and painted a smile on her face, replying, “I look forward to a roast dinner with his famous broccoli when I come to visit.”

  “Settle in first, love. Don’t feel you need to rush back to London for us.”

  “Today, I am able to make history,” a wide-set man with short black hair and a tailored suit projected out to the crowd, gathered around the rear of the lighthouse, the roaring sea a few hundred metres below them. Bev and Tom had explained to Genny on the walk that this was Kristian Nobel, the developer from London. They had gushed about him and his plan to save the lighthouse, but from the looks on the faces of the crowd members, not everyone felt the same. Some were bored, some were confused, and others were angry.

  “As you may know, this lighthouse was once manned, but since the last lighthouse keeper left the post two decades ago, it has sat here, made derelict by the passing of time, even the iconic red stripe fading and peeling away. The story of the building’s past moved me, and I knew I had to be part of its future,” he continued.

  “Isn’t he great?” Bev murmured to Genny, who raised an eyebrow in reply.

  “Just a year ago, after a long battle with the Solent Island Wetland Society, I was able to purchase this land and set my plan for a new, more modern Sandhaven in motion,” Kristian said.

  Genny took him in. He was fifty or so, and the polar opposite of the crowd dressed in walking gear and cosy jumpers. She couldn’t help but wonder how his sparkling leather shoes and tailored suit had remained so clean given the walk up to the lighthouse.

  By his side was a young woman, no older than her mid-twenties, with the same dark hair as him, cut in a sharp line just above her shoulders. She too was dressed for a different location, with thin high heels which were sinking into the grass every time she shifted her weight, and a grey dress, ideal for office-attire but jarring in the current circumstance.

  “Today, the new, improved lighthouse is ready,” Kristian said, his voice unnecessarily thunderous.

  Genny looked around as someone scoffed. She couldn’t make out who, but she saw disgust mirrored in a few of the faces around her.

  Reporters clicked their cameras as Kristian posed with some ceremonial scissors, comically large, and cut through a ribbon which had been draped around the lighthouse.

  Genny noticed a man with black hair and stubble near the front, arms crossed with the patient expression of someone who attended a lot of these events. He was wearing black trousers, a shirt and tie, but if at one point in the day he had been wearing a suit jacket, it was replaced now by a dark green waterproof coat, and instead of loafers, he wore walking boots.

  “That’s Detective Inspector Remy Cochran,” Bev whispered to Genny, noticing her eyeline. “He’s on our list to set you up with.”

  “Oh really?” Genny whispered back with an amused grin.

  “He’s a little younger than you – mid-30s maybe, but he’s a real catch,” Bev continued.

  “A bit of a loner, though,” Tom interjected.

  “Don’t tell her that,” Bev muttered, tapping him playfully on the arm in rebuke. “She’ll think he’s odd.”

  Of course, he was a detective – that explained the attire and the patient if slightly vacant look on his face. She had been in that mode many times herself, watching a parade or community art project, vigilant and silent even in her downtime.

  “Welcome to the new Sandhaven Lighthouse!” Kristian said as he put down the scissors to a smattering of applause.

  Genny felt Pip shift from her sitting position at Genny’s feet as someone near the back right-hand side of the group broke away quietly – a man with greying dark hair and a red jacket, sixty or a little older. She couldn’t quite see his face in the fading sunlight, but his body language was defensive, hunched and moving quickly back down the cliffside towards Whitebourne. No one else seemed to notice him leave.

  “If you would all like to head around to the entrance with me, we can go inside and enjoy some champagne,” the young woman said, an unnaturally crescent-shaped smile stretching across her face as she did.

  “That’s Mr. Nobel’s daughter,” Tom explained. “Roisin.”

  The crowd seemed to pep up at the mention of free alcohol and Genny followed the Beechams as they moved towards the front door on the opposite side of the lighthouse.

  A scream went up somewhere near the front of the group, and as more people reached the far side of the lighthouse, the sound repeated throughout them, a chain reaction of fear and horror. The crowd seemed to stop in its tracks as the people at the front spoke in low tones, and the people behind tried to crane to see.

  Genny knew that sound all too well.

  She and Pip pushed forward, rushing to the front.

  There, strewn on the steps of the new lighthouse, was the body of Mitchell Collins, eyes open wide and a gunshot wound to the chest, covered from head to toe in red liquid.

  2

  “Everyone stand back, stand back!” DI Cochran forced his way to the body, holding up his police badge. He placed his fingers on the side of Mitchell’s neck, although Genny could tell from the wounds and empty eyes that the poor man was already gone. Remy was resigned to the same conclusion. He hesitated with a morose look before returning to his pragmatic tone. “This is a police matter, please get back!”

  “Is he dead?!” Someone shouted from the group.

  “Yes, sadly,” DI Cochran said, pulling his mobile phone from his pocket and ringing someone. The crowd fell into hysterics, some shepherding others away, and some struggling to stay standing in shock. Genny kept her attention on the DI. “Sandra, there’s been a murder up at Sandhaven Lighthouse – a man in his mid-60s, Mitchell Collins. Send for an ambulance and bring a team up here right away. Okay. Okay, alright. Thank you.”

  As he hung up the phone Bev caught up to Genny, grabbing her arm, “Isn’t it terrible?”

  “Awful,” Genny agreed, putting a comforting arm around Bev’s shoulder and ushering her towards a nearby bench. “Come and sit down. The ambulance and police will be here soon.”

  Paramedics were the first on the scene, confirming DI Cochran’s assertion; Mitchell Collins was dead. A police team arrived within minutes, the sirens whistling up the cliff. They left their cars on the other side of the protected Nature Reserve and traipsed up to the lighthouse on foot.

  Genny sat with Bev, comforting her and Tom as best she could.

  In truth, she was more shaken by the events than she might have usually been. Years of detective work had prepared her for most situations, but she felt an odd affinity to the man who only a few hours earlier had been working on her new home.

  But she wasn’t a detective anymore, and the police would take care of it. She tried to remind herself of that fact as the team taped off the scene, and DI Cochran started to move amongst the group, taking witness statements.

  It was hard not to have all of her attention on him, calculating whether she would have done the same as him, had she been the detective on this case.

  Would she put her hand on the shoulder of the crying Roisin Nobel? Would she try to get a list of attendees? Would she try to stop people from leaving?

  Despite her critical eye on him, she saw that he and his team were indeed diligent, methodically setting up the crime scene as the forensic photographer got to work. They moved everyone away from the body, and a pair of PCs set up a tent over the crime scene, shielding the distressing sight from the crowd. Poles connected by police tape were set up to cordon the area off.

  “You were a detective in London, weren’t you?” Bev asked Genny tearfully.

  “Yes,” Genny said, remembering their earlier conversation.

  “Do you think this was a murder?” Bev asked, bottom lip wobbling at the thought.

  Genny pictured the scene as they’d found it.

  The wound on Mitchell’s chest had certainly been consistent with gunshot wounds Genny had seen before. A small island community like this, mostly made up of farmers, retired folk, tourists and rich people’s second homes, were unlikely candidates for a gun crime, but it wasn’t unheard of. If anyone on the island had a gun, it would be more likely to be a shotgun – a farmer’s fox scarer and nothing more.

  The fact that it was a small, single wound meant it was more likely to be a handgun, up close.

  Deliberate.

  “Let’s just wait and see what the police say,” Genny said with a gentle squeeze of Bev’s hand. “They’ll tell us all they can.”

  The Nobels were stood nearby, Kristian with his head down as he replied to emails on his phone, and Roisin crying softly next to him.

  DI Cochran reached the Nobels, and Genny was finally able to overhear the conversation, tuning out Tom and Bev soothing one another next to her.

  “Mr. Nobel, Miss Nobel, I just have a few questions,” the DI said, pen poised over a notepad.

  “Is this a formal interview?” Kristian shot back, reluctantly putting his phone back into his pocket. “If so, I will ring my lawyer.”

  “No,” the DI said. “My team and I are just trying to establish what happened here. Your co-operation would really be appreciated in this matter.”

  “Fine,” Kristian said tersely. “Ask away.”

  “Thank you,” the DI said. Genny marvelled at this restraint. The way he kept his face completely blank as he ran through his questions was masterful. “Had you met Mr. Collins, the victim, before today?”

  “Yes,” Kristian shrugged, pushing his hands into the pockets of his suit trousers. “I hired his company to complete the work on the lighthouse.”

  “And were you satisfied with his work?”

  “Of course! What are you implying – that I didn’t think his paintwork was good enough, so I shot him and left his body on the steps of the lighthouse to be discovered by the entire island?”

  “I’m not implying anything, Mr. Nobel,” DI Cochran replied simply, still calm and collected. “I’m just trying to establish what happened to our victim. How would you describe Mr. Collins? Was he professional, cordial, timely?”

  “Again, I really resent the implication that I would kill someone because they weren’t on time to a job,” Kristian bristled.

  “He was always very friendly,” Roisin piped up.

  “Thank you, Miss Nobel,” DI Cochran said, still unphased by Kristian’s indignation. “Did you ever see him taking long phone calls or arguing with anyone? His employees, perhaps?”

  “No,” Roisin shrugged, dabbing her nose with a tissue as she thought about her answer. “Long phone calls, sometimes. But he was never secretive about them. They seemed like work calls to me. He would argue with his son, Jake, about the work mostly. You know how parents and their kids can get.”

  Kristian gave her a sidewards look.

  “I see,” DI Cochran nodded. “And Jake worked with Mr. Collins on the lighthouse?”

  “I think he worked with him on all of his projects,” Roisin agreed. “They were often the only two up here, staying after hours to get it finished on time.”

  “Thank you for your co-operation,” DI Cochran said with a brief half-smile. “I’ll be in touch if we need any more information from you.”

  Roisin nodded, but Kristian took offense at the final phrase, adding in a furious whisper, “You know, it’s not us who you should be pointing fingers at! It’s those bloody protestors from the SIWS! That little psycho Skye and her pals threw paint all over the lighthouse when construction began! They’d do anything to make tonight a disaster!”

  “Thank you for your concern, Mr. Nobel,” the DI said, taking a deep breath. “We will be conducting a thorough investigation and considering all possible suspects.”

  With that, he moved on, leaving Kristian seething.

  He approached Genny and the Beechams with a small smile.

  “Hello, Bev, Tom, sorry that you are wrapped up in all of this,” he said, catching Genny off guard with how familiar he was being compared to his previously professional tone. “I just have a few questions. And I don’t believe we’ve met?”

  He turned his attention to Genny.

  “She was a detective too,” Bev interjected before Genny could answer. “In London!”

  “Is that right?” DI Cochran smiled softly.

  “Genny Hadley. Yes, I was a DI in London, but I have taken a new career path now,” Genny answered.

  “As what?” The DI asked, taking notes.

  “Mitchell Collins was actually renovating Foxglove Cottage in Whitebourne for me. I am going to re-open the old bakery there.”

  “A very different career path, if you don’t mind me saying,” DI Cochran commented. “So, how many times had you met Mitchell Collins?”

  “Just today – I arrived at the cottage to find we had miscommunicated via email, and it wouldn’t be ready for another couple of weeks,” Genny explained. “That was the first time we had met face to face.”

  “I see,” DI Cochran nodded. “And what time was this?”

  She would have asked the same. Establishing a timeline – if they knew what time Mitchell was last seen, they could narrow down alibis while they waited for the official time of death to be determined.

  “Around 3.20pm,” Genny said. “Bev and Tom should be able to corroborate that as I arrived at The Mudlark ten or so minutes after that.

  “That’s right,” Bev sniffled. “We checked her in at pretty much 3.30pm on the dot.”

  “Very precise, thank you,” DI Cochran smiled. “I know this may not seem relevant, but all the information I can gather now could help me work out what happened to Mr. Collins – were you upset when you found out that you had miscommunicated about the timeframe of your renovation? You had to find somewhere else to stay, by the sounds of it. I presume you travelled all the way from London by plane or ferry, and you’ve had to find somewhere to store your possessions?”

  She would also have asked that.

  She was the newcomer, an outsider, an unknown. He had to imply that she had a motive, and her reaction would tell just as much as the motive itself.

  Genny kept her tone the same, and was honest with him, “That’s all true – I had a long journey and had to find accommodation. My possessions are still locked in the moving truck I hired for the day, and I expect I will have to pay to hire it for another week or more. It has all been very inconvenient to me, and not the way I wanted to start my new life on the island. That said, it was not Mr. Collins’ fault. It was a miscommunication. These things happen.”

  “I understand,” DI Cochran nodded, scribbling down yet more notes. “I appreciate your candour. Did any of you see anything suspicious during the event? Anyone that you didn’t recognise here?”

  Genny thought of the man that had walked off, but although she had never seen him before, she didn’t know anyone else on Solent Island either. She had no way of knowing if that was unusual. She decided it wasn’t worth mentioning, unless someone else had thought he was suspicious too. She looked to Bev and Tom.

  “No,” Tom shrugged. “It was just the usual suspects here – sorry, bad wording – just the usual folk.”

  Bev nudged him scoldingly for the ‘suspects’ comment.

  “Okay, thank you,” DI Cochran nodded. “I’ll be in touch if we need any more information from you. How can I reach you?” He added to Genny.

  “At the inn,” Genny said. “Or I can provide my phone number?”

  “I think that would be best,” DI Cochran said.

  “You can’t possibly think Genny was involved, Remy?!” Bev sputtered.

  “Bev, let the man do his job,” Tom reassured her.

  “You have my full co-operation, DI Cochran,” Genny said, digging into her handbag and ripping the side off of a cardboard sandwich box she had bought at Solan ferry station and started writing her number onto it.

  “Call me Remy, please,” he said with an uncharacteristically warm smile, before moving on to the next group of people.

  “Remy,” Genny nodded, returning his smile.

  Genny couldn’t sleep that night, images of Mitchell and the gloomy lighthouse swimming in her mind.

  Despite her best efforts to push the case from her mind, in between fits of sleep, she was trying to piece together motives, suspects, and an explanation for who would want to kill him.

  The dreams morphed – she was on the beach below the lighthouse, looking up as Annabelle stepped out across the sand, her hand just lifting into a wave as a car sped towards her.

  Genny woke up in a cold sweat, Pip jumping up onto the bed and licking her face with an empathetic whine.

  “I’m okay, Pip,” Genny whispered to her, trying to calm her hammering heart.

  The sun was coming up, the inn’s faded old curtains doing little to block out the light.

  She headed down to breakfast, finding Bev and Tom setting out two tables – one for her and one for the male guest they had mentioned yesterday.

  “He hasn’t come down so far during his stay,” Bev explained. “But we set the table just in case.”

  “How long has he been staying here?” Genny asked. “Has he not left the room at all?”

  “Three days. And I think he has,” Tom said in a hushed tone. “Sometimes I hear the front door close, and I think to myself that it must be him coming or going. Some guests are like that. Not social.”

  Genny nodded and sat down at the table. She ordered a full English with poached eggs, hoping the sustenance would revive her after a restless night.

  “You know,” Bev said, as she poured Genny some tea. “There is a dog walkers’ group at the pub in town today – The Water’s Edge. If you’re looking to make some friends and see more of the local area, you might enjoy it. Take your mind off everything that happened yesterday.”

  “Thank you, I think I will do just that,” Genny said. She added with a chuckle, “I had expected to be baking cakes this week to get everything ready to open my bakery. How quickly things change.”

  “And I suppose the renovation work will be halted now that… well, now…” Bev said, a catch in her throat as she was reminded of Mitchell again.

 

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