The Boonhill Murder Case (1)

Kit Handsome was woken in the middle of the night by the ringing of the urgent phone.

The urgent phone had been put in place when he started his job. It was the phone that was never switched off, not during sex, not while he was asleep, not even while he was reading the last page of a really gripping novel, so that he could be reached at any time. It had never rang before, not once in his 17 years on the force. Boonhill wasn't the sort of island where you needed an urgent phone. In truth he was surprised anyone still had the number.

"Kit," he said. He'd rehearsed how he would answer a thousand times or more over the years, and had opted for the shortest response possible. If it was really urgent then the extra syllable in 'Handsome', or 'hello' could cost lives. 

It was Megson. "There's been a murder chief", he said. Megson was his number two, albeit there were only three police on the island.

"Murder? Who? Where? When?" Kit said. 'Why are you phoning ME?' he wanted to say, but didn't, as he suddenly felt horrendously out of place, an island-based cop who'd spent the past six months working on a case of stolen halibut. And suddenly here was a murder, on his patch.

"The holiday cottage on The View. The victim's name appears to be Ben Gibson. Shot in the head at point blank range."

"Any sign of the killer?"

"No. Neighours heard a sound like a gunshot at 3.25 a.m. I arrived on the scene at 3.58 a.m., at which point the victim was already dead. I've contacted mainland who are sending a forensic team. Harkaway's on his way to your house to pick you up."

Kit had never learnt to drive. Boonhill wasn't a big island. As a child he'd skateboarded everywhere he wanted to go. It was only when he became a cop that this became problematic. Nobody would take a skateboarding policeman seriously. It was the sort of novelty cop show you got on American TV. So he relied on Harkaway to take him everywhere. 

Kit put down the urgent phone and began to get dressed. He put on a blue shirt. This was his first murder case and he felt that blue shirt would be lucky. This was the shirt Sally had brought him after the exploding curry incident. He'd been wearing this shirt when he won £100 on a scratchcard. And blue was a nice, police colour. 

The holiday cottage was sealed off with tape when Kit and Harkaway arrived. One of Anderson's men from the mainland was standing guard. Anderson himself, Kit's boss, was already there.

"Kit," he said in greeting, "I thought you'd still be in your pyjamas."

"He's wearing his lucky shirt," said Harkaway. "He was wearing it when he won the lottery."

"Really Kit, I didn't know, I hope that doesn't mean you'll be leaving us."

"Where's the body?" asked Kit, ignoring all the nonsense. Sometimes he felt he was the only one who took policing seriously. 

"In the lounge." Kit followed Anderson through to the lounge, where the bloodied corpse was the centre of attention for Anderson's forensic team. Kit had never seen a freshly killed body before, the room was rank with the smell of blood, but it didn't concern him. After donning a blue coverall that Watson, the head of the forensics team, gave him, he approached the body. 

The cause of death was a bullet hole in centre of the forehead. There were no other marks in sight, no signs of a fight, just a cold, hard bullet through the brain.

"We might be in luck Kit, forensics think they've found prints on the murder weapon." Watson held up a bagged revolver and grinned at Kit.

Kit nodded to two glasses on a table next to the body, and a scrunched up pair of lager cans.

"Have these been dusted?"

"Yes, just one set of prints, probably the victims, though we might get a trace of DNA. But it means that the killer was drinking with the victim before he died."

"What do you think?" said Kit. "Lovers tiff? Holiday romance gone wrong?"

"Who brings a gun on a romantic weekend, Kit?", said Anderson. "This isn't America. No, it seems to have been an illicit meeting of some kind. We'll find out more as the investigation progresses, no need to jump to conclusions." 

The building was searched  rigorously, though there was little to search. There was one suitcase packed with a couple of shirts, pants, socks, shaver, phone charger, nothing that might seem a motive for a murder. 

The hours passed. Before long the morning sun had returned.

"It's a nice view," Anderson said.

"Yes, it's the only place on the island that you can see the seven wonders of Boonhill; the lighthouse, the cliffs, the northern lights on a good night if you've had the right cocktails, and the hanging baskets of Boonhill."

"That's four wonders Kit, not seven."

"The other three moved away. It's good to be working with you on this sir, it's my first murder case. With my local knowledge and your experience I'm sure we'll crack this."

"I'm sorry Kit, I wish we could work together on this, but the truth is I'm going to busy for the next few weeks, the Chief has asked me to carry out a review for the mainland police."

"A review?"

"A complete, across-the board review of the need for reviews. It's a big job, I'm going to have to review every review there's been over the last ten years. And that's a lot of reviews. I'm going to have to leave this in your hands, as soon as forensics are done I'm going back to the mainland with them to begin my review. Do you think you can handle it?"

Kit said the obligatory "Yes," because he wasn't stupid, but inside he was wrought with self doubt. Could he really handle it? Murder cases were complex affairs, lasting months, years, yet he'd struggled to find a case of missing halibut. And if he failed, it wouldn't just be bad for his career, it would mean that a cold blooded killer remained on the loose, free to kill again. People could die.

"Yes," he said again. "In fact I'm looking forward to it."