Роберт Торогуд – A Meditation On Murder (страница 1)
A Meditation on Murder
Aslan Kennedy has an idyllic life: leader of a spiritual retreat for wealthy holidaymakers on one of the Caribbean’s most unspoilt islands, Saint-Marie.
Until he’s murdered, that is. The case seems open and shut: when Aslan was killed he was inside a locked room with only five other people, one of whom has already confessed to the murder.
Detective Inspector Richard Poole is hot, bothered and fed up with talking to witnesses who’d rather discuss his ‘aura’ than their whereabouts at the time of the murder. But he also knows that the facts of the case don’t quite stack up. In fact, he’s convinced that the person who’s just confessed to the murder is the one person who couldn’t have done it.
Determined to track down the real killer, DI Poole is soon on the trail and no stone will be left unturned.
ISBN: 978-1-474-00658-3
A MEDITATION ON MURDER
© 2015 Robert Thorogood
Published in Great Britain 2015
by HQ, an imprint of HarperCollins
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.
By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.
Version: 2018-07-23
ROBERT THOROGOOD is the creator of the hit BBC ONE TV series
He was born in Colchester, Essex, in 1972. When he was ten years old, he read his first proper novel—Agatha Christie’s
Since university, he spent many years supporting his writing career in a variety of temping jobs, from being a magician in Hamley’s to being part of the team at Transport for London who introduced the congestion charge; and from working in Men’s Accessories in Harrods to being the person who changed the TV remote control batteries for the Saudi Royal Family. And all the time he had a battered Agatha Christie novel in his back pocket.
He now lives in Marlow in Buckinghamshire with his wife, children and a Bengal cat called Daniel.
Follow Robert on Twitter @robthor
For Katie B
Table of Contents
Aslan Kennedy had no need of an alarm clock. Instead, he found he woke every morning quite naturally as the sun began to peek over the horizon.
In fact, he’d been waking with the sun ever since he’d decided a few years back that he no longer believed in alarm clocks. Any more than he believed in money, the internet, or any kind of ‘one cup’ tea bag. For Aslan—hotel-owner, yoga instructor and self-styled Spiritual Guru—the wristwatch, with its arbitrary division of seconds, minutes and hours, was a potent symbol of enslavement. A manacle mankind wore while they worshipped at the false idol they called progress.
It made making appointments with him a little trying, of course. But that wasn’t Aslan’s problem. Not the way he saw it.
On this particular morning, Aslan lay quietly in bed (mahogany, Belle Epoque) until he felt his chakras align. He then swung his legs out onto the teak floorboards (Thai, imported) and padded over to a floor-length mirror (gilt-framed, Regency) where he inspected his reflection. The man who stared back at him looked much older than his fifty-six years—if only because his flowing white hair, beard and white cotton nightshirt gave him a Jesus/Gandalf vibe. But, as Aslan would be the first to admit, the miracle was that he was alive at all. And, as far as he was concerned, the reason why he’d been able to turn his life around was entirely down to his wonderful wife, Rianka.
Aslan turned back to look at Rianka as she slept twisted in the cotton sheets of their bed. She looked so at peace, Aslan thought to himself. Like a beautiful angel. And, as he’d told himself a thousand times over the last decade and a half, he owed everything that was now good in his life to this woman. It was that simple. And debts like that could never be repaid.
Once Aslan had got dressed, he swept down the mahogany staircase of The Retreat, careful his white cotton robes didn’t knock over any of the artfully arranged ethnic icons or trinkets that variously stood on pedestals or hung from the wall. At the bottom of the stairs, he turned into the hotel’s ultra-modern kitchen and was pleased to see that someone had already laid out a willow pattern teapot and porcelain cups on a tray for him.
Aslan started the kettle boiling and looked out of the window. Manicured lawns stretched down through an avenue of tall palm trees to the hotel’s beach, where the Caribbean sea sparkled emerald green as it lapped against the white sand. With a smile, Aslan saw that the guests for the Sunrise Healing were already on the beach, stretching and taking the air following their early-morning swim.
Mind you, his eyesight wasn’t what it once was, and, as he looked more closely at the five people in their swim things, he found himself frowning. Was that really who was going to be in the Sunrise Healing session with him? In fact, Aslan realised, if that’s who was attending the session, then something had gone seriously wrong.
Aslan’s attention was brought back to the room as the kettle came to the boil with a click. He poured the water into the pot and let the familiar smell of green tea calm him. After all, he had much more in his life to worry about than who was or wasn’t attending one of his therapy sessions. Perhaps this was no more than karma realigning itself?
He couldn’t hide from his past forever, could he?
By the time Aslan took the tray of tea outside, he’d decided that he’d just carry on as normal. He’d lead the guests to the Meditation Space. Just as normal. He’d lock the room down. Just as normal. He’d then share a cup of tea with them all and start the Healing. Just as normal.
‘Good morning!’ Aslan called out to get the attention of the five guests down on the beach. They all turned and looked up at him. A few of them even waved.
Yes, he decided to himself, it was all going to be just fine.
It was half an hour later when the screaming started.
At the time, most of the hotel guests were finishing their breakfast in the outdoor dining area, or were already wearing white cotton robes and heading off to their first treatment of the day. As for Rianka Kennedy, Aslan’s wife, she was sitting out on the hotel’s verandah, a wicker basket of sewing at her feet as she darned one of her husband’s socks.
The scream seemed to be coming from one of the treatment rooms that sat in the middle of The Retreat’s largest lawn: a timber and paper Japanese tea house that Aslan and Rianka had christened the ‘Meditation Space’.
When a second scream joined the first, Rianka found herself running across the grass towards the Meditation Space. It was a good hundred yards away and, when Rianka had covered about half the distance, Dominic De Vere, The Retreat’s tanned and taut handyman, appeared as if by magic from around the side of a clump of bougainvillea. As usual he was wearing only cut-off jeans, flip-flops and a utility belt full of various tools.
‘What’s that racket?’ he asked somewhat redundantly as Rianka flashed past him. After a moment, he turned and trotted after her.