As she surveyed the rows of chairs being set out next to the pond, Maggie was dogged by the uncomfortable thought that the backdrop to the service was beginning to look more bridal than in memoriam. Patricia had hired a company in Palma to provide slips to cover the chairs and the ones it had supplied were snow white and fastened at the back with elaborately fussy bows. Maggie debated whether to remove the bows to lessen their impact but decided she would wait to see what Patricia’s reaction was to them – for all she knew she might want them like that.
Besides, it wasn’t her job to oversee the decor, or the seating plan, or the after-service catering, even if Patricia did seem to think otherwise. She’d managed to escape outside on the pretext of needing to discuss something with Walker, which turned out to be prescient because he arrived saying he wanted the Popes briefed about the email sent to Lara Steadman at last, and that Maggie could start with George, who happened to be hanging around outside. Walker wanted to know if the family knew Lara in any way, but George said he’d never heard of the woman and Maggie believed him.
She was about to see what the others were up to when something moving in the pond caught her eye. Stepping closer, she saw it was a turtle, a tiny one, bobbing to the surface. Watching it disappear back into the depths she considered the lengths Katy’s killer had gone to to conceal each body part beneath the lily pads, weighing them down with chains so they would stay under water. Whoever it was didn’t want the parts to be found – had they stayed submerged much longer the enormous carp that lived alongside the turtles, frogs and minnows might’ve made a meal of them – but at the same time it was hardly the most inconspicuous dumping ground.
Waiting to see if the turtle re-emerged, Maggie fanned her face with her hand. The sun was at its peak and while the shade of the surrounding trees did lessen its glare somewhat, the temperature remained high. She was finding it a struggle to stay feeling comfortable; there were only so many times she could lift her hair off the back of her sweaty neck to cool down.
‘Is this really necessary?’ said a voice behind her suddenly.
Maggie spun round to find herself face to face with an elderly gentleman with a bronzed, wizened face and eyes disappearing beneath drooping lids as they screwed up against the sun. His collar-length silver hair had receded to expose a pate covered in freckles and liver spots, a couple of which were crusted with scabs.
‘Is there a problem, sir?’ she asked politely.
‘This ridiculous circus shouldn’t be allowed,’ he said haughtily, pointing to the chairs behind her.
With a start the man’s identity came to her: he was Terry Evans, the ex-pat. He’d aged a lot since the pictures she’d previously seen in the case file but was still recognizable.
‘It’s Mr Evans, isn’t it? I’m DC Maggie Neville, family liaison officer with Operation Pivot.’ Evans shook her hand, albeit reluctantly; his fingertips barely brushed hers.
‘I don’t know why the management company has allowed this,’ he frowned, casting another look at the neat formation of chairs. ‘It’s macabre.’
‘It was very difficult for the Pope family to decide where to commemorate their daughter,’ she said. ‘Here made the most sense to them in the end because it’s where she was found.’
‘But why did it have to be the pond right outside my apartment?’ Evans asked unhappily. ‘There are five others they could’ve chosen. It feels like they’re trying to make a point.’
Maggie looked at the apartments on the other side of the pond and guessed immediately which one belonged to Evans: the one with a garden awash with flowers and plants, including a trellis wall thick with greenery that would’ve taken more than a fortnight’s holiday to cultivate. There were other little touches that also indicated there being a long-term occupant in situ – while every other garden apartment had a metal gate leading to the pool area, his was wooden and painted green. Just inside the gate, set up on the grass, were two traditional deckchairs upholstered in bright-red fabric, holding court in place of sun loungers. It appeared as though Evans had created himself a home from home in his little corner of Spain.
‘What point would that be, Mr Evans?’ she asked.
He was a diminutive man, barely five foot five, but indignation drew him to his full height and made him seem taller.
‘The stigma never goes away, never. I will always be the ex-pat suspected of that poor girl’s murder. Can you imagine what it’s like to live with that every day for ten years?’
Maggie wasn’t short of sympathy, but at the same time felt his tirade was ill judged given what was about to commence at that very spot in an hour’s time.
‘I’m sorry the memorial service is making you feel uncomfortable, Mr Evans, and I do understand why. I promise you the second it’s over we’ll clear away the seating and return the area to normal.’
Evans, still looking troubled, opened his mouth to retaliate but then tilted his head and smiled. The swift change in mood surprised Maggie, until she realized he was smiling not at her but at a young woman approaching them. In her mid to late twenties, she had long dark hair and was tanned, making her appear local, but when she spoke her accent was distinctly Mancunian.
‘Hello, Terry, is everything okay?’
‘It most certainly is now you’re here, Ms Shepherd.’
The man was positively simpering, his earlier animosity evaporating like a mist of perfume.
‘Hi, I’m Lyndsey Shepherd,’ said the woman to Maggie. ‘I’m a consular officer with the British Consulate in Palma.’
As Maggie understood it, a consular officer supported the Vice-Consul – an official a bit like an ambassador – in helping British nationals abroad when they found themselves in trouble. With the island’s resort of Magaluf being the most popular destination in Europe for British youths holidaying without their parents for the first time, she imagined Lyndsey was kept pretty busy in her role.
Maggie introduced herself as they shook hands.
‘DCI Walker said you were a big help at his meeting yesterday.’
Lyndsey smiled. ‘Happy to do what I can for international relations. The local police are feeling very twitchy about today, with good reason. They wish as much as anyone that Katy Pope’s killer wasn’t still walking free. Now, Terry, I got the distinct impression as I was coming over that you were giving DC Neville a hard time about something, presumably the ceremony. We’ve talked about this, haven’t we? It’s only for a couple of hours and it’s an extremely important occasion for the Pope family.’
Evans dropped his head like a child being chided.
‘I’ve known Terry since I started working at the Consulate in 2015,’ Lyndsey explained to Maggie, who imagined Evans was probably well known by everyone at the Consulate for bringing complaints to its door. ‘We’ve been having a few discussions leading up to today, because Terry is concerned he’ll be dragged into the investigation all over again.’ She turned back to the elderly resident. ‘I thought you decided to go to Palma for a couple of days to avoid all this?’
‘I changed my mind. I don’t see why I should be forced from my home again.’
‘I agree, so let’s get you back there before it starts,’ said Lyndsey. She offered her arm to Evans and he took it eagerly. Then his expression fell just as quickly.
‘Oh, please, let’s get inside quickly. I don’t want to talk to him.’
Someone else was approaching them. It was George.
‘It’s okay, Terry,’ said Lyndsey soothingly. ‘No one’s going to cause a scene today.’
Maggie watched her curiously, noticing how her body language had noticeably shifted on seeing Katy’s brother. Her face became sapped of any emotion and her posture stiffened, leaving Evans hanging awkwardly on the crook of her arm.
George ignored her, and Evans, as he fixed his gaze on Maggie.
‘Can you spare us a minute, Maggie? I told Dad about our chat and he wants to talk to you about it.’
‘Of course, I’ll come now. It was nice to meet you,’ she said to Lyndsey. The woman wasn’t paying attention to her, though.
‘When did you arrive on the island, Mr Pope?’
The question was as unexpected as its delivery was abrupt, yet George did not seem remotely ruffled by it.
‘Is this an official line of questioning, Ms Shepherd?’ he parried back.
‘No, just making polite conversation.’
Maggie was baffled by the exchange. Lyndsey’s sentence dripped with sarcasm and George’s reply was equally brittle. What had caused such friction between them? George was the victim’s brother and Evans once the accused, but to see Lyndsey interact with them was to think it was the other way round.
‘I hope the memorial serves its purpose. It must be very hard for your parents,’ said Lyndsey.
‘It most certainly is when people seem to have conveniently glossed over what happened to my sister,’ said George in a tight voice, his comment aimed firmly at Evans. ‘People wouldn’t be so quick to forget if it happened again.’
Evans looked disgruntled but said nothing.
‘I shall bid you a polite farewell,’ George went on. ‘I’m sure Mr Evans has better things to do than watch my family suffer again over the death of my sister.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Evans spluttered.
‘Ignore him,’ Lyndsey cautioned. ‘Let’s go indoors.’
The pair of them began walking away, then Lyndsey came to a halt and turned back to face Maggie and George.
‘I hope the ceremony goes well for your parents, Mr Pope. It’s about time they had closure, don’t you think?’