It appeared he’d been gunned down where he was found. Perhaps in his early thirties, he sported a fashionably stubbled chin and stylishly cut hair. One leg of his baggy blue jeans had lifted to show the tip of a tattoo on his calf, with another rounding his shoulder to trail onto his smooth, hairless chest. His feet were bare.
Judging by the blood- smear, the gunshot blast must have slammed him back against the wall where he’d slid down into a wide- legged sitting position with his head hanging. Blood had sprayed across the kitchen, spattering the lower cupboards and a pair of women’s sneakers. On the bench sat two bottles of Dom Pérignon, one of which had only a mouthful left in the bottom. No glasses.
‘No sign of a weapon?’
‘No, ma’am.’
‘Then I think we can rule out suicide,’ Nyree muttered.
‘Shotgun again, I’d say,’ said Callaghan, indicating the gaping hole in the victim’s chest.
‘Not much else does it like that,’ Nyree agreed. ‘We’ll wait and see what the pathologist’s got to say. Any spent cartridges?’
Cotton answered. ‘None that we found, ma’am.’
Nyree crouched next to the victim, dipping her head so she could see his face. ‘It looks like he was shot by someone standing just inside the kitchen doorway. There’s nothing to say who he was? Phone? Wallet? Handy business card with all his credentials on it?’
‘Nothing at all, ma’am,’ Cotton replied. ‘Like I said, the island manager ID’d the female as the property owner, but this guy. . .’ She shrugged. ‘Could be a farm worker, maybe? Fruit picker?’
‘The haircut looks a bit stylish for a hired hand. What about the wardrobe? Any clothing to suggest he was here for more than a one- nighter?’
‘We’re checking. There’s some clothing, but they look more like her father’s.’
Nyree put her hand to one knee and eased herself up. ‘Any signs of forced entry?’
‘We checked both the front and back doors. Nothing as far as we can see. Then again, island dwellers tend to leave their doors unlocked. Who’s around to break in?’ Cotton replied.
‘Well, our assailant, for one.’ Nyree turned to Callaghan. ‘I want DNA, prints, the lot. I want to know who this guy is, why he’s in the kitchen making himself at home, and why anyone would gun him down.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘Also, we need the SOCO team to gather up those torn- up photos. Get them to piece them together and find out if there’s a particular family member that got shredded more than the others.’
‘Got it,’ he said.
While he scribbled frantically, Nyree ran her eyes down the length of the body to the feet, then crossed to the adjacent wall. ‘Hang on.’ She crouched again. Next to the women’s sneakers was an area devoid of spatter. ‘Something’s been moved from here. Shoes, by the look of it.’
Callaghan ceased his notetaking and leant in.
‘And look here.’ Nyree pointed. ‘There’s a smudge in the blood spatter from where they’ve been taken. That’s a bit rude.’
Cotton craned over her shoulder. ‘You think someone nicked them?’
‘And left money and jewellery? I doubt it. Maybe the shoes identified him somehow. Wherever they are, they’ll have spatter on them.’ She winced as she eased herself up again. ‘God, my back is killing me. I’m not leaving without a cushion for the ride home.’
All three turned at the sound of footsteps hurrying down the stairs and crossing the living room. Patel appeared in the doorway. ‘Ma’am, you may want to see this.’
They could hear the pinging of a phone before they got to the room. All four entered and zeroed in on the body.
‘Where’s it coming from?’ Nyree asked.
‘I think it’s in her pocket,’ said Patel. ‘I didn’t want to move her.’
‘See if you can get it. Well, hurry up,’ she told Callaghan who immediately moved in. ‘It could be a clue to our offender. You, out,’ she told Patel.
He exited while Callaghan squatted beside the body, gloved fingertips searching the bloodied jeans until he located the edge of the phone in the victim’s front pocket. ‘Got it.’ His mouth bunched as he carefully drew the black Samsung out, holding it between gloved finger and thumb.
‘It’s password protected,’ he muttered.
Nyree nodded towards the victim’s limp arm. ‘Stick her thumb on the screen, see if that works.’
He gently lifted her left thumb and pressed it to the screen. ‘Voila,’ he said as the screen popped into life, revealing a photo of both victims together in bed, smiling into the lens with raised champagne flutes.
‘Not too many guesses what they were up to last night then,’ said Nyree. ‘Get copies of that to ID our John Doe.’
‘Will do. Ah . . .’ he said, opening one of the apps.
‘Take a look at this.’ The app displayed a grainy video feed somewhere out in the bush.
‘What’s this screen connected to?’ asked Nyree.
‘A computer. It can’t be far away.’
Each of them scanned the room.
Nyree pointed. ‘You check the drawers.’
While Callaghan wrested out drawers one at a time, Nyree dropped to her knees, cheek to the carpet. ‘Found it.’
Callaghan shoved the final drawer in and dropped to his knees beside her. ‘Hang on.’
‘Can you reach it?’
Got it,’ he said as he drew it across with one finger. He pulled it out, set it on the dresser and turned it on. It whirred into life, displaying a home page dotted with icons. He clicked into one titled LiveCord.
‘This’ll be it.’ It opened to display numerous tiles, titled by code and date. ‘Looks like they’ve got motion- activated cameras all over the island. Probably to pick up predators.’
‘Check the recordings for yesterday.’
Callaghan set the laptop on the dresser and found one dated the previous day. It popped up to show a sharp whiskered nose sniffing at the camera, then disappearing. The feed ran for a minute more, then ended.
‘When was that?’ Nyree asked.
Callaghan checked the title. ‘6.30 pm.’
‘Try that one.’ She pointed over his shoulder.
Again, he clicked the link. This one showed darkened footage of a kiwi emerging from a burrow. Its beady eyes glinted in the glow of the red light before it scuttled off. The feed ran for a minute before something moved across the corner of the image.
‘What was that?’
Callaghan replayed it. ‘Looks like a boot.’
‘Where is this? There must be a key to all the cameras around the island.’
‘Here’s a map.’ He clicked it. ‘According to this, it was filmed last night on camera M37, which is . . .’ He traced the list with his finger. ‘That’s the track leading up from the east jetty.’
‘Well done, that man.’ Nyree’s two- second smile dropped. ‘Look for any others over there. Let’s see if we can get a good snap of our visitor.’
Callaghan ran five more feeds tracking either side of the path at various distances until they found it. Rather than the red light, invisible to kiwi, this one showed a line of brilliant white lights pop on along the darkened track, following the grainy image of a figure as they approached and passed by.
‘Run it back.’
They watched it play through again. ‘He obviously doesn’t know he’s on film,’ Callaghan said and ran it a third time.
‘Stop it there,’ Nyree said. The footage froze on a single image, and she leant in. ‘He’s in a plaid shirt and jeans . . . hang on, is that a hat he’s wearing?’
‘Bushman’s hat. Looks like a couple of feathers stuck in the band around the crown.’
‘Look up, you bugger,’ Nyree urged the figure. ‘He’s too quick,’ she said as he disappeared. ‘Any other feeds closer to the jetty?’
Callaghan slowly shook his head as he searched. ‘None that I can see.’
‘So, we don’t know if this is our offender or our victim. What time was this?’
Callaghan checked. ‘6.48 pm.’ He gave her an all- knowing smirk. ‘It’ll be the offender. Like I said, 7.02.’
Irritated by his cockiness, she huffed. ‘Yes, alright, Mr Smarty Pants.’ She turned to Cotton. ‘You didn’t see any stray plaid shirts or bushman’s hats around the house, did you?’
‘No, ma’am,’ said Cotton.
She addressed Callaghan again. ‘I want all these feeds checked and analysed. Hopefully, ESR might be able to identify any colour in the images. And, Cotton, get the searchers to keep a look out for that shirt and hat. If he ditched them on the island, they’ll be here somewhere.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’ She hurried away.
‘Now,’ Nyree said, looking around. ‘Where’s this island manager who found them?’
‘Barry Kempthorne.’ Callaghan read from his notes. ‘Their place is a couple of kilometres down the road from here.’
‘Organise a vehicle of some kind, will you? I’d like to meet Mr Kempthorne,’ said Nyree. ‘I want to ask him exactly how well he knew Miss McKay, whether he had an axe to grind with her, and why he left tracks all over our crime scene.’
