The terminal at Heathrow Airport was manic—full of taxi drivers holding clipboards with misspelled names on them, people dawdling and staring inanely for their loved ones to appear, and, of course, the usual rabble of children shouting, crying, and skidding across the dirty floor on their knees, their mothers reprimanding them, but ultimately lacking the drive to do anything to stop them.
After a transatlantic flight, Bobby Novak desperately needed to stretch his legs. The 747 had been particularly claustrophobic; but then again, he was flying Economy Class. Built at six-foot-two, it was difficult to find an airplane seat that he actually fitted into. He had never been to England before—he had never travelled much, in fact—so this was a thrill. Although, bluntly put, any amount of time away from the workplace was reason to celebrate. There was never a dull moment in the NYPD, and Bobby was lucky to be in such a senior position at the age of just twenty-eight. He was tall, muscular, and never had trouble in getting girls. He wondered if there would be any girls at Soldier Island this weekend.
He glanced down at the email open on his iPhone.
"I need someone to spy on guests at my mansion…I know it is a long way to come, but I will be paying you thousands…just let me know what time your flight comes in, and we will send a taxi driver…kind regards, Ulysses Norman Owen".
He had no idea who this Owen man was, but it sounded too good to ignore. An island off the English coast! He reflected on the words of the letter.
"I wonder who's on this guest list…"
Judge Arthur Rhodes grunted as he sat back in the taxi. They had just pulled onto the motorway, at last. The Friday afternoon traffic was abysmal. Still—what a wonderful day to head down to the coast. Rhodes was a man of seventy-five – little, with small features, and bright blue eyes that lit up when piqued. He always dressed in a suit and tie, without fail. One needed to make the correct impression. Having retired fifteen years ago, after a long and prolific career on the Queen's Bench, Judge Rhodes had been a popular guest at holiday homes belonging to his friends. He smiled slightly as he looked out of the window at the overcrowded vehicles overtaking at seventy miles per hour, and thought.
"It has been so disastrously long, dear Arthur", his friend Margaret Swales had written. "I cannot let this go on any longer. We were such good friends for so many years, and now that we are both retired…well, it would be downright ludicrous not to. So that's where Soldier Island comes in. My friends, the Owens, have this marvellous mansion on a bare rock off of the Devon coast, and they are hosting a party from Friday 14th to Monday 17th August 2015. Please come—it would mean the world to me".
He had always had a soft spot for Margaret, a widow with no other immediate family. She was one who lived life to the full for a woman of seventy-odd, and he looked forward to a weekend in her company. Oh, how exciting…
Dr William Armstrong growled in anger as he pulled onto the hard shoulder of the M4, and slammed his fist down on the steering wheel. After muttering a few blue words, he climbed out of the car and rang the RAC on his mobile.
"I'm on the hard shoulder of the M4, I've had a puncture. Look, I need this to be done quickly—I'm due at a house party off of the Devon coast in two hours' time, and I'm still miles away…thank you for your help."
He sat on the iron girder and sighed. If he missed the boat, he would not be pleased. He was, after all, going to Soldier Island to work.
"Probably just a hypochondriac", he said to himself. "They always are, these wealthy women. Quite a cushy little job I've got here…"
Henry Persimmon snorted with laughter and honked his horn. Some loser was stuck on the side of the M4. Poor tosser.
He adjusted his golden-framed sunglasses and ran a hand through his immaculate blond hair. He was haring down the motorway at nearly a hundred miles per hour, weaving in and out of little old ladies trundling along as if they were going through windy country lanes. Henry Persimmon had no time for anyone other than himself. He was only nineteen, but lived a life of sheer luxury. He had no need to work; being born to wealthy parents in Kensington and Chelsea, why would he? He got whatever he wanted, just by the click of a finger. His parents spoiled him – his friends spoiled him – but, of course, his sugar-daddies spoiled him more than anyone else, taking him out to dinner and buying him cars, clothing, jewellery, and whatever else his whim fancied.
"What a weekend", he muttered to himself as he kept one eye on the road, and the other on his iPhone 6. "Frankie promised me a weekend full of hunky monkeys who wanted to meet me".
With another smirk, he accelerated around another driver and continued to hare down the wide motorway.
"Thank you", said Cathy Jackson as she took the Styrofoam latte cup from the girl in the Starbucks apron and walked back towards the swinging doors. As she walked back across the expansive car park, she pulled her mobile phone from her handbag and scrolled through her emails as she sipped at the coffee cup.
Cathy was thirty-four years old, and at the top of her game. A single mother from London, she had trained to be a police officer back when she was a spring chicken, and was promoted to Detective Chief Inspector just six months ago. Keeping up the glamour of her life was never difficult. Her brown bobbed hair, her French manicured fingernails, her immaculate makeup and dress sense—all combined to make her the woman she was: DCI Jackson, Scotland Yard. Yes, she was not as healthy as she used to be—but that was the job. She was no longer on the beat, chasing suspects every day. She was behind a desk, surviving on coffee and cigarettes, getting over headaches that younger, inexperienced officers frequently provided her with, but she loved it. The only serious downside was the hours – she arrived at work at 7am every morning, and didn't get home until gone midnight.
And then, there came this invitation, from a retired copper. "Come to a house party at Soldier Island, Devon, in August". What great timing, right in the middle of the annual leave season. She smiled and swigged at the coffee. For once, no death, no crime, and nothing gruesome.
Rachael Matthews shifted a little to allow the fat old man next to her to squeeze into his seat. She gave a smile, but secretly prayed he would be getting off at the next stop. She exhaled, ran a hand through her blonde hair, and gazed out at the passing scenery. They were just leaving Somerset.
"Soldier Island—how fantastic!" she thought to herself. "Mum often talked about the island, and the secrets surrounding it. She'd be ecstatic to hear that I've got a job there".
Rachael, twenty-seven years old, had graduated from the University of Exeter the previous summer, with a BA(Hons) in English Literature. She had been quickly snapped up by a comprehensive school in North London, where she worked as a full-time teacher of English up to GCSE Level. But it had driven her insane for the past year. For the majority of students, English was not their first language, making it ever more difficult. And that was not the only problem—living in London was nigh on impossible, which was why she had leapt at the opportunity for a summer job.
"I need the money", she had reasoned, "and if I sit in the city any longer, I will scream. Soldier Island it is".
Jessica Melbourne shuddered a little as she saw the press lurking in the car park. Would they recognise her? Most likely not, but she still felt uneasy. Pulling her large Gucci sunglasses back onto her face, and huddling the fur cape about her shoulders, she walked brusquely from the terminal toward the waiting taxis. She exhaled. To be honest, she did not know why she bothered worrying. The great Jessica Melbourne had left the movie scene way back in 1969, and now lived out her days in a penthouse apartment in Los Angeles, shutting herself away from the world.
She had once been a national treasure, with her demure looks, her petite frame – she was merely five feet tall – and, of course, those luscious blonde locks, as full of life as they had been on the day she had been born in 1940.
Her Hollywood days were, despite her fame, short-lived. She became unpopular with fellow actors for her argumentative nature and prima donna ways. Eventually, she waned to the point where she vanished from the screen altogether.
But this would be different. Brant Embers promised that he had an idea for a comeback, and that she should venture across the Atlantic to a remote island in order to discuss it with him. She wanted to get back out there and show the world that she still had it, and this seemed like the perfect opportunity.
General John Macarthur held out a withered hand as he was aided onto the platform. He was not as young as he used to be – approaching his ninetieth year – and his frailty was apparent. His doctor had told him that he needed some sea air on his lungs, after a long winter and springtime battling pneumonia.
"Funny you should say that", said Macarthur to his doctor. "I received a letter from an old crony of mine—Owen, I believe his name is. He says that he wants to see me again…on his island down in Devon."
The doctor approved, and that had sealed his decision. General Macarthur was of the old school, believing that all problems life threw at you could be solved by a trip to the seaside, a three o'clock gin and tonic, or a round of croquet on the lawn.
There would be plenty of all three of those this weekend, he assured himself.
Eight people, consumed in their own lives and loves, all travelling to one same place. Soldier Island.