Chapter Forty Holly
Chapter Forty
HOLLY
As we move into the cordoned-off area, deeper into the back of the spa, the grand cave-like surrounds quickly run out.
Beneath our feet is a rubble of volcanic rock.
There are cracks in between, filled with the same disturbingly bright-colored crabs we saw on the landing runway. They scuttle away as we walk across.
Fitzwilliam digs in his pocket and produces a small flashlight.
‘Don’t tell me,’ I say, ‘you were a boy scout?’
‘Sea cadet. But the lifeskills are similar.’
He swings the slim beam. The cave is much cooler here, with a strong odor of saltpeter. The light bathes the textured volcanic rock in a ghoulish green glow.
The darkness leads around a corner and to a smell that doesn’t match. High and fragrant.
Instantly, Fitzwilliam’s beam of light picks something up. It looks like … flowers.
It takes me a moment to process the magnitude of what I’m seeing.
This whole part of the cave has been loaded with blooms of all shades.
Roses of white, pink and peach are wrapped in paper, and stacked in layers; a pastel rainbow of velvety petals.
Buckets are ranged in rows, filled with the sculpted points of designer-shaded lilies.
A huge tarp has been laid to one corner and is mounded several feet high with jewel-bright orange marigold heads.
‘I guess … They’re storing the wedding flowers here.’
‘Cool. Dark. Humid,’ says Fitzwilliam. ‘Makes sense. Check that out.’ He points.
There’s a giant ‘K’, over ten feet in height, festooned in blooms. It’s not quite finished, but you can see the final effect will be spectacular. Fitzwilliam shines the flashlight further back.
‘Turn off your flashlight.’
He clicks it off, and we’re plunged into total darkness in the flower-perfumed, water-drip echo of the cave.
‘Another arrow,’ I say. ‘Drawn on the wall in ultra-violet paint.’
Fitzwilliam clicks his light back on, as we step a little deeper.
‘There’s something on the back wall,’ I say, my voice strained. ‘Iron bars fixed into stone.’ My breathing hitches. ‘Is it … prison cells?’
It’s an emotional sucker-punch, seeing this cruel-looking penitentiary hidden at the back of a luxury spa.
Fitzwilliam blinks. ‘A lot of prison cells,’ he says, taking them in. ‘They’re so small.’
The cells have been cut into the stone, running along the length and height of the back wall. The upper levels are accessed by stony steps and narrow walkways.
There’s something insect-like about the way they are arrayed. Like a row of cocoons pressed into the rock. Every oval aperture has a door of iron bars. Like the kind you get in old-fashioned gaols. I shudder as Fitzwilliam’s flashlight sweeps, picking them up.
‘They look old,’ I say. ‘Long abandoned.’ I eye the thick iron bars, gingered with rust.
‘Who would build a prison on a remote island off Colombia?’
‘Narcos?’ suggests Fitzwilliam, matching my thoughts. ‘Leopold Kensington runs nightclubs. He doesn’t make a secret of drug use in his venues.’
We look at the tiny prison cells, barely large enough to hold a person. ‘Click off your light.’
He does. In the dark, we see another arrow, pointing out a single cell.
We follow it, and the arrow directs us to the small confines. Inside is a narrow bench, stamped with an ancient Kensington crest, barely big enough for a person to sit on. The distance to the door is so shallow, it would only allow a person to curl into a ball.
‘What are they for?’ I breathe. ‘Too small for prison cells, surely?’
‘I don’t know,’ says Fitzwilliam.
I shine the light around the rocky walls, and for a moment, there’s nothing. Then I see it. The Kensington crest on the planks of the bench has been daubed with ultra-violet paint. My light settles on it. A splash of glowing green in a dark cell.
Fitzwilliam lifts it. Underneath is a kind of compartment. A natural void where curving rock hasn’t matched the flat bench above.
Inside, pushed into the void, is a flash of deep gold. It’s a flat shape. A rectangle of card, damp-spotted and old, and foiled in what looks like real gold leaf.
It’s a birthday invitation. To Adrianna Kensington’s twenty-first birthday.
Scrawled across the front, in jagged writing, is the word ‘BITCH’.
I hear Fitzwilliam make an intake of air.
‘See who it’s made out to?’ he whispers.
I read the name written on the front.
Trinity.