Murder in the Raw by C.S. Challinor Page A

the Irishman approved. His hands shook as he touched his lighter to his cigarette.
    A white-shirted bartender gave him the evil eye, even though the restaurant was open to the outdoors on two sides and no one was dining yet.
    “You saw Latour from the Gendarmerie today,” O’Sullivan said, studiously ignoring the bartender.
    “News travels fast.”
    “That it does. And I suppose you’re none the wiser for your visit.”
    “What makes you say that?”
    “This whole investigation is a load of cock. They know full well what happened to Sabine, but they’re not saying.”
    “Who is ‘they’?”
    “The gendarmes, the whole lot o’ them.”
    “What do they know?”
    The Irishman touched his nose. “Ask that cute-hoor Bijou.”
    “I’m seeing him tomorrow. What can you tell me?”
    O’Sullivan cast a conspiratorial look about him. “There’s been a string of missing women. All beautiful, all white.”
    “I’m listening.”
    “He’s sponsored various recreational projects on the island: kiddie playgrounds, botanical parks, golf courses. His luxury residential project is doing a lot to enhance the French side, boosting the economy and attracting a posh class of tourist. He pretty much has the authorities in his pocket. He’s as good as royalty here, that he is.”
    “What has this to do with missing women?”
    “I heard he started out with seedy strip clubs in Amsterdam, and that he may have run prostitution rings before that. Girls were found tortured to death. They were all linked to his name, one way or t’other.” O’Sullivan signaled to the bartender for another drink and laid two fingers on his glass.
    The bartender poured a double shot of whiskey. Rex thought it just as well the Irishman didn’t have to get behind the wheel afterward; all he need do was stumble to the sixth cabana down the beach.
    “Rumour has it his name isn’t really Bijou,” he continued as the bartender moved away to serve another customer. “ Bijou is just a nickname—‘Jewel’ in French. The murders in Amsterdam were called the Jewel Killings because semi-precious stones were found in the dead girls’ mutilated navels. His real name is Coenraad van Bijhooven. About two years ago, a girl was found bound and gagged in a cellar on St. Martin, dead for over a week. A ruby was embedded where her bellybutton should have been. Now, I ask you, is that not a striking coincidence?”
    “Was anyone arrested?”
    “Some vagrants were brought in for questioning, for form’s sake. Unlikely any of them would have left a ruby behind, d’you think?” O’Sullivan blew a puff of cigarette smoke into the ceiling, where a cockatoo preened its feathers on a trapeze.
    “Did Bijou’s name come up?”
    “One rag on the island dug up some dirt and rehashed the Amsterdam murders. Our Mr. Bijou sued the pants off them. Never another word was mentioned.”
    “Why would a man like Bijou resort to torture and murder?”
    “He’s a vicious, hedonistic shite, that’s why.”
    “You’ve met him?”
    “Once was enough. His eyes are as cold as the concrete he entombs the girls in.”
    “Someone could be trying to frame him.” Or else the story was all hooey, a fantastical figment of the Irishman’s imagination.
    O’Sullivan sagged in his chair. “Sure,” he said, dispiritedly gazing into his whiskey. Where are you, Sabine? Rex imagined him asking the dregs, just as he himself had addressed the darkness just minutes ago.
    After a prolonged silence, he decided to leave Sean O’Sullivan to his drink-induced demons. Squeezing him on the shoulder, he got up off his stool. “Catch you later,” he said.
    “Tooraloo.”
    Rex joined the rest of the group, who were discussing Vernon Powell. Sabine’s husband, it seemed, was keeping to his cabana and not answering the door. According to Paul Winslow, who lived next door, maid service had been unable to get in. “If he doesn’t surface tomorrow,” he announced, “we had better get