3:40 pm.
They came in a helicopter and arrived on the landing pad behind the main building. Reginald, the concierge, shielded his eyes with one arm from the strong wind as the rotor blades cut noisily through the air, but otherwise waited patiently. He didn't have to wait long. Once the helicopter touched ground, the doors to the side opened and let out two men. They ducked under the whirlwind of the rotor and approached the welcoming committee of Reginald and his head of security, a towering Nigerian named Charles Oubaya. The helicopter already departed again before they had reached the end of the pad and the stairs leading down to the side entrance of the hotel.
"Welcome to Gundersson Island," Reginald welcomed them as the noise of the helicopter had dissipated. "You must be the detectives that they called for."
Both men nodded. The first one was an older fellow, probably in his sixties, with white hair, gray mustache and a bit of a belly. He was carrying a black walking cane, but he had it under his armpit, and it looked more like a status symbol than an actual aid. His hands were wrinkly, but seemed pretty strong, regardless of his age. The other one was considerably younger. His mullet made him look like he had fallen out of time - like the Eighties had never left him. There was no doubt about the strength in his hands or arms - the biceps filled out the short sleeves of his blue shirt like they were ready to burst, and his fingers showed tiny scars and pretty fresh marks as if he had been in a fistfight - or several. Both men looked at Reginald and his coworker through unshielded eyes, showing a keen mind and a constant outlook for the little details.
"Harris McNeill," the older one introduced himself, then made a gesture towards his younger counterpart. "This is my colleague, Gordon Travis."
"Thank you for coming on such short notice," Reginald replied as the men shook hands. "But... don't get me wrong, I actually assumed that they would send police officers."
Charles next to him cleared his throat. "This was actually Mr. Gilmour's call," he explained quietly. "He explicitly asked for Mr. McNeill here."
"Mr. St. Claire," Harris raised his voice a bit to gain his attention. "I assure you that Mr. Travis and I are very well versed with cases like this. Both of us had careers in law enforcement, including a decent amount of time in the homicide department. We know how to conduct a murder investigation, and we are well equipped to do so." As confirmation of his words, Gordon raised his left hand holding a steel briefcase.
At the mention of the word "equipped", Reginald's glance went down to the hips of both detectives, and he felt that his palms began to sweat. "Ehm... is it really necessary that you carry your firearms openly like this?" he asked, pointing at the holstered guns both men had strapped to their belts. "It might make some of our guests feel... uneasy."
"Which can be helpful," Gordon responded with a cold tone. Harris gave him a look at the side with a raised eyebrow.
"What my associate is trying to say," Harris tried to calm things down in a diplomatic way, "is that the way people react to us and our investigation might be crucial. Since we are no official part of law enforcement anymore, it might complicate things if our witnesses questioned our authority in that matter. But, as my experience has shown, such questions are hardly raised when the witnesses know we're armed."
This explanation didn't really calm Reginald down, but he sighed and nodded slightly. "Very well. Would you follow me, please..."
The group of men left the landing pad and approached the main building over carefully carved and polished steps made from white stone that were shining in the afternoon sun. The two detectives looked around curiously, noticing the details of the luxury hotel, but keeping any opinion on that matter to themselves. They moved quickly, focused, like true professionals. Harris seemed a bit slower, a bit more cautious, but still wouldn't use his cane. Was he too proud to do so? But he reached the entrance to the hotel without any incident, and prompted by Charles who held the door open, they stepped inside.
"Head of security, eh?" Gordon remarked as he passed the tall black man to get inside. "Good job, man. Good job..."
Voices were heard from the other side of the large doors at the end of the lobby. The lobby itself was pretty quiet and empty. Joseph, one of the local staff members, was manning the reception desk and looked warily at the newcomers. The two detectives gave him a quick glance but otherwise directed their attention elsewhere. Charles led them directly to the pair of elevators in the back. "We had the wedding guests and everyone else gather in the restaurant for lunch, and we asked them to stay there until further notice," Reginald explained. "But for now the parents of the..." He hesitated. The word refused to come over his lips. "Mr. and Mrs. Gilmour would like to speak to you first. They are awaiting you in their suite."
"Alright..." McNeill looked a bit skeptical, but shrugged. "Tell the guests that we will work as quickly as possible and will get to them soon. But nobody is to leave the premises or go anywhere near the crime scene! Can you handle that?"
"Of course, sir!" Reginald straightened himself up. "I am a professional."
"Good." They stepped into the elevator. As the doors closed on them, Reginald still felt uneasy about this whole affair. It was bad enough that someone had died in this hotel, and it was horrible to know that someone else had caused it. But those two detectives - they had the potential of making matters even worse.
Investigating a murder was never easy. Harris McNeill had learned it the hard way over the years. But for all the cases he had worked on, for all that he had seen, there was one truth about all of them: The hardest part of the investigation was talking to the bereaved.
They were led to the parents of the victim who were waiting in the presidential suite on the top floor of the main building. Harris took one quick glimpse on the luxury that this suite provided, the expensive decor and art that was collected here, and prepared for the worst. It was a special kind of people, who surrounded themselves with those things without actually seeing their value. His research of the guests up front told the rest of it - the head of security mentioned the name Gilmour while hiring them in the name of the Southsea Hotel. An American businessman with ties to the Korean electronics market, and a wife who grew up in luxury and wealth so she took it for granted. Members of high society, no matter what country they actually came from.
But all of that did not matter right now. What they found in this room was a mother and father who just lost their only child to a gruesome crime. Nothing else.
The woman was sitting in a corner on the sofa, away from the sunlight, and cried waterfalls into several paper towels which the hotel had provided in a hurry. In between her sobbing and crying she stammered some words of a foreign language which Harris assumed was Korean, as he noticed the features of an Asian heritage in her face, and also remembered the background check. The words were directed to no one. Judging by the tone in which she spoke them, they could have been prayers.
The father was completely different. His hands were shaking, he was pacing around the room like a tiger in a cage. Under other circumstances, judging by the muscles visible under his shirt, he probably would have smashed something. His lower lip was trembling as much as his hands, and his eyes were flashing constantly between different emotions. The only reason he wasn't crying like his wife was that he didn't allow himself to. Harris wondered how long it would take until he finally cracked. Not long now, he estimated.
"She was... an angel," Donald Gilmour stated, his voice barely under control. "Everybody loved her. When you see all her friends that came to her wedding, on both sides of the family, you will understand it. There is nothing in this world that could be reason enough to... do such a horrible thing to her. On her own wedding day, no less!"
Harris sat next to him, in a chair that wasn't as comfortable as it looked, and silently took notes. When the father stopped talking for a moment, he looked up from his notepad and right into his face, prompting him to continue.
"I talked to her before the ceremony," Gilmour continued, clenching his hands tightly together to suppress their shaking. "She was so nervous. Callum was the man she had always dreamt of, but she was unsure whether she could live up to his expectations. I guess all she needed was someone to assure her that this was meant to be. That she was on the right path. Someone to just calm her down a bit. This was a big day for her, and once we arrived at the wedding together, she was so happy - she radiated happiness. Her smile brightened up everything, and made everyone else there happy, too. She could do such a thing, you know. It was a gift she possessed."
"I see..." For a moment Harris lowered the pen and looked at his partner. Gordon sat in another corner, like a fly on the wall, watching both parents attentively. Though he did his best to conceal his feelings, and both Mr. and Mrs. Gilmour did not seem to notice, he couldn't really hide it from Harris. Harris wasn't surprised at all, given the experience his younger partner had with weddings and marriage. Still, Gordon kept it together, showed true professionalism - and was also eager to start with the actual investigation.
"Mr. McNeill," Gilmour suddenly addressed Harris in a sharp tone. "You come with the best recommendations for a private investigator on this side of the planet, and I am someone who will spare no expense to get the things that are important to me. Whatever you charge, I will pay you - but you will find the person responsible for my daughter's death, and you will make them pay! I expect no less from you."
Harris frowned. Make them pay? "What exactly are you saying, sir? Because Gordon and I are investigators - not executioners."
"I don't care!" Gilmour snapped at him. "Someone killed my little girl! I want this person found. And I want them..." At the last moment he stopped himself, especially as his wife looked at him in a frantic, scared way, almost forgetting about the tears she was shedding. With a deep breath Gilmour calmed back down for a moment. "You are carrying a gun. Let's just say, when you find the right person, I won't mind at all if you used it."
"Those are for self-defense only, sir." Not that Harris couldn't understand him. But these were some very high expectations in his work that he wasn't comfortable with at all.
"So what? Who says that when the killer is found, that he will go down without a fight?" Gilmour suddenly turned his attention to Gordon who sat in his corner without uttering a word. "You might have noticed that money is not an issue for me - and I would show a lot of gratitude and appreciation... if you catch my drift."
Harris also glanced over to his partner and gave him a stern look. This made him legitimately worried - Gordon was not as quick to disregard the idea as Harris was. Maybe it was the age difference that made Gilmour see that, or maybe their general appearance and behavior. Or maybe he knew. Gordon didn't talk much about his past, but it seemed to always catch up with him at the worst of times.
"Mr. Gilmour," Harris addressed the man with sharpness in his tone. "I just want to make this perfectly clear: We might be private contractors, but we are still bound by the law and our own ethics. I do understand your feelings in that matter, but I can assure you: Killing another person, guilty or not, does not do anyone good. We will do our best to find the person responsible for this, and when we find them, we will see to it that this person faces the kind of justice that the law reserves for them. But we will not act as cold-blooded professional killers, no matter what amount of money you offer us for it. Do you understand?"
He held his glance against Mr. Gilmour's face who defiantly stared back at him. He knew that the other man was used to getting his will, thanks to his money, power or influence. Someone standing up to him... that even seemed unheard of. Harris knew the type of man that Mr. Gilmour was. He almost expected to be punched in the face for talking like this, and almost automatically his free hand went near the holstered gun on his hip.
"It won't help," Gordon spoke up from his place - so suddenly that Harris almost flinched. At first he thought that his colleague spoke to him, but as Gordon calmly and gloomily continued it became clear that his words were meant for Mr. Gilmour: "Believe me - I've been there. If the murderer of your daughter dies, you won't feel better. It will not bring your daughter back. And you would have given the killer an exit that is too quick, too easy. Don't do it with a bullet! Let them be punished for what they did - let them suffer!"
Although those words were as calm as could be, Harris felt the hatred when Gordon spoke them. Gordon hardly talked about his past, of the times before he started working with Harris. But Harris knew that somewhere deep down in the younger man a cauldron full of hatred and anger was simmering, just waiting for the right occasion to blow up in someone's face. He could only take a wild guess as to what was the reason for the hatred - this is more than a simple divorce would be able to cause.
He finally got up from the chair, with his back responding in pain. "We would have to see the body now."