by Lara Dearman
‘Hello?’ he called out softly.
More rustling.
‘Arthur? Come on out now.’ He tried to sound firm but friendly. Likely it was a frightened little boy back there. His hand shook. There was no reason why the killer would have stuck around, not here, at the scene of the crime. That would make no sense. But there was a madness about all of this. Michael sensed it. This tiny island. The body on Derrible. An old man brutally murdered. He felt a darkness approaching like a rolling fog. He gripped the bottle. Walked slowly round the hut, setting the guinea pigs to a nervous shrieking. Peered into the narrow, dank space between the enclosure and the hedge.
He dropped the makeshift weapon to the floor. ‘Hello there.’
The boy was curled up, knees hugged to his chest, mop of hair flopped over his face.
‘It’s Arthur, isn’t it?’
Movement. Perhaps a nodding of the head.
‘Have you been here all this time? There’s nothing to be frightened of, not now. Where do you live?’ he tried. ‘Is it far from here? Let’s find your mum, shall we?’
A whimper.
Michael crouched down. Squinted to try and get a better look at him. ‘My name’s Michael. I’m a policeman. I think you’ve had a bit of a shock, haven’t you? What do you say we go and find your mum and then get you some ice cream? What about that, eh? And then when you’re feeling a bit better, we can have a little chat. Does that sound OK?’
The young boy murmured something.
‘What was that, fella?’ Michael shuffled towards him, unsteady, his knees aching.
‘Beast Man.’ Louder this time. ‘Beast Man.’ Then he was shouting. ‘Beast Man, Beast Man, Beast Man!’ He jumped up and ran past Michael, who fell backwards into the hedge.
‘Shit!’ By the time he’d scrambled to his feet and got to the front of the house, the boy was tearing across the fields, towards the village.
‘What’s going on?’ Langlais asked. He was still sitting on the flowerpot and had, Michael noted, made no effort to stop the boy. ‘Who’s a beast?’
‘Kid’s terrified. How long must he have been hiding back there? It’s been hours, poor little sod.’ And it’s your bloody fault, he wanted to add, but he bit his lip. ‘Do you know where he lives?’
‘The island has a population of four hundred and fifty. I know where everyone lives.’
‘Well, bloody good job! God knows what that kid saw—he might know who did this. I need to speak to him. Now. Make yourself useful, will you, and find my DC, Marquis? Give him the kid’s address and tell him to go straight there. I’ll have the other lads search the fields. And I need you to pull yourself together now, get on your bike and talk to the residents here. Tell everyone, very calmly, to stay where they are or, if they’re out and about, to get back to their houses. They’ll take it better coming from you. Tell them there’s been an incident and the police will be with them with more information as soon as possible.’
‘What are you going to do?’ He sounded petulant, and Michael couldn’t help raising his voice.
‘I’m going to wait here until back-up arrives, and then I’m going to come and talk to the boy. Is that all right with you?’
‘All right, all right!’ Langlais got up. Started towards the road.
Michael took a breath. Reminded himself that Martin Langlais was a volunteer and doing all of this for the good of his community.
‘Martin,’ he called after him.
‘Yes?’
‘Four hundred and fifty people on the island, you say?’
‘Give or take. There’s a handful of tourists, some seasonal workers.’
‘You probably socialise with a lot of them?’
He nodded. ‘Of course. It’s a small island.’
‘Well, be careful. Could be one of your friends is a killer.’
10
Jenny
The fields were dry. Grasshoppers jumped out of the way of each footstep she took, their tiny, brittle bodies whizzing through the air and instantly disappearing into the surroundings. A cool breeze only served to draw attention to the rapidly burning skin on her arms and she cursed that she hadn’t picked up some sunscreen in the village. It was always like this on Sark. Like the sun’s strength was magnified somehow. Day trippers often returned to Guernsey lobster-red, shoulders emblazoned with white strap marks, noses peeling.
Hoping to avoid another police line, she’d left her bike propped up against a hedge and walked through the fields towards the common. She’d had a garbled conversation with Graham, in which she’d tried to relay the morning’s dramatic developments, but was unsure how much of it he’d understood, the signal dropping out three times during the short conversation. From his excited tone before he’d cut out the final time, she assumed he’d understood there’d been a murder. Fresh blood made for better headlines than old bones. It was unlikely anyone else from the News would make it over today, so it was down to Jenny to get a start on the story.
After walking for five minutes, she stopped. Tried to get her bearings. It had been years since she’d been to the common, and she’d never crossed the fields to get there. She might even be trespassing, although the stile she had just climbed over indicated ramblers were tolerated. She could see the sea, in the distance to her right, and figured that was east, adjusted her course so that she was heading north. She pulled her hair out of its ponytail so at least the back of her neck was protected from the sun and climbed over the next stile.
Right into the path of a small, sobbing child.
‘Whoa!’ Jenny held her arms out to steady herself as he catapulted into her legs. She failed and tumbled forwards, taking the child down with her. He yelped, whether in surprise or pain she didn’t know, but started to struggle to his feet, scrambling to get away.
‘Hey, wait there!’ She grabbed his ankle. ‘Stop. What’s the matter with you?’
He turned and looked at her through wide, red-rimmed eyes, his grubby cheeks tear-stained. He trembled. His shorts were damp. He was terrified.
‘Are you OK? What are you doing out here by yourself?’ He looked to be about seven. Surely too young to be out on his own, even on Sark. She looked in the direction he had come from. The common. Reg Carré’s house.
‘Are you running from something? Did somebody hurt you?’ She crouched down, shielding him.
He shook his head. She relaxed. Just a little.
‘I want to go home.’ It was a whisper.
‘Here. Let me help you.’ She smiled. Reached out, gently brushed his hair out of his eyes, offered him her hand.
He looked at her for a moment, unsure, but must have decided that she looked trustworthy because he nodded. Took her hand in his. A cold ripple flowed through Jenny, right from the point where his hand touched hers.
It was soaked in blood.
The boy stopped outside a large granite house on Rue de la Seigneurie. Beau Séjour Guesthouse. Jenny had called Michael, but the conversation had yielded no information beyond the boy’s name, Arthur, and a barked order—‘Take him home and do not leave until I get there,’ his tone a mixture of exasperation and relief that she had found the child, who she presumed was somehow involved in what had happened to Reg Carré.
‘This is where you live?’
He nodded. The front door was unlocked. He opened it and Jenny followed him into a wide hallway, a staircase to the right leading to an open landing, a sitting room on her left. A low table displayed leaflets advertising carriage rides and restaurants and Tuesday Jones’s boat tours.
‘Hello! Hello?’ She listened. The sound of water rushing through pipes. A shower running, perhaps. She was under police instruction to stay put, but she’d scare whoever it was stupid if she disturbed them in the bathroom.
Arthur headed down the corridor, towards the back of the house. Jenny followed him to a door with powder-blue letters affixed in higgledy-piggledy fashion: ‘Arthur’s Room.’ She glimpsed a bed and a small desk covered in paper and crayon
s before the door slammed shut. She knocked gently.
‘Arthur? Are you OK?’
No response. The sound of papers shuffling. She opened the door, just a crack, saw him hunched over the desk, scribbling. From above, she heard the shudder of pipes. The water had stopped. Creaking floorboards. Jenny walked quickly back to the front door, picked up a leaflet from the cabinet, flicked through it.
A door opening. Soft footsteps on carpet.
‘Oh! I’m so sorry. I thought you were on the last ferry in?’ A small, dark-haired woman in a low-cut blue dress, hair dripping wet, stood at the top of the stairs. She was classically beautiful: creamy skin, full lips, large eyes, like her son’s.
She saw Jenny’s confused look. ‘It is Mrs Jacobs? Staying for three nights?’
‘No. I’m Jennifer Dorey. I’m sorry for the intrusion. I found your little boy in the fields over by the common. He seemed quite distressed, so I walked him home.’
The woman wrinkled her brow. ‘What was he doing over there? He should have been at school. Why didn’t they call me?’ Confident, well spoken. A woman used to getting her own way.
‘I really don’t know. I just bumped into him.’ She hesitated. ‘There’s been an incident.’
‘What sort of incident?’ A flash of mother’s panic.
‘I don’t know all the details. But it was a house near the common. Involving a man called Reg Carré.’
‘What’s happened to Reg?’
‘I think Arthur may have seen something. The police are on their way over to talk to you.’
‘Oh my God. Where is he? Where’s Arthur?’
‘He went that way.’ Jenny pointed down the hall. ‘He’s fine, honestly. A little shaken, I think.’
The woman started down the corridor, then stopped, turned back to Jenny.
‘I’m so sorry. How rude of me. Thank you for your help. I don’t want to keep you. But thank you.’
‘Actually, the police asked me to wait until they got here.’
The woman paled. ‘Why? What on earth can have happened?’ She didn’t wait for an answer but hurried towards Arthur’s room.
Jenny listened. Heard the woman’s raised voice. She walked soft-footed towards the door, straining to hear the words.
‘. . . But what? What did you see?’
The boy was sobbing. The woman sounded exasperated.
‘. . . straight to school! How many times have I told you? And what have you done?’
Murmuring. A tap running.
A sharp knocking on the front door. Jenny hurried back into the hallway and opened it.
‘Where’s the boy?’ Michael was out of breath.
She pointed towards Arthur’s room.
‘His mother here?’
She nodded.
‘Right. I need to speak to you before you go. I’ll meet you in the Mermaid. About an hour. Don’t you file a word of any of this until we’ve spoken. Or you can kiss this police source goodbye.’
She looked at her watch. It was nearly four. The last ferry back to Guernsey was at six and she wasn’t even sure there were any tickets left.
‘I don’t know how I’m going to get back.’
‘Should have thought of that before you got yourself mixed up in another murder investigation, shouldn’t you?’
‘It’s a murder investigation? Is that official?’
He sighed. ‘I’ll speak to you later. And we’ll have a launch heading back this evening. I’m sure we can make room for one more. Thank you for helping with the boy. Now bugger off.’
The Mermaid Tavern was tucked away on Rue Hotton, a minute’s bike ride from the village. An arch in a high wall led to a small courtyard, with picnic benches and a barbeque grill. Vines and clematis covered the entrance porch of the building and crept up its bright yellow walls. While she was waiting for Michael, it seemed as good a place as any to ask about Reg Carré.
It was busy. Busier than it usually would be on a weekday, Jenny guessed, but eerily quiet. Conversations were hushed; heads were shaking; faces were pale. She sat at the tiny bar and ordered a cider. Next to her, a man sat alone, gulping down a pint. She introduced herself. Asked him if he knew Reg.
‘You’re from the papers.’ It was a statement, not a question. ‘Don’t waste any time, do you? Man’s only been dead a couple of hours, from what I heard.’ He slurred. This wasn’t his first pint.
‘I was here already to report on the bones down on Derrible.’
‘Right. That as well. Bit of a day we’re having, that’s for sure. You spoken to the police, then? They’re sure it was murder?’
‘I don’t know all the details.’ Michael was not going to pin the spreading of gossip on her—there were plenty of others who could take the blame for that. ‘You knew Mr Carré?’ she asked.
‘Course I knew him. Everyone knew him. Three square miles we live on. You know people. Whether you want to or not.’
‘This must be such a shock.’
He shrugged his shoulders. ‘I said I knew him. He was no great friend of mine.’ He put his pint down. Looked at her. His eyes were small and black, like a bird’s.
‘What sort of man was he? Was he popular? Had he fallen out with anyone recently?’
The man laughed. ‘Oh, that’s a good one!’ He slapped the bar and turned on his stool so he was speaking to the room. ‘You all hear that? She wants to know if Reg has fallen out with anyone. Can someone please tell this young lady how it works around here?’
The shifting of a chair in the corner. ‘All right, Mal. Everyone’s upset. Let’s keep it together, eh?’ The voice belonged to a man in a Metallica T-shirt, sleeves rolled up over his shoulders. His fists rested on the table; the muscles in his arms were taut.
‘You might be upset. I’m not fucking upset. Doing a fucking interview, aren’t I, love?’ He threw Jenny a sly glance. ‘Nobody gonna tell her? No? Down to me, then, as always.’
She could smell the alcohol fumes on his breath. A hum of conversation had restarted behind them, but Jenny could feel the room watching, listening. ‘Round here, see, if falling out with someone led to murder, we’d all be fucking dead.’
He took a swig from his pint. ‘You want to talk to Len Mauger.’ The menace in his voice had completely disappeared. ‘Len keeps himself to himself, ’specially the last couple of years, but him and Reg used to be great friends.’
‘Not anymore?’
‘I imagine it’d be a bit difficult to be friends with Reg right about now, love.’ He laughed. ‘They had a bit of a falling-out over one of their little card games. He knew your old man as well.’
‘What?’
‘Len. Knew your dad. You’re Charlie Dorey’s girl, aren’t you?’
She nodded. There was something jarring about her father’s name being spoken in this place by this man.
‘Heard you were over. You’ve got his eyes. And a way about you. All the questions. I knew him too. Saw him around, like. Nice chap. Played euchre against him a few times in Guernsey, had a beer with him every now and then when he was over here. But him and Len was quite tight. At least, towards, well, you know, before the accident and that.’ He shook his head and went quiet, as if thinking about Charlie, or perhaps his death, in detail. ‘Now that was a shame.’
‘Did you speak to my father around the time of the accident?’ She tried to keep her tone light.
‘Can’t say I did.’ He looked away. ‘Like I said, you want to talk to Len.’ The man looked at his watch, moved his wrist back and forth as if struggling to focus. ‘He’ll be home now, I shouldn’t wonder.’
‘Where’s home?’
‘Little Sark. The road down to the silver mines. Granite house, red door.’
‘Do you have a number for him?’
He shook his head. ‘You’ll not be getting Len on the telephone,’ he said cryptically.
‘Oh?’
He drained his pint. ‘Mind how you go, eh? Some folk around here don’t like being asked too many que
stions. Not me. Happy to talk. In fact, I’ll even leave you with a quote.’ He got down from his stool, put a hand on the bar, steadying himself. He widened his eyes dramatically, looked over Jenny’s shoulder, into the distance. ‘We’re all devastated and praying the police find whoever did this to poor Reg soon.’ He relaxed his pose and laughed sharply again. ‘That do you?’
‘I’ll need a name?’ She smiled, despite his bizarre behaviour, not wanting to provoke him.
‘Malcolm Perré. Acquaintance of the deceased.’
‘Thank you, Mr Perré.’
‘Not at all, Ms Dorey. And like I said. Mind how you go.’
Jenny didn’t relax until he’d shuffled across the room and out of the bar. He was drunk, no doubt, but his reaction to the murder of a neighbour had been strange. Enough to make anyone feel uncomfortable. And the fact that he’d known Charlie, the way that he’d spoken about him had been stranger still.
But it wasn’t just that causing her disquiet. Mind how you go.
It was the second time today someone had warned her to be careful.
11
Michael
Detective Sergeant Richard Fallaize, Michael’s least favourite colleague and all round cocky shit, sat on a white wicker sofa in Tanya Le Page’s rather elegant sitting room. He was leaning forward, as alert and interested as Michael had ever seen him. It was just Michael’s luck that of all the officers on board the police boat, it was Fallaize who had accompanied the family liaison officer to the Le Page house. The rest of the officers had gone straight to Reg Carré’s to conduct a thorough crime-scene investigation. The FLO, Sergeant Emily Gerard, a middle-aged lady with a pinched face, her hair pulled back into a neat ponytail, had a stern outward demeanour, only barely concealing a warmth that spilled out as soon as she smiled. She did so now, as Michael entered the room carefully balancing two mugs of tea in each hand.
