Dark Sky Island

by Lara Dearman

  The kitchen table was covered in paperwork, mostly pertaining to the investigation into the Black Pearl case. He’d wanted to review it all last night, but after getting back from Luke Carré’s house, he’d had energy only for a quick shower before he’d collapsed into bed. Not that there was much to review. They had no idea how the stuff was getting in. They were keeping an eye on all the usual suspects, watching the ferry terminal, tracking private planes, but this operation felt different to the usual smuggling they encountered. Slicker. The pills came in little paper envelopes, three in each packet, a simple design printed on the front. They’d found four different ones so far—a pirate, a ship, a treasure chest, a parrot. Together with the fact they were pushing them under a glamorous-sounding name, and putting God knew what in them to make them black, Michael felt sure it was all designed to appeal to youngsters. Teenagers, kids back from university. And it was working. It was very clever. And very wrong. And he didn’t have time to deal with it today.

  He finished his coffee. Picked up the other file on his kitchen table. An unexplained death at sea. It was slim—a missing person report, a couple of interviews, a copy of the post-mortem and one of the open verdict from the magistrates’ court. An open verdict meant nobody knew what happened. It could have been an accident or a suicide; there was not enough evidence to point to one or the other conclusively. But there were ‘inconsistencies’ in the investigation, apparently. Reference made, in the initial report, to fingerprints found on the boat that did not match the victim’s. Enough, according to the review team, to have flagged the death as suspicious. But the fingerprints were never run through the system. And now there was no trace of them in the evidence room. It was like they’d never existed.

  Michael had known all this before it was brought to his attention by the UK taskforce. He’d noticed the discrepancy months ago. He’d already spent hours poring over the paperwork. He’d already lied to Jenny about it. Because his signature was there, next to the magistrate’s, closing Charlie Dorey’s case. He’d missed something, two years ago. And it had come back to haunt him.

  Michael threw the file back on the table. Wished, once again, that he’d retired years ago.

  He arrived in Sark on the police launch well before 8 a.m. and went straight to the tiny community centre next to St Peter’s Church, where they had decided to set up the incident room. It was a jarringly picturesque location to base a murder inquiry. Michael had been to a wedding here once, one of Sheila’s friends. He thought it had all been a bit pretentious really, making everyone go to Sark even though neither the bride nor the groom had anything to do with the place. Still, it had been a good do (‘Magical,’ Sheila had said) with a horse-drawn carriage and a nice meal at Stocks afterwards. Hard to imagine now, him and Sheila, in their twenties, in love, before life fucked everything up. He’d been in good shape back then. Solid, but she’d liked that. Said he made her feel safe. She was still a fine-looking woman. He’d seen her in Guernsey last month, with her new husband.

  Marquis coughed behind him, interrupting his thoughts, and Michael saw that there were a group of officers waiting outside. He counted them in. Ten. Eleven including him. The room was small and dusty, with unpolished floorboards, chairs arranged in a circle ready for the knitting group’s weekly meeting. Michael had Marquis stack them in the corner, while two other officers requisitioned a spare desk from the tourist information centre in the village. The rest of the team set up laptops, a telephone. As Michael explained to them, they didn’t need much: this was an exercise in public relations more than anything—the locals needed somewhere they could come for updates, or with any information they might have. They wouldn’t like being told to call Guernsey, though that was the first thing the officer on duty here was instructed to do on receiving anything relevant to the inquiry.

  ‘Marquis, I want Reg Carré’s bank statements, pension information, whatever you can find. He appears to have had a significant amount of money. I want to know how much and where it came from. And find out if he made a will. As far as suspects are concerned, I want to know about anyone who Reg Carré ever had an argument with, anyone who he had a relationship with. So far, the only person who seems to have spoken with him recently is his son, Luke Carré. Says he was out running with a friend yesterday morning—one of the lads in Guernsey is checking that out for us. Meanwhile, over here, we’re going to continue with door-to-doors. There are four hundred and fifty-odd people on this island, less if you discount the kids. We should be able to get a statement and an alibi from every one over the next couple of days. Where are we with ferry passenger lists for the last couple of weeks?’

  ‘I’m on it, sir. Already contacted them,’ Marquis said.

  ‘Good. And I want guest lists from all the hotels and guesthouses. Does the campsite have a register? It must do. I want to know every single person who has travelled to and from this island in the last couple of months. There’s only one way to get on and off of here—that’s got to work to our advantage. And everyone knows each other. Any strangers hanging around, any unusual behaviour, it will have been noticed.’

  There was a snigger from the back of the room.

  ‘Something funny about a bloody murder now, is there?’ He looked for Fallaize, who could usually be relied upon to be an arse, but it was PC Bachelet who was beet-red.

  ‘Sorry, sir. It’s just, you know, people here are a bit unusual at the best of times.’

  ‘Bloody hell’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Nothing, sir.’

  ‘I should hope so. Folks in Jersey think everyone in Guernsey’s weird, and we all know that’s a load of bollocks. It’s just different here, that’s all. You will treat everyone on this island with respect. And as a potential killer. Now get to work.’

  He’d hardly finished organising the place when there was a rap on the open door and Michael turned to see an overweight, pink-cheeked man wearing corduroy trousers and a polo shirt with ‘Florence’s’ embroidered on the breast pocket. Florence’s was the name of the tearooms at the Seigneurie, the ancestral home of the seigneur of Sark.

  ‘I’m looking for Inspector Gilbert?’ He had a high-pitched, nasal voice.

  ‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Gilbert. How can I help you?’

  ‘My name is Jeremy Botham. I’m Sir William de Bordeaux’s private secretary. Sir William was wondering when you might find the time to come and speak with him. He’s rather anxious to find out what’s going on.’

  ‘I’m sure he is.’

  The man looked affronted by Michael’s tone. ‘He’s the seigneur. He needs to draft a statement. People here still look to him for leadership, despite all the recent political upheaval.’ He wrinkled his nose, as though the recent democratisation of Sark was an unpleasant aroma.

  ‘He’s next on my list. I’ll be there in twenty minutes. We’ve been a little busy, as I’m sure you understand.’

  The man nodded. ‘I shall tell him you’re on your way.’

  ‘You do that.’ Michael watched the man walk up the road. He could have gone with him but didn’t want Sir William to think the Guernsey Police Force were at his beck and call. Michael was already at the mercy of too many chiefs.

  ‘This Sebastian Clarke, sir, Luke Carré’s alibi—he confirmed that he was out running with Luke yesterday morning.’

  ‘When exactly?’

  ‘Early. He said Luke met him at six and he was back home by eight, in time to get ready for work. But that still wouldn’t leave Luke enough time to get over to Sark.’

  ‘Hm. I suppose not. In any event, let’s keep an eye on Luke Carré. There’s something about him. Can’t put my finger on it. He was definitely holding back. Right. I’m going to talk to Sir William de bloody Beauvoir, or whatever his name is. Wish me luck.’

  Hidden behind high walls, the Seigneurie Gardens were the biggest tourist attraction on Sark. The fertile soil and mild climate in this sheltered oasis meant that many plants that would have been killed
by frost and rain on the mainland thrived here. Rose-covered archways, a bed of Singapore orchids, exotic clematises climbing up trellises, a greenhouse full of cacti; in the summertime, it drew hundreds of visitors, who included it on their European garden tours, right after Kew and Wisley.

  Michael made his way to the house through a section of garden marked ‘Private’. Here, it was less cultivated, borders full of lavender and sweet-smelling herbs spilling over onto the pathway. Mist still lingered, hovering over shrubs and threading its way between the flowers. Through the trees, Michael glimpsed the pond—a misnomer, really, for the ancient body of water that predated the rest of the property by hundreds, perhaps thousands of years. It was, as always, Michael noted, in shadow. He shivered. It had always given him the creeps.

  The house itself was beautiful. The modern section at the front similar to that of an old Guernsey farmhouse but grander in scale. Behind, the turrets and towers of the original building rose above the rooftop. Up close, though, the dilapidation was more evident. There had been articles in the Guernsey News about the state of the house, the need for repair and renovation—Sir William had insisted it was up to the States of Guernsey to pay for the repairs, despite him being some sort of third cousin to the Queen and presumably loaded. Typical rich person, Michael had thought, never wanting to spend their own money. Paint was peeling round cracked window frames, a layer of lichen yellowing the blue stonework, the front door creaking on its hinges as it opened at his approach.

  Inside, Michael’s footsteps echoed on cold flagstones. Dark wood balustrades curved round a staircase leading to the top floor. Jeremy Botham showed Michael into a drawing room, where Sir William de Bordeaux sat tall and straight in a wing-backed chair. He was a man evidently blessed with good genes. Now in his eighties, he was well known for walking everywhere, with the help of only a highly polished walnut cane, eschewing the use of the motorised scooter he’d been granted special permission to use on Sark’s traffic-free roads. He delighted tourists by turning up to island events in his full, now antique RAF uniform, medals sparkling at his breast.

  ‘Ah! Here you are. I’ve been waiting for you. I need an update. People are going to expect me to make a statement. Forty-five years I’ve been seigneur of Sark. Never had anything like this. It’s appalling. What’s going on? And what are you all doing about it?’

  Michael contemplated telling him that he was unable to discuss the details of the case. He’d be quite within his rights, too. The seigneur no longer had any official role on the island, was merely a figurehead. But it struck Michael that the man might be useful. He’d certainly have a different insight into island affairs than the rest of the population. So he gave him a very short précis of the previous day’s events.

  ‘This really is most distressing. You’re to keep me informed. Any developments, as soon as an arrest is made, you must let me know.’

  ‘We’ll certainly do that, sir.’

  ‘You’ll be calling a meeting, presumably, updating the islanders in person? One can only imagine how worried everyone will be. You’ll need to reassure them. This place is so small, Inspector—any one of us could be living within feet of a killer!’

  ‘We’re going to call a meeting, yes,’ Michael agreed. ‘As soon as we’re up and running here.’

  ‘I’ll make a statement. Something the press can report, along the lines of “I’m shocked and distressed, and urge the public to help the police with their enquiries.”’

  ‘Thank you. That would be very helpful.’

  ‘Although I’m not, you know. Not really.’

  Michael furrowed his brow. ‘You’re not going to make a statement?’

  ‘I’m not shocked.’ He reached over to a side table and rang a small brass bell. Jeremy peered in from behind the door. ‘Fetch us some tea, please, Jeremy.’

  ‘Certainly, sir.’

  Michael waited until the door was closed again. ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘You know how a pressure cooker works, Inspector?’

  Michael tried to suppress a sigh of frustration and did not entirely succeed.

  Sir William continued oblivious. ‘You put all the ingredients into the pot and turn it on, and over time, they cook. Given the right amount of pressure, the right amount of time, at the end, you have a delicious meal. But under the wrong circumstances, forgotten, for example, or set incorrectly, what do you get? An explosion, Inspector. That’s what. Broken glass and boiling-hot matter all over the kitchen.’

  ‘I see.’ Michael paused. ‘Sir William, do you have any idea who killed Reg Carré? Or how his death might be related to the situation you’ve just described?’

  ‘Goodness me, no. Hardly even knew the man.’

  ‘But you’re saying that circumstances are such that you’re not shocked by his violent murder?’

  ‘Inspector, Sark is not what it was. I have no power now, I realise that. It was always very limited. My grandmother Dame Florence was the last true ruler of Sark. Democratisation was inevitable. I don’t resent it. But with it has come something else. The vandalism, the posters—there’s so much ill will. More than that. Bad blood, Inspector. There’s so much bad blood. It’s flowing through us all now. Turning neighbour against neighbour, brother against sister. It was only a matter of time before somebody got hurt.’

  18

  Jenny

  Jenny knocked on Len Mauger’s door for the third time. She pushed open the letterbox, called his name. There was a good chance, she thought, that he was ignoring her. She’d frightened him the day before with her relentless questions, had left in a hurry with too many of them unanswered. She was on borrowed time once more, having asked Elliot to touch base with the police while she ‘tied up a couple of loose ends’. He, rightly, suspected she was up to something. She’d have to tell him what eventually.

  She walked the perimeter of Len’s house, peering in through grimy windows. Back at the front, she stood on the path, realised something was missing. The boots and bucket she had seen at the door yesterday were gone. Len must have crab pots somewhere nearby. Somewhere accessible from land, judging by the wet wellies she’d seen yesterday. The quickest way to the coast from here was straight on, past the silver mines.

  She walked downhill, through an arch of trees. The sunshine was scant, the air clammy, leaves throwing dappled shadows at her feet, and she was relieved to emerge out into the open countryside.

  Long grass rippled in the fields on either side of her. Soon they would be shorn, bales of sweet-smelling hay rolled into the corners. A track led to a farmhouse and a barn, the last inhabited buildings on Little Sark before the land fell into the sea. She wondered if Len Mauger’s neighbours looked out for him, if they knew where he was, but stopped short of going to ask. Too many of Sark’s residents seemed to know her business already, or at least were suspicious enough of her to warn her off, to discourage her questions. And it was obvious, from the note she had seen yesterday, that at least one person might not stop there. There was no sign that anyone was home anyway, just a fat ginger cat looking at her through half-closed eyes as she walked towards the ruined mines.

  Ill fated. That was how the mining endeavour on Sark was most often described. It had started with a glister. A farmer picking up a rock, glinting in the sunlight. The caves were explored. A shining seam as wide as a man’s arm found running through black rock. Riches were discussed in fevered conversations. Land bought and sold. Whole families shipped over from Cornwall, lured by the promise of a steady wage paid in silver. Four shafts were sunk at Port Gorey, with eight galleries mined under the seabed. Steam pumping engines were installed to clear out water and rubble. At some points, only a few feet of rock lay between the miners and the ocean. It was said they could hear the waves rolling back and forth above them. It made the locals nervous. It wasn’t right to be beneath the sea. It wasn’t natural.

  There were whispers of bad luck. Accidents, not in the mines themselves but after the day was done. Shipwre
cks in fine weather. Sickness. A stillborn child. Then one night, on his way home from a day at the mines, a Sarkee saw the Tchico. It stood on La Coupée, teeth bared, eyes glowing red, chains rattling at its neck. Hackles risen, it crouched on its haunches, growling, barring the man’s way home. Terrified, he ran back to the camp. The curse was on all of them, he said, and while the mines were open, no one on Sark was safe. Half mad with terror, he took a boat, intending to sail back to the main island, avoiding the walk across La Coupée and the dog, which had surely been sent as a message from hell. He never made it home. Pieces of the boat washed ashore the next morning.

  No one wanted to work the mines after that, so the story went. Eventually they were abandoned. All that was left of them were the chimneys, moss-covered stacks of granite protruding from the scrubby heather and gorse, some almost completely intact, others crumbling.

  There was no clear path to the shore, just a lowering of the land as it reached into the Channel, its covering of springy grass thinning to rubble and rock as it met the water. Patches of wild flowers—delicate pink thrift, stark white sea campion—and mustard-coloured lichen peppered the yellows and browns of the cliff edge. Jenny took what appeared to be the easiest route down, treading carefully over loose shale, descending into a cleft between two rocky outcrops. The further she went, the less likely it seemed she would find Len Mauger. There was no nowhere to drop a crab pot from here, let alone pull one in.

  She picked her way round a deep rock pool. Blood red, jelly-like anemones clung to the sides. The water disappeared into a black crevice on one side, flowing under the cliffs. Charlie had told her octopus could be found under rocks like these. The proper way to catch one, he’d said, was to stretch an arm into the space underneath the rock and wait. The octopus would attack, wrapping tentacles round the offending limb; at which point, you had to whip it out and bash it on the nearest hard surface. ‘Simple as that,’ he’d grinned. She had no idea if he’d been joking or not, but her arms still tingled at the thought of it. That was the thing about Charlie. The lines between truth and fiction blurred. Not intentionally, but he told all his stories with the same enthusiasm. Jokes became legends, legends became facts, and she’d never had the opportunity to ask him which was which. She had, she corrected herself. She’d had the opportunity. She’d never taken it.