Dark Sky Island

by Lara Dearman

  She stopped at the water’s edge, balancing on a flat boulder, which pitched back and forth under her weight, the cliff face behind her casting a shadow out onto the water. On the horizon, hidden behind thick cloud, lay Paimpol and Saint-Brieuc. Behind her, to the north, Carteret and Cherbourg. It was an anomaly of history that these islands, with their Gallic habits, embraced by the arm of Normandy on one side, of Brittany on the other, should call England the ‘mainland’. She’d never felt English, felt much more at home on the quaint, cobbled streets of Saint-Malo, so like those of St Peter Port, than she ever did on the streets of Brighton, with its garish gaming arcades and the fume-spewing traffic and the beach—pebbled and littered and too busy to sit on whenever the sun shone.

  A wave broke at her feet and she realised the tide was rising, the stones around her, which had been grey and dry only moments before, were now slick and black, not yet immersed, the water tentative, gaining more ground as it flowed forward, retreating a little less with each ebb. She turned, saw to her dismay that the water had risen behind her—the tide had filled the rock pools to overflowing and they now spilled over the surface she had walked across only five minutes previously.

  Shit. It was embarrassment, not panic, that made her scramble back the way she came; only now, she was ankle-deep in freezing seawater. A tourist’s mistake: failing to appreciate the unpredictability of the tide. She reached the headland, feet squelching in her shoes.

  ‘What on earth are you doing?’ Len Mauger stood holding a bucket in one hand, a fishing rod in the other.

  ‘I was looking for you.’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t be down there, would I? Those rocks are cursed. Least they were, according to the miners. One of the children from the barracks drowned down there. Not long before they wound the whole operation up.’

  ‘That’s why you don’t go down there?’

  ‘I don’t go down there because it’s a bloody deathtrap. Tide rushes in out of nowhere.’

  She felt her cheeks redden. ‘So I gather.’

  She walked alongside him. They went slowly, her wet shoes chafing against her heels. He stopped every minute or so.

  ‘Can I carry the bucket?’

  He nodded. Handed it to her. She baulked at the weight of it. A conger eel curled inside, grey-green skin glistening. She grimaced.

  ‘Don’t like conger?’ Len asked.

  ‘I’ve only had it once. I didn’t like it much.’

  ‘You’ve got to fillet it right. It’s bony.’

  ‘You caught this from the shore?’ Congers preferred deeper water.

  He nodded.

  ‘Off Venus Pool. Couple of good spots there. Bugger reeling it in, though. Must weigh fifteen pounds. I’m a bit knackered, to be honest with you.’ His face was pale, beads of sweat on his forehead despite the cool weather. She wondered how long he would be able to keep going. Out here, alone, sick, shunning help. He seemed to read her thoughts.

  ‘I’ll not be able to do this much longer.’

  ‘You should go to Guernsey. Have the treatment they’ve offered you. Do you have any family there?’

  ‘I’ve only one relative anywhere. A sister. Lives in Perth. Haven’t seen her in nearly ten years.’

  ‘Does she know you’re sick?’

  ‘I doubt she knows I’m alive. We were never close,’ he offered as an explanation. ‘I’ve always had my friends. Just the last couple of years I’ve kept myself to myself. Ever since . . .’ he stopped walking, wiped his brow, ‘your dad. Before he died, he saw something.’

  ‘Yes?’ She gripped the handle of the bucket.

  ‘The waters around Brecqhou. No one’s allowed to sail within a certain distance of the island. It’s a privacy thing Monroe managed to sort out when he bought the place. Must have paid a fortune to someone. Not sure how you go about making the sea private property.’ He shrugged. ‘Anyway, he wanted to stop the press taking pictures of his castle, or whatever he’s got going on there.’ He paused again. ‘Your dad saw a boat one evening. Right off the coast, on the castle side. He thought maybe it was one of the tabloids trying to get pictures, decided to follow it.’

  ‘It was probably Monroe’s. He must use a boat to get to and from Sark.’

  ‘It wasn’t Monroe’s. His is practically gold-plated, not hard to mistake. This was a regular fishing boat. Anyway, over by Port du Moulin, this boat starts flashing a light. Your dad reckoned it was some sort of signal. He got a bit obsessed about it, truth be told. I’m sure you know what he was like. Anyway, he started asking around about it. Thought he was on to something.’

  ‘What did he think was going on?’

  He shook his head. ‘I really don’t know.’

  ‘You think Corey Monroe has something to do with this?’

  ‘I don’t think anything, and I have no idea what this is,’ he said sharply. ‘I’m telling you what Charlie told me over a couple of pints at the Mermaid. It’s probably a load of rubbish.’ He took the bucket from her, wincing at its weight. ‘I’ve nothing else to tell you.’

  They had reached his house, and he walked through the gate, took a few steps up the path.

  ‘What the . . . ?’ He dropped the bucket. It fell onto its side. The eel’s head slid out onto the paving; its dead black eyes sheened with blue. A trickle of water followed it, drawing a dark line across the dry stones, stopping only when it reached the doorstep.

  Jenny followed Len’s gaze to the front door and walls of his house. All smeared brown. A blowfly buzzed in front of her face. Jenny took a few steps closer. The smell burned the back of her throat.

  ‘It’s manure. From the farm. Must be. It’s happened before. Kids throw it around. Messing about.’ Len’s voice was unsteady.

  Jenny shook her head. ‘It’s not manure. It’s dog shit.’

  ‘Jesus. It’s her.’

  ‘Who?’ Jenny put an arm out to steady him as he swayed on his feet.

  ‘None of this would have happened before. Not your dad, not Reg. She came over and changed it all. It’s not the Sark way.’ His voice faded and he took deep, rasping gasps of breath.

  ‘Who did? For God’s sake, please tell me what you know!’

  ‘Just leave, will you? Leave here and don’t come back.’ His face was ashen, his skin clammy. He slumped into her arms and Jenny buckled under his weight.

  ‘We need to get you inside. You need to lie down.’

  She half dragged, half pulled him to the house, ignoring the dog shit on the door handle as she tried to open it.

  ‘It’s locked. Where’s the key? Where’s the key, Len?’

  His eyes were closed, his breathing shallow. She lowered him as gently as she could to the ground. Flies immediately buzzed around his face and she swiped at them. ‘Fuck off!’

  She was panicking. Not thinking straight. She took out her phone.

  No signal.

  Fuck.

  19

  Michael

  ‘This is a monumental screw-up if ever I saw one.’ Michael took off his jacket and threw it at the chair. He missed and it fell to the floor, edges instantly made white with dust. ‘Martin Langlais mentioned he reported vandalism months ago. Now the seigneur’s telling me the same story. If it turns out Reg’s murder is connected to some sort of neighbours’ feud that we did nothing about, we are well and truly fucked.’ Michael was not one for swearing; his language worsened with his mood. From the look on Marquis’s face, he knew the last statement meant trouble was brewing.

  ‘Did the seigneur have any other useful information?’

  ‘I’ve no idea, Marquis. It was all exploding pressure cookers and bad blood. Well, it’s all over Reg Carré’s kitchen walls now, isn’t it, eh?’

  ‘I don’t quite understand, sir.’ Marquis was fiddling with his belt loops. He did that when he was nervous.

  ‘Well, could be the seigneur’s lost the plot, Marquis. That’s entirely possible, I grant you. Let’s face it, he’s knocking on a bit. Didn’t strike me a
s a rambling pensioner, though. Quite the opposite. And he seemed to think this whole island has gone to hell. Based on the day and a half we’ve spent here, I’m inclined to agree.’ He pulled at his chin. ‘We’re no closer to finding Reg’s killer. We’re calling for calm, obviously, but whoever did that is dangerous. Every hour that goes by . . .’ He shook his head. ‘Doesn’t bear thinking about. And we’ve not had a single tip off about the bones. It’ll be days, weeks maybe before we get anything back from the lab on them.’

  There was a shuffling in the doorway. Michael swung round.

  ‘Yes?’

  A man stood on the step, looking awkward.

  ‘Can we help you?’ Michael had no time for dawdlers this morning.

  ‘Yes. I didn’t want to interrupt.’ The man stepped into the incident room. He was well over six feet tall, broad-shouldered and clean-shaven, a tan line visible below the open collar of his checked shirt. He scratched the back of his neck.

  ‘I saw Mr Carré. Yesterday morning, first thing. He was on his way back from the shop, I think.’

  Michael picked up the pile of statements taken from residents who had come forward the day before.

  ‘Did you speak to someone about this yesterday?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, I gave a statement. Benjamin Perré.’

  ‘Got it.’ Michael pulled it out and glanced over it. Nodded as he read it. ‘It’s all here.’

  Benjamin shifted. ‘I’m not sure it is.’

  ‘Take a seat, Mr Perré. Marquis, sort out some coffee, will you? Get a couple from the village and keep the receipt.

  ‘Says here you passed Mr Carré in your tractor. He was resting against a hedge; you were concerned he was unwell; you exchanged pleasantries and made sure he was OK. This was shortly after nine yesterday morning.’ Michael looked up. ‘What have we missed?’

  Benjamin sighed. ‘This is stupid. I told my wife it was going to sound stupid.’

  ‘Well, you’re here now, and I’ve heard stupid too many times for you to need to feel embarrassed about it. If something’s bothering you, let’s hear it.’

  ‘I’ve known Mr Carré all my life. Luke and I—that’s Reg’s son—we’re friends. Spoke to him Sunday night actually.’

  ‘You spoke to Luke? What about?’

  ‘Oh, just told him about the bones down on Derrible.’

  ‘You knew about the bones Sunday night?’

  ‘Course. Martin, you know—the constable, he was in the Mermaid having a pint.’

  ‘You call Luke often?’

  ‘Every now and then. Keep him up to date on all the island gossip.’ He stopped. A worried expression crossed his face. ‘Was I not supposed to say anything? About the bones? Only Martin didn’t say it was confidential or anything. We were all talking about it in the pub.’

  ‘No, no. It’s fine. You were telling me about Reg.’

  ‘Yes. That’s right. Yesterday, when I passed Reg, I stopped, like I said. He was fine, just taking a rest. It was warm. Only, when I mentioned the bones on Derrible, well, he looked very . . . distressed.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Well, it’s hard to say. It just seemed to affect him.’

  ‘More than the average person on hearing a dead body’s been discovered in a cave?’

  Benjamin nodded. ‘I’d say so. He didn’t seem surprised. More panicked.’ He looked up at Michael. ‘This is stupid. I probably imagined it. Poor man. Can’t get away from the old gossip even when he’s dead.’

  ‘What old gossip? You didn’t mention that yesterday.’

  ‘Well, it’s not on, is it? And they were just nasty rumours. My dad started them, so I should know.’

  ‘What rumours?’

  ‘When Reg’s wife disappeared.’

  ‘Disappeared? I thought she left him?’

  ‘Right. Yes, see, this is the problem. She did leave him. But it was very sudden. And she never came back, to visit Luke or anything. So people talked.’

  ‘And what did they say?’

  ‘That Reg had bumped her off, you know. I mean, nobody really thought that. It was a bit of a joke. But it came back to me yesterday, when I told him about the bones. Saw his face. Remembered my dad, twenty-five years ago, just after Mrs Carré left. He was talking to my mum about it. “Wouldn’t surprise me if he’d done her in,” he said, “and buried her in the back garden,” and Mum said something like, “Don’t be daft. There are better places to hide a body round here.”’

  He caught Michael’s incredulous expression. ‘They were joking, Inspector. They laughed. But I was only about ten, and I remember not finding it very funny.’

  ‘Right. I see.’ Michael could feel the beginnings of a headache. ‘You did the right thing coming to us. We’ll need to follow up. Talk to your parents—do they know you’ve told us about this?’

  Benjamin shook his head. ‘No. It shouldn’t be a problem. They’d be happy to help. Well, Mum will.’

  Marquis came in with the coffees just as Benjamin Perré left.

  ‘Everything all right, sir?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘What was that all about?’

  ‘More gossip and bad blood, Marquis. Reckon we’ve got a way to go before we get through it all.’

  ‘Well, I’ve got something interesting. From the Sark Shipping ticket office. They sold a ticket back to Guernsey on the twelve-noon sailing yesterday.’

  ‘Right. Carry on.’

  ‘Well, the girl at the ticket office is not from Sark, so she couldn’t be sure if the woman who purchased it was local or not, but she didn’t recognise her.’

  ‘OK. It would be unusual for a visitor not to have a return ticket—that’s what you’re getting at?’

  ‘Exactly. And the timing—few hours after Reg Carré was killed. Thought it might be worth pursuing.’

  ‘True bloody right, Marquis. Did we get a name, a description?’

  ‘They don’t take names on the Sark ferry, boss—it’s still paper tickets. The crew tear one half off when you board. We could look at credit-card sales, but this woman paid cash, and the girl at the ticket office wasn’t the best witness, boss. Said it was a woman wearing a sun hat, sunglasses. She couldn’t see her face or her hair. Average height and weight.’

  ‘I see. Well, let’s put out an appeal. See if whoever it was comes forward. And let’s talk to anyone we do know was on that sailing—in fact, any sailing from Sark yesterday—check the credit-card sales, like you said, ask anyone who paid cash to come forward, cross-check against numbers, see if we’re missing anyone. Might be someone was acting strangely; people might have noticed.’ He nodded, almost to himself. ‘Good work, Marquis.’

  The phone on the desk rang. It was a weighty, old-fashioned brick of a thing and you could almost hear the bell shaking inside the casing. Michael picked it up. Listened. Sighed. Grunted. Put his hand to his forehead.

  ‘OK. OK. Yes, got it. We’ll be there in ten minutes.’

  ‘What’s up, sir?’

  Michael stared out of the door, brow furrowed. ‘More vandalism. House over on Little Sark. Chap’s collapsed.’

  ‘Shouldn’t we be focusing on all this?’ Marquis pointed to the pile of interview notes, beneath which they both knew were pictures of Reg Carré’s body, and the crime scene photographs of Derrible Bay.

  ‘We should. But we’ll not be hearing anything from the lab until Friday at the earliest. And this man, Len Mauger, he’s on my list of people to speak to. Was a friend of Reg’s. Jenny Dorey’s with him. That was her on the phone.’

  Michael left the room, stepping out onto the street.

  ‘Come on, then!’ he called over his shoulder. ‘Let’s find out what trouble that cousin of yours has been causing this time.’

  20

  Rachel

  1984

  If only you could get shoes on Sark. It was easy to guess the sizes for his clothes—if a T-shirt was a little big, it could be tucked in, the ends of trousers rolled up—but the
shoes were a different story. She had to buy a couple of sizes each time and return the ones that didn’t fit. But this time the smaller size was much too tight, and the bigger ones were the right length but too narrow and they pinched his feet.

  ‘Just take him over. Get him properly fitted. There’s only a week before he starts. First pair of school shoes are a bit of a big deal, anyway. I remember getting mine.’ He ruffled Luke’s hair. ‘What do you say, Luke? Fancy a trip to Guernsey?’

  Luke nodded. ‘Can we go in a car when we get there?’ He’d never been in one. He’d never left the island.

  She felt sick at the thought of it, out among all those people. The High Street, the shops, the crowds. It would be too hard to keep him safe.

  Reg sensed how nervous she was. ‘I’ll come. We’ll make a day of it. It’ll do the boy good. We’ll show him all the sights,’ he joked.

  She didn’t laugh. Didn’t even crack a smile.

  ‘He’s a strong, healthy lad, Rachel. You’ve got to stop all this fussing. He’s not going to break.’

  Reg was right. Luke was strong and healthy. He was smart, too, and curious, full of questions about the world around him, about nature and the weather and the sky at night. A trip to Guernsey wouldn’t break him. She was another matter.

  They went on a Thursday. Luke’s grip on her hand was too slight and she had to keep pulling him back, towards her. She had thought that having Reg there would be useful, an extra pair of eyes on the child. Instead, he hindered her efforts.