Dark Sky Island

by Lara Dearman

  ‘Petrol?’

  ‘Two weeks ago and you can still smell it. You can imagine how much they must have used.’

  ‘Who did this?’

  ‘I’ve a fair idea but no proof, so I wouldn’t like to say. The Sark Olive Oil Company has the potential to employ up to twenty people. But the Sarkees would rather cut off their own noses than work for me. It’s such a shame. The island’s dying, Jenny. It was long before I got here. It’s cheaper to get to Spain or Greece or the Canary Islands than it is to get here in the summer. It’s a thousand times more beautiful here—don’t get me wrong—but people want guaranteed sunshine and karaoke and sex on the beach’—he glanced at her—‘not rock pools and cliff walks and fog.’

  The path down to Havre Goselin was steep. Thick, wiry grass grew either side of it and they were forced to walk one behind the other, Jenny following his steady steps downwards. He was at home here, she thought. Sure-footed, not just physically. He felt that he belonged, even if the locals would do anything to get rid of him. He turned, without warning, back towards her. She stopped just short of him, so close she could see the pores in his skin. He pointed up, to a kestrel, hovering, wings twitching as it battled to stay in position over whatever prey it had spied in the long grass beneath.

  ‘I could watch them for hours,’ he said.

  They stood, side by side, waiting for the bird to dive, but instead, it shifted slowly sideways, further and further away from them, before swooping out to sea.

  ‘I saw one catch a baby rabbit once,’ he said. ‘It was amazing watching the kestrel struggle with it. They have a strength way beyond their size. The rabbit must have weighed nearly as much as the bird, but it wouldn’t give up. Tore it to pieces.’

  He continued down the path. Jenny waited until there was twenty feet between them. She felt uncomfortable standing too close to him. It was his aftershave, she decided. It had a metallic edge to it. Like blood.

  Corey guided the RIB onto a jetty built of light stone. No uneven earth or untended grass here, but a wide path of polished granite, tone picked to match the pale jetty behind them. It wound upwards and round, boulders on one side, windswept grassland on the other, until it flattened. Low gateposts marked the beginning of a wall on either side, which increased in height the closer they got to the house now before them.

  It was referred to as ‘the Mansion’ by everyone in Guernsey and Sark, but she could see now that it more closely resembled a French chateau. Built of the same stone as the path, the main building was three storeys high, and as wide as three or four regular houses. A taller, circular tower finished either end. The roof was pink slate, giving the whole place a fairy-tale quality. Jenny wanted to find it crass but had to admit that the effect, with the pale sky above and the sound of the waves crashing around them, was enchanting.

  ‘What’s that?’ She pointed at a smaller building behind the main house.

  ‘Guest quarters.’

  ‘How many bedrooms does the main house have?’

  ‘Twelve.’

  He overtook her. Pointed out another building. ‘That’s the pub.’

  ‘So there is a pub. I thought that was a rumour.’

  ‘I only open it when guests are staying.’

  ‘Where’s the helipad?’

  ‘Other side of the island.’

  ‘Who flies the helicopter?’

  ‘I do usually. I’ve offered it to the islanders for emergency use. Never been taken up on it. It’s equipped for search and rescue too. Come on, let’s go in.’

  They entered the house through huge double doors, stepping into a bright, fresh entrance hall and then through to the ‘reading room’. Monroe said it almost reverentially as he opened the door. He led her over to a bay window seat, billowing white curtains tied back to reveal a spectacular view of the Gouliot Passage and over to Sark.

  A woman appeared from a side door, tall and slim with the air of an art gallery curator. ‘Can I get you anything, Corey?’

  ‘Tea, please, Margot. And whatever Jenny would like.’

  She asked for coffee and waited until the woman had left. ‘How many staff do you have?’

  ‘A handful. Margot is my Girl Friday. Couldn’t do without her.’ He gestured for Jenny to sit, and she did so, taking out her notebook and pen.

  ‘Mr Monroe, as time is of the essence, can I ask you now about the current state of affairs between you and the people of Sark? It’s safe to say, I think, that relations have reached a crisis point. Can you tell our readers why you think this is the case?’

  ‘Of course. As you’ll probably remember, tensions were running high around election time. A lot of the locals took their first ever opportunity to run for government on an anti-Corey Monroe ticket. Which is a little ironic. Considering the only reason Sark has free and fair elections is me.’ He paused. ‘It was the young people who surprised me. Who’d have thought people your age would be so vehemently opposed to living in a democracy?’

  ‘Can I ask, and I don’t mean to sound rude, but why do you care whether Sark has “free and fair elections”? You knew what the island was when you bought Brecqhou. Why get involved in island affairs at all? What’s in it for you?’

  ‘Nothing.’ He saw her raised eyebrows. ‘I find it hard to understand how anyone can defend a system of government that only offers representation to landowners. Where the leader of that government is born, not elected. Where a man can beat his wife so long as the stick is not too wide.’

  ‘OK. That’s all well and good, but those idiosyncrasies were part of what made the island special. Gave it that “land that time forgot” atmosphere.’

  ‘It’s still a land that time forgot, Jenny,’ he said dryly. ‘You have to walk everywhere. My helicopter—Jesus, you’d think I was using a fire-breathing dragon to get to and from the island, all the controversy it’s caused. And that’s fine. I can’t change that. Nor do I want to. But I’m proud of the fact that wife-beating is now a crime.’

  ‘But what’s in it for you? There are empty storefronts up and down the Avenue. There’s been talk of rent hikes.’ She left the statement hanging.

  He shook his head. ‘No. I’ve poured millions into the Sark economy. Millions. Renovated hotels, used as much local workforce as I could. Tried to stock the kitchens with local produce. Tried to employ local people. It’s all smoke and mirrors. They’re trying to force me out.’

  ‘Why would anyone do that?’

  ‘It’s a good question. One I’m trying to get to the bottom of. I know there was some crazy talk about me trying to turn this place into some sort of theme park.’

  ‘You suggested building a railway round the island.’

  He waved his hand dismissively. ‘A misstep. And I was never serious, not really, was just floating around ideas, looking at ways to reinvigorate the tourist industry. Believe it or not, I’m not the bad guy here.’

  ‘Who is?’

  ‘It’s never that simple, is it? But if I had to pin the problems on a particular person, I’d say the seigneur has done more damage to this island than anyone.’

  She was shocked by his candour. ‘But he’s been broadly supportive of democratisation. At least in the interviews I’ve read.’

  ‘He’s said all the right things in public. In private, and among the islanders, it’s been a different story.’

  ‘You think he’s behind the vandalism?’

  ‘Not directly, obviously. But I think he encourages it.’

  ‘You have proof?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘I can’t print unsubstantiated allegations.’

  ‘I’m not asking you to.’ He looked out. ‘It’s murky today. A peasouper—that’s what my dad would have called it. I grew up in the East End of London. Did you know that?’

  ‘I did. I read somewhere that your dad knew the Krays. Is that true?’

  He laughed. ‘A gross exaggeration. The tabloids love to try to tar me with that brush. He was from the same part of town
and lived there at the same time, but my dad was a grafter, not a gangster. Helped me buy my first boat. All this is as much to do with his hard work as it is mine.’

  ‘It’s a great story.’

  ‘I sometimes think it’s part of the problem people have with me.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘As a rule, much as folks like to grumble about it, they’re more comfortable with inherited wealth. It’s so much easier to resent. Self-made billionaires make them feel inadequate. I’d rather you didn’t quote me on that.’ He was still staring out at the Channel.

  ‘You have a great view of the passage over to Sark. Do you see a lot of boats?’

  ‘Not on this side of the island.’

  ‘People aren’t allowed to sail past here, are they?’

  ‘As I’m sure you know. Before I successfully argued that having people sail past my house with telescopic lenses was an invasion of privacy, it happened all the time. A boat from the Jersey Star ended up stranded just down there.’ He pointed to a stack of jagged rocks between the jetty and the coast of Sark. ‘Had to rescue them. I made them tea while they waited for the lifeboat.’ He turned to her and smiled. ‘Killing them with kindness.’

  ‘What about at night?’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘Have you ever seen anything unusual at night? Boats, flashing lights?’

  He hesitated. Just enough for her to notice. ‘You must mean the cave tours. That woman, Thursday something. She does a night-time sail a couple of times a week. They don’t come here. They’re not allowed. And anyway, the passage is too narrow. Too many rocks.’

  ‘I’ve heard about the tours. You’ve never seen anything else?’

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘I’m sure it’s nothing. Some of the locals said they’d seen boats out after dark. Probably stargazers, like Tuesday Jones.’

  She could feel his eyes still on her.

  ‘Probably. Whoever they are, they should be careful. Can you imagine the amount of ships dashed on these rocks, smashed to pieces in the kind of storm that sends sea spray all the way up here?’ He paused. ‘I love it here. Did when I first visited twenty-five years ago. Still do. I’m hopeful, even after all of this, that Sark can once again be a happy, thriving community.’ He stared at her now, and it was as though a shadow had passed over his face.

  ‘Because we’ve all seen now, haven’t we, Jenny, where animosity can lead? It starts with a brick through a window and ends with a dead body.’

  The waves smashing against the rocks outside were the only sound in the room.

  ‘You’re implying Reg Carré’s death is related to the political situation on the island?’

  ‘I hear the man’s head was practically severed from his body. Has to be the work of hate and anger. Or fear.’

  There was a moment of silence, broken by the clinking of crockery as Margot arrived with the drinks.

  ‘You know, I’m afraid I really don’t have much time.’ Jenny put her notebook back in her bag, desperate, suddenly, to get away from this strange place and this man whose demeanour had flipped from charming to unsettling in an instant. ‘I have to get my report filed for tomorrow’s News. Thank you. For speaking with me so candidly.’

  ‘Of course. My pleasure. Let’s get you back.’

  The cloud was so thick she could only just see Havre Gosselin landing, a short jetty and steep steps carved out of a wall of solid rock. Monroe slowed the boat, before butting against the first of the steps. He cut the engine and jumped out, a move that looked to have been perfected over time. He tied up to a mooring ring and held out his hand. She had no choice but to take it: there was nothing else to hold on to. She stood next to him on the jetty.

  ‘What did you mean when you talked about fear?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You said the person who killed Reg could have done it out of fear. Only it sounded like you were speaking from personal experience.’

  ‘Not particularly. It’s human nature. Or is it animal instinct? Fight or flight. You know all about that, surely. I hear you offended a few people while you were working in London. Got some of them running scared. And fear makes people lash out. Look what happened to you.’

  She froze.

  ‘I hope we can talk again sometime, Jenny.’ He untied the rope and jumped back down into the dinghy, started the engine and deftly manoeuvred out into the channel. He raised his hand in a goodbye salute and sped off into the fog.

  Look what happened to you. He could only be referring to the assault. Anyone could find out about it within a couple of minutes on Google. How she’d been abducted, threatened, left in Epping Forest, blindfolded, hands bound behind her back. They wouldn’t get the whole story, though. At the time, most of the press had reported it as a botched robbery. There had been some speculation her attackers meant to rape her but were disturbed by a passer-by. Only one or two sources mentioned that she was a journalist, that perhaps the assault was something to do with a story she’d been working on.

  It was. But that story had never been published. There was nothing online about the real reason behind her attack. Only Jenny knew that. The police she’d reported it to. And the men who did it.

  22

  Michael

  Malcolm and Sharon Perré owned Ariel’s Grotto, the toyshop on Rue Hotton. The Mermaid was only a few hundred yards further down the road. Michael had spent many a night propping up the bar there while on one his two-week ‘tours of duty’ in Sark. Years ago now. The last one had been the summer after Ellen had died. He’d got so pissed he’d missed the boat coming in the next morning, which was the only real job that the officer on Sark had—checking that there were no troublemakers on board. It was Sod’s Law that Peter Norman arrived that day. A well-known alcoholic (the irony) and petty thief, he’d been caught trying to nick a bike half an hour after landing. Michael’s absence at the morning ferry was noted, and reported back by the rather zealous constable at the time. He wasn’t asked to return the following year, and soon after, they stopped the trips altogether. There was never enough trouble to justify them being there. Until now.

  ‘I used to come here as a kid,’ Marquis said, before sneezing violently. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and blew his nose.

  ‘You all right?’

  ‘Think it’s just allergies. Hay fever.’

  Michael rolled his eyes. He didn’t know a single person his age who had an allergy. ‘Let’s get inside, then, shall we? Away from the hay.’

  The ringing of the bell as they crossed the threshold reminded Michael that he had brought Ellen to this shop. She had jumped in and out, making the bell sound until the owner had asked her to stop. Not the same person, he was sure, who stood behind the counter now. A woman in her late fifties, unnaturally dark hair set in a style that even to Michael’s untrained eye was at least twenty years out of date—short and choppy, the sides blown backwards to frame her face. A very nice face, he decided, the sort that smiled quickly and as often as possible, well-worn lines at the corners of her eyes, deep dimples in each cheek.

  ‘Can I help you?’ Her countenance wavered as she took in Michael and Marquis, side by side. ‘Are you looking for anything in particular?’

  ‘Mrs Perré?’

  ‘Yes. You are?’

  ‘DCI Gilbert, DC Marquis. Wanted to ask you a couple of questions about Reg Carré.’

  ‘That poor bastard.’ The voice was muffled and came from behind the counter. It was followed by a cough, and then shuffling and creaking. A hand grabbed the back of the countertop, belonging to a dusty-faced man, sharp black eyes shining.

  ‘This is my husband, Malcolm. He was in the basement,’ Sharon explained.

  Michael peered over to see a trapdoor and the beginnings of a wooden staircase.

  Malcolm placed a small box next to the till.

  ‘That’s the last one. You need to order some more, sharpish. And it’s a shithole down there. Might want to take a duster to it,
eh?’ He wiped his hand across his face and then on the back of his trousers. ‘Filthy it is.’

  ‘Sorry. I’ll get down there later.’

  ‘You want to ask about old Reg, then, eh? Thought you might be over.’ Malcolm looked at Michael expectantly.

  ‘Yes. We spoke to your son, Benjamin, yesterday.’

  Sharon’s hand went up to her cheek, then to a stray strand of hair. She looked as though she was about to speak, but Malcolm got in first.

  ‘Likes to talk, does Ben. Have anything interesting to say, did he?’

  ‘Mentioned some rumours, actually. About Reg and his wife. Years ago.’

  Malcolm walked out from behind the counter and leaned on the front of it, a hard smile pasted on his face. Behind him, Sharon paled. Michael watched her as Malcolm spoke.

  ‘There were always rumours about Reg, weren’t there, Shaz? Liked the old . . .’ He mimed a glass being raised to his mouth. ‘And the ladies. Liked the ladies, didn’t he, Shaz?’

  ‘I don’t think that’s true, Malcolm.’ She played with her hair again, the other side this time. ‘He was devoted to Rachel. Things were difficult for them. They lost a baby. Miscarriage. She was devastated. Left Sark for a while. She came back; they had Luke, but I’m not sure she ever fully recovered.’

  ‘Women, eh?’ Malcolm rolled his eyes. ‘Go soft at the squeak of a baby. It’s why this place is such a fucking mess—Ben and his missus just had one. Shaz here can’t keep away, can you, love?’

  ‘I’ve been a bit distracted. First grandchild.’ She smiled, but there was no warmth in her expression now, rather a look of desperation. She was frightened. Of her husband or Michael’s questions, or something else entirely, Michael couldn’t be sure.

  ‘Rachel’s disappearance was very sudden, I understand.’

  Neither Malcolm nor Sharon responded. Michael pushed.

  ‘There was talk at the time, so I hear, that she might not have left after all.’