Dark Sky Island

by Lara Dearman

  ‘Well, I think we’d all know if she was still here, wouldn’t we, Detective? I mean, how ridiculous. You can’t spend twenty-five years on Sark with no one knowing about it,’ Sharon said.

  ‘Unless she was holed up in a cave.’ Malcolm seemed to relish saying the words.

  ‘Malcolm, don’t be stupid! It’s absolutely irresponsible to talk like that now, with everything going on.’ She looked at Michael pleadingly. ‘At the time, there was some gossip. But it was only ever that. I helped Reg out from time to time after Rachel left.’

  An intake of breath from Malcolm. The first genuine reaction from him, Michael thought. The man had something of the pantomime villain about him, a part he seemed to enjoy playing.

  ‘Luke and Ben were friends, and Reg struggled, a single dad, twenty-odd years ago—it was hard for him,’ Sharon continued. ‘He was really a lovely man. Nobody knew what he dealt with, with Rachel. She had problems, you know?’ She tapped the side of her head. ‘Honestly, I think she did the best she could for that boy leaving when she did.’

  ‘What my wife seems to be saying, Detective, is that even if he did get rid of her, she deserved it. That right, Shaz?’ He turned to his wife, a sly look on his face.

  ‘Don’t do this, Malcolm. Not now.’

  ‘Don’t mind her.’ Malcolm looked entirely relaxed. ‘Been post-menopausal for the last ten years, haven’t you, love? Plays havoc with her emotions.’

  For the first time in many years, unprompted by any physical threat, Michael felt a twitch in his right hand. His fingers curled, as if they had a mind of their own, into a fist.

  ‘So you think Mr Carré could have murdered his wife. Is that what you’re saying, Mr Perré?’ Marquis took a couple of steps forward, drawing level with Michael on his right side.

  ‘Could have done. Course he could. Wouldn’t blame him if he had. ’S’like my wife said. She was a fucking nightmare. Mooning around all the time. Always miserable. They had some blazing rows, you know. She had a vicious way about her, I always thought. Bet she was a right goer in the sack, but you always pay for that, I find, in other ways.’ He laughed as though recalling fond memories but stopped abruptly as his wife slammed the trapdoor shut.

  ‘Shut up, Malcolm.’

  ‘All right, all right!’ Malcolm held up his hands.

  ‘I’m late for an appointment, Officer. Do you need anything else?’ Her voice was strained.

  ‘Not for now, Mrs Perré. Thank you.’

  She picked up a large handbag and slung it over her shoulder before she left.

  Malcolm whistled. ‘Don’t know what’s got into her. She thought Rachel was a mad bitch as much as I did.’

  ‘Care to elaborate, Mr Perré?’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Well, was there any particular behaviour Mrs Carré displayed that would lead you to form that conclusion?’

  ‘No. Nothing in particular. She was just that type of woman. I mean, look at her.’ He pointed in the direction his wife had just gone. ‘They’re all the bloody same.’

  Michael knocked over a basket of soft toys on the way out, so anxious was he to escape the presence of Malcolm Perré.

  ‘Can we arrest someone for being an arsehole?’ Marquis muttered as he righted the basket and replaced a pink-and-silver unicorn.

  ‘Sadly not.’

  ‘It’s been a bit of a day.’

  ‘Bloody hell, Stephen. You going for the Nobel Prize for Understatement? It’s been a bastard of a day. And it’s not over yet.’

  They’d gone only a few steps before the sound of footsteps behind them stopped them in their tracks.

  ‘Officers!’ Sharon Perré was hurrying after them.

  ‘You all right, love?’

  She seemed taken aback by Michael’s concerned manner. ‘You mean because of Mal?’ She waved a hand, dismissing him. ‘Please. Takes more than him on one of his little rants to upset me these days.’ She paused. ‘He’s really not that bad. His nose gets out of joint when, well, when anything upsets the status quo, I suppose.’

  ‘Like Reg Carré getting killed?’

  ‘Well, yes, of course that upset him. It’s upset all of us. But what I meant was more . . . Well, it’s difficult to explain.’

  ‘Try your best.’

  ‘It was when I helped Reg out after Rachel left. It was very sudden, you see. One day she was here, the next she’d packed her bag and left, leaving that poor boy. It broke my heart. I had to do something. So I started taking meals over a couple of times a week. I was cooking for us anyway, so it was no hassle. Only Malcolm didn’t see it like that. Said I was spending too much time over there. He and Reg fought about it, actually.’ She blushed deep red. ‘It was awful. It was right here, in the street.’

  ‘Can you tell us about it?’

  ‘They’d both had too much to drink—Mal was right about that: Reg did drink too much, but because he was depressed, I think. People didn’t get help for things–mental health stuff, you know—not like they do now. Anyway, Malcolm was accusing Reg of all sorts. I don’t think he really believed any of it, and Reg denied it all, of course. But Malcolm wouldn’t let it go. Said he wouldn’t be surprised if Rachel’s body washed up sometime soon, and even if Reg didn’t want to . . . to fuck me, maybe he wanted to kill me.’ She stopped. Her cheeks were scarlet. ‘That was when Reg hit Malcolm. There was a crowd of people around them by this point. They fought. Reg broke Malcolm’s nose. Eventually, someone pulled them apart. The rumours about Reg have flown around ever since.’

  ‘And you stopped helping Reg out after this fight?’

  A defiant look crossed her face. ‘No. I did not. Why should I? I was still taking him meals up until last week.’

  ‘And Malcolm knew about this?’

  ‘I assume so. We never discussed it. We didn’t discuss much after that fight. It took us a long time to get over it.’

  ‘Mrs Perré, I have to ask, were you involved with Reg, romantically?’

  ‘No.’ She sounded emphatic but her eyes told another story.

  ‘Do you think Reg Carré murdered his wife, Mrs Perré? Do you think it was her in that cave?’

  She shook her head. ‘He was a good man.’

  ‘That doesn’t answer my question.’

  ‘No. I don’t think he did. I wouldn’t have helped him, I wouldn’t have . . . spent time with him if I’d thought he was a killer.’ She hesitated. ‘I’m sorry. I’m wasting your time. I’d best go.’

  ‘Your appointment.’

  ‘I don’t have an appointment. Not really. I’m going to help out Ben. The baby’s a bit colicky, and Ben’s wife’s not coping so well.’ She seemed angry all of a sudden. ‘None of you men understand what it’s like. It’s so hard. You have a baby and you think you’re gaining something, but you lose something too. A little piece of the you that you were before. It vanishes. Every mother I know has struggled. I did. And I’m sure Rachel did. I don’t want you to think that what I said about her was unkind. She wasn’t crazy. She was suffering. Thank God there’s help for people nowadays.’ She walked off in the direction of the village.

  Marquis waited until she was out of earshot. ‘Crikey. That was a bit intense.’

  ‘She obviously puts up with a lot.’

  ‘You think they were Rachel Carré’s bones in that cave, sir?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘And once they were found, perhaps it confirmed someone’s suspicions after all these years that Reg murdered his wife. Someone like Malcolm Perré.’

  ‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Marquis. Rachel Carré was never reported missing, was she? So nobody ever looked for her. Let’s do that first—see if we can’t eliminate her from our enquiries that way. Maybe she’s happy as Larry somewhere, just never wanted to be found. Let’s get a DNA sample from Luke Carré too. Cover both angles.’

  ‘If the body in the cave is Rachel Carré, Luke would be the prime suspect, not Malcolm.’

  ‘Talk me through the theo
ry.’ Always helped to have Marquis think out loud, especially when he was on the right track.

  ‘Well, he must be aware of the rumours. The bones in the cave confirmed them to be true. He loved his mother, so he killed his father. Would all be a bit Shakespearean, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘You mean Freudian.’

  Marquis looked confused.

  ‘It was Freud who talked about sons wanting to kill their fathers and you know . . . with their mothers.’

  ‘That’s right. Othello.’

  ‘Oedipus. It’s a good theory. But Luke couldn’t have got here quickly enough. Not if his alibi is telling the truth, at any rate. You all right?’

  Marquis looked peaky as hell. ‘I feel a bit faint, actually, boss.’

  ‘Heat’s getting to you, Marquis. Getting to me too as it happens. I think we’d better get a cold drink. Before we both pass out.’

  23

  Rachel

  1986

  He threw the money on the counter, sat in his chair, took off his boots. ‘Where’s Luke?’

  ‘At Ben’s house.’ She picked up the money. ‘You must be the world’s best euchre player. Winning hands every month.’

  He looked at her. ‘You got something you want to say?’ He was like this more and more these days. Ever since the letter. It was like all the warmth had drained out of him. Except when he was with Luke.

  ‘I just want to know where you’re getting it.’

  ‘Why? What difference does it make?’

  ‘Are you doing something illegal?’

  He laughed softly. ‘Rachel, please.’

  ‘It’s something to do with Len, isn’t it? He’s always flush. And Malcolm too, for that matter—he’s always flashing his cash. I don’t trust him, Reg. If it’s anything to do with Malcolm, you should stop.’

  He stood. Approached the counter. He had an odd look on his face. Angry. Frightening. She took a step back.

  ‘Then what, Rachel? I stop doing what I’m doing, where are we going to find this kind of money?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.’

  ‘You’re right. You shouldn’t have. We’re doing so well as we are. It would be a shame to spoil things.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean it’s better for everyone if we all just keep pretending.’

  A knock at the door. He went to open it. She let out the breath that had caught in her chest.

  ‘All right, buddy?’ Just like that Reg was back to his old self. Luke came running in, followed by Sharon, holding his schoolbag and a piece of cardboard covered in lentils and macaroni.

  ‘They’ve had a great time.’ She smiled. Sharon was always smiling, despite being married to Malcolm.

  ‘Thanks for having him, Sharon. What do you say, Luke?’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Perré.’

  ‘You’re welcome, darling. Bye, then.’

  Rachel might have imagined it, but there was a look between Sharon and Reg, just before Sharon left. Of what she didn’t know. Solidarity? Companionship? Complicity? She knew. He’d told her. But of course he wouldn’t have done. How ridiculous. She wanted to laugh. And then all at once she wanted to cry.

  Luke had snuggled up to Reg already; they were looking at his reading book, about Billy and his blue hat. Luke had been slow to start reading. Just like his dad, Reg had said. Nothing to worry about. He’d get there, in his own time. He was a smart boy.

  ‘He needs a bath.’ She walked over.

  ‘I’ll do it when we’re finished with this.’

  ‘It’s getting late.’

  He didn’t look up from the book. ‘You tired, Lukey?’

  ‘No, Daddy.’

  ‘Well, then. Like I said. Bath time when we’re finished, eh?’ His arm wound a little tighter around Luke’s shoulder. His head bent a little lower, so his hair, coarse and dark, fell over Luke’s, which was soft and shiny and honeyed brown.

  Her heart shifted upwards, towards her throat.

  He was using his love for the boy like a weapon.

  He was showing her the power he had.

  24

  Jenny

  The cobweb shone in the lamplight, the desiccated husk of a spider casting its spindly shadow on the wallpaper. The room wasn’t dirty—the linen smelled fresh, and the toilet and sink in the tiny en suite sparkled—but clearly the elderly lady who ran the bed and breakfast Jenny had checked into an hour ago hadn’t thought to dust the corners in a while. Or perhaps she’d thought it unnecessary, not anticipating that her guests would lie on the bed staring up at the ceiling, too tired to move, too anxious to approach anything close to sleep.

  Jenny was familiar with anxiety. She tried to fight back the feeling that she was under threat. Deep breaths. Think clearly. Be rational. If it got worse, she would up the exercise. She’d missed her swim today: there’d been no time. She needed it to get the endorphins flowing, wash out the negative thoughts with serotonin. She’d seen a therapist, initially railing against the self-indulgence of it but realising after each session that she did indeed feel better, that talking was, if not a cure, a road to recovery. There had been pills. Each one washed down with an overwhelming feeling of failure, the argument that mental illness was no more under her control than a headache or a chest infection never quite convincing, her determination to ‘beat it’ without medication next time ever stronger.

  It was this very determination that clouded her judgement. Because now her first reaction to the twist in her gut, the rise in her pulse was to ignore it. To crush it. To override the body’s warning system.

  Relax. Everything is fine. There is no danger.

  Only sometimes there was. Sometimes the source of the anxiety was not imagined but all too real. A sick man and a threatening note. Dog shit smeared on walls. The whisper of violence beneath the rumble of an outboard motor, old bones and slit throats.

  She rose from the bed, fully dressed, took the heavy front-door key from the bedside table and left the room, slamming the door behind her.

  The dead spider, which was hanging by the finest of threads, shuddered.

  ‘You going out, love?’ Rosie, the owner of the guesthouse, shuffled out of the kitchen at the back of the house. She wore a baggy sweatshirt and deep red velvet tracksuit bottoms, her silver hair wrapped in a high beehive.

  ‘Yes. I’m going to get some fresh air.’

  ‘You should have a bite to eat while you’re out. I can do you a sandwich later, an egg maybe, but I’m not cooking—not for one. Sorry, love.’

  ‘No problem.’

  ‘Was due to have a family of five in today, but they’ve cancelled.’ She shook her head. ‘It was bad enough before. July is my busiest month. I wonder if we’ll ever recover.’

  ‘I’m sure once the police have caught whoever did this, things will settle down.’

  ‘You think?’ Her eyes were sharp and an unsettling shade of violet. ‘People round here have long memories. Especially the dead. They never let anything rest. Mark my words. It will be a long time before any of this is forgotten.’

  Dusk was falling and the light on Jenny’s rental bike was dim and flickering, doing little to illuminate the bumps and rocks on the narrow path. She had no plan, wanting only company, some other voice to interrupt the one in her head, to tell her that everything was going to be OK, to chase away the ghosts of which Rosie had spoken.

  There was a gust of wind from the south, warm but fierce. It whipped at her hair and her bare arms. The hedgerows were black against an inky sky, long, dry tendrils of grass grazing her exposed legs as she swerved to avoid a pothole, coming to a stop at the gated entrance to a field. The sting of a nettle at her ankle made her swear out loud. There was no one to hear her. Only the cows, huddled by the steel bars of the gate, noses wet. They shied away from her, the whole group taking a step backwards, knees buckling, small eyes widening in fear. She saw the glimmer of the electric fence, the narrow red wire pulled taut between slim plas
tic posts, heard its gentle, menacing hum. She wondered how many shocks a cow would take, how many times it would brush against the wire before it recognised danger. Before it learned to stay away.

  She pedalled harder, the thought of the encroaching darkness spurring her on towards the Avenue. She slowed when she saw the street lamp on the corner, the only one on Sark, and thought about where to go. There was nowhere on the Avenue, Jenny realised, as she pushed her bike past the shops and cafés, ‘closed’ signs hanging over darkened doors, blinds pulled down, shutters shut. Ahead, there was one illuminated window.

  It was Tuesday Jones’s shop. Posters on the wall advertised the times of her boat tours. Inside, Tuesday was sitting with her head bent over paperwork, her hair falling over her face. Jenny thought about going in, tried to think of an excuse, a question to ask her, when out of nowhere, Len Mauger’s words rang in her ears: She came over and changed it all. It’s not the Sark way. A woman. Not a Sarkee.

  Tuesday looked up. Met Jenny’s eyes. Smiled.

  ‘They do a nice fish and chips at the bar. I wasn’t planning to cook tonight anyway.’ Tuesday blew cigarette smoke over her shoulder, away from Jenny, but the wind carried it back into her face and for the first time in years Jenny thought about smoking. She’d never really taken to it as a teenager but had had the odd one to calm her nerves before exams as a student. She still associated the smell with a forced state of relaxation, something she could do with right now.

  Tuesday had seemed happy to see her, suggested a drink, professing how nice it would be to talk to someone different, perhaps picking up on Jenny’s loneliness. Perhaps wanting to find out what she knew. Len’s words still echoed. How many non-local women were there living on Sark? More than a handful. But with a boat? Tuesday knew the island waters—she’d said so herself. She knew the caves. And with her Dark Sky Island tours, she knew the night.

  Heads turned as they walked into the tiny bar at the Mermaid, and the numbing tiredness Jenny had felt only an hour earlier was forgotten. She spotted Malcolm Carré, in the same stool he’d sat in only yesterday. This time a woman stood next to him, similar age to Malcolm, short dark hair, tired-looking, presumably his wife. Jenny had the impression that she’d either just arrived or was just leaving—she wore a jacket and had her handbag on her shoulder. She looked worried, for a second, as she looked at Jenny, then immediately relaxed, as though she’d been expecting someone else and was relieved not to see them. A young couple Jenny didn’t recognise occupied a corner table. They openly stared. Probably standard, Jenny thought, when a stranger walked into a local bar hours after the last ferry had left for Guernsey. On the table closest to them, right opposite her was a familiar face.