by Lara Dearman
‘Yeah, well, even so. Been chatting to him, haven’t you?’ She sounded calmer now. ‘You need to watch that. People round here won’t speak to you about anything if they think you’ve been cosying up to him.’
‘I really haven’t. Mr Monroe wanted to do an interview. I was with him for an hour, if that. He has a right to tell his side of the story.’
‘If you say so.’
‘So you don’t know anything? Haven’t seen any boats out while you’ve been doing your Dark Sky tours?’
‘I never said that. Said I haven’t taken my tours that way.’ She started to wobble back down the hill.
‘So what do you know about it?’
Tuesday came to a stop, brakes complaining with a high-pitched whine, tyres skidding on the loose surface. She twisted round on the seat, squinting in the glare from Jenny’s torch. Jenny dropped it to her side and Tuesday’s voice rang through the darkness.
‘Is there nothing that will distract you from this, Jenny? I’ve just escorted you home. Protected you from the big, bad bogeyman. What more do you want? Blood?’
‘No, I—’ Jenny began.
‘Because that’s what it will cost us. It’s too late, Jenny. We’ve tried. But they’re all in too deep.’
‘Who are?’
She didn’t answer. ‘I like you, Jenny. Do yourself a favour. Get the hell out of here. Have the News send over someone who’s less likely to get us all killed.’
25
Rachel
1989
She read the letter again. It was the fourth one. But this one was different. She stared at the words, willing them to change. They were terrifying, black ink on white paper, etched on her brain. Indelible.
She heard his shuffling footsteps outside. Stuffed the letter down her top. Pressed her shaking hands to her hot cheeks. She would deal with it later. Somehow.
She could tell by the way he opened the door he was drunk. The fumbling of the latch, then pushing it too hard, so it shuddered and banged against the wall. He stood in the door frame, swaying.
‘It’s not even three o’clock.’ She turned away from him, furiously washed clean dishes.
He shrugged. ‘So?’ He stumbled over. Tried to put his arms round her. He only ever did that when he was drunk.
‘Luke will be home from school any minute.’ She shook him off without looking at him. He smelled of whisky. Sometimes when he’d been drinking, he lost his temper and broke things. Plates, cups. Once, he’d put his fist through the door.
‘Luke here, Luke not here. It’s all the same to you.’
‘He shouldn’t see you like this. Why don’t you go and lie down?’
‘Look at me.’
She carried on scrubbing and scrubbing, catching her knuckles on the scouring pad.
‘Shit.’ The soapy water stung her raw skin.
‘Rachel,’ he said softly. He knew, of course, that it wasn’t her name. She’d told him that very first week that she’d pulled it out of thin air, that she’d wanted to be someone else on Sark. He’d thought it was funny. ‘You’ll be Rachel, then, as long as you’re here,’ he’d laughed. And ten years later, she still was.
She stopped washing. Pressed her hands on her skirt to dry them. She turned to him.
‘What’s the matter with you?’ he asked, not unkindly. It was infuriating, the way he knew her so well. She filled a glass of water from the tap. Drank. It soothed her throat, which was hot and scratchy with the effort of trying to subdue a scream. She took out the letter. Pushed it towards him.
He didn’t pick it up. ‘More money?’
She shook her head.
‘Then what?’ He picked up the letter.
‘Please, Reg.’
As he read, the colour rose through his neck, then pooled, an angry circle of red on each cheek.
‘We’ll fix it,’ she whispered, could barely hold back the tears, because she knew they couldn’t. He knew it too.
He slammed his fist onto the counter.
‘Reg, please. Luke will be home any minute.’ She glanced at the clock. Past three already. Any minute now he’d come running through the door, chattering about his day, wanting a hug, a snack.
Reg shouted. No words, just rage and misery. It washed over her, freeing her tears, which spilled, unhindered, down her cheeks.
‘Please. We can work this out.’ But it was no good. She’d lost him. He swept his arm across the counter, sending dishes flying to the floor, glasses smashing, a saucepan clanging, the sound ringing in her ears. She ran from the kitchen. There was nowhere to hide in this tiny house.
‘Enough!’ he shouted, spittle flying. ‘Enough.’ Calmer. Just a little. He crouched on the floor. Put his hands over his head. ‘Enough.’ He shook.
‘Reg?’
He remained crouched, shaking, silent.
‘Reg?’ She reached out. Touched his shoulder.
He looked up. His face was twisted with anger and grief and something else. Hate. She could see it now. He hated her. He stood, took a step towards her. She was frightened. There was nowhere to run. She closed her eyes. So many times she’d sat in church, repeated the meaningless words her father spoke from the pulpit, muttered the Lord’s Prayer, the Collect, Communion, never thinking about what she was saying. But now she did. Now she searched her soul, gathered the lies, the deceit and the dishonesty, and sent it all to God. Prayed for His forgiveness.
26
Michael
One more blast of the horn and Michael was going to pull Fallaize out of the car by the scruff of his neck and give him what for.
‘It’s the crack of dawn. You’re going to wake all the neighbours. You saw me wave at you from the front door,’ Michael hissed when he reached the end of his driveway.
He clambered awkwardly into the passenger seat and tried to fit his feet and his overnight bag in the footwell. Fallaize drove a bright orange Lotus Elise, which was quite possibly the most ridiculous car a person could own on Guernsey. In fact, on the stupid-car scale, Michael would even put it ahead of those bloody great SUVs that some of the mums drove on the school run. They were far too big for the roads but at least had space and comfort going for them. The Elise had neither. Just a top speed of over a hundred and fifty miles an hour, as Fallaize had told everyone who would listen when he’d first bought it. Which was really impressive. And completely irrelevant on an island with a top speed limit of thirty-five miles per hour, and that was only on the coast road.
‘Sorry, sir.’ Fallaize didn’t sound sorry at all but turned off the music. ‘Didn’t want us to be late.’ He revved the engine like he was on the starting line at Silverstone, reaching a speed of ten miles an hour before coming to a halt at the yellow line at the end of Michael’s road.
‘How can we be late? It’s not bloody going without us, is it?’ Michael shifted in the seat, trying to position his legs in such a way that he didn’t have to fold them into his lap.
‘S’pose not. How long do you think we’ll have to stay over, then?’
‘End of the week at least. Maybe longer. Depends when we catch the bastard, doesn’t it?’
‘What’s up with Marquis?’
‘Sick.’ Pain in the arse. Michael would have put up with Marquis’s ‘allergies’ any day over having to deal with Fallaize’s crap, but the hay fever had turned out to be some horrible strain of summer flu and so now, on top of everything else, Michael had this prat to deal with.
The Avenue was deserted. There was a thin cover of cloud, the sort that let the warmth of the sun seep through and then kept it there, pushing it down on everyone. A strong breeze had ensured the trip over was uncomfortable, but it was still a good five degrees warmer than it had been on Guernsey and he regretted wearing his long-sleeved shirt already. Sweat pricked at his brow.
The new coffee shop with the fancy cupcakes was still closed, despite a sign outside saying it opened at eight. Michael saw the twitch of a blind slat as they walked past. The chap who ran the grocery s
tore stood in the window and openly stared. Alf from the cycle-hire shop was the only person who seemed to be up and about. Even he was quiet, handing over their bikes with little more than a nod.
They stopped in at the church hall, where they found a bleary-eyed Constable Bachelet at the desk.
‘All quiet last night?’ Michael asked.
‘Too quiet, sir.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Couldn’t sleep, to be honest. Room was hot and stuffy. And I live in town. I’m used to hearing a bit of noise and bustle. There was nothing last night except crickets. And bats. Think they were bats. Squeaking.’ He shuddered. Then yawned.
‘Right. Well, we’ve got all that to look forward to. We’re going to check into the B&B and then get set up over at the school. You man the desk here, all right?’
‘Yep. No problem.’ He yawned again.
He did not, Michael thought, have the demeanour of an officer involved in a major murder investigation.
‘Oh, sir, just to warn you—press arrived late last night.’
‘The News? Been here a couple of days already. Keep up, son.’
‘No, couple of nationals.’
‘How’d they get here?’
‘Charter from Jersey. Suppose they wanted to be here for the meeting.’
Michael sighed. ‘I suppose they did. Come on, Fallaize. Into the lion’s den we go.’
Fallaize stopped on the way out, peering at his reflection in a dusty windowpane. Evidently wanting to be camera-ready, he swept his hair over to one side and straightened his blazer. He was looking a bit peaky, Michael thought. Lacking some of his usual wide-boy sparkle. Nothing dull about his cufflinks, though. They were tiny gold sports cars. Flash git.
Sark School assembly hall was the only place big enough to seat the amount of people Michael expected to attend the meeting. The press were already there, waiting outside. Not as many as he’d feared.
‘Can you give us a comment, DCI Gilbert?’
‘Are you close to finding the killer?’
‘Any insight into possible motive?’
‘Is Reg Carré’s death connected to the gruesome discovery on Derrible Bay on Monday?’
Michael held up his hand.
‘It is, as you know, very early days in this inquiry. This is a meeting for the residents of Sark. You can sit quietly at the back and I’ll try to answer any questions you have as best I can at the end of it.’
‘Jonathan Boswell, Channel News. Can you comment on the rumour that Reg Carré was murdered as a result of a twenty-year feud with a neighbour?’ A microphone was shoved under his nose.
‘I said I’ll answer questions later!’ Michael thundered. He pushed the mic away. ‘And don’t be so bloody irresponsible,’ he hissed. ‘People here are stressed enough without you stirring the pot.’
Bloody local press, he thought. Worse than the nationals by far, getting tied up with all the island gossip.
He stopped on the way into the hall. Scanned the small gathering of reporters. There was a notable absence.
‘You expecting someone, sir?’ Fallaize asked.
‘No. Not particularly. Just Jennifer Dorey—I know she stayed over last night. Would have thought she’d be here.’ He took out his phone. No bloody reception. ‘Check in with the guesthouse, will you, Fallaize? Rosie’s, I think it is. Make sure she’s all right.’
‘Absolutely, sir.’ The edge, the ever-present touch of insolence was absent from Fallaize’s tone. Which was, Michael thought, most disconcerting.
Several children cycled past chatting and laughing, parking their bikes in the stand to the left of the school entrance. They looked happy enough. Not a care, despite what was about to be discussed right next door to them. Michael remembered those blissful days, when bad news was something that only happened to grown-ups. In Guernsey, even the grown-ups were sheltered from the worst of world events. He’d visited London on a training course after a spate of IRA attacks in the early 1990s. It had been all over the news, but he had still been shocked to see his mainland colleagues checking under their cars before they got in and, later in the week, the moment of panic caused by an unaccompanied rucksack in the lunchroom.
Even now, Guernsey remained removed, the water that surrounded the island a buffer—a psychological cushion between it and the terrors of the wider world. Because on their small island, it was the small-scale horrors that were felt more keenly than elsewhere. The car crashes, the drug deaths, the suicides and, yes, the murders. Shock amplified, rippling through the community, each person touched in some way. It was bad enough on Guernsey. It would be even worse here. Everyone knew Reg Carré. Odds were a few of them knew why he was murdered. Perhaps they would be at the meeting this morning. Chances were the killer would be too.
Michael helped set up the chairs. Seating for two hundred or so and standing room at the back. The last time he’d done anything like this he’d had to admit to the crowd that a killer had gone about drowning young women undetected for decades. At least he would not have to face the sort of hostility that situation created. No, this time they were on top of things. They knew what they were dealing with. Murder. Two of them. Connected? They had to be. He didn’t know how, but as he’d told countless junior officers over the years, there was no such thing as a coincidence. There was some thread, however thin, strung between the two bodies. Perhaps, he pondered, the bond between them was far greater than that. Not a thread at all but a band of gold.
Because the more he thought about it, the greater he considered the likelihood that the woman in the cave was Rachel Carré. Luke Carré had agreed to a DNA test already. The results would take a few days at least, the process of extracting DNA from bones time-consuming. A positive result would be, Michael considered, from a police perspective, the best possible outcome. Because, he reasoned, if those were Rachel’s bones, he’d wage money on Reg Carré having put them there. Which made the whole case a family affair.
Michael checked his watch. Past ten and the hall was nearly full. Malcolm Perré was sporting an ugly black eye. Sharon sat in the same row but had left several empty chairs between them. Evidently there had been more trouble between those two. Constable Langlais looked worse than he had done two days ago, thinner, if that were even possible, his chin covered in patchy stubble. Luke Carré also looked a state—tired, bloodshot eyes. A hangover. Driven to alcohol by grief or guilt? Michael wondered. And just behind him, Jenny Dorey and her colleague-cum-boyfriend, Elliot. Michael had been relieved to see them arrive, although they both looked tired and stressed.
Tanya Le Page sat at the back. A lonely-looking figure, hair hanging limply, a drab-looking oversized cardigan wrapped around her slim shoulders. Several members of the Chief Pleas, Sark’s now democratically elected government, were in attendance. They sat together, and talked among themselves, an air of officiousness about them. A woman he recognised from the village, dyed-blonde hair, very attractive, although her demeanour certainly discouraged any notion of conversation, stood at the back of the hall, arms folded in spite of the availability of several free seats.
He cleared his throat. The audience sat up straighter. Chair legs squeaked against the waxed wooden floor. Michael moved forward to speak.
‘Wait a minute! Wait a minute.’ Sir William de Bordeaux made his way through the hall, his cane tap-tapping beside him. He sat, slowly, in a front-row seat. ‘Can’t have an island meeting without the seigneur, now can we?’
Michael thought he might be attempting humour, but the reaction from the rest of the room was muted. Cool, even.
‘Very pleased you could make it. I was just about to begin.’
‘Well, don’t let me stop you. Carry on.’
Michael bristled, then remembered Jenny’s comment about his problem with authority figures and gave the old man a tight smile before launching into a summary of events, from the discovery of the bones on the beach to Reg Carré’s body being found.
‘The timings here
are very important. Mr Carré was seen at just after nine a.m. making his way home from the village with his grocery shopping. Constable Langlais found his body shortly after eleven thirty a.m., by which point we believe he’d been dead for somewhere in the region of two hours. So whoever killed Mr Carré was most likely waiting for him at his house, or arrived very soon after. Mr Carré had been making tea right before he was killed, which leads us to believe the killer may have been known to him. Which means he’s most likely known to you all too.’
There was a long, loaded silence while Michael let this sink in.
‘Many of you have come forward and given statements regarding when you last saw Mr Carré, or spoken of his character, or contributed your theories about what might have happened, and we’re very grateful for all of your co-operation. For now, we’re interested in tracing a man who was seen on or near Mr Carré’s property on Monday morning—’
‘A man?’ the seigneur interrupted. ‘Is that the best you’ve got? What sort of man? Who saw him?’ He looked behind him at the audience.
‘I’m afraid that’s not information I’m able to share with you all.’ He saw Tanya Le Page shift in her seat, pull her cardigan a little tighter. ‘And I appreciate the description is minimal,’ Michael continued. ‘But if anyone was in the vicinity of Reg’s house on Monday morning, they should come forward, regardless of whether or not they saw anything suspicious.
‘We’re also looking for a woman in a large sun hat who bought a ticket for the twelve-noon sailing to Guernsey on Monday. Most likely a tourist on her way home, but due to the timing of the ticket purchase, we’d like to eliminate her from our enquiries.’
‘What about the bones?’ The woman at the back of the hall.
‘We are trying to establish the identity of the body found on Derrible. If anyone has any information pertaining to that, we’d like to hear from you.’
‘Who found them, then?’ The same woman.
‘It was an anonymous tip. We’d very much like to speak with whoever called it in.’
