Dark Sky Island

by Lara Dearman

  She followed him towards the exit.

  Fallaize slammed his pint on the bar.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘None of your bloody business!’ Michael barked. ‘Listen,’ he said, more gently, ‘I know your shift’s over, but I’m going to need you back on first thing. Why don’t you get some rest, eh? Looks like you could do with it. And take it easy. You’ll be no good to me with a hangover.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Fallaize saluted. He did not look like he had any intention of going home.

  ‘Bloody hell, it’s warm.’ Michael held open the door for Jenny and then rolled up his shirtsleeves. ‘Shall we go to the lighthouse? Shouldn’t imagine we’ll see many people out there now. And it will be cooler.’

  Jenny agreed and they walked side by side, turning left at the end of the road and then right, past a number of deserted-looking farm buildings. The road narrowed, becoming a single-lane track, grassy in the middle, deep, gravelly trenches on either side. The hedgerows grew higher until they were under the cover of a row of tall yew trees, trunks gnarled, twisted branches shadowing the path. Pagans had planted yews near burial grounds—the seeds and needles that carpeted the earth were poisonous and discouraged animals from foraging in the freshly dug soil beneath. The tradition had continued. Yew trees were still silent mourners in most Christian churchyards. There was one a few feet from Charlie’s grave.

  ‘So, what have you got for me?’ Michael broke the silence.

  In low tones, Jenny caught him up with most of what she’d been doing—who she’d spoken to, what they’d told her, what they hadn’t. Michael listened, hands dug into his pockets. He said nothing.

  The path ended in a low white gate, padlocked, a ‘closed’ sign swinging off it in the breeze. Beyond, pale concrete steps led down to Point Robert and the lighthouse. Michael clambered over, jumping down and landing surprisingly daintily for a man of his size on the other side.

  Jenny followed. ‘Isn’t this trespassing?’

  ‘Hm. Maybe I’ll arrest you when we’re done talking.’

  They started down the steps. It was fresher here, the air cooling on the water before it hit the land. The stark white of the octagonal lighthouse tower appeared before them. It had been automated for years, but before that had been a desirable posting. Considered a ‘rock station’ due to Sark’s isolated position, keepers at Sark Lighthouse were paid well, compensated for the hardships such an apparently lonely post entailed. Jenny wondered how many other rock-station lighthouse keepers could walk to the pub within fifteen minutes. Not such a bad deal. And to wake up to this view every morning.

  They were behind the tower, which rose straight out of the flat-roofed keeper’s cottage and service shed below. Iron railings lined the edge of the concrete platform they now stood upon. The whole complex clung to the cliffs two hundred feet above the sea, which crashed around Blanchard Rocks beneath them, the very same rocks the Sark ferry navigated each time it sailed into Maseline Harbour.

  Charlie had told her stories about pirates with precious cargo using Sark’s network of caves to hide their loot. They would surely have arrived under cover of night, clambering over slippery rocks and sheer cliff faces in darkness, their spoils on their back. She’d always imagined they were hiding actual treasure, chests spilling over with silver and gold, goblets and jewels, like in fairy tales. But perhaps their cargo was precious in other ways. Barrels of rum or whisky. Ampoules of morphine.

  ‘Why do you think the tip-off about the bones was anonymous?’ She asked.

  ‘What are you thinking, Jenny? I’m guessing you have a theory.’ A gust of wind buffeted around them. The cry of an oystercatcher carried above it. Two of them, in flight, a flash of black and white, flying low over the surf.

  ‘I’m thinking whoever found them was doing something they shouldn’t have been.’

  ‘You been talking to that woman, what was her name, Tuesday? Was it her? Does she know something?’

  Jenny shook her head. ‘This is all my own speculation. Maybe the person was trying to hide something of their own.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘It’s all linked. The bones on the beach. Reg’s death. My dad’s.’

  Michael said nothing.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘It would be a remarkable coincidence, the bones being discovered, Reg being murdered on the same day and the two events unconnected—I give you that. We’re looking into it. Your dad, however . . . I’m not seeing it, Jenny.’

  ‘Reg Carré and Len Mauger were friends. So were Len Mauger and my dad. Dad drowned in calm seas he’d fished in all his life. The next day, Len Mauger gets this.’ She pulled the note out of her bag.

  The colour drained from Michael’s face. ‘How long have you had this?’

  ‘Since Monday.’

  ‘Len Mauger received this the day after your dad died?’

  ‘That’s what he says.’

  Michael stared at the note. ‘We need to get it to forensics. Not that there’s much chance of getting anything useful off it now.’

  ‘So you accept there might be a connection?’

  Michael did not respond. He looked like he was struggling with an idea, a thought he couldn’t quite articulate. ‘Jenny, I . . .’ He shook his head. ‘It’s been two years since your dad died. How do you figure his death is connected to Reg’s?’

  ‘My dad saw something. Lights out to sea. Noticed a pattern.’

  ‘What sort of pattern?’

  ‘A signal of some description.’

  ‘From where to where?’

  ‘He followed a boat he saw near Brecqhou. He knew it shouldn’t be there, suspected it was paparazzi. He probably wanted to come home with a great story about how he was going to be in the Daily Mail. But the boat stopped over by Port du Moulin and started flashing its lights.’

  ‘Did he see anyone flash back?’

  ‘I don’t know. Len Mauger told me all of this. But it tallies up with what Dad wrote in his diary.’

  ‘OK. For now, I’m going to presume all this is true—I’m not doubting your story, Jenny, but this is third-hand information—but let’s just say your dad did see all this. What do we think was going on?’

  ‘Something illegal.’

  ‘Undoubtedly.’

  ‘Something that involved boats.’

  ‘You’re stating the obvious now, but yes, something involving boats.’

  ‘It’s got to be drugs. They’re stashing them in caves. That’s how the bones were found.’

  ‘You’re right about the speculation Jenny.’ Michael chewed his bottom lip. ‘OK. Let’s set the body in the cave aside, just for a minute. Say your dad, who I believe liked to share a good story, was telling Len about what he’d seen. Coming up with theories. Someone overheard them. Killed your dad. Reg is involved somehow, ends up brutally murdered. Type of person who would do that, why not just kill Len too? Why the note?’

  Jenny shrugged. ‘Maybe Len was a friend of whoever did it.’

  Michael was quiet again. A touch of colour had come back to his cheeks.

  ‘The bones are old, Jenny. Decades. If, and this is still a big if, Reg and Charlie’s deaths are connected, how do you tie in a murder that took place twenty, thirty, forty years ago?’

  ‘Maybe that’s how long this has been going on.’

  ‘A drug-smuggling ring run out of Sark for years on end?’

  ‘Why not? How often do you check fishing boats for drugs?’

  ‘All the time, Jenny. We’ve been aware of drugs coming in from France on boats for a very long time.’

  ‘So you check boats coming from France?’

  ‘Not just France—Jersey, the mainland . . .’

  ‘Sark?’

  ‘Boats from Sark get checked.’

  ‘How often?’

  ‘I’d have to check with Customs and Excise.’

  ‘At a guess?’

  ‘Rarely.’

  ‘Would make sense, then, wouldn’t it?
Making a drop from France or the mainland in Sark first, then shipping to Jersey and Guernsey from there. Less chance of being seen dropping off in Sark, less chance of having your cargo checked in Guernsey.’

  ‘Thing is, Jenny, this place is so small. How would you keep an operation like that secret? Hm?’

  ‘You wouldn’t.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You get enough people involved that everyone is implicated in some way or other. Then nobody says anything.’

  ‘That’s crazy talk, Jenny.’ He shook his head.

  ‘Think about it. What have you really managed to find out these last two days? Nobody’s talking. Not about anything that matters.’

  ‘You’re suggesting this whole island has managed to keep something like this hidden?’

  She shrugged. ‘Maybe not the whole island. Enough of them, though. I don’t know. It’s a theory. Would certainly explain some of the strange behaviour I’ve witnessed. The warnings. The passive-aggressive threats.’ She shuddered at the thought of Corey Monroe, his silhouette disappearing into the fog as he’d sped off in the dinghy the previous afternoon.

  ‘It can’t last, though,’ she said.

  ‘What can’t?’

  ‘The collective silence. A secret like this? Somebody is going to tell.’

  Michael seemed lost in thought. ‘I wonder.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The increased drug-dealing activity in Guernsey. Maybe someone has bitten off more than they can chew. Feeling the pressure, made a mistake.’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t know. This is all speculation. We need something concrete.’

  ‘Like a description of the killer?’

  ‘Well, that would be bloody brilliant, wouldn’t it, but that kid’s gone mute, hasn’t he?’

  She held out the sketchbook.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Sketch of the Beast Man.’

  Michael took it. Stared at the picture. ‘The boy drew this?’

  Jenny nodded. ‘And he’s not gone mute, either. Mummy told him not to talk.’

  ‘What the . . . ?’

  ‘I think she’s terrified. Doesn’t want him involved.’

  ‘Shit. She had the bloody doctor tell us he was traumatised.’

  ‘I’m sure he is. She’s just trying to protect him.’

  ‘Tell that to the next person who gets brutally murdered because no one could identify this psychopath the first time round! I need to get to the phones.’

  She followed him, back up the steps and over the gate. His head was bent, shoulders stooped. He was brooding, she thought. Angry. At whom? Himself? Tanya? Her?

  At the Mermaid, he stopped. ‘I’ll take it from here. Thank you. You’ve a way of getting people to open up. I’m not sure how, because you’re a bloody pain in the neck.’

  She shrugged. ‘I just stole a sketchbook. But I’m glad it might be helpful.’

  ‘This on its own, maybe not. But if we can get more details from the kid—what this mask was made of, what clothes he was wearing—well, that would be a start.’

  ‘And the rest of it, Michael? My dad?’

  ‘Jenny. Let’s deal with this first. If you’re right and it’s all connected, we’ll find this bastard and then go from there, OK? We’ll talk. I promise. Later.’

  The pub was rowdy. Jenny could hear laughter and yelling from outside. She needed to eat—she’d slept through lunch and her stomach grumbled noisily—but somewhere quiet, where she could think. She picked up her bike, cycled the short distance to Florence’s tearooms in the Seigneurie Gardens. She sat under a wide green umbrella, a pile of paper napkins on the table, weighted down with a pebble. She ordered a crab sandwich, agreeing to the glass of Sauvignon Blanc the waiter suggested to accompany it, letting the sharp, cold wine soothe her parched throat and calm her nerves.

  She had been scared sharing her suspicions about Charlie’s death with Michael. Scared that he would laugh at her, tell her she was crazy. But he hadn’t. He’d taken her seriously. That was all that she wanted. She took out her notebook. Started scribbling down a timeline. Charlie’s visits to Sark, the flashing lights, the accident, the note to Len. The beginnings of an exposé into her father’s death. The air was heavy with the scent of lavender, which trailed out of the borders and onto the terrace. Fat bumblebees hovered lazily around the flowers. A wasp whined around her empty glass and she batted it away, ordered another drink.

  ‘We’re closing in a few minutes, miss.’ The waiter set her wine down with the bill.

  She looked at her watch. Nearly seven. She drank the wine quickly. She’d had just enough to ensure she’d fall straight to sleep when she got back to Rosie’s. One more night here, she determined. First thing tomorrow, she would get away from this twisted paradise, with its shadowy figures and their veiled threats. At least for a little while. Long enough for Michael to solve Reg Carré’s murder. Long enough to reopen the investigation into Charlie’s death.

  She walked out through the gardens, past flowerbeds overflowing with roses and orchids and a maze, a signpost pointing the way to the pond. She felt a tug in her heart as a memory of Charlie, lost until now, resurfaced. He had brought her here once, had told her stories as they were ‘hunting for ghosts’—his unique way of making a history lesson more interesting. The Priory of St Magloire had been on this site. The Magloirian monks had dammed a stream, creating a reservoir for water supply and fishing. She wanted to see it. To bring back Charlie’s words, the sound of his voice, to fix the place in her brain so she wouldn’t forget it again. Ahead of her, she could see one of the groundsmen rounding up the last few visitors. Charlie wouldn’t have let that stop him. She put her head down, hurriedly took the path to the pond.

  It was even warmer under the trees, the humidity trapped, almost visible as a haze, wrapping itself round branches, twisting through the leaves. The pond’s surface was thick with algae and she could smell the dank water beneath. This was it. Here. Her hand in Charlie’s.

  ‘There’s a ghost lives here.’

  She’d been ten or eleven. Old enough not to be frightened of his stories, not anymore. Old enough to be sceptical too.

  ‘Another ghost?’

  He’d raised his eyebrows. ‘True as I’m here. Not a scary one.’

  ‘A friendly one. Like Casper?’ She’d grinned.

  ‘Not like Casper. A real one. A monk.’

  ‘What does it want?’ All ghosts wanted something, Charlie had explained. It was why they stuck around.

  ‘This is holy land. The site of a monastery founded by St Magloire. He brought Christianity to the Channel Islands, but we’ll let him off because he worked plenty of miracles while he was at it.’ He’d smiled. ‘There’s a little shrine here somewhere. First one to find it gets an ice cream.’

  She looked for it now, vaguely remembering a pebble-covered nook in the pond’s bank, a tiny effigy of the Virgin Mary within. She was halfway round when a noise stopped her in her tracks.

  Barking.

  She froze.

  Panting. A rustling of vegetation.

  And then, right in front of her. A dog.

  It was very big and very black and very real.

  It stood still. Crouched low. Then bounded towards her, sniffing her legs and her feet, long tail wagging.

  ‘Sybil! Sybil!’

  A man appeared through the trees. He was overweight, rosy-cheeked and sweating profusely. ‘She’s friendly—don’t worry.’ He carried a small trowel in one hand and a bucket in the other, which he set down before wiping his brow. ‘You shouldn’t be here. The gardens closed twenty minutes ago.’

  Jenny ruffled the dog’s ears. ‘I’m sorry. I was just about to get going. Is she a Lab?’

  The man nodded.

  ‘I think I’ve seen her. Over by the Mermaid.’

  The man shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t have thought so. She’s not mine, she’s Sir William’s. I’m his private secretary,’ he added. ‘You really need to leave now.’ H
e gestured towards the path back to the exit.

  She glanced down at the bucket as she passed him, wrinkled her nose in disgust.

  ‘Sir William is very particular about keeping the gardens clean,’ he said, noting the expression on her face.

  The bucket was halfway full of dog shit.

  She hurried through the gardens. She would stop in at the church hall, tell Michael what she’d just seen. Was the seigneur’s private secretary somehow involved in what had happened at Len Mauger’s house? Or perhaps the seigneur himself? Corey Monroe had said he suspected the man of encouraging acts of vandalism. Jenny regretted the second glass of wine now, wanted a clear head. The gates were closed but not locked. Her bicycle was where she’d left it, propped up against the wall. Next to it sat DS Fallaize.

  ‘All right?’ He clambered to his feet, attempted what was surely supposed to be a smile but came out somewhere between a leer and a grimace.

  ‘Fine, thank you. Is everything OK? What are you doing here?’

  ‘Went for a ride. Saw your bike. Thought we could have a chat.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Your hair’s all messed up.’

  She instinctively ran a hand through it, smoothed it down over her shoulders.

  ‘No, looked nice. Like you just got out of bed.’

  ‘You’re drunk.’

  ‘So what? You’re always so uptight, aren’t you? Relax when you’re with Pretty Boy, do you? What’s-his-face. Elliot?’

  She flushed. First because she was uncomfortable, then annoyed. She shouldn’t feel embarrassed because he was being an arsehole. She tried to keep her voice cool. ‘I think you need to go and lie down. Sleep it off.’

  The street was deserted, but she could hear the murmur of conversation behind the garden walls, the distant clattering of dishes—the staff at the tearooms clearing up for the day.

  ‘Maybe I will. Why don’t you come with me? Might do you good, eh?’ He reached out. Tried to touch her hair. She took a step back.

  ‘I’m too young? Is that it? Maybe it’s the old boys that do it for you. That’s all the talk, you know that? At the station. It’s a joke, obviously. No way old Gilbert could keep up with you. You’re fit, aren’t you? Nice muscles.’ He nodded towards her bare arms. ‘I’ve seen you out running before. And swimming. Gilbert would have a heart attack before he’d even got started.’