by Lara Dearman
‘I’m going to confront her about it. And you’re going to back me up. Or else we’ll be having words over at the station. In front of the chief.’ They’d be doing that anyway, Michael thought, but it would be good to have Fallaize in the room with him when he confronted Tanya. That look she’d given him, just before he’d left. Cold and calculating. He couldn’t risk her twisting his words or, God forbid, making official accusations about him, tainting any case they might build against her with false allegations. Everything needed to be above board.
‘Wait. We should sit tight until the morning. Run everything by the chief first. That’s standard, isn’t it? High-profile case like this? And anyway, we’ll want to search the place. We need a warrant.’
‘She knows that I know, Fallaize. I saw it in her eyes. If we give her until the morning, I’ll wager the place will be clean as a whistle. We’ve got to get in there now. If needs be, we’ll arrest her and post someone here to watch the house. The search can wait until morning.’ Every minute they stood out here was another minute Tanya Le Page had to hide evidence, to cover up whatever she was involved in.
‘Come on,’ Michael barked. He marched back towards the guesthouse.
Fallaize reluctantly followed.
‘This is harassment. I’ve already called the station in Guernsey. Lodged a complaint. You shouldn’t have spoken to Arthur without some sort of family officer here. Without his doctor signing off on it. I shouldn’t have let you. I’m going to contact a lawyer too. You’ve caused us all sorts of distress.’
‘With all due respect, Ms Le Page, any distress your son has suffered has been caused by whoever killed Reg Carré. I’m trying to find that person and bring them to justice. We’re on the same side. At least, I thought we were.’
‘What exactly is that supposed to mean?’
She did haughty very well, Michael thought, standing there, indignant and entitled, butter wouldn’t melt.
Fallaize sat on the sofa opposite, obviously already in the midst of a hangover. He looked like death.
‘OK if I have a quick look around, Ms Le Page?’ Michael asked.
‘No, it’s not.’ She stepped towards Michael.
Fallaize shifted in his seat.
‘Something to hide, have you?’ Michael asked softly.
He took Arthur’s picture out of his pocket.
‘How did your son’s drawings make it onto the packaging of hundreds, maybe thousands of illegal pills being smuggled into Guernsey, Ms Le Page? And what do you know about Reg Carré’s death? Why was your son there that morning?’
Because the more Michael had thought about it, the more suspicious he had become of Tanya Le Page’s explanation for her son being at Reg’s cottage that morning. Everything was connected. Tanya. The drugs. Reg. Arthur.
‘You need to leave now.’
‘We can leave. But you’re coming with us.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘Ms Le Page, I’m going to need you to come and answer some questions at the incident room. We can call someone to watch Arthur for you.’
‘I’m not going anywhere.’
‘If you refuse to come of your own volition, I’m afraid I’m going to have to arrest you.’ Michael nodded towards Fallaize, his cue to pull out the handcuffs.
Fallaize, however, remained seated, head bowed, and for a moment, Michael thought he had nodded off.
‘DS Fallaize.’ No response. ‘Fallaize? Hell’s wrong with you, man?’
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, Rick, do something,’ Tanya spat across the room.
It was as though Sergeant Fallaize had been slapped across the face. His head whipped round; his cheeks flamed red.
‘Fuck do you want me to do, Tanya? You were always going to mess things up, way you are with that fucking kid.’
Michael tried to process this exchange. He looked at Tanya. She was furious, her face twisted with rage. And Fallaize, he wasn’t hung-over, Michael realised. He was distraught.
Tanya darted forwards.
A cry from the doorway.
The boy.
Michael turned towards the sound.
A mistake.
A flash of silver. Then the agonising smash of glass against bone and he swore he could hear it, the crack of his skull reverberating in his ears. The last thing he saw before he struck the floor was a spray of his own blood hitting the sofa upholstery, a spatter of crimson spots among the delicate pink florals.
His head throbbed.
His wrists were bound.
Pins and needles in his arms and legs.
He opened his eyes. Blurred vision. Blurred thoughts. Pink roses. Red blood.
With a rush of adrenaline, the fractured pieces of his memory came together.
And he was scared.
Because hitting him with the vase was stupid and reckless but a result, surely, of panic. Tanya Le Page, involved—how deeply he didn’t know—in a drug-smuggling operation, cornered and desperate, had acted on instinct, lashed out to protect herself. Leaving him here, however, wounded, bleeding, tied up, that was something else. The words he would use to build a case against her swam around his aching head.
Intent. Violence. Conspiracy.
Conspiracy. Fallaize.
Fallaize was in on it.
Even without a head injury, or his hands tied behind his back, there was no way Michael could beat Fallaize in a physical fight—the DS was younger, stronger and fitter than Michael. He was going to have to make a run for it.
He listened. Slowed his breathing. Cursed the pounding of the blood in his ears. He could hear them, their voices low and urgent. Tap running. They were in the kitchen. He tried to remember the layout of the house. Brain still sluggish. Eyes shut tight. The kitchen was at the back. The front door behind him, to the right. All he had to do was get to the door, open it somehow (it was an old house, he thought—a good kick might do it) and yell. Someone would hear. Might even be a passer-by he could send for back-up.
Michael tried to sit up, but a wave of nausea and dizziness forced him back to the floor.
A hammering. Someone at the door.
A clash from the kitchen.
Footsteps.
Strained voices. Door opened. Shut. Muttering. An exclamation.
‘Tanya! What the fuck?’
Michael turned his head towards the voice, fighting back the dizziness. The figure spun before him. Tall and lean.
‘Thank God. Help me, man.’ Michael felt as though he were speaking underwater, his voice thick and slow, and he thought for a second that Martin Langlais had not understood him. The constable stood frozen in the doorway.
‘Help me. My head . . . They’ve tied me up.’
Langlais moved towards him.
‘No!’ Tanya came into the room.
‘Tanya. This is lunacy. What the fuck did you call me for? You’ve gone too far. You’ve got to give it up now. This . . . He’s a policeman.’
‘I need you to help us move him.’
Langlais blanched. ‘Me? I’m not getting involved in this!’
‘You’re already involved.’ Tanya spoke softly now. ‘You’ve let all of this go on under your nose, never reported it, pocketed your share every month. You’ll go away with us.’
‘There’s no proof.’ Langlais didn’t sound sure.
‘None except DCI Gilbert here.’ Tanya smiled. ‘Pretty sure he’s figured out you’re involved.’
‘Martin’—Michael struggled to a sitting position, propping himself up on the sofa behind—‘you help me now and whatever your involvement in this, we can sort it. Come on, man. You’ve obviously got mixed up in this unwittingly—’
‘Shut up.’ Fallaize still looked like shit but seemed to have well and truly sobered up. He stood next to Michael. Looked at Tanya. ‘Are you going to share this fucking plan? What the hell do we need Langlais for?’
‘DCI Gilbert came here alone. He was in a rage. He’d found out from his journalist friend that I’d kep
t Arthur from talking to him. I was misguided, obviously, but acting in the best interests of my son. When I refused to let him talk to Arthur, he hit me. I was terrified. Defended myself. Called Constable Langlais, who took DCI Gilbert to prison.’
‘That’s the best you can come up with!’ Fallaize was incredulous. ‘No fucking way anyone will believe he assaulted you. The man’s got a clean record, thirty-odd years on the force. He’s a fucking hero, for God’s sake.’
‘They don’t have to believe me. They have to prove that I’m lying. And they won’t be able to.’
Michael felt bile rising in his throat. He tried to move his wrists, to test the strength of the bindings.
Fallaize kicked the sofa. ‘You should have let me handle this!’
‘Because you’ve done such a good job handling things, haven’t you, Rick? Want me to tell DCI Gilbert how you handled the last mess I asked you to clear up? Go on—tell him. Won’t make any difference now.’
An intake of breath from Fallaize. ‘Shut the fuck up.’
If Tanya felt threatened, she showed no sign of it. ‘Messed it up something chronic he did, Chief Inspector. I only asked him to warn the man off.
‘“Offer him a few hundred quid,” I said, “and if that doesn’t work, tell him we’ll go after his family. His wife. His daughter.”’
‘Shut up, Tanya!’ Fallaize lunged at her.
She dodged him and he tripped. She laughed. ‘You’ll have to try harder than that, Rick.’
Michael struggled to make sense of it all. Of Tanya. Of Fallaize, now on the floor, head on his knees.
‘Whose wife and daughter?’
‘I wouldn’t have done it, you understand,’ Tanya said. ‘I just wanted him scared off. But Sergeant Fallaize fucked it all up. Went and killed the poor man. Not sure what caused him more distress—the fact that he’d done it or the effort it took to cover it up. Had to tamper with the paperwork, didn’t you, Rick? Tell the chief inspector how you destroyed the evidence—made Charlie Dorey’s death look like an accident.’
The silence that followed weighed down on Michael like a ten-ton blanket thrown over the room. It sucked the air out of his lungs and made his eyes water. It was broken, after what felt like hours but could only have been a matter of seconds, by a wretched sob.
‘You bitch.’ And with an ominous sense of déjà vu, for the second time that evening Michael saw a glint in the air. A piece of the broken vase, short and sharp and shining in Fallaize’s outstretched hand. There were pieces of it, Michael noticed, all over the living-room floor.
‘You fucking bitch.’ Fallaize got to his feet.
Michael brushed the carpet behind him with his fingers. Back and forth. Side to side. Prayed they would find what he was looking for.
‘Jesus Christ.’ Langlais took a step back, towards the front door.
Tanya seemed unperturbed. ‘I’d think carefully before you try to use that, Rick.’
‘I’ve had enough of your bullshit, Tanya. Said I’d make sure your shipments weren’t checked, would help out with a bit of paperwork. I never agreed to any of this.’
‘You should have thought about that before you tipped Charlie Dorey off his boat, shouldn’t you? There was no going back from there. You did that, Rick. I’ve never killed anyone.’ Tanya looked at Langlais. ‘How about you, Martin? You killed anyone recently?’
‘Of course not!’ He swung round to face Michael. ‘I knew nothing about this—you have to believe me.’
Michael coughed. Shifted to the side. Kept his fingers moving. Felt cold, hard glass. ‘Everyone needs to calm down.’ He gripped the makeshift blade in his right hand. Winced as it sliced into his skin. He rubbed at the rope with it, struggling to hold on to it as his fingers became slick with blood.
He looked at Fallaize, who stood, outwardly defiant, shard of glass still held clenched in his trembling hand. Stupid, stupid bastard. He was in way over his head. Another man might have realised that, might have given up, been willing to face his fate, but Fallaize had always been an arrogant shit. He was never going to back down.
‘Don’t do it, Fallaize.’ He tried to sound forceful, but his voice was weak and dry. ‘Whatever else you’ve done. You can stop now. You can ask for forgiveness.’ He could feel the tension on the rope lesson as he sawed through each strand.
Fallaize, eyes still fixed on Tanya’s, slowly lowered the weapon.
Michael strained against the now-frayed bindings round his wrists. The rope snapped. Tanya saw him shift position. He had to move. He clambered to his feet, the shard of vase slipping from his bloodied hand as he did so. Tanya darted towards him. But before she could get to Michael, Fallaize, quick as a snake, had his arm wrapped round her neck, glass held to her cheek.
‘It was an accident.’ He directed it at Michael. Fallaize’s voice shook as he gulped back a sob. ‘You have to understand that. I went to talk to him. Maybe I came on a bit strong. He leaped at me. Wasn’t expecting it. It was self-defence. Put my arm out, tried to restrain him. He fell, hit his head. I panicked. Of course, Tanya here didn’t waste any time taking advantage of it. Sent threatening notes, warning other people they’d suffer the same if they didn’t keep their mouth’s shut. As though it was all planned. It wasn’t. It was an accident. I swear it.’
Tanya’s skin was white where the glass pressed against her cheek. Her eyes were fixed on Michael. Langlais whimpered.
‘Put it down, Fallaize.’ Michael struggled against the spinning in his head.
‘Or what? I’ll go to jail? I’m already going there, aren’t I? This way, at least she gets what’s coming to her.’
‘Rick.’ Tanya’s voice was hoarse. ‘Rick. We made plans, remember? Me and you, and Arthur. It’s not too late. You’re hurting me, Rick. Please.’
‘I’m not buying that, Tanya. Not this time. Think I don’t know you tart around with everyone? I’ve heard the lads who move the stuff talking. How you come down half dressed, acting like you’ve been caught off guard. It’s what you do, isn’t it? Flash a bit of tit here, bite your lip, all the while doing the “poor little me, all alone with my boy” act like some Virgin fucking Mary. Even had Gilbert here feeling sorry for you.’ He waved the glass in Michael’s direction and in that moment, with a speed of movement that made Michael’s head spin even faster, Tanya twisted away from Fallaize, kicking him hard in the groin as she did so. He doubled over but held on to the weapon, his hand bloodied.
‘You fucked up, Rick.’ Tanya stood with her back pressed against the wall.
Langlais now cowered in the corner. Michael and Fallaize faced each other, a few steps between them.
Tanya spoke as if to a small child. ‘But it’s OK. The only way out of this is if we all work together. Are you with me, baby?’
Michael kept his eyes fixed on Fallaize but appealed to Langlais, who was clearly the weak link in this unholy triumvirate.
‘Martin, are you really going to go along with this? You think she’s going to get her hands dirty, kill me herself? She’ll have you do it, man. And you don’t have the stomach for it. And you, Fallaize. Like she said, you fucked up. God knows there’s no love lost between us, but you say it was an accident, I believe you. You can work out a deal. Bet you know a lot, eh? Bet you could get your sentence reduced. You’ll be out after a few years. You’re a young man. You go along with this’—he motioned his head towards Tanya—‘it’s over. You’ll spend the rest of your life inside.’
‘Don’t listen to him.’ Tanya’s voice was steel.
‘You’re right,’ Fallaize said. He looked dazed, as if he’d woken from a nightmare only to find himself still in the middle of it. ‘I could probably bargain my way to a fifteen-year sentence. Out in twelve. But you know what they do to coppers in prison. My life’s over, whichever way you swing it.’
He took a step towards Michael, shard of glass pointing directly at his heart. Michael summoned every last bit of energy he had left. He balled his hand into a fist and swung at Fallai
ze.
Fallaize dodged.
Michael missed.
Fallaize lunged.
Sharp, hot pain in his side.
Michael staggered. Looked down at the shard of glass now sticking out of his waist.
‘I’m sorry.’ Fallaize held his hand to his mouth, smearing it with blood from his torn-up hands so he looked like some hellish clown. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Toughen the fuck up, Rick.’ Tanya came forward. ‘Let’s get this shitshow over with.’
32
Jenny
Dixcart was easier to get to than the neighbouring Derrible, but no less beautiful. The tide was out, revealing a swathe of rocks, hewn from above. They tumbled towards the sea, diminishing as they did so, first broken and smoothed into pebbles, then mingled with the remains of long-dead sea creatures—mussel shells, winkles and limpets, cuttlefish, coral—pounded to little more than dust, the fine, yellow sand of the shoreline.
A single boat, anchored a few hundred feet out to sea, swayed from side to side.
Luke Carré waited next to a grubby dinghy. He waved at her as she descended the final few steps onto the beach.
‘Are we both going to fit in here?’
‘It’s a bit snug, but we’re not going far.’ Luke took off his shoes and threw them into the boat. She did the same. The two of them dragged the dinghy down to the shore. He held it steady, ankle-deep in the water, while she climbed in.
Luke manoeuvred the oars into place. He pulled them through the water with ease and they moved rapidly, arriving at the motorboat in a matter of minutes. At Luke’s request, Jenny got out first, pulling herself up a loosely secured ladder before throwing back a line, which he tied on to the tender, leaving it floating behind the main boat. He took the ladder rungs two at a time and the boat swayed, not quite settling once he was on board. The swell was more noticeable here, though they were only a short distance from the shore. She felt the first drops of rain, fat and slow.
‘I think Rosie might have been right.’ He put a hand out onto the cabin roof, steadying himself. ‘Weather is coming in.’
