by Lara Dearman
‘Should we go back?’
He shook his head. ‘Practically halfway there now,’ he joked. ‘We’ll be fine. Might be a bit choppy, that’s all.’
He stood in front of the wheel, turned the key in the ignition. The boat’s engine growled feebly. He pushed the throttle forward. Jenny held on to the side, feet dropping away from her as the boat dipped and rose through the waves, a heavy mist of sea spray soaking her face and bare arms, the wind whipping her hair into a frenzy, stinging her eyes so she could hardly see where they were going. It was exhilarating and she laughed, sat down heavily, pulled her hair out of her eyes.
It was past nine and the sky was overcast, but it was still not fully dark. Here and there, cracks in the cloud cover revealed splashes of colour, the apricot glow of a setting sun. Just out of the shelter of Dixcart Bay, the land swept inwards, swallowed by the gaping Convanche Chasm on their right-hand side. Jenny could make out the railings of La Coupée hundreds of feet above them. Luke swung the boat out in a wide arc, following the lie of the land. She could see the chimneys of the silver mines on the headland now, and below, a series of rocky fingers reaching out into the ocean.
‘Are you all right?’ Luke shouted above the noise of the engine.
‘I’m great. This is a much better way to travel than the Sark ferry.’
‘Wait until we get out of the way of the rocks. I’ll show you what she can really do.’ He grinned. ‘Actually, she doesn’t go much faster than this. She’s years old and had a bit of engine trouble. But you were impressed for a minute, eh?’
‘Very. This is fast enough. How long will it take to get back?’
‘Half an hour. Maybe less. Do you want to make some tea?’ He pulled back on the throttle. ‘There’s a kettle down there.’ He pointed down the steps towards the tiny cabin. ‘Or I can do it, if you want to have a go?’
‘God, no. Thanks. I never did learn to navigate properly. We’d end up in Jersey with me at the helm.’
‘Shit. Not Jersey. That would be terrible,’ he joked. ‘You should definitely stick to making the tea.’
She had to duck her head to get into the dark cubbyhole of a cabin. She found a light switch. A single bulb flickered dimly in the ceiling. On one side, a counter held a small plastic kettle on a non-slip mat, next to a sink. On the other, a bench obviously used as a bed, with a pillow and a neatly folded blanket.
‘You sleep here?’ she called up.
‘Sometimes. When I visited Dad. I don’t like staying at the house. Didn’t like staying there,’ he corrected himself. ‘Even before.’
She found two mugs stowed under the work surface, both faded and chipped, and teabags in a plastic pot.
‘Do you have any milk?’
‘Powdered. I don’t have a fridge. I just got some more. It’s in one of the bags at the end of the bed.’
She found two hessian shopping bags and a black holdall. She steadied herself, one hand on the wall. It was always unsettling below decks; down here, there was a disconnect—a domestic scene, a kitchen, a bed, thrown around unnaturally. It confused the senses. Made her feel sick.
She found the powdered milk and a packet of biscuits in one bag. The other was full of beer. The holdall was partially unzipped. She looked behind her. The bottom of Luke’s legs were visible on the deck above. He was still at the helm. She opened the bag. Diving gear. Gloves. Flippers.
Black mask.
She lifted it out of the bag. It was larger than a snorkel mask, the rubber extending up onto the forehead and down over the nose. The lenses were wide and bug-like. Just like the one in Arthur’s drawing of the Beast Man.
The kettle clicked.
Luke Carré had been in Guernsey when his father was murdered. She had checked with Michael after she had first met Luke—it was a professional responsibility—and a personal one too. He had an alibi, Michael had confirmed. Luke Carré was not a suspect in his father’s death.
She dropped the mask back into the bag. Turned to make the tea. Noticed that the boat had slowed even further; the engine had quieted.
She carried the mugs up to the deck, glad that the motion of the boat disguised the shaking of her hands. Luke was sitting. It was cooler now, the rain heavier. He pointed ahead, to where the clouds were darkest. A flash of lightning.
‘Shouldn’t we hurry?’
‘It’s miles away yet.’ A distant rumble of thunder. The wind gusted around them. He looked at her, eyes glinting.
‘It’s for spear fishing. The stuff you were looking at.’
Her cheeks burned. ‘I shouldn’t have been looking at your things. Sorry.’
He kept staring at her, as if searching her face for something.
‘We need to get going, or go back.’ Little Sark was behind them, Brecqhou scarcely more than a dark shadow on their right. ‘We’re never going to make it before dark. Or the storm.’ A hint of the rising panic she felt broke through into her voice.
‘It’s not what you think,’ he said softly.
She took a step backwards. With the rise and fall of the water beneath them, the boat climbed, then dipped, each time a little more forcefully. She swore as she spilled hot tea over her hand.
‘It doesn’t matter what I think. Only the facts matter.’ He had to see her as an ally, not a threat. Until they got off this boat, he had to believe that she was his friend.
‘And what are the facts, Jennifer?’
‘You’re not a suspect. You have an alibi. You have nothing to worry about. Not from me, not from the evidence.’
He laughed. ‘I do have an alibi. You’re right about that. The rest of it, I’m not so sure about.’ He stood. She pressed herself against the side of the boat.
With the engine cut, they had drifted, the current sweeping them towards the Gouliot Passage, the narrow channel between Brecqhou and Sark. The sun had disappeared, leaving only an afterglow, light’s shadow, playing on the horizon. The hull creaked. Sark loomed behind them. Dark Sky Island. No street lights. No streets, not over on this side. She couldn’t even remember if there were any houses. Think. Think. There was a small hotel. Twenty minutes’ walk from Havre Gosselin, the tiny harbour on the other side of the passage. Too far for anyone to hear her scream.
They were drifting closer to the passage, and to the rocks on either side of the opening.
‘Luke. You need to get back to the helm. Start the engine. Get us out of here. Or it won’t matter what anyone thinks.’
He didn’t seem to hear her, and as the last remaining natural light died, the warmth on the horizon extinguished by the turning of the earth, he became a shadow—dark and expressionless—the dim glow of the cabin behind him failing to illuminate his face.
‘Luke, what are you doing? You need to take us back.’
‘What’s the point?’ Angry. Reckless.
‘We’ll be smashed on the rocks if you don’t get us out of here! Or let me.’ She made a move towards the helm.
‘No.’ He didn’t even raise his voice. She could hear the waves breaking on the rocks now, but could see nothing, not even shapes or shadows, just black. It was difficult to keep a steady footing, the deck shifting beneath her feet, and slippery now, as the rain continued to fall. Her hip banged painfully against the side and she grasped on to it, stopping herself from going head first into the deep.
And then. To their left. A twinkle.
Brecqhou.
There were lights on Brecqhou.
The Mansion.
She was a strong swimmer. Went out in all seasons. She could deal with the cold; she could even deal with the swell, although it was stronger now than anything she had attempted to swim through before.
She was not sure she could deal with the dark.
The alternative was to get past Luke, to wrestle the throttle from him. But she was no match for him physically. He had not, so far, shown any signs he planned to harm her. But right now his were not the actions of a stable man. And the mask. His reaction to her seeing it.
Like he’d been found out. She could only assume that he had killed his father. That his lack of violence towards her was a temporary state. She had to act accordingly. She had to get away.
There was only one way to do that.
A sickening scraping and tearing.
The jolt to the boat flung her forwards, straight into Luke, who seemed to wake out of a trance.
‘Shit!’ He grabbed at her, falling backwards as he did so. They both hit the deck. She scrambled to get up, but the boat jolted in the other direction. Water seeped through her shoes, weighing her down. She kicked them off. The light in the cabin flickered. Luke hauled himself up, grabbed the throttle, jerked at the keys. The engine sputtered to life. He was going to save them. Or at least try. Their only chance was Havre Gosselin. They might be able to make it that far. He turned back to her. He could see her, in the dim cabin light, but he was still in shadow, his expression unreadable. There was something in the way he stood, though. Something desperate.
Hopeless.
Dangerous.
At the next jolt, he stumbled. She slammed against the side of the boat. The side nearer to Brecqhou. To the lights.
The engine whined. She could hear him cursing. Water sloshed at her ankles. The next jolt, the next fall might break something. And if Luke got them out of this, where would he take her? What would he do?
She relaxed her grip. Breathe. And with the next roll of the boat towards the ocean, she let go.
Plunged into the deep.
Cold. Sharp, breath-stealing cold.
Silence.
No. Not silence. An absence of familiar sound. Ears and nose filled with saltwater. Echoes. The crash of the waves turned inside out. Muffled. Diminished. Comforting. She was cocooned, wrapped in the very thing that wreaked havoc just a few feet above, the swell reduced to a gentle swaying and rocking. The cold soothed her aching limbs. She had so often sought solace in the water. It wasn’t the first time she’d thought how much easier it would be to stay down here.
A burning at the back of her throat.
A slow, steady trickle of saltwater.
She opened her eyes.
Twisted, panicked, focused on the glint of light.
The jump had winded her, the slap from the water’s surface as she plummeted through as painful as any fall to the ground. Her lungs begged for air, for an intake of breath. Her brain screamed back, Keep your mouth shut.
Up. She had to swim up.
She kicked, hard, threw her arms down.
Broke the surface.
She’d been under only seconds, but she gulped down the air as though she hadn’t breathed in days, coughing and gagging as more water washed over her. She had to swim, to work up some momentum, before the waves overpowered her. She trod water as best she could, battered one way, then pulled the other by sparring currents. Saw the light from the cabin, the boat, listing, bathed a sickly yellow, and Luke, a frenzied silhouette, first at the helm, then screaming over the side.
‘Jenny! Jenny!’ He sounded frantic. Broken.
Perhaps she’d got it all wrong—he was mixed up in all this somehow but not a killer. He thought she’d fallen, was desperate to save her.
Or maybe he knew she’d jumped. Maybe he wanted to make sure she was dead.
She dipped under. And again. Each time it was harder to get back up, each breath she took shallower than the one before, her limbs heavy, starved of oxygen.
She focused on the lights, still glinting on Brecqhou. On a calm day, she figured it was a fifteen-minute swim away. Today, perhaps thirty. If she made it at all. She struck out. Stayed clear of the feeble ring of light surrounding the boat. Luke’s screams faded as she covered ten, twenty, thirty feet. The darkness intensified. Thickened.
But there was no room for fear.
Every cell in her body was focused on battling the waves and winning, making it to land, to warmth, to light.
Her only hope was Corey Monroe.
33
Michael
He was in a cell. They’d overpowered him. It wasn’t hard, the state he was in. They’d retied his hands. Gagged him. Dragged him. He remembered the weight of a blanket over his head, the slamming of a door. They’d locked him in here. In the prison. It was part of the plan, to convince everyone that it was he, Michael, who was the criminal. They were going back to clean up. To destroy the evidence. Then they were going to deal with him. Tanya didn’t know how. She hadn’t said that, but Michael could tell, could hear the uncertainty in her voice even as she’d barked out orders to the two men who seemed entirely in her thrall.
He shook uncontrollably, which increased the pain in his side. He was exhausted, felt like every last drop of life had drained out of him. He looked down, to the wound in his gut. His shirt was covered in blood, but the flow had reduced to a trickle. Fallaize had given him a tea towel. Balled it up, told him to hold it there. Michael wasn’t sure if he’d been trying to help or to minimise the mess made in Tanya’s living room. Either way, he had probably saved Michael’s life. Not for long. Michael was sure now that this was how it ended. Old and weak, trussed and gagged on a prison-cell floor. Not how he’d imagined it.
But then, nothing in his life had been quite how he’d imagined. There’d been a time when he’d had it all. A beautiful wife and daughter. Seemed so long ago now. Sheila, at least, was happy. She deserved to be. He’d done a good thing, letting her go. Moving on. He groaned. Pathetic, lying to himself, even now, pretending he’d ever moved on. The closest he’d come to feelings for another person was Margaret Dorey, and even then he’d held himself back, because she wasn’t Sheila. Jenny wasn’t Ellen.
Footsteps. Outside. Michael moaned. The gag cut into the corners of his mouth, but he ignored the pain, tried to open wider, to moan louder.
The door rattled. The padlock being unlocked.
‘Shut up!’ It was a panicked hiss. ‘I’ll help you if you shut the fuck up!’
Michael struggled to focus. The light flooded in from the narrow corridor outside the cell. It was Martin Langlais.
Michael moaned again, quieter this time, shook his head from side to side. Undo the gag.
‘No,’ Langlais whispered. ‘It stays on.’ He looked behind his shoulder. ‘We’ve got ten minutes, fifteen at most. I’m supposed to be checking on you. Waiting for the other two.’
Michael narrowed his eyes, questioning without words. This didn’t make sense. If Langlais wanted out, he could have just run.
‘I’m not a part of this. I knew about the drugs, same as most people. She paid me not to say anything. That’s it. The rest is madness. I’ll take you as far as the doctor. Then you’re on your own.’
He helped Michael to his feet. Michael groaned, long and low as the full extent of the pain wracking his body made itself known.
‘It’s late. There’s nobody about. But if you try to get anyone’s attention, I’m dragging you straight back here, you hear me?’
Michael nodded.
‘I could have just left. You know that? You’ll tell them? That I helped you?’
That was it. Langlais wanted brownie points. Something he could use to mitigate his involvement in this. Michael swayed. Tried to express just a tiny amount of the contempt he felt for Langlais through the weight of his stare. Nodded.
‘Let’s go. Keep your head down.’
Michael felt the sting of sand and dust on his face as soon as he stepped outside. The streets were pitch-black and deserted. They passed houses, the odd one with the cold glow of a television screen escaping from between closed curtains. The further they went, the fewer houses they saw. Langlais used his phone as a torch, but only long enough to illuminate the way for a second or two each time before switching it off.
It started to rain, just a few drops at first, but soon his face was wet and it was even harder to see where he was going. Michael felt like he was walking through treacle, Langlais’s tall, lean frame struggling to take the burden of his weight. They moved slowly, co
vering only a few feet a minute. Michael, with his hands bound behind his back, unable to reach out, to feel his way through the night, stumbled and swayed. He tried to remember where the doctor had said his house was. Up by La Moinerie. Far. They had been walking for twenty minutes or so when Michael finally stopped.
He was never going to make it.
‘Fuck are you doing?’ Langlais shone the phone on him.
Michael stayed still. Groaned through the gag. Untie me.
‘Keep moving!’ Langlais had to raise his voice to be heard over the wind.
He shook his head. No.
‘What the fuck? I’ll fucking leave you here.’
Michael moaned again. Go ahead.
‘Shit. Shit.’ Deep breath. ‘They’ll know by now. That I let you go. There’s no time to fuck around.’
Michael shrugged.
‘You make one sound and I swear you’ll die here.’
Hands on Michael’s face as Langlais fumbled to untie the gag.
‘Fuck.’ It came out as a hoarse whisper. The movement pulled at the corners of his lips, which were bloody and sore. He opened and closed his mouth, caught some rainwater, swallowed, tried to work it into his dry throat. ‘It’s too far.’
‘It’s less than a mile away.’
‘Too far for me. Take me to the nearest house. We’ll call the doctor from there.’
There was a long pause.
‘What is it?’ Michael coughed. Felt like he was being stabbed all over again. ‘You’ve helped me, but you’ll not get much credit for it if I’m too dead to tell anyone. Just dump me at a house and then run. Or stick around. It will look better for you in the long run.’
‘I don’t know who I can trust.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The doctor. He’s only been here a few months. He won’t be on the payroll. Not yet. The rest of them . . . Anyone could be working for her. She has people. Watching. Listening. Everywhere. We turn up at the wrong house, she’ll get a call.’
Michael couldn’t believe it. ‘You’re paranoid, man!’
‘He’s not.’
