Dark Sky Island

by Lara Dearman

  40

  Jenny

  Helen Groves left the house and got into her car. Jenny followed, at a distance. She had only wanted to talk to someone who knew Luke well, to ask what sort of person he was. She would say it was for an article, a quote about the man suspected of killing his father, but really Jenny wanted to know how she’d got it so wrong. How she’d willingly got into a boat with a killer.

  It turned out nobody really knew Luke, at least nobody who would talk about it. His wife had slammed down the phone. No doubt Jenny had been one of many journalists who had tried to speak to her. His friends were vague—he was quiet; he kept himself to himself—the sort of thing everyone said about murderers after their crimes had been discovered. But then one of them had mentioned a woman Luke had boarded with as a kid. How they kept in touch. It hadn’t taken much to track down Helen Groves. She would know him, Jenny thought. She would tell Jenny what a lovely man he was, how she never would have thought him capable of such things, how he was sweet and kind, and Jenny would feel better. Less duped. Less stupid.

  But Helen Groves had not answered the phone. She had not answered the door. She had hidden in the front room. Jenny had seen her rush behind the door. She wanted to know what she was hiding from.

  She followed her through the winding lanes of rural St Pierre du Bois and St Saviour’s and into St Andrew’s, where the roads widened and the traffic increased as they joined the steady flow of cars into town. At the roundabout, Helen Groves took the exit to North Beach, parking her car in a ten-hour zone. Jenny came to a stop a few spaces away. Reached for her phone.

  ‘Jenny?’ Michael sounded out of breath.

  ‘Are you OK? Are you out?’

  ‘Marquis took me for a drive. What’s up?’ He was still unsure of himself with her, despite the fact that she’d told him over and over again that she’d forgiven him, that there was nothing, really, to forgive.

  ‘I’m fine. Maybe nothing but I went to see someone, to talk to them about Luke—’

  ‘For God’s sake, Jenny. I’ve told you—you made a mistake. Everyone makes mistakes.’

  ‘Michael, I know. But she wouldn’t talk to me anyway—didn’t answer the door. I waited, watched the house, just felt like something was off. When she came out, I followed her to North Beach. And now she’s buying a ticket to Sark.’ She waited for Michael to berate her for harassing members of the public, but he was quiet. She could hear his laboured breathing. ‘Michael?’

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘A woman Luke boarded with when he was at school here. Name’s Helen Groves.’

  ‘Shit!’ She held the phone away from her ear at Michael’s exclamation. ‘When does the ferry leave?’

  She checked her watch. ‘Half an hour.’

  ‘Keep an eye on her. Text me when she’s on the boat. I’m on my way.’

  ‘Here?’

  ‘To Sark.’

  ‘Michael, you’re supposed to be in bed—’

  The line was already dead.

  41

  Michael

  They heard the hammering before they reached Reg’s cottage. Michael, stooped forward—the only way he could get any relief from the pain in his side—stopped at the end of the path to the common.

  ‘How did you know she’d be here?’ Marquis asked.

  ‘Just a hunch.’

  ‘You go round the back.’ He directed the two officers who had accompanied him and Marquis on the police RIB from Guernsey. ‘Keep your heads down—don’t want to spook her—but be ready in case she runs when we confront her.’

  They nodded, jogged ahead.

  ‘Sir, no offence, but you don’t look like you’re in a fit state to confront anyone.’ Marquis had been fussing since they left Guernsey. ‘I can handle this.’

  ‘I’m sure you can. But I need to be here. I can’t explain why.’ He didn’t want to think about the reasons for this recklessness. His need to control the outcome of this investigation, to make sure nothing slipped by him. To see his final case through to its conclusion. He forced himself to stand up straight.

  ‘Come on.’

  They walked to the front door. Knocked. The hammering inside continued.

  ‘What do you think is going on in there?’ Marquis looked nervous.

  Michael knocked again. Pushed open the door.

  The linoleum on the kitchen floor had been rolled up, exposing bare wooden floorboards, many of which had been smashed to pieces, leaving jagged-edged holes dotted all over the room, splinters of wood littering the remaining floor. Helen Groves was not there. The hammering was coming from the back of the house. One of the bedrooms.

  Marquis went first; Michael followed, peering into the holes as he stepped towards the door that led to the back corridor. If she was looking for something, she obviously hadn’t found it yet.

  They followed the noise, past the main bedroom, where he could see through the open door that the floor here had had the same treatment as the living room. He stopped in the doorway of the spare room. The bed had been pushed to one side and a woman, presumably Helen Groves, was crouched down, back to them, attacking the floor with a particularly vicious-looking claw hammer.

  ‘Ms Groves?’

  She stopped. Didn’t turn round.

  ‘Ms Groves, I’m DCI Gilbert. This is DC Marquis. Can you put the hammer down, Ms Groves?’

  She stood. Turned to them, hammer by her side. Her knuckles were white she gripped it so tightly. She looked at Michael, who was panting, sweat on his brow, bent over, hand pressed protectively over his side. Then to Marquis, who was young and fit, and who, Michael knew, was a hell of a lot braver than he looked, but perhaps, with the freckles, the mop of bright red hair, was not the most intimidating of adversaries.

  ‘The cottage is surrounded, Ms Groves. We’ve two officers at the back. I’ve more only a phone call away. If you could just put down the hammer, tell us what you’re doing here, maybe all this is unnecessary, eh? Did Luke ask you to come here, to find something for him?’

  She dropped the hammer. Sank to the bed. Put her head in her hands. No tears, though. No wailing.

  ‘What are you looking for, Ms Groves?’ Michael stepped over the broken floorboards and picked up the hammer.

  She took her hands away from her face. Splinters of wood clung to her hair, and her skin was grey, and her eyes—her eyes were dark and terrified. This, Michael thought, was what broken looked like. Not an ageing cop with a few stiches and a sore head but this woman. Whatever she had seen, whatever she had done, it had destroyed her.

  Michael sat in the back garden surveying the house. Marquis emerged from the back door, dust in his hair, something black and greasy on his hands.

  ‘There’s no space in the roof—it’s completely flat. She’d already torn up the floorboards in every room. I just had a feel around the back of the boiler, the pipes in the bathroom. It’s a tiny place—we went through it with a fine-tooth comb the first time. Whatever she was looking for isn’t in there.’ He walked over to the guinea-pig hutch. ‘Who’s been feeding them?’

  ‘One of the neighbours.’

  ‘Shouldn’t we take them to the animal shelter or something? They smell pretty bad.’

  Michael joined him at the chicken wire. ‘Mangy little things. Never liked them myself. Luke said they used to be his dad’s pride and joy.’ He stopped. ‘Don’t suppose anyone thought to search in here, did they?’

  Marquis shook his head. ‘Don’t think so, boss.’

  Michael opened the latch on the door to the enclosure, poked his head into the animal’s sleeping quarters. The bedding of shredded newspaper was wet through and covered in droppings. Michael rapped on the wooden base, setting the guinea pigs out in the run to squealing. Definitely hollow.

  ‘Where’s that hammer?’ His voice echoed in the small space, and the urine-soaked air caught in his throat. He pulled his head out and took a couple of breaths, waited for Marquis to return.

  ‘Here.’


  Michael took a few more deep breaths before sticking his head back inside the hutch. He prised one of the wooden slats with the hammer’s claw. It was damp and pliable. Came up easily. He pulled up another. And another. Handed them back to Marquis. Reached into the space below. Felt earth. Gravel. Plastic. It took a bit of an effort for him to pull up the package. It was wrapped in old, thick bin liners and brown packing tape. He dropped it onto the grass at Marquis’s feet.

  Marquis pulled at the tape, tore at the plastic. ‘Photos, boss. And looks like letters. What is all this?’

  Michael walked over to the wrought-iron chair and sat, a little heavily, wincing, yet again, as the stitches in his side pulled.

  ‘I’m hoping, Marquis, that it’s all the bloody answers.’

  42

  Michael

  ‘Can you confirm that you are Helen Rachel Groves of Westwood, Rue des Vinaires, St Peter’s?’

  Michael and Marquis sat across from Helen Groves and her advocate, Jim Bradford, an earnest and capable man in his late thirties, in the stuffy, windowless interview room at Guernsey Police Station. Advocate Bradford had loosened his tie, and both Marquis and Michael had their shirtsleeves rolled up, but Helen Groves sat stiff and straight, hands clasped together on the desk.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And can you also confirm that between the years of 1979 and 1989, you went by the name of Rachel Carré and lived at the Cottage, Rue du Fort, Sark?’

  ‘It was never my name.’ She spoke quietly.

  ‘Can you explain?’

  ‘I was always Helen Groves. Reg and I never married. People just assumed we had.’

  ‘And Rachel?’

  She shrugged. ‘My middle name. I always preferred it. Used it for the first time when I visited Sark as a kid.’ She paused. ‘Not a kid. I was eighteen. It was when I met Reg.’

  ‘What were you looking for at the cottage this morning, Ms Groves?’

  ‘Letters. Photographs.’

  Michael placed an evidence bag in front of Helen, containing a yellowed piece of paper, the writing on it faded, barely legible in places.

  ‘Were you looking for this?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Can you tell me what it is, Ms Groves?’

  ‘It’s a letter.’

  ‘From whom?’

  ‘From a woman called Catherine.’

  ‘And why did this woman called Catherine write to you, Ms Groves?’

  ‘She wanted money.’

  ‘What for?’

  A deep breath.

  ‘What for, Ms Groves?’

  ‘She gave him to me.’ Her voice was strong and clear now.

  Michael held the letter at arm’s length, squinted at the words. ‘“You took him from me. You need to pay.”’ He looked at Helen.

  ‘I didn’t take him. It wasn’t like that.’

  ‘Why don’t you tell us what it was like?’

  She looked at her advocate. He nodded.

  ‘I wasn’t myself. I was depressed. I’d had a miscarriage a few months previously. I was only with Reg because I was pregnant—we both knew that. After I lost the baby . . . he wanted me to stay. I did for a few months. But there was nothing for me there. There’s nothing for anyone there. I left in the summer. Went back to my father’s house.’

  ‘He was a vicar.’ Michael scanned his notes.

  ‘He was. But sadly lacking in the values he preached. He didn’t believe that I’d lost the baby, and even if he had . . . The church ran a charity—the Christian Pregnancy Advice Centre. He thought I did everything to spite him.’

  ‘And this advice centre was where you met Catherine, Luke’s mother?’

  ‘She gave him to me. I’m his mother.’

  ‘She just handed him over?’ Marquis looked incredulous.

  Helen’s stare was cold and hard. ‘She was going to have him adopted. She didn’t want him. I did.’

  Marquis shifted in his seat. Michael’s throat was dry. He needed to lie down. He took a sip of water. Pointed at the letter. ‘But then this arrived.’

  ‘Yes. Five years later. You only read the beginning. She wanted money. She asked for three thousand pounds.’

  ‘And you paid her?’

  Helen nodded.

  ‘How did you go about finding that sort of money?’

  ‘I asked Reg.’

  ‘He knew that Luke wasn’t yours?’

  ‘Not at first. Not until this letter came.’

  ‘And how did he react when you told him what you’d done?’

  ‘He was . . . very upset. Devastated. But I knew Reg loved Luke. I knew he’d do anything to protect him. And he did. He got the money.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Anything to do with what we’ve recently discovered about the Le Page family business?’

  She shrugged. ‘He told me he’d won it playing cards. I knew he was lying.’

  ‘This wasn’t the end of it, was it, Ms Groves? There were more letters asking for money.’ He placed two more evidence bags on the desk. ‘And then this.’ He placed the last of the four letters they’d found in front of her.

  Michael summarised the contents. ‘Catherine said she was coming to Sark. Said she wanted to see Luke. That she regretted giving him up.’

  ‘You see,’ Helen said, an edge to her voice now. ‘She admitted it herself—she gave him up.’

  ‘But you never made any of this legal, Ms Groves! You must have known that you couldn’t just take someone else’s baby and be done with it. There’s a process. You say you were depressed when all this happened, but what about this young woman, eh? What state was she in? Alone, confused, just had a baby. She needed proper help, proper counselling, not to hand him over to a stranger!’

  ‘It wasn’t like that! She was only interested in money. When she came—’ She stopped abruptly.

  ‘What happened when she came? What happened when Luke’s mother came to Sark?’

  Helen rubbed her eyes. ‘She was very thin. I hardly recognised her. And she was dirty. I remember looking at her filthy fingernails and her hair—it can’t have been washed for weeks. The thought of her touching Luke . . .’ She swallowed. ‘She’d been in and out of temporary housing, she said. Homeless for a while. Blamed it all on giving up Luke. Said she wanted to see him. I explained he was at school. She said she would wait until he came home, that he deserved to know who his real mother was. She was disappointed, I could see, that our house was so small. She was looking around, sizing the place up, trying to figure out how much more she could ask us for.’

  ‘She asked you for more money?’

  Helen nodded. ‘Said she’d go quietly if we let her see Luke and gave her ten thousand pounds.’

  Marquis let out a low whistle.

  ‘She wouldn’t have. She would never have stopped, you understand?’

  ‘What happened, Ms Groves?’

  ‘It was Reg. He lost it. He used to get so angry. He’d been drinking—it was only ever when he’d been drinking. Ever since I showed him that first letter, ever since he found out that Luke . . . Luke wasn’t his . . . he was different. He came at her. She fought back. He fell, and she . . . she was vicious. I thought . . . I really thought she was going to kill him. I’d been ironing. It was the first thing I picked up. I hit her. I had no idea it would kill her. I was just trying to make her stop.’

  Advocate Bradford ran his hand through his hair, undid another shirt button. ‘I’m going to suggest, at this point, that my client be allowed a break and a chance to confer with counsel.’

  Michael thought perhaps it was Advocate Bradford who needed the break. He was doing an excellent job of acting like this wasn’t already the biggest case of his career, but the slight shaking of his pen as he lay it on the yellow legal pad said otherwise.

  ‘You want to stop, Ms Groves?’ Marquis asked.

  ‘No. It’s been twenty-seven years. I just want to get it over with.’

  ‘So what happ
ened after you realised you’d killed Catherine? Why didn’t you go to the police? You had a good case for self-defence.’

  ‘And have you take Luke away from me? It was Reg that sorted everything. I don’t really remember much of what happened after . . . after . . . There was so much blood. And Luke.’

  ‘I thought you said he was at school?’

  ‘He came home. Not long after it happened. Reg had gone out the back. I don’t know what he was doing. Panicking. Looking for something to start . . . cleaning up. I was behind the counter. Numb. Couldn’t move. Then I heard him. His little footsteps. He was terrified. We told him she was a bad lady. That he must never say a word to anyone. I don’t think he ever did.’

  ‘So you killed her and Reg hid her body in a cave. She was no longer a threat to you or your family. Why did you leave?’

  ‘He made me.’

  ‘Who did?’

  ‘Reg. Said I was a danger to Luke, to myself. Said I had to go, for everyone’s sake, and that if I didn’t, he’d go to the police, tell them everything. It was his way of punishing me for what I’d done,’ she said bitterly.

  ‘You don’t think he was genuinely worried, Ms Groves?’

  ‘About what?’ The thought did not seem to have occurred to her.

  ‘That you might be a danger to Luke.’

  ‘I’d never have harmed him. Reg knew that.’

  ‘You stayed in touch with Luke—did Reg know that he came to live with you?’

  She nodded. ‘When he moved to Guernsey for school, he asked if he could. Reg said no. They had a terrible fight. Eventually Reg realised he couldn’t stop Luke from being with me.’ She looked a little triumphant at that.

  ‘The bones being discovered in the cave. Must have had you worried.’

  She looked down. Twisted her hands.

  ‘As I’m sure you’re aware, Ms Groves, the prime suspect in Reg Carré’s murder is your . . . is Luke. We’ve only got circumstantial evidence so far, but—’