The Devil's Claw

by Lara Dearman

  23

  Michael

  He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting. He’d known she’d been looking into things, of course he had. She was a reporter, she had to report something, and she’d been seen by a PC at the White Rock, talking to Amanda’s friend. It was one of the things that made the island so special, everyone knowing each other’s business. Having an illicit affair? No romantic dinner dates for you, that’s for sure. You’d be discovered in a heartbeat. Teenager sneaking out at night? Good luck with that. A neighbour or a teacher or another parent from school was bound to spot you sooner or later and report back home. Same went for underage drinking. Try getting into a bar with a fake ID when the doorman is friends with your dad and knows for a fact that you’re not eighteen yet. Love it or hate it, Guernsey was a very, very small place. It was impossible to do anything ‘off the grid’. Made the policework pretty easy, to be honest. Or so he’d always thought.

  He’d managed to find all of their files, which was nothing short of a miracle. They had relied on a simple card indexing system well into the early nineties, and the digitalization process had been haphazard, to say the least, so he’d been expecting a struggle. It turned out Marquis was actually half capable when it came to computers and he’d helped to locate the earlier records without asking any questions. Some would say a lack of curiosity in a detective constable was a worrying trait but, as far as Michael was concerned, reticence was a highly underrated quality. Perhaps Marquis was a thinker. Perhaps he would make something of himself after all. Perhaps he was just bloody useless, but it was nice to give people the benefit of the doubt.

  He went through the records one by one. The earlier ones were less comprehensive, but he had something on all of them; brief backgrounds, photographs, witness statements. They didn’t make for very interesting reading. But there was something in that. The fact that the files were thin, the investigations into the deaths cursory.

  There were similarities, plenty of them. They all looked alike, for a start. They were all, apart from Elizabeth Mahy, found drowned on the beach, fully dressed. They all came from troubled backgrounds or had gone off the rails in one way or another. There was Hayley Bougourd. The family was known to the police. Hayley had had a couple of warnings for underage drinking and making a nuisance of herself with a gang of kids up at Le Guet. Melissa Marchant was the only one with an actual police record – for shoplifting from Woolworths as a teenager. Janet Gaudion’s parents described her as ‘difficult’. She had dropped out of school at fifteen. Depression probably wasn’t diagnosed so easily in the eighties, but from the file it seemed nowadays that was what she’d be labelled with. And Mary Brehaut, back in 1974. Her parents had kicked her out a few months before she died because of her ‘inappropriate’ relationship with a lad they disapproved of. She’d been close to homeless, sleeping on friends’ floors, drinking a lot.

  He knew how these things worked. It was a sad but true fact that none of these deaths would have caused the force too much consternation. They would all have been considered wayward teens, perhaps too stupid, perhaps too depressed to look after themselves. There had been no need to look any further than the seemingly obvious – suicide, a careless accident. Nobody, it seemed, had paid very much attention to these girls, alive or dead. Not even the police. Which meant something might have been missed.

  Only Elizabeth Mahy didn’t really fit. He had not been able to find out much about the investigation into her death. Some of the older files had obviously got lost in the ether (or more likely in the shredder when the lackey inputting the stuff got bored and thought no one was looking) but he had some background information on her. She was from a good family by all accounts. She’d never been in trouble. She looked right, though. Young, blonde, pretty.

  He wondered if these cases would have been treated differently if the girls had had different stories. What would have happened if Ellen’s body had washed up on the beach? She was a good student, theirs was a good family, would her death have been cause for more concern? He knew he wouldn’t have rested until he was certain he knew what had happened to her. He would have spoken to every friend, every teacher, every bloody person she’d ever known or talked to or looked at; he would have questioned them all. He would have turned her room upside down looking for evidence she was unhappy or in trouble. He would have combed the beach and dredged the sea looking for any clue that might help to discover the reason behind her fate. Did anyone do that for these girls? Or did they just accept that the police and the coroner and the magistrates had done their jobs?

  He realised his fists were clenched and his knuckles white with tension He spread his hands on the desk, relaxed his shoulders, let out the breath that was caught in his chest. Mostly people did the best they could. He knew that. Not everyone had it in them to ask questions and push for answers. Some people just accepted their fate, tipped their hat to authority, and that was that. And sometimes there was simply nothing that could be done.

  Like with Ellen. The only thing he’d been able to do when she’d died was identify the body. No window to cry against back then, no separate room. They’d taken him right up to the table. He’d just stood there as a slightly built man in a lab coat pulled back a sheet in a stark, cold room and nodded. Yes, that was her. His baby girl. Her face white as the strip lights above, her lips grey as the steel she lay upon, her mangled body already in a shroud. What he wouldn’t have done, right then, to breathe his life into her, to take her place on that steel table, to have her nod, yes, that’s him, and then walk away, to continue her life. A young girl with everything to live for, in the place of a middle-aged man who had already had his chance.

  He reviewed Amanda’s file last. At the back, someone had stuck some notes that he hadn’t seen before. An interview with a Matthew Roussel. One of her friends perhaps, although he couldn’t remember seeing his name before. He skimmed over them. Something about a Guy Fawkes. Ah, that was it, the kid who was in, upset about a guy he’d found up at Pleinmont. Jenny had mentioned him. Said she thought he might be a bit disturbed. Michael read the notes more carefully. When he finished, he sat quietly for a moment. Then he opened each of the dead girls’ files, rifling through until he had pulled out all of the post-mortem photographs. He picked up the first one and brought it up to his nose, twisting it this way and that, screwing up his eyes. He put it to one side. The next received the same treatment. The third he studied for longer, squinting at one spot until his head hurt. He placed it in front of him. He continued, discarding some pictures, placing others in a row and each time he added one, panic built, rising from his gut, slippery and cold. By the time he finished he felt actual tears welling, the result predominantly of eyestrain, but also of sheer bloody anger and frustration and he squeezed the top of his nose to quell them. He couldn’t be certain. Not until he’d had them magnified. But if he was right, what then? There was no precedent for this here – or, he’d hazard a guess, anywhere. Not over this time frame. Not without anyone noticing.

  He hoped to God that he was wrong.

  24

  October 1985

  He paused, put the scissors down, listened. Downstairs, his wife talked on the telephone. She was making plans already, for a party to celebrate his birthday. It was months from the actual date but she knew there was a chance she would be dead by then and she wanted to organise it before it was too late.

  Cancer. She’d taken the news meekly, as she took everything life threw at her, including him. They’d given her a year to live three months ago and she’d taken only a few days, closeted in her room alone, before emerging, centred, settled, ready to engage with her new reality. He was not sure if this was a sign of strength or weakness. He suspected the latter, although she had shown a certain resilience over the years. She cooked and cleaned and adorned his arm at work functions, knowing when to talk and when to be silent. She listened, which was of the utmost importance, never questioning his house rules. Only once had she ventured into the attic,
to clean and tidy, to please him, she said. He had not even needed to hurt her to make her understand his displeasure. He simply held her throat with one hand, cupped the other under her chin and tilted her head upwards, so her eyes met his. He squeezed, just a little, not enough to leave a mark, and told her firmly, in a low, measured voice, ‘Don’t do that again.’ She had thick black lashes which caught her tears and held them fast until he let her go. She looked down and they fell, leaving round, wet spots on the carpet. She did not repeat the mistake. She was an old-fashioned girl. She respected him. He had chosen well.

  For his part, he provided for her and paid her compliments and fucked her regularly, allowing himself to succumb to the weakness within for the sake of a functioning marriage. And every now and then, as he went through the motions of day-to-day life, as a husband, a partner to this woman for whom he felt nothing more than familiarity, he forgot. She would ask him if he fancied a stroll and he would say yes, and they would walk together. He would laugh along with her when she told a story about a neighbour who had lost his cat and then found it asleep under the bed, or a friend who’d run his boat aground after one too many pints at lunchtime. She would take his hand and he would squeeze it a little tighter as they walked over uneven ground, down farm tracks or over the cliffs, and he would forget that he was pretending.

  So he would miss her. He did not love her, not like he had loved the others, but he had grown used to her presence, comfortable in her company, and he fancied she added a much-needed layer of softness to his outward persona, a fine cashmere scarf draped over the shoulders of a stiff leather coat.

  She continued talking, in her sing-song way, no doubt checking the hotel reservation, confirming numbers, menus. It was to be held at the newly built hotel at Rousse, formerly a rugged, windswept headland with no facilities to speak of – a small kiosk and a fisherman’s pier. Now a ninety-bedroom monstrosity dominated the whole area, the developers seemingly bribing the planning department and the population into submission with the promise of an all-you-can-eat buffet, which his guests would gorge themselves on at his expense.

  He picked up the scissors again and continued to snip, snip, snip. The trousers were perfect. He’d taken them from a charity bin at work, stonewash jeans, the same brand that Janet wore. The top, however, was too big. He was being cautious, so he had stolen it. It was more difficult than he’d anticipated. He sweated in the shop, made too much conversation, his nerves forcing him to overcompensate and he rushed, failing to check the size before he tucked it under his jacket. It was cheap polyester but the most perfect cornflower blue and silky to the touch. She had worn one just like it a few months ago, and when she had walked past him it had brushed against his arm and it had felt just like this one did. He let it slip and slide under his fingers, creating a layer of static, which gently crackled when he rested it on his bare legs.

  When he’d finished adjusting it he pulled it carefully over the straw girl, making sure not to catch it on the rough edges around the wrists, then he tied each cuff with embroidery thread, blue, like the blouse, and stood back to survey his work.

  The hair, while styled correctly, was too brassy. It should be a pale, white-blonde, but this was the closest he could find and he did not want to draw attention to himself by asking for another, not even in Southampton, where he’d found the costume shop while wandering the city with a few hours to spare before his flight home. He had tried his best with the face. He was not an artist but he had drawn her wide eyes and full mouth as best he could. The colours bled into the hessian, blurring his strongly drawn lines. She looked relaxed, sleepy even. The outfit was good. It was just what she would wear on a Saturday evening, out with her friends. Before he stripped her and cleaned her and washed away the shit and filth. His breathing quickened and he felt himself harden at the thought of her, wet and naked. No. Stop. Control. He slowed his breathing and took the needle he had placed between his teeth, pushed it into the flesh of his thigh until the pain obliterated all other sensations.

  When he was focused once more, he tidied away the scraps of fabric and straw and moved her to the corner of the room. He would place her somewhere appropriate when the time came. The Druids had done it this way, with an effigy of wood and straw. It was the perfect way to mark the sacrifice.

  He rubbed at the spot of blood on his chinos. He would have to put them to soak.

  Downstairs, his wife was making tea. Her movements were slow and measured, partly the effects of her illness, but she had always been this way. Thoughtful. Purposeful. She smiled when she saw him, asked him if he wanted a cup. No, thank you, he said, he was going to do some work in the garden. She crinkled her nose, her way of admonishing him. He suspected she thought it endearing. ‘You shouldn’t work so hard, darling. The garden looks beautiful, sit and have some tea with me?’ she asked. ‘It looks beautiful,’ he said, ‘because I spend so much time in it.’ He touched her nose – she liked it when he did that – and left her sitting with a book.

  In truth, he spent very little time on the garden. He mowed the lawn, pulled the weeds, but the majority of the land he owned was pasture. He paid a neighbouring farmer to cut the grass a few times a year. The real reason he spent so much time in the garden was the bunker.

  It was another one of many signs he had had over the years that there was a guiding force in his life, ensuring that all that should be, was. On the day he’d exchanged contracts, he had wandered through the house, swinging the keys back and forth, enjoying the feeling of possession. Once he had walked through every room, he had walked around the perimeter of the building and then out into the garden and to the fields beyond. He had found it in the first one. He hadn’t known what it was at first: a bare patch in an otherwise overgrown field, rotting wood. He had lifted a piece and it had fallen apart in his hands. He had moved another, blackened and sweet-smelling. It, too, crumbled at his touch. And then he had seen. The wood covered not earth, but air. A hole in the ground, steps down. Buried treasure.

  * * *

  He was careful not to make too much noise as he carried her down to the front door. He propped her against it while he retraced his steps, sweeping the stray pieces of straw into a dustpan and refolding the ladder up behind the hinged trapdoor in the ceiling. He shut the front door quietly and checked for passers-by before he placed her gently in the boot of his car. He would like to have had her in the passenger seat, to create a more accurate representation of how it would be, but it was not worth the risk.

  The roads were quiet. It was a calm night, the only movement from the odd breath of wind unsettling the piles of dried leaves gathered at the edges of the pavement. He had been unsure, initially, if he should place her before or after the actual event but had settled on before, feeling that he should be able to enjoy the saving itself fully and completely, that it should be the true zenith of his preparations. Next, he’d given careful consideration as to where she should be placed. There were many options, but he’d finally settled on Rousse. It was the new hotel that decided him. It created an imbalance, which he felt he could help to redress. He drove down Port Grat, past the Houmet Tavern before turning on to a single-track road out on to the peninsula.

  The hotel was on the left, its sickly yellow walls thankfully obscured by the darkness, although the row of flags flying from poles at least twenty-foot high were illuminated in the moonlight; the Union Jack, the Tricolore and the brand new Guernsey flag – a St George’s Cross with the addition of a golden cross in the middle to represent William of Normandy, who brought together his Duchy, including the islands, with England when he conquered her nearly one thousand years ago.

  The flags were there to, ‘represent the countries which had contributed to the rich and mixed heritage of Guernsey’, according to a quote printed in the News when the display was unveiled weeks earlier. They’d forgotten one, though. Ironic, considering a few hundred yards further along the narrow coastal lane was a Loophole tower, which the Nazis had altered to serve as
a lookout and gun battery during the occupation. One of hundreds of similar sites across the island. It wasn’t just the buildings they’d left behind, either. How many more were there like him? How many other living, breathing contributions had the Nazis made during their years here? Quite an oversight, he thought, not to have included a fourth flagpole.

  The concrete road surface gave way to a gravel-and-sand parking area. It was deserted. He took her from the boot of the car and walked with her leaning over his left shoulder, her legs anchored under his arm. He relied on the moonlight to guide him until he knew he was close to the right place. Then he took out his Maglite and shone it on the rocks. The torch was a new acquisition and he was impressed with the power of the beam compared to the size of the unit, which was small enough to fit in his pocket.

  He climbed over crumbling sand banks until he found what he was looking for. A cluster of rocks, one puckered, a depression the size of a fist in the middle of its flat surface. Le Pied du Boeuf. It was here that the Devil, chased by a saint, was said to have left the island, leaping for Alderney, leaving his hoofprint in the rocks. He settled her next to it, looking out to sea. He could not leave Janet here. He would have liked to. But a drowned girl must be found near the water. So this was the best he could do. A proxy of straw. A poor substitute, he knew, but it served as both a portent and a celebration of what was to come. He sat with her until the dawn quickened on the horizon. Before he left, he took his knife and sliced the mark into her thigh, Or, at least, into the denim which clothed her leg. It was clumsy, a far cry from perfect. But the occasion had been marked.