by Lara Dearman
‘Yes, Sergeant Fallaize?’
‘What are we talking about here? Are we talking multiple murders? Because if so, where are the other bodies? We’ve hardly been tripping over them, have we? Sir.’ He emphasized the ‘sir’, as if it were a bad joke that Michael should be senior to him, which no doubt the arrogant little bastard thought it was. There were a couple of nervous sniggers from the back of the room, which rapidly dissipated as Chief Hammond walked over and stood next to Michael.
‘Watch your tone, Fallaize.’ The offending officer flushed red. Everybody else sat up a little straighter.
‘Please continue, DCI Gilbert.’
‘We’re looking at several historical cases, young women who drowned ten, twenty, up to fifty years ago. There have been similarities noted in these women’s backgrounds and in the way that they died.’ He rolled back on his feet a little and looked to Hammond. ‘Anything you’d like to add, sir?’
‘Thank you, Gilbert.’ He addressed the room.
‘If you’ve not been assigned a specific task relating to this investigation, you’re to get on with your routine work. The last thing we want is to induce panic. DCI Gilbert will be the only point of contact to the press on this. The Guernsey News is already ahead of the curve and it won’t be long until the nationals are on the scent. I’ve just been on the phone to Hampshire Constabulary. They are sending over a team as soon as possible to conduct an independent review. This is routine in cases where no significant progress has been made over this sort of time frame. Clearly, we’re on the back foot here. We haven’t been investigating a possible murder. Now we are and it’s time to play catch-up. Let’s make sure our house is in order before they arrive, show them we’re on top of this.’ He walked back to his office and shut the door.
For a millisecond there was complete silence. Then a low murmur began to swell amongst the ranks.
‘Fuck me.’
‘Is this for real?’
‘Sounds like it. Fuck.’
Michael surveyed the room for a moment and then returned to his office, leaving the door open. He sat back in his chair. It would be wrong to enjoy the moment. There should be no pleasure taken from a situation arising from the murder of a young woman. Young women. But it was good to see the smiles wiped off of some of those bastards’ faces.
Marquis appeared in the doorway, hesitated, and then knocked, timidly.
‘It’s open, Marquis. No need to knock.’
‘Wondering what I should start with, sir?’
‘You can start with this bloody machine. I can’t get Google running for some reason.’ He moved his chair out so that the younger officer could wave his hands over the keyboard and mutter some magic charm, which miraculously reinstated Internet Explorer.
‘Thank you, Marquis.’
‘No problem, sir.’
Worth his weight in gold that boy was.
Michael positioned his hands awkwardly over the keyboard. Despite having to now write up his own reports he had never mastered the art of touch typing and looked on his younger colleagues with a mixture of wonder and envy as their hands flew over the keys, producing three paragraphs in the time it would take him to write one. Fortunately today he only needed to write a couple of words. He pressed the keys slowly and deliberately, L E A P G u e r n s e y, clicked the search button and found the website. Bold letters were emblazoned across a hazy background of smiling young people punching the air on a gloriously blue-skied day.
Learn, Empower, Achieve – change your Path!
It took him a second to work it out. He sighed. Bloody stupid acronyms. They were everywhere these days and most of them didn’t even make sense. This one was a case in point. LEAP. ‘I ask you,’ he sighed to himself. Stupid name aside, he had to admit it looked like a worthwhile organisation. Trying to get kids off the streets and involved in art and drama, giving them a space to hang out. It probably didn’t work. Kids with the sorts of problems this place was trying to help always ran with the wrong crowd. It was shaking the crowd that was difficult. Didn’t matter how many nice activities you provided, most kids would rather be out getting into trouble with their mates. You had to try, he supposed. You couldn’t just give up. Where would you be then? Hopeless, that’s where. He’d been there and back again. He wouldn’t wish it on anyone else.
The police didn’t refer kids directly to this place but he knew social services did. Amanda had attended. According to Jenny’s notes, Hayley’s mother couldn’t remember the name of the group she went to but he was pretty certain it would be this one. Come to think of it, he was waiting for her Social Services file to be sent through. There should have been a copy in her police file already but it was either never requested (which, he thought, would be a shocking oversight, even for a small force like theirs) or it had gone missing. Either way, he wasn’t going to hang around waiting for it. This place was a direct link between at least two of the victims. He needed to pay them a visit.
* * *
The youth club occupied a bright and airy space in St Martins, right behind the community centre. The walls were painted in bright reds and blues, one was covered in graffiti but the artistic sort, not just random scribbles and squirts. The polished wooden floor smelt of beeswax with a hint of lavender. There was a coffee bar at the back, plenty of shabby but comfy-looking sofas to relax on. He could quite easily have put his feet up and enjoyed a coffee here. There were no kids, though. The presence of a ragtag bunch of borderline juvenile delinquents would probably affect the atmosphere.
He walked over to the bar and shouted through to the kitchen.
‘Hullo! Anyone around?’
‘We’re closed! Open at four.’ A man emerged from a side room, wearing a stained apron and wiping his hands with a dirty cloth. He had smudges of something, possibly mud, possibly chocolate, all over his face. He was youngish, mid-thirties, with curly brown hair which fell to his shoulders and made Michael think of a cocker spaniel.
‘Oh. How can I help you, man?’
Michael noted the board shorts and boating shoes.
‘I was wanting to talk to somebody about Amanda Guille. I believe she came here in the year or so leading up to her death?’
‘Yeah, man, that was terrible. The police already talked to me and Cathy – that’s my wife – we run the place.’
Michael consulted his notepad. ‘You must be Nicholas?’
‘Yeah, man, call me Nick.’ He shook Michael’s hand. ‘You’re from the police?’
‘I am indeed. DCI Gilbert. I just wanted to run through a couple of things with you.’
‘No worries, man. Let me get cleaned up and I’ll grab us a coffee.’ He removed his apron and went behind the counter where he washed his hands and took out some mugs. Michael wandered over to the room Nick had emerged from. It was a workshop. One of the tables was covered in lumps of wet clay.
‘We’re doing sculpting this afternoon. It’s usually very popular. I was just getting prepared,’ Nick called over.
They sat on one of the sofas and Michael asked Nick to run through how the club worked, what activities they did, who attended and how often, was it only kids who’d been referred or could anyone come along?
Nick was passionate about his work. He spoke with enthusiasm and made liberal use of his hands as he described what they did, waving them around, gesturing, slapping the table. They were mostly arts based, he explained. There were plenty of sports groups around, but not so much opportunity to get stuck into creative stuff. And there were so many studies that showed art could be a form of therapy, it couldn’t be refuted. A lot of the club members had trouble expressing themselves; they had issues with depression or anger or came from violent backgrounds where self-expression was not encouraged. LEAP was a place where they had an opportunity to try new ways of communicating, through painting or music or sculpture.
‘It all sounds very good, Nick, but does it really work?’ Michael asked. ‘I mean, I know the studies tell us it does, but have yo
u seen it stop these kids from reoffending? Amanda, for example. When she came to you she’d been in trouble with the police, was depressed; did you notice an improvement in her? Were you surprised to hear she might have killed herself?’
‘Yeah, man. It definitely helps. Sure, there are kids that don’t want to know and you can’t help them if they haven’t recognised they need help. They have to be open to the idea. Amanda was. I told this to the first guy who asked. She seemed happier, came a couple of times a week. She seemed good. So sad she didn’t stick with it, man. Some of these kids just need to hang in there, you know? It’s never as bad as it seems.’
Only sometimes, Michael thought, it really is.
He smiled at Nick. He liked positive people. Appreciated them. The world would be a better place if it were full of Nicks, always looking on the bright side and trying to make things better. We should try to learn from people like this, he thought. He wondered if he should suggest some art therapy to the rest of the force. There were a few anger and resentment issues at the station that might benefit from a spot of pottery.
‘I wonder, how far do your records go back, Nick? I see you’ve been in operation for over twenty years. Could you check on a couple of names for me, tell me if they ever attended the club?’
Sure, Nick said, he’d go and check. He came back a few minutes later with an unsettled look on his face and two yellowed index cards in his hands.
‘Hayley Bougourd and Melissa Marchant.’ He held out the cards. ‘They both came here.’ He was quiet for a moment. ‘They’re both dead, aren’t they? Listen, dude, what’s going on here? Because I’ve only worked here for, like, four years. If there’s anything funny going on, you’ll need to speak to my predecessor, or someone on the board.’
‘Actually, that would be very helpful. A list of staff, past and present and board members is just what I need. Is that something you can get me, Nick?’
He could try he said. The administration wasn’t done from here; it was computerized and his wife managed that side of it. He could get it sent through. Michael gave him his email address. Nick still looked worried.
‘These kids are troubled before they get here, you know? You can’t hold us to blame if shit goes wrong. We’re the ones trying to help. Some of them always slip through the net, man.’ He ran his hand through his hair, chewed on his lip.
Someone has definitely slipped through the net, thought Michael. Was it someone who met three of his victims here?
‘Just one more thing: David De Putron, he teaches piano lessons through the centre, I understand?’
‘That’s right. We all call him Mr De Putron – he doesn’t go in for first names. He comes Tuesday and Thursday evenings.’
‘And how long has he volunteered here for?’
‘I’m not sure. Years. Before my time. I’d have to check with Cathy.’
‘Thank you. That would be great.’ He shook Nick’s hand. ‘Sailor, are you?’ He nodded at Nick’s shoes.
‘All my life. Cathy and I just bought a boat, actually. Nothing swish, but sleeps two. We’ll be out on it all summer, I hope.’ He didn’t look very happy about the idea.
‘Chin up, Nick. You have nothing to worry about. Just routine enquiries. You’ve been very helpful.’
Nick nodded. ‘I’d better get on with this.’ He pointed to the workshop. ‘Or it will all dry out.’ He walked slowly to the table and picked up a piece of clay, started kneading it, then stared at it like he couldn’t remember how it got to be in his hands.
‘Keep up the good work, eh?’ Michael gave a wave as he left. Poor guy. He looked like a frightened puppy. But he’d bounce back. He’d be wagging his tail again in no time.
31
Jenny
She had heard nothing from Michael. But it was nearly the end of the day and they had an agreement. She knocked on Brian’s door.
‘Come.’ He stared at his computer screen for several seconds before he turned to her with a cold smile.
‘Jennifer. Have a seat.’ She sat and placed her report on the desk.
He skimmed through the pages, a look of mild interest quickly replaced by one of confusion and then what she could only guess was panic.
‘A serial killer?’ His face was ashen. ‘This is what you’ve been working on? A fucking serial killer?’ There was a quiet fury in his voice.
‘I’ve only just pulled everything together.’
He turned the pages, back and forth. ‘What do you expect me to do with this?’
‘I was thinking we could do some more research, get a quote from the police and then print it?’ She tried to keep the disdain she felt out of her voice. He clearly didn’t know what to do with a real story.
‘We can’t print this! This is a nightmare. A fucking nightmare. I told you to leave this well alone!’
‘I don’t understand. Everything in there is on the record. There’s no speculation. It’s all fact: six dead women, a possible serial killer – and maybe some police incompetence thrown in. Whatever else it may be, it’s a great story, Brian. I’m working with a DCI. He’s on board.’
‘Fuck.’ He shuffled through the papers again, his hands shaking. He took a deep breath. Put the file down. Attempted a smile.
‘You’re a good reporter, Jenny. I know that. It’s why I hired you. It’s just this…’ He waved his hand over her report. ‘I need to think about it. About what we do with it. How we present it. I need to make some calls. Speak to Legal, that sort of thing. I should have had some warning. You should have warned me this was coming.’
‘Sorry to have caught you off guard, Brian. Really, I am. Other than my police sources you’re the first person I’ve taken this to.’
Brian’s face relaxed slightly but his smooth forehead remained unusually creased.
‘You should go home, Jennifer. Get some rest. You look tired. We’ll talk first thing tomorrow.’
She went back to her desk. Behind the glass walls of his office, Brian continued to stare at her report. He appeared lost in thought. She scrolled through her emails furiously, not reading the content. Was he really that much of a fucking amateur? Lost when some actual news hit his desk? Or was he genuinely pissed off that she’d left him out of the loop? Or was there something more to it than that? He seemed rattled. Upset. Frightened?
A new email arrived in her inbox.
Dear Jennifer, things being taken seriously here. I am up to my eyes in it. I will be in touch in the morning. Regards, Michael.
She rubbed her face with her hands. She should go home. Start with a fresh head in the morning. She was just about to shut down her computer when an email from Stephen Marquis caught her eye, the one that had arrived a couple of weeks ago. He’d wanted to meet for a coffee and talk about some graffiti at Moulin Huet. She’d skimmed through it then but had been distracted and she’d not looked at the attached photos. She opened them and peered at the rocks, daubed with green paint. It looked like pretty standard graffiti to her. Idiots. Spoiling such a beautiful spot. And one of hers and Charlie’s favourite places. It was then, thinking about her dad at Moulin Huet, that a memory, which had previously been just out of focus, flitting at the edge of her consciousness, came fully into view.
The mark on the dead girls. She knew where she’d seen it before.
Friday, 21 November
The sun was only just up. Weak, wintery rays barely penetrated the heavy black clouds gathered above them. More strong winds had hit the island during the night, carpeting the narrow lane they walked along with leaves and twigs, which snapped and crunched underfoot. Trees lined the road on both sides, naked branches extending across it and meeting in the middle. Like ribs, Jenny thought. She felt like they were walking through the ribcage of some giant, flesh-stripped animal. They passed stone signposts etched with exotic-sounding place names: Icart, Jerbourg, Le Gouffre. Places to sit and have cream tea or to set up an easel and fancy yourself as Renoir for a couple of hours in the summer. Now they would be desolate.
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The lane narrowed further, becoming a sandy pathway. A sign pointed the way: Moulin Huet. They picked their way up and then down roughly hewn steps, past gorse bushes emitting their faint coconut fragrance and on to the cliff path proper. In front of them, it was as if the sea had thrown the sky up out of its depths, for they were both the colour of gunmetal, both wild and tumultuous, white horses coursing through black water and streaking black clouds. The Pea Stacks, a rugged row of rocks poked tooth-like out of the water, standing defiant as the waves lashed them, crashing and foaming, angry at the stone invaders in their midst. Here, Jenny and Elliot were fully exposed to the strength of the wind. Force six, Jenny reckoned, and forecast to get stronger as the day went on.
Elliot stamped his feet against the cold.
‘You picked a good morning for a hike.’ He had to speak loudly, to be heard over the noise of the wind.
‘I thought you wanted in on this story?’
‘I do! Is this serial killer you told me about hiding in one of those caves, do you think?’ He pointed to the crevices carved out of the bottom of the cliffs.
