The Devil's Claw

by Lara Dearman

  ‘We were. But we didn’t see much of each other after it happened. I suppose it put a strain on our friendship. And anyway, he went to university, to study law as planned. He didn’t manage to make a career out of it, though. He had some sort of breakdown a few years after he qualified and gave it all up to teach music. I presumed it was the weight of the guilt that did it – the fact that he didn’t manage to save her. Maybe there was more to it than that.’ He looked at Jenny with red-rimmed eyes. He’d aged ten years in ten minutes.

  ‘I believed him. I believed it was an accident. Even before –’ He stopped.

  ‘Before what?’ Jenny pressed.

  ‘This doesn’t make sense!’ He seemed more focused all of a sudden. ‘He’s just not the type. I know he’s not. Not to do this. I never considered for a minute that he’d killed her.’ He covered his face with his hands. ‘Or that he might do it again.’

  * * *

  ‘This is a terrible idea. We should wait for the police to get here.’

  ‘Lisa Bretel might be in here. We can’t wait around for the police. Anyway, they’re on their way. If he tries to kill us they’ll be here in time to rescue us I’m sure.’

  ‘I can’t believe you’re being flippant about this.’ Elliot shook his head.

  They had parked outside David De Putron’s manor house on Fort Road, a long, straight road, which connected the town of St Peter Port to the village of St Martins. They had rung the entry bell three times but there had been no reply on the intercom.

  ‘Come on.’ Jenny grabbed hold of the gate and started to climb over.

  ‘You’ve lost your mind!’ Elliot shook his head, but followed her over nonetheless.

  Their feet crunched loudly on the gravel path leading to the house, which widened to a large circular area with a stone fountain in the middle of it, a cherub holding his hand outstretched, water playing through his fingertips. The front door had another intercom system next to it and Jenny pressed the button again. After a moment or two, David De Putron’s voice, crackled with static, replied.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘It’s Jenny Dorey from the Guernsey News. I have a few questions for you.’

  ‘Questions? About what?’

  ‘About Elizabeth Mahy.’

  A pause.

  ‘I don’t want to speak to you people. Stop harassing me.’

  ‘No problem, Mr De Putron. We’ll just wait until the police get here.’

  * * *

  ‘I knew this would happen. I always knew it would come back to haunt me. I suppose it’s only right that it has. I should never have left her there. I should have called the police, explained it was a terrible accident, that there was nothing I could have done.’

  ‘Why didn’t you?’ Jenny asked. ‘If you were blameless, why not just come forward?’

  She sat in a formal sitting room in one of the most beautiful houses she had ever been in. Elegant wooden chairs with cushions covered in silk were arranged around an old-fashioned card table. Under a bay window was a baby grand piano with the lid propped open, strings gleaming inside. Under another window was a large, mahogany desk. Huge oil paintings hung from wood-panelled walls. David sat across from her while Elliot was pacing the room, looking nervous.

  ‘It was an accident, I swear it, but I panicked. I didn’t think anyone would believe me.’ His face crumpled. He pulled a handkerchief out of his jacket pocket and blew his nose. Between deep, gulping breaths, he told his story.

  They’d met in a bar, he said, only weeks before she died. She was the first girl who had ever shown any interest in him. It was because she was young. He’d known that. She’d said she was sixteen but he’d thought she might be younger. It was one of the reasons he didn’t bring her out to meet his friends. That, and the fact that they would have looked down on her. She wasn’t the type he was used to. His only experience with girls had been at the dances his school had held with the Ladies’ College, formal, supervised occasions. He was awkward, tall and clumsy. Took a while to grow into himself, that’s what his mother always said.

  But Elizabeth had made a beeline for him. She’d been sitting alone at the bar in a mini dress, her blonde hair piled on top of her head, heavy make-up around her eyes. Like Dusty Springfield, he’d thought, when he saw her. She’d been so forward, asking him to buy her a drink. They’d got talking. She’d been impressed he was going to university, that he had a job and money to spend. He hadn’t cared.

  ‘Even now, I’m ashamed to admit it. I was nineteen and still a virgin and I thought she’d be easy.’ His cheeks burnt red. ‘It’s shameful, I know it is. But I was so young myself.’ He blew his nose again, and then continued.

  They’d been seeing each other for a few weeks. He’d grown to genuinely like her. It had been nice, being with someone who didn’t take life too seriously. She hadn’t wanted to leave the island, didn’t worry about her future, just wanted a steady job and a nice house. She’d known he was leaving for university at the end of the summer. She’d known it wasn’t a serious relationship. That night, he said, she was the one who had suggested going to the bathing pools. She’d had too much to drink. So had he. Dutch courage, he said. He looked up at Jenny.

  ‘I don’t know how it happened. We were swimming and laughing. She was teasing me and she swam away, told me to try and catch her. When it went quiet, I thought it was all part of it. I thought she’d gone underwater so I wouldn’t find her. I didn’t want to shout for her because we shouldn’t have been there at all. After a few minutes I got out of the pool and walked around the edge – and it was then that I saw her. Floating. I dived in, hauled her out, but I knew she was already dead.

  ‘I ran all the way home. Here. As soon as I arrived I vomited all over the driveway, from the exertion or the fear, I’m not sure which. I had no idea what to do. Brian was my closest friend. I asked him.’

  ‘Brian said you asked him not to say anything.’

  ‘No.’ David shook his head. ‘I just wanted to talk to a friend. I was going to go to the police. Once I’d calmed down, I knew it was the right thing to do. It was Brian who persuaded me not to. Told me I should keep quiet. He made so much sense. Of course the police would question why I’d run from the scene. And then there was the matter of my skinny-dipping with a drunk, possibly underage, girl. Any way you looked at it, it didn’t look good for me. That’s what Brian said. And maybe he was right.’ There was a bitter edge to his voice now.

  ‘What happened, between the two of you?’

  ‘I suppose, with everything that had happened, it was difficult for us to remain friends.’ His lips tightened. ‘He kept my secret. Protected me for years. I’d appreciate if he wasn’t dragged into this.’

  A woman appeared in the doorway. She was in her late fifties, tall and handsome, features too masculine to be considered conventionally attractive, but she had beautiful deep blue eyes and her silver hair, cut into a sharp bob, had the sort of shine that could only be achieved through regular trips to the salon. Her face glowed with just the right amount of bronzer or illuminator or whatever it was women put on their faces to make themselves look glossy and perfect. Jenny had never got further than a stick of concealer when it came to cosmetics and skin care, but she guessed this was a woman whose face cream cost a week’s wages.

  ‘I’m so sorry to interrupt, I didn’t know David had guests.’

  David seemed to tense up more, if that were even possible.

  ‘This is my sister, Diane. Excuse me. I won’t be a moment.’ He left the room, guiding the woman out with him by the elbow.

  ‘This is bullshit.’ Elliot stood in front of Jenny.

  ‘You don’t believe him?’

  ‘No way. He’s lying through his teeth.’

  Jenny sighed. ‘You’re right. Stay here. Tell him I’ve gone to the toilet or something if he comes back.’

  ‘Jenny!’ He somehow managed to shout and whisper at the same time. She turned back. ‘If you want to help, see what you
can find over there.’ She pointed to the desk. Then she crept out into the hallway.

  She stopped and listened. The ceiling creaked above. Footsteps. Pacing. She stood at the bottom of the staircase, steadying herself on the highly polished balustrade. Two voices, low murmurs. She could not make out any of the words. Soft carpet underfoot muffled her footsteps as she made her way up the stairs and on to a bright, well-lit landing. The voices came from a door on the right, set ajar. She walked, painstakingly slowly, angling herself so she was concealed by the open door but could just about see into the room. David’s sister had her back to the door and was blocking Jenny’s view of the room.

  ‘… shouldn’t have let them in, you fool!’

  ‘Calm down. It’s under control.’

  David came into view as he walked in front of his sister and Jenny instinctively took a step backwards. The floorboard behind her creaked, not loudly, but it might have been enough. She ran along the corridor to the next door, which was open, and into the room, flattening herself against the wall. She was in a bedroom, decorated in the same elegant style as the room downstairs, with yellow satin bedclothes and heavy curtains draped at the window. The voices had stopped and she heard footsteps and then the sound of a door shutting before they resumed talking, but the words were muffled now and she couldn’t make them out. She tried to relax, crept carefully out into the hallway and looked into the next room, and the one after that. All bedrooms or bathrooms, all empty. She heard raised voices and then something smash behind the closed door where David and his sister were, their argument apparently getting heated. She ran down the stairs on tiptoes, reached the sitting room just as she heard the door upstairs open. Elliot looked up as she came in and waved a paper at her. She nodded her head towards the door, indicating that David was coming back and Elliot looked indecisive for a second, before folding the paper and slipping it into his back pocket.

  When David entered the room, Jenny was sitting where he’d left her and Elliot was gazing intently at a picture of a ship being tossed around in a storm.

  ‘I’d like you both to leave now, please. Nothing I’ve told you is to be printed. If you have a problem with that, you should talk to Brian Ozanne.’ His eyes were narrow and his lips were tightly set.

  * * *

  The severe weather warning issued earlier that day had achieved its desired effect. There were very few cars on the road. Elliot had the paper he had taken from David’s desk unfolded on his lap.

  ‘Fleur de Lis holdings, the company that owns the Guernsey News.’

  ‘What about it?’ Jenny asked.

  ‘This is a page from the latest board meeting, showing a list of shareholders. Top of the list with a 51 per cent stake in the company is a Diane De Putron.’

  ‘David De Putron’s sister owns the Guernsey News?’

  ‘Would explain a lot, wouldn’t it? Like why David suggested we talk to Brian about not printing what he told us.’

  ‘It would,’ Jenny agreed, her expression grim.

  She dropped Elliot outside his flat at the top of Mount Durand, turning down his offer of a drink and something to eat, despite being hungry and thirsty, because she needed to sort everything out. She was missing something. She needed to talk to Michael.

  38

  Saturday, 22 November

  He trudged across the garden, through the gate in the hedge. Such a long day. Endless questions – that journalist. He should have done something about her at the outset. He should have made sure she kept her mouth shut. There were ways to keep people quiet. He’d done it before, so many times. A threat here, a bribe there. People were weak and scared, only too willing to take the easy option. He thought of the dull-eyed, bleating sheep from years ago, impervious to their surroundings, immune to the sorrow and suffering of others. Not her, though. He’d sensed it when he first met her and had been proved right.

  He’d followed her. Watched her. She understood the island. Not like he did, but she had an inkling, he thought, of the forces which flowed through it, of the strength held in every rock, every blade of grass, in the winds and the rain and the very soil that lay beneath their feet. He had seen her, at Pleinmont, pacing the sacred circle. At Bordeaux, she had bent down, run her hands over the stones. And Moulin Huet. He had been there too. He had not dared follow her then. It was too exposed out on the cliffs; there was nowhere to hide. But he knew what she had been looking for. He presumed that she had found it. He was impressed at her drive and tenacity. But she was becoming tiresome. And dangerous.

  He shook himself. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this tired. He had no patience, then, for any more nonsense from little Lisa. No more trying to tempt her with delicacies. She would eat now whether she wanted to or not. He took the steps carefully. He had not been taking care of himself and he felt weak. His joints ached. He could not remember the last time he’d taken the host of vitamins and minerals he bought monthly, in a seemingly futile attempt to resist the relentless march of time. Even his hair had started to thin, but he thought that was more to do with his state of mind than anything else. He had woken that morning, not for the first time, with a clump of it grasped in his fingers and had had to comb it carefully, to cover the patch of scalp now exposed above his right ear.

  She was still in the chair. Of course she was, she could hardly get off it. He’d bound her wrists behind her back with rope and then fed it under the seat and wrapped it around her ankles. Her head was bowed so he couldn’t see her face, but he presumed, as she was silent, that her mouth was still sealed shut with one of his clean white handkerchiefs. At least, it had been clean when he’d first tied it, three – or was it four? – days ago? He was losing track. He put the Tupperware box full of sandwiches he’d brought with him on the floor next to her. He wondered if she was sleeping. Perhaps she was dead? It would be a relief, he thought, and he realised that he must do it soon. It was going to drive him insane, the stress of her, and the journalist, and the detective – and the godawful noise following him everywhere. It was no wonder he was tearing his own hair out. He laughed. Saw her flinch. He put his hand under her chin. Lifted her head so she was looking at him.

  It was hard not to show his disgust. Her right eye, where he’d hit her with the pistol (he’d had no choice, she was screaming and would not listen to reason) was so swollen that only a slit of white was visible, glinting in the midst of an angry purple bruise. The other eye was bloodshot, presumably from lack of sleep or crying. The handkerchief was filthy, crusted with mucus and saliva and, at the corners, blood where her skin had split. He had tied it too tightly.

  A wave of remorse. What had he done to her? Beautiful girl. She was ruined. That had not been his intention. What had been his intention? He hadn’t thought it through, had he? He had taken her with no plan. He had been forced to injure her, to spoil her, and then he couldn’t simply save her, not like he had with the others, because they would have known. They would have seen the cuts and the bruises and they would have known.

  They would have known anyway, fool.

  He stayed very still, his hand on her chin, his eyes fixed on hers. He was unsure if the voice in his head was his own or if it was some sort of mutation of the noise he had carried with him for so long. Whichever it was, it spoke the truth. One body every decade. It had worked so well … He had been out of his mind, taking this girl. Out of his mind. He laughed again. Tears coursed down her cheeks, clearing a path through the layer of grime that had settled on her soft, pale skin. He wiped it and she closed her eyes as he did so, made a gagging, gurgling noise as he traced the salty path down, widening the track of clean skin. ‘That’s better,’ he murmured, ‘nice and clean.’

  It came to him, then. Everything happened for a reason. Her death could not go unnoticed. However he did it, they would know it was no accident; they would hunt him down – they were hunting him already and it was only a matter of time before they found him. He would not wait, like a fox in a hole, for the hounds to fl
ush him out. This was his chance to do it properly. Strength poured back into his aching bones. He straightened himself, placed his hand on top of her head. ‘You will eat,’ he told her. ‘You will eat and you will drink, and then we are going to get you nice and clean and everything is going to be just fine. Just fine.’ He turned. He needed supplies. Hot water and soap, fresh clothes, something clean and white. He felt almost light-headed with relief. Finally, after all these years of working in the shadows, he could step out, into the light.

  39

  Michael

  Saturday, 22 November

  He had to admit, the incident room looked very professional; a bank of six telephones on one desk, each one ringing off the hook, several flat-screen computers, a huge whiteboard, and a couple of the guys from the tech department were attempting to get HOLMES up and running. Now there was an acronym that actually worked. Home Office Large Major Enquiry System. It was a brilliant piece of kit, pulling together details from thousands of cases, allowing them to search and process information at a phenomenal speed. Problem was, having secured funding for the hardware several years previously, budget cuts had meant nobody was properly trained to run the bloody thing, so they were waiting for the expert from Hampshire to arrive. He’d been delayed, along with the independent senior officer and lord knows who else they were sending to breathe down his neck, by a thick layer of fog at the airport, which had backed up all of the weekend’s flights. It was a nightmare getting to and from this island in winter. Between bad weather getting in the way of air traffic, and planes suffering technical faults, and a virtually non-existent ferry schedule, people could be trapped here for days. With no national newspapers, only local mail and a dodgy, low-speed internet connection, they could feel, on occassion, completely cut off. Well, Michael didn’t have time to wait around for the fog to clear. Until backup arrived, he was just going to have to get on with things the old-fashioned way.