by Tim Ellis
‘Which would get you into no end of trouble, because the man at the National Trust would phone somebody high up in the government. By the time it got down to you, and they discovered you didn’t have permission to be on the island in the first place, you’d need a shovel to dig yourself out of the shit you were standing in.’
Richards chirped in. ‘We’re not here to cause trouble. If you could just answer a few questions we’ll be on our way.’
‘What type of questions?’
‘Your name to start with,’ Parish said.
‘Why do you want to know my name?’
‘So we know who we’re talking to, and who to charge with all the unsolved crimes in the area.’
‘Do you want to move your foot, so that I can shut my front door?’
Richards shouldered Parish out of the way. ‘I’m sorry. Inspector Parish is a bit grumpy this morning, he had to get up early. My name is Constable Mary Richards what’s your name?’
‘Grainger Chubley.’
‘Are you married?’
‘Never bothered, and it’s too late now. I’m very happy with my own company.’
‘How long have you been the caretaker here?’
‘Twelve years.’
‘And where were you before you came here?’
‘Inverpolly Nature Reserve in Scotland. Why are you asking me these questions?’
‘We’re looking for some missing teenagers.’
‘Everybody who comes to the island is signed in and signed out... Well, apart from those people who come over here illegally, of course.’
‘You’ve not seen anything strange on the island?’
‘Strange? Like what?’
‘Unexplained things.’
‘Like graves,’ Parish shouted from the road.
‘Graves! This is a Nature Reserve not a cemetery.’
‘You have white thorn growing here?’
‘On the East of the island.’
‘Who has access to it?’
‘I suppose everybody who comes to the island.’
‘Which is who?’ Parish shouted again.
‘People with permission,’ Grainger shouted back.
Richards giggled.
‘I like you young lady, but you brought a bad ‘un with you there.’
‘Yes I know, but apparently beggars can’t be choosers.’
‘Aye, that’s true enough all right. You have to make the best of what you’re given.’
‘So, who comes to the island?’
‘Mostly bird watchers. We have a colony of Brent Geese here, and there are Golden Plovers, Widgeon, Teal, and Little Egrets. Recently there have been sightings of a Short-eared Owl, a Hen Harrier, and a Peregrine Falcon that keeps dive bombing visitors. And, of course, there’s the people who let the Tower house, as well.’
‘Do you have records of who the house has been let to over the past thirty years?’
‘Thirty years! Maybe five, if you’re lucky, but not thirty. In fact, I don’t think the house has been let out for that long. There’s a telephone number on the Northey Island website for booking, they’ll be able to help you.’
‘Don’t you have Internet access here?’
‘Got a radio, but no phone line. Don’t use computers myself, never found any need for them.’
‘Do you mind if we take a look at the white thorn?’
He stepped out of the doorway and pointed left down the road past the Tower house. ‘Carry on down the road until you reach the sea. The white thorn is the hedging all along the sea road. Follow the road round and it will bring you back here, then you can go.’
‘Thanks very much, Mr Chubley, and sorry about Inspector Parish.’
‘You don’t have to apologise for me, Richards.’
‘Goodbye, young lady.’ He leaned towards her. ‘I suggest you get as far away from him as you can, but don’t leave him here on the island – he’d frighten the birds.’
Richards laughed.
‘What’s he saying?’ Parish shouted.
The caretaker returned to his house and shut the front door.
‘We should have arrested him, handcuffed his hands behind his back, maybe he could have banged his head as he climbed into the car.’
‘You don’t mean that.’
‘Old bastard. So, why aren’t we searching his house and turning his life inside out?’
‘He’s been the caretaker here for only twelve years, before that he was in Scotland, and he hasn’t got any Internet access.’
‘We’ll still check him out. Also, Miss Smartypants, did you check whether there’s Internet Access in the Tower house?’
‘No.’
‘And did you notice his last name begins with a C?’
‘No.’
‘It was a good job I came along then, wasn’t it?’
‘I suppose.’
They climbed back into the car and carried on along the road towards the sea. The white thorn hedging along the right side of the road was uninteresting, and there were a lot of birds.
‘What’s that over there?’ Parish said pointing to another island.
‘I don’t... No wait. There was another island when I was looking at this one. I think it’s called Osea Island or something like that.’
‘And you didn’t think to tell me?’
‘What for?’
‘Well, I don’t know, but it might be important.’
‘Why?’
‘People on that island could row over here, help themselves to the white thorn without being noticed, and row back again.’
‘We’ve run out of ideas, haven’t we?’
‘It’s a lovely view from here.’
They followed the road back to the Tower house, and parked outside.
‘If you’re coming with me,’ Richards said, ‘don’t be grumpy.’
‘And don’t think I didn’t hear what you said about beggars not being choosers.’
‘That’s what you said about me.’
‘That’s because I chose you, you didn’t choose me.’
‘Maybe I need to re-evaluate my options.’
‘Who else would put up with you?’
She knocked on the door. ‘Kowalski would.’
‘Yeah, now that he hasn’t got Ed...’
‘I didn’t mean...’
‘I know.’
The door opened. A skinny girl of around eleven years old in a pair of skin-tight jeans and a yellow T-shirt with JIVE on the front said, ‘Yes?’
Richards showed her warrant card. ‘We’re police. Are your parents here?’
She turned her head and shouted, ‘Dad.’
A short bald-headed man with a pair of Union Jack shorts on and a white vest stretched over a paunch flip-flopped down the hallway.
Richards flashed her warrant card again. ‘Could you tell me if there is Internet access in the house?’
‘Yes, we have access to the Internet.’
Parish’s eyes narrowed. ‘You do?’
‘No dad,’ the girl said.
‘Yes we do, Kerry.’
‘No,’ the girl said again. ‘The laptops have wireless dongles, there’s no physical broadband connection like at home.’
Dad smiled. ‘Whatever she says. Seems I’ve been technologically bypassed.’
‘Oh,’ Parish said, disappointed at another dead end.
‘How long have you been on the island?’ Richards asked.
‘A week now.’
‘Have you seen anything strange?’
‘Strange? Like what? You mean UFOs?’ He turned to the girl. ‘Go and get your mother. I told her those triangular lights were UFOs.’
Richards smiled and looked at Parish. ‘No, not UFOs, Sir.’
‘Oh! What do you mean then?’
‘Strange people, strange events, graves...’
‘Graves? What do you mean, graves? Are we in danger? Is there something you’re not telling us?’ He turned to the girl again. ‘Go and get your mother. I
told her it was a bad idea to book a holiday next to an island of drug addicts. Has one escaped?’
‘No, nothing like that, Sir. Thanks very much for your time, and sorry to have bothered you.’
‘But what about the graves? You didn’t tell us about the graves. Are the dead rising up like in that film?’
‘Dad!’ the girl said. ‘Stop embarrassing me.’
‘Well, you heard...’
‘I thought you’d gone,’ the Caretaker – Grainger Chubley – said, holding a litter picker in one hand and clutching a black plastic bag in the other. He still had the pipe in his mouth, and now wore a pair of Army green coveralls with matching wellies.
‘No, still here,’ Parish said.
Richards elbowed him. ‘Hello again, Mr Chubley. Could you tell us about the other island that we saw beyond this one?’
‘Nothing to do with me.’
‘Yes, but that man mentioned drug addicts. Can you tell us what you know about it?’
‘Owned by a private company and they advertise it as a holiday retreat. It’s got a 10-bedroom mansion, and over a dozen cottages in a village that they let out.’
‘And the drug addicts?’
‘No, there aren’t any drug addicts there anymore.’
‘So, there used to be?’
‘Closed about a year ago. It was all over the newspapers and on the television, because that female singer with the big hair stayed there.’
Richards looked at Parish who said, ‘Amy Winehouse?’
‘That’s the one. Anyway, it was operating illegally as a treatment centre, so they closed it down.’
‘Okay, thank you, Mr Chubley,’ Richards said. ‘We’re going now.’
They began walking towards the car.
‘So, you don’t want to know about the fires, the strange lights, and the noises?’
‘Where?’ Parish said.
Grainger didn’t answer Parish, but turned to look at Richards.
‘Where, Mr Chubley?’
‘Sometimes, when I’m pottering about on the East of the island, I see them.’
‘Them?’
‘Well, I don’t know. I had my night binoculars with me once because I was searching for a Barn Owl, and I happened to see some people dressed in long white robes dancing around a fire.’
‘At night?’
‘Around midnight.’
‘Who are these people? Do they live on the island?’
‘Sorry young lady, that’s all I know. Now, I’ve got work to do even if you haven’t, and you know where the road off the island is. If you’re wanting to get over to Osea you’d best get a move on. They have a causeway as well, which is much longer than this one, and only accessible at low tide.’
‘Thanks for your help, Mr Chubley.’
‘You can come back any time you want – with permission, of course, but leave him at home.’
Richards laughed. ‘I will.’
In the car Richards said, ‘Are we going over to the other island?’
‘What do you think?’
‘If we go over there now, we won’t be able to come back across the causeway until half past eight tonight.’
‘And we won’t get home until probably ten or after. I should have brought Digby with me. He’ll be on his own in the dark for over three hours.’
‘He’s been on his own before, and Mr Chubley saw these people in white robes at midnight.’
‘I’m not staying ‘till midnight. We won’t be able to get back across the causeway until the following morning if we did that. Digby would be on his own all night.’
‘We could stay in the hotel on the island.’
‘What would be the point of that? If we were going to be there at midnight we’d be staking out the Western side of the island, not relaxing in a Jacuzzi drinking Singapore Slings at the hotel.’
‘Well, maybe we could take turns – you could do the midnight to six shift...’
Parish laughed. ‘Considering how you can’t sleep at night, you can do the graveyard shift while I’m in bed catching up with the sleep I lost this morning.’
‘As if. So, what are we going to do? Maybe we should come back tomorrow night properly prepared?’
‘Let’s go over there and see how things go. We can spend the afternoon doing some groundwork, find out who these people are who are dancing around a fire, and cross back over at low tide tonight.’
‘Okay. I’ll have to fill up the car up first.’
‘And do you know where this other causeway is?’
‘There’ll be signs.’
‘Where did you put the food?’
‘Again? You must have hollow legs. Anyway, you can’t have it because it’s in the boot. Once we get onto Osea Island then we can have lunch.’
‘Has rationing been re-introduced and you forgot to tell me?’
‘You weren’t even alive when rationing was introduced during World War Two.’
‘Neither were you.’
‘I’ve read about it.’
‘So have I.’
She pulled into a petrol station on Goldhanger Road. ‘Well, then you’ll know you need your ration book to get food. Have you got your ration book? No book, no rations.’
‘Yes, very funny. Get me a bar of chocolate to tide me over when you go in the shop to pay.’
‘You need a gofer not a partner.’
‘What, you mean like, “Go fer this, and go fer that?”
‘Yes, and I’m not a gofer.’
‘I know. If the truth be told, you’re fairly useless at going for things.’
***
At Vaulty Manor on Goldhanger Road, Richards turned right down Osea Road. They reached the causeway onto the island at five to twelve. The sea was already lapping at the rocks on either side of the gravel road.
‘We’re not going to make it, are we?’ Parish said.
Richards put her foot down on the accelerator. Gravel spewed out from beneath the tyres like a horde of bats set free from the jaws of hell. ‘We’ll make it.’
‘You want to die in a blaze of glory, don’t you?’
‘More like a damp squib. If we don’t reach the island, all that will be left of us will be a few bubbles.’
A group of hikers jumped out of the way as the Saab hurtled along the mile-long causeway.
The knuckles of Parish’s left hand were bone white from gripping the door handle. As the island drew closer, the causeway disappeared.
‘We’re done for, aren’t we?’
‘I thought you didn’t feel fear?’ Richards said turning to look at him.
‘Keep your eyes on the road.’
‘What road? The causeway has gone.’
‘If you lose the Saab, the Chief will make you pay for it out of your salary.’
Just as the rear end began to float away Richards put the car into four-wheel drive. The front tyres found some traction in the sand, and they managed to pull onto the beach.
‘Have you done the Advanced Driving Course?’
‘What’s one of those?’
‘Remind me on Monday to put your name down for the next available course.’
‘Okay, I like doing courses.’
They followed the road past the fields on their right and the salt marshes on their left; wove through the village of cottages until they reached the Manor House.
‘Very impressive,’ Parish said, gazing up at the house.
The three-storey building had six white colonnades at the entrance. Ivy was growing up the central aspect, and at either end of the house were two round towers with steepled roofs. The central floor was painted white like the filling in a red brick and tile sandwich.
‘One day I’d like a house like this,’ Richards said.
‘You’re going to marry a billionaire?’
‘Maybe I’ll be the billionaire.’
‘On a Constable’s salary?’
‘I won’t always be a Constable.’
‘You will if you keep tryi
ng to kill your boss.’
‘Hello.’
A woman had crept up behind them. She was in her early thirties with shoulder-length blonde hair tied into pigtails, and wore a dark brown top underneath a light brown pair of dungarees. On her feet she wore black wellies, and in her hands were four green peppers.
‘Hello,’ Parish said. ‘We’re looking for the owner.’
‘You need to drive to Heathrow Airport, get on a plain for Dubai, and when you get there ask for Sheikh Khalifi Ali bin Thani Hamedi Zayed.’
Parish’s lip curled up to the left. ‘You’re obviously in the wrong profession.’
‘So, who are you? This is a private island, you know?’
‘People keep telling me that.’
‘Probably because it’s true.’
He showed her his warrant card.
‘Constable Roger Bevington from Goldhanger station looks after our policing needs, what are you doing here?’
‘We’re investigating a number of missing teenagers, and the reported sighting of people in white robes dancing around a fire at midnight on the Western tip of your island.’
‘Here?’
‘That’s right.’
The woman looked around as if she was expecting to find people behind walls, trees, and in ditches ready to jump out and shout “Surprise!” ‘Has somebody put you up to this?’
‘I’m being completely serious, Miss...?’
‘Tracy Duquemin, I’m the Island Custodian.’
‘Custodian, what exactly does that mean?’
‘All bookings for the accommodation come through me. I’m responsible for everything on the island.’
‘I see, and what exactly does that entail?’
‘Look, I can see you’ve got a lot of questions. Follow me, we can sit outside my cottage and have some tea and scones.’
‘That would be good, wouldn’t it Richards?’
‘What about the lunch?’
‘We can have that later.’
They followed Miss Duquemin round the back of the Manor House to a tiny cottage set back from the road with its own garden surrounded by a white picket fence. The cottage was all white-painted wooden slats and windows. There was a red-tiled roof, which was obviously new, and the path led to two concrete steps up to a white front door. Outside there were an abundance of flowerpots and decorative Victorian chimneys filled with flowers. To the left side of the path – on the freshly mown lawn – was a wrought iron garden table with four matching chairs.
