Mainlander

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Mainlander Page 15

by Will Smith


  ‘I didn’t name names.’

  ‘You didn’t have to. Anyone with half a brain can work out who you’re talking about. Do you think all us Islanders have half a brain?’

  Colin and Vautier stared each other down, till Vautier jutted forward suddenly, causing Colin to flinch. The detective laughed, then pressed PLAY and RECORD again.

  ‘Interview concludes at eleven thirty-two a.m.’

  He pressed STOP. There was a further silence.

  ‘Now what?’ said Colin. ‘Are you charging me?’

  ‘You’re free to go.’

  ‘Why would you do that if I’m under suspicion?’

  ‘Like I said before, it’s a fucking island, dick-splash. There’s nowhere for you to go. That’s why Duncan Labey will turn up and you’ll have wasted my fucking time and dragged a beacon of education through the mud.’

  ‘I thought you were accusing me of killing him.’

  ‘Not sure you’ve got it in you. But I want you to learn a lesson from this – shit sticks.’

  11

  BARNEY

  Thursday, 15 October 1987

  Later that evening Barney Vautier lifted up his vest and sucked in his stomach, turning to the side for another angle from the bathroom mirror. Not bad. If he held it in he looked close to his fighting weight. He reckoned he could still get the pump in his biceps – they retained their dormant power. Maybe he couldn’t get a single knockout, as he had when he’d boxed for the Island. ‘Jersey born, Jersey bred, strong in the arm, thick in the head’ used to be the taunt. His supporters had adapted that to ‘strong in the arm, he’ll take off your head’, which he nearly had on a number of occasions. That big Guernsey donkey Bichet had gone down ten seconds in, the Roman nose the ladies loved spread all over his face like a pizza. The Alderney boy had put up a fight – he’d liked him, let him dance around a bit before he’d knocked him right across the canvas so he’d slid off the edge, like a net full of cod. No, his one-punch days were over. He’d need three to five now, depending on his opponent and whether or not they knew he was about to hit them.

  There was something so majestic about taking someone down in one, though. He felt almost wistful at the thought that he would never again see that look of stunned humiliation in another man’s eyes, the confused registration that the hand they had shaken earlier, a soft and pliable dangle of digits, could transform into some kind of asteroid, slamming into their world and casting it into years of darkness. Like old Paul Coutanche. He’d seen him shuffling round Fineprice supermarket the other week: big gut, food stains on his cardigan, half his hair migrated to his neck and shoulders, a right state. They were the same age, but you wouldn’t know it to look at them, less still that in 1965 they’d slugged it out for the inter-Island under-21 championship. Both proud Jersey boys, it had been insularly hyped as East Coast versus West Coast. Paul had made him work for it, knocked him down four times, damn near broken his jaw, which still made a click if he ate when he was tense – that was how Eileen always knew if he was in a mood. Paul had bottomed out after that defeat, felt he’d let down his dad, his parish, his side of the Island. But Barney had had his own disappointments. He’d wanted to turn pro, make a go of it on the mainland. The offers were there, but his dad wouldn’t hear of it: still hated those backstabbing ponces for leaving everyone to Jerry in the war. So much that he wouldn’t acknowledge Liberation Day: 9 May was like any other day in their house. ‘They turned up eleven months after D-Day, which was a bloody boat ride away. Put the French, who were cowards to a man, before their own. Damn them all.’ And that had been that. Eileen hadn’t wanted him to keep fighting anyway, so he’d taken a job where he could hand out the occasional beating in return for a wage. But he sometimes thought, Am I the best man I could have been?

  He let his stomach slide back to its natural shape. Jesus, another ten years and he’d be playing Santa at the Christmas party. He blamed it on Eileen’s lasagne – he’d had two helpings for supper, then some crumble.

  ‘Stop it!’ she called from the bedroom.

  ‘What?’ he called back, squirting paste on his brush.

  ‘Looking at your stomach,’ she said.

  ‘I’m doing my teeth.’

  ‘You are now, but before you were looking at your belly. You’re not twenty-one any more.’

  Smart woman, Eileen. She’d have made a damn good copper. He finished brushing and headed through to her, after a detour to draw the curtains in the room where he kept his weights, the room they’d earmarked as the nursery they’d never needed.

  Eileen put down her book. ‘My tits and bum have been heading south for a while now but you still love me, don’t you?’

  ‘Course I do, Princess.’

  ‘Then stop worrying about your weight. We’re getting old, that’s all.’

  ‘Never been this big, though. Might have to get a new suit.’

  ‘You’re not that big, Barney. Flabby Labbé’s big. We’ll start worrying when you need a wheelbarrow to carry your gut.’

  Barney smiled. She always made him feel good.

  She flung open his side of the duvet. ‘To be honest, I prefer it, means you can’t run away as quick when I want a cuddle. Come here.’

  Barney slid into bed and Eileen put her arms round his chest. The frequency and length of cuddles had been one of the only causes of discord in their marriage. Barney would always get overheated or want to change position. ‘The old bull, tethered at last’ had been the opening line of his wedding speech. Even though he and Eileen were both twenty-two and had been together for five years, it did feel like the end of something, not just his boxing career. It felt like the end of having to worry. With her at his side, he always said he felt like a champion.

  The phone rang in the hall.

  ‘Leave it,’ pleaded Eileen. ‘Must be a wrong number at this time of night.’

  ‘Or work,’ said Barney, swinging his legs out of the bed.

  He stomped down the stairs, grabbed the receiver and gave his phone number.

  ‘What? … Where?’ He turned to see that Eileen had followed him down and was heading for the kitchen. ‘Okay, okay. I’ll be there in forty-five minutes … Because it’s half ten … Because I’m in my pyjamas.’

  He put the phone down and called through to the kitchen, ‘Mugging. Out west. Sounds nasty. They want the bugger found by morning. Not good for tourism.’

  ‘I’ll do you some sarnies.’

  ‘I’ll be fine, love. Back in a flash.’

  ‘You just said they wanted the guy caught by morning. You’ll need something to keep you going. I’ll box up some of the crumble. Will Gerry be there?’

  ‘Should think so, usual crew.’

  ‘I’ll do some for him as well.’

  ‘He’ll be fine. Janet’ll fix him something.’

  ‘No, she won’t. She’ll leave his pyjamas on the landing and ask him to sleep on the sofa so as not to wake her when he comes back.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll go and get changed.’

  An hour later he pulled into the undulating clay car park at Noirmont Point. The beams from his headlights darted up and down as he hit the potholes, water spraying out across the lights as if caught in a strobe. The car park was deserted, except for a battered Fiesta and a bin. The pilot lights of St Helier harbour winked at him across the bays of St Brelade and St Aubin.

  He took a torch from the glove box and began to pick his way inland through the gorse, leaving the wash of the sea behind him. He wouldn’t have needed the torch if the moonlight hadn’t been blunted by clouds, and could probably have followed the route blindfolded, but he needed to keep an eye out for a loose root or freshly dug rabbit hole. The air was still, broken only by the caw of the odd gull as he reached the lip of a concrete trench four feet wide that sloped down to the boarded-up entrance of a German bunker. He clambered down, sidestepping the occasional hanging bramble and cursing at how the trench was treated as a giant bin; his feet clattered through drink cans
and glass and plastic bottles. He pulled out a bunch of keys and unlocked the grille that covered the boarded-up entrance. He gave three knocks and the partition was lifted back, then replaced as he stepped inside. He swung his torch round on a pallid young ponytailed man in a lumberjack shirt.

  ‘Bloody hell, Barney, point that somewhere else, you’re blinding me.’

  ‘I don’t think you want me to put the torch down. That would leave both hands free. And I could happily strangle you, Mickey. Happily. You rang my home in the middle of the fucking night. You’re supposed to call the office number.’

  ‘I followed the rest of the protocol. I still used a payphone. It couldn’t wait till morning.’

  ‘Just tell me what it is so I can go. This place stinks of fox piss.’

  ‘We don’t have any foxes on—’

  ‘Mickey, get on with it, or I will break your neck for resisting arrest.’

  ‘I was mugged—’

  ‘We don’t need to stick to the fucking code, okay. There’s no one else here.’

  ‘I was fucking mugged! For real!’

  ‘What are you talking about? The local lowlifes know anyone who lays a hand on you gets that hand broken.’

  ‘It wasn’t a local, it was a Scouser.’

  ‘Fucking Scousers. Okay, talk me through it.’ Barney cast his torch around for something to sit on: a wooden pallet, the remains of a fire, a broken bucket, beer cans, used condoms. Who the fuck would fuck in here? Gays maybe, nowhere else to go. He stayed standing. ‘We need to change our meeting place. Or change the locks. Anyway, go on.’

  ‘I was out at Sands, having a drink, watching a mate’s band. Davey Ricard turns up, asks for an eighth. I have it on me, but I’m not doing it there – I know the rules, you don’t want it in the clubs – so we meet out back, in the alley by the oil tank. He pays, I hand it over. Then I take a piss—’

  ‘Fuck’s sake, Mickey, you can piss in the clubs, just don’t sell your drugs there.’

  ‘I was bursting, okay? Anyway, mid-piss this guy punches me right in the kidneys. I go down – I’ve pissed all over my trousers now – but before I can move, he’s pulled me up and slammed me against the wall. Look!’ Mickey shone his own torch on his grazed temple.

  ‘He took the money? Rest of your stash?’

  ‘No. He stuck a knife in my mouth.’

  ‘He did what? A knife?’

  ‘He fish-hooked me and stuck the flat end of a knife against the inside of my cheek. He said I stop selling drugs in the Island or he’ll slit my face from mouth to ear.’

  Barney stared at the floor.

  ‘Barney? Did you hear me?’

  Barney lurched towards the pallet, wedged it against the wall and the floor and with five quick kicks had split it into broken planks.

  ‘Barney, I’m sorry—’

  ‘Shut the fuck up, Mickey. I’m thinking.’ Barney gave a boot to the bucket, which ricocheted off the walls. ‘Where was he coming from? I mean, is this turf? Is he seriously making a play for the business, or is he some fucked-up anti-drugs vigilante?’

  ‘It was a pretty short conversation. One-sided. He had a knife in my mouth. Didn’t feel like he wanted me to talk.’

  ‘So he just said stop, and left?’

  ‘Yeah, he took the knife out of my mouth, pushed me down, kicked me in the balls from behind, and went.’

  ‘You get a look at him?’

  ‘No. I was scared to turn round. What do we do?’

  ‘Any of your boys been hit?’

  ‘No. I’ve told them to look out.’

  ‘We don’t want a panic. But tell them to pair up.’

  ‘So we’re not going to stop for a bit?’

  ‘Of course you’re not going to fucking stop. I’m going to find this guy, and he’s going to be airlifted off the Island on a gurney.’

  ‘You can’t arrest him for attacking me, though. You and I, our arrangement, we don’t want anything official …’

  ‘Then I’ll arrest him for something else.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You ever met a Scouser without a prior? I sure as shit haven’t.’

  ‘Come on, some my best clients are Scousers. I’ve got Scouse mates …’

  ‘Not the sort that stick knives in people’s mouths. Trust me, that’s not someone’s first move into crime. Now, think. Anyone been watching you, following you?’ Mickey shook his head. Barney sighed. ‘I don’t want to be too obvious here, but any new Scouse clients?’

  ‘No, business as usual. The only thing’s been a teacher, asking about the boy.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘This afternoon he turned up, asking if I knew anything about the boy that’s missing. From the paper.’

  ‘What did he look like?’

  ‘Tall, late twenties, Colin, odd surname.’

  ‘Bygate?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s him.’

  Barney laughed drily. ‘The backbone on that man. He will not stay down. How did he find you?’

  ‘I don’t know. There was a boy in his car. I watched him get back in and go.’

  ‘A boy?’

  ‘Yeah, teenager. Normandy College uniform, I think.’

  ‘So what did you tell Mr Bygate?’

  ‘Nothing. I told him to fuck off, didn’t know what he was talking about.’

  ‘And do you?’

  ‘No. I’ve never heard of this Duncan, um …’

  ‘Labey. Duncan Labey. You’re sure?’

  ‘Yeah, why?’

  ‘Well, Bygate mentioned you when I interviewed him this morning.’

  ‘Why would he do that?’

  ‘I don’t know. I was imagining it was crossed wires because you don’t sell to kids. I remember being very clear about that.’

  ‘Is that what you told him?’

  ‘Of course I didn’t fucking tell him that! I’m not going to lay out my terms of business with a drug dealer while I’m taking a statement. I told him you were a rogue but not a wrong ’un.’

  ‘Right. And do you know where the kid is?’

  ‘He’s playing hooky. He’ll be fine. Bygate’s stirring it up, but the school say there’s nothing to worry about. Someone who’s going to have a lot to worry about is you, if I find out you sold to him.’

  ‘Barney, I swear I don’t sell to kids, and I don’t know the name Duncan Labey.’

  Mickey blinked away as Barney brought his torch right up in his face. ‘Look me in the eye and say that again.’

  ‘It’s too bright.’

  ‘Say it.’

  Mickey squinted at the beam. ‘I don’t sell to kids, and I don’t know Duncan Labey.’ The torch came down. ‘But some of these teenagers look older than they are. He comes up to me out of school uniform, gives a different name, that’s on him, not me.’

  ‘No, Mickey, it’s on you. I promise. Those tears in your eyes?’

  ‘It’s the light, made my eyes water.’

  ‘I’m going now. Give it five and get yourself together.’

  ‘You going to look for this Scouser?’

  ‘I’m going to see Bygate, keep him away from you. Then I’m going to bed.’

  ‘So what do I do?’

  ‘Business as usual.’

  ‘What if he attacks me again?’

  ‘Then I’ll know where to find him. Try and get a punch in this time.’

  12

  COLIN

  Friday, 16 October 1987

  Colin woke and looked at the kitchen clock: 7:05 a.m. He’d had about two hours’ sleep. The sofa wasn’t as comfortable as the bed, but he hadn’t been able to sleep in it since Emma left. Her smell was still on the pillow, and while they’d been keeping to their own sides recently, he wanted to reach out now more than ever.

  The evening before he had found his mind active but unable to focus, leaving him tired and frustrated. He’d heard Mrs Le Boutillier shuffle across the landing to knock on his door, and had shamefully pretended to be out. She had returned ten min
utes later to slide a note under, asking whether or not he knew for sure that Ian Mourant was right and that the Ozoufs were away. She hadn’t seen Marmalade now for a few days, and if they’d cruelly put him in a cattery, at least that would be better than him having disappeared completely. He didn’t know and he didn’t care, but he promised himself he’d try to put her mind at rest, then left it too late as he didn’t want to take on the responsibility of locating a missing cat as well as a missing boy.

  He’d been woken from a shallow slumber at 1:10 a.m. by a visit from Detective Vautier, whose muddy footprints he noticed had now just about dried out on the carpet. Colin rolled off the sofa and crawled towards a cupboard from which he retrieved a dustpan and brush. He crawled back to the stained areas and began brushing off the dirt.

  Vautier had been more reasonable at night. Whether or not it was genuine, or a charm-offensive tactic, Colin wasn’t sure. But at least there had been a more open exchange of views.

  ‘You think I’m a heel-dragging bumpkin.’

  ‘You think I killed my pupil.’

  ‘I was trying to show you that that accusation is as crazy as the ones you’re throwing about. There’s no conspiracy here. You think I’m complacent, but maybe I’m someone with enough experience to know how things play out. Now, you’re a bright guy, but you’re a stubborn bastard, and you have to let me do my job.’

  ‘Are you going to speak to Blampied?’

  ‘Le Brocq says I have no cause to.’

  ‘Le Brocq told Duncan’s parents Blampied found drugs on him.’

  ‘None of them are saying that to me.’

  ‘That’s because you’re not asking them.’

  ‘I’ve told you how the totem pole works in this case. My boss and my boss’s boss are friends with your boss. So I can’t make Le Brocq do anything he doesn’t want to. And the parents are standing behind him.’

  ‘So what are you doing?’

  ‘We’re checking guesthouses and hotels, campsites, even the dolmens. His picture’s been given to staff at the harbours and the airport. Beyond that, what can we do?’ Vautier cut Colin off as he opened his mouth. ‘Before you say it, I paid Mickey Rouain a visit this evening. I believe you made his acquaintance earlier in the day.’

 

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