by Will Smith
He’d been woken at half six with a call about a dead body in a car halfway down La Rue des Fontanelles. Not that he’d slept – Barney wasn’t good with storms. Eileen had found him grunting through sit-ups in the lounge at two a.m., trying to take his mind off the noise.
‘You all right, Barn?’
‘Sure, love. Sorry, did I wake you?’
‘How would you wake me above this racket?’
‘Yeah, sounds like a bad one out there.’
‘What woke me was you not being beside me. Come back up.’
‘I don’t know, there’s something about being high up in this wind. I don’t like it.’ Barney hated feeling at the mercy of something else. It was why he’d never got into sailing: you couldn’t trust the sea.
‘There’s no lightning.’
‘Yeah, yeah, I know.’
‘Just a gale.’
Lightning scared the bejesus out of him. A bolt of electricity from the heavens that could smite a man on the earth. He had committed too many sins to risk being overlooked by God’s wrath.
‘Besides, Barn, look at the size of you! You’re not going to get blown away.’
‘Cheeky cow!’ He sat on the sofa next to her. ‘Mind if we stay here for a bit?’
‘Wherever you want, mah coq, eh.’
They’d snuggled under a blanket on the sofa until the phone rang. The winds had died down to a strong bluster and he was looking forward to a lie-in on one of his off-duty Saturdays. But duty called. Some honorary had reported the body, and while Uniform would normally attend a traffic accident, there were so many roads blocked it was proving hard for anyone to get there. He lived close by in Trinity, and the control room added that the honorary felt there was something suspicious.
As he drove through the refashioned landscape he was surprised there’d been only one fatality recorded. After endless double-backs he finally made it to the top of the road. He eased the car down till he nearly hit an incident sign that had been thoughtlessly placed on the bend. He put on the handbrake and got out. There was still a hell of a squall blowing, but the high banks sheltered him from the worst of it. He looked up at the trees, still being buffeted, and hoped nothing was about to come down on him, then beat away the fear. Time for business.
A VW Golf was parked behind a Mercedes that was wedged against a massive tree trunk blocking the road. A short man eased himself out of the Golf, then stopped self-importantly to fix his cap. He approached Barney, saluting as he walked. His eyes were set in narrow slits, giving him a permanent squint that made people feel they were being continually sized up.
‘Detective Sergeant Vautier, well met …’
Barney remembered his name just in time: Sean Houellebecq, pompous little twat. ‘Sean, move your fucking hazard sign before there’s another crash. You stuck it right on the bend.’ He had little time for the honoraries: they were amateurs searching for status but unwilling to put in the graft.
‘Is there any need? This road doesn’t get much traffic on a good day. It’s barely a road.’
‘Move it.’
‘Will do,’ said Houellebecq. ‘But can I ask you to wait for me to accompany you before approaching the victim? So as I can talk you through my observations.’
Fuck off, thought Barney, as Houellebecq sprinted up the lane while he strode down towards the crash. A Merc, flash car, probably a lawyer. Well, the Island could afford to shed a few of those. Barney reached the driver’s window and looked in. Young man, face smashed against the windscreen, which had itself been shattered by the tree or his skull or both.
Houellebecq returned to stand the other side of the car. ‘Do you see what I see?’
‘Tracksuit bottoms, sweatshirt, Merc. This isn’t his car.’
‘I meant the injuries.’
‘The car hit the tree, his face hit the windscreen. That’s what happens if you don’t wear a seatbelt.’
‘Observe.’ Houellebecq opened the door and crouched on the passenger seat.
Barney blew out his cheeks and looked at his feet, mentally cuffing Houellebecq round the head. ‘You called in the plates? A man dressed like this does not own this car.’
‘You may be correct.’ Houellebecq stuck his head out.
‘Of course I’m fucking correct. No disrespect, I’m the detective, you’re the bloke who organises the parking at the parish fête. Wait here.’
Barney made a note of the number plate and walked back to his car, where he radioed in to the control room. ‘Vautier here, can you run a plate for me?’ He rattled out the number.
‘Sure thing, Barney. What’s it look like out there?’
‘Like Ted’s wife sat on the Island.’
‘Ha! They’re saying it was a hurricane.’
‘Fuck me. It’ll only be the palm trees left, then. They’re from that part of the world.’
‘Just be a few minutes. I’ve sent Joault off to look it up.’
‘Be fucking hours, then.’
‘You okay to wait?’
‘Yup, it’s either yack with you or stand around with Houellebecq.’
‘Oh, Christ! Is he running it like he’s chief of police?’
‘If his uncle wasn’t the tourism minister I’d be slapping him with a fake DUI right now.’
‘Got that plate for you. It belongs to Eric Le Maistre.’
‘The Jurat?’
‘Yup – reported it stolen yesterday morning.’
‘And just to be double sure, he’s still fifty-five, bald, with a beard?’
‘He was last time I saw him. So he’s not the goner?’
‘I can confirm that he’s definitely not. Give him a call and tell him we found his car. But he’ll be getting a new one on his insurance.’
Barney hung up. He felt a tingle. Could it be? That would be handy, very handy indeed. Tie things up without any unnecessary attention. Get this dose of arse-ache off the Island without anyone knowing why he was there. He made his way back to Houellebecq, who was taking photos of the car.
‘Cut that out.’
‘Could be useful.’
‘This is Jurat Le Maistre’s car. Does it look like Jurat Le Maistre?’
‘No. Who is it, then?’
‘I’m just about to confirm that.’
Barney leant in and pulled the corpse’s head back by the few non-bloodied strands of hair he could find. The nose was gone, the eyes swollen shut, but it was a good fit for the faxed mug shot he had in his pocket. He tried to roll up the right sleeve of the sweatshirt, but the blood had dried against the skin, so he ripped the fabric and tore it loose. On the forearm he could make out the tattoo ‘Anfield Ani …’. Barney was pretty sure the word that had been obliterated by the bone-showing gash was ‘Animals’.
He stood up. Houellebecq stared at him disapprovingly from the other side of the car. ‘I assume you’ll be calling the coroner.’
‘There’s nothing suspicious about this death. He stole the car and crashed into a fallen tree. For once God stepped in and administered justice for us.’
‘But his head injuries—’
‘Consistent with a collision.’
‘He hit the tree head on. That doesn’t explain the injury to the left temple. Look.’
‘He could have bounced back and forth, hit the rear-view mirror.’
‘You haven’t looked. He’s got a huge gash to his left temple. The rear-view mirror is on a swivel. It would have given way.’
‘Who knows what shit was flying about here last night? The strength of that wind, there could have been manhole covers zipping around like frisbees.’
‘What about the arms in the wheel?’
‘He slipped, lost control, got them stuck. Frankly, I don’t care. The world is not going to miss him. This is a known Scouse criminal.’
‘And you can tell that how?’
‘From my twenty-two years’ experience in the police force. And the mug shot I’m about to show you.’
‘What about the fingers?�
�
‘What about the fingers?’
‘There are bite marks on the left hand.’
‘All right, fucking Sherlock,’ Barney spat, through gritted teeth, as he stomped round to the passenger side. He climbed in and took a look at the left hand that dangled at a sickening angle from a break in the arm. He heaved himself back out.
‘Like I said, this is one Billy McCaffrey.’ Barney pulled out the mug shot and handed it to Houellebecq, who unfolded it, struggling to stop it flapping around in the breeze. ‘Now I know it might not be that obvious, as he’s lost half his face since that picture was taken, but there’s also the tattoo on his arm. And when they heave him out of there on his way to the morgue I’ll bet my left bollock he’s got a knife on him, a knife he used to carry out a very ugly attack the other night.’
‘Why would a man like that be driving down this track? All that’s at the bottom is a dolmen.’
‘Got lost, wrong turn.’
‘Something about it doesn’t feel right. I’m not sure he’d have picked up enough speed after he exited the bend to sustain such injuries. They’re not commensurate with the force of the impact. And we can see from the dents on the right side he hit the bank, which would have slowed him down considerably.’
‘Could have got those dents anywhere.’
‘There are paint flecks on the stones in the bank. And look at the rear sides, how do you explain them?’
‘I don’t have to.’
‘Really? I rather think we do.’
Barney took a deep breath. One punch to the throat and this prick would be on his arse. Nope. Barney was going to have to do some good old-fashioned shit-eating. He had been handed a lovely little tied-up parcel of a case, and he was not about to let this part-time busybody undo it.
‘Sean, I got to tell you, you are wasted in the honorary ranks. Most of your lot are just donkeys in fluorescent jackets, but you have the makings of a real detective. I can’t pull the wool over your eyes, so I’m going to have to break protocol, and let you in on operational information that, on paper, you absolutely should not hear. But, frankly, you’re proving yourself an equal to me in the field, and so you know what? Fuck the rules. But you’re going to have to promise me it goes no further.’
Houellebecq’s eyes lit up. Those were the words he’d been dying to hear for most of his adult life.
‘First thing you need to know is that Billy McCaffrey is a big player in the Liverpool underworld. Just got out earlier than he should for GBH.’
‘What’s he doing over here?’
‘Who knows? Lot of Scouse over here, could be visiting friends. The point is, the victim of that GBH was the right-hand man of another rival player. Maybe those rivals heard he was here, maybe they came over. Maybe they had something to do with this. And maybe they didn’t. Maybe they tried to give him a kicking and he escaped with a fucked-up hand and crashed into a tree because he couldn’t keep a grip on the steering wheel. Or maybe he got in a fight with a Manc over the footie, nothing to do with the beef back home, same result.’
‘Shouldn’t we try to find out? Otherwise someone is getting away with something they shouldn’t.’
‘We could do that. We could explore all these variables. But is that going to do the Island any good? Publicising a gang hit? Do you think that’s good for tourism? You think your uncle wants that on his plate? I mean, fine, if you want to be the guy who starts a grockle drought. Over what in all probability is just a lucky traffic accident. Lucky for the enemies a bastard like that makes, lucky for his victims past and future, and lucky for us. Because there’s one less criminal to deal with, and hardly any paperwork.’
Houellebecq nodded, then cocked his head with a leer. ‘Okay. On a completely separate note, I believe you know I’m looking to make Centenier as soon as I can.’
Seeing this tool as the top honorary in his parish was a small price to pay. Barney extended a hand. ‘With my support, I promise you that won’t be before too long.’
23
COLIN
Saturday, 17 October 1987
The clinging chill Colin felt as he trudged across the sand in his still damp clothes was countered by a glow from within, which he hadn’t experienced since he’d strode down to the beach that Christmas morning to ask for Emma’s hand. He was now half a mile out on the same beach, walking towards the Island he planned to leave for good, taking with him the woman whose hand he clasped behind Duncan’s back.
He and Debbie had kissed and talked in a confessional outpouring till they had fallen asleep in each other’s arms. Spurred on by the possibility that the malevolent sea was not yet done with its deadly plan, Colin didn’t want to die with things left unsaid. Once said and reciprocated, his hopelessness fell away with the storm, and he promised Debbie a new life away from the Island.
Having made the journey only once and at night, he wasn’t aware of any changes wrought by the weather but, according to Debbie, the oyster beds had been torn up and sandbanks shunted. This led to an occasionally improvised route, but they had started as soon as the waters fell away behind the tower just after half past nine, and though they were going at a slower pace than when they had walked out, they were not fighting the wind or the time quite as tightly as before. Their main concern was Duncan, who had not drunk any water for thirty-six hours or eaten for forty-eight and was stumbling along between them. The magnitude of the storm had become apparent as they left the tower: there was no sign of the buoy that had crashed on to the platform – it had been swept back off by the sea. There were, however, other things on their minds, particularly Duncan’s.
‘What happens when we get back?’ Duncan had muttered.
‘We contact your parents and the police. So they can call off the search. Steady, let me climb down first. Stay here on the ledge.’
‘I don’t want to talk to the police.’
‘They’re going to ask you where you were, and why you were there. Okay, get yourself down the steps – do it sitting if it’s easier.’
‘I’ll be arrested, expelled.’
‘Blampied’s the one who’s going to be arrested. That’s it, keep going. Debbie! You can come through now, but stay on the ledge. We don’t want to put too much weight on the stairs.’ Debbie had clambered through the hole, flinching at the breeze. ‘We’ll warm up when we get moving,’ Colin said. ‘Right, Duncan, lower your legs off the end. I’ll slow your fall if you push yourself off.’
‘The school won’t want me back.’
‘You don’t want to be at the school after the way they’ve treated you.’
‘I can’t … It’s my family’s school.’
‘Duncan, you have to come home. You can’t live out here. Was that your plan?’
‘My plan was not to …’ The boy had trailed off.
Colin reached up, almost touching his waist. ‘Come down, Duncan, come on.’
Duncan had jumped and Colin caught him. ‘This will be dealt with, I promise. But you can’t run away, and you can’t … You can’t do what you might have done at Grosnez.’
‘I won’t. Not after what you did, coming out here for me. You’re right, this is a second chance.’
‘Exactly. We get to start again. Now can you come over to the wall there? Sit down while I help Miss Hamon.’
Debbie had climbed backwards down the stairs, then leaped into Colin’s waiting arms as Duncan had done, except she pushed herself forward to ensure body contact. Colin looked down at her as she gazed up from his embrace, longing to kiss her, cursing his insistence that they behave professionally in front of the boy. He stood back. ‘Okay, off we go. Duncan, you can put your arms round our shoulders …’
As they neared the coast, weaving between rocks and the occasional stoved-in lobster pot, there were more obvious signs of a changed landscape: some of the boats moored in the bay had broken loose to hole or upturn their neighbours and end up dashed against the sea wall. The cover of a workman’s hut blew past them. Behind the sea
wall, several trees lining the road had fallen into each other in a lattice. A chimney on a nearby house had fallen through the roof – Colin shuddered at the idea of an occupied bed or sofa being in its path.
Duncan’s head lolled forwards and he began bicycling his legs weakly against the sand.
‘No, I can’t, he’s there … I can’t face my parents …’
‘Nearly there. You’ll feel better for some warm clothes and food.’
‘Let me go!’
He writhed between them, working his way free to sink down to his knees, then fell into a ball. Colin knelt at his head. ‘Duncan, we’ve all got things to face when we get back. I’ve been as good as sacked because I stood up to Blampied and because I kept looking for you. If you don’t go back, that was all for nothing. He’s won. They can get rid of me, but not you. Whatever you did, he did something far, far worse. So we’re going to stand up, together, and we’re going to walk up that slip and we’re going to tell the truth.’
‘There’s no proof of what he said, how he tried to touch me. It’s just my word against his.’
‘And mine. I believe you. I will stand by you. I will vouch for you. Your family might disown you, but I will not.’ Colin pulled the boy to his feet.
They staggered up the slipway, and heaved Duncan on to the back seat of the car. Then Colin headed over to the phone box at the edge of the car park to call the boy’s parents.
‘Arthur Labey speaking.’
‘Mr Labey, this is Colin Bygate. I found Duncan at Seymour Tower. He’s a little weak but fine.’
‘Oh, thank God! Thank you. Where are you?’
‘The Seymour slip car park. We just walked back – we were stuck out there in the storm.’
‘We’ll be down to get him now.’
In the background Colin could hear Duncan’s mother wanting to know to whom her husband was talking. The phone was now held at the father’s side. ‘That teacher, Bygate, he’s found Duncan, down at Seymour Tower. I’ve told him to wait.’