by Lara Dearman
‘You could always take one of the toast-racks.’ Jenny used the local nickname for the open-sided, tractor-drawn carts that would take visitors to the top of the hill for two pounds.
‘Oh, I don’t think so.’ The lady called Irene looked at the carts distastefully.
Jenny smiled. Charlie had always derided the toast-racks as ‘for tourists’, and she was oddly pleased that the women had rejected them.
‘Well, I’m in a bit of a hurry, so I’m going to hop on one, but the path is over there.’ She showed them the steps to the woodland trail that ran parallel to the road. The ladies declared it quite lovely and waved Jenny off. She left them consulting their map and bickering about where they were stopping for lunch.
The bone-rattling toast-rack ride took Jenny as far as the crossroads at the brow of the hill, where a row of horses harnessed to old-fashioned cariages stood in front of a high-hedged field. The air was ripe with their scent, sweet hay and oat-laden manure, the drivers hastily stubbing out cigarettes or placing half-drunk cups of coffee in the carriage cabs, readying themselves to haggle over the cost of an island tour. The horses, heavy-hooved, pawed the ground and shook their heads in anticipation. Several people wandered over to them. Jenny checked her phone. Nothing from Stephen. They would have been down on Derrible for a couple of hours by now. If she didn’t hurry, she might miss them. She didn’t want to think about Graham’s reaction if her journey turned out to be a complete waste of time.
The quickest way to Derrible—in fact the quickest way to anywhere on Sark—was on a bike, so she set off towards Alf’s, the nearest of several cycle-hire shops, a brisk five-minute walk down the Avenue.
Wide enough for cyclists to pass in either direction, with room for a couple of pedestrians to meander down the centre, the Avenue was the closest thing to a main road on Sark. It was also flatter and smoother than the rest of the island’s gravelly, potholed lanes and dirt tracks. A row of single-storey buildings lined either side—the Village Stores, selling sunscreen and first-aid kits, local-interest books and souvenir tea towels, the tiny supermarket proudly advertising, ‘Now stocking Waitrose!’ Jenny passed a new café, its pastel-pink awning looking out of place on a street that otherwise displayed muted tones—dark green or blue doors, black-and-white signage. The sandwich board outside advertised expensive lattes and custom-made cupcakes. She wondered how long it would last. It had only been a year or so since she had last been here and several shops had closed since then. One building looked particularly dilapidated, its window obscured with white paint, the remains of a row of posters stuck all over it. It appeared that somebody had haphazardly torn at them, ripping off the middle sections but leaving the edges, curling towards the corners. Jenny flattened one of the larger remaining pieces—‘Want’ and the top of a picture of somebody’s face. She smoothed out the bottom section—‘Crimes Against Sark.’
‘They were all over the place couple of weeks ago.’
An attractive woman in her forties, wearing a tight white T-shirt, arms tanned and muscular, leaned against the door of the next building, a souvenir shop. Her peroxide-blonde hair was pulled back in a ponytail, exposing dark roots. She lit a cigarette, took a deep drag and blew the smoke over her shoulder.
‘Someone put ’em all over the island. Sent Monroe nuts. Thought he was going to pop a vein.’ She had a London accent.
‘He’s the one on the poster?’
The woman nodded. ‘You on holiday?’
‘Just a day trip from Guernsey. I used to spend a lot of time here as a kid.’
‘Heard about what’s happened down on Derrible?’
‘Someone said the police are there?’ It wasn’t a lie. Jenny always told people she was a reporter when she approached them, but when the conversation was being steered by someone else, it often paid not to reveal what she did, or how much she knew. This woman seemed like the naturally talkative type. Jenny just needed to listen.
‘And the rest. Heard there was a body.’
‘Any idea who it might be?’
‘Well, I haven’t done a full headcount since yesterday, but so far as I know nobody’s missing.’ She smiled. ‘Wouldn’t worry, love. Most of the gossip around here turns out to be three-parts speculation to two-parts bullshit. Still, you might want to steer clear of that end of the island.’
The woman turned her attention back to the posters. ‘You know about Monroe?’
Jenny nodded. Corey Monroe, the shipping billionaire, had bought Brecqhou, a tiny island off the west coast of Sark, five years ago as the ultimate, private tax haven. He had built a huge estate, complete with manor house, pub, landscaped gardens, swimming pools and tennis courts, and then set about trying to buy property on Sark. The Sarkees had taken a disliking to Monroe, accusing him of trying to buy the island, to turn it into his own private playground, and they used Sark’s ancient laws to block him every step of the way. Clearly a man not used to taking ‘no’ for an answer, Corey Monroe had faced off against the seigneur and the Chief Pleas, Sark’s unelected, feudal government, and pushed for democratisation, challenging them in the European Court of Human Rights. He had won. Sark’s first free and fair elections had been held the year before. The sale of several properties to Corey Monroe had followed soon after.
The woman shook her head. ‘It’s like that programme on the telly Neighbours at War. Only it’s the whole bloody island. Bet it’s changed since you was a kiddie?’
Jenny nodded.
The woman waved towards the empty storefronts. ‘Monroe owns them. He hiked up the rents to punish the islanders for not voting for the candidates he wanted in the elections. Cancelled local supply contracts for his hotels as well. That’s what people say, anyway.’ She shook her head.
‘Ironic, isn’t it? He was the one got the whole system changed—all his challenges in the courts to the old ways, the articles in the newspapers about how the island’s finally a democracy, and now he can’t get anyone to rent his buildings or work for him. He’s started with this charm offensive. Wanders around trying to be all pally with us, acting like he’s one of the locals when we all know he practically shits diamonds.’
‘You’re not local?’
‘Been here twenty-five years, but no, I’m not local.’ She held out her hand. ‘Tuesday Jones.’ She rolled her eyes at Jenny’s reaction. ‘I know. My dad had a thing about Tuesday Weld. Arsehole that he was.’ She laughed. ‘Monroe tried to buy this place off me.’ She gestured to the building behind her. ‘He offered me a fortune, but I held out.’ She shook her head. ‘I worked hard for this. No one’s taking it away from me, billionaire or otherwise. Here, hang on a minute.’ She disappeared into the shop and came back with a flyer. ‘Next time you’re over, take a tour. See some of the island this bloody feud hasn’t ruined.’
‘Cave tours. You run these?’
‘Certainly do. Did well last summer—introduced a couple of night-time sails. Now we’re officially a “Dark Sky Island”. Some of the darkest and clearest skies in the world here. Only a couple of street lights, see, no cars. Anyway, brings in a few extra tourists. I do a nice trip round the coast, show ’em the constellations. You should come on one. Place is different in the dark. Better, if you ask me. But then I’m a bit of a night owl.’ She smiled and stubbed her cigarette out on the door frame. ‘Right, I better get on. Enjoy your trip.’ She stepped back into the shop once more.
Jenny folded the flyer and put it in her back pocket. She snapped a couple of pictures of the posters. Perhaps it was time the News ran an update on the dispute between the Sarkees and Corey Monroe.
Empty storefronts and posters aside, everything else on Sark was just as it had always been. Hanging baskets overflowing with geraniums, a notice board outside a shop announcing that the quilting club met in the church hall every third Wednesday, another offering a reward for information about a missing bike.
At Alf’s Cycle Hire, she paid six pounds to take a rickety Mary Poppins-style shopper for the day,
turning down a more practical mountain bike on account of its hard, narrow seat, which she knew, from painful experience, would render an inexperienced rider unable to sit down for a week after a couple of hours on Sark roads.
She cycled back the way she’d walked, turning right at the crossroads, avoiding a pile of freshly dropped horse manure and a boy of no more than five or six years old on a battered bike, who cut the corner as he headed to the village, yelling a ‘sorry’ as Jenny wobbled towards the hedge. Balance regained, she freewheeled down the rough, gravel-strewn pathway towards the cliffs.
Hedgerows gave way to woodland and the path became shaded and cool. A wooden sign reading, ‘The Coach House,’ hung askew on an open gate. She glanced through it, down a short track to a low, white cottage with a thatched roof, pink roses growing up the walls and chickens scratching in the yard. She thought, as she had so often on visits to Sark, that its quaint beauty belonged to another age. It was too picture-perfect to be believed without seeing.
Before long, the landscape opened out again, lush green fields on either side, and she could feel the sea in the air. She knew the turn-off to the cliff path was nearby and slowed down. She passed a tractor that had pulled into an opening in the hedgerow. The cab was covered but open-sided. A man lounged back in it, cap pulled down over his eyes. A tinny radio played Tears for Fears. She slowed, concerned he had fallen ill, but the steady rise and fall of his chest suggested he was sleeping. Early for a nap, but the heat and the soothing birdsong were enough to make anyone drowsy. Round the corner, the path turned to grass and opened out to a clover-strewn field. Jenny, realising she’d gone too far, turned round, cycling uphill now, passing the tractor again. The driver, awake after all, sat up as she approached, pushed up his cap.
‘You lost?’ The words rumbled, heavy and wet, as if from deep within his chest. His skin was tanned, his eyes bloodshot.
‘I’m looking for the path to Derrible.’
‘You with the police?’
‘No.’
‘Well, they’re down there. Body, apparently. Probably best you visit another day.’
‘I’d still like to have a look. If you wouldn’t mind pointing the way?’
He frowned at her. ‘You look familiar. I’ve seen you. On the news.’
‘I’m a reporter.’
‘That’s right. The one who got shot. Dorey.’
‘That’s me.’
‘My gran was a Dorey.’
‘Lots of us about.’
He seemed to think for a moment and then pursed his lips and pointed a grimy finger towards a field.
‘You can cut through there,’ he said. ‘Go as far as the next hedge and follow it to the right until you come to a gate. Go straight across the next field. You’ll pass a digger. Swing right down the cliffs just after that. The path is marked. If you come to Sark Henge, you’ve gone too far.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Be careful, though, eh?’
‘Sorry?’
He smiled, revealing a row of teeth too small for his mouth.
‘It’s steep. Mind your step.’
She set off in the direction he had pointed, glancing back once, feeling like he was watching her. He had returned to his semi-prone position, hat pulled down, but this time, his eyes remained uncovered. She walked quickly, trying to shake off the unease he had provoked. She found the gate and fumbled with the blue twine that anchored it to a post in the hedge. It swung open with a screech. Only when she was through, the gate secured behind her, did she slow her pace.
She could see Sark Henge up ahead. Nine old gate stones of pink granite placed in a circle. They looked ancient and mysterious but had only been standing a year—to commemorate the four hundred and fifty years since Queen Elizabeth I had granted Sark to Hellier de Carteret, the seigneur of St Ouen. He, in turn, had split the island into forty parcels of land, known as the Quarantaine. Each of these tenements was given to a strong, healthy farmer and his family, who would not only work the barren, weather-battered soil and transform it into fertile farmland but protect it from marauding enemies: the French, or Spanish, or Dutch, depending on the year. These landowners formed Sark’s first parliament, the Chief Pleas, headed by the seigneur himself. Thus this tiny, feudal state, allegiant to the English Crown, had been born.
Jenny paused to get her bearings, then followed the edge of the cliff until the path dipped down, the grass thinning to earth and then gravel and rock, roughly hewn into steps. A length of yellow tape had been strung from the iron railing on one side to the gorse bush on the other: ‘Police Line. Do Not Cross.’
Shit. She could just imagine Graham’s face if she had to report that there was in fact a story but she couldn’t get to it. And if she left now, she’d have no excuse to stick around and ask questions about Charlie. She stared at the police line. The end attached to the gorse bush had come untethered and was held in place only by the plant’s spiky leaves. It flapped half-heartedly in the scant breeze. One strong gust would blow it right out of the way. If that happened, it would be unclear, really, where she shouldn’t cross. She looked around. There was nobody in sight. She walked through the tape, pulling it free as she did so, leaving it hanging limply in her wake.
The descent was steep and she made good use of the railing. Derrible Bay itself was hidden from view until over halfway down the cliff, and Jenny used the time to think of a way of getting Michael on side when she reached the bottom. He would be displeased with her and unlikely to comment on the investigation unless she could persuade him it was in his interest. And apologise profusely and maybe offer him dinner. She grinned. Perhaps her colleagues were right to be exasperated by her. There were perks to being friends with one of the most senior detectives on Guernsey.
The steps curved sharply to the right and Derrible in all its glory was revealed. The tide level was perfect, low enough to reveal a butter-coloured curve of sand but high enough that the water was still easily accessible, a short walk to an arc of almost impossibly bright blue. Behind, the cliffs—jagged ochre rock splashed with acid-green lichen and patches of sticky black tar. Gulls perched nervously in crevices, skittering back and forth, one then another taking flight, screeching and cawing before coming back to rest, hard yellow eyes fixed nervously on the unwanted activity below.
There were several police officers combing the pebbles near the cliffs. She snapped a few pictures, then spotted Michael, on his phone. He looked stressed and his voice carried over to her. He was on the line to a superior, calling whoever it was ‘sir’, an almost pleading quality to his tone. He hung up and paused for a moment before marching towards a cave, from which, Jenny noticed, a forensics officer had just emerged. Michael stopped dead, however, when he caught sight of Jenny, a look of confusion quickly replaced with anger. Her stomach flipped. Her pathetic excuse about an unclear police line was not going to wash. She took the last few steps slowly, meeting him at the bottom.
‘What the hell are you doing here, Jenny? This is a bloody crime scene! Marquis! Marquis!’ he barked, looking around for the junior officer. ‘I thought I told you to secure the steps?’
Jenny’s cousin, Stephen Marquis, came running over. He was beet-red, whether from the exertion, stress or his near-permanent state of borderline embarrassment Jenny couldn’t be sure.
‘I did, sir!’
Jenny held up her hands. ‘I’m sorry. I figured that was a preliminary line and all the real action was on the beach. I haven’t disturbed anything important, have I?’
‘That’s not the point, as well you know. Leave this to me, Marquis.’
‘Yes, sir.’ He looked relieved to be getting out of the way but threw Jenny a frown as he left. She knew she’d landed him in it—it wouldn’t take Michael long to work out who had tipped her off. She’d have to do some serious pint-buying to get back in his good books.
‘I could have you arrested. There’s only so far being a local hero will get you, you know. You’ve not got some carte bloody blanche
to stick your nose into anything you feel like.’
He looked tired, she thought. More than that. Weary. The last time he’d come to the house, she’d sensed it too. The external investigation into the police force was taking its toll.
‘You can’t expect to keep something like this a secret.’
‘Hmph,’ he grunted, then sat on a damp rock with a deep sigh. She joined him. The pebbles beneath their feet were glossy.
‘And you know if you give me the story, I’ll at least write it up nicely. Proper grammar, full sentences.’
She saw the edges of his mouth twitch. He often complained about the quality of the writing in the News.
‘You’re bloody incorrigible, you are.’
She smiled. ‘I was hoping for a quote about the investigation, but that’s better than nothing.’
‘I was going to call you. When we were finished.’
‘But as I’m here . . .’
‘You didn’t get this from me. I’ve got enough on my bloody plate.’
‘Absolutely not.’
He stood. ‘Bones. In a cave. Looks like a full skeleton.’
She paused, considering what this meant. Spoke softly, knowing that the answers to her question would be anything but gentle.
‘Any theory as to how it got there?’
The seagulls had momentarily stopped screeching. A drowsy bumblebee floated between them. Michael watched it land on a pink campion flower growing between the rocks. Then he turned to her, deep furrows in his brow.
‘With help, presumably.’
She was hot and thirsty by the time she made it back to the top of the steps and could feel the first prickling of sunburn on the back of her neck. She was not looking forward to the uphill cycle ride back to the village. Michael had given her enough for tomorrow’s front page, but his willingness to co-operate had fallen short of offering her a lift back to Guernsey. They’d be tied up on the beach for hours, he’d said. And then they’d have to think about setting up an incident room, questioning locals. He’d asked her not to share details about the discovery with the Sarkees, not until the police had made a formal statement. But Jenny figured there was no harm in listening to the gossip, following up with a few questions while she waited for the next ferry back to Guernsey. As for her enquiries into Charlie’s last visit to the island, they would have to wait. With a major story like this to work on, she’d soon be back.