Dark Sky Island

by Lara Dearman

  On the path, the tractor she’d seen earlier was still parked up. The radio was still playing. But there was no sign of the driver. She looked around for him. The fields here were for grazing, but there were no cattle to tend. Perhaps he’d broken down and had been waiting for help, had got bored and walked back to the village. She approached the vehicle. Checked behind her before climbing up into the cab.

  The smell of engine oil and stale body odour was overwhelming. A copy of the Sunday Sport had been trodden into the footwell, pages mud-stained and crumpled. On the dash was a spiral-bound notebook, the front page full of rows of tight writing in soft pencil. She turned it towards her. Scanned the numbers and words. They looked like names, perhaps times. The last note on the list read, Dorey, 9.40. She twisted the book back into position, clambered down, face flushed. Tried to think of a rational explanation. Maybe he liked to write down the names of everyone he met and the time he met them. There was no law against it. She climbed onto her bike, began to pedal, then stopped. She wasn’t thinking straight. She should take a picture, see if she could figure out to whom the rest of the notes referred. She moved towards the tractor.

  The screech of metal against metal.

  The gate.

  She cycled as quickly as she could, only stopping at the top of the hill, her cheeks burning, legs shaking from the exertion. She risked a look down, saw the sweeping panorama of the cliffs and the sea beyond. And the figure of the tractor driver, who was making his way back to the path. The same way she had come only minutes before.

  He had followed her.

  6

  Michael

  They’d searched every accessible cave they could find, but so far it was looking like there was only one body. Only one. His parameters of what constituted a disaster had shifted somewhat since last year. He counted seven police officers, plus the two from forensics, who having spent most of the morning crouched in the cave, had finally removed the remains and were back on the beach, hunched over their findings. He watched Cathy as she stood and stretched, rubbing the small of her back. She waved him over, her hand still blue-gloved.

  ‘All done?’ The bones were laid out on the pebbles, bagged and labelled.

  She nodded. ‘As much as we can from here. As we suspected, it’s a complete skeleton. Impossible to say how old at this point. The damp environment no doubt hastened decomposition. No trace of clothing or shoes, but if the body’s been here long enough, they could have decomposed.’

  ‘How long for a pair of shoes to rot away, then?’

  Cathy wrinkled her nose. ‘Depends on the material and how much of it there was. Pair of leather sandals could be gone in twenty years. Boots would take longer. Maybe fifty. Of course, she could have been placed here naked.’

  ‘It is a woman, then.’ The words caught in his throat.

  ‘I’m pretty certain it’s female, judging by the size of the skull and the pelvis. We’ll know for sure after we’ve got them back to the lab.’

  He felt a knot forming in his stomach. It was cold and heavy. He’d dealt with enough dead girls to last ten lifetimes. ‘Very impressive. But depressing.’

  She seemed not to detect the melancholy in his words. ‘That’s not the impressive bit.’ She picked up the bag containing the skull and carefully removed it. ‘Look.’ She held it up, pointed to a depression on the right side, above the ear cavity.

  ‘Fractured?’

  She nodded. ‘Violently.’

  ‘How can you tell this didn’t happen afterwards? Rock falling on it or something?’

  ‘The lines are too sharp for it to have happened any significant time after death. Post-mortem bones are dryer—any cracking would be jagged; the bone would crumble. And look at the shape of the break.’ She traced it with her finger. ‘Deeper and narrower at the top, wide and shallow at the bottom. That wasn’t made by a rock.’

  ‘Right.’ He kneaded his brow. ‘Not that it could have been anything other than murder, I suppose. Body stuffed in a bloody cave. Dammit!’ He kicked at the pebbles, sending several flying towards Marquis, who was approaching in what looked like a panic.

  ‘What is it, Marquis?’ he snapped, and Marquis’s face fell into the sort of expression Michael would expect to see on a faithful dog who had just been kicked, which only served to further exasperate him. ‘Well, spit it out!’

  ‘There’s someone coming down to the beach.’

  ‘Who the bloody hell is this now?’ Michael squinted against the sun to see a tall, lean figure descending the steps down to the bay at a rate of knots.

  ‘Hey!’ Michael waved up at the figure. ‘Hey, this is a crime scene!’ He strode to the bottom of the steps, where the man stopped. He was sallow-faced and skeletally thin. His shirt stuck to his underarms, and his upper lip and brow shone with sweat. His voice trembled as he spoke.

  ‘I’m Martin.’ He coughed. ‘Martin Langlais. The constable. There’s a body.’ He took deep, rattling breaths.

  ‘I know that, Constable. We’ve been down here since first bloody light. Where have you been? You were supposed to meet us—’

  ‘No, no,’ Constable Langlais interrupted.

  ‘You bloody were. Seven thirty we got here!’

  ‘No, I mean not here.’

  ‘The hell are you talking about?’ Michael could feel a rare explosion of temper coming on. It was too much—the early start, another dead woman (so help him God) and now this blathering idiot.

  ‘The body. Not here. It’s Reg . . . old Reg Carré . . . Blood everywhere. I’ve never seen anything like it.’

  And with that Martin Langlais slumped to his knees.

  7

  Jenny

  The next ferry back to Guernsey left at two. Jenny ordered a coffee at the new café in the village and sat at a table outside. Snippets of conversation floated over to her as people walked past.

  ‘. . . police have been down there for hours . . .’

  ‘. . . you know what I think . . .’

  Two men, voices low, conspiratorial—the tone and timbre of juicy gossip being shared. Jenny left her seat and approached them. They stopped mid-conversation.

  ‘Can I help you?’ The younger of the two, in his mid-forties, strong-featured, had an air of authority about him, but he spoke in a gentle, enquiring manner. He was dressed smartly, in chinos despite the heat, and a short-sleeved shirt.

  ‘I couldn’t help overhearing you. My name’s Jenny Dorey. I’m here from the Guernsey News. I was wondering if you had a minute to talk?’

  The older man, tall and red-faced with a mane of thick white hair, shook his head. ‘You’re not putting me in that rag. No offence, love. More of a broadsheet reader myself. I’ll be in later, Joe, about the knee.’ He gave a wave and hurried off, limping slightly.

  ‘Don’t mind him. He’s a bit of a character.’ The younger man extended a hand. ‘Joe Lawton.’ He paused. ‘Seems more likely you might know what’s going on at Derrible. Presume you’ve been down there?’ he asked.

  ‘The area’s sealed off. I believe the police will be making a statement later today,’ she dodged. ‘But I’m sure people are already talking.’

  ‘They are. I’m not included in the gossip, though. Only been here since April. It’s probably for the best—I’m the doctor. It can be a bit awkward knowing too much about people in such a small place. Everyone’s shocked, though—I can tell you that much. Beyond that, there’s a lot of speculation about who it might be, obviously.’

  ‘Any names?’

  He smiled. ‘Like I said, nobody tells me.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I must be going. I’m late for my next appointment. Nice meeting you.’

  Jenny returned to her coffee. She opened her laptop. Thought about a headline. Fought the urge to go with ‘Terrible Derrible’, which is what she’d called the beach as a kid. Knowing Graham’s penchant for the melodramatic, he’d love it, but it seemed too glib for the seriousness of the situation. A sharp smell interrupted her thoughts—woody, overtly
masculine. A shadow fell over her table.

  ‘Ms Dorey?’

  She looked up. A man stood across from her, scalp shining beneath closely shorn hair, large aviator-style sunglasses hiding his eyes.

  ‘It is Ms Dorey, isn’t it? I was wondering if I might join you?’ He sat before she had a chance to say anything, folding his long, lean body into the wicker chair, stretching his legs out to the side. He motioned to the waitress.

  ‘Cappuccino, please, Stacey.’

  The waitress smiled. ‘Coming right up, Mr Monroe.’

  Jenny closed her laptop. ‘I don’t think we’ve met?’

  ‘But you know who I am.’ He took off his sunglasses and polished the lenses before placing them on the table. His eyes were large and bright green, framed with long, thick eyelashes, feminine almost, and completely at odds with his nose, which was bent out of shape. It had been broken, Jenny thought, more than once.

  ‘Corey Monroe.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘How can I help you?’

  He smiled, teeth bleached and gleaming. ‘Shouldn’t you be down on Derrible?’

  ‘It’s a crime scene. One of the officers is meeting me here,’ she lied. Stupid. It was broad daylight; there were plenty of people about, but she’d already been followed this morning and there was something about this man. She didn’t want him to think she was alone.

  ‘All very dramatic.’ He paused and turned his attention to the waitress as she placed his drink on the table. ‘Thanks, love. You’ve changed your hair, haven’t you? Suits you. Look a bit like that Scarlett Johansson now.’ He winked at the girl, who giggled.

  ‘I was wondering,’ he said, still watching the girl as she walked back into the café, ‘if you wouldn’t mind giving me a call.’ He turned his attention back to Jenny and slid a card across the table. He rolled his linen shirtsleeves up over his elbows. He had that easy, self-assured manner the wealthy often had. He was used to being listened to, to getting his own way.

  Jenny picked up the card. ‘What about?’

  ‘Well, it occurred to me recently that with all of the bad blood between myself and a number of the islanders, it might be worth me telling my side of the story. I’ve tried talking to people one on one, arranged meetings, which nobody ever turns up to. Seems like once people have made up their minds, there’s simply no changing them. I could go to one of the nationals, of course, if I wanted to. But I’d like to reach the locals. Everyone here reads the Guernsey News.’ He took a sip of his drink, licked the foam from his top lip.

  Jenny sat up a little straighter. Corey Monroe had never spoken to the News. He’d released statements—cursory comments about some of his properties being vandalised, soundbites about working together with the locals, quotes regarding his newly refurbished hotels being ‘open for business’. But he’d never sat down with a journalist face to face.

  ‘Why now? We’ve approached you many times asking for an interview. You’ve always refused.’

  ‘As I’m sure you can see, Jenny, things have reached a bit of a stalemate. There are people here who, for some bizarre reason, think that I mean the island harm. It’s virtually impossible to find people to work with me.’ He shook his head. ‘It makes no sense. Not to mention the personal attacks, which frankly have become libellous. I could sue, but I don’t want to punish people.’

  ‘I heard talk of rent hikes. Supply contracts cancelled?’

  ‘Oh yes?’ He smiled again. ‘You see. This is why you’re perfect for the job, Jenny. There’ll be no accusations of sycophancy with you running the show. And that’s all I want. A fair representation of what’s happening over here.’

  He finished his drink.

  ‘Best coffee on the island. I own the place, so don’t worry about paying.’ He put his sunglasses back on and she saw herself reflected in them. She looked uncomfortable, unsure of herself. She tried to relax her shoulders, to smile professionally as he got up to leave.

  ‘I’ll be in touch. Probably best to wait until we have the full story about Derrible.’

  ‘I don’t know about that, Jenny. What better time to bring the island together than now, in the wake of a tragedy?’ He took a five-pound note out of his wallet and placed it under his cup.

  The waitress came out of the café and waved. ‘See you tomorrow, Mr Monroe.’ Her smile fell as soon as he’d left. She started to clear the table.

  ‘Comes in regularly, does he?’ Jenny asked.

  ‘Every day.’

  ‘You don’t sound very happy about it.’

  The girl stopped what she was doing and glared at Jenny. ‘I know who you are. Don’t you go writing anything I say about him—I need this job.’

  Jenny held up her hands. ‘I’m just making conversation! Is there anyone on this island who doesn’t know who I am?’

  The waitress shrugged. ‘Probably not. People have been talking about the body on the beach. Someone said there was a reporter down by Derrible. Then I heard you talking with Monroe.’ She pocketed the money he had left on the table.

  ‘Well, he’s a good tipper, if nothing else.’ Jenny started to pack up her things.

  ‘Everywhere else they spit in his coffee.’

  ‘Not here, though?’

  The girl glanced over her shoulder before replying. ‘Not as far as he knows.’

  Jenny stared at the empty cup, feeling slightly ill.

  The girl noted her look of distaste. ‘He deserves it. I’ve heard all sorts of rumours about what goes on over in his mansion. We all have.’

  ‘Like what?’

  The interesting turn in the conversation was stopped short by the sound of a shriek from the end of the street. Two older women, one with her hand pressed over her mouth. Another joined them. There was a rapid exchange of words.

  ‘. . . just now . . .’

  ‘. . . police have gone running up there . . .’

  Jenny ran over to them. ‘Is everything OK?’

  These ladies at least did not seem concerned as to who she might be. They answered immediately with a volley of information.

  ‘It’s Reg Carré, up at his cottage.’

  ‘Known him all my life!’

  ‘Murdered!’

  There was a moment of stunned silence, as though the whole street were listening.

  ‘Murder? Are you sure? Where did you hear this?’ Jenny asked. There must be some confusion, she reasoned, with the events on Derrible—small-town gossip gone into overdrive.

  The smallest of the ladies answered. ‘It’s true! I saw Constable Langlais about twenty minutes ago. He’d stopped on his bike and he looked a terrible state and I asked him, “You all right, Martin?” and he said, “Reg is dead.”’ She shook her head. ‘Not “dead”—“killed”, he said. Reg has been killed and we shouldn’t go near his place, and that’s when I saw the police were following him.’

  ‘The Guernsey Police?’

  The woman nodded. ‘They were here already, weren’t they? There’s another body on Derrible. Good grief. I need to sit down. This isn’t right. This is Sark! What’s happening?’

  She looked at Jenny, as if she might hold the answers.

  ‘Where does Mr Carré live?’

  ‘Off Rue du Fort. The path down to the common. Middle of nowhere. You’re not to go there, though—Martin said!’

  Jenny left the women to their disbelief and walked slowly back to the café. She checked her watch. Less than an hour until the ferry back to Guernsey. But there was a sailing at four, another at six. She picked up her things and walked with her bike to the crossroads. Straight down the hill to the harbour. Or left towards Rue du Fort. It was wide and straight, one of the main routes to the north and, as island roads went, busy—filled with the sounds of Sark. A horse and carriage plodded up ahead, the clip-clopping of hooves, rhythmical, comforting, like a nursery rhyme. The ringing of a bicycle bell. Glasses chinking, laughter from the beer garden opposite. In the distance, the chug of a tractor. And somewhere,
beyond, the silence of a dead man.

  8

  Rachel

  1978

  Perhaps she could blame it on the island; the sunshine had turned her skin pink, then pale gold, bringing out the freckles on her cheeks and nose. The breeze lifted her hair and her skirts, and she felt, for the first time in years, carefree.

  She and Meg spent the morning swimming at Venus Pool. It had taken them ages to find it: neither of them could follow the ramblers’ map they’d picked up at the tourist information centre and they’d taken several wrong turns before they reached the shoreline. She wasn’t even sure that this was the one—they’d passed other similar rock pools on the way. This was the deepest, though, deep enough to jump into, and the surface was polished like glass, bright seaweed and anemones scattered over the bottom.

  They were hot and sweating, so they stripped down to their costumes and leaped in, screeching as they hit the water. She surfaced quickly, gasping with the cold, eyes stinging, skin tingling. Awake. She swam to the edge of the pool. Looked out to sea. Thought of the endless possibilities.

  ‘Fuck. I’m not staying in here.’ Meg’s foul language was a new thing. It didn’t suit her, with her private-school accent. She had one too, but it was cultivated. She had studied the silky-smooth vowels of her fellow students, speaking only when spoken to and very carefully, until she was sure she could fully replicate it. Only then did she join in, begin to make friends. Not that she had been ashamed of the way she spoke. She just understood the importance of fitting in. Of making other people feel comfortable. It had worked. She’d made good friends. Useful ones, with money, like Meg.