Dark Sky Island

by Lara Dearman

  ‘Liked a crab did Reg. I used to take him one every now and then.’

  ‘Had you seen him recently?’

  He turned. ‘Course I’d seen him. See everyone. Little as possible suits me, but I have to go into the village sometimes. We didn’t really talk much. Two old men. Nothing to say to each other, not anymore. We drifted apart a bit after he and his wife had a baby. That was thirty-odd years ago. Then played a bit of cards together, up at the Seigneurie.’ He stopped. ‘What is all this? I don’t want to be in the bloody paper. Don’t know why I’m talking to you. You caught me off guard, saying you wanted to ask me about Charlie. You just say that to get in the door?’ He spoke quickly now, as though agitated.

  She put her pen down. ‘No.’

  ‘Well, good. I’m not doing an interview about Reg bloody Carré, I’ll tell you that much.’

  ‘I’m sorry. All the questions are a force of habit. I really did want to ask you about my dad.’

  He picked up the tea towel, twisting it in his hands. ‘He was a good man.’

  ‘Thank you. How did you know him?’

  ‘He fished. I fish. Saw him all the time, unloading in Guernsey. I used to sell to some of the restaurants, same as he did. We’d chat. He’d come over for a drink, play some cards. Sometimes when he was supposed to be out working.’

  ‘He spent more time over here, I think, those last months before he died. Did you see more of him?’ And what was he doing, she wanted to ask, scribbling nonsense in his diary after his trips over? but she forced herself to take it slowly. She did not want to risk rattling Len again.

  He shifted. Winced. ‘I suppose I did.’

  ‘Anything you can tell me about that time? Not for a story, obviously. I . . . I have so many questions about what happened to him. How the accident happened. You’ll know, if you ever saw him on his boat, he was better on sea than on land . . . or perhaps I’m wrong.’ She attempted a smile. ‘Perhaps I just saw what I wanted to see and you’re going to tell me he was clumsy and getting old and you’re not surprised he fell overboard.’

  He stared at her for what felt like minutes.

  ‘I’m dying. Cancer.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘I thought you were from the hospital. They’ve sent a couple of people to try to persuade me to come over for treatment.’

  ‘You’re not having treatment?’

  ‘It’s in my bones. Terminal. The doctor here can prescribe me pain medication. I’m not taking too much just yet, but they say it will get worse quickly. They say if I go to Guernsey, they could prolong my life. But that’s different to living, don’t you think? I’ve a few good months left. I want to spend them here.’

  He looked her in the eye for the first time, she realised, since she’d entered his house.

  ‘Do you know your Bible?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘I do. Methodist. Lapsed. No surprise I’ve been thinking on it all a bit more recently, eh? Thinking about getting back to church, making my peace with God. Asking for forgiveness. Too late, though, eh? Too late.’

  ‘Forgiveness?’ Her voice caught in her throat. ‘For what?’

  ‘Too late.’ He appeared not to have heard her. ‘“He is chastened also with pain upon his bed, and the multitude of his bones with strong pain.” That’s me, isn’t it? Chastened, with pain in my bones. Better or worse than what Reg got? I wonder.’

  ‘You’re losing me, Mr Mauger.’ He was rambling, she thought. Too much time spent alone and ill—he was losing his mind. Or he knew something.

  ‘What did Reg get, exactly?’

  ‘Wait here.’ He got up, walked out of the room.

  She heard the stairs creaking, then footsteps from above. She had made a mistake coming here, but she couldn’t leave, not if there was a chance Len knew something, anything about Charlie’s death. She checked her phone, wanting some connection to the outside world. No messages. No signal. She walked to the back door, held her phone in the air.

  ‘Here.’

  He’d come back so quietly he startled her and she turned sharply.

  ‘This was delivered to me a couple of years ago. Slipped under my door.’ He laid a piece of paper on the table.

  She stepped towards it, blinking to refocus in the dim interior after the glare of the sunlight outside.

  She stared at the words. Block capitals. Black pen on grubby paper.

  YOU’RE NEXT.

  ‘A couple of years ago?’ Jenny’s words caught in the back of her throat. ‘When exactly?’

  Len’s expression was grim.

  ‘The day after your father disappeared.’

  14

  Michael

  The boat journey back to Guernsey was mercifully short and quiet. Even Jenny was unusually subdued and did not linger to talk to him beyond a brief goodbye and a thank you, exhausted, presumably, like he was. And his day wasn’t over yet.

  Luke Carré had been notified of his father’s death by telephone. Michael had given him as little information as he could, mentioning only that there were ‘extraordinary circumstances’ surrounding Reg’s death and that he needed to speak to Luke in person as soon as possible. Which meant going there now, straight from the ferry. Michael got into his car and peered into his rear-view mirror. He ran a hand through his hair, which felt stiff and wiry after his day in the sun and the salt air. Sand had settled on his scalp. He gave it a rub and the grains sprinkled his shoulders and lap. He closed his eyes, thought about sinking into the sofa, or, better still, standing under a cool shower, washing away the grime of the day. He could drift off here, he thought, warm and quiet, cocooned in his car. He could almost feel himself slipping into a dream and he shook himself awake, started the engine. One more job before home.

  The Carré residence was situated halfway down the narrow and twisting Icart Road. Mackintosh roses adorned a glass panel set in the top half of the front door. Behind it, a hazy glow from the hallway light threw red and green glimmers onto the doorstep. He glanced up at the rest of the house—large Victorian shutters, well-stocked planters on the ground floor sills, shaped bay trees on either side of the front door. Luke Carré might only have moved a few miles away from his home, but he could hardly have been further away from that tiny cottage on Sark. Intrigued, Michael rang the doorbell.

  ‘Nice place.’ Michael surveyed the tastefully decorated living room. Even the paint looked expensive, the tones richer than anything he’d ever put on his walls, all navies and neutrals. A delicate chandelier hung in the middle of the room; the fireplace was tiled with the sort of tiles you saw in home décor magazines, intricately patterned, the glaze cracked—chic, rather than shabby.

  ‘Thank you.’

  Michael took a sip of his coffee, which had been produced from a gleaming piece of machinery that ground beans and steamed milk all with the press of a polished chrome button, and studied the man sitting opposite him. Tall and athletically built, with just enough stubble to look rakish, Michael thought the word was, not scruffy. Very tired eyes, though. And his demeanour, sort of defeated, round-shouldered, slumped back in the chair. Not a happy man. Which was understandable, what with him having just found out that his father had been brutally murdered.

  ‘I understand that you were in Sark only a few days ago, Mr Carré. Visiting your dad, were you?’

  Luke nodded.

  ‘You went over to see him often, did you?’

  ‘Fairly often. More so recently. When I realised he was struggling. Getting muddled. I was starting to think he had dementia.’

  ‘I see. What were his symptoms?’

  ‘Oh, going on about things that happened years ago. Not making any sense. Forgetting what he’d done last week. He lost his bike. Forgot where he put it but was convinced somebody had stolen it. That sort of thing.’

  ‘Sounds like me on a good day.’ Michael smiled.

  Luke shrugged. ‘Perhaps it was nothing. Old age. Still. I felt like I should check in on him
. It was just the two of us, family-wise.’

  ‘You were close, then?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I understand your mother left when you were young.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Are you in touch with her?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Any idea why she left? Her relationship with your dad, how was it?’

  ‘I was only nine, Inspector. I’m not sure I understood the first thing about their relationship. I never saw my dad hit her, if that’s what you mean. He wasn’t violent, not ever. I presume my mother was just unhappy.’

  ‘Why’s that, then?’

  ‘She barely knew my father when they got married. They had a holiday romance. A wedding a few months later. Then I came along soon after. I was a very fussy child apparently. Hardly slept, cried all the time. Drove her half mad, Dad said. He worked; she stayed at home with me. She was lonely, depressed.’

  ‘Must have been very difficult for you after she left.’

  ‘I missed her, obviously. But I had Dad. He did his best.’

  ‘Anything in particular prompt your visit last week? Had your dad seemed more confused than usual? Did he mention he was worried about anything? Or anyone?’

  He hesitated, looked uncomfortable for the first time. ‘Dad helped me out. Sent me money every month, has done since I left home. Last month, it didn’t come, and usually I wouldn’t have asked for it, but with Anna, my wife, leaving and I’m between jobs . . . I tried calling him about it, but he sounded confused. I’ve got a lot of time on my hands at the moment, so I thought I’d go over, check on Dad, do some fishing.’

  ‘Ah, a fisherman.’

  ‘Spear fishing.’

  ‘Bass?’

  ‘Mostly.’

  ‘So you did a bit of diving and then went and checked on your dad?’

  Luke nodded.

  ‘How was he?’

  ‘He seemed a little confused. No more so than usual. He was rambling on about all sorts. Wanted to show me the guinea pigs. I’ve never liked those bloody things. Anyway, I helped him clean up a bit. Asked him about the money. He thought he’d sent it already.’

  ‘Did he mention anything that might have made you think he was in danger? Any arguments he’d had recently, anything out of the ordinary that had happened to him?’

  ‘Not really. He said he thought he was being followed, but honestly, he’s always been paranoid, and like I said, it seemed pretty obvious to me he was losing his marbles. He told me he’d heard the bloody Tchico howling in the night. Thought it was coming for him. Maybe he was right.’ He shook his head.

  ‘The Tchico, eh? Ghost dog, isn’t it? There I was thinking it lived on Guernsey.’

  ‘Oh, there’s one on Sark too. Red eyes and fangs and jangling chains, apparently. If you get a glimpse of him, your time’s up. I told Dad it was more likely to be a living, breathing dog he heard. There was nothing ghostly about the dog shit all over his front garden.’

  ‘You weren’t worried enough to get him to the doctor, or think about having someone check in on him?’

  ‘What was going to happen to him on Sark?’ Luke seemed to realise what he’d said. ‘I mean, how could I have known anything like this would happen? I thought the worst case was he’d have a fall or wander into the wrong house or something, but everyone knows him over there. They all look out for each other.’

  ‘Even though he wasn’t a popular man, from what I’ve heard.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s true. Who said that?’

  ‘Oh, just overheard locals talking. Said he could be a bit difficult.’

  ‘He was a touch temperamental. More so in his old age. But he had friends. It wasn’t easy for him either. Marrying Mum, me coming along. He had big plans, he always told me. Wanted to see the world. Ended up stuck his whole life on three square miles in the English Channel.’

  Michael nodded slowly. ‘His friends. Anyone we should talk to?’

  Luke was visibly upset. ‘I shouldn’t have left him there. Should have made him come home with me. Not like I don’t have the room.’ He sighed. ‘Len Mauger. He and Dad were friends for years. And then there was Malcolm Perré. Me and his son, Ben, were friends. Mum and Dad used to spend time with Malcolm and his wife, Sharon. Whether or not they were still friendly I don’t know.’

  A phone ringing from the hallway.

  ‘Excuse me a minute.’

  Michael wandered over to the fireplace, looking at the photographs standing on the mantelpiece. Wedding picture. Arty, black and white. Her, bare foot on the sand, him with his dickie bow untied laughing. One of Luke at the finish line of the London Marathon. Michael heard Luke, voice raised, then silence, the lounge door opening.

  Luke joined him at the mantelpiece, pointed to the wedding picture. ‘My wife’s moved back to her parents’ in Shropshire.’

  ‘Sorry to hear that. Been married long?’

  ‘Six years.’

  ‘Any chance of you patching things up?’

  He shrugged. ‘She hated it here.’

  ‘Really?’ Michael looked around the room. ‘In this lovely house?’

  ‘Not the house. Guernsey. When I lost my job, she said there was nothing keeping us here, wanted to move. History repeating itself. Thank fuck we don’t have any kids.’ He gave another of those world-weary sighs.

  Michael gave him a genuinely sympathetic smile. ‘Do you have any pictures of your mum? There were none at your dad’s place.’

  Luke shook his head. ‘Dad burned them all after she left.’

  ‘There’s none of you, either.’

  Luke shrugged. ‘He wasn’t the sentimental type.’

  ‘Where were you this morning, Mr Carré?’ As intended, Michael caught Luke off guard and he flinched. But that didn’t mean anything, not necessarily.

  ‘I . . . This morning, I was running. I’m training for a triathlon.’

  ‘All morning?’

  ‘Went out early. Was back here by nine, I suppose.’

  ‘You train alone?’

  ‘No. With my friend. Seb. Sebastian Clarke.’

  ‘Very good. If you could just write down his contact details, the times you were with him and where, and we’ll get that all verified.’

  He passed Luke the notebook and pen, and Luke scribbled down the details.

  ‘After your run, you do anything? See anyone?’

  Luke shook his head. ‘I’ve been . . . I’ve not been getting out so much recently, with everything that’s been going on.’

  ‘I understand. Divorce is a tough gig, I don’t mind telling you. Just a couple more things, Mr Carré, and then I’ll leave you in peace. Your dad sent you money every month, you said?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘A thousand pounds.’

  Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘Where was a retired gardener finding that sort of money?’

  ‘Dad never really talked about it.’

  ‘And you weren’t curious?’

  Luke shrugged. ‘His father owned a lot of land. Dad was from a wealthy family. He could trace them all the way back to the original tenement holders. I think he just lived the way he did to spite himself.’

  ‘Hm. Well, we’ll soon find out, I suppose. And as his only known relative, I’m guessing you’ll inherit anything he did have. Doesn’t make anything right, but it’ll come in handy, what with you losing your job and the divorce. They’re bloody expensive, by the way—I forgot to mention that.’

  ‘Like I said, Inspector, we never discussed money. Besides, considering the way he was acting this week, Dad may well have left everything to his guinea pigs.’ A muscle in Luke’s cheek flexed.

  Michael studied the young man in front of him. There was something behind his eyes, pain or anger, something he was struggling to keep in check.

  ‘You know, they say there’s a very fine line between love and hate, and it’s true. I’ve seen people do terrible things to those th
at they love. Terrible things. Worse than they’d do to a stranger. Family, eh?’ He shook his head. ‘I’ll be in touch, Mr Carré.’

  15

  Jenny

  She waded through the warm shallows. Overnight cloud cover had prevented yesterday’s heat from fully escaping. As she went deeper, she could feel the colder water below wrapping round her ankles, then her thighs. She dived in, disrupting the layers, needing the cold this morning, something to shock her system, to shake the lack of sleep from her bones.

  She’d not spoken to Michael on the boat journey back from Sark the previous evening. She’d sensed his exhaustion, and that of the officers around him, but more importantly, she had wanted to avoid talking about her conversation with Len Mauger. She needed time to figure out what everything meant. She needed to speak with him again.

  Out in the bay, the air was sticky and opaque. She could barely see the loophole tower on the headland at L’Ancresse, the point she always swam towards, keeping her parallel to the beach. Several times she stopped, trod water, trying to get her bearings, waiting for the flash of red and gold, the Guernsey flag, flickering at the top of the tower. She swam until her arms began to ache, then stopped. Floated. Faced outwards, to the Channel. There was a space between the water and the cloud. It was colourless; neither the dark of the water nor the light of the sky. It was nothingness, she thought. She stretched out her limbs and floated in it.

  She took her time getting dried. She felt wearier than when she’d woken, after only a couple of hours’ sleep, disturbed by fragments of vivid dreams and the sensation that the room was shifting, rolling from side to side, the carpet transformed to water, the bed to a boat, as she slept.

  She dressed, pulling an old Guernsey over her T-shirt. It was a rough-textured sweater, knitted from yarns soaked in oils to waterproof them, then twisted to make them stronger, able to withstand years of exposure to damp air. When she was younger, she’d refused to wear one; it was itchy she’d said, when Charlie had presented her with her first. Now, she had several—she’d grown to love the feel of the coarse fibres against her skin, the smell of the sea that seemed to settle into the wool over time.