by Lara Dearman
‘Fuck off, Fallaize.’
‘But if I do that, I won’t be able to tell you my secret. Well, it’s not mine really. It’s your boyfriend’s. He’s been keeping something from you.’
Jenny’s stomach twisted. If Elliot really was sleeping around, the last person she wanted to hear it from was DS Fallaize.
‘How would you know?’ She couldn’t help herself.
‘Well, I work with him, don’t I? See what he’s up to, even if he tries to hide it.’
Jenny let out a breath. He was talking about Michael.
‘Yep. He’s been carrying that case file around with him. Ever since he met you. The whole time you’ve been harping on about it.’
‘What case file?’ Cold crept into the base of her spine, sending a shiver through her.
‘Your daddy’s,’ he whispered. ‘Every time you ask him about it, he tells you to stop fretting, doesn’t he? Tells his little Jenny not to worry. Because he doesn’t want you to know the truth.’
‘Which is?’
‘He’s known for months your dad was murdered. And he’s done fuck all about it.’
28
Michael
Michael paced the church hall. There was not a lot of room. They’d managed to cram four desks into the small space, plus a whiteboard covered with his barely legible scribblings and Post-it notes. It was noisy: two officers were on the phone; Bachelet was nose to his screen, furiously typing.
‘Where are we with Tuesday Jones?’
Bachelet looked up. ‘The background information and the interview notes are on your desk, sir. Me and DS Fallaize spoke to her this afternoon. She has alibis for Monday morning—several people went in and out of her shop booking tours. She said she took telephone bookings as well during the morning. We’re checking the records. All seems pretty watertight.’
‘Still. There’s something. What about the bones in the cave?’ He picked up the notes and flicked through them.
‘I don’t believe we asked her about them, sir.’
‘I specifically said I wanted to know why she’d asked that question at the meeting. And where are we with Reg Carré’s bank statements?’
Bachelet looked blankly around the room.
‘Where’s DC Marquis when you bloody need him, eh? Apparently he’s the only bugger around here who knows how to follow up a lead.’
‘Oh, he called, sir.’ Bachelet flicked through his notes and read them back to Michael. ‘He said he had a Lemsip, managed to get into the station for a couple of hours—he’s been looking into the whereabouts of Rachel Carré. Said he can’t find any trace of her. There’s no record of the marriage at the Greffe even, so he can’t find a maiden name. Said it’s like she never existed.’
‘They weren’t married. So she wasn’t Carré? Who the bloody hell was she, then? Jesus wept. We’re getting nowhere.’
He threw down the paperwork. Rubbed his forehead. It was no good. He had to talk to the kid. He wasn’t supposed to. Not without the family liaison. But these were extraordinary circumstances. The boy was the only lead they had. The picture itself was no use. A child’s drawing, no detail as to what the man looked like. But perhaps the kid had seen something else. Noticed the way the suspect walked, heard him speak, seen in which direction he’d gone. Perhaps he’d seen the weapon. A long, slim, curved blade, forensics had said. And as sharp as they come. No wonder he was terrified. And Michael understood that his mother wanted to protect him. But there was a killer on the loose. It was so irresponsible. He felt a wave of anger towards Tanya Le Page, and people like her, who deliberately held back information, for whatever reason. It was followed by a wave of shame. He was in no position to judge.
‘I’m going out.’
‘Do you want me to come, sir?’ Bachelet, sounding like it was the last thing he wanted to do.
‘No. I think it’s best I do this one on my own.’
He rapped on Tanya Le Page’s door. There was a light on upstairs. Shadows moving behind the closed curtains. Someone was definitely home. He knocked again. Still no answer. Just after seven. Tanya was probably putting the boy to bed. He tried the door. Locked. Of course. He didn’t want to scare them. But this couldn’t wait until the morning. He hammered on the door.
‘Police! Open up!’
That did the trick.
‘What’s going on?’
‘I need to speak with you and your son, Ms Le Page.’
‘We’ve been through this. He won’t say anything!’
‘I have reason to doubt that.’
‘What reason?’ There was an edge to her voice now. He needed to tread carefully. To keep her on side.
‘Ms Le Page. Please. Can I come in?’
She seemed to think about it for a moment, then nodded, opened the door fully. Stood opposite him in the hallway, arms folded.
‘I understand you’re trying to protect your son, Ms Le Page, I really do. But he won’t need protecting once we’ve caught whoever he saw at Reg’s house, now will he? And I have reason to believe Arthur can help us.’ He took out the sketchbook. Showed her the drawing. She barely glanced at it, but her cheeks paled.
‘Where did you get that?’
‘A passer-by picked it up. Near your house. It is Arthur’s, isn’t it?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Yes.’ A small voice. Arthur stood at the top of the stairs, wrapped in a Spiderman dressing gown. ‘I lost it.’
Michael smiled at him. ‘Well, lucky for you it’s been found. You can have it back. I just need to ask you a couple of questions about this picture. Would that be all right?’
Arthur looked at his mother.
She nodded at him. ‘It’s OK. Come on down, Arthur.’
She took her son’s hand and pulled him close to her, led him through to the living room. Michael followed. All he needed was a description. Then he could leave the kid and his mum alone. There was no reason anyone on the force would even have to know he had come here.
‘So you like drawing, do you, Arthur?’
He nodded.
‘Well, I can see from this you’re very good at it. Now, I know this is hard to talk about, but this is the man you saw, isn’t it? The one you called the Beast Man?’
Arthur looked at his mother.
‘You can tell him, sweetheart.’ Her hands were clasped neatly in her lap. Her knuckles were white.
The boy nodded.
‘And it looks to me that he’s wearing a mask, doesn’t it? Bit like a superhero, eh? Was he wearing it the whole time, Arthur?’
He nodded again.
‘Great. You’re good at this, eh? Doing very well you are. So, just a couple more questions. Was the man already there when you arrived at the house?’
‘Yes.’
‘And he was in the room? With Mr Carré?’
‘Yes.’
‘And what were they doing? Were they talking?’
A shake of the head this time.
‘No? Were they fighting, maybe? Was this man hurting Mr Carré?’
Another shake. ‘Mr Carré was on the floor.’
‘When you got there? He was already on the floor?’
A nod.
‘And this man, Arthur, where was he?’
Nothing. Eyes to the floor.
‘Where in the room was he?’
A tear fell to the floor, leaving a tiny, dark splash on the carpet. ‘He was bending over Mr Carré.’
‘I see. Very good. And, Arthur, did he see you?’
A shake of the head. More tears. ‘I don’t think so. I was looking through the window.’
‘Good stuff. So the man was bending over Mr Carré. Then what did he do?’
‘He went.’
‘Out the front or the back?’
He was quiet for a moment. ‘The back. I think the back.’
‘Brilliant! I’ll be keeping an eye on you, I will—you’ll be a detective before you know it. Now, what did you do after the man went out the back,
Arthur?’
‘I went into the house. To see if Mr Carré was all right and to—’
Tanya took a sharp breath. ‘Do we have to make him relive this? For fuck’s sake, this can’t be bloody necessary!’ She got up, went into the kitchen. Came back typing furiously into her phone.
‘You pressured me into this. It was completely inappropriate, you coming here, bullying me into letting you in.’
‘Now, Ms Le Page, I did no such thing.’
‘I’m alone here—you know that. What am I supposed to do when a policeman hammers on my door? Refuse entry? How was I to know how you’d react?’
‘I’m sorry if you felt that way, Mrs Le Page. I didn’t mean to intimidate you in any way—I’m just desperate to catch this man. To make sure you and Arthur can sleep soundly again. And I’m done here. You’ve both been really helpful. Thank you.’
‘Can I have my book back, please?’ Arthur held out his hand.
‘Of course you can. I’m going to borrow this page, though, OK?’ Michael tore the page with the drawing of the Beast Man out and held the sketchbook out for Arthur. The poor little mite was shaking and the book fell open on the floor. ‘Whoops. There you go, buddy.’ Michael bent down and picked it up. ‘Some other good drawings there, aren’t there?’ Michael looked at the pirate ship on the open page. He was filled with an odd feeling of familiarity. ‘Very nice. Like pirates, do you?’
‘Yes.’
Michael flicked through the book.
‘Are you done?’ Tanya demanded.
Michael’s eyes met hers. Searched them for some recognition. Some acknowledgement of what he’d just seen. Her gaze was cool and steady. Her outstretched hand, however, trembled.
‘I’m going to have to borrow this one too, Arthur. Hope that’s all right.’ He didn’t wait for the boy’s response but tore a second page out of the book. He handed it back to Tanya.
Outside the house, he took out his phone. Called the incident room. The signal was too weak: the call failed to collect. Shit. He wanted to watch the house. To make sure she stayed put. He searched for Wi-Fi. Found ‘lepageguest’. No padlock. Sent a message to Fallaize, one to Bachelet. He walked a few feet away from the house and waited in the shadows.
29
Fallaize
Fallaize lay on a bed in the shitty B&B the force had put him in and tried to sleep. Every time he began to drift off, some fucked-up part of his brain jerked him back into consciousness. What the hell had he spoken to that Dorey bitch for? He’d had too much to drink, thought he’d try to throw Gilbert off his game, but it was just as likely to backfire. That woman was like a dog with a bone. She was never going to let it drop.
His phone pinged. He reached out for it, held it in front of his face, tried to focus on the words.
Shit. He sat up. She was panicking. If she was panicking, it was fucking bad. He tried to think of a vaguely reassuring response. He fumbled, pressing each letter firmly, deliberately.
I’ll deal with it.
But he couldn’t. He couldn’t keep a lid on things. Not here.
He closed his eyes. The phone pinged again. He was tempted to ignore her. But that would be stupid. And dangerous. He squinted at the screen.
It wasn’t her.
It was Gilbert.
Fuck.
30
Jenny
Michael had not been at the church hall, and nobody seemed to know where he’d gone. She’d cycled around for half an hour looking for him and eventually decided to sit in the Mermaid, where at least she had a decent phone signal. Not that it was doing her any good, because he wasn’t picking up. She’d drunk two more glasses of wine and left him three voicemails, her tone shifting from questioning (‘Fallaize just told me something. I’m sure it’s nothing, but . . .’) to challenging (‘Did you, Michael? Did you know about this?’) and, finally, accusatory (‘You did, didn’t you? You fucking knew. When I get my hands on those files, I’m going to blow this whole thing wide open, Michael! Answer the phone, goddamnit!’). After the last one, she’d slammed the phone on the bar in a fury.
‘How do people live here, not able to bloody call each other or check their emails half the time?’ She directed the question at Tom, but the answer came from behind.
‘Most of the tourists love it. An escape from the stresses and strains of everyday life. Or some such bullshit.’ Luke Carré slid onto the bar stool next to her.
‘Well, I’m not on holiday. I’m trying to work.’
‘Are you OK? You’re shaking.’
Jenny placed her hands in her lap. ‘Stressed. And strained. Sark’s clearly not having the intended effect on me.’
‘Well. You’re not here under particularly relaxing circumstances, to be fair. Do you want a drink?’
She shook her head. ‘I’ve had enough.’ Her cheeks were warm and she already regretted that last voicemail to Michael. ‘Rosie at the guesthouse has warned me the weather’s going to “come in” any minute, whatever that means. First thing tomorrow, I’m out of here. Need to get back to the office.’ Back to some semblance of normalcy, she thought. It was a good thing Michael was not answering his phone. She needed to think. To run everything by Elliot. To get some perspective.
‘I’m going tonight.’
Jenny looked at her watch. Squinted at it. ‘The last ferry left ages ago.’
‘Not taking the ferry. Got a boat. Give you a lift if you like.’
‘Can you sail?’
‘I can, as it happens. But I’m not sailing anything. It’s a little motorboat.’
‘Wait, I saw you on the ferry on the way over. Where did the boat come from?’
‘Bloody hell, you are nosey, aren’t you? Had some engine trouble when I was over visiting Dad last week. Left it here for repairs. Now I’m taking it back to Guernsey. Anyway, I’m leaving as soon as I’ve had something to eat. You’re welcome to join me.’
‘And you’re all right . . . motorboating in the dark?’ Her head was spinning slightly, and she wasn’t sure she was getting her words quite right.
‘I could get back to Guernsey with my eyes closed if I had to. I’ll keep them open, though, don’t worry.’
‘And the weather?’
He shrugged. ‘There’s going to be a storm later. It’s fine for now. Bit of a swell, nothing serious. If we leave in the next half-hour or so, we’ll be back well ahead of it.’
There was nothing else she could do here. And the thought of another night staring at the ceiling in that dusty guesthouse bedroom, worrying about what Fallaize had said, what Michael had done, listening for noises in the night, might be just enough to send her mad. Emboldened by the alcohol, defiant in the face of Michael’s apparent double-cross, she nodded.
‘OK. Thank you. I’ll go and get my stuff.’ She jumped down from the stool. Swayed, just a little. Nothing that the ride back to the guesthouse wouldn’t fix.
‘Boat’s at Dixcart. See you there?’
‘See you there.’
The cool air outside the pub almost immediately cleared the spinning, but left in its place a dull, irritating ache. And the nagging feeling that everything was upside down, that she had made a stupid mistake. It was Michael, she decided. She should not have spoken to him that way. She called him, one last time. Still voicemail. She apologised for the previous message. Told him she was heading back to Guernsey with Luke.
They could talk, she said.
Tomorrow.
31
Michael
Michael’s phone buzzed. His heart sank as he listened to each voicemail, finally settling, a dead weight in his belly. He tucked the phone back in his pocket. There was no time to deal with Jenny now. Fallaize was another matter. Speak of the devil. The younger officer rounded the corner on his bike, coming to a messy stop in the entrance to the field a few hundred feet from Tanya Le Page’s house.
‘Are you drunk, man?’ Michael hissed, as Fallaize seemed to struggle to keep himself upright. ‘What is it with this blo
ody place? Nobody can stay sober for more than five minutes at a time!’
‘I’m fine.’
‘You stink of alcohol. How much have you had?’
‘Just a couple of pints.’
‘And the rest. What the hell have you been saying to Jennifer Dorey?’
Fallaize raised his hands. ‘Boss, I’m sorry. She was asking me all these questions, and you two being so close, I thought she knew about the inconsistencies in her dad’s case. Course, I realised, when I saw her face, that I’d made a big mistake. Makes sense. That you didn’t tell her.’
Michael glared at him. ‘Go back to the B&B. Sleep it off. I’ll deal with you later.’
‘I said I’m fine!’ He lowered his voice in response to Michael’s furious stare. ‘I’m sorry. I had four or five pints. You know what it’s like—the stress gets to you. But I stopped drinking over two hours ago. I’ve sobered up. You said this was urgent. I came as quickly as I could. There’s nobody else here—you may as well make use of me. What’s this about?’
‘Tanya Le Page.’
‘What about her?’
‘She’s involved in the Black Pearl racket.’
Silence. A clearing of the throat. ‘Seems very unlikely.’
‘It does, doesn’t it? But unless that boy of hers is passing his little doodles to whoever is packaging up the pills that are landing on Guernsey by the boatload, Tanya Le Page has her hand in this operation.’ He held out the drawing of the pirate ship. ‘The latest packets we seized all had these motifs on them. Nearly identical ones, at least—pirate ships, same sails, same tiny flag. You’ve seen them; I know you have. They’re the kid’s drawings, I’m sure of it.’
‘That’s ridiculous. All kids’ pictures look the same. What are you going to do, arrest her for letting her kid draw?’ There was the old arrogance back in his voice now, and something else too. Aggression.