by Lara Dearman
She shook. Struggled to hold steady the cup of steaming liquid he had given her. She put it down, fearful of making more mess. She’d vomited what appeared to be gallons of seawater over the carpet as soon as she’d sat up, and she presumed that the blood was hers too. She had yet to feel the sting of the deep cuts on her arms and legs. The soles of her feet were ripped to shreds, but the skin was still swollen, loose and bloodless. She shuddered at the thought of what she’d seen down there. What she’d dreamed, she corrected herself. Or hallucinated. Because none of it had been real.
‘What the hell happened to you?’
‘Fell off a boat.’ It was little more than a whisper and was followed with another bout of coughing. She hunched over, spat up yet more water. ‘Sorry.’
‘Wouldn’t worry. He can afford a new carpet.’ Jenny started at the familiar voice. Turned to see Tuesday Jones, barefoot and wearing a dressing gown, come into the room. Margot, Monroe’s assistant, followed.
‘I’m having Ms Jones’s clothes dried. Can I get anyone anything else?’ Her tone was just-another-day-at-the-office bright and breezy. Jenny thought about the rumours the waitress in Sark had mentioned. She wondered what other weird and unexpected situations Margot had had to deal with.
‘You wouldn’t have some cigarettes, would you, love? Mine got a bit damp.’
‘I’ll be right back.’ She smiled.
‘Very kind.’ Tuesday sat opposite Jenny, put her feet up on the sofa. ‘Lush here, isn’t it?
‘What are you doing here?’ Jenny croaked.
‘She pulled you out of the water. Dragged you halfway to the house. At which point, I heard her screaming and ran out to see what the fuck was going on. I carried you the rest of the way.’
Jenny pulled the towel tightly around herself. ‘How did you know where I was? What were you doing out there?’
‘I was out on the RIB, planning a new route for a tour. It was getting rough. I was about to turn round when I saw a boat. We all know there’s no right of way past Mr Monroe’s house. Thought I’d better check things out. I was just being a good neighbour.’ Corey threw a look in her direction.
Margot returned with a packet of cigarettes and a lighter. Tuesday lit up. Monroe took one. Tucked it behind his ear.
‘As I was saying, I turned into the passage. Lost sight of the boat. I was just about to go back when I saw you. You’re a bloody strong swimmer. Practically launched yourself at the RIB. I hauled you out. Brought you here. Now, I think the question that needs to be answered is, what were you doing out there?’
Jenny had no way of knowing if she could trust Tuesday Jones. And she suspected she could definitely not trust Corey Monroe. But she was out of options. She told them what had happened. When she finished talking, nobody spoke.
‘Well?’ Jenny asked.
Tuesday shook her head. ‘I don’t know anything about Luke Carré, not really. Seen him around over the years, every now and then. Know the story, his mum disappearing and that. Maybe he killed his dad. Not who I would have put my money on, though.’
‘Who would you have put your money on?’
‘Tanya Le Page.’
‘Why would Tanya Le Page kill Reg Carré?’
‘Because he was becoming a liability. She was worried he was going to talk.’
‘About what?’ Jenny felt like the water had swollen her brain too, making it slow and heavy.
‘Drug running.’
‘But that’s ridiculous.’ The thought of Tanya Le Page, frail and worried, running drugs, let alone killing anyone was preposterous. Except . . . hadn’t Jenny detected an edge, a steeliness beneath the surface? And the fact that Tanya did not want Arthur to talk to the police, to describe the killer. Jenny had assumed it was a mother’s protective instinct, but what if she was only trying to protect herself?
‘How does this work? Who else knows about it?’
‘She has a fair amount of Sarkees on her payroll for sure. I reckon the drugs come in from France, are dropped off in Sark and then from there taken to Guernsey, Jersey, the mainland. I’m betting it was one of her guys found those bones. They use the caves to hide the gear.’
‘How do you know all this?’ Jenny asked.
Tuesday shrugged. ‘I don’t, not for sure. But I’m out on the water all the time. I see things—boats that look a bit out of place. Saw a couple of guys on the rocks at Derrible a couple of months ago. It was the crack of dawn. They didn’t look like they were over on a daytrip.’
‘Why has nobody said anything? Why haven’t you?’
‘People who work for her are scared or in her pocket or both. The rest of us don’t have any proof.’
‘I knew something was going on.’ Corey added. The pushback to bringing in reforms, to my investment in the island, people trying to keep me out of local affairs. At first, I thought it was just a small-town mentality, but the force of the resistance against me . . . I’d started to do some digging. I often do background research on people. I like to know who I’m dealing with. I have contacts, people who can find things out for me.’ He threw a glance in Jenny’s direction. He’d had someone look into her background, she thought. That was how he knew about the assault in London.
‘What sort of contacts?’
‘The sort of contacts a lot of money can buy.’
‘Police?’
‘Some. Some from the other side of the tracks.’
He paused. ‘They haven’t had much luck with this. Turns out the Sarkees are very good at keeping secrets.’
‘We need to call Michael.’ Jenny’s voice broke above a rasp for the first time.
They both looked at her blankly.
‘DCI Gilbert. We need to call him now.’ She looked around for a clock. Not yet eleven. It felt like days had passed since she’d left the pub on Sark.
‘He was going to talk to Tanya. He needs to know what’s going on.’
‘You trust him?’ Tuesday asked.
Jenny nodded. ‘With my life.’
Tuesday and Corey were silent, and for a moment, Jenny thought they’d tricked her after all. They were working together, and now that she’d told them everything she knew, they were going to throw her back off the jetty.
Finally, Corey spoke. ‘I’ll call him. Where’s he staying?’ His hands, Jenny noticed, were trembling.
‘I don’t know. Somewhere in the village. A B&B. Try the incident room at the church first. Or Tanya Le Page’s house.’
He nodded and strode out of the room.
Jenny and Tuesday sat side by side in silence.
‘That dressing gown fits you well. Looks exactly your size.’
‘That’s because it’s mine.’ She looked at Jenny. ‘We got friendly. While he was trying to buy me out.’
‘Do you trust him?’ Jenny whispered.
Tuesday smiled grimly.
‘I don’t trust anyone, Jenny. And neither should you.’
‘Police said the officers on Sark are out looking for him. There’s nothing else they can do until morning.’ Monroe had tried the incident room and Michael’s B&B. No one had seen him since earlier that evening. At Tanya’s house, the phone had rung off. Finally, Jenny had persuaded him to call Guernsey Police and report Michael missing.
Jenny shook her head. ‘Something’s wrong. He was going to Tanya’s. He’s in trouble.’
‘We’ve done everything we can. The police know what’s going on—let them do their jobs now,’ Tuesday said. ‘Can we get her some dry clothes? She’s going to catch pneumonia.’
‘We have to look for him,’ Jenny insisted.
‘You want to search the whole island in the dark? He could be anywhere. And it’s pitch-black. We wouldn’t have a chance in hell.’
‘We could take the chopper.’ Monroe said it like he was suggesting an evening stroll.
‘Funny.’ Tuesday didn’t sound amused.
‘I’m not joking.’
‘You can’t just fly over Sark whenever you feel like it. C
an you?’ Jenny asked.
‘It’s an emergency, isn’t it? I’m sure I’ll be able to clear up the formalities later. We can do a quick sweep with the searchlight, then land at one of the fields near Tanya’s place, check it out. If he’s missing, sounds like she has something to do with it. We’ll be in the air twenty minutes, if that.’ He looked eager at the prospect. Excited even.
‘This is crazy.’ Tuesday shook her head. ‘I’m not getting in that thing.’
‘It’s me and you, then.’ He looked at Jenny, eyebrows raised.
‘Can you fly in this weather?’
‘It’ll be bumpy. But yes, I can fly in this weather.’
She stood. ‘OK. Dry clothes, then let’s go.’
37
Michael
When Michael finally opened his eyes, the trees had thickened and the din inside his head had quieted. The path narrowed and evidently it was a struggle to walk three abreast as Langlais stumbled over the raised edge of the pathway. He stopped.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘I need to catch my breath.’ Langlais’s voice was thick. He had definitely been crying. ‘I don’t feel well. Pain in my arm.’ His breathing was shallow.
‘Jesus Christ.’
They let Michael fall forwards. The earth was cool. He could sleep now. They could leave him here, he wanted to tell them. He would be no trouble to them if they just left him here to rest. It came out as a murmur. He tried again.
‘Shut up!’ Langlais, sharp, urgent. ‘Listen.’ Michael heard him swivel. ‘It’s behind us now. Don’t you hear it?’
Silence.
‘Don’t you hear it?’ Langlais pleaded.
Fallaize was going to hit him again, Michael was sure of it, and he waited to hear the crack, but Fallaize stood still. He must have heard something too. Perhaps by some miracle, someone was searching for him. Suddenly Fallaize pivoted. Michael followed the light with his eyes.
The path behind them was alive with swaying shadows—it was quite possible to believe that there was someone—or something—hidden among them.
‘Shit!’ Langlais, scared. More so than before.
Michael strained to see.
There was something out there, on the very edge of the torchlight. The darkness seemed concentrated somehow. Denser, blacker than the rest. Fallaize lifted the torch slowly, and to Michael’s exhausted eyes, to his oxygen-starved brain, the shadows seemed to merge, as though drawn to each other by magnetic force, layering one on top of the other, shifting, building but never fully taking shape.
‘It’s a bloody great dog,’ Langlais whispered.
Michael shook his head. Tried his hardest to focus. But he couldn’t see it. He heard it, though. It growled, long and low, and the sound filled him with dread.
‘It’s going to attack.’
‘It’s not going to take us all on,’ Fallaize snapped, but his voice wavered. ‘Just turn away slowly.’
They did. Michael braced himself, half expecting to feel the animal tearing into his back. He had come across a few dangerous dogs in his time, and numbers did little to discourage them—once their hackles were raised, you were best to get out of there sharpish. Or aim a well-placed kick. Neither of which Michael could manage right now. Instead, he was lifted roughly to his feet. Fallaize set the pace, marching down the shallow steps, each one sending a jolt of pain through Michael’s side. Langlais struggled to keep up, stumbling, tripping, looking behind him, until they emerged onto soft, springy grass. The sound of waves crashing below. A glint of light over on Brecqhou. The Mansion. So close. But a channel of rough water stood between here and there, and even if he could get into it without dashing his brains out on the rocks, he could never swim it, not even on a good day, never mind in the dark with his hands bound behind his back.
They dragged him over the grass, quicker now they were no longer avoiding the trees. A flash of grey as the light bounced off granite. They stopped. Fallaize placed the torch on the ground, aimed it at the spot where Michael stood. He moved behind Michael, fumbled at his wrists until Michael’s arms were free. He struggled to bring them forwards, his shoulders stiff, the movement in his hands slow. He flexed them, trying to encourage the blood flow.
‘Now what?’ he croaked.
‘Now you go.’ Fallaize picked up the light. Shone it in front of them, towards the cliff edge. ‘That way.’
‘You going to say I jumped? That we were taking a friendly walk and I decided I’d had enough?’
‘I’m going to say you ran. Couldn’t face the shame of what you’d done to Tanya. Plus lying to Dorey. Covering up her dad’s death. Then there was the death of your daughter, your wife leaving you. Christ, why wouldn’t you kill yourself?’
Michael laughed, a rough, hacking laugh. ‘When you put it like that, maybe you have got half a chance of convincing people. But what about the stab wound? You know I’ll wash up eventually. How are you going to explain that?’
‘I’ll fix it.’
Michael shook his head. ‘You won’t have a hope in hell.’
‘That’s not something you need to worry about, is it?’
He was stalling, Michael thought. He should be dead by now. If Fallaize really thought he could manipulate the evidence, falsify an autopsy, he would have killed him already. Throwing him off the cliffs dead would be a damn sight easier than throwing him off alive.
‘You don’t want to do this.’
‘You know nothing about what I do and don’t want.’
‘You’re not a killer. Charlie Dorey’s death was an accident—I know that. I’m betting when you joined the police—when was it? Fifteen years ago? You were only a lad, straight out of school, I remember. You wanted to be one of the good guys, didn’t you? And then Roger Wilson took you under his wing. Showed you how you could make a bit of extra money. Is that how you met Tanya? Is that how you got involved? He groomed you, mate. That’s what he did—’
‘Fuck off.’
‘Can’t. Even if I wanted to. You want me off that cliff, you’re going to have to pick me up and throw me over.’
‘Richard.’ Michael had almost forgotten Langlais was here. ‘Richard, it followed us.’
Langlais was standing very still, his attention fully focused behind them. Fallaize followed his gaze.
Michael grabbed the opportunity. He stumbled out of the torchlight. There was no way he could outrun them, not in this state. But he could hide. Fallaize yelled, but Michael kept moving, feeling the way with his hands. Grass—good; earth—good; avoid the rocks—they would be a sign that he’d gone the wrong way, that another step in that direction might be a step into nothingness, a two-hundred-foot drop to his death.
There was movement behind him, a scuffling, a strangled cry. Fallaize was going to grab him any second, or the dog was going to leap at him, rip him limb from limb with its teeth and claws. He knew he didn’t really have a chance, but he wasn’t going to give up without a fight.
But nothing followed him. Nobody grabbed him. He figured he’d gone a hundred feet, hoped that he was circling back towards the woods. He stopped. Tried to catch his breath. He did everything he could to swallow down the cough that threatened to give away his position, managed to stifle it with his hand.
He looked over his shoulder. Saw Fallaize, where he’d left him, standing in a pool of yellow torchlight. He was crouched, knife held out towards something in the darkness beyond. Michael saw it all as if it were playing in slow motion—Fallaize swiping, feinting, moving back, slowly, slowly. Then he stopped. Frozen. Dropped the knife. Turned. Ran. Straight through the Window in the Rock. Vanished into the black.
He was weak. Dying. How long had he been hiding, too scared to cry for help in case Fallaize was still out there, or worse, whatever the fuck it was that had chased him halfway off the cliff? He could make out shapes—twisting branches, shifting shadows. Noises. So many strange sounds. The creaking of the trees and pounding of the water, the fluttering of wings, an owl, maybe,
or a pigeon. Insects, burrowing in the earth. And something else. Michael pressed himself against a tree. Tried to make himself invisible. Tried not even to breathe.
Beneath the night music, there was something that did not belong.
He closed his eyes.
Christ be with me, Christ within me . . .
It was getting closer. He smelled its rancid breath. He wrapped his arms around his head.
Christ behind me, Christ before me . . .
It brushed past him, ice-cold.
Christ beside me, Christ to win me . . .
He didn’t believe in evil. He’d seen it at work, in deeds and actions, but it was abstract, not concrete. It didn’t exist, not like this.
Christ to comfort and restore me.
He forced his eyes open.
Nothing there.
Of course there was nothing there.
He was losing his fucking mind.
He was going to die here, slumped against a tree, lost in the smallest wood in the British Isles, praying to be delivered from his own hallucinations.
He’d lost all sense of direction. Needed to move away from the sea. From the water. He listened for the sound of the waves. Heard the wind. Blustering. Rhythmical. Slow. Sweeping. Faster. Louder.
Light. There was light.
He staggered to his feet.
The pain was almost overwhelming, setting his ears to ringing, his vision clouding, head spinning. He lurched towards the light, crying out as the movement tugged on the wound in his side. He crashed through the trees, falling, crawling, dragging himself out of the woods and back onto the headland.
Brecqhou.
It was all lit up, the tiny island centre stage, and then the Channel and the cliffs and then the land around him, all became clear as day and he was a ghost, pale and ragged. He raised his hand, skin torn and filthy, and he knew that his rescuers were flesh and bone, just like him, but he had, for a brief moment, the most exquisite feeling that the heavens had opened, that his salvation had come straight from God.