by Lara Dearman
He slipped in and out of the strangest dream. It was loud. So loud. And Ellen was there and she was worried, he could tell. She cradled his head and she was talking to him, but he couldn’t make out the words and they were moving, through the air, and he felt sick with the motion and the pain, and she was crying and he wanted her to stop because he’d never been able to stand it when Ellen cried. He reached up. Patted her cheek.
‘’S’all right, love.’
She said something. It echoed around the roar of the engine, the chug of the propeller blades. A helicopter. He was in a helicopter.
‘Will you tell her something for me, love?’
Ellen looked confused, like when he told her a joke she didn’t get, and he realised she didn’t know who he was talking about, because she’d never met Jenny. He felt sure they would be great friends, Jenny and Ellen. Ellen and Jenny.
‘Will you tell her I’m sorry?’
She was shushing him now and he tried to sit up, to show her he was OK, but he couldn’t lift his head.
‘Tell her he’s gone. He paid for it, in the end.’
‘What are you talking about, Michael?’ Her voice cut through the noise and it wasn’t Ellen’s.
Of course it wasn’t.
‘Fallaize. He paid for what he did to your dad.’ The lights were bright now and the swaying settled and the roaring faded, but the sound of a siren filled the space and people were shouting and he couldn’t bear it anymore.
He closed his eyes.
He could still hear Ellen crying.
Guernsey News Friday 15th July
DARK CRIME ISLAND
Sark reeling in wake of recent revelations and arrests
Mystery still surrounds murder of Reginald Carré
Twenty-nine-year-old woman in custody on unrelated drug charges
Sark constable suspected of involvement in criminal activity found dead in woods
Guernsey detective implicated in crimes, missing, presumed dead
Police: ‘Many’ more arrests likely in coming days
Jennifer Dorey
Sark is reeling this week following the arrests of Luke Carré, 36, and Tanya Le Page, 29. Mr Carré, of Maple Wood, Icart Road, St Martin’s, Guernsey, is suspected of brutally murdering his father, Reginald Carré, on the morning of Monday, 11th July. In a separate and apparently unrelated incident, Ms Le Page, of Beau Séjour Guesthouse, Rue de la Seigneurie, Sark, was arrested while trying to flee Sark for her role in a drug-smuggling operation organised and operated from the island. Neither suspect was granted bail, and both are being held at HMP Les Nicolles pending charges.
Police are still looking for Detective Constable Richard Fallaize. He was last seen at Port du Moulin, Sark, on the night of Wednesday, 13th July. Police consider him dangerous and warn the public not to approach him under any circumstances.
On the same evening, Sark constable Martin Langlais, was discovered dead in the vicinity of La Moinerie, Sark. His death is not considered suspicious, although sources have confirmed that Mr Langlais was suspected of involvement in the drug smuggling ring headed by Ms Le Page.
Detective Chief Inspector Michael Gilbert, the officer in charge of the investigation, was airlifted from the scene and is recovering from a wound to the abdomen.
Anyone with information about the above incidents is urged to call Guernsey Police on 728024 or Crimestoppers on 0800 555 111.
38
Michael
Marquis brought flowers. A huge bouquet. Michael tried not to laugh, but the lad noticed the expression on his face and went beet-red.
‘My mum said to bring them,’ he muttered. ‘I should have brought chocolate. Sorry.’ He placed them on the floor, and put a manila folder, which had been tucked under his arm, on the bedside table.
‘They’re very nice, Stephen. Thank you. I’ll get a vase in a minute.’ Michael put down his book.
‘How long do you have to stay home?’
‘Few more days, they say. It’s all a bit of a fuss over nothing. The stab wound looked worse than it was. Apparently a layer of subcutaneous fat prevented the glass from entering my abdominal cavity. Which is to say it’s lucky I like the odd bag of chips. It’s the concussion the doctors are worried about. They say I need to rest. I’m not going to argue. Anyway, enough about me. What’s the latest?’
‘Well, I know you hate anonymous tips, but seems they might be the key to putting Tanya Le Page away for a long time. It’s like the floodgates have opened. The Crimestoppers line is ringing off the hook. Nobody wants to give a name, but they’ve all got plenty to say. Looks like her dad started the operation. When he retired, she took over.’
‘So Fallaize was right about that much, eh? A family affair. We got the father in custody?’
Marquis shook his head. ‘Him and the wife took off. House looked like it had been ransacked—drawers open, clothes all over the place. They took their boat—it’s one of those bloody great yachts.’
‘What sort of a bloke leaves his daughter to take the rap like that, eh?’
‘Sort that lets her take over his international drug-smuggling business, I suppose. We’ll find him. We’ve requested all of his financial information, frozen his accounts—he can’t run for ever.’
‘What about Luke Carré?’
‘The lads from search and rescue said he was just sitting there when they found him, waiting for the boat to sink. They never recovered the diving gear. Presume he chucked it overboard.’
‘How did we miss the fact that he had a boat, eh? Assumed he didn’t have enough time to get to Sark on the ferry, but on his own boat, he could have done it.’
‘I did check actually—same time as I confirmed his alibi.’
‘Well, why didn’t you say anything?’
‘Because he doesn’t have a boat.’
‘It wasn’t his?’
‘It belongs to a woman called Helen Groves. Luke boarded with her when he came over to Guernsey for sixth form. He says she let him use it sometimes. We’ve been trying to get in touch with her, but we’ve not had any joy. She’s not reported it stolen. We’ll have to charge Luke with something by the end of tomorrow or he’s free to go. He’s obviously lying, but with nobody placing him at the scene, no forensic evidence, we’ve got nothing on him.’
‘You’ve explained it will help his case? If he talks to us now rather than waiting for us to figure out what the hell is going on? What does his advocate say?’
‘The States have appointed him one, but he refuses to speak to her. This might help, though. It just came back from the lab. Confirms our suspicions as to why we’ve not been able to trace the mysterious Rachel Carré.’ He handed Michael the folder. ‘The results from the DNA testing on the bones. Familial match to Luke Carré.’
‘It’s her?’
Marquis nodded.
‘What nightmares do we unleash on our children, eh? We’ve got Tanya Le Page groomed to take over a drug-running business by her father, and Luke Carré . . .’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t even want to think about what that child might have seen. What that must do to a person.’
‘You think he saw Reg kill his mother? The discovery of the bones triggered him into action all these years later?’
‘Let’s see if we can find out. Give us a hand, will you—bring me my shoes?’ Michael shifted his legs over the side of his bed.
‘What are you doing?’
‘I’m coming with you.’
‘You’re on sick leave—are you allowed?’
Michael gave him a look.
Marquis went to fetch his shoes.
Les Nicolles Prison was in a pocket of green in an otherwise industrial area of the parish of St Sampson’s, halfway between town and the bridge. The building was painted the same shade of buttermilk as the States’ houses on the island, and was similar in design to a housing estate, except for the six-foot wall topped with six further feet of barbed wire that surrounded the complex.
Michael was do
ing his best to ignore his aching head and the bone-numbing tiredness that had settled on him five minutes after getting into Marquis’s car. He was shaking, too, just a little, feeling cold despite the fact that the interview room they now sat in was obviously stiflingly hot. Marquis had little beads of sweat on his top lip.
‘You all right, sir?’ Marquis handed him a steaming-hot cup of tea and Michael took a grateful sip. It was thick as tar and scummy on top, but it still hit the spot.
‘Fine, Marquis. Fine,’ he lied. Resting at home, the wound in his side had barely bothered him. Sitting here, it felt sore and he wondered if he was pulling on the stitches. He repositioned himself, trying and failing to get comfortable in the hard plastic chair.
Marquis sat next to him. Put his own tea on the table.
‘It’s rough in here, isn’t it? Smells like boiled eggs. And I always wonder what those splatters on the walls are.’ He pointed to a dark brown patch in the corner.
Michael grimaced. ‘Best not to think about it. It’s supposed to make the suspect uncomfortable, not throw us off our game.’
‘You think it’s been done on purpose?’
‘I think someone probably shat up the wall, Marquis. But it’s not been repainted for a reason.’
The door behind them opened and Luke Carré was led into the room by a young female prison warden. He looked terrible. He’d had his hair cut, short and choppy. It didn’t suit him. Made him look severe. Like a criminal. He wore the prison-issue outfit—shapeless trousers and a wide-fitting short-sleeved T-shirt, both in the same shade of royal blue.
‘I’ll be outside.’ The warden smiled at them before she left. She was very pretty, Michael thought. Marquis had obviously noticed. He looked like he was about to burst into flames.
Luke sat, heavily, in the chair opposite Michael and Marquis. Eyes down. Shoulders slumped. Michael motioned to Marquis to start the tape.
‘Mr Carré, before we start, I just want to remind you that you’ve been given the opportunity to seek legal advice from an advocate. Could you please confirm for the tape that you do not wish for an advocate to be present during this interview?’
‘I don’t want one.’
‘Thank you. Now, if at any point you do want an advocate present or wish to speak to one, we’ll stop the interview. Do you understand, Mr Carré?’
‘Yes.’
Michael slid the file across the table. ‘Mr Carré, I’m very sorry to inform you that the bones found on Derrible Bay are those of your mother.
Luke looked up. ‘No.’
‘I’m sorry, son.’
Luke picked up the file. Flicked through it. ‘There must be some sort of mistake.’ He turned the pages back and forth.
‘The sample taken from the bones and the one we took from inside your cheek show the probability of maternity is over ninety-nine per cent.’
He shook his head. ‘My mother left.’
‘Did you ever see her leave the house, Mr Carré?’
He shook his head. ‘No. I . . . She left when I was at school. But I remember her packing a bag the night before. She was crying. I knew that she was going to leave. She put the bag under the bed. Told me not to say anything, that everything would be all right, but I knew it wouldn’t.’ His voice cracked.
‘But you never saw her walk out of the house? You said goodbye to her that morning, and when you got back from school, she’d gone? You don’t know what happened in between. Do you, Mr Carré?’
He shook his head.
‘There’s been no sign of your mother since she left Sark, Luke, not that we can find. No trace of a Rachel Carré. That’s probably not even her name, as it happens. We can’t find any record of your parents’ marriage, not at the Greffe, and your father had no paperwork in his house, no photographs.’ He pointed to the file. ‘Sadly, this here is the only proof she ever existed. Besides you, that is. I am sorry, son.’
Nothing.
‘Did you ever look for her, Luke?’
‘No.’
‘Why not? Surely as you got older, you must have had some questions, must have thought about tracking her down.’
Luke did not respond.
‘Unless maybe, deep down, you knew there was no point. The mind can do amazing things to protect us, Luke. It can block out traumatic memories and fill in the gaps with a version of events that are easier to process. I think you suspected all along that she was dead, didn’t you? And then, when her bones were discovered, your fears were confirmed. You went to confront your dad. Things got out of hand. Perhaps you didn’t mean to kill him, eh? You confess, get yourself a good advocate—maybe you’d be looking at manslaughter. Whole different ballgame.’
Luke looked at him. ‘I don’t have any false memories, Chief Inspector. My mother packed a bag. She left.’
Michael made it as far as the corridor outside the interview room before he had to stop. He sat where he was, on the floor, back against the wall.
‘Sir, are you OK? What is it? Shall I call a doctor?’
Michael shook his head. ‘I’m old and broken, Marquis. Nothing a doctor can do about that.’ He patted the floor next to him.
‘He seemed genuinely shocked, didn’t he, that they were his mother’s remains.’
‘He did,’ Marquis agreed, sitting next to him. ‘Is it true what you said, about blocking things out? You think he might have seen his mum murdered and forgotten?’
Michael shook his head. ‘I really don’t know. I’ve read about it happening.’
‘Luke was there in Sark that morning. The kid saw him.’
‘Kid saw someone in diving gear that Jenny Dorey says she saw on his boat but was never recovered. That’s not going to stand up in court.’ Michael paused. ‘But say he was there and he killed his dad. Why?’
‘Either he’s lying about his mum and he did it for revenge or, I don’t know, money maybe? Reg had plenty and left no will—it was all going to Luke.’
‘He doesn’t strike me as the type. Reg was already sending him a good amount every month—if he needed more, why wouldn’t Luke just ask him? And Reg was getting old; he was ill—why risk a life in prison for an inheritance that would be coming your way in the not-too-distant future?’
‘Maybe he didn’t do it.’
‘Then why isn’t he talking to an advocate, preparing a defence?’
‘Could be protecting someone else.’
‘Have to be someone he cared about a great deal.’
‘The wife?’
‘She’s left him. He’s got no kids. His mum’s dead.’
The prison warden approached them.
‘Good timing, love. Can you check something for me?’
‘You all right? You can sit in one of the interview rooms if you want. Or the foyer at the front desk.’
‘I just need a minute right here; then I’ll be out of your hair. Can you just check if Mr Carré has had any visitors?’
She shook her head. ‘He hasn’t. No one apart from the advocate the court appointed and she didn’t stay long. It’s a bit sad.’
‘What about phone calls?’
‘I’ll have to check on that. Give me a min.’ She flashed Marquis another smile and he flushed crimson again.
‘You know her?’ Michael asked.
‘Went to school with her, sir. Name’s Kayleigh.’
‘Seems nice.’
Marquis cleared his throat. ‘She is, yeah. I see her at the pub sometimes. Same social group, like.’
Kayleigh returned. ‘He’s made three calls, all to the same number.’
‘You got it there?’
‘Yep. House in St Peter’s. Belongs to a Helen Groves.’
39
Rachel
Three days he’d been in there. Three days and they hadn’t come for her, not yet. She’d heard the voicemails, the police, asking her about the boat and would she please get in touch, but they hadn’t worked it out. They can’t have done or else they’d be here, battering the door down, dr
agging her out of the house. She’d heard Luke too, his voice wavering. ‘Helen. Are you there? Can you pick up the phone, Helen?’ He would understand, she thought. He must. The calls from the prison were recorded. There was nothing she could say to make him feel better. Not yet.
Now there was someone else, knocking on the door, calling through the letterbox.
‘Ms Groves? Ms Groves? I’m from the Guernsey News. I wondered if you had a minute to talk?’
She stood behind the door, small and still, waited until the woman had gone.
What did the News know? she wondered. What did they want to ask her? It was only a matter of time. She felt the panic well up inside her. She balled her hands into fists, forced them into her eyes. She had to go back. Find the letters, the photographs. He wouldn’t have destroyed them. He’d have hidden them. Ready to produce if she ever broke her promise. If she ever came back for Luke.
Poor Luke. He would be scared, but he would be strong. He’d always been so strong. Cried so much as a baby but hardly at all as a child. As soon as he could walk, he’d been happy. Grazed knees, broken toys, lost pocket money—he’d always kept his cool. Except that one time. The last time.
The silence, that was what she remembered most about that day. The silence ringing in her ears; after the screaming and the screaming and the screaming, it was all so quiet. And then the sound of his little footsteps on the lino—God, how she’d hated that lino; the pattern still haunted her dreams—and he’d heard her crying. It had frightened him. He’d tried to run away from her, from his own mother. And when she’d caught him, the look on his little face. He had burst into tears. It was the last time she’d held him properly, mother to child. Because the next time she’d seen him, he’d been a man. An almost-man. Taller than her. There was something obscene about it, she had thought, that he could have grown inside her belly and sixteen years later tower over her.
She had to go now. She’d waited long enough. Luke would keep his cool—he always did. She would find everything and destroy it, and tomorrow they would have to let Luke go and this whole, decades-long nightmare would be over. It would be just the two of them. The way it always should have been.