The Devil's Claw

by Lara Dearman

  He reached up for the small wooden box now, took out the pistol. It was polished and in full working order. He fingered it, stroking the barrel, the grip, the trigger. He held it to his temple, felt the cold metal against his hot head. It was soothing. Nothing mattered any more.

  And yet … And yet … It felt wrong, to just give up. Because, this time, he thought, they might actually figure it out. It was nothing to be ashamed of. He’d done so well, to get this far. But if they were going to get him, he should make it something beautiful. He deserved that, at least. A beautiful ending.

  He put the lid on the box and placed it back on the shelf. He tucked the pistol into his pocket.

  33

  Michael

  Friday, 21 November

  His email pinged – the list of staff members and volunteers from the youth club and a list of trustees and board members. He opened the first file and scanned the document. David De Putron’s was the only name he recognised. He would have to bring him in. Connections to two of the girls and he was old enough, from what Michael could remember. He knew him. Not well, just to say hello to. Michael knew a lot of people to say hello to. So in all likelihood, he knew whoever had done this. They were presumably in the same age bracket as he was. It didn’t bear thinking about. He supposed he would have to, though. He would have to adjust the way he thought.

  There were a few names on the second list he recognised. A couple of deputies. Brian Ozanne. Interesting. He was always keen to boost his philanthropic image. And Roger Wilson. Hard to find something he wasn’t involved in. Michael tried to shake off the resentment he felt towards the man. Wilson had been a good chief of police in many respects. Still, Roger had been on the force for all but Amanda’s death and had been chief when Hayley Bougourd died. Michael would have needed to speak to him regardless of the fact he was on a list of people involved with the youth club that three of the victims had attended. He added him to his Persons of Interest list. A list which now totalled two.

  * * *

  ‘Is this really necessary?’

  David De Putron was stressed. He was trying to hide it behind outrage and hauteur, but Michael knew stress when he saw it. If David could just tell him about his association with LEAP, Michael said, they could be done and dusted with this in no time at all. He looked at David, encouragingly.

  David sighed. He’d been volunteering at LEAP for fifteen years, he said. Yes, he’d come into contact with both Amanda and Hayley. Not that he’d remembered Hayley, not until Michael had just asked him about it. He shifted in his seat. There were other people who had been involved with the programme as long as he had, he said. The caretaker, for example, he’d been there for donkey’s years. And what was this all about, anyway, he asked? He waved his hands over the pictures Michael had shown him. Was Michael trying to imply these girls’ deaths were connected? Because how could they be? He had a little sweat on his brow now, Michael noticed, despite the fact that it was cool in his draughty office.

  ‘As I explained, Mr De Putron. You’re not under arrest. You’re free to go at any time. There’s no need to get upset.

  ‘Stephen, could you fetch Mr De Putron a coffee? One of the nice ones, from that new machine.’ He turned to David. ‘We’ve just got a Nespresso,’ he said. ‘So much better than the stuff the old vending machine tries to pass for coffee.’

  David rolled his eyes but loosened his arms, which had been crossed tightly across his chest. People like David De Putron liked to feel important, Michael thought. And Michael wanted David to feel relaxed, at ease. Talkative. Marquis arrived with the coffee and set it down on the desk. He sat next to Michael and opened his notebook. Michael gave him a sideways glance, a slight shake of the head, and Marquis closed the book, placed it on his knee.

  ‘So,’ Michael said, ‘you’re right, Mr De Putron, you’re not the only person who’s come into contact with both Amanda and Hayley. Both girls had been through social services, both attended the same youth club. We’re going to be looking into all those potential connections. But just for now,’ Michael smiled at him, ‘we’d like to know about your dealings with them. You say you didn’t remember Hayley Bougourd until I just mentioned her. I find that a little hard to believe. I mean, believe me, I know what the old memory gets like as you get older.’ He tapped his own head. ‘Mine’s like a sieve these days. But dead students? I would have thought they’d stick out a bit, eh? Can’t have had that many students who have died now, can you?’

  ‘Of course not,’ David blustered. ‘I remembered her as soon as you mentioned her. Nice girl. Another quiet one, bit like Amanda, and of course deeply troubled. Most of the children who came through the centre were.’

  ‘Her mum says you were nice to Hayley.’ Michael glanced down at the notes Jenny had given him. ‘Said the piano lessons were really helping.’

  ‘Yes. I was nice to her.’ David spoke slowly, as if he was talking to a pupil who was struggling to pick up the most basic musical technique. ‘I was giving up my own time to help her. Not just her, all the children I taught at the centre. Children who didn’t have the advantages I had. And now I’m beginning to regret the whole thing.’ He shook his head in exasperation. ‘Will that be all?’

  ‘Almost there, Mr De Putron. Elizabeth Mahy. Heard of her?’

  ‘No. I’ve already told you, I haven’t heard of any of the others.’

  ‘Only we’ve spoken to Jennifer Dorey – I believe she interviewed you for a piece she’s working on – and she seemed to think you had heard of Elizabeth. She seemed to think you were a little upset, even, when she asked you about her.’

  David closed his eyes, shook his head slowly from side to side.

  ‘I remembered a girl drowning at the bathing pools. I didn’t know her name or who she was or anything about her at all. Once again, I was trying to help this journalist by giving freely of my time, expecting nothing in return and now, well, I don’t even know what’s going on right now. Am I being accused of something?’

  ‘I’ve already told you, Mr De Putron. You can leave whenever you like.’

  ‘Well then, I think I might just do that.’ He stood, nodded at Michael and Marquis, and swept out of the room.

  ‘Bit of a cold fish.’ Marquis said, as they watched David thread his way through the office and out of the station. ‘Surprised he didn’t mention the fact that he was paying our salaries.’

  ‘What’s that, Marquis?’

  ‘He’s just the type, sir. You know, the ones who remind you they’re taxpayers and we all work for them if you give them a parking ticket. Entitled, I think they call it, sir.’

  It seemed to Michael that Marquis was prone to the odd moment of incredible insightfulness. Just the odd moment, mind you, but nonetheless, there were the makings of a good detective in there somewhere.

  ‘Yes. Very well put, Son. I think you’ve just about got the measure of him.’

  ‘Do you think he’s a murderer though, sir?’

  Michael thought for a minute.

  ‘Do you know, I was convinced this would be a waste of time, but he’s hiding something. He’s definitely hiding something. Follow up with him, will you? Give him a day, let him relax a bit and then ask him for alibis and a list of all his students. Let’s rattle his cage a bit. See what falls out.’

  ‘Sir?’ Fallaize poked his head around the door.

  Michael looked back down at his notes. ‘I’m busy, Fallaize, what is it?’ Any excuse to put the little shite in his place.

  ‘Sir, I think you need to speak to Mrs Bretel.’

  Michael looked up and saw there was a woman standing next to Fallaize. She was young, late thirties he guessed, and would have been beautiful but for a large red birthmark which covered half of her face. A port wine stain they used to be called. Not that he was going to mention it. He stood to greet her and tried very hard not to look at the birthmark, but to look into her eyes, which were opaque and green, like sea glass. She had strong features, a long, straight nose and
defined cheekbones, but her face was drawn, almost pinched she was so thin. A small stud twinkled in her nose and several more lined each ear lobe. As he got closer to her, he could see she looked tired, or perhaps she’d been crying, and she clutched something in her hands, a piece of paper, or was it a photograph?

  ‘Mrs Bretel, how can I help you?’ Fallaize was hanging around at the door for some reason, and Michael noticed that several other officers had stopped work and were standing in groups, looking over at them.

  ‘It’s my Lisa.’ Mrs Bretel handed the photograph to Michael. ‘She hasn’t been home since Tuesday and she’s not answering her phone.’

  Michael felt the bottom of his stomach fall away before he even looked at the picture. It only needed a glance for his worst fears to be confirmed. A pretty girl, laughing at the camera, big blue eyes, soft, blonde hair falling in curls over her narrow shoulders. He just about managed to pull up a chair for Mrs Bretel before his legs gave way and he sank, heavily, into his own.

  34

  It was so loud now that it was hard to concentrate on anything else. He’d tried everything. He’d run a bath, submerging himself fully, hoping that the water would run into his ears and wash it away. He’d turned the radio up so loud that the floor had vibrated beneath him. He’d plugged his ears with cotton wool, held a pillow over his head, pressing harder and harder until he couldn’t breathe.

  He knew it was no use. The noise was on the inside.

  He had to be careful when in public lest he sound like the lunatic he feared he was becoming. But at home there was nothing and no one to stop him. So he hummed, as loudly as he could. And in adding to the noise he somehow found it reduced. He was humming along now. In his head, the sound was akin to something between the whine of an air-conditioning unit and the thrum of an engine. It was pitched at middle C. Yes, the predominant note was definitely middle C, sung over and over again by a choir of robots with mechanical voices. He laughed out loud at the image and nearly spilled the peaches he was spooning out of a tin and into a shallow blue-and-white striped bowl. His spirits were buoyed momentarily by the fact that he could find humour in such a difficult situation.

  He placed the bowl on to a small wooden tray next to a glass of apple juice. Something sweet ought to do the trick, he’d decided. And there was something so fitting about peaches. A ripe peach, velvet skin, soft flesh dripping with nectar. He added a drizzle of thick yellow cream, which curdled in the juice and pooled in the pink hollows left by the stones. He glanced out of the window. Raining again. He covered the tray with a clean tea towel and carried it to the back door where he set it down on the floor while he slipped his bare feet into his wellington boots. He opened the door and picked up the tray. She would eat the peaches. He was sure of it.

  He stopped humming as he left the house. So the noise became louder. And for the first time he thought he could hear more than just a monotonous buzz. He held the tea towel firmly against the tray to stop it from escaping in the wind. He trudged through the wet grass. He listened very carefully. There were no words as such, more a rhythm. But he understood it.

  What have you done? it droned.

  What have you done? Louder and louder the nearer he got until he reached the steps and it was a roar, like a wall of water washing over him and through him and if he hadn’t been holding the tray he would have thrown his head into his hands and cried.

  35

  Jenny

  Friday, 21 November

  Jenny showed Elliot through to the kitchen. Margaret’s bedroom door opened and she emerged into the corridor, pulling her dressing gown around her.

  ‘What time is it, love?’

  ‘It’s ten thirty. Were you sleeping?’

  Margaret nodded. She’d woken up in the early hours and not been able to get back to sleep, had finally given in and taken one of those horrible pills, she said, it had knocked her right out. The sound of crockery clattering in the kitchen made her start.

  ‘Who’s there?’

  ‘It’s just Elliot.’ Margaret looked confused. ‘The guy I work with,’ Jenny added.

  ‘Did he stay over?’ Margaret whispered, surprised, and, Jenny thought, not entirely displeased at the notion.

  ‘No he did not! It’s nothing like that, Mum. We’ve been out to Moulin Huet. Working. We’re cold and wet and we’re having a cuppa before we head back to the office.’ She paused and allowed Margaret to process. ‘It’s nothing to worry about.’

  ‘I’m not worried, Jenny, but for goodness’ sake, could you not have given me some warning? The house is a tip!’

  ‘I’m sure the place is perfect, Mum. We’ll just be in the study anyway. You’re a tip, though. Some clothes wouldn’t go amiss.’ Margaret put her hands to her hair and hurried over to the bathroom.

  Jenny went to the living room. It was spotless, the deep pile of the cream carpet swept into swathes of light and dark by yesterday’s vacuum, cushions arranged neatly on the leather sofas (polished twice weekly) and the surfaces, dusted more times in a day than Jenny could count, gleaming. Presumably the mess Margaret referred to was the neatly folded newspaper and a pair of reading glasses left on the armchair. Behind the sofa a bookcase of polished walnut displayed all of Charlie’s books, untouched since he’d died. She slid the glass door to one side and ran her finger along the spines. They were all so familiar. A Dickens’ collection, bound in green leather with gold lettering, a battered copy of Animal Farm, Penguin Classics, orange and cream spines all in a row; Hemmingway, Steinbeck, Hardy. And then the poetry. Philip Larkin, John Betjeman, Ted Hughes. Crow. He had loved that one. She pulled out the slim volume, flicked through the pages. She had pored over it in her teenage years, trying to make sense of the bleak, beautiful words.

  She’d never considered Charlie’s love of reading as anything other than completely ordinary. It was always just part of him. Now she wondered how many other fisherman who left school at fifteen had a copy of the Complete Works of Shakespeare on their bookshelves. She found the book she wanted on the bottom shelf, next to Granny’s Bible. She smiled. Just like him to put it there. A collection of pagan myths and stories of the Devil’s work right next to God’s word. She slid it out, stroked the cold, dimpled leather. Even the pages, edged in gold, were smooth to the touch.

  In the kitchen, Margaret had taken over making the tea and was slicing up a loaf of gâche, asking Elliot about his family.

  ‘My mother died last year and I’m sorry to say I never knew my father, Mrs Dorey. It’s one of the reasons I moved back to Guernsey, actually. To find him.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Elliot. I had no idea.’ Margaret glared over at Jenny, who widened her eyes back at her. She’d had no idea either, at least, she’d heard something, office gossip, that he’d moved back after a family upset, but hadn’t paid much attention to it. ‘I hope I haven’t upset you asking.’ Margaret put a hand on his elbow.

  ‘Not at all, Mrs Dorey.’

  ‘Please, call me Margaret. Get the butter out of the fridge, will you, Jenny, the Sark one.’

  Jenny placed the book on the table and retrieved the butter. Wrapped in thick, waxy paper it was a pungent yellow, as close to cheese as butter could get, but delicious spread thickly on toasted gâche. Margaret gave them both a slice and told them she’d bring the tea through when it had brewed.

  Jenny took Elliot through to the study.

  ‘Wow. You have your own incident room.’

  One of the walls of the small room was covered in pictures and post-it notes, smiling photographs of each of the dead girls and clippings from the Guernsey News. Jenny cleared a space on the desk, also covered in paper and scribbled notes and placed the book she had been holding on it.

  ‘This is Edgar MacCulloch’s Guernsey Folk Lore.’ She opened it. Stuck inside the front cover, a rectangular certificate, foxed and yellowed with age read in gold lettering, ‘Island Books’ and written underneath in an elaborate hand, ‘5s’, a signature, presumably the bookseller’s, and
a date, August 1949.

  ‘Is this worth something?’ Elliot asked.

  ‘A couple of hundred pounds, maybe. It’s out of print. I’m not sure where Dad got it. That receipt is too old to have been his.’

  Mum came in with the tea and placed the cups on coasters on the desk, tutting at the mess and the dust. She looked up at the pictures on the wall, walked over and carefully removed the one of Elizabeth.

  ‘I know I’m not supposed to get involved in this – Jenny worries about my nerves, Elliot – but do you really think that Elizabeth may have been murdered? And that the same person who killed her killed all of these other girls too?’

  ‘We don’t know, Mum. Looks that way.’

  Margaret stuck the picture back up. ‘I’ve got some photos somewhere. I must have, in the loft. I should get them down. I’ve been meaning to clear out up there for ages.’ She left the room smiling, her spirits seemingly lifted at the idea of sitting up in the dusty crawlspace under the roof for a few hours.

  Jenny flicked through the pages of the heavy book until she found what she was looking for. She pointed to the open page.

  ‘“The Devil’s Claw”,’ Elliot read out loud. ‘This is the story about the mark on the rocks?’