by Lara Dearman
He sat at a desk and lined up the now all-too-familiar files once more, scanning them for anything that could hint at this bloody lunatic’s motives. He tried to block out the background noise: the telephones and the chatter and the toing and froing as officers followed up on potential leads called in by a panicked public. He focused on the pictures. On the marks. It was horrifying, looking at it now. So obvious. How could it have been missed? It was the time frame that made it difficult, the fact that no one officer worked on more than one of the cases. Actually, that was a little odd but not unthinkable. Until recently there was no way of connecting details except by trawling through paper files and card indexes. The press wouldn’t see it like that, though. They were going to have a field day. He could see it now. BUMBLING ISLAND COPS ALLOW SERIAL KILLER TO RUN RIOT FOR FIFTY YEARS: DCI MICHAEL GILBERT HELD RESPONSIBLE. He rubbed the top of his nose and massaged his eyebrows and temple.
‘Sir?’ Marquis stood in the doorway, a coffee in one hand, a paper bag in the other, and a guilty look on his face.
‘What is it, Marquis?’
‘I brought you a coffee and a sandwich, sir. It’s nearly seven and you haven’t eaten anything all day.’
‘What are you, my bloody wife, Marquis? God help me, forget I said that.’
‘He’s right, you need to eat something.’ Jenny poked her head around the door.
‘How did you get past the front desk?’ Michael asked.
‘I came through the back.’ She nodded towards Marquis. So that was why he was looking guilty.
‘You can’t be in here, Jenny.’ He got up from the desk. ‘And you can’t be at David De Putron’s house, either. We’ve had a complaint from his sister and she’s a right bloody cow, that one. Excuse the turn of phrase – nothing wrong with cows. Or women. She just got up my nose.’ He reddened.
‘You’ve arrested him, though? You got the information I sent through? He admitted he was there when Elizabeth died. Surely that’s enough to keep him here while you search his property – or properties, more like. His family is loaded. Did you know they own the Guernsey News? I work for them, for fuck’s sake!’
‘Jenny, believe me, I hear you. We’ve brought him in for questioning. But he has an alibi for the entire week surrounding Hayley Bougourd’s death. We’ve checked it out and it’s solid. He was one of the chaperones for a group of kids at the Young Choristers’ competition in Chichester. And if what he says about Elizabeth Mahy is true, we’ve been barking up the wrong tree with that one. Plus our timeline is out by ten years, which means we need to update our profile of the killer to include younger men. Or at least my age and older.’ He ran his hand through his hair and pulled at his chin. ‘We just keep hitting dead ends! I don’t know what to tell you. I don’t know what to tell anyone. A fuck-up on this scale, Jenny…’ He shook his head. ‘I’m telling you, there’s no benchmark for this. But we need to keep calm.’ He seemed to be talking to himself now, pacing as he did so. ‘I agree. There’s something funny going on with these De Putrons. And, Marquis, you’re right, I need to eat. I feel a bit light-headed. We can talk while I refuel. Not here, though. Follow me.’
He took her to one of the relaxation areas they had at the station. A couple of battered sofas and a low coffee table covered in dog-eared copies of GQ and Top Gear magazine.
‘It’s odd that it’s Diane, the sister, who heads up this company, don’t you think?’ Jenny asked. ‘I mean, he looks much older than her, and he’s a man. I would have thought an old Guernsey family like the De Putrons would have handed things over to the oldest son.’
Michael nodded. ‘It is strange. But he’s admitted he has no interest in business. Dropped out of law school and I get the impression he’s a bit of a black sheep.’
‘He said so himself,’ Jenny agreed. She tugged at the back of her hair. Michael had noticed her do it often, usually with a distracted look on her face, like she was remembering something, and he realised now it was a sign that she was stressed.
‘This is getting us nowhere.’ Jenny sat forward, shaking her hair loose. ‘David has an alibi; Elizabeth’s death was an accident; he’s not the killer – and we’re no closer to finding who is or who has Lisa Bretel, because can we even presume it’s the same person?’ She leant her head back against the chair. She looked very pale, Michael thought, her skin almost translucent.
‘When was the last time you ate, Jenny?’ He tore one of his sandwiches in half. ‘I have a feeling Marquis made these with his own fair hands.’ He looked distastefully at the pale, plastic-looking slice of ham poking out like a loose tongue from between the slices of thin bread. ‘But it’s better than starvation.’ He handed it to Jenny, who took it and ate automatically, her mind somewhere far away.
‘The book,’ she said, after a couple of minutes. ‘Guernsey Folklore. Did you get the pages I sent over?’
‘I did.’ Michael sat up, pleased to be able to talk about a lead that might actually take them somewhere. ‘You’re right, the mark is very similar to those found on the girls. I’ve got Marquis looking into it. It’s not a popular story, this Devil’s Claw. I asked around, nobody here had heard of it. And that book’s been out of print for years. There’s a copy at the Priaux library, but there are no records of who’s taken it out, at least not going back that far, so that’s a dead end, but we’re going to look into Island Books. Until it closed down we reckon it would have been the only place to get books about island folklore and history. Maybe someone who worked there remembers something. Maybe someone knows what happened to the stock. It’s a long shot but worth a try.’
‘None of this is going to help Lisa Bretel.’ Jenny stared over his shoulder, out of the window that looked out on to a cobbled courtyard at the front of the station. Police cars had been driving in and out all day and would continue to do so all night as every available officer searched the island for the missing teenager.
‘I don’t know what to tell you, Jenny. Every resource we have is on the case. The team from Hampshire will be here soon and we’ll see what they have to say – maybe they’ll have some bright ideas.’ He spread his hands out, helpless. ‘We’re doing everything we can, short of raiding every single house on the island. Our best bet is to keep working on trying to find out who did this so we know where to look.’
‘That girl, Michael. She must be so scared. We have to save her.’ Her eyes shone with tears. He thought of Ellen, of how, if things had been different, he might be comforting her over some dilemma, a boyfriend perhaps, or a work crisis, offering advice, giving her a hug. He reached over, touched Jenny gently on the top of her arm. He felt a lump in his own throat. She was not his daughter. It was not his place.
‘Go home, Jenny.’ His voice caught as he said it. ‘Get some sleep. This isn’t your responsibility.’
The way she looked at him though, as she left. He’d swear that she thought it was.
* * *
It was past seven p.m. but it could be midday there were so many people working. Nobody could accuse them of not doing their best, Michael thought. Their best wasn’t good enough, that was the problem. Marquis was at his desk, head bent over some paperwork. The chief was in his office, on the phone. He’d been on it all day. Even the superintendent was in. Didn’t see him about often. No doubt he was counting the cost of the whole bloody thing, passing his concerns on to the chief who would then be tasked with putting the pressure on Michael to get the whole thing sewn up quick sharp with minimum use of resources. It was enough to give him a headache just thinking about it all.
‘How are you getting on, Marquis?’
The lad looked up from his desk. Always looked like a bloody rabbit in the headlights.
‘I’m trying to verify one of Roger Wilson’s alibis, sir. Conference in Bournemouth. It was a long time ago and I’m struggling to find travel records that tally with the ones he sent through, but they look genuine. He said he hoped that would suffice for now as he’s struggling to remember where he was on the
other nights in question over the previous forty years.’ Marquis looked up from his notes. ‘I think he was being a bit sarcastic, to be honest.’
‘Yes. Thank you for that, Marquis. What have you got for me on the bookshop?’
‘I’m still working on it, sir, but I have some information.’ He flipped the pages of his notebook.
‘Island Books was sold some time in the eighties, following the death of the owner.’ He looked up, ‘Actually, it was where that tattooist, White Spider, is now. You’d never know it used to be a book store; the walls are all painted black and silver and there are no shelves or anything.’ He caught Michael’s raised eyebrow and looked back down to his notes.
‘Apparently it was the only decent bookshop on the island for many years and used to be very popular, but after Buttons opened, and then the Lexicon, it couldn’t compete. It mostly stocked local interest, history and maps and was a good place to go for Christmas presents.’ He glanced up again.
‘You found all this in the records, did you, Marquis?’
‘Yes, sir. Well, not exactly in the records, but Daphne, that’s the lady who works at the Greffe, she gave me a lot of information. She remembered there was a bit of a scandal with the man who owned the shop because his sister was a Jerry-bag.’ He paused. ‘Those were her words, sir, not mine.’
‘Hmph. All very interesting, I’m sure, but did your friend Daphne have anything other than gossip and recollection for us, Marquis? Like records, for example? Names?’
‘I’m going back to collect them tomorrow, sir. They were all microfiched so she had to request them.’
‘Right. Well. Good work, Marquis.’ He left him flicking through thirty-year-old travel records and went back to his desk.
It was always the way round here. There was never any problem getting information. Too much information, that was the bloody problem. People had such long memories. Talking about Jerry-bags nearly seventy years after the Germans left! He remembered his mother talking about them. During the war, she said, you could spot one because she’d be wearing nylons. The rest of them had to make do with a carefully drawn seam down the back of a bare calf, but the Jerry-bags, they had real nylons. As if those women risked their reputations for a pair of tights. All of their husbands and boyfriends were off fighting the war and they found themselves alone and a German soldier offered to buy them dinner, to keep them company. It was human nature. Probably didn’t hurt that the Germans were tall and blonde, bit of a change from the average Guernsey lad.
He looked at the photos on his desk again. He imagined what they must have looked like in person, imagined them all standing there in front of him, begging him to help them. He closed his eyes. Tried not to despair at the image.
‘Marquis!’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘Fetch me another coffee, will you? And if there are any more of those delicious sandwiches floating around, I’ll have one of those too.’
Michael sat. He was thorough. People said that about him and he knew they were being snarky, implying he was pedantic and slow. But there was a lot to be said for thoroughness. He couldn’t undo the mistakes of the past, but there was a girl out there who needed saving. Something in these files could lead him to her. The least he could do was find it.
40
Jenny
The roads were scattered with small branches and litter from overturned rubbish bins, which were easily navigated, but just past Oatlands Village a tree had come down, blocking the way. She followed the signposted diversion through tiny, poorly lit lanes. She would have to reverse if anything came from the opposite direction. Normally at this time of day it would be busy, but tonight she had a clear run, emerging out on to the seafront without incident. Waves lashed the sea wall, leaving pebbles and vraic in their wake. It was only a matter of time before this was closed too. She drove slowly, trying to avoid the larger stones. Michael was right. None of this was her responsibility. She should be thinking about her own life, not chasing around trying to figure out what happened to other people’s. She gripped the steering wheel and swerved to avoid a deep pool of water at the side of the road where the sea had breached the wall. Another weather warning on the radio.
… and the latest advice from the environment department is to stay in this evening unless your journey is absolutely essential. It’s hairy on the roads already, and there’s always the chance of falling trees, so stay safe, people!
She turned it off. She couldn’t stop. Not until they’d found Lisa Bretel. It wasn’t too late. Not for her.
October 2012
The nights had drawn in and it was already dusk as she entered Victoria Park. She would need to run quickly to reach the well-lit streets at the other side of the park before dark. A generous layer of leaves and twigs covered the path, glistening and slippery from the earlier rain. The air smelt at once fresh and old, the scent of wet grass mingling with the sweet staleness of decomposing foliage. She put in her earphones, shuffled her playlist.
She ran, breathing deeply. It had been nearly four weeks since she had seen Madalina. The police had looked into her disappearance. They’d been to the house, discovered the rooms were being sub-let in contravention of the tenancy agreement, but that was an issue for the landlord, not them, they said. All the women were here legally. They were working for a cleaning company and Madalina had been homesick so she’d gone home. They had no reason to investigate any further.
She’d done everything wrong. She’d put Madalina in danger to get a story. She should have just done a human-interest piece, flogged it to a tabloid, earned a few hundred quid. Wouldn’t have helped Madalina much, but she’d probably still be around to be pissed off about it. It didn’t work like that, though. She’d followed a good lead, secured a staff job while she investigated. It would have been a huge story with a big payout. Better for her, better for Madalina. Except it hadn’t been. Because Madalina had disappeared. She might be dead. And it was Jenny’s fault.
And so it went, round and round until she thought she would scream. She picked up her pace and tried to concentrate on the music. It was almost dark now; she needed to reach the streetlights. She left the park and ran full pelt along the canal to the Olympic Stadium and on to Stratford, reaching Romford Road just as dusk faded to black. Here it was busy with returning commuters, heads down, engrossed in iPhones, and shoppers, laden with carrier bags.
She slowed to a walk, pulled out her earphones and tucked them into her top. She pulled up her hood against the fat drops of rain, which fell gently at first, but, by the time she turned off on to the street, were bouncing frantically off her waterproof.
She stopped on the corner of Fairfield Road, stood under the bus shelter that seemed to have been designed to ensure maximum discomfort while waiting for a bus, and watched, as she had done nearly every evening for the last two weeks. Because she was determined. If the police weren’t going to investigate, she would. She had to tell Madalina’s story. If something terrible had happened to her, Jenny would find out about it. On her previous visits she had watched from the shadows as three women left the house at around eight p.m. Each time she had followed them, walking ten minutes or so to a dilapidated building next to a chicken takeaway. They had knocked at the door, waited a matter of moments, and then walked in. Tonight she was determined to talk to them.
Just before eight, the front door of number 42 opened. The women walked out, their voices low in muttered conversation. Previously they had stopped to light cigarettes before starting their journey, but this time they kept walking, heads bowed against the rain, pulling their thin, shiny jackets around themselves. They headed round the corner, and then left and right, through the rat-run of streets that led back towards Romford Road. Jenny followed at a distance.
The rain was now so heavy it was hard to see where she was going. Instead, she listened for the clack-clack of the heels up ahead. They walked, further than they had before, through deserted streets and Jenny felt the first quickening in h
er stomach, a tightening in her chest, a heaviness in her heartbeat. She felt for the torch in her pocket. Just knowing it was there eased the panic. The footsteps up ahead slowed. Was one of the women looking back at her? Did they know they were being followed? She should stop them, see if they would talk to her. Did they turn right or left up ahead? She pulled back her hood.
She was on a street she did not recognise. There was an area of wasteland on one side and an abandoned car sat next to a skip full of angular shapes, casting long shadows across the broken, weed-strewn concrete. On the other side was a low, rectangular building, fallen into disrepair; boarded-up windows, a faded Help The Aged sign over the door visible in the glare from the street light overhead. Jenny hesitated. The women were nowhere to be seen. She stopped, blood pounding in her ears. There was a movement in the shadows and she spun on her heels, just in time to see a fox emerge from behind the skip. It trotted past her, sleek and strong, its rust-red coat shining with health. She exhaled. So stupid! She was going to go mad if she carried on like this, following people through the streets of Newham like a fucking lunatic, some kind of vigilante crusader. She reached for her phone to try to figure out where she was. It was then that she saw. The car across the street – it was not abandoned at all. There was somebody in it, a man in a black hood. And he was looking right at her.
Smiling.
A hand over her mouth and nose, the harsh smell of tobacco and cheap soap. She tried to breathe but there was no air, just the taste of his skin, and she clawed and kicked but suddenly everything was black and all she could feel was the cold pressure of a blade at her throat. They tightened the blindfold, the fabric cutting into the side of her face and pressing her eyelids tightly shut. A hoarse whisper.
‘Silence.’
The grip around her nose and mouth loosened enough for her to take a gasp of breath and then she was propelled forward.
‘What do you want?’ she whispered. The hand tightened around her face again, the blade pressed so firmly she felt sure it would puncture her skin.