The boat flew over each wave, bouncing back onto the surface and showering them all with sea spray before taking off again. There were four of them in the RIB, a high-speed rigid inflatable boat, plus the captain. The pair from forensics—Cathy, a pretty woman in her mid-thirties, and Rob, a dependable, if slow-moving chap who had worked for them for years—were sat on one side of the boat taking in the scenery. They laughed as they wiped the water from their eyes. Opposite them, Detective Constable Stephen Marquis, who had been fiddling with his phone, hastily dried it on his trouser leg before prodding furiously at the screen, a panicked look on his face. Always texting someone, that boy was. It was bloody irritating.
Next to Marquis, DCI Michael Gilbert gripped the edge of his seat and wished that he’d eaten something before he’d left home. He was not prone to seasickness, but an empty stomach and a choppy patch taken at speed were not a good combination and he felt faintly nauseous. This was adding to his already bad mood, the result of the phone ringing late last night, just as he’d drifted off in front of Hang ’Em High (the last of the Clint Eastwood special DVD collection his ex-wife had sent him for Christmas). The constable in Sark had received an anonymous tip that bones had been found on Derrible Bay and would they send a team over to investigate?
There were no police on Sark—as part of the Bailiwick of Guernsey, it came under the jurisdiction of Guernsey Police, who hadn’t had a full-time presence there for years. Time was, they’d send officers over on a two-week rotation during the summer, but it hadn’t been cost-effective, because, quite frankly, nothing ever bloody happened there, and as Michael knew only too well, the officers tended to spend their two weeks propping up a bar and gossiping with the locals. So now they just had the constable, a voluntary position, who had responsibility for ensuring law and order among the island’s population of approximately four hundred and fifty. An easy enough job. Until something like this happened.
Michael rubbed his forehead. Anonymous tips often came to nothing—bored kids making mischief, or disgruntled members of the public trying to get one over on the police. So best-case scenario, this whole thing was a wind-up. Which would be frustrating. But better than the worst-case scenario. And because his expectation of what a worst-case scenario might involve had been adjusted upwards several levels after last year, he had pulled out all the stops this morning. Police boat, forensics, the lot. All of this on top of the fact that he was already neck-deep in the investigation into this new drug flooding Guernsey. Black Pearls the kids were calling them, due to their colour and the little skull and crossbones printed on each one. Horrible things had already landed one kid in hospital, and they were no closer to finding out where the stuff was coming from. But Michael couldn’t afford to miss a beat. Not on the drug investigation, and definitely not on whatever was going on in Sark.
Because the entire Guernsey Police Force was under review. Everything they did, everything they’d ever done was being scrutinised by a team of special investigators from Scotland Yard. That’s how monumentally they’d fucked up last year—Scotland Yard were taking an interest in Guernsey, a sleepy little backwater.
So Michael was feeling jittery. Under pressure. Unable to relax on the short boat journey, because he was dreading dealing with whatever awaited him. Human bones or animal bones or no bones at all, he was still in for a difficult day.
The cool breeze that ruffled his hair as they sped over the water would be absent on Sark. It would be hotter than hell there today, he thought. He shook slightly. Felt a tingling in his back, like the beginnings of the flu. It was probably just the late night and the early morning and the three cups of coffee he’d drunk before 6 a.m. He needed a lie-in. And an end to the paperwork, and the weight of responsibility this job seemed to burden him with these days. The alternative was worse, though. Retirement. All that time to think. To dwell. He shrugged. He’d have to do it eventually. He’d adjust, he supposed. Many years ago, he’d never imagined life without his wife and daughter. And now look at him. Sheila had been married to her second husband for longer than she’d been married to Michael. And Ellen had been dead and buried for as many years as she’d walked the earth.
The roar of the engine faded to a growl as they reached the bay. Michael had never approached Derrible by sea before, only from the footpath, which wound steeply down the cliff from the headland, landing at a rocky plateau, the only place to sit at high tide. The path afforded a gentler introduction to this scenery, slowly enveloping the visitor in their surroundings, the scale of which Michael only really appreciated now. The cliffs appeared sinister and looming, black shadows in the early morning light, the cave openings gaping mouths. The beach was less than half exposed, a thin crescent of shingle and stones, the sand hidden by the retreating tide.
The captain, a taciturn chap called James Després, whose reticence had earned him the nickname ‘Gobby Jim’, took them as close to the shore as he could, turning towards a flat boulder and buffering the front of the boat against it. Michael stared distastefully at the two or so feet of water beneath them. It was an odd thing about Sark that no matter how warm the air, the water was always ice-cold. He took off his shoes and socks, and rolled up his trousers. He’d not had much time outdoors this summer and his legs were plucked-chicken pale. He let out a yelp as he slid off the side of the boat and plunged his feet into the water. He swayed from side to side, struggling to get a footing on the smooth pebbles of the seabed before finding his balance and striding to shore, the salt stinging his dry skin. When he reached the sand, he wiggled his toes, which looked to have entirely drained of blood, while he waited for Marquis, who was a good few inches shorter than Michael and had made a poor job of rolling up his trousers. They unfurled a little further with each step he took and were soaked through up to the knee before he reached dry land.
‘Right.’ Michael pulled his socks and shoes back onto still-wet feet. ‘Where are these bloody things?’ He raised his hand to shield his eyes against the sun, which had fully risen over Hogsback Cliffs in front of them.
‘Would they not have been washed away by the tide since last night, sir?’ Marquis scanned the small area of dry beach and seaweed not touched by the sea.
‘According to our tipster, the bones are in a cave.’ He pointed to a ledge protruding from the cliffs fifteen feet above the sand with a round opening about five feet across above it. ‘That just about matches the description we were given.’
Michael went first, clambering up a series of wide, flat rocks before reaching the ledge. He hauled himself onto it and then sat for a moment to catch his breath. He stood at the mouth of the cave and shone the torch inside. It was larger than it looked from the outside, full head height, room for two people so long as they didn’t want to move about too much. The floor was rock and shingle. No footprints. No bones. Wrong cave, maybe. Or crap information more like. He swept the light around one more time. Lingered on a pile of lighter-coloured stones in the corner. They looked out of place. One or two lay on the floor of the cave, as though they’d fallen from the stack.
‘See anything, sir?’
‘Hold this, will you? Shine it over here.’ Michael poked at one of the stones. It was loose. He removed it, placed it behind him. Then took another. And another. Until an opening was revealed. A second, small cavern, a couple of feet high, perhaps three feet wide at most. Michael peered in. The shapes within were confusing, the light from behind bouncing off pale curves, absorbed into dark hollows.
‘What’s that, sir? Another cave?’ Marquis squeezed himself next to Michael and shone the torch beam right into it. Edges sharpened.
Michael winced, stepped back.
‘It’s not a cave, Marquis. It’s a tomb.’