The next ferry back to Guernsey left at two. Jenny ordered a coffee at the new café in the village and sat at a table outside. Snippets of conversation floated over to her as people walked past.
‘. . . police have been down there for hours . . .’
‘. . . you know what I think . . .’
Two men, voices low, conspiratorial—the tone and timbre of juicy gossip being shared. Jenny left her seat and approached them. They stopped mid-conversation.
‘Can I help you?’ The younger of the two, in his mid-forties, strong-featured, had an air of authority about him, but he spoke in a gentle, enquiring manner. He was dressed smartly, in chinos despite the heat, and a short-sleeved shirt.
‘I couldn’t help overhearing you. My name’s Jenny Dorey. I’m here from the Guernsey News. I was wondering if you had a minute to talk?’
The older man, tall and red-faced with a mane of thick white hair, shook his head. ‘You’re not putting me in that rag. No offence, love. More of a broadsheet reader myself. I’ll be in later, Joe, about the knee.’ He gave a wave and hurried off, limping slightly.
‘Don’t mind him. He’s a bit of a character.’ The younger man extended a hand. ‘Joe Lawton.’ He paused. ‘Seems more likely you might know what’s going on at Derrible. Presume you’ve been down there?’ he asked.
‘The area’s sealed off. I believe the police will be making a statement later today,’ she dodged. ‘But I’m sure people are already talking.’
‘They are. I’m not included in the gossip, though. Only been here since April. It’s probably for the best—I’m the doctor. It can be a bit awkward knowing too much about people in such a small place. Everyone’s shocked, though—I can tell you that much. Beyond that, there’s a lot of speculation about who it might be, obviously.’
‘Any names?’
He smiled. ‘Like I said, nobody tells me.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I must be going. I’m late for my next appointment. Nice meeting you.’
Jenny returned to her coffee. She opened her laptop. Thought about a headline. Fought the urge to go with ‘Terrible Derrible’, which is what she’d called the beach as a kid. Knowing Graham’s penchant for the melodramatic, he’d love it, but it seemed too glib for the seriousness of the situation. A sharp smell interrupted her thoughts—woody, overtly masculine. A shadow fell over her table.
‘Ms Dorey?’
She looked up. A man stood across from her, scalp shining beneath closely shorn hair, large aviator-style sunglasses hiding his eyes.
‘It is Ms Dorey, isn’t it? I was wondering if I might join you?’ He sat before she had a chance to say anything, folding his long, lean body into the wicker chair, stretching his legs out to the side. He motioned to the waitress.
‘Cappuccino, please, Stacey.’
The waitress smiled. ‘Coming right up, Mr Monroe.’
Jenny closed her laptop. ‘I don’t think we’ve met?’
‘But you know who I am.’ He took off his sunglasses and polished the lenses before placing them on the table. His eyes were large and bright green, framed with long, thick eyelashes, feminine almost, and completely at odds with his nose, which was bent out of shape. It had been broken, Jenny thought, more than once.
‘Corey Monroe.’
‘How can I help you?’
He smiled, teeth bleached and gleaming. ‘Shouldn’t you be down on Derrible?’
‘It’s a crime scene. One of the officers is meeting me here,’ she lied. Stupid. It was broad daylight; there were plenty of people about, but she’d already been followed this morning and there was something about this man. She didn’t want him to think she was alone.
‘All very dramatic.’ He paused and turned his attention to the waitress as she placed his drink on the table. ‘Thanks, love. You’ve changed your hair, haven’t you? Suits you. Look a bit like that Scarlett Johansson now.’ He winked at the girl, who giggled.
‘I was wondering,’ he said, still watching the girl as she walked back into the café, ‘if you wouldn’t mind giving me a call.’ He turned his attention back to Jenny and slid a card across the table. He rolled his linen shirtsleeves up over his elbows. He had that easy, self-assured manner the wealthy often had. He was used to being listened to, to getting his own way.
Jenny picked up the card. ‘What about?’
‘Well, it occurred to me recently that with all of the bad blood between myself and a number of the islanders, it might be worth me telling my side of the story. I’ve tried talking to people one on one, arranged meetings, which nobody ever turns up to. Seems like once people have made up their minds, there’s simply no changing them. I could go to one of the nationals, of course, if I wanted to. But I’d like to reach the locals. Everyone here reads the Guernsey News.’ He took a sip of his drink, licked the foam from his top lip.
Jenny sat up a little straighter. Corey Monroe had never spoken to the News. He’d released statements—cursory comments about some of his properties being vandalised, soundbites about working together with the locals, quotes regarding his newly refurbished hotels being ‘open for business’. But he’d never sat down with a journalist face to face.
‘Why now? We’ve approached you many times asking for an interview. You’ve always refused.’
‘As I’m sure you can see, Jenny, things have reached a bit of a stalemate. There are people here who, for some bizarre reason, think that I mean the island harm. It’s virtually impossible to find people to work with me.’ He shook his head. ‘It makes no sense. Not to mention the personal attacks, which frankly have become libellous. I could sue, but I don’t want to punish people.’
‘I heard talk of rent hikes. Supply contracts cancelled?’
‘Oh yes?’ He smiled again. ‘You see. This is why you’re perfect for the job, Jenny. There’ll be no accusations of sycophancy with you running the show. And that’s all I want. A fair representation of what’s happening over here.’
He finished his drink.
‘Best coffee on the island. I own the place, so don’t worry about paying.’ He put his sunglasses back on and she saw herself reflected in them. She looked uncomfortable, unsure of herself. She tried to relax her shoulders, to smile professionally as he got up to leave.
‘I’ll be in touch. Probably best to wait until we have the full story about Derrible.’
‘I don’t know about that, Jenny. What better time to bring the island together than now, in the wake of a tragedy?’ He took a five-pound note out of his wallet and placed it under his cup.
The waitress came out of the café and waved. ‘See you tomorrow, Mr Monroe.’ Her smile fell as soon as he’d left. She started to clear the table.
‘Comes in regularly, does he?’ Jenny asked.
‘Every day.’
‘You don’t sound very happy about it.’
The girl stopped what she was doing and glared at Jenny. ‘I know who you are. Don’t you go writing anything I say about him—I need this job.’
Jenny held up her hands. ‘I’m just making conversation! Is there anyone on this island who doesn’t know who I am?’
The waitress shrugged. ‘Probably not. People have been talking about the body on the beach. Someone said there was a reporter down by Derrible. Then I heard you talking with Monroe.’ She pocketed the money he had left on the table.
‘Well, he’s a good tipper, if nothing else.’ Jenny started to pack up her things.
‘Everywhere else they spit in his coffee.’
‘Not here, though?’
The girl glanced over her shoulder before replying. ‘Not as far as he knows.’
Jenny stared at the empty cup, feeling slightly ill.
The girl noted her look of distaste. ‘He deserves it. I’ve heard all sorts of rumours about what goes on over in his mansion. We all have.’
‘Like what?’
The interesting turn in the conversation was stopped short by the sound of a shriek from the end of the street. Two older women, one with her hand pressed over her mouth. Another joined them. There was a rapid exchange of words.
‘. . . just now . . .’
‘. . . police have gone running up there . . .’
Jenny ran over to them. ‘Is everything OK?’
These ladies at least did not seem concerned as to who she might be. They answered immediately with a volley of information.
‘It’s Reg Carré, up at his cottage.’
‘Known him all my life!’
‘Murdered!’
There was a moment of stunned silence, as though the whole street were listening.
‘Murder? Are you sure? Where did you hear this?’ Jenny asked. There must be some confusion, she reasoned, with the events on Derrible—small-town gossip gone into overdrive.
The smallest of the ladies answered. ‘It’s true! I saw Constable Langlais about twenty minutes ago. He’d stopped on his bike and he looked a terrible state and I asked him, “You all right, Martin?” and he said, “Reg is dead.”’ She shook her head. ‘Not “dead”—“killed”, he said. Reg has been killed and we shouldn’t go near his place, and that’s when I saw the police were following him.’
‘The Guernsey Police?’
The woman nodded. ‘They were here already, weren’t they? There’s another body on Derrible. Good grief. I need to sit down. This isn’t right. This is Sark! What’s happening?’
She looked at Jenny, as if she might hold the answers.
‘Where does Mr Carré live?’
‘Off Rue du Fort. The path down to the common. Middle of nowhere. You’re not to go there, though—Martin said!’
Jenny left the women to their disbelief and walked slowly back to the café. She checked her watch. Less than an hour until the ferry back to Guernsey. But there was a sailing at four, another at six. She picked up her things and walked with her bike to the crossroads. Straight down the hill to the harbour. Or left towards Rue du Fort. It was wide and straight, one of the main routes to the north and, as island roads went, busy—filled with the sounds of Sark. A horse and carriage plodded up ahead, the clip-clopping of hooves, rhythmical, comforting, like a nursery rhyme. The ringing of a bicycle bell. Glasses chinking, laughter from the beer garden opposite. In the distance, the chug of a tractor. And somewhere, beyond, the silence of a dead man.