She paced the path in front of the small front garden, nose wrinkled against the smell, mouth closed firmly against the flies. Michael arrived, looking too large for his bicycle, and wobbled to a stop. He embraced her awkwardly, half hug, half pat on the back, his usual greeting. The usual smile was missing, though.
‘Not like you to get in the middle of everything,’ he said shortly. ‘How’s the poor chap doing? And what exactly is going on?’
She pointed to the house. He took a few steps towards it.
‘Is that . . . ?’
‘Smeared all over the house. The back too. Mr Mauger collapsed not long after he saw it. Chest pains.’
‘Any sign of a break-in? Any damage inside the house?’
‘Not that I could see. I don’t know for sure. I ran next door and used the phone, then sat with Len until the doctor arrived. He’s sick. Cancer. He should be in hospital, but he refuses to go.’
‘And what does all of this have to do with you?’
‘I was speaking to him about Mr Carré. They were friends. Was just looking for a bit of background.’
‘Hm. Find out anything interesting?’
She hesitated. This wasn’t the time to bring up Charlie’s death. Michael had too much going on. She tightened her grip on her backpack. The note Len received two years earlier was tucked inside. She needed more than that before she asked Michael for help. She shook her head.
‘They’d grown apart. I’m not sure why.’
‘And this.’ Michael nodded towards the house. ‘What the hell is all this about?’
Jenny shrugged. ‘Your guess is as good as mine. There’s been a lot of trouble over here recently. Maybe this is just more of the same.’
Michael furrowed his brow. ‘This is disgusting, though. Who does something like this? Someone’s taken the time to collect a load of crap and then rub it all over this poor sod’s house. That’s something else. He didn’t have any idea what it was about?’
Jenny shook her head. ‘No. As soon as he realised what it was, he went into shock, started shaking and panting. I thought it was stress, but then he collapsed. He needs an ECG but is refusing to go to Guernsey. I think he’s scared he might never come back.’
‘Because it’s so bloody brilliant over here, eh? I don’t know about you, Jenny, but I’m getting the impression that no bugger on this island is being entirely honest with me.’ He stared at her for a moment too long and she felt her cheeks flush. She was glad to hear the creak of the front door. Joe Lawton held his nose as he walked over to them.
‘How’s he doing, Doctor?’ Jenny asked.
‘I’m fairly sure he’s had a mild heart attack. I’ve arranged a bed for him at the Princess Elizabeth Hospital. Flying Christine is on her way over now.’ The St John Ambulance boat was the only way to transfer patients to Guernsey.
‘He’s agreed to go?’ Jenny was surprised.
‘I told him he might not last the night if he stayed here alone without any treatment. That together with the sedative I gave him seems to have had the right effect.’
‘Is he well enough to give a statement?’ Michael asked. ‘I don’t mean to be callous, but if Mr Mauger knows anything about who might have done this, I need to speak with him.’
‘He’s not in a state to talk now. He’s very drowsy. And we need to get him in the ambulance as soon as it arrives. I wouldn’t have thought you’d be bothered about this sort of thing anyway, Chief Inspector. Haven’t you got enough on your plate?’
‘I’ve got plenty on my plate. I’m just not quite sure what it all is. Have you seen anything else like this recently?’
‘I’ve only been here a few months, and in that time I’m delighted to say I’ve not had the misfortune to venture into a house covered in dog excrement before. Surely just kids, though—nothing to do with what you’re investigating?’
‘This the sort of thing kids get up to on Sark, is it?’
Joe Lawton shrugged. ‘Kids here don’t seem to be particularly different to anywhere else. A little more independent, maybe. They have more freedom than almost anywhere else I can think of. And they get bored. Leads to a certain wildness sometimes. I imagine this is just a prank that got out of hand.’
The rumble of a tractor signalled the arrival of the ambulance. The driver got down from the cab at the same moment that a paramedic jumped out of the trailer and they both began wrangling a stretcher.
‘I need to get Len moved now. If you have any further questions, I’ll be at the surgery the rest of the afternoon.’
‘Where would that be, then?’
‘The big house just before the turn-off to La Moinerie.’
‘That massive place with the pillars? You live there?’ Michael queried.
‘It’s ridiculous, isn’t it? I’m a bit lost in it, but it came with the job.’ Joe Lawton walked over to the ambulance and began to give directions.
‘Very sure of himself, isn’t he?’ Michael muttered.
Jenny smiled.
‘What?’
‘For a policeman, you have a surprising problem with authority figures.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ He glared at her. ‘Eh? Bloody doctor has no authority over me.’
‘If you say so.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Shit. I was supposed to meet Elliot nearly an hour ago.’
‘Ah. Brought your partner in crime this time. Glad to hear it. You stay out of trouble, all right? And you never finished telling me what you and Len were talking about.’
‘I’ve got to run. Mum says hello, by the way. You should give her a call, organise that dinner?’
He cleared his throat. ‘Yes. Yes. Should do. Will do. Anyway. Best get on with this, eh?’
It was a cheap trick, but it worked. Michael, distracted, turned back to the house, forgetting his question about Len Mauger. At least for now.
Elliot was pissed off. Again. The fact that she’d turned up to the café over an hour late hadn’t helped.
‘What do you mean you’re staying over? We’ve got everything we need, haven’t we? It’s going to take hours to write all of this up.’ He waved at the waitress, the same one who had served Jenny the day before, and asked for the bill.
‘I can do it from here. And there’s someone else I need to speak to.’
‘About Reg Carré? Or your dad? Jenny, this is getting out of hand. I know that’s what you’ve been up to—I’m not stupid. He was in Sark right before he died, and you’re acting the way you always do when you’re obsessing about something.’ He stopped at her look. Lowered his tone. ‘Look, there’s a murder investigation underway here. We need to be focused on that.’
‘I am. This isn’t about my dad. Not entirely. Len Mauger was a friend of Reg’s too, remember.’
Elliot’s face softened. ‘I’m worried about you, Jen.’ He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. ‘This stuff with your dad . . . Wait.’ He held out a hand as she started to interrupt. ‘I’m not saying it’s nothing, or that you’re looking for answers that don’t exist. I’m not saying that. I’m just asking you to slow down. You don’t have to do this now. We’ve got enough to do. The police are holding a conference tomorrow in which they’ll give an update on the investigation and appeal for information. We’ll need to be here to cover that.’
‘Fine. What else have you got?’
Elliot flipped through his notebook. ‘Spoken to a few residents. All said pretty much the same thing. Shocked and appalled, et cetera, et cetera. Your cousin told me they were checking passenger lists on the ferry, so looks like one line of enquiry is that the killer has scarpered. We can follow up on that at the press conference tomorrow. Oh, and one lady mentioned gambling. She was very upset about it. Said there were people here who should know better than playing card games for money. It’s the devil’s work, apparently.’
‘This is a Methodist island. A lot of the older folks are still very devout. Who did she say was gambling?’
‘Well, I was asking about Reg. I presume she meant him. Can’t see how it’s relevant to anything.’
‘Could be.’
‘You think she slit his throat for breaking the Methodist code?’
‘Very funny.’
‘OK, some sort of row, then. A feud over a card game? Seems a bit intense.’
‘Everything about this place is intense.’ She rubbed her eyes. ‘I’m sorry. I know I’ve been shutting you out. And I have been obsessing. I’ll stop. Or I’ll let you obsess with me.’
‘That’s more like it. I don’t want you doing this alone. But for now, one of us is going to have to get these reports filed.’ He leaned over and kissed her.
His lips were warm and dry, and he smelled fresh and clean, like he always did, and she felt so stupid that she hadn’t just shared all of this with him from the start.
He sat back and his phone pinged. She caught a glimpse of the screen as he pulled it out of his pocket.
‘I’m going to have to go.’
‘OK. I’ll call you later.’
‘Sure.’ He squeezed her shoulders as he left. ‘Get some sleep, will you? You look exhausted. And for God’s sake, be careful. This place gives me the creeps at the best of times.’
She watched him walk away, head bent as he looked at his phone. She didn’t know if she was sad or angry, just that she was alone and Jade was texting Elliot about a drink at the Cock and Bull, and Jenny was sure that was why he had to be back in Guernsey in such a hurry, and there was nothing she could do or say about it because it was her fault. She had pushed him away, spending all her time wrapped up in the past, so caught up in other people’s stories that she had no energy left to tell her own.
The waitress came over with the bill. ‘You don’t need to pay it.’
‘Hm?’
‘Mr Monroe said it’s on the house. And will you please go and meet him at the steps to Havre Gosselin when you’re done.’
‘He was here?’
‘About ten minutes ago. He was watching you and your boyfriend. Looked a bit put out, actually. Lucky you.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, the bloke’s a complete wanker, but he’s also a billionaire. He leaves me five quid every time he has a drink here. Imagine what you’d get for making him breakfast in the morning.’
Jenny was rendered temporarily speechless.
‘You’d better get a move on. He doesn’t like to be kept waiting. Not even for coffee,’ she added slyly.
Corey Monroe stretched, catlike, when he saw Jenny approaching. He was muscular, she noted, well-honed biceps barely concealed beneath a Fred Perry tennis shirt. There must be a gym somewhere in his mansion on Brecqhou. He rose from the bench overlooking Havre Gosselin, the tiny, rock-bound harbour between Sark and Brecqhou, and stretched out a hand. His mirrored sunglasses were perched on top of his head, reflecting the grey of the sky above. He looked tired, she thought, the skin under his eyes pale and puffy, but the smile was undiminished, confident. Aggressively so.
‘So, so pleased we could make this happen.’ He took her hand. Dry, firm grip.
‘Thank you for suggesting we speak, Mr Monroe. My editor was delighted when I told him you were prepared to do an interview. But I’m really under pressure to finish a report for this afternoon. I was wondering if we could possibly do this another day? There’s a lot going on right now, as I’m sure you can imagine.’
‘Quite.’ His smile loosened at the edges. ‘These are terrible circumstances to be meeting under. But there’s nothing wrong with making the best of a bad situation. I thought you might like to come across to Brecqhou. Have a look at the place. It won’t take long. I’ll have you back here in an hour or so.’
‘You’d allow me into the house?’ Jenny’s reasons for asking to delay the interview were genuine—she had no time to work on a profile, no matter how interesting the subject—but a glimpse into the mansion on Brecqhou was not an opportunity to be missed.
‘I’ve never really understood people’s fascination with my home. But my longing for privacy has backfired on me. It’s difficult to make friends when I’m considered aloof, at best. At worst, well, God knows what they say about me. Or maybe you do.’
She sensed he was showing her his best side. That this willingness to co-operate was fleeting and could quickly be replaced with hostility if she failed to meet his expectations. Which seemed to be that she would do as he wanted.
‘Why are you doing this, Mr Monroe? Why talk to the News after years of taking such great efforts to stay out of the papers?’
‘It’s like I said yesterday, Jenny. The situation on Sark has become untenable. It’s bad for business. My previous attempts to reach out to the population have proved unsuccessful. I’ve decided to try something else. And as someone with a considerable stake in the island, I believe what I have to say is relevant to yesterday’s tragic events.’
‘I can ask whatever I like?’
‘You can ask. I don’t have to answer.’ She had the impression he was amused. ‘Shall we get going?’ He gestured towards the path. ‘There’s something I want to show you before we get in the boat.’
She followed him, away from Havre Gosselin, down a grass track to a field. He stopped at a gate. It was made of a bright amber timber. It looked brand new, and too pristine for its position, in the middle of an unruly hedge covered in long grass and brambles. She looked over it, into the field. Most of it was full of neat rows of olive trees, leaves silvery green. But closest to them, the trees were withered and black. She thought at first it must be the result of some disease, but the breeze provided another explanation.
‘Petrol?’
‘Two weeks ago and you can still smell it. You can imagine how much they must have used.’
‘Who did this?’
‘I’ve a fair idea but no proof, so I wouldn’t like to say. The Sark Olive Oil Company has the potential to employ up to twenty people. But the Sarkees would rather cut off their own noses than work for me. It’s such a shame. The island’s dying, Jenny. It was long before I got here. It’s cheaper to get to Spain or Greece or the Canary Islands than it is to get here in the summer. It’s a thousand times more beautiful here—don’t get me wrong—but people want guaranteed sunshine and karaoke and sex on the beach’—he glanced at her—‘not rock pools and cliff walks and fog.’
The path down to Havre Goselin was steep. Thick, wiry grass grew either side of it and they were forced to walk one behind the other, Jenny following his steady steps downwards. He was at home here, she thought. Sure-footed, not just physically. He felt that he belonged, even if the locals would do anything to get rid of him. He turned, without warning, back towards her. She stopped just short of him, so close she could see the pores in his skin. He pointed up, to a kestrel, hovering, wings twitching as it battled to stay in position over whatever prey it had spied in the long grass beneath.
‘I could watch them for hours,’ he said.
They stood, side by side, waiting for the bird to dive, but instead, it shifted slowly sideways, further and further away from them, before swooping out to sea.
‘I saw one catch a baby rabbit once,’ he said. ‘It was amazing watching the kestrel struggle with it. They have a strength way beyond their size. The rabbit must have weighed nearly as much as the bird, but it wouldn’t give up. Tore it to pieces.’
He continued down the path. Jenny waited until there was twenty feet between them. She felt uncomfortable standing too close to him. It was his aftershave, she decided. It had a metallic edge to it. Like blood.
Corey guided the RIB onto a jetty built of light stone. No uneven earth or untended grass here, but a wide path of polished granite, tone picked to match the pale jetty behind them. It wound upwards and round, boulders on one side, windswept grassland on the other, until it flattened. Low gateposts marked the beginning of a wall on either side, which increased in height the closer they got to the house now before them.
It was referred to as ‘the Mansion’ by everyone in Guernsey and Sark, but she could see now that it more closely resembled a French chateau. Built of the same stone as the path, the main building was three storeys high, and as wide as three or four regular houses. A taller, circular tower finished either end. The roof was pink slate, giving the whole place a fairy-tale quality. Jenny wanted to find it crass but had to admit that the effect, with the pale sky above and the sound of the waves crashing around them, was enchanting.
‘What’s that?’ She pointed at a smaller building behind the main house.
‘Guest quarters.’
‘How many bedrooms does the main house have?’
‘Twelve.’
He overtook her. Pointed out another building. ‘That’s the pub.’
‘So there is a pub. I thought that was a rumour.’
‘I only open it when guests are staying.’
‘Where’s the helipad?’
‘Other side of the island.’
‘Who flies the helicopter?’
‘I do usually. I’ve offered it to the islanders for emergency use. Never been taken up on it. It’s equipped for search and rescue too. Come on, let’s go in.’
They entered the house through huge double doors, stepping into a bright, fresh entrance hall and then through to the ‘reading room’. Monroe said it almost reverentially as he opened the door. He led her over to a bay window seat, billowing white curtains tied back to reveal a spectacular view of the Gouliot Passage and over to Sark.
A woman appeared from a side door, tall and slim with the air of an art gallery curator. ‘Can I get you anything, Corey?’
‘Tea, please, Margot. And whatever Jenny would like.’
She asked for coffee and waited until the woman had left. ‘How many staff do you have?’
‘A handful. Margot is my Girl Friday. Couldn’t do without her.’ He gestured for Jenny to sit, and she did so, taking out her notebook and pen.
‘Mr Monroe, as time is of the essence, can I ask you now about the current state of affairs between you and the people of Sark? It’s safe to say, I think, that relations have reached a crisis point. Can you tell our readers why you think this is the case?’
‘Of course. As you’ll probably remember, tensions were running high around election time. A lot of the locals took their first ever opportunity to run for government on an anti-Corey Monroe ticket. Which is a little ironic. Considering the only reason Sark has free and fair elections is me.’ He paused. ‘It was the young people who surprised me. Who’d have thought people your age would be so vehemently opposed to living in a democracy?’
‘Can I ask, and I don’t mean to sound rude, but why do you care whether Sark has “free and fair elections”? You knew what the island was when you bought Brecqhou. Why get involved in island affairs at all? What’s in it for you?’
‘Nothing.’ He saw her raised eyebrows. ‘I find it hard to understand how anyone can defend a system of government that only offers representation to landowners. Where the leader of that government is born, not elected. Where a man can beat his wife so long as the stick is not too wide.’
‘OK. That’s all well and good, but those idiosyncrasies were part of what made the island special. Gave it that “land that time forgot” atmosphere.’
‘It’s still a land that time forgot, Jenny,’ he said dryly. ‘You have to walk everywhere. My helicopter—Jesus, you’d think I was using a fire-breathing dragon to get to and from the island, all the controversy it’s caused. And that’s fine. I can’t change that. Nor do I want to. But I’m proud of the fact that wife-beating is now a crime.’
‘But what’s in it for you? There are empty storefronts up and down the Avenue. There’s been talk of rent hikes.’ She left the statement hanging.
He shook his head. ‘No. I’ve poured millions into the Sark economy. Millions. Renovated hotels, used as much local workforce as I could. Tried to stock the kitchens with local produce. Tried to employ local people. It’s all smoke and mirrors. They’re trying to force me out.’
‘Why would anyone do that?’
‘It’s a good question. One I’m trying to get to the bottom of. I know there was some crazy talk about me trying to turn this place into some sort of theme park.’
‘You suggested building a railway round the island.’
He waved his hand dismissively. ‘A misstep. And I was never serious, not really, was just floating around ideas, looking at ways to reinvigorate the tourist industry. Believe it or not, I’m not the bad guy here.’
‘Who is?’
‘It’s never that simple, is it? But if I had to pin the problems on a particular person, I’d say the seigneur has done more damage to this island than anyone.’
She was shocked by his candour. ‘But he’s been broadly supportive of democratisation. At least in the interviews I’ve read.’
‘He’s said all the right things in public. In private, and among the islanders, it’s been a different story.’
‘You think he’s behind the vandalism?’
‘Not directly, obviously. But I think he encourages it.’
‘You have proof?’
He shook his head.
‘I can’t print unsubstantiated allegations.’
‘I’m not asking you to.’ He looked out. ‘It’s murky today. A peasouper—that’s what my dad would have called it. I grew up in the East End of London. Did you know that?’
‘I did. I read somewhere that your dad knew the Krays. Is that true?’
He laughed. ‘A gross exaggeration. The tabloids love to try to tar me with that brush. He was from the same part of town and lived there at the same time, but my dad was a grafter, not a gangster. Helped me buy my first boat. All this is as much to do with his hard work as it is mine.’
‘It’s a great story.’
‘I sometimes think it’s part of the problem people have with me.’
‘How so?’
‘As a rule, much as folks like to grumble about it, they’re more comfortable with inherited wealth. It’s so much easier to resent. Self-made billionaires make them feel inadequate. I’d rather you didn’t quote me on that.’ He was still staring out at the Channel.
‘You have a great view of the passage over to Sark. Do you see a lot of boats?’
‘Not on this side of the island.’
‘People aren’t allowed to sail past here, are they?’
‘As I’m sure you know. Before I successfully argued that having people sail past my house with telescopic lenses was an invasion of privacy, it happened all the time. A boat from the Jersey Star ended up stranded just down there.’ He pointed to a stack of jagged rocks between the jetty and the coast of Sark. ‘Had to rescue them. I made them tea while they waited for the lifeboat.’ He turned to her and smiled. ‘Killing them with kindness.’
‘What about at night?’
‘What about it?’
‘Have you ever seen anything unusual at night? Boats, flashing lights?’
He hesitated. Just enough for her to notice. ‘You must mean the cave tours. That woman, Thursday something. She does a night-time sail a couple of times a week. They don’t come here. They’re not allowed. And anyway, the passage is too narrow. Too many rocks.’
‘I’ve heard about the tours. You’ve never seen anything else?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘I’m sure it’s nothing. Some of the locals said they’d seen boats out after dark. Probably stargazers, like Tuesday Jones.’
She could feel his eyes still on her.
‘Probably. Whoever they are, they should be careful. Can you imagine the amount of ships dashed on these rocks, smashed to pieces in the kind of storm that sends sea spray all the way up here?’ He paused. ‘I love it here. Did when I first visited twenty-five years ago. Still do. I’m hopeful, even after all of this, that Sark can once again be a happy, thriving community.’ He stared at her now, and it was as though a shadow had passed over his face.
‘Because we’ve all seen now, haven’t we, Jenny, where animosity can lead? It starts with a brick through a window and ends with a dead body.’
The waves smashing against the rocks outside were the only sound in the room.
‘You’re implying Reg Carré’s death is related to the political situation on the island?’
‘I hear the man’s head was practically severed from his body. Has to be the work of hate and anger. Or fear.’
There was a moment of silence, broken by the clinking of crockery as Margot arrived with the drinks.
‘You know, I’m afraid I really don’t have much time.’ Jenny put her notebook back in her bag, desperate, suddenly, to get away from this strange place and this man whose demeanour had flipped from charming to unsettling in an instant. ‘I have to get my report filed for tomorrow’s News. Thank you. For speaking with me so candidly.’
‘Of course. My pleasure. Let’s get you back.’
The cloud was so thick she could only just see Havre Gosselin landing, a short jetty and steep steps carved out of a wall of solid rock. Monroe slowed the boat, before butting against the first of the steps. He cut the engine and jumped out, a move that looked to have been perfected over time. He tied up to a mooring ring and held out his hand. She had no choice but to take it: there was nothing else to hold on to. She stood next to him on the jetty.
‘What did you mean when you talked about fear?’
‘What?’
‘You said the person who killed Reg could have done it out of fear. Only it sounded like you were speaking from personal experience.’
‘Not particularly. It’s human nature. Or is it animal instinct? Fight or flight. You know all about that, surely. I hear you offended a few people while you were working in London. Got some of them running scared. And fear makes people lash out. Look what happened to you.’
She froze.
‘I hope we can talk again sometime, Jenny.’ He untied the rope and jumped back down into the dinghy, started the engine and deftly manoeuvred out into the channel. He raised his hand in a goodbye salute and sped off into the fog.
Look what happened to you. He could only be referring to the assault. Anyone could find out about it within a couple of minutes on Google. How she’d been abducted, threatened, left in Epping Forest, blindfolded, hands bound behind her back. They wouldn’t get the whole story, though. At the time, most of the press had reported it as a botched robbery. There had been some speculation her attackers meant to rape her but were disturbed by a passer-by. Only one or two sources mentioned that she was a journalist, that perhaps the assault was something to do with a story she’d been working on.
It was. But that story had never been published. There was nothing online about the real reason behind her attack. Only Jenny knew that. The police she’d reported it to. And the men who did it.