Malcolm and Sharon Perré owned Ariel’s Grotto, the toyshop on Rue Hotton. The Mermaid was only a few hundred yards further down the road. Michael had spent many a night propping up the bar there while on one his two-week ‘tours of duty’ in Sark. Years ago now. The last one had been the summer after Ellen had died. He’d got so pissed he’d missed the boat coming in the next morning, which was the only real job that the officer on Sark had—checking that there were no troublemakers on board. It was Sod’s Law that Peter Norman arrived that day. A well-known alcoholic (the irony) and petty thief, he’d been caught trying to nick a bike half an hour after landing. Michael’s absence at the morning ferry was noted, and reported back by the rather zealous constable at the time. He wasn’t asked to return the following year, and soon after, they stopped the trips altogether. There was never enough trouble to justify them being there. Until now.
‘I used to come here as a kid,’ Marquis said, before sneezing violently. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and blew his nose.
‘You all right?’
‘Think it’s just allergies. Hay fever.’
Michael rolled his eyes. He didn’t know a single person his age who had an allergy. ‘Let’s get inside, then, shall we? Away from the hay.’
The ringing of the bell as they crossed the threshold reminded Michael that he had brought Ellen to this shop. She had jumped in and out, making the bell sound until the owner had asked her to stop. Not the same person, he was sure, who stood behind the counter now. A woman in her late fifties, unnaturally dark hair set in a style that even to Michael’s untrained eye was at least twenty years out of date—short and choppy, the sides blown backwards to frame her face. A very nice face, he decided, the sort that smiled quickly and as often as possible, well-worn lines at the corners of her eyes, deep dimples in each cheek.
‘Can I help you?’ Her countenance wavered as she took in Michael and Marquis, side by side. ‘Are you looking for anything in particular?’
‘Mrs Perré?’
‘Yes. You are?’
‘DCI Gilbert, DC Marquis. Wanted to ask you a couple of questions about Reg Carré.’
‘That poor bastard.’ The voice was muffled and came from behind the counter. It was followed by a cough, and then shuffling and creaking. A hand grabbed the back of the countertop, belonging to a dusty-faced man, sharp black eyes shining.
‘This is my husband, Malcolm. He was in the basement,’ Sharon explained.
Michael peered over to see a trapdoor and the beginnings of a wooden staircase.
Malcolm placed a small box next to the till.
‘That’s the last one. You need to order some more, sharpish. And it’s a shithole down there. Might want to take a duster to it, eh?’ He wiped his hand across his face and then on the back of his trousers. ‘Filthy it is.’
‘Sorry. I’ll get down there later.’
‘You want to ask about old Reg, then, eh? Thought you might be over.’ Malcolm looked at Michael expectantly.
‘Yes. We spoke to your son, Benjamin, yesterday.’
Sharon’s hand went up to her cheek, then to a stray strand of hair. She looked as though she was about to speak, but Malcolm got in first.
‘Likes to talk, does Ben. Have anything interesting to say, did he?’
‘Mentioned some rumours, actually. About Reg and his wife. Years ago.’
Malcolm walked out from behind the counter and leaned on the front of it, a hard smile pasted on his face. Behind him, Sharon paled. Michael watched her as Malcolm spoke.
‘There were always rumours about Reg, weren’t there, Shaz? Liked the old . . .’ He mimed a glass being raised to his mouth. ‘And the ladies. Liked the ladies, didn’t he, Shaz?’
‘I don’t think that’s true, Malcolm.’ She played with her hair again, the other side this time. ‘He was devoted to Rachel. Things were difficult for them. They lost a baby. Miscarriage. She was devastated. Left Sark for a while. She came back; they had Luke, but I’m not sure she ever fully recovered.’
‘Women, eh?’ Malcolm rolled his eyes. ‘Go soft at the squeak of a baby. It’s why this place is such a fucking mess—Ben and his missus just had one. Shaz here can’t keep away, can you, love?’
‘I’ve been a bit distracted. First grandchild.’ She smiled, but there was no warmth in her expression now, rather a look of desperation. She was frightened. Of her husband or Michael’s questions, or something else entirely, Michael couldn’t be sure.
‘Rachel’s disappearance was very sudden, I understand.’
Neither Malcolm nor Sharon responded. Michael pushed.
‘There was talk at the time, so I hear, that she might not have left after all.’
‘Well, I think we’d all know if she was still here, wouldn’t we, Detective? I mean, how ridiculous. You can’t spend twenty-five years on Sark with no one knowing about it,’ Sharon said.
‘Unless she was holed up in a cave.’ Malcolm seemed to relish saying the words.
‘Malcolm, don’t be stupid! It’s absolutely irresponsible to talk like that now, with everything going on.’ She looked at Michael pleadingly. ‘At the time, there was some gossip. But it was only ever that. I helped Reg out from time to time after Rachel left.’
An intake of breath from Malcolm. The first genuine reaction from him, Michael thought. The man had something of the pantomime villain about him, a part he seemed to enjoy playing.
‘Luke and Ben were friends, and Reg struggled, a single dad, twenty-odd years ago—it was hard for him,’ Sharon continued. ‘He was really a lovely man. Nobody knew what he dealt with, with Rachel. She had problems, you know?’ She tapped the side of her head. ‘Honestly, I think she did the best she could for that boy leaving when she did.’
‘What my wife seems to be saying, Detective, is that even if he did get rid of her, she deserved it. That right, Shaz?’ He turned to his wife, a sly look on his face.
‘Don’t do this, Malcolm. Not now.’
‘Don’t mind her.’ Malcolm looked entirely relaxed. ‘Been post-menopausal for the last ten years, haven’t you, love? Plays havoc with her emotions.’
For the first time in many years, unprompted by any physical threat, Michael felt a twitch in his right hand. His fingers curled, as if they had a mind of their own, into a fist.
‘So you think Mr Carré could have murdered his wife. Is that what you’re saying, Mr Perré?’ Marquis took a couple of steps forward, drawing level with Michael on his right side.
‘Could have done. Course he could. Wouldn’t blame him if he had. ’S’like my wife said. She was a fucking nightmare. Mooning around all the time. Always miserable. They had some blazing rows, you know. She had a vicious way about her, I always thought. Bet she was a right goer in the sack, but you always pay for that, I find, in other ways.’ He laughed as though recalling fond memories but stopped abruptly as his wife slammed the trapdoor shut.
‘Shut up, Malcolm.’
‘All right, all right!’ Malcolm held up his hands.
‘I’m late for an appointment, Officer. Do you need anything else?’ Her voice was strained.
‘Not for now, Mrs Perré. Thank you.’
She picked up a large handbag and slung it over her shoulder before she left.
Malcolm whistled. ‘Don’t know what’s got into her. She thought Rachel was a mad bitch as much as I did.’
‘Care to elaborate, Mr Perré?’
‘How so?’
‘Well, was there any particular behaviour Mrs Carré displayed that would lead you to form that conclusion?’
‘No. Nothing in particular. She was just that type of woman. I mean, look at her.’ He pointed in the direction his wife had just gone. ‘They’re all the bloody same.’
Michael knocked over a basket of soft toys on the way out, so anxious was he to escape the presence of Malcolm Perré.
‘Can we arrest someone for being an arsehole?’ Marquis muttered as he righted the basket and replaced a pink-and-silver unicorn.
‘Sadly not.’
‘It’s been a bit of a day.’
‘Bloody hell, Stephen. You going for the Nobel Prize for Understatement? It’s been a bastard of a day. And it’s not over yet.’
They’d gone only a few steps before the sound of footsteps behind them stopped them in their tracks.
‘Officers!’ Sharon Perré was hurrying after them.
‘You all right, love?’
She seemed taken aback by Michael’s concerned manner. ‘You mean because of Mal?’ She waved a hand, dismissing him. ‘Please. Takes more than him on one of his little rants to upset me these days.’ She paused. ‘He’s really not that bad. His nose gets out of joint when, well, when anything upsets the status quo, I suppose.’
‘Like Reg Carré getting killed?’
‘Well, yes, of course that upset him. It’s upset all of us. But what I meant was more . . . Well, it’s difficult to explain.’
‘Try your best.’
‘It was when I helped Reg out after Rachel left. It was very sudden, you see. One day she was here, the next she’d packed her bag and left, leaving that poor boy. It broke my heart. I had to do something. So I started taking meals over a couple of times a week. I was cooking for us anyway, so it was no hassle. Only Malcolm didn’t see it like that. Said I was spending too much time over there. He and Reg fought about it, actually.’ She blushed deep red. ‘It was awful. It was right here, in the street.’
‘Can you tell us about it?’
‘They’d both had too much to drink—Mal was right about that: Reg did drink too much, but because he was depressed, I think. People didn’t get help for things–mental health stuff, you know—not like they do now. Anyway, Malcolm was accusing Reg of all sorts. I don’t think he really believed any of it, and Reg denied it all, of course. But Malcolm wouldn’t let it go. Said he wouldn’t be surprised if Rachel’s body washed up sometime soon, and even if Reg didn’t want to . . . to fuck me, maybe he wanted to kill me.’ She stopped. Her cheeks were scarlet. ‘That was when Reg hit Malcolm. There was a crowd of people around them by this point. They fought. Reg broke Malcolm’s nose. Eventually, someone pulled them apart. The rumours about Reg have flown around ever since.’
‘And you stopped helping Reg out after this fight?’
A defiant look crossed her face. ‘No. I did not. Why should I? I was still taking him meals up until last week.’
‘And Malcolm knew about this?’
‘I assume so. We never discussed it. We didn’t discuss much after that fight. It took us a long time to get over it.’
‘Mrs Perré, I have to ask, were you involved with Reg, romantically?’
‘No.’ She sounded emphatic but her eyes told another story.
‘Do you think Reg Carré murdered his wife, Mrs Perré? Do you think it was her in that cave?’
She shook her head. ‘He was a good man.’
‘That doesn’t answer my question.’
‘No. I don’t think he did. I wouldn’t have helped him, I wouldn’t have . . . spent time with him if I’d thought he was a killer.’ She hesitated. ‘I’m sorry. I’m wasting your time. I’d best go.’
‘I don’t have an appointment. Not really. I’m going to help out Ben. The baby’s a bit colicky, and Ben’s wife’s not coping so well.’ She seemed angry all of a sudden. ‘None of you men understand what it’s like. It’s so hard. You have a baby and you think you’re gaining something, but you lose something too. A little piece of the you that you were before. It vanishes. Every mother I know has struggled. I did. And I’m sure Rachel did. I don’t want you to think that what I said about her was unkind. She wasn’t crazy. She was suffering. Thank God there’s help for people nowadays.’ She walked off in the direction of the village.
Marquis waited until she was out of earshot. ‘Crikey. That was a bit intense.’
‘She obviously puts up with a lot.’
‘You think they were Rachel Carré’s bones in that cave, sir?’
‘Maybe.’
‘And once they were found, perhaps it confirmed someone’s suspicions after all these years that Reg murdered his wife. Someone like Malcolm Perré.’
‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Marquis. Rachel Carré was never reported missing, was she? So nobody ever looked for her. Let’s do that first—see if we can’t eliminate her from our enquiries that way. Maybe she’s happy as Larry somewhere, just never wanted to be found. Let’s get a DNA sample from Luke Carré too. Cover both angles.’
‘If the body in the cave is Rachel Carré, Luke would be the prime suspect, not Malcolm.’
‘Talk me through the theory.’ Always helped to have Marquis think out loud, especially when he was on the right track.
‘Well, he must be aware of the rumours. The bones in the cave confirmed them to be true. He loved his mother, so he killed his father. Would all be a bit Shakespearean, wouldn’t it?’
‘You mean Freudian.’
Marquis looked confused.
‘It was Freud who talked about sons wanting to kill their fathers and you know . . . with their mothers.’
‘Oedipus. It’s a good theory. But Luke couldn’t have got here quickly enough. Not if his alibi is telling the truth, at any rate. You all right?’
Marquis looked peaky as hell. ‘I feel a bit faint, actually, boss.’
‘Heat’s getting to you, Marquis. Getting to me too as it happens. I think we’d better get a cold drink. Before we both pass out.’