One more blast of the horn and Michael was going to pull Fallaize out of the car by the scruff of his neck and give him what for.
‘It’s the crack of dawn. You’re going to wake all the neighbours. You saw me wave at you from the front door,’ Michael hissed when he reached the end of his driveway.
He clambered awkwardly into the passenger seat and tried to fit his feet and his overnight bag in the footwell. Fallaize drove a bright orange Lotus Elise, which was quite possibly the most ridiculous car a person could own on Guernsey. In fact, on the stupid-car scale, Michael would even put it ahead of those bloody great SUVs that some of the mums drove on the school run. They were far too big for the roads but at least had space and comfort going for them. The Elise had neither. Just a top speed of over a hundred and fifty miles an hour, as Fallaize had told everyone who would listen when he’d first bought it. Which was really impressive. And completely irrelevant on an island with a top speed limit of thirty-five miles per hour, and that was only on the coast road.
‘Sorry, sir.’ Fallaize didn’t sound sorry at all but turned off the music. ‘Didn’t want us to be late.’ He revved the engine like he was on the starting line at Silverstone, reaching a speed of ten miles an hour before coming to a halt at the yellow line at the end of Michael’s road.
‘How can we be late? It’s not bloody going without us, is it?’ Michael shifted in the seat, trying to position his legs in such a way that he didn’t have to fold them into his lap.
‘S’pose not. How long do you think we’ll have to stay over, then?’
‘End of the week at least. Maybe longer. Depends when we catch the bastard, doesn’t it?’
‘What’s up with Marquis?’
‘Sick.’ Pain in the arse. Michael would have put up with Marquis’s ‘allergies’ any day over having to deal with Fallaize’s crap, but the hay fever had turned out to be some horrible strain of summer flu and so now, on top of everything else, Michael had this prat to deal with.
The Avenue was deserted. There was a thin cover of cloud, the sort that let the warmth of the sun seep through and then kept it there, pushing it down on everyone. A strong breeze had ensured the trip over was uncomfortable, but it was still a good five degrees warmer than it had been on Guernsey and he regretted wearing his long-sleeved shirt already. Sweat pricked at his brow.
The new coffee shop with the fancy cupcakes was still closed, despite a sign outside saying it opened at eight. Michael saw the twitch of a blind slat as they walked past. The chap who ran the grocery store stood in the window and openly stared. Alf from the cycle-hire shop was the only person who seemed to be up and about. Even he was quiet, handing over their bikes with little more than a nod.
They stopped in at the church hall, where they found a bleary-eyed Constable Bachelet at the desk.
‘All quiet last night?’ Michael asked.
‘Too quiet, sir.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Couldn’t sleep, to be honest. Room was hot and stuffy. And I live in town. I’m used to hearing a bit of noise and bustle. There was nothing last night except crickets. And bats. Think they were bats. Squeaking.’ He shuddered. Then yawned.
‘Right. Well, we’ve got all that to look forward to. We’re going to check into the B&B and then get set up over at the school. You man the desk here, all right?’
‘Yep. No problem.’ He yawned again.
He did not, Michael thought, have the demeanour of an officer involved in a major murder investigation.
‘Oh, sir, just to warn you—press arrived late last night.’
‘The News? Been here a couple of days already. Keep up, son.’
‘No, couple of nationals.’
‘How’d they get here?’
‘Charter from Jersey. Suppose they wanted to be here for the meeting.’
Michael sighed. ‘I suppose they did. Come on, Fallaize. Into the lion’s den we go.’
Fallaize stopped on the way out, peering at his reflection in a dusty windowpane. Evidently wanting to be camera-ready, he swept his hair over to one side and straightened his blazer. He was looking a bit peaky, Michael thought. Lacking some of his usual wide-boy sparkle. Nothing dull about his cufflinks, though. They were tiny gold sports cars. Flash git.
Sark School assembly hall was the only place big enough to seat the amount of people Michael expected to attend the meeting. The press were already there, waiting outside. Not as many as he’d feared.
‘Can you give us a comment, DCI Gilbert?’
‘Are you close to finding the killer?’
‘Any insight into possible motive?’
‘Is Reg Carré’s death connected to the gruesome discovery on Derrible Bay on Monday?’
Michael held up his hand.
‘It is, as you know, very early days in this inquiry. This is a meeting for the residents of Sark. You can sit quietly at the back and I’ll try to answer any questions you have as best I can at the end of it.’
‘Jonathan Boswell, Channel News. Can you comment on the rumour that Reg Carré was murdered as a result of a twenty-year feud with a neighbour?’ A microphone was shoved under his nose.
‘I said I’ll answer questions later!’ Michael thundered. He pushed the mic away. ‘And don’t be so bloody irresponsible,’ he hissed. ‘People here are stressed enough without you stirring the pot.’
Bloody local press, he thought. Worse than the nationals by far, getting tied up with all the island gossip.
He stopped on the way into the hall. Scanned the small gathering of reporters. There was a notable absence.
‘You expecting someone, sir?’ Fallaize asked.
‘No. Not particularly. Just Jennifer Dorey—I know she stayed over last night. Would have thought she’d be here.’ He took out his phone. No bloody reception. ‘Check in with the guesthouse, will you, Fallaize? Rosie’s, I think it is. Make sure she’s all right.’
‘Absolutely, sir.’ The edge, the ever-present touch of insolence was absent from Fallaize’s tone. Which was, Michael thought, most disconcerting.
Several children cycled past chatting and laughing, parking their bikes in the stand to the left of the school entrance. They looked happy enough. Not a care, despite what was about to be discussed right next door to them. Michael remembered those blissful days, when bad news was something that only happened to grown-ups. In Guernsey, even the grown-ups were sheltered from the worst of world events. He’d visited London on a training course after a spate of IRA attacks in the early 1990s. It had been all over the news, but he had still been shocked to see his mainland colleagues checking under their cars before they got in and, later in the week, the moment of panic caused by an unaccompanied rucksack in the lunchroom.
Even now, Guernsey remained removed, the water that surrounded the island a buffer—a psychological cushion between it and the terrors of the wider world. Because on their small island, it was the small-scale horrors that were felt more keenly than elsewhere. The car crashes, the drug deaths, the suicides and, yes, the murders. Shock amplified, rippling through the community, each person touched in some way. It was bad enough on Guernsey. It would be even worse here. Everyone knew Reg Carré. Odds were a few of them knew why he was murdered. Perhaps they would be at the meeting this morning. Chances were the killer would be too.
Michael helped set up the chairs. Seating for two hundred or so and standing room at the back. The last time he’d done anything like this he’d had to admit to the crowd that a killer had gone about drowning young women undetected for decades. At least he would not have to face the sort of hostility that situation created. No, this time they were on top of things. They knew what they were dealing with. Murder. Two of them. Connected? They had to be. He didn’t know how, but as he’d told countless junior officers over the years, there was no such thing as a coincidence. There was some thread, however thin, strung between the two bodies. Perhaps, he pondered, the bond between them was far greater than that. Not a thread at all but a band of gold.
Because the more he thought about it, the greater he considered the likelihood that the woman in the cave was Rachel Carré. Luke Carré had agreed to a DNA test already. The results would take a few days at least, the process of extracting DNA from bones time-consuming. A positive result would be, Michael considered, from a police perspective, the best possible outcome. Because, he reasoned, if those were Rachel’s bones, he’d wage money on Reg Carré having put them there. Which made the whole case a family affair.
Michael checked his watch. Past ten and the hall was nearly full. Malcolm Perré was sporting an ugly black eye. Sharon sat in the same row but had left several empty chairs between them. Evidently there had been more trouble between those two. Constable Langlais looked worse than he had done two days ago, thinner, if that were even possible, his chin covered in patchy stubble. Luke Carré also looked a state—tired, bloodshot eyes. A hangover. Driven to alcohol by grief or guilt? Michael wondered. And just behind him, Jenny Dorey and her colleague-cum-boyfriend, Elliot. Michael had been relieved to see them arrive, although they both looked tired and stressed.
Tanya Le Page sat at the back. A lonely-looking figure, hair hanging limply, a drab-looking oversized cardigan wrapped around her slim shoulders. Several members of the Chief Pleas, Sark’s now democratically elected government, were in attendance. They sat together, and talked among themselves, an air of officiousness about them. A woman he recognised from the village, dyed-blonde hair, very attractive, although her demeanour certainly discouraged any notion of conversation, stood at the back of the hall, arms folded in spite of the availability of several free seats.
He cleared his throat. The audience sat up straighter. Chair legs squeaked against the waxed wooden floor. Michael moved forward to speak.
‘Wait a minute! Wait a minute.’ Sir William de Bordeaux made his way through the hall, his cane tap-tapping beside him. He sat, slowly, in a front-row seat. ‘Can’t have an island meeting without the seigneur, now can we?’
Michael thought he might be attempting humour, but the reaction from the rest of the room was muted. Cool, even.
‘Very pleased you could make it. I was just about to begin.’
‘Well, don’t let me stop you. Carry on.’
Michael bristled, then remembered Jenny’s comment about his problem with authority figures and gave the old man a tight smile before launching into a summary of events, from the discovery of the bones on the beach to Reg Carré’s body being found.
‘The timings here are very important. Mr Carré was seen at just after nine a.m. making his way home from the village with his grocery shopping. Constable Langlais found his body shortly after eleven thirty a.m., by which point we believe he’d been dead for somewhere in the region of two hours. So whoever killed Mr Carré was most likely waiting for him at his house, or arrived very soon after. Mr Carré had been making tea right before he was killed, which leads us to believe the killer may have been known to him. Which means he’s most likely known to you all too.’
There was a long, loaded silence while Michael let this sink in.
‘Many of you have come forward and given statements regarding when you last saw Mr Carré, or spoken of his character, or contributed your theories about what might have happened, and we’re very grateful for all of your co-operation. For now, we’re interested in tracing a man who was seen on or near Mr Carré’s property on Monday morning—’
‘A man?’ the seigneur interrupted. ‘Is that the best you’ve got? What sort of man? Who saw him?’ He looked behind him at the audience.
‘I’m afraid that’s not information I’m able to share with you all.’ He saw Tanya Le Page shift in her seat, pull her cardigan a little tighter. ‘And I appreciate the description is minimal,’ Michael continued. ‘But if anyone was in the vicinity of Reg’s house on Monday morning, they should come forward, regardless of whether or not they saw anything suspicious.
‘We’re also looking for a woman in a large sun hat who bought a ticket for the twelve-noon sailing to Guernsey on Monday. Most likely a tourist on her way home, but due to the timing of the ticket purchase, we’d like to eliminate her from our enquiries.’
‘What about the bones?’ The woman at the back of the hall.
‘We are trying to establish the identity of the body found on Derrible. If anyone has any information pertaining to that, we’d like to hear from you.’
‘Who found them, then?’ The same woman.
‘It was an anonymous tip. We’d very much like to speak with whoever called it in.’
‘What would someone be doing poking around in those caves, do you think?’
Michael was confused. ‘I’m sorry, Ms . . . ?’
‘Jones. Tuesday Jones.’
‘Ms Jones, I really have no idea. It’s not been a primary focus of the investigation so far.’
‘If you know something about this Ms Jones, you need to tell us.’
She shook her head, the hint of a smile on her lips.
Michael was suddenly aware that a tension had settled over the room. Nobody was talking, not even a whisper of conversation. Nobody was moving. They all sat straight and still. And nobody was looking. Not at him, not at the woman who was asking the questions.
A raised hand. ‘Yes, Jennifer.’
‘Are the police considering that the two cases might be connected?’
‘I’m not able to comment on that until we’ve identified the body found in the cave.’
‘Should people be locking their doors at night, Chief Inspector? Is there another serial killer on the loose?’ It was that idiot from Channel News again.
‘No, Mr Boswell, we do not suspect a serial killer is on the loose. And speculation of that nature is extremely unhelpful.’ He paused. ‘However, we always advise folk to lock their doors, and given the circumstances, I’d say people would be wise to follow that advice right now.’
‘Rubbish.’
Michael flinched. ‘You have something to add, Sir William?’
‘Load of rubbish. This whole place has gone to hell and a locked door isn’t going to make the blindest bit of difference.’ He stood, turned to the crowd. ‘I hope you’re all satisfied. Made a deal with the devil, didn’t you? And look where it’s got us.’ He spat, with surprising force, towards the group from the Chief Pleas.
‘Hang on a minute!’ Michael started towards him, but he raised his cane.
‘I’m leaving. You should too. You’re wasting your time. You’ll get nothing out of this lot.’
The sound of gentle sobbing broke the silence. Tanya Le Page, shoulders shaking, head in hands.
‘Let’s everyone calm down now,’ Michael said, although Tanya was the only one actually making any noise. ‘Everything’s going to be fine.’
‘How can you say that?’ She looked up. ‘No one is safe.’ She gestured around the room. ‘No one.’
‘We have no reason to believe that anyone else is in danger. Of course, if you know different, any of you, you should come forward immediately.’
‘I need a cigarette.’ Tuesday sounded bored. ‘Thanks for your time, DCI Gilbert. I’m sure we all appreciate it.’
As she left, Michael could have sworn some of the tension in the room lifted. Enough, at least, for a murmur of conversation to start up, chairs to shift and squeak on the floor.
‘That woman.’ Michael spoke quietly. ‘Tuesday Jones.’
‘Stupid name.’ Fallaize did not bother to keep his voice down.
‘Get me some information. Background, how long she’s been here. Then go and talk to her. Ask her about the cave comment. Whether she knows who tipped us off.’
‘I’m on it.’
Everyone in this room, Michael thought, had been terrified. Even the seigneur’s outburst seemed rooted in anxiety. Except Tuesday Jones. She hadn’t seemed frightened at all.
Jenny and Elliot were waiting outside the school gates. She had that determined look on her face as she approached him.
‘You all right?’ he asked. ‘Not letting all this get to you?’
‘I’m fine.’ She managed a tight smile. ‘Heading to Tanya Le Page’s. She just asked if she could speak to me.’
‘What about? If she’s any complaints about the investigation, she needs to come to us. You can’t be printing anything that will undermine public confidence, not now. You saw what it was like in there.’ Michael could feel his blood pressure rising, his left eye twitching in synch with his elevated pulse.
‘She looked worried. Not angry. I’ll let you know what she says. Then I’ve pretty much covered everything I can on Reg’s murder. Unless you’ve anything else for me?’
‘Nothing at the moment. You going back to Guernsey, then, are you?’
She shook her head. ‘Can we talk? Not now.’ She glanced at Fallaize, who stood a few feet away and was obviously listening. ‘Later this afternoon?’
‘What about?’ He looked at her quizzically.
‘I’ve been making some enquiries. About my dad.’ She winced as she said it, obviously anticipating his response.
He couldn’t help delivering.
‘For God’s sake, Jenny.’ Michael put a hand to his head, covered his eyes. ‘I’ve got enough on my plate.’
‘I know you don’t have time for this now. But it might be relevant.’
Fallaize let out a sceptical-sounding huff.
‘How so?’ Michael asked.
‘Later. At the Mermaid?’
‘I’ll not be able to take a break until five at the earliest.’
‘Five, then.’
He sighed as she walked away.
‘I know you’re friends, sir, but I wouldn’t take anything she says too seriously. She always looks halfway to a nervous breakdown.’
‘Did I ask for your opinion, Fallaize? Go and speak to Tuesday Jones, will you?’ Cheeky little bastard.
He waited until Fallaize had cycled off towards the incident room before sitting on the wall. These conferences always made him feel ill. He was all right while he was doing it, but afterwards, it was as if all of the tension he kept in check was unleashed. He felt it rising from his stomach and into his chest, like stress reflux.
He was going to have to tell Jenny what he knew about Charlie Dorey’s death. He should have been honest months ago. As soon as the inconsistencies were brought to his attention. She would have understood. Everyone made mistakes. It was the not coming clean that caused problems. The cover-up. It was always worse than the crime.