Charlie didn’t feel like swimming today. He hadn’t felt like going to the beach, complained of too many grockles and too much sand, said he spent all week on the water, had had enough of it by the weekend. But Jenny had nagged him, and Margaret had said she wouldn’t mind a couple of hours to get the house sorted, so he’d sighed, tried to persuade Jenny a walk at the reservoir would be more fun. She’d begged and pleaded for the beach and sensed his resolve weakening, so she’d run and put her bathers on before he could change his mind.
Now he was standing ankle-deep, newspaper tucked under one arm, the other hand shading his eyes, watching her, calling her back whenever he thought she was going too far out, which was often, even though she was a good swimmer, the best in her class, better even than the best boy. Not faster—he could beat her in a race—but she could go further. Ten lengths of the pool without stopping. She was the only one who could do that. And now she wanted to try to swim the length of Pembroke. It was much too far, she knew that, but if she was going to do it before she was ten, she needed to start training. But Charlie wouldn’t let her go deep enough.
She stood and looked longingly out at the grown-ups, bobbing about way out to sea, where their feet definitely couldn’t touch the bottom, which was much better, Jenny thought, because you never knew what you were standing on out here, and one of her friends had got spiked by a weever fish last week and said it hurt more than when she went to the doctor for her jabs, so Jenny definitely did not want to do that.
She waved to Charlie. Perhaps he would come in after all and play sharks and minnows with her. But there was someone with him now. One of the friends he played cards with. They were talking. They weren’t watching her. She looked back out to sea. It would only take her a few seconds, thirty maybe, to get out to the proper swimmers. One lady, wearing a bright yellow swimming cap, was cutting through the water like scissors, arms like blades, up and down, head twisting shoreward every other stroke, so that Jenny saw a quick flash of her face, eyes covered in goggles, nose clipped. Jenny could follow her. Copy her movements. See if she could keep up. Just for a minute or two. Just while Charlie was talking.
She lifted her feet. She was standing in a warm patch, but her body had dried in the sun and the water was icy against her chest and shoulders. Cold on top, warm on the bottom. It felt funny. She went under to get her face and hair wet so she would be more streamlined. She opened her eyes. The water here was supposed to be very clean, but it looked murky, a soupy green with little bits of seaweed and sand whirling around in it. She peered at the seabed. She wished she had goggles so she could see properly. No sign of weever fish. She wasn’t sure what they looked like, in actual fact, but imagined they must have sharp fins, like tiny sharks, which they stuck out of the sand waiting for a poor child’s foot to spike.
The water stung her eyes, so she surfaced. Checked Charlie was still distracted (he was) and then looked for the professional swimming lady. (Jenny had decided she must be at least a Guernsey Swimming Club champion, if not a Channel Island one, with all that kit and such a confident technique.) She found her. She’d already swum quite far in the few moments that Jenny had been underwater, so Jenny wasted no time trying to catch up. She put her head down and did front crawl, but found it was quite difficult to keep in a straight line, much more difficult than in the pool. It was because of the currents, which Jenny knew all about: Charlie was always going on about them and how if you knew where they were, it helped you to find the fish. They could be dangerous too. People got swept away in them. She felt a tingle then, in her tummy. A little wriggle of nerves. She twisted in the water. She was further away from the shore than she’d ever been. Further, even, than the lady in the yellow swimming cap, who seemed to be heading back to the beach now. Charlie still hadn’t spotted her, thank goodness. She would swim as fast as she could and get dried, and they would get an ice cream, and she would do some more training in the pool before she tried anything like this again.
She pushed forwards, arms nice and streamlined like her teacher had shown her. Head down. Straight to shore. Five strokes. Ten. Twenty. She didn’t seem to be any closer to shore. In fact, if anything, she thought she might be a little further away. She put her head down again. Thirty strokes. Forty. Tired. She stopped again. And now Charlie had seen her. He was waving. But not in a friendly way. In a frantic way. She was too far away to make out his face, but she could tell he was cross. He wanted her to come back in. Charlie was pointing towards the tower on the headland. He was shouting, but she couldn’t hear what he was saying, and now there were more people with him, and Jenny’s cheeks burned and her eyes watered because everyone could see she’d messed up and that her dad was angry with her, and she hated making mistakes. She would act like everything was fine when she got back to the beach. She would keep swimming now until she got there.
Head down. Arms aching. Water tickling her nose. She needed a clip, like the lady. And goggles and a swimming cap. Then she would be fine, she was sure of it. She started to cry with the frustration. That was when she gulped down her first mouthful of seawater, and that was when she really panicked, started thrashing and yelling, until, out of nowhere, she felt a weight against her, like some great sea monster had attacked her, only instead of eating her, or dragging her down to its watery lair, it threw an arm round her neck and pulled her, sideways, parallel to the beach, towards the loophole tower, and suddenly they were floating. The water had lost its power over her.
Charlie let her go. They bobbed about for a few seconds. He looked furious, she thought. And terrified.
‘Can you make it back?’
‘I think so.’ Her throat was thick with mucus and salt.
‘Follow me.’
He swam in front of her, slowly, deliberately, turning his head to check on her every few feet. It was only when he got out that she realised he was fully clothed. Someone wrapped a towel round her; it was thin and scratchy and smelled of other people’s washing powder. Someone got them both a cup of tea, the first one she’d ever had, milky and sweet. It made her feel sick, but she didn’t say anything, because she’d caused enough trouble already.
That evening, Charlie explained what a rip current was. Told her that even the strongest swimmer would struggle against one. That the first thing you should do if you found yourself trapped was yell for help. If nobody came, you had to swim out of it, one side or the other. Never try swimming against it. You couldn’t win and the tiredness, that’s what would kill you. If it was really strong, he said, if you couldn’t escape it, you had to let it carry you. It might be fifty feet long; it might be a thousand, but eventually, it would come to an end. You’d feel it lose its grip on you. Then you could find another path back to the shore.
He bent over her. ‘Not a word to your mother,’ he whispered.
She nodded. They both knew that Margaret would probably stop Jenny swimming for good if she found out about this, never mind the fact that Charlie would have hell to pay for taking his eye off her.
‘And you’ll remember what to do if it ever happens again?’
She nodded. ‘I’ll remember.’
He brushed her nose with his knuckle. Kissed her on the cheek.
‘I’ll have a few more grey hairs tomorrow because of you, Jenny Wren.’
The grip loosened. She felt the pull subside, the movement slow, the din quiet.
Seconds. Minutes.
Calm. No fight left. This must be the peace they talked about. There was nothing left to fear. The worst had already happened.
Pictures. Bright colours. A flood of images, of memories. Walking in the woods. A Sunday roast. A bedtime story. Leaving for university. Mum crying. Wet streets. An abandoned car. A bunker.
Black. Black. Black. But no panic. Just acceptance.
And then a light in the darkness. A speck at first. She thought of the anglerfish with its lure. But this was bigger. Brighter. Coming towards her. An angel, come to save her. She told her legs to move. To kick. They responded, half-heartedly. She drifted towards it.
Not an angel.
A ghost.
She reached out to touch him. To stroke his cheek. Cold fingers on cold flesh. He smiled. She closed her eyes.
And suddenly they were standing at the water’s edge on a warm summer’s day, breathing the sweet, fresh air. She saw a bright yellow swimming cap. Felt a rough towel. Swallowed a mouthful of sweet, milky tea.
You’ll remember what to do?
She nodded. I’ll remember.
She opened her eyes. He still smiled, but as she stared at him, his face seemed to bloat, his skin to loosen, and she pulled her hand away, and with it, a chunk of his flesh, exposing pale bone beneath, and his eyes were empty sockets, gaping black holes, and she could see inside his skull and it was filled with tiny, wriggling fish, which burst out in a stream of silver, darting around her, working their way under clothes and through her hair, and she screamed, soundlessly, endlessly, kicked and thrashed until she felt a weight against her, an arm round her neck, and it dragged her, still screaming, up, up into the sweet, fresh air.
Corey Monroe looked different. Less threatening. Perhaps it was the fact he was wearing checked pyjama bottoms and a loose-fitting T-shirt, his hair ruffled as if he’d been sleeping. Perhaps it was because he’d picked her up off the jetty, shouting a string of confused expletives, and carried her into the house, setting her down on a sofa, wrapping her in a thick white towel.
She shook. Struggled to hold steady the cup of steaming liquid he had given her. She put it down, fearful of making more mess. She’d vomited what appeared to be gallons of seawater over the carpet as soon as she’d sat up, and she presumed that the blood was hers too. She had yet to feel the sting of the deep cuts on her arms and legs. The soles of her feet were ripped to shreds, but the skin was still swollen, loose and bloodless. She shuddered at the thought of what she’d seen down there. What she’d dreamed, she corrected herself. Or hallucinated. Because none of it had been real.
‘What the hell happened to you?’
‘Fell off a boat.’ It was little more than a whisper and was followed with another bout of coughing. She hunched over, spat up yet more water. ‘Sorry.’
‘Wouldn’t worry. He can afford a new carpet.’ Jenny started at the familiar voice. Turned to see Tuesday Jones, barefoot and wearing a dressing gown, come into the room. Margot, Monroe’s assistant, followed.
‘I’m having Ms Jones’s clothes dried. Can I get anyone anything else?’ Her tone was just-another-day-at-the-office bright and breezy. Jenny thought about the rumours the waitress in Sark had mentioned. She wondered what other weird and unexpected situations Margot had had to deal with.
‘You wouldn’t have some cigarettes, would you, love? Mine got a bit damp.’
‘I’ll be right back.’ She smiled.
‘Very kind.’ Tuesday sat opposite Jenny, put her feet up on the sofa. ‘Lush here, isn’t it?
‘What are you doing here?’ Jenny croaked.
‘She pulled you out of the water. Dragged you halfway to the house. At which point, I heard her screaming and ran out to see what the fuck was going on. I carried you the rest of the way.’
Jenny pulled the towel tightly around herself. ‘How did you know where I was? What were you doing out there?’
‘I was out on the RIB, planning a new route for a tour. It was getting rough. I was about to turn round when I saw a boat. We all know there’s no right of way past Mr Monroe’s house. Thought I’d better check things out. I was just being a good neighbour.’ Corey threw a look in her direction.
Margot returned with a packet of cigarettes and a lighter. Tuesday lit up. Monroe took one. Tucked it behind his ear.
‘As I was saying, I turned into the passage. Lost sight of the boat. I was just about to go back when I saw you. You’re a bloody strong swimmer. Practically launched yourself at the RIB. I hauled you out. Brought you here. Now, I think the question that needs to be answered is, what were you doing out there?’
Jenny had no way of knowing if she could trust Tuesday Jones. And she suspected she could definitely not trust Corey Monroe. But she was out of options. She told them what had happened. When she finished talking, nobody spoke.
‘Well?’ Jenny asked.
Tuesday shook her head. ‘I don’t know anything about Luke Carré, not really. Seen him around over the years, every now and then. Know the story, his mum disappearing and that. Maybe he killed his dad. Not who I would have put my money on, though.’
‘Who would you have put your money on?’
‘Tanya Le Page.’
‘Why would Tanya Le Page kill Reg Carré?’
‘Because he was becoming a liability. She was worried he was going to talk.’
‘About what?’ Jenny felt like the water had swollen her brain too, making it slow and heavy.
‘Drug running.’
‘But that’s ridiculous.’ The thought of Tanya Le Page, frail and worried, running drugs, let alone killing anyone was preposterous. Except . . . hadn’t Jenny detected an edge, a steeliness beneath the surface? And the fact that Tanya did not want Arthur to talk to the police, to describe the killer. Jenny had assumed it was a mother’s protective instinct, but what if she was only trying to protect herself?
‘How does this work? Who else knows about it?’
‘She has a fair amount of Sarkees on her payroll for sure. I reckon the drugs come in from France, are dropped off in Sark and then from there taken to Guernsey, Jersey, the mainland. I’m betting it was one of her guys found those bones. They use the caves to hide the gear.’
‘How do you know all this?’ Jenny asked.
Tuesday shrugged. ‘I don’t, not for sure. But I’m out on the water all the time. I see things—boats that look a bit out of place. Saw a couple of guys on the rocks at Derrible a couple of months ago. It was the crack of dawn. They didn’t look like they were over on a daytrip.’
‘Why has nobody said anything? Why haven’t you?’
‘People who work for her are scared or in her pocket or both. The rest of us don’t have any proof.’
‘I knew something was going on.’ Corey added. The pushback to bringing in reforms, to my investment in the island, people trying to keep me out of local affairs. At first, I thought it was just a small-town mentality, but the force of the resistance against me . . . I’d started to do some digging. I often do background research on people. I like to know who I’m dealing with. I have contacts, people who can find things out for me.’ He threw a glance in Jenny’s direction. He’d had someone look into her background, she thought. That was how he knew about the assault in London.
‘What sort of contacts?’
‘The sort of contacts a lot of money can buy.’
‘Police?’
‘Some. Some from the other side of the tracks.’
He paused. ‘They haven’t had much luck with this. Turns out the Sarkees are very good at keeping secrets.’
‘We need to call Michael.’ Jenny’s voice broke above a rasp for the first time.
They both looked at her blankly.
‘DCI Gilbert. We need to call him now.’ She looked around for a clock. Not yet eleven. It felt like days had passed since she’d left the pub on Sark.
‘He was going to talk to Tanya. He needs to know what’s going on.’
‘You trust him?’ Tuesday asked.
Jenny nodded. ‘With my life.’
Tuesday and Corey were silent, and for a moment, Jenny thought they’d tricked her after all. They were working together, and now that she’d told them everything she knew, they were going to throw her back off the jetty.
Finally, Corey spoke. ‘I’ll call him. Where’s he staying?’ His hands, Jenny noticed, were trembling.
‘I don’t know. Somewhere in the village. A B&B. Try the incident room at the church first. Or Tanya Le Page’s house.’
He nodded and strode out of the room.
Jenny and Tuesday sat side by side in silence.
‘That dressing gown fits you well. Looks exactly your size.’
‘That’s because it’s mine.’ She looked at Jenny. ‘We got friendly. While he was trying to buy me out.’
‘Do you trust him?’ Jenny whispered.
Tuesday smiled grimly.
‘I don’t trust anyone, Jenny. And neither should you.’
‘Police said the officers on Sark are out looking for him. There’s nothing else they can do until morning.’ Monroe had tried the incident room and Michael’s B&B. No one had seen him since earlier that evening. At Tanya’s house, the phone had rung off. Finally, Jenny had persuaded him to call Guernsey Police and report Michael missing.
Jenny shook her head. ‘Something’s wrong. He was going to Tanya’s. He’s in trouble.’
‘We’ve done everything we can. The police know what’s going on—let them do their jobs now,’ Tuesday said. ‘Can we get her some dry clothes? She’s going to catch pneumonia.’
‘We have to look for him,’ Jenny insisted.
‘You want to search the whole island in the dark? He could be anywhere. And it’s pitch-black. We wouldn’t have a chance in hell.’
‘We could take the chopper.’ Monroe said it like he was suggesting an evening stroll.
‘Funny.’ Tuesday didn’t sound amused.
‘I’m not joking.’
‘You can’t just fly over Sark whenever you feel like it. Can you?’ Jenny asked.
‘It’s an emergency, isn’t it? I’m sure I’ll be able to clear up the formalities later. We can do a quick sweep with the searchlight, then land at one of the fields near Tanya’s place, check it out. If he’s missing, sounds like she has something to do with it. We’ll be in the air twenty minutes, if that.’ He looked eager at the prospect. Excited even.
‘This is crazy.’ Tuesday shook her head. ‘I’m not getting in that thing.’
‘It’s me and you, then.’ He looked at Jenny, eyebrows raised.
‘Can you fly in this weather?’
‘It’ll be bumpy. But yes, I can fly in this weather.’
She stood. ‘OK. Dry clothes, then let’s go.’