Dangerous Waters Read online

  Praise for dangerous waters

  ‘The island of Guernsey is so vividly evoked one feels as if one is walking its byways. An atmospheric and tantalising read as the vulnerable Jeanne uncovers the mystery of her family’s long buried secrets.’

  Elizabeth Bailey, author of The Gilded Shroud.

  ‘Here’s your summer read! This is a charming love/mystery story set on the Isle of Guernsey. Jeanne returns to the home of her youth after the death of her grandmother, carrying all the baggage of a childhood tragedy and the holes of missing memory. She initially comes back just to wind up her grandmother’s affairs and to try and mend a broken heart. But, as in all returns to the past, Jeanne finds that things weren’t as she remembered them and secrets longhidden seem to bubble to the surface when she scratches it.

  Anne’s characters are well formed and likeable (or unlikeable as the case may be) and the two types of story (love and mystery) intertwine without the awkwardness sometimes found in this genre. The writer evokes well the atmosphere of the island both in the time during WW11 when it was occupied (including some history notes of which I was unaware) and in its modern incarnation,

  In all I found this a pleasant diversion ****

  Chris Wible (USA) Author The Shepherd’s Image

  dangerous

  waters

  Anne Allen

  Mystery, loss and love on the island of Guernsey

  Copyright © 2012 Anne Allen

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

  Matador

  9 Priory Business Park,

  Wistow Road, Kibworth Beauchamp,

  Leicestershire. LE8 0RX

  Tel: (+44) 116 279 2299

  Fax: (+44) 116 279 2277

  Email: [email protected]

  Web: www.troubador.co.uk/matador

  ISBN 978 1780882 307

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Typeset in 11pt Aldine401 BT Roman by Troubador Publishing Ltd, Leicester, UK

  Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

  Printed and bound in the UK by TJ International, Padstow, Cornwall

  For my mother, Janet Williams, with love

  And just as he who, with exhausted breath

  Having escaped from sea to shore, turns back

  To watch the dangerous waters he has quit

  So did my spirit, still a fugitive

  Turn back to look intently at the pass

  That never has let any man survive.

  Dante Inferno Canto 01

  Contents

  chapter one

  chapter two

  chapter three

  chapter four

  chapter five

  chapter six

  chapter seven

  chapter eight

  chapter nine

  chapter ten

  chapter eleven

  chapter twelve

  chapter thirteen

  chapter fourteen

  chapter fifteen

  chapter sixteen

  chapter seventeen

  chapter eighteen

  chapter nineteen

  chapter twenty

  chapter twenty-one

  chapter twenty-two

  chapter twenty-three

  chapter twenty-four

  chapter twenty-five

  chapter twenty-six

  chapter twenty-seven

  chapter twenty-eight

  chapter twenty-nine

  chapter thirty

  chapter thirty-one

  chapter thirty-two

  chapter thirty-three

  chapter thirty-four

  chapter thirty-five

  glossary

  recipes

  About the Author

  chapter one

  Jeanne went out on deck as the spring sun broke through the clouds. A warm glow spread over green and gold jewel-like Herm and its larger neighbour, grey and white building encrusted Guernsey.

  The salt-laden air enveloped her like an old and trusty coat. Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes and was a child again, playing on the beach with her parents. The image was so powerful that tears formed and she blundered, unseeing, towards the railings.

  As her vision cleared she found herself staring at Herm and, without warning, was overwhelmed by such a strong feeling of fear that she had to hold onto the rail. Jeanne’s heart began to race, blood pounded in her head and her breathing came in short, painful gasps. Oh my God, what’s happening to me? After all this time, please, not again! Struggling to breathe she was on the verge of passing out. Letting go of the rail she stumbled, crashing into a man who was walking past.

  ‘Hey, steady on! Look where you’re going!’ he said angrily, grabbing hold of her to stop them falling. ‘Overdid the duty frees, did you?’

  Stung by his accusation, she took a deep breath before replying. ‘No… no. I. I just lost my balance.’ The man’s hands were gripping her arms so hard that she could already imagine the bruises. ‘Hey, that hurts!’

  He loosened his grip and guided her back to the rail where she clung on, filling her lungs with the sea air.

  ‘Sorry, didn’t mean to hurt you. OK now?’

  Jeanne nodded. As the man stepped back she took in, through still blurred eyes; dark brown hair, deep blue eyes and the muscled arms of a man unlikely to be a pen-pusher. Responding to his slightly warmer tone, she managed a tight smile before straightening up and walking, unsteadily, to the starboard side.

  What on earth was that? Is this what I can expect now? Perhaps I shouldn’t have come back though I didn’t have much choice… The thoughts whirled around her pounding head. She shuddered as she leant against the railings and Guernsey came into full view. While the ferry headed towards St Peter Port harbour, she felt as if she were approaching a strange, unknown country rather than the land of her birth. The whole of the northern sea front, from Les Banques into St Peter Port, had been transformed. Towering edifices of granite and glass had replaced the old, tired mish-mash of warehouses, scruffy hotels and shops. With a gasp, she realised that even the elegant landmark of the Royal Hotel had been supplanted.

  Wow! What’s happened here? It was if a natural disaster had occurred, flattening the old front and replacing it by buildings more reminiscent of London than of the parochial island she remembered. She’d never have thought that Guernsey would move into the twenty first century with such a bang.

  The dramatic transformation which lay before her seemed to Jeanne to be an echo of all the change in her own life and she felt a stranger here. She wished that she had stayed in the familiar, dull Midlands town which had been her home these past fifteen years. For a moment the urge to remain on the ferry and return to England, without setting foot on the island, was overwhelming. Her face must have mirrored her inner turmoil as a middle-aged lady standing nearby asked, ‘Are you all right, dear? Only you’ve gone very white.’

  ‘I’m fine, thanks. Just not very good on boats.’

  The older lady nodded sympathetically. ‘My Tom gets seasick too. Has to fill himself up with beer or the odd whisky or two before he’ll set foot on a boat. Just as well I can drive or we’d be marooned on the ferry till he’s sobered up!’ She laughed.

  Jeanne grinned weakly.

  ‘Aren’t these waters supposed to be dangerous?’

  ‘Yes, they can be, if you don’t know where all the rocks are,’ Jeanne replied. Yet again, her heart hammered against her chest and her breathing quickened. She fought down the feelings of panic to add, ‘but these big boats are perfectly safe,’ wondering who she was really trying to reassure.

  Jeanne now joined the throng of eager passengers heading towards the car deck, found her car and sat there feeling sick and trapped in the echoing bowel of the ship. She would just do what had to be done here and then go back – but where? Her body arched with pain at the memory of her loss. Going back would be as painful as going on, she realised. The sound of car horns blaring behind her brought her back to the present. She started the engine and joined the queue towards the gangway and whatever lay ahead.

  Emerging from the White Rock, Jeanne followed the steady stream of cars up St Julian’s Avenue and turned left into Ann’s Place. She smiled on seeing that the Old Government House Hotel was still there and was lucky to find a parking space close by. It was just a short walk to the advocate’s office but she decided that she needed a coffee first. Ideally she would have preferred a couple of vodka shots to calm herself, but didn’t think it would be appropriate to meet her lawyer with glazed eyes and a stagger, especially as she’d already been accused of hitting the duty frees! The thought made her frown as she walked down Smith Street, side-stepping the tourists intent on window shopping.

  Jeanne began to feel more at home at the familiar sight of Boots at the bottom of the hill. It was where she and her friends used to meet up before going on the prowl in Town. On her right was a smart and inviting looking café
with squashy leather chairs.

  She sank, with a contented sigh, into a chair and ordered a cappuccino from the young waitress.

  ‘Anything to eat with your coffee? We have some scrummy chocolate cake guaranteed not to put on an ounce.’ The girl grinned.

  ‘Can’t resist!’ Jeanne smiled back, pleased that at least one of the natives seemed friendly.

  Sipping her frothy drink, conscious of a milky moustache flecked with chocolate crumbs forming, Jeanne thought about her impending meeting with the advocate. She had been receiving gentle but persistent reminders from Advocate Marquis that there were important legal issues to discuss, not least that of her grandmother’s cottage. Her mind, unbidden, took her back to that awful day five months ago…

  The phone was ringing as she and Andy arrived home, glowing from their holiday.

  ‘Oh, Jeanne, thank goodness! I’ve been trying to get you for ages and left so many messages… I’m so sorry, but it’s your Gran.’ Molly’s voice caught on a sob and Jeanne’s stomach clenched as she anticipated the dreaded news.

  ‘She died in her sleep, Jeanne. It was… peaceful, just as she’d have wanted,’ Molly continued as Jeanne’s eyes filled with tears.

  ‘The… the funeral?’

  ‘It was yesterday. I’m so, so sorry, Jeanne. The advocate and I kept trying to contact you but she died over two weeks ago and we didn’t know where you were or when you’d be back. I did try your mobile but it was switched off.’

  ‘We’ve been in Tenerife for three weeks. It was a bit last minute and I forgot my mobile charger. But Gran had seemed so well! If only I’d known… ’ The tears were now flowing freely.

  ‘Look, Jeanne, you couldn’t have foreseen it. None of us did. She slipped away quietly. No pain, no fuss. We weren’t sure what to do for the best but in the end the advocate, as her executor, thought he’d better organise the funeral. But you’ll be over soon? To sort out the cottage and everything?’ Molly’s voice was calmer, more urgent.

  ‘Ye e s. I guess so. I’ll get back to you later. Thanks… Molly.’

  She collapsed onto the sofa while Andy made some tea and muttered a few ineffectual words of condolence before opening the post. As she sipped her drink she remembered the feisty old lady, the last link to her past life in Guernsey. Although her gran had been over a few times to see her Jeanne had not been tempted to return. It would have been too painful.…

  But now she was back and without any known living relatives in Guernsey. Apart from the cottage, the only sign of the family’s roots here were the headstones in the graveyards. Jeanne shuddered at the thought of her loved ones lying cold and unvisited in the earth and felt the tears threatening. It just wasn’t fair! She gripped the coffee cup tightly, self-pity heightened by her guilt at staying away so long. Catching sight of a young, laughing family walking past the café only made her feel even more sorry for herself. For heaven’s sake girl, get a grip! Stop being maudlin and get on with what you came to do. You owe it to the family. With this thought she straightened up and finished her coffee.

  Glancing at her watch, she saw that she’d better get a move on and, after paying the bill and freshening up in the Ladies, walked the few yards to the advocate’s office.

  The receptionist took her down a corridor and Jeanne glanced at the watercolours on the walls. With a pang she recognised the local bays with cabin cruisers – oh, just like dad’s! – bobbing on the waters and families gathered on the beaches. She could almost smell the sea and the pungent tang of seaweed on the rocks. Her thoughts were interrupted by the girl opening a door and announcing ‘Miss Le Page, Advocate.’

  ‘Good afternoon, Miss Le Page. How are you?’ enquired the man who came forward to shake her hand.

  ‘Well, thank you, Mr Marquis. I’m sorry for the delay in coming over. There’s been a lot, um, happening recently and certain… events,’ she paused, ‘have meant that I couldn’t travel. Now I’m ready to settle everything before I go back to… England.’ She had nearly said ‘home’ before remembering she no longer had one.

  ‘It’s straightforward. Your grandmother’s will leaves everything to you as her sole beneficiary. Once we’ve gone through the various papers I’ll need you to sign some forms then you’ll be the legal owner of Le Petit Chêne as well as the money your grandmother left.’

  After much reading and signing Jeanne was presented with the keys to the cottage and Mr Marquis arranged for the monies to be transferred to her bank account. Mm, didn’t realise Gran had as much as that in the bank. But she’d never been a big spender, not bothered by material things. Just her beloved cottage and garden. Especially the garden. A lump formed in her throat as Jeanne realised that Gran’s savings might come in very useful until she sold that beloved cottage.

  ‘Where are you staying while you’re here? In case I need to contact you.’

  ‘I’m staying with Molly and Peter Ogier for a few days until the cottage is more habitable.’

  ‘Good. I believe they were close friends of your family?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve known them since I was a child.’

  Jeanne hesitated and then said ‘I have to ask, Mr Marquis, have there been any, er, developments with the investigation? Have the police found anyone yet?’

  He shook his head. ‘No, there’s been no progress at all. Technically the case is still open, but I don’t think the police have found any more evidence. It’s difficult without any witnesses and after all this time… Have you remembered any more of what happened?’

  ‘No, I’ve had nightmares over the years but I’ve never been sure whether they’ve been caused by actual memories. Perhaps coming back will stir things up, memory-wise.’

  She bit her lips as she recalled what had happened on the ferry.

  ‘I don’t really want to remember any more, but if I did, perhaps we would find out who killed my parents and nearly killed me.’

  chapter two

  Jeanne left the office and headed back to her car. Distracted by her meeting with the Advocate, she bumped into a woman burdened with shopping, causing her to drop it.

  ‘Hey, watch out!’ the woman cried, scrabbling to retrieve her errant purchases.

  ‘Oh, sorry! Here, let me help.’ Jeanne smiled apologetically as she collected up the rest of the items on the pavement. Within seconds, order was restored and the woman nodded and went on her way.

  I must get a grip, Jeanne thought as she reached her car. Bumping into people is becoming a habit. She decided that as it was still light for a while, she would go and see her cottage (odd thought that – now it really was hers) before going on to the Ogiers.

  She swung the car into The Grange to take the road out to the west coast and the old cottage which had once been so important to her. She had known so much love and laughter there, before her world had fallen apart.

  Driving southwards along the west coast from Vazon, she glanced towards the beaches on her right. It was late afternoon and there were still people walking, some with children skipping alongside and others with dogs bounding ahead, making the most of the sunshine and bracing sea air. Surfers were riding the waves, particularly strong on this stretch of coastline. It was idyllic. Oh, to be a carefree tourist enjoying this beautiful island instead of a self-pitying, grieving saddo like me, she thought, pulling a face. Where’s that tough ol’ Guernsey spirit you were once so proud of? It’s about time it resurfaced and brought back the smile to your face, my girl!

  From the winding coast road she turned left into a narrow lane rising uphill dotted with a few cottages on each side. About 200 yards inland she pulled into a drive belonging to a detached granite cottage with a mossy tiled roof. Her heart was racing as she switched off the engine and looked at what was now her house. She knew that the cottage dated back at least two hundred years and had been built by a fisherman, as had most of the others in that area. He must have been particularly successful because it had the largest plot in the lane with a good-sized garden to the rear and a spacious orchard to the side.

  The central front door peeped out from under a gabled porch thick with clematis and roses growing up the trellised sides. Pairs of small-paned sash windows upstairs and downstairs either side of the porch created an attractive symmetry. Looking at it Jeanne felt that the house was watching her and waiting. But for what? She shivered. In her heart she knew that by rights this shouldn’t be her cottage. It should have been her father’s and perhaps ultimately hers, but many years from now. That would have been the natural order of things, but in her family that natural order had been destroyed fifteen years ago.