A Grave Waiting

by Jill Downie

  “They said Connecticut, but that’s about it. However, I did ask how they came to be in Guernsey, and Sandra Goldstein said one of their friends in the States had been here and showed them one of the tourist videos they give out at the tourist office on the Esplanade. They wanted a quiet spot for the spring and summer, because Julia King is recovering from a serious illness. Of course, at that point I asked no further, because I didn’t like to pry. There’s one other small thing, a comment Mrs. King made about the name of the cottage. She asked me what ‘La Veile’ meant and when I said ‘Watchpost,’ she said to Miss Goldstein, ‘Isn’t that perfect?’”

  Gwen stood up. “I mustn’t keep you any longer,” she said, gathering up her bags. “Besides, I have some shopping to do before I get the bus back to Pleinmont.”

  “Would you like me to arrange a lift for you?” Liz Falla asked, preparing to open the door.

  “Gracious me, no, young lady!” was the reply. “I like to be independent.”

  Just before she left the room, Gwen Ferbrache turned back and said, “Of course, Edward, my sight isn’t what it was, and this could all be my imagination. They are two women on their own, used to living in a far more dangerous environment, and perhaps it was a stick, or something of that nature.”

  “Perhaps it was,” said Moretti cheerfully.

  Moretti and Falla watched the door close.

  “Only it wasn’t, was it, Guv,” said Falla, gathering up cups and saucers.

  “Oh no,” said Moretti. “Not a stick and not her imagination. Not with this woman. Guns, Falla — we seem to have a theme going here, and it’s not a common island theme.”

  “You’ve not got grounds for a search warrant, have you?”

  “None. On our way out I’ll round up PC Brouard and have him check those names you wrote down. We can do that for a start. I want him to look into a couple of other things as well. Gwen wondered if you might have any special insights. Have you?”

  “Two, but they’re not that insightful. First: how smart to mention a serious illness, because most people don’t go prying at that point, do they? Second: whatever it is, one thing’s clear. They are hiding from something, or someone, and they’re scared — not just for themselves, but for the child.”

  “Agreed, but we’ll have to leave it at that for now. You and I have got to go to the Esplanade Hotel. The crew are, I hope, safely corralled there, and I’ve sent DC Le Marchant to pick up passports and start to take statements. Come to think of it, I didn’t notice what the yacht was called, did you?”

  Liz Falla’s grin always made her look even younger than her late twenties or whatever she was.

  “Yes, Guv. My English teacher used to go on about dramatic irony, and I was never quite sure what she meant, but I think it might fit the name of Mr. Masterson’s yacht. It’s called Just Desserts. Only it’s spelled like the pudding.”

  “Use every man after his desert, and who should ’scape whipping.” Moretti held the door open for his partner. “And that was some whipping, Falla. Any thoughts on what we saw in the cabin?”

  “All dressed up and nowhere to go, that was the first thing that came into my mind when I saw him.”

  “Right. Death was unexpected, but not his visitor. He’d literally cleared the decks, sent everyone, including his right-hand woman, on shore.”

  “Petit salaud, Guv — that’s what the chef called the valet, right? What’s it mean?”

  “Little shit’s close enough. Let’s go and see what the petit salaud and the rest of the Just Desserts crew have to say for themselves.”

  The Esplanade Hotel is, in fact, not on the Esplanade at all, but tucked away on a hillside overlooking the harbour and the islands of Herm and Jethou. It is on a steep, narrow street that leads to Glategny Esplanade in the north of St. Peter Port, close to where Liz Falla lived in a flat in an eighteenth-century terraced house she had shared at one time with a boyfriend. The man was long gone, but the flat she had kept. She was fond of that part of the coastline, known as La Salerie after the ancient salt manufactory that had once existed there. It was away from the main shipping areas and marinas, yet close enough to the town to be convenient for work. Not that anything on the island was that far from anything else, but with the hours she worked it was useful to be only minutes away from police headquarters.

  “Do you know anything much about the hotel?” asked Moretti, as his partner turned the BMW on to St. Julian’s Avenue.

  “Like I said, it’s a four crown hotel. Not a five crown, I don’t know why, but it’s not that big. About a dozen bedrooms, I think. It’s got great views and a super dining room, but pricey by my standards. Len and I had a couple of meals there on birthdays and such. Len’s my ex, of course — well, one of them, but he lasted longer than most. Nearly two years.”

  Liz Falla gave a short, sharp laugh that had Moretti wondering if this particular episode in Falla’s love life was not as easily disposed of as her occasional insouciant references to Len would have him believe.

  “The owners live on Jersey, so there’s a manager, from the mainland. Betty Kerr, she’s called, and she’s not lost time making herself at home. She’s got a thing going with the head waiter, Shane Durand. Hope she knows what she’s doing, because he’s a lady’s man, just like his dad. Here we are.”

  Liz Falla turned in through the gates and brought the BMW to a halt outside the pretty eighteenth-century frontage of the Esplanade Hotel. It had originally been one of the manor houses erected by the Guernsey privateers to reflect their dubiously acquired wealth and house their ill-gotten gains. An extensive wing had been added, but the original entrance and small tower were still intact, and a beautifully maintained walled garden descended the steep hillside.

  Behind an imposing mahogany desk in the lobby, embellished with flowers in a mammoth cut-glass vase, they were greeted by the manageress herself. “Good day, detectives. I’m very glad to see you, and I’m thanking heaven it’s not the height of the season. I’ll be very glad to get these people off our hands, and your officer out of the corridor.”

  Betty Kerr appeared to be in her forties, well coiffed, and discreetly dressed, as befitted her position. Her manner was crisp, suggesting steely efficiency overlaid with a patina of professional charm. She did not seem to Moretti to be the kind of female who fell for womanizing headwaiters — but then, who knew about women, and what does a woman want? If Freud didn’t know, was it any wonder Moretti had failed in the only long-term relationship in his life?

  “Understandable. But first, I’d like a word with your night desk clerk. I asked if he could stay around.”

  “Bert De Putron. He’s on the desk from eight to eight.”

  Betty Kerr hit the bell on the desk, and a moment later the desk clerk appeared. Bert De Putron was a small man in late middle-age, who seemed only too anxious to play a role in the drama.

  “Shocking business, eh?” he said, with the smile of one for whom shocking business was a welcome relief from the nightly longueurs of desk-clerking. Moretti made a mental note to speak to the constable in the corridor about passing on information. “How can I help?”

  “First, by telling me if anyone either arrived or left the hotel during the night.”

  “There’s not too many guests at the moment, but there was a young couple who went out about nine, and came back around midnight.”

  “Give their names to DS Falla. How about the crew: Adèle Letourneau, Jean-Louis Rossignol, Martin Smith, Hans Ulbricht, and Werner Baumgarten.”

  “They all arrived just before I came on. Two of them left after dinner, and came back about ten-thirty. That’d be the Germans.”

  “Are you sure it was ten-thirty?” Moretti asked.

  “Yes. One of the kitchen staff brought me a cup of tea as per usual. And I’m sure they were German, because that’s what they were talking, and I know the sound of that lingo only too well. No one else left during the night. Allan Priaulx, who relieves me, says the fat one — that’s th
e chef — left just before nine o’clock this morning.”

  “So who relieves you during the night? When you take a meal break, or whatever?”

  “Well —” Bert De Putron’s smile looked somewhat frayed, and his eyes avoided those of the manageress, “I have to take a break, right? So, around midnight I go to use the loo and get the meal left for me, microwave it, and bring it back to eat at the desk. But I’d hear anything, because of the buzzer on the door at night. It sounds through to the kitchen, and I couldn’t miss it, I’m a hundred percent sure.”

  “Thank you, Mr. De Putron, that’ll do for now.” Moretti looked at Betty Kerr, who seemed a little more tight-lipped than when they had arrived. “Where are the crew members? In their rooms?”

  “Yes. Ms. Letourneau has assured me she will cover the cost, and they had reserved a second night. In case it was needed, she said. But I thought I’d give you my sitting room for the interviews. It’s further away from the other guests, and one of the crew is — difficult.”

  “I’ll start with the difficult one. If you could show me your sitting room, DS Falla can fetch Mr. Smith,”

  Moretti watched Liz Falla follow Betty Kerr upstairs, and made his way to the door she had indicated. The manageress’s private space was comfortably but impersonally furnished, lacking individual touches such as photographs, suggesting someone who did not expect to stay around long. A few minutes later, he heard the strident approach of the valet, Martin Smith, and Liz Falla’s imperturbably cheerful voice. “Detective Inspector Moretti will explain what has happened, sir.”

  “I should bleeding hope so!”

  From the sound of the valet’s accent, he was a Londoner. From his appearance when he hove into view, he would have been well able to defend himself in a tight corner, of which there were doubtless many, given his loud mouth. He was short, but built like a Tiger tank, with shoulders almost as broad as he was long, and biceps that strained against the thin cotton of his shirt. He was as unlikely looking a personal valet as Adèle Letourneau was a housekeeper.

  “Why the hell are we cooped up like fucking criminals?”

  His small eyes bulged out in rage beneath an overhanging brow highlighted by a ridge of scar tissue, trophy of some past fight involving knives, and he moved close to Moretti, his proximity as intimidating as any verbal threat. Moretti bent down until their eyes were level.

  “Mr. Smith, your employer has been murdered, and you are here to help us with our enquiries.”

  He spoke quietly, but Martin Smith took a step backward as though he had been struck, and his monstrous shoulders slumped.

  “Gawd, this is a friggin’ nightmare. When? Where? The pipsqueak in the corridor told us nothing.”

  So the gossip was possibly confined to the night watchman. “Sit down, sir. The pipsqueak in the corridor did the right thing. Mr. Masterson was shot in his cabin somewhere around midnight. Where were you at that time?”

  “Bloody here, wasn’t I. He should have let me stay on board. I told him, farting around in some fancy hotel was not my idea of a good time, but he wouldn’t have it. So here I was and here I stayed.”

  “Did you spend any time with other crew members?”

  “Two of them some of the time, but they kept talking to each other and I couldn’t understand what they were saying — they’re German, you know.”

  “Yes. So, what did you do? Eat a meal, sit in your room — what?”

  “The grub was good, I’ll say that, and the booze was being paid for, so I went heavy on the single malt. Took a fancy to it when I was prizefighting in Glasgow. Then I watched television, Aussie rules football. Love those blokes.” Martin Smith’s eyes misted over.

  “The housekeeper and the chef describe you as Mr. Masterson’s personal valet. Is that another way of saying ‘bodyguard,’ Mr. Smith?”

  If Moretti had expected the unlikely personal valet to weave and dodge the issue, he was wrong.

  “If you mean was I watching his back, the answer is, yes.”

  “I see. Do you carry a gun?”

  “I did. I had one in Europe, and then —” watching Smith, Moretti was reminded of a two-year-old deprived of his favourite toy “— Mr. Masterson took it from me, just before we made the crossing here. I told him he was doing himself no favour, and I was only messing about.”

  “What happened?”

  “That ball of lard happened — the chef is who I mean. We had an argy-bargy, I pulled out my piece to scare him, just for a joke. He screamed blue murder, threatened to walk, and Masterson took it. For the time being, he said.”

  “What type of weapon was it, and do you know where he put it?”

  “In his safe, I suppose, I don’t know. It was a little beauty.” The rasp in the bodyguard’s voice became a caress. “Glock 17. Made in Austria. Very light, because it’s made of plastic, see? Comes to pieces like a dream. Brilliant.”

  “Did you have a permit?”

  “I didn’t, but I suppose he did. I wouldn’t know, not my problem.” Martin Smith threw himself back in the chair, and its joints groaned in response. “I warned him. ‘Don’t let down your guard,’ I said, ‘just because you’re in the back of beyond, that’s when they get you.’ He just laughed and told me to eff off. And look what’s happened.”

  “Did he ever tell you what the threats against him were? Name names?”

  “No, never, just told me to look out for anything. He was jumpier in Geneva, when the trip started, and then he eased up, more fool him. In his business, there’s never a moment when you turn your back.”

  “His business?”

  The expression in the bodyguard’s eyes was now a little less candid. “Wheeling and dealing, that’s all I know.”

  “Arms dealing?”

  “So I heard, but I wasn’t in on the midnight meetings, like his fancy housekeeper.”

  “Ms. Letourneau was present at business meetings?”

  “In on everything, that bitch. In and out of the sheets with all and sundry, but she wouldn’t give me the time of day.”

  “So she was in and out of the sheets with other crew members?”

  “Hell, no! We were dirt beneath her feet, we were.”

  Moretti brought the interview to a close. “That’s it for now, Mr. Smith. Since we’re still examining the yacht, you’ll have to stay here for the time being. Let us know if there’s anything you need.”

  “Some clean clobber’d be good, and I suppose the krauts’ll need some too.”

  “We’ll arrange that.”

  As the door closed on Martin Smith, Liz Falla started to laugh.

  “Little shit’s right on the money, I’d say. But I know who he reminds me of. Popeye.”

  “Same muscle-bound walk, yes, but not so cheerful.”

  “Who do you want next, Guv?”

  “The two crew members, separately, or, to quote Mr. Smith —” Moretti broke briefly into pseudo-Sondheim “— send in the krauts.”

  The two Germans, Hans Ulbricht and Werner Baumgarten, were very different from Martin Smith. Both were post-graduate students who had taken a summer job to help pay for further graduate work. Both were in their late twenties, both came from Hamburg, and had happened to be in Geneva backpacking when they had seen Bernard Masterson’s advertisement. Only one of them, Hans Ulbricht, had previous experience sailing luxury yachts, but they were personable, and their intelligence combined with their physical strength and excellent English had appealed to Bernard Masterson, so he had hired them both. Moretti interviewed the experienced crew member first.

  “I don’t know much about handling a yacht this size. How easy is it for a crew of two?”

  Ulbricht laughed. He was a good-looking, fair-haired six footer with a deceptively slim build and strongly muscled upper torso. “A piece of cake, Inspector. The yacht has a satellite-linked positioning system, an electronic chart program, and a laptop computer connected to an autopilot. It could almost run itself.”

  “Yet he hired yo
u both. Was that something you specified as a condition?”

  “No. I was pleased, naturally, but he told both of us to bring some decent clothes, since he might need us to talk to some of his guests.”

  “Who were those guests? Were they German?”

  Moretti asked the same question of both men, and with both of them he was aware of evasive action of some kind being taken.

  “Not all. Some. Businessmen, some petty bureaucrats — no, I don’t remember the names — some pretty ladies who were probably high-class call girls, that kind of thing.”

  “Mr. Rossignol mentioned sheiks.”

  “Did he? There were some guests who may have looked like sheiks to Jean-Louis, but he knows more about shellfish than he does about sheiks.”

  “So there were none to your knowledge.”

  “None, but we hadn’t been on board that long.”

  Werner Baumgarten was shorter, darker, and less sunny than Hans Ulbricht, but his answers were as pat and vague as his friend’s. It seemed clear to Moretti they had agreed on what they would tell the police, and each corroborated the other. They had eaten with Martin Smith at the hotel, got some amusement out of insulting him in German to his face, then had gone for a walk in the town. They were vague about where they had walked, but this could have had as much to do with not knowing St. Peter Port as a deliberate covering of tracks.

  What was really interesting was why they felt the need to be evasive at all.

  “That Ulbricht’s a hunk,” observed Liz Falla as she scooped a sizeable portion of halibut into her mouth. “Almost too good to be true.”

  For such a slender person she can pack it away, Moretti thought, not for the first time. They had eaten fish and chips here together before, while working on another case, another murder. He liked the place, with its stunning brass fittings — the horses’ heads around the bar, and the lamps along the windows that looked on to St. George’s Esplanade, with Belle Greve Bay and the Little Russel shipping channel in the distance and, beyond, the islands of Herm and Jethou. There were a few locals in the public bar, who greeted Liz Falla as she came in and nodded at Moretti, but the lounge bar was quiet. They took a table near the window, away from a darts-playing middle-aged couple.