by Jill Downie
“Thank you so much. Perhaps I could pick it up tomorrow? Unless, that is, if it’s not too late — we could get it after this?”
More tiger eyes than angel eyes, looking right at him and making it quite clear that this was an opening he could walk right into, if he wanted. The drinks arrived.
“I wish. But I have a —” he hesitated, and then said “— a previous arrangement. I’ll get it to you tomorrow, without fail.”
“I see.” Her voice was cool. A previous arrangement, what a brilliant choice of phrase. He wouldn’t have blamed her if she’d taken the glass of wine and poured it over his head. But he wanted no one, not even Sandy Goldstein, to know he was meeting with Don Taylor.
She was gone before the end of the last set, and he didn’t see her leave. But it was a relief not to walk out of the club on his own in front of her, leaving her there.
Don moved out of the shadows where he was waiting near Moretti’s car. As he got in he said, “I liked the way you played ‘I Don’t Stand a Ghost of a Chance.’ Con fuoco. Did the stunning woman in black and silver give you the old heave-ho?”
“Something like that.” Moretti resisted an impulse to clip Don around the ear, and accelerated away from the curb. This, after all, was his idea, not Don’s. “Tell me about deregistering, tell me you’ve got something for me. Tell me you’re not wasting my time.”
“Your time?” Don sounded aggrieved. “How about mine? I’m getting a bit old for this wee small hours of the morning shit.”
“I had to turn down the stunning woman in black and silver if you must know, because I had a date with you, and I couldn’t tell her I had a date with you.”
Don laughed with unrestrained and heartless glee. “Happens to me all the time — brush-offs, I mean — but I know you don’t spend so much time hanging out with Captain Heartbreak as I do.”
“Captain Heartbreak? God, Don, where’d you get him from? The back of a cornflakes box?”
They drove in silence the rest of the way, while Don hummed “Just a Gigolo” under his breath, and Moretti thought about Val and his broken mainland relationship. Appearances can be deceiving. He too had hung out with Captain Heartbreak, more than once. Then there was timing, and all that stars-are-against-me shit.
The night was indeed starless, presaging more rain. Moretti’s Triumph squeaked between the old gateposts to the cottage, and he brought it to a halt on the cobblestones. As Don got out, he leaned over the low roof of the car and grinned. “Cheer up, honey, I’ll make this date worthwhile for you, I promise. It’s all in the name, Ed, all in the name.”
“Come in, you idiot.”
Don refused coffee, but settled for Glenmorangie instead, and Moretti joined him. He put some Branford Marsalis on the player, something with a clean, astringent quality, appealing to the intellect rather than the senses. Marsalis was wonderful, but he did not touch Moretti’s heart.
“Okay, what have you got?”
“Remember I said that nickname rang a bell? Well, about fifteen years ago, I think it was, the Advisory and Finance Committee refused to renew the registration of a deposit taker — the reason being that the outfit was on the verge of bankruptcy. In fact, it went into liquidation a year or so later.”
“That’s happened more than once,” Moretti responded. “The committee did its job.”
“Ah, but on this occasion what they didn’t do was tell anyone they had deregistered the company. It was assumed the outfit would take no more deposits, and the legal wallahs told the committee they were under no obligation to publish the withdrawal. So, a heap of people went on handing over their money which the company — surprise, surprise — went on taking and, of course, they lost it. Moreover, if the Advisory and Finance Committee had published their decision in the first place, the outfit would have immediately gone into liquidation and the depositors would have got a bigger dividend.”
“So a lot of people got angry.”
“One did more than get angry. He sued and won. That set the cat among the pigeons for the States. All hell broke loose, and they were inundated with summonses from other depositors. So they did what you’d expect them to do.”
“They set up a Committee of Enquiry.”
“Got it in one. It dragged on for about two years and the judgement they handed down was a beaut: that the depositors should not be recompensed in full because — listen to this — it was never the intention of the States that there should be any kind of guarantee to depositors their deposits should be repaid. Besides, anyone using this particular outfit should have accepted it was a lot more risky than placing their money with a well-established subsidiary of a well-established clearing bank.”
“In other words, caveat emptor.” Moretti held up the bottle, and Don held out his glass for a refill. “So, how does this tie in with my corpse?”
“The name. That’s what came back to me, so I checked some of the details. Of course, it may be just a strange coincidence —”
“— I don’t believe in coincidence.”
“Bulmit. The name of the deposit-taker was Bulmit Finance Limited.”
“Boule à mite. Bulmit.”
“Said I’d make it worth your while,” Don said cheerfully, holding up his glass. “Happy hunting, Detective Inspector. By the way, did you know that witches only wear silver — and that black is their favourite colour?”
After Don left, Moretti went over his plan of action for the next day. It was a plan already decided on before Don’s visit, and the Bulmit story made little difference. There were a lot of loose ends to tie up, he would have to leave many of them in Falla’s hands, and this just made one more. From a desk drawer he took out his personal mobile phone, and placed it near the door so he would not forget it in the morning. Then he turned off the record player, and went over to the shelf where he kept his collection of videos and DVDs. He knew exactly what he wanted, and it took him only a moment to find it.
Casablanca.
Ingrid Bergman and Humphrey Bogart.
Of all the star-crossed lovers, those two were right up there with Romeo and Juliet, in his book.
Chapter Eight
Day Four
“Loose ends, Guv. It’s all loose ends at the moment, isn’t it?”
Liz Falla was feeling a bit like a loose end herself. Frazzled and frayed. She had been hauled over the coals by Hanley when, as far as she could see, the problem was the decrepit, pistol-packing vamp he was trying to shield, and not anything she herself had done. Or not done.
“Right. So I want to sort out priorities. We can forget about such minutiae as the lipstick, for instance. We’ll not get the results back for a while yet, and we know whose it was without asking for the lady’s DNA. Tell the crew they can go back on the yacht, but we are keeping their passports. We’ll keep a watch on them — I’ll set that up — but it might be useful to see what, if anything, develops. Martin Smith’s murder makes me a lot more interested in those two Germans. I’ve called the divers off, because there’s no point in keeping them on a lookout for a silver handbag and a pair of satin gloves. She could have burned or buried them by now.”
“Why isn’t she under arrest?”
“Come on, Falla, you know the answer to that one. What’s ironic is that my chief worry is her safety rather than the safety of others because of her. It’s very possible that Ronald Fellowes was taken, to use Gord Collenette’s word, and that gives Lady Fellowes a motive for killling Masterson. But it also gives others a good reason to kill her, and I doubt she charmed Le Marchant into driving her down to Fort George so she could put a bullet through Martin Smith’s brain. Someone else did that.”
“More likely the same person did both, and she stood in the doorway of Masterson’s bedroom and cheered him on, first time around.”
“That’s the most likely scenario and it means that La Chancho knows who killed Martin Smith. I have Nichol’s preliminary report on Smith, and there’s nothing extraordinary there — almost certainly th
e same weapon, around midday, and there’s not a single scratch on his body or face from frenzied female attacks. No claw marks. Also, Jimmy says from the trajectory of the bullet, whoever shot Smith was standing on the Machins’ front lawn.” Moretti looked up from the notes on his desk. “Falla, could you run a check on our pathologist for me? Don’t farm this one out, do it yourself. See if there’s anything we should know about Nichol’s time in the States.”
Liz Falla looked surprised, but all she said was, “Okay, Guv, will do.”
“And if you could drop in on Miss Ferbrache’s lodgers at La Veile with this in the next day or so —” Moretti took out the mobile and handed it over. “It’s in your name, tell them.”
Liz Falla took it and asked, “Any message? Anything you want me to say, or to look for?”
“Not that I can think of. I’m doing this as much for Miss Ferbrache as for any other reason.”
Liar, he thought. This has become a peace offering, laid at the lady’s feet. See what a nice guy I really am, Sandy Goldstein.
“What about the Glock, Guv? Do you think the killer still has it?”
“I do. The door-to-door enquiries turned up nothing, because nobody set foot outside their front doors.”
“Except Mrs. Amsterdam and her secateurs. Any footprints?”
“Quite a few. The ground was soft, and Jimmy says he’s got one set that isn’t either the Amsterdams’ or their gardener. Probably the killer, definitely a man from the size, and trainers rather than dress shoes.”
“Mightn’t they be someone from the Machins’ place?”
“Could be, although there seems to be little coming and going across those front gardens. But tomorrow I want you to go and talk to Melissa Machin. Do it in office hours, so you get her on her own.”
“Okay. Any hints as to how to go about it? You know her, right?”
Moretti shrugged his shoulders. “Only met her a couple of times, and never at the club. Struck me as inoffensive, say the right thing type of woman. A bit of a Stepford wife, know what I mean?”
“Not a hair and not a comment out of place. Got it.” Liz Falla looked up from the pad in which she was taking notes. “Those numbers on Masterson’s computer — Brouard wonders if they’re post office box numbers. He’s checking on that.”
“Interesting. It’ll take time because, if they are, they’re more likely to be American.”
“Why would Masterson keep a list of post office box numbers in the first place?”
They were in Moretti’s office. The starless night had turned into a rainy day, and the lights were on. Liz Falla could see from her superior’s face he had not slept much the previous night, or had drunk too much — or whatever. In the fluorescent overhead glow he looked pale and drawn, and his eyes were sunk in their sockets. Pale — but interesting, to use one of his favourite words.
“Presumably because they had something to do with one of his schemes. If there’s one thing clear about Bernard Masterson, he had any numbers of irons in the fire, Falla. But there’s one aspect of this above all that puzzles the hell out of me.”
“Just one, Guv? Sorry, bad joke in the circumstances.”
Moretti didn’t seem to have heard what she said and made no comment. He went on. “One thing, Falla, just one frigging thing that still doesn’t make sense. Why was he here at all?”
Before Liz Falla could attempt an answer, Moretti added, “Here’s my guess at the most likely reason. He came here to meet someone, possibly more than one person. I cannot believe he came all this way for a rendezvous with Lady Fellowes, although it’s a mystery how she knew him, and how she knew he was here. So that leads to one big, gigantic, overarching question.”
“If not Lady Fellowes, who?”
“Exactly, Falla. Who the hell was Bernard Masterson here to meet?”
Moretti got up and walked over to the window. Turning back to his partner he said, “I’m going to Herm today, to talk to someone, and I may have to go to London.”
“So you’ll be away a day or two?” Liz Falla smiled. “Will I have to cover for you, Guv? Is this something a bit unscheduled, as you might say?” She had covered for him before, when he took off to Italy on their last murder investigation, their first case together.
Moretti smiled. “I don’t think it’ll be necessary this time. If Hanley wants us to leave La Chancho alone, then I think he’ll fall in with my plans.”
“Which are —?”
Moretti came back to the desk, sat down, and explained.
“The fulmars are nesting on the cliffs near Caquorobert, and I am actually beginning to believe that God’s in his heaven, as I once did in the good old days, when I was eight years old. And you want me to return to the real world?”
Moretti found Peter Walker eating lunch at the White House Hotel. It was a quiet day on the tiny island because of the weather, and they were virtually alone in the dining room. He ordered grilled trout and coffee, and waited until the waiter had left the table before replying. “Only in your mind. Lend me a half hour or so of your expertise, Peter.”
Walker sighed and put down his glass of beer. “So much for ‘I won’t ask you to help with the villains.’ Fill me in, Ed. It’ll be the murder on the yacht, I assume. Yes, we’ve even heard about it over here.”
Peter Walker listened without comment as Moretti went over the events of the past few days. He had just finished when the waiter returned with his meal, and he paused while Peter Walker ordered another beer.
“Go on.”
“I’m done. That’s it,” Moretti said, taking up his knife and fork.
“No, you’re not. You have a theory about why Masterson was here. I can hazard a guess at your theory, and you’re probably right.”
“So tell me what I’m right about.”
“Come on, Ed. Don’t get coy with me. I am not going to put words into your mouth.”
“Okay, here it is.” Moretti took another mouthful of fish, and put down his knife and fork. “I think Masterson was here because there was some sort of meeting set up between a handful of individuals about some sort of scheme, almost certainly international in scope, and the significant thing about Guernsey was that it was off the beaten track. I suspect whatever funds are involved are here too, but what brought them together here was the comparative anonymity the island could afford one or two high-profile people. The scrutiny at the airport is low-key and low-tech compared to that in most countries. As to why, there are all kinds of possibilities, and terrorism certainly comes to mind. However, there’s a problem with that one.”
“I agree. This Masterson was not the kind of operator who put himself on the line up front, and he wouldn’t need to. He would hide behind his far-flung bank accounts.”
“Exactly. That’s what I keep coming back to, like a frigging dead end. So that means — what?”
“That whatever this is, it’s very, very big. That it required the movers and shakers meeting the money man face to face for some reason or other. That scrap of paper about yachts could provide a clue. You say that, from what the RCMP told you, it’s a scam that backfired. It could be that Masterson had various schemes underway to provide funds for this group, and the failure of one of his schemes — which attracted unwanted attention — gave them cold feet. He could also have been cheating them, or they thought he was cheating them, and he had to reassure them he was not. Apparently, that didn’t work, and he paid the price.”
Peter’s beer arrived. Moretti drank his coffee and waited for the question he knew was coming.
“But you didn’t just come here to disturb my holiday with a brainstorming session over lunch, did you, Ed?” Peter Walker looked at Moretti over the top of his half-empty glass. “Tell me what you want me to do.”
“You still have high-level contacts at Scotland Yard — with the Fraud Squad, among others, and in MI6. At the level I require for information on this case, this is a game of contacts, and I want you to put me in touch with the kind of people wh
o would know if there is some kind of major operation in the wind. Forget terrorism. I know there is no way you or anyone could get me information about that, so what I want is to talk to someone who might give me something useful about international operations that might involve fraud on a massive scale.”
“Investigative work at the level you’re talking about, Ed, is a competitive sport, just like professional football. And just as cutthroat. Do you really think that anyone working on something like that will give you a helping hand?”
“I think there’s a chance they might, in exchange for some fresh info. Such as a list of post office box numbers in the States.”
Let’s jump to conclusions, thought Moretti, and pray that Brouard’s idea holds water. He added, “And you know the other reason, Peter?”
“I know why I’ll be doing this, but the fact that you’re a nice person who plays great jazz piano will butter no parsnips with anyone else.”
Moretti grinned. “Thanks. The other reason is that I’m only a copper from a little, unimportant channel island and not a wannabe mainland hotshot detective climbing up the same greasy pole.”
“You could be right.” Peter Walker stood up, draining the last of his beer. “But the only way anyone will listen to this unimportant little copper is with a personal introduction. Arriving letter in hand at the portals of New Scotland Yard will not be enough, not for what you need. Come on, Ed. We’ve both got some packing to do and a plane to catch.”
It was fortunate Moretti had already done his packing. The alacrity with which Peter Walker rose from his chair and bounced across the room suggested that the charms of bladderweed and butterfish had started to pale. Men of action do not find it easy to go gently into their golden years. Except, perhaps, for Ludo Ross. Maybe he was an exception.
