A Grave Waiting

by Jill Downie

  “Not tell Nichol, you mean.” Dorothy Watt clearly found this funny. “Only too happy to — but how much do you already know?”

  “Well,” Liz prevaricated, “I think it best I don’t lead you, but leave you to tell things as you see them, Mrs. Watt.”

  “Ms. Le Huray. I use my maiden name. Isn’t that a laugh, maiden name.” To judge from Ms. Le Huray’s expression, this, just as clearly, was not funny.

  “You’re an islander. I didn’t know.”

  “Why would you? When Nichol ran into problems I suggested we come here. I even thought he might straighten up in other ways too, but the leopard’s spots and so on. Anyway, you didn’t need to learn about Nichol the skirt chaser. The whole island knows about that, but I never thought the MRI business would come back to haunt him.” Dorothy Le Huray took a good swig from her glass. “It all started at a medical convention in Canada. Nichol met a man whose business was the leasing of medical equipment to health centres and hospitals, very expensive equipment, chiefly magnetic resonance imaging machines. When Nichol heard the kind of money that could be made — millions of dollars — he wanted in on it and, being Nichol, didn’t bother himself too much with the — niceties, shall we say. He was to be the contact man in the States, using his name and the name of the hospital where he was working as references. To cut a long story short, there was, in fact, only a banking company with a fancy name and there were no MRI machines. The police told us it was not just a fraud bringing in millions of dollars, but a cover for the laundering of dirty money. In fact, the only legitimate business this fellow had was the international arms business.” Another swig of water. “God, we were terrified. Nichol was the only one on the hook, because his name was attached to just about everything. The clever bastard who conned him had kept clear by saying to Nichol that it was his standing as a medical man that was important. Too true!”

  “Was Dr. Watt arrested or charged?”

  “No, but he was questioned on and off for days, and it cost us a fortune in lawyers’ fees, while the crook who had done all this got out of the country. I’m not sure where he is.”

  In the hospital morgue, thought Liz Falla. She watched as Dorothy Le Huray poured herself another glassful from a jug on the table beside her. “Do you remember the name of the man, Ms. Le Huray?”

  “I most certainly do, because we only discovered afterward it was not his real name.”

  “What did he call himself?”

  “Letourneau. Buddy Letourneau.”

  The name of the so-called housekeeper.

  “Oh,” added Dorothy Le Huray, “that reminds me. He had a wife, Adèle. Smooth bitch. Nichol being Nichol, it was not just the millions that drew him in, she was put up as bait.”

  “Put up as bait?”

  “Yes.” Nichol Watt’s ex-wife leaned forward. “My louse of a husband was sucked in by French knickers, Sergeant, not just Yankee dollars.” The faint fragrance of vodka wafted toward Liz Falla as Dorothy Le Huray picked up a large and spectacularly glittering watch from the small table beside her. “My children will be home soon with their nanny. Can we call this a day?”

  “Yes, thank you. What you have told us will help in the investigation, Ms. Le Huray.”

  “Investigation? So you think this is in some way connected to what happened on that yacht?” The shrewd hazel eyes surveyed Liz Falla. “What can Nichol’s MRI contretemps have to do with that? I can understand why the dead body outside Mona’s place might be connected. Murder is not a common crime here, as I don’t have to tell you. We may feel like it, but we islanders go in for smaller stuff, like smoking a joint or stealing a neighbour’s wife — oh my God!” Dorothy Le Huray leaned forward, her breasts threatening to break free of their ivory velour confines. “It’s him, isn’t it? Letourneau? That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? And Nichol has been called in, and told you he recognized him — oh my God!”

  Oh my God indeed because, of course, Nichol Watt hadn’t said anything, and Liz Falla was now as anxious to leave as Dorothy Le Huray was to get rid of her.

  As she said her goodbyes and thank-yous, a car turned into the driveway. Through the windows she caught a brief glimpse of a small face pressed against the glass. A hand came up and waved at her and she waved back, her mind momentarily shifted from Dorothy Le Huray’s revelation by the little boy’s smiling face.

  As she drove through St. Martin’s and St. Andrew’s toward the coast road, Liz tried to recall how Nichol Watt had behaved when he came to the yacht, and remembered that neither she nor Moretti had seen or spoken to him then. Only by phone, later. She waited until she had driven back into the courtyard outside the police station and tried to contact Moretti. There was no reply. Disappointing, but not unexpected. Now that her boss was — well, wherever he was — it was unlikely she would be able to speak to him.

  As she got out of the car, she saw Constable Mauger coming down the steps. She remembered he had been one of the first at the scene of the crime.

  “Constable Mauger, a word.”

  Mauger bounded toward her, eager to help. “DS Falla?”

  “Were you in the cabin when Dr. Watt arrived to examine the body?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  She had to do this carefully, or Mauger would be yapping about it all over the station, and up the chain of command it would go to Chief Officer Hanley.

  “Just something that came up in Dr. Watt’s report that needs clarification. Did he seem — put out about anything? You know, anything out of the ordinary happen?”

  Constable Mauger thought a moment, then said, as if the memory had taken him by surprise, “Well, it was a bit weird, DS Falla. He took one look at the deceased and said, loudly, ‘bloody hell.’ Just like that. ‘Bloody hell.’ Then it was pretty much business as usual. Since there wasn’t much blood, I thought he was just surprised at a gun being involved, that’s all. Why are you asking?”

  “Like I said, clarification. And that clears it up. I’ll pass it on to DI Moretti.”

  Hopefully the mention of a superior officer would keep the constable quiet. Just as she could only hope that Dorothy Le Huray would take heed of her final warning. “I cannot give you any information as to what Dr. Watt has told us, but it would be best if you did not discuss this interview with him.”

  So much now depended on whether Dorothy Le Huray preferred her revenge hot as Dwight’s vindaloo, or as a meal best eaten cold.

  Which made Liz think of food. She debated whether to go to the police canteen or to head for home, and it was the thought of bumping into the chief officer rather than what was on the canteen menu that guided her decision. Still, she planned to return later in the day to use the police computers, and take advantage of Moretti’s absence to do some checking on Sandra Goldstein. The woman’s hostility seemed puzzling, and she wanted to take a closer look at the possibility of some sort of criminal activity. Such a level of paranoia because Goldstein was interested in Moretti and saw his DS as a threat seemed unlikely.

  What do you care? she thought. He’s a big boy. He’s single, he’s attracted. Or seems to be. What do you care? Not finding an answer to her question, she did what she usually did in similar circumstances. She filed it away for future consideration.

  Liz Falla finished the last mouthful of her cheese omelette, put the plate in the sink, poured herself another cup of coffee, and changed CDs. The otherworldly voice of Loreena McKennitt now filling the space. Oh, how she had wanted to nail Nichol Watt for the murder, but she knew that the likelihood of Masterson’s killer merely and spontaneously exclaiming “bloody hell” was remote. Watt had been taken by surprise, then pulled himself together.

  Damn. She finished her coffee and checked her messages. There was one, a text message. It was from Moretti. It said: Don’t let Ulbricht and Baumgarten go anywhere.

  “Why?” she yelled into the phone as she dialled Moretti’s number. “Why?”

  Still no response. She put a call through to the Esplanade Hotel, which
was answered by Betty Kerr.

  “Oh, hello, DS Falla, and many thanks. We really needed those rooms.”

  From the CD player came the sound of Loreena singing her version of the “Lady of Shalott,” and Liz Falla’s warm little room suddenly turned chilly.

  And moving through a mirror clear that hangs before her all the year, shadows of the world appear.

  “Where are they, Ms. Kerr?”

  “Didn’t you know? Chief Officer Hanley said it would be all right if they returned to the yacht. They went with a police escort, and since there’s a full-time guard on the pier, he really didn’t see the need for me to be inconvenienced anymore.” Betty Kerr gave a little laugh. “And you needn’t worry about Mr. Rossignol, Sergeant. I’m holding on to him. He’s a super cook, and he’s scared stiff about going back to that lot.”

  Liz wasted no time in replying, hung up, and put a call through to the police station to find out who was on sentry duty. The desk sergeant put her through to PC Brouard. The sound of his voice was not reassuring, its normally strong baritone muted and uncertain.

  “DS Falla, I was just about to contact you. Those two Germans went to pick up supplies, and I didn’t worry too much because we’ve got their passports, haven’t we, but they’ve been gone quite a bit now.”

  “How much is quite a bit?”

  “Hours. Well, all day, and the Letourneau woman is really pissed off —”

  Liz cut PC Brouard off in mid-sentence, turned off the CD player, grabbed the keys of the police car, which she had, thank God, held on to, and left the room.

  So the Letourneau woman was pissed off, was she. She wasn’t the only one.

  Moretti’s head hurt. Badly. A lump had come up on it almost immediately, and now it was throbbing to its own internal beat. Boom, boom, boom.

  A sympathetic crowd gathered, giving advice and comfort. “I’ve called the police … you need to get an icepack on that … a bag of frozen peas’ll do the trick … you should see a doctor in case your brain swells …”

  A passing taxi slowed down and pulled over to take a look, and Moretti stuck out his hand, stumbling into the seat by the driver. He had to get away before the police got there, before he had to answer any question, got taken to the police station, or even the hospital. And he had to hope the convenient taxi was not part of whatever this was. As he gave the cab driver Peter Walker’s address, a Greek chorus of warnings and advice drifted through the window.

  “Blimey, mate, what happened?” The cabbie seemed genuinely shocked. “You was mugged?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did they get anything?”

  “My briefcase.”

  “Least it wasn’t your wallet. Anything of value?”

  “Not much.”

  Some clean underwear, some shaving tackle and, more annoyingly, the charger for his mobile. But the numbers from Masterson’s computer were safely with Lang. If indeed they were safe. And the photos were safe also, tucked into a moneybelt worn against his body.

  “Bit of luck then. Sure you don’t want me to drop you off at a hospital?”

  “Sure. My friend will take care of this.”

  “Right you are, Guv.”

  Guv. Liz Falla. Thank heaven for texting, eliminating the sound of the human voice. Moretti pulled out his mobile. His hands were trembling, which surprised him. He must be suffering from shock, but he didn’t want his “friend” to be at home to take care of anything. He no longer knew whom he could trust.

  He was in luck. The house was empty, and he tottered upstairs on shaky legs and into the sitting room. He put the key down on the desk, went into the kitchen, and ran the cold water tap, wet a tea towel, and wrapped it around his head. It hurt and kept slipping, so he took it off, poured himself a glass of cold water instead. He found a bottle of aspirin in Peter Walker’s bathroom cabinet, took two, then put the bottle in his pocket.

  He had to get away before Peter got back. Had he followed him? Was he in cahoots with Jan Melville? Perhaps shock was making him ridiculously paranoid, but that’s how he felt. Paranoid. After all, Jan Melville had dropped him off at the Tube station, and then whoever it was had come out of nowhere, hit him, and grabbed the briefcase.

  In big cities, people got mugged every day. But most people didn’t get mugged with a voice hissing in their ear, “Back off.”

  It was the last thing he remembered before dropping to the ground and feeling the briefcase being wrenched from his hand. Clearly the wrencher assumed he carried a laptop, and did everything electronically, as most people did these days.

  “Aha,” he said out loud. “You forgot you were dealing with a plodding copper from the back of beyond.”

  Even talking was painful. Moretti winced, went into the bedroom he had used, repacked his bag, went downstairs, and opened the hall closet. It was chaotic, as hall closets tend to be, but eventually he found what he was looking for. He extracted a watch cap of black wool that Peter Walker used on his sailing and birdwatching visit to Herm — was that in fact what he had been doing? — and pulled it over his contused skull. Moretti, as his father had, was holding on to a full head of dark hair, now edged with grey, but the bump was visible and he wanted no comments or curiosity.

  He took a moment to consider whether he should leave a note saying something innocuous like, “Called back urgently. Will be in touch.” But only a moment. Picking up his belongings, he let himself out of the house and flagged down a passing cab.

  At some point on the way to the airport, he left another message for Falla, and the aspirins started to kick in.

  PART THREE

  Exposition

  Chapter Thirteen

  Day Seven

  “That's a real pigeon’s egg, Guv. Have you got an icepack in your fridge? If not, frozen peas will do.”

  Moretti started to laugh. “Ouch. There’s an icepack, I think. In the door.”

  Liz found it, wrapped it in a tea towel, and handed it to Moretti. “No, seriously, the peas mould themselves to the shape of —”

  “I know. Peas were included in the advice I got from my London sympathizers. Thanks, Falla.”

  Moretti leaned back in the armchair and held the pack to his head. “Okay, so tell me the worst.”

  “The worst is that the two Germans have flown the coop. And there’s more.”

  While she filled Moretti in on her interview with Dorothy Le Huray, Liz looked around at her boss’s home. She had been here before, on their first case as partners, when she was assigned to protect a witness in that case. Not just a witness, but the ballerina wife of the murder victim, who subsequently was involved romantically with Moretti. It had broken up fairly swiftly; she didn’t know why.

  The place seemed unchanged, very much still the home he had inherited when his father died. Liz knew Moretti had lost his mother when he was still quite young. She also knew the two most significant objects in the room were the family piano and her boss’s truly antediluvian record player that, he maintained, reproduced the best and purest sound. She saw there was a new acquisition on the wall, a watercolour in among the Guernsey prints and some fine old black-and-white photographs, and she recognized the female figure in the painting, a nymph called Arethusa. She only knew that because her image had come up in the earlier case, which meant this was a gift from Moretti’s ex-lover. Which made her think of Sandra Goldstein. Perhaps she’d have time to do some digging later at Hospital Lane.

  “You should eat something,” she said. She got up and went into the kitchen. “You’ve got some cold chicken here in the fridge,” she called out, “and some bread. I’ll make you a sandwich.” She came back, carrying a tray with chicken, bread, a plate, and a couple of knives, placing everything on the dining table in the corner of the sitting room, pushing aside a pile of records to make a space. “Do you think it was just a mugging, Guv? A coincidence?”

  “No.” There was something remarkably comforting about Falla’s slim fingers dexterously cutting bread and slicing c
hicken. Some time he really must go and hear her sing, watch those slender fingers playing her beautiful Martin guitar. “Not with ‘back off’ lovingly murmured into my ear. I think one of our problems is that there are any number of red herrings, most of them supplied by that jack of all trades, Masterson. He had so many irons in the fire and most of them were — well, fishy. If an iron can be fishy. Yet they are still all linked to the main reason he was killed, and it is a very dangerous main reason. He was playing with some very big, very unpleasant men who will stop at nothing to get what they want. What I don’t know is whether he was trying to stiff them, or whether things just didn’t work out. Or both. He made money on the MRI scam, but it fell apart, and I suspect the same thing happened with the offshore-haven scheme. The Mounties and the taxman got on to that one before the really big money was made.”

  The sandwich was good and he was hungry. Liz Falla put down a glass of orange juice on the table, sat down opposite him, kicked off her shoes, and folded her legs up beneath her. She looked even younger like that, and Moretti felt ancient, and weary, and sore. Thinking straight suddenly became difficult. “Okay, Falla,” he said, “my addled brain is having problems. Whodunit, Detective Sergeant? Who have we got in the frame?”

  Liz Falla leaned toward him and counted them off on her fingers. “First: Coralie Fellowes. Yes, her Baby Browning didn’t do it, but she was there, I’m sure. Second: Nichol Watt, although his ‘bloody hell’ would suggest not.” She looked across at Moretti and saw he was smiling. “I know, I know, I’d just like it to be him. Okay, not likely him. Looks like he was being used as a patsy by Masterson, doesn’t it? Then there’s the bloke who ended up dead on the Amsterdams’ front lawn, the bodyguard. And there’s Garth Machin and, possibly, his wife.”