by Jill Downie
“There’s nothing much to him,” said Moretti. He looked at the hermit’s veined hands, the bones stark against the transparent skin. “If he had tied the knot on that rope, he should have marks, even rope burns.”
“I agree.” Irene Edwards turned the hands over, laid them back down by the side of the body. “Nothing there. I already checked. And he probably would have had trouble seeing to tie a knot. He had cataracts that would soon have needed attention. Is there anything else you want to see?”
“No.”
Gently, Irene Edwards pulled the stiff sheet up over Gus Dorey’s face, pulled off her gloves and looked at Moretti.
“What happens next? Procedures are different here, aren’t they?”
“Yes. Outside, I think.”
Liz Falla looked at Moretti. It was not the first cadaver they had looked at together. They didn’t seem to affect him. She had never sensed repugnance or discomfort in him when they looked at the recently dead; his familiar air of detachment always remained firmly in place. It was more, she thought, as if he was respecting the feelings of the dead man by taking the discussion outside.
Breaking the silence, Irene Edwards said something to the mortuary technician, who stood waiting at a discreet distance, and they left the room.
In the corridor outside, Moretti said, “The magistrates court becomes the coroners court when necessary, and they will take care of this. But I’ll have to inform my chief officer first.”
“I leave it in your hands,” said Irene Edwards. “And you’ll let me know?”
With one swift movement she pulled the cap off her head, the gesture loosening the chignon from the large comb that held it, and a mass of dark hair cascaded around her shoulders. She smiled, and both men blinked, Aloisio Brown smiling back at her. The comb clattered to the floor and she picked it up without comment and put in her overalls pocket.
“We will,” said Moretti. He turned to Al Brown and Liz Falla. “Right now, we need to head back to the office. I’ll need to write a report and speak to Chief Officer Hanley.”
They said their goodbyes to Irene Edwards, and she disappeared back into her echoing world with its inescapable smell of human mortality and decay hanging in the air beneath the antiseptic.
As the door closed behind her, Moretti said, “I want you both to go back out to Pleinmont and search Dorey’s roundhouse thoroughly, and I want you both to do the search. No one else. I want to keep this as quiet as possible.”
“Peculiar,” said Liz Falla, and both men turned to look at her. She was looking back at the mortuary.
“An odd choice of word,” said Moretti, “even in the circumstances. What is it, Falla?”
“He reminded me of someone. Even in death, white and cold like that. That’s why I said ‘peculiar.’”
“Who did he remind you of?”
“I have no idea.” Liz looked at Moretti and smiled, sweetly. “But maybe it was my imagination playing tricks, Guv,” she said.
It was chilly in Gus Dorey’s roundhouse. Constable Bury had been only too happy to go and sit outside in the police car and leave Al Brown and Liz to the task in hand. He helped them carry in the boxes they had brought with them and then asked, “So how long do we have to do this? There’s not much here except about a million books.”
Al Brown picked up the Dickens first edition from the floor, where it still lay.
“A million books, full of magical thinking — the sort of magical thinking that matters to me, at any rate.”
“So, tell me about magical thinking.”
They had divided the room in half and had agreed that the books came first, if only so they could be removed to a safer place. Constable Bury might not have the slightest idea of their value, but others might not be so uninformed.
“Oh, here’s his glasses. Remember, Dr. Edwards said he had cataracts.” Al Brown picked up a case on the floor, which had been hidden by some of the books. “Not prescription by the look of it. The kind you can get in Boots the Chemist. What do you want to know?”
“You were saying you came here because of it. You asked to be posted here. Was it because you thought we still worshipped pagan gods and danced in the light of the moon?”
Al Brown pulled himself back from Nicholas Nickleby’s world and shrugged his shoulders.
“You don’t? What a disappointment.” His tone changed. “Let’s get a few things straight, Liz. Yes, DI Moretti told me about your aunt and your grandmother. Yes, I can understand your being pissed off. No, I don’t believe you’re all a bunch of primitive pagans. What I meant was that I wanted to work somewhere where there was some flexibility of structure, and I hoped to find it on Guernsey. I attended a lecture given by a retired superintendent from the Met, and he talked about your Guvnor’s handling of a complex case here. He said he didn’t go by the book.” Al Brown slapped the Dickens he held in his hands. “I wanted to have that chance.”
“So not going by the book is magical thinking?” Liz was piling up a heap of Penguin paperbacks, checking inside each one as she did so. “And it can destroy geniuses? Sounds like dangerous stuff to me.”
Reluctantly, Al Brown put down the Dickens. “If I keep reading these we’ll get nowhere. I think DI Moretti was referring to the death of Steve Jobs, the founder of Apple, a genius who believed that magical thinking could cure him of pancreatic cancer.”
“Sorry, but I don’t get it. What has that to do with my Guv not going by the book, and you coming here?”
Al put the first edition in one of the boxes and picked up the Gillray bibliography. “You’ve started on the Penguins, so I’ll keep going with the hardcovers. It has to do with MI Teams — Murder Investigation Teams — and Action Managers, and all that crap. It was supposed to simplify and to accelerate the process, but like anything else, it depends who’s in charge. I felt — trapped.”
Liz Falla looked over at Al Brown, who was lovingly examining the Gillray page by page. “DI Moretti answers to Chief Officer Hanley, which can be frustrating, but mostly our supreme leader worries about not offending the powers-that-be. That’ll be what the Guvnor’s talking about right now with him — paperwork and vampires.”
“What?”
A few Penguins and a complete Gillray later, they were both rocking with laughter. Al Brown selected a handful of small faux-leather-bound volumes. “Nelson, Collins, nice but not of great value. Does anyone read Barlasch of the Guard anymore?”
He looked across at Liz, but she was apparently engrossed in the paperback she was holding, her attention held by something on the page.
“Anything interesting? What’s the book?”
“It’s not the book. It’s this.” Liz was holding out a tiny, yellowed scrap of paper. “It’s an address.”
“In Guernsey?”
“No. In the U.K. A street address, somewhere in London, I think. Looks like Gus Dorey’s writing. He’s put his name in some of the paperbacks.”
“Does he identify whose address it is?”
“Yes. He does.” Liz smoothed the fragile piece of paper with one finger, and held it out to Al Brown.
“‘My darling,’” she said.
Chief Officer Hanley was looking remarkably cheerful for a man whose face leant itself more readily to melancholy than merriment. Moretti handed him the report on Gus Dorey and he laid it to one side without looking at it.
“What are your first impressions of DC Brown?”
“Pleasant, intelligent, as one might expect. What was your impression, sir?”
“Much the same. We’ll see. Possibly a little lightweight, perhaps?”
Moretti had no idea what the Chief Officer meant and decided not to pursue it. Maybe he had noticed the pierced ear.
“About this vampire nonsense,” he began, “DS Falla knows some of the members of the Island Players, and feels it is a storm in a theatrical teacup.”
The chief officer positively beamed. “Oh absolutely. Mrs. Maxwell phoned me this morning and explained.�
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“Explained?”
“Yes. Seems to have been a misunderstanding. Mind you, I didn’t quite follow her clarification, which had more to do with something she called dramatic licence, than common sense. Anyway, we’re off the hook, thank heaven. I don’t mind telling you, Moretti, it’s a great relief.”
“I can imagine, sir. A waste of police time.”
“Quite. We have other fish to fry. Organizational fish.”
The chief officer’s metaphoric clarification seemed quite as cryptic as Marie Maxwell’s, and left Moretti feeling apprehensive. He picked up the Gus Dorey case notes.
“These are my notes on the apparent suicide of Gus Dorey, the hermit at Pleinmont.”
“Apparent suicide?”
The chief officer’s expression returned to its default downcast disposition.
“There is a possibility, according to Dr. Edwards, who did the initial examination, that someone helped him. And I agree with her, sir.”
One of Hanley’s best qualities was his ability to listen, which he did in silence until Moretti had finished.
“So,” he replied after a moment’s thought, “Assisted suicide, not murder. Were there signs of anyone else being there?”
“There were books on the floor, some of them valuable. It looked as if someone had been searching for something. Either they found it, or were scared off by activity outside. I’ve read the postman’s statement and he says that Dorey had a mailbox in town. We’ll be looking for a key, but someone else may have got to it first. DS Falla thinks the postie is not involved. Her instincts are good, sir.”
“No argument here. That’s why I promoted her so fast, and put her with you. Where is she now, by the way?”
“Out at Pleinmont with DC Brown, doing a more detailed search, and packing up the books. They’ll have to be put in storage here until we can track down next of kin. I’ll put PC Mauger on to that, but if Gord Martel didn’t know of any relative, I think we’ll find no one.”
“If the intruder handled the books, we may get fingerprints. One thing about a hermit, I suppose — less chance of being swamped with hundreds of them. Did you say you thought he had been helped by someone? We may get their identification that way.”
“Only if the intruder forgot to wipe off their own prints, which is unlikely. The general public may not understand the forensic study of blood spatters or PCR analysis, but even kindergarten kids know about fingerprints. We are, of course, fingerprinting Gord Martel so we can rule him out. Or in. At this stage I am not closing any doors.”
Moretti thought of the open door in Gus Dorey’s roundhouse, unlocked and unguarded. Had he, perhaps, been waiting for whoever it was to come in? There were no signs of a struggle, and even an old, frail man would surely have fought back. If only to protect his precious books.
“Wise move. Could just be common or garden theft, couldn’t it?”
“Then why go to the trouble of faking a suicide, sir? That took some doing, and a lot of risk. The intruder could have taken anything while Dorey was out for what seems to have been his customary walk.”
“So you think someone wanted him out of the way?”
“I do.”
“Dear, dear.” Hanley pulled Moretti’s notes towards him. “Perhaps this is a good time to have DC Brown here,” he said.
Moretti tried a little humour. “And fortunately, Mrs. Maxwell has dealt with her vampire situation, so we have more manpower available than if we were tracking down the undead.”
“Oh that.” Hanley waved a dismissive hand in the air. “The reason I was keen to get DC Brown here is because he is familiar with the Met’s approach to murder investigation — MI Teams, Action Managers and so on. It is time we looked at reorganization, DI Moretti. We must keep up with the times.”
Moretti suspected his own face had fallen into the familiar lines of his boss’s countenance.
“And,” the chief officer went on, “here we have an apparent murder, don’t we? At least, that is what I would call helping to hang an old man. Wouldn’t you, DI Moretti?”
Chapter Seven
So, thought Hugo Shawcross, these are the Island Players that really matter, according to Marie Maxwell, née Gastineau. At his first introduction to the group, answering the queen bee’s call, he had met only some of those now assembled, and the meeting had been in the flat belonging to Jim Landers, the owner of the bookstore on Smith Street, and current president of the Island Players. His minimalist one-bedroom, book-lined flat opposite Elizabeth College, the boys’ private school on the island, was a very different setting from the elegant high-ceilinged sitting room in the former Gastineau townhouse. It was Jim Landers who had invited Hugo to join the group after he visited the store, and they had got into conversation about books both current and rare.
The eleven Island Players were perched on ornate upholstered chairs with gilt backs, or sunk into the brocaded cushions of Empire-style sofas with curved, carved legs. The paintings in heavy gilt frames around the walls looked to be of the Monarch of the Glen variety; if there were family portraits they must be elsewhere, which was a pity. The Persian carpet beneath their feet was huge and in poor shape, worn thin in places, which probably meant it was an antique, thought Hugo, and worth a ton of money. He surveyed the chosen few assembled for the reading.
First, Jim Landers. Probably in his mid-fifties, with a neat grey beard and closely and carefully barbered hair. He was well-read, and modest enough about his erudition to make Hugo feel vaguely uncomfortable. There was a restrained and distant quality about him — not so much all passion spent, thought Hugo, as most passions not released.
Next to him sat Ginnie Purvis, who taught English in the private girls’ school in St. Peter Port. She did little to hide her adoration of Jim Landers, though he appeared not to notice. Taller and bigger-boned than Hugo, she made him feel vaguely uncomfortable, because she appeared not to notice him at all. But then, from the way she was peering at the script he had handed around, she was probably short-sighted and reluctant to put on her glasses. Hugo put her in her late forties and, as she bent her head over the script, he could see the grey roots of her expensively bronzed and highlighted hair.
Next to her sat Douglas Lorrimer, who was in partnership with Elton Maxwell, heading the leading estate agency on the island, and his wife, Lana. Lorrimer was a small man physically, but he made up for his lack of size with a booming voice and bombastic manner. From their introduction at Jim Landers’s, Hugo gathered he was the financial advisor to the group, which put him squarely in the pro-vampire camp, and in Hugo’s corner. “Creative concerns,” he told Hugo, “are not in my bailiwick. I leave that to the artsy crowd,” pointing at Marie and chortling. Marie, Hugo noticed, did not seem in the least offended — but then, this was her husband’s business partner, and taking offence was probably inadvisable.
From the condescension shown to Lana Lorrimer by Marie, however, it looked as if Lana had only made the cut by virtue of her marriage. But some of the condescension could be because Lana was a well-endowed blonde in her forties who could curl her lip quite as effectively as the queen bee. She was in the process of reading his script, and Hugo could not tell from her expression whether she liked it or not. As if feeling his eyes upon her, she looked across at him and, suddenly, winked. It was so swift he wondered if he had imagined it. But he bore it in mind.
Sitting in the centre of the circle were Marie and her daughter, Marla. Hugo had never yet set eyes on Elton Maxwell, but, if his daughter had combined the genes of both parents, it seemed likely he was handsome, fair-haired and tall. When not spitting blue murder at him, Marie was a striking woman, somewhere in her forties, with dark hair and eyes, unlike her blonde, blue-eyed daughter. But they still looked very much alike.
Elodie Ashton was sitting next to Raymond Morris, who had introduced himself as part-time artist and director of Hugo’s “oeuvre,” as he called it. Sporting a pencil-line moustache above very white teeth, he was dress
ed all in black, from his beret to his boots and, when asked by Hugo about his painting, described it as “a blend of Dali with a dash of the Douanier, but all my own.” Hugo said he couldn’t wait to see it. Well, what else does one say to someone who was going to direct one’s own “oeuvre”?
Elodie was in animated conversation with the man sitting on the other side of her, who had arrived late. Hugo had been trapped in small talk with the Lorrimers about the intricacies of the open and closed housing market, and had watched with annoyance as a tall, grey-haired man with strong features, who looked to be in his fifties, took the seat he had planned to make his own. From what he could hear, Elodie and the man were talking about finances, and there was something about his beautifully cut tweed jacket and air of self-possession that suggested money. As Hugo took one of the three remaining seats, Elodie called out to him.
“Hello, Hugo. I don’t think you’ve met Aaron Gaskell.”
Aaron Gaskell nodded, smiled and raised his hand, revealing a magnificent Rolex on his wrist. Hugo had recently checked a similar timepiece out and backed off at the astronomical price. He disliked him immediately.
“Hello. I know who you are. This looks like a lot of fun.”
A pretty young woman with bouncing blonde curls sat down next to him, and her dazzling smile smoothed over Hugo’s ruffled feelings. Unlike the other Island Players in the room, who had come dressed in the de rigueur shreds and patches as seen on professionals shown rehearsing on TV, she was dressed simply, but formally. Her short-sleeved blouse revealed just a hint of cleavage, and her pencil-skirt showed off long legs that were either tanned or stockinged above stiletto heels. On her ring finger was one of the largest diamonds Hugo had ever seen, so big he couldn’t see if it concealed a wedding ring.
“I know who I am, but I don’t know who you are,” Hugo replied, echoing, he hoped, the conversational tone, and was gratified to hear her trill of laughter.
