by Jill Downie
“So this is more likely to be about love than about revenge?” She was looking unconvinced.
“I don’t know, Falla, but someone is anxious to cover up something. Hamelin’s visit to Hospital Lane makes me even more curious about the report Bernie Mauger found about the fight between Gus Dorey and General Gastineau’s son. Now, that is the sort of family for whom Hamelin comes out of the woodwork. He doesn’t usually offer himself as an emissary, uninvited.”
Liz put down her glass of wine and pulled out her notebook, riffling back through the pages. “I didn’t bring this to your attention, Guv, but perhaps now I should. Remember all that vampire hooey and Marla Maxwell’s text messages? Something else has happened, this time at one of their meetings about the play. I took some notes, in case.”
Moretti looked across the table at Al Brown. “You know about this vampire stuff, Al?” Al Brown nodded, smiling at Liz again. “Fill us in, Falla.”
As Liz read the notes she had taken after leaving Elodie’s, Moretti tried to concentrate on the content, and not the sound of her voice by his side filling the empty room with its music. In the dim light, Ronnie Bedini’s paintings took on a soft sheen, a glow and a subtle vibrancy far removed from their brash and brazen, more brightly-lit selves, and Moretti thought of her looking at the Latvian girl.
“That’s it, Guv.”
Bringing himself back to the matter in hand, Moretti asked, “Which member of the group gave you all this?”
Across the table, Al Brown was looking surprised, and Moretti could hear the mild reproach in Falla’s voice.
“My godmother, Guv, as I said. Her name is Elodie Ashton,” adding for further clarification, “She’s my mother’s sister.”
“Sorry. I got distracted by Ronnie’s artwork. Maybe I should talk to your aunt, although the place to start should be with the Maxwells. But I don’t think we’d learn anything by the direct approach, and Hamelin’s visit only confirms that. What are your aunt’s working hours? Can you fix this up?”
“Of course. She works from home, but she keeps pretty much to normal working hours — non-members of the police force working hours, that is.”
Moretti and Al laughed, and Liz pulled out her phone and turned it on.
“I might as well text her now. Oh my God …”
“What is it?” Both men spoke in unison.
“Talk of the — it’s my aunt, she’s been trying to reach me. Something else has happened. The police are at her place.”
Moretti stood up. “Must be more than threatening texts or someone putting out the lights to scare people if uniform is out at this time of night,” he said.
He felt Liz Falla’s elbow brushing against him in the narrow space of the booth as she texted back, then she closed her phone, and turned to him. Even in the dim light he could see the shock on her face, which was unusual. One of his partner’s best qualities was that she kept calm in most circumstances, her emotions under control.
“It is, Guv. Much more. Someone has tried to kill Hugo Shawcross.”
Moretti parked the Triumph as close as possible to the cottage. Falla had directed him, but the flashing lights of the ambulance and the police car had marked out their destination like beacons in the dark long before they turned into the lane.
As he jumped out from the back seat of the Triumph, Al Brown asked, “Did they live together, the playwright and your aunt? Is this her house?”
“Yes it is, but, God, no, they didn’t! She hardly knew him. He rents the place that backs on to this.”
Liz raced ahead of the two men along the path to the cottage, pushing past the ambulance driver as she did so, and in through the open door.
“Hey, wait, miss!” The driver started to go after her.
“It’s all right, she’s a police officer and a family friend.” Moretti pulled out his identification, as did Al Brown. “You haven’t moved the victim yet?”
“Any minute now, they tell me, sir. Nasty business. There was a lot of bleeding and they had to stabilize him first.”
Moretti hurried ahead of Al up the narrow path Falla had taken, between two old limestone gateposts that must have been the original entry before the driveway was put in at the side of the cottage. He glanced up at the roof as it gleamed in the flashing lights of the police car and ambulance. Terra cotta from the look of it, which must have cost a bundle.
Perhaps Falla’s aunt was in the offshore financial business, Moretti thought as he went in through the front door, followed by Al. He knew what that kind of renovation cost, having looked into doing something similar for his own place, and reluctantly rejecting the idea. Some interior walls had been removed when the cottage was renovated, making it more open than it would have been in whatever century it was built, and to his right he could see a kitchen, where two ambulance men were picking up the stretcher from the floor. Moretti recognized Police Constable Le Marchant, who was hauling a heavy kitchen table to one side to clear their path. Moretti and Al Brown hurried to give him a hand, then went over to the stretcher. The playwright was on it, moaning, which was a good sign, a sign of life.
“We’re out of here,” one of the stretcher-bearers called out as they ran past them. Moretti got a brief glimpse of a small man with a blood-stained beard, his neck swathed in bandages. As he passed, his eyes met Moretti’s and he gurgled something. At least it sounded to Moretti as if he were trying to put together a sentence, sounds with meaning, rather than a vocalization of agony.
“Didn’t expect you here, Guv. Nasty business,” said a shaken PC Le Marchant, echoing the driver’s words.
“Were you the first on the scene?”
“Yes. Jimmy Le Poidevin and his team are out in the garden. They just arrived.”
“Not smelling the roses, I imagine. Is that where it happened?”
“Looks like it. Not that the victim is saying much, not with his throat cut.”
“Good God. Was it the homeowner who found him?”
“Yes, and he was lucky — well, if you can call getting your throat cut lucky. She has some first aid training, and kept a cool head, what’s more. Saved his life, the ambulance blokes say. I’ve got a statement from her, but just about where she found him and how she found him.”
“She must be in shock,” said Al Brown. “Does she need medical help?”
“The ambulance people have talked to her. They wanted to take her to the hospital, but she says she’s okay. That’s her through there with DS Falla.”
Through the archway between the kitchen and what presumably was the sitting room, Moretti could see Liz Falla sitting beside a woman on a sofa. She had her arms around her, and all Moretti could see was a mass of titian-red hair falling over the dark blue sleeve of Falla’s suit.
Her aunt? He supposed he must at some point have imagined Falla’s aunt as a grey-haired middle-aged woman, like Falla’s mother, whom he had once met in town with her daughter, because this was a surprise. A flamboyant middle-aged woman, apparently, who kept her hair long and dyed it red.
“Falla?”
Liz Falla and her aunt looked up as he spoke. Behind him he heard Al Brown murmur.
“Va-va-voom.”
“We don’t have to do this now. It’s late, and you’ve had a shock.”
Elodie put a hand on Liz’s arm, and looked at Moretti. Al Brown had left them and gone to talk to Jimmy le Poidevin and the SOC team outside.
“I’m all right. I know how important it is to do this as soon as possible, and besides, I really don’t see myself getting into bed for a good night’s sleep.” She gave a shaky laugh.
Sitting next to her niece on the sofa, Elodie Ashton struck Moretti as being completely unlike her niece, and it was not just in colouring. Even seated, Falla was considerably taller than her godmother. Not his type, but Al Brown was right. Va-va-voom indeed.
“Okay. I know you’ve already spoken to PC Le Marchant, but just start at the beginning, and Falla can take notes. Where were you — in here?”
“Yes. I was reading. I had music on, but very low, background-type music.” At this, Elodie turned and said to her niece, “And in case you’re wondering, it was Chopin.”
“Poor Chopin, reduced to mood music,” said Liz. She hugged her aunt and grinned at Moretti, and the atmosphere in the room lightened somewhat. “Go on, El.”
“Then I heard what sounded like a Mudge and Stoker confrontation outside.”
“Sorry?”
This time both Liz and Elodie smiled at Moretti’s bewilderment, and Liz said, “I’ve heard one of those, Guv. Stoker is Hugo Shawcross’s cat, and Mudge is his bitter rival. It’s a truly god-awful howling.” She turned to her aunt. “But this time, it wasn’t.”
“No. It seemed to be getting closer and went on and on and on. Finally, I couldn’t stand it anymore, so I decided to go and take a look outside.”
Elodie gently extricated herself from her niece’s arms, and stood up. Moretti could see rust-red streaks and smears on the pale yellow sweater she was wearing; the wristband of the sleeves were heavily encrusted with the playwright’s blood. There was a smudge of blood on her cheek, and her long hair was probably smeared also, but with that colour it was difficult to tell. She staggered slightly as she stood, and he got up and took hold of her arm. She was tiny, nearly a head shorter than his six feet.
“No.” She shook him off, almost angrily, and Moretti returned to the chair he had pulled over opposite the sofa. The lady was not for touching, apparently, or only by Falla. “I’ve got some adrenalin to get rid of. Don’t worry, it takes a lot to make me faint, and I’ve already done that with the emergency crew.”
She started to pace up and down between Liz and Moretti, talking as she did so, her sentences short and clipped, but her voice under control.
“I opened the door. The motion light outside had come on. Hugo was lying just beyond the back door in a pool of blood. I could see the trail he had taken to get there. He looked up at me and made this terrible gurgling sound, and I could see his neck.”
Elodie stopped pacing and turned to Liz.
“I knew he was in serious trouble, so I grabbed anything that came to hand, which happened to be the fleece jacket I keep near the back door, and I started applying pressure. Thank God he’s such a little fellow, and thank God for adrenalin, because I was able to get him into the house — well, enough to close the door. You see, I didn’t have to be a medical expert to know that kind of injury doesn’t happen when you trip over something in the dark. That kind of damage is — man-made.”
Elodie returned to sit by Liz, who took her hand. She didn’t pull away from her niece, Moretti noticed, but leaned against her, closing her eyes.
“Before you shut the door, did you see anything at all?” Moretti asked.
“No. But I think he’d travelled quite a long way.”
“Why do you say that, El?”
Elodie looked up at Liz’s question, and her reply was soft, quiet, chilling. “Because of the trail that shone in the moonlight behind him. Like a bloody flare-path.”
There was a pause and, as Moretti started to get up, Elodie Ashton started to speak again.
“Who would have thought little Gandalf would have so much blood in him?”
Her words grew into a crescendo of sound as she started to laugh, helplessly, shock overwhelming her once more.
Part Two
The Run
Chapter Eleven
It was unusually quiet in the incident room. Woken in the small hours of the morning by Moretti’s phone call informing him of the attempted murder of Hugo Shawcross, Chief Officer Hanley’s instinct for self-preservation and desire for a peaceful life surfaced rapidly.
“Let’s keep this first meeting to a need-to-know group, Ed. Who would that be?”
“Al Brown, PC Le Marchant, PC Mauger, Jimmy Le Poidevin. I have told DS Falla to come as soon as she feels she can.”
“Her aunt must be in shock. Shouldn’t she have been in hospital overnight?”
“She’s coping well. But there’s quite a cleanup to be done, and DS Falla is taking care of that.”
Who would have thought Gandalf would have that much blood in him?
Gandalf?
“Blood everywhere, sir.”
“Horrible. Poor old lady.”
Moretti thought of correcting Hanley, but refrained. No point at this hour of the night going into descriptive specifics that were unnecessary.
Jimmy Le Poidevin, head of forensics, was unusually subdued. He and his team had barely slept, and his first remarks were addressed to Al Brown, who was looking his usual dapper and well-turned-out self.
“Seen anything like that before, back in the centre of the universe?”
“London, you mean?” Al Brown smiled serenely, unperturbed by the forensic chief’s adversarial tone, which he had heard more than once the night before. “Yes. Garrotting was a favourite technique used by one of the street gangs while I was doing my training.”
“Well, it certainly isn’t here,” said Chief Officer Hanley, looking in irritation at Jimmy Le Poidevin. “This is — unprecedented. Do we have any reports yet from the hospital, Moretti?”
“Not yet. I told them we want to hear from whoever examined Hugo Shawcross as soon as possible.”
Chief Officer Hanley turned to Al Brown. “This is where your expertise and Met training will come in useful, DC Brown. Perhaps you could tell us how you would set up a team at the outset of a similar investigation.”
Jimmy Le Poidevin made a little puffing sound like a steam engine under pressure, and Al Brown looked at Moretti. Knowing how Al felt about Hanley’s expectations, and seeing the effect this had on the head of forensics gave Moretti a mildly euphoric sensation that cleared his head, rapidly compensating for his lack of sleep.
Then his mobile rang.
“It’s DS Falla, sir. She’s on her way from the hospital, and she’s bringing Dr. Edwards with her, to give us a report. We’re in luck. Dr. Edwards performed the autopsy on Gus Dorey, and she’s perceptive.”
Moretti looked at Al Brown. “If DC Brown doesn’t object,” he said, “I would like to fill you in on some details of the Dorey suicide.”
Chief Officer Hanley turned his irritated attention from Le Poidevin to Moretti as Al Brown sank back in his chair.
“The Dorey suicide?” he repeated. “This is hardly the time or place, Moretti. What on earth has that got to do with this?”
“I’m not sure, sir. But before Dr. Edwards arrives, perhaps I could go over a few things, including the visit of advocate Hamelin, and his conversation with DS Falla.”
“Hamelin?”
Moretti now had Hanley’s undivided attention. He gave the chief officer a succinct account of what little they had unearthed at the hermit’s shack, moving on to Marie Gastineau’s original complaint and the events at the reading, culminating with the strange coincidence of the news item found by PC Mauger and the unlikely appearance of the silver fox at Hospital Lane. By the end, the chief officer was looking bemused.
Not surprising, thought Moretti. So am I.
“Are you suggesting, Ed, there’s a link between the Gastineaus and this — this horrific attack? Good God!”
“Good grief.” Jimmy Le Poidevin stirred in his seat and stood up, turning to Chief Officer Hanley. “Before we explore Ed’s flight of fancy, sir, may I go over more factual aspects of the crime? SOCO’s report, for instance?”
“Of course,” Hanley looked at some papers he held in his hand. “I have already looked at what you have to say, Jimmy, and it seems you didn’t find much. Apart from blood, that is.”
“Well, true, sir.” Jimmy went on, bloodied but unbowed. “But from the evidence of where the blood trail begins, the victim was originally attacked at the end of his own property, and somehow made his way up the path of Ms. Ashton’s property to her back door. I’ll be curious to hear from the doctor how he managed that with his throat slashed. We erected lights, of course,
but I have a crew back there today to check if we missed anything. The ground is littered with leaves, chestnuts, all that kind of shit, and it’ll be easier in daylight. We are hoping, of course, to find whatever was used to do this.”
“May I interrupt, sir?”
Al Brown looked cautiously at the head of forensics and then at the chief officer. Hanley gave an authoritative wave of the hand, and a warning glance at Jimmy Le Poidevin, who protected his own fiefdom and field of expertise against all comers with the ferocity of a junkyard dog.
“I noticed last night that Shawcross must have put up quite a struggle when the attack began. At the back of the property there is damage to undergrowth and bushes. Then, of course, as his throat was cut, he lost his strength, but possibly his initial defence took the assailant by surprise — he’s a very small man — and whoever it was took off when Mr. Shawcross started to make a racket, not staying around to see if he had completed the job.”
“And —?” The head of forensics interrupted. “That’s stating the obvious, isn’t it?”
Al Brown gave Jimmy one of his charming smiles. “So it would seem, and it’s also stating the obvious that there may be evidence at the spot, apart from blood. Clothing fragments, a button. Among the leaves, chestnuts, that kind of shit. Just thought I’d say.”
Jimmy Le Poidevin went red in the face. “Are you suggesting —?”
Whatever he was going to say was interrupted by the arrival of Liz Falla and Irene Edwards.
Moretti rarely noticed the effects of strain or lack of sleep on his partner’s face, but this time he did. She looked at him and smiled, and he wanted to go over and say something about the events of the night that were personal rather than professional. But even as he registered his unfamiliar reaction, Falla had started to introduce Irene Edwards to the chief officer. And by the time introductions had been made, Hanley had moved the discussion on to Dr. Edwards’s report, and Irene Edwards’s silvery voice was filling the incident room.
