Blood Will Out

by Jill Downie

  “Sit down, Inspector.” She indicated a couple of teak chairs near the table. “I had just made chai tea when I saw you outside from my kitchen window. Like some?”

  “I’d love some.”

  His hostess kicked off her boots by the door and Darcy lay down beside them. She disappeared beyond one of two doors on the side of the room furthest from the road, and was soon back holding two glasses in handled silver holders, the scent of cinnamon now joining the sandalwood in the air. She sat herself down and raised her glass to Moretti.

  “Cheers,” she said. “Let’s get down to business, shall we? That —” indicating the work on the loom, “is a commission piece and time is a-wasting. For you too, I imagine.”

  “Yes.” The tea was delicious. “Let’s start with your name.”

  “I didn’t introduce myself? Goodness, my mother must be turning in her grave. Maud Cole. How do you do.”

  She extended her hand. She had a strong grip.

  “How long have you known Meg? Is that what you call her?”

  “It’s what she likes to be called. She was here before I was, of course, and we took to each other from the beginning.”

  “How long have you been here and, forgive my asking, but do you own or rent the farm?”

  “I own it. I got a good price on it, because few people wanted it with Meg on the premises.”

  “Do you know if Gus Dorey was involved in any way in arranging legal matters for Meg?”

  Maud Cole looked surprised. “Didn’t you know that? Yes, he was, originally. I didn’t deal with him, because by the time I came here, he had withdrawn into his hermit-crab existence, and everything was done through the law firm of Allan and Le Page.”

  “Did Meg ever talk about her friendship with Gus Dorey? About anything he owned that was private, or precious, or about signing papers for him — anything?”

  Maud Cole appeared irritated at Moretti’s question. “The secret of our successful relationship was that we never asked leading questions, and we never exchanged confidences. I am somewhat of a loner and so is she. I come from a family of eccentrics, which, in the case of some of them, is a polite way of saying they were barmpots. Meg, by the way, is not.”

  “Certainly she appears to have her wits about her, and I know something of her history. I’ll fill you in on the events that brought me here looking for her.”

  Take a chance, tell her.

  Maud Cole listened in silence, leaning forward, cradling her glass in her strong hands.

  “So she could be in real trouble. I wish I could help you more. What do you want me to do?”

  “Do you have a mobile?”

  Maud Cole was amused at the implication in his question. “Yes, of necessity, because of my clientele, but not by choice.”

  “Let me know anything that happens, day or night, however slight it may seem — someone around you don’t normally see, sounds in the night, that kind of thing. And, of course, let me know if and when Meg turns up again. Perhaps you could lend her Darcy at night.”

  Maud Cole was amused again. “He’s an old dog, but his bite can be just as bad as his bark. Meg loves him, and that’s a possibility. She’s not very good about locking her door at night.”

  “Might I take a look at her place?”

  “If Darcy and I are with you, I don’t think she’d mind.”

  Darcy led the way across the yard, and bounded into the door of Meg the gypsy’s home. Inside, he sniffed around, then sank to the floor, watching his owner.

  “Would he react if anyone else had been here?”

  “Pretty sure he would. It all looks in order.”

  In order it was. The place was neat and tidy, and it looked as if Meg used this room for everything other than sleeping. There was a large, comfortable sofa, a table and a chair, a small fridge, a stove and a sink. In one corner was a sizeable laundry tub and ironing board, with an iron on it. The laundry lady’s accoutrements.

  “She used to live in squalor, I believe. What happened?”

  “I happened. People tried to tidy her up, corral her, fit her into some acceptable frame — for them. I accepted her eccentricities and the rest fell into place.”

  Outside, the light was dimming as evening approached. Darcy rolled on to his back and started to snore lightly. Moretti thought, How my mother would have liked this woman.

  “Forgive my asking, but your accent, I can’t place it.”

  “Irish Ascendancy, that’s what you hear, Inspector. The sound of privilege and oppression, inbreeding and entitlement.” Maud Cole laid a hand gently on the arm of Meg the gypsy’s sofa and stroked it. “I think part of my desire to help Meg is a sort of atonement for the sins of my forefathers. War reparations, if you like.”

  “I’m glad she has you in her life, Ms. Cole.”

  Ms. Cole started to laugh.

  “Miss, please. Miss I will always be. By choice. I named Darcy for my favourite literary hero, and he is the only male being who will ever live under the same roof as me. He is unsexed, you see.”

  Not just atonement. Meg and Maud share other miseries in their very different pasts.

  Maud Cole opened the door to leave, and Darcy and Moretti followed her.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Lana Lorrimer was available for interview, but could the detective sergeant come out to see her, because coming into town was inconvenient that afternoon. Or she could come in to the station tomorrow. The detective sergeant didn’t mind in the least, because she could give her Figaro a run in the autumn sunshine out to St. Martin — one of her favourite parishes on the island, and where she intended to live when she won the lottery.

  Following the directions given her by Lana Lorrimer, Liz’s journey took her past Sausmarez Manor, the stately home of one of the great island families, now open to the public and turned into a stately pleasure dome. There were manor and garden tours, radio-controlled boats on the lake, tea rooms, trains, and you could pitch and putt, or take a ghost tour. So far, the Gastineau family had been spared becoming a three-ring circus, but for how long?

  The light rain had now cleared, so Liz risked putting down the roof, and enjoyed herself so much it was with regret she found herself at Lana Lorrimer’s front door. Or, rather, at the front of the Lorrimers’ property, an elegant limestone house set far back from the road behind a lawn showing signs of the summer drought. There was no front door visible from the road, only four windows on the upper and lower stories, framed by neatly-trimmed ivy on the ground floor.

  The driveway led up towards a conservatory that was obviously a new addition, not an unusual one for the present-day owners of the island’s beautiful old homes. The garage alongside it was of the same vintage as the house and looked as if it had originally been the stables. No cars were visible, so presumably they were tucked away behind the pseudo-wood garage door set in the rose-pink brickwork.

  As Liz parked her Figaro, Lana Lorrimer came out of the door of the conservatory to meet her. She was a curvaceous, slightly overweight, blonde in her late forties, carefully made-up, wearing harem pants in green silk and a low-cut black blouse that effectively showcased two of her assets.

  “Love the car. Cute. Yours?”

  “Mine.” Liz got the impression from the eyebrow raised that Mrs. Lorrimer found her ownership of the cute car improbable and possibly suspect. She took out her police ID. “Detective Sergeant Falla, Mrs. Lorrimer. This shouldn’t take up too much of your time. I know you had something on this afternoon.”

  “Something on?” Lana Lorrimer now looked defensive for no immediately apparent reason.

  Liz put away her badge, pulled out her notebook and smiled, disarmingly, she hoped. “You couldn’t come to the station, so I assumed you might have visitors. Where can we talk?”

  “In here.”

  Lana Lorrimer led the way back into the conservatory, which appeared to be set up for a party or reception of some kind. Amid the palms, ferns and tropical plants were two or three long
tables covered in white cloths, each one decorated with an elaborate floral display. On one of them was the tallest fountain Liz had ever seen in a private home, awaiting its chocolate waterfall.

  “Looks like you are celebrating something special, Mrs. Lorrimer.”

  “Oh we are.” Lana Lorrimer became animated. “We — that is, the Island Players — are celebrating Hugo’s miraculous recovery tonight. But that’s why you’re here.”

  “That’s why I’m here, and why I need you to confirm what we have been told by —” Liz appeared to consult her notebook, “Mr. Raymond Morris —”

  “That he gave me a lift home while my husband talked over some financial stuff with Jim Landers. Yes, he did.”

  Decision time. To be mean, or not to be mean.

  Remembering the raised eyebrow, and abandoning the girls-together approach as unworkable with the lady of the manor, Liz said, “A little more than that, Mrs. Lorrimer. How generally is it known that you and Mr. Morris are having an affair?”

  “Oh my God, what does that have to do with anything?” Lana Lorrimer became both agitated and hostile, her face turning red beneath her tan. “I cannot understand why Raymond felt it necessary to say anything about anything! Apart from the lift, that is.”

  Reverting again to cheerful, Liz suggested, “I assume, Mrs. Lorrimer, because it would give him an alibi for a longer period of time than just dropping you off here. Obviously, Mr. Morris’s version of events would be more than just a car ride. Are you confirming his story?”

  “Yes.” Lana Lorrimer sank into a massive papasan chair that threatened to engulf her, and she was not a small woman. “Jim Landers knows, but that’s all. We take advantage of his meetings with Douglas.”

  “What’s in it for Mr. Landers, Mrs. Lorrimer? How can you be certain he’ll keep quiet?”

  Lana Lorrimer started to laugh.

  “Jim Landers? Jim’s only passion is books and all he cares about otherwise is getting on stage, and if he said anything about Raymond and me he’d never act in a Raymond Morris production again. He’s one cold fish, so he gets on really well with my husband, who has as little passion in his soul as — as — a piece of wood.”

  It was quite an outburst, eyes flashing, bosom quivering, and there was genuine anger in Lana Lorrimer’s voice. Liz put her notebook away, waited a moment, and was rewarded with another outpouring, delivered in more measured tones.

  “You may be asking yourself why I stick around with a stick. Look around you, Sergeant, and you can see why. If I leave Douglas, I lose all this. Raymond has sacrificed advancement in his career for his love of theatre. He says I am his muse, and in his opinion, and mine, muses do better with smoked salmon and love in the afternoon than sardines on toast in a bed-sit in the evening.”

  The passion with which Lana Lorrimer talked about her love affair seemed more theatrical than real, unlike the passion with which she spoke about her husband.

  “Mrs. Lorrimer — do you have any idea why Hugo Shawcross was attacked? Was there anyone who appeared hostile, or made any verbal threats? He was a newcomer — how was he received by the group?”

  “With open arms.” Lana Lorrimer laughed. “We were in a rut and we needed a new audience, and Hugo’s play would have got us out of our rut and into more money. Even Marie had been won over. Why on earth this happened is beyond me. I can only think that Hugo was followed here by someone or something —” Her voice trailed off.

  “What do you mean?”

  Lana Lorrimer looked bemused by her own comment. “I had the feeling Hugo was here to get away from something, but I don’t know what. Raymond felt the same way.”

  “What is Mr. Morris’s day job, Mrs. Lorrimer?”

  “Day job? Oh, he works in Doug’s office. He’s so good at putting on an act with the clients. Soul-destroying, but necessary. Besides, it has its advantages. He knows where Doug is most of the time, and he knows — well, he knows what properties are vacant.”

  On which depressingly practical note from the muse about her grand passion, Liz took her leave.

  It was only on her way back to St. Peter Port that Liz remembered something Elodie had said when they were talking about the Island Players, and about Jim Landers’s behaviour towards her.

  We went out to dinner a couple of times. But he wanted more.

  Didn’t sound like much of a cold fish to Liz Falla.

  The offices of Maxwell and Lorrimer Estate Agents were on a small slice of a street between a large car park and Government House Hotel, one of the premier establishments on the island. Before going in, Al Brown stopped to look at some of the properties in the window. Some were breathtaking and all were top-drawer, ranging from multi-million-pound estates to “little gems” that cost a mere handful of hundred-thousands.

  When he opened the door and walked in, he got quite a surprise. Raymond Morris was sitting behind a desk in the front office and, from the look on his face, Al’s arrival was a little more fist in the solar plexus than surprise. His white skin went whiter, and he took an intake of breath that rocked his chair. Before he could speak, Al put one finger to his lips, putting him out of his misery, then announced in carrying tones the reason for his appearance.

  “I am here to interview Mr. Lorrimer. He’s expecting me.”

  On cue, Douglas Lorrimer appeared at a door at the back of the office.

  “Are you the policeman who phoned?”

  “I am, sir. Detective Constable Aloisio Brown.”

  “Come in, come in. Raymond, let me know if Mr. Gupta calls about the Kubla Khan, won’t you.”

  After which cryptic remark and a nod from his wife’s lover, Douglas Lorrimer ushered Al into as splendid an office as he had ever entered. The furniture had certainly never seen the inside of an Ikea flatpack, and the wall panelling and flooring were in a matching tone of genuine wood, not some look-alike man-made substitute. There were two paintings on the walls, both of houses — one centuries-old manor, one Frank Lloyd Wright-like construction — that were not paint-by-numbers, run-of-the-mill reproductions. They had verve and style, and Al liked them. Through a large window overlooking the town beyond the buildings that descended towards the harbour, Al could see they were in for a beautiful evening after the rain.

  The only other accessory was a dark-haired, middle-aged woman sitting at her own small desk by a computer screen, who stood up as they came in and said to her boss, “Would you like me to make coffee, Mr. Lorrimer?”

  “No, Grace, not necessary. This is not a client. Just leave us a moment.”

  In the manner of an obedient geisha, with eyes down, Grace shuffled past Al into the outer office.

  “Sit down, sit down. You’ve come about where I was when Hugo was attacked, I presume, but I gather Jim Landers has already answered that question.”

  Small in stature, bristly in manner, surly in speech. Not much he could do about the inches, but Al wondered what Lorrimer’s client-face was like. Operating at this level, it had to be very different. He decided to match the manner presented to the insignificant copper.

  “But you haven’t, sir, and I need to hear from you personally that you corroborate Mr. Landers’s version of events.” Al took out his notebook, and waited, pen poised.

  “Version of events? I’m sure he told you what I am going to tell you, that we discussed financial matters — of the Island Players, that is.”

  “That is what he told me. At his flat on the Strand. For about an hour, would you say?”

  “About that. We had a drink, then I drove home.”

  “And your colleague, Mr. Morris, gave your wife a lift home, I understand.”

  Al carefully watched the expression on Douglas Lorrimer’s face, but found it impossible to read. He looked much as he had since the interview began: impatient and inconvenienced.

  “That’s right. Then they could chatter on about things that bore the pants off me.”

  “The arts, do you mean, sir?” Al asked, giving a moment’s amused t
hought to the imagery.

  “That’s what I mean.”

  “Have you any theory as to why Mr. Shawcross was attacked?”

  “Theory?” Douglas Lorrimer looked as affronted as if he had been asked to attend a soirée musicale. “There are all sorts of crazies and unbalanced people attracted to these sorts of groups, aren’t there? You read about it in the press all the time, don’t you? And now, I have an important meeting at Government House Hotel, if you’ve finished, Constable.”

  “About Kubla Khan, sir? Sounds intriguing.”

  “The Kubla Khan.” Douglas Lorrimer’s expression changed now into one of self-congratulation. “Yes. I am making a move into the more commercial realm, and I am discussing opening a major centre at St. Sampson’s, starting with an Indian restaurant — high-end, of course.”

  “Of course. Will you be calling the centre Xanadu, by any chance?”

  Not the least suspicion of a smile crossed the estate agent’s face. “We will. I am told that has something to do with pleasure domes, and if the States of Guernsey will co-operate, Mr. Gupta and I are planning to open a casino.”

  Al Brown looked around. “I understand you are in partnership with Elton Maxwell, sir. Do you share the same office?”

  Douglas Lorrimer looked horrified. “Good God, no. Elton generally works from home, but spends a great deal of time out with clients, particularly international financial firms and banks et cetera. Raymond takes care of the more run-of-the-mill stuff. He’s particularly good with the distaff side of the nouveau riche.” It was said without any discernible expression, either of humour or scorn.

  At that moment the phone on the massive desk rang, and Douglas Lorrimer picked it up, saying, “That’ll be my client. Good day, officer. Ask my secretary to come back, will you, on your way out.”

  Al Brown let himself out of the office, and passed on her master’s instructions to Grace, who slipped by him on her silent feet, eyes averted. Behind him, Al heard Douglas Lorrimer’s professional voice, an unsavoury blend of booming volume to suggest command, with underlying tones of glutinous boot-licking.