They hurried inside, shaking their umbrella over the rubber rain mat. Deborah left Cherokee staring at the eternal flame while she went to the reception desk and made her request.
“Acting Superintendent Lynley. We don't have an appointment, but if he's in and can see us . . . ? Deborah St. James?”
There were two uniforms behind reception, and they both examined Deborah and Cherokee with an intensity suggesting an unspoken belief that the two of them had come strapped with explosives. One of them made a phone call while the other attended to a delivery being offered by Federal Express.
Deborah waited until the phone caller said to her, “Give it a few minutes,” at which point she returned to Cherokee, who said, “D'you think this'll do any good?”
“No way of knowing,” she replied. “But we've got to try something.”
Tommy came down himself to greet them within five minutes, which Deborah took for a very good sign. He said, “Deb, hullo. What a surprise,” and he kissed her on the cheek and waited to be introduced to Cherokee.
They'd never met before. Despite the number of times that Tommy had come to California while Deborah had lived there, his path and the path of China's brother had never crossed. Tommy had heard of him, naturally. He'd heard his name and was unlikely to forget it, so unusual was it when compared to English names. So when Deborah said, “This is Cherokee River,” his response was “China's brother,” and he offered his hand in that way he had that was quintessentially Tommy: so utterly easy with himself. “Are you giving him a tour of town?” he asked Deborah. “Or showing him you have friends in questionable places?”
“Neither,” she said. “May we talk to you? Somewhere private? If you've time? This is . . . It's rather a professional call.”
Tommy raised an eyebrow. “I see,” he said and within short order, he was whisking them to the lift and floors above to his office.
As acting superintendent, he wasn't in his regular spot. He was instead in a temporary office, which he was inhabiting while his superior officer convalesced from an attempt that had been made on his life in the previous month.
“How is the superintendent?” Deborah asked, seeing that Tommy in his good-hearted way hadn't replaced a single photograph that belonged to Superintendent Malcolm Webberly with any of his own.
Tommy shook his head. “Not good.”
“That's dreadful.”
“For everyone.” He asked them to sit and joined them, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. His posture asked the question What can I do for you? which reminded Deborah that he was a busy man.
So she set about telling him why they had come, with Cherokee adding what salient details he felt were needed. Tommy listened as Tommy had always listened, in Deborah's experience: His brown eyes remained on whoever was speaking and he appeared to shut out all other noises from the offices nearby.
“How well did your sister come to know Mr. Brouard while you were his guests?” Tommy asked when Cherokee had completed the story.
“They spent some time together. They clicked because they were both into buildings. But that was it, as far as I could tell. He was friendly with her. But he was friendly with me. He seemed pretty decent to everyone.”
“Perhaps not,” Tommy noted.
“Well, sure. Obviously. If someone killed him.”
“How exactly did he die?”
“He choked to death. That's what the lawyer found out once China was charged. That's all the lawyer found out, by the way.”
“Strangled, d'you mean?”
“No. Choked. He choked on a stone.”
Tommy said, “A stone? Good Lord. What sort of stone? Something from the beach?”
“That's all we know right now. Just that it's a stone and he choked on it. Or, rather, my sister somehow choked him with it, since she's been arrested for killing him.”
“So you see, Tommy,” Deborah added, “it doesn't make sense.”
“Because how is China supposed to have choked him with it?” Cherokee demanded. “How's anyone supposed to have choked him with it? What'd he do? Just open his mouth and let someone shove it down his throat?”
“It's a question that needs to be answered,” Lynley agreed.
“It could have been an accident, even,” Cherokee said. “He could have put the stone in his mouth for some reason.”
“There'd be evidence to show otherwise,” Tommy said, “if the police have made an arrest. Someone shoving the stone down his throat would tear the roof of his mouth, possibly his tongue. Whereas if he swallowed it by mistake . . . Yes. I can see how they went straight to murder.”
“But why straight to China?” Deborah asked.
“There's got to be other evidence, Deb.”
“My sister didn't kill anyone!” Cherokee rose as he spoke. Restlessly, he walked to the window, then swung to face them. “Why can't anyone see that?”
“Can you do anything?” Deborah asked Tommy. “The embassy suggested we hire someone, but I thought you might . . . Can you ring them? The police? Make them see . . . ? I mean, obviously, they're not evaluating everything as they ought to. They need someone to tell them that.”
Tommy steepled his fingers thoughtfully. “This isn't a UK situation, Deb. They're trained here, true, the Guernsey force. And they can request mutual aid, true as well. But as for starting something from this end . . . If that's what you're hoping, it's just not on.”
“But . . .” Deborah reached out her hand, knew she was bordering on a plea—which felt utterly pathetic—and dropped her hand to her lap. “Perhaps, if they at least knew there was an interest at this end . . . ?”
Tommy studied her face before smiling. “You don't change, do you?” he asked fondly. “All right. Hang on. Let me see what I can do.”
It took only a few minutes to locate the proper number on Guernsey and to track down the investigator in charge of the murder enquiry there. Murder was so uncommon on the island that all Tommy had to mention was the word itself before the connection was being made that put him in touch with the chief investigator.
But there was nothing to be gained from the call. New Scotland Yard apparently didn't cut any mustard in St. Peter Port, and when Tommy explained who he was and why he was phoning, making the offer of whatever assistance the Metropolitan police could provide, he was told—as he related to Deborah and Cherokee moments after ringing off—that everything was under control in the Channel, sir. And by the way, if assistance were to be required, the Guernsey police would make the request for mutual aid to the Cornwall or Devon Constabulary, as they usually did.
“We've some concern as it's a foreign national you've arrested,” Tommy said.
Yes, well, wasn't that an interesting bit of a twist that the Guernsey police were also fully capable of handling on their own.
“Sorry,” he said to Deborah and to Cherokee at the end of the phone call.
“Then what the hell are we going to do?” Cherokee spoke more to himself than to the others.
“You need to find someone who's willing to talk to the people involved,” Tommy said in answer. “If one of my team were on leave or holiday there, I'd suggest you ask them to do some nosing round for you. You can do it yourself, but it would help if you were backed by a force.”
“What needs to be done?” Deborah asked.
“Someone needs to start asking questions,” Tommy said, “to see if there's a witness that's been missed. You need to find out if this Brouard had enemies: how many, who they are, where they live, where they were when he was killed. You need to have someone evaluate the evidence. Believe me, the police have someone who's doing it for them. And you need to make sure no evidence has gone overlooked.”
“There's no one on Guernsey,” Cherokee said. “We tried. Debs and I. We did that before we came to you.”
“Then think beyond Guernsey.” Tommy leveled a look at Deborah, and she knew what that look meant.
They already had access to the person they needed.
But she wouldn't ask her husband for help. He was far too busy and even if that were not the case, it seemed to Deborah that most of her life had been defined by the countless moments when she had turned to Simon: from that long-ago time as a bullied little schoolgirl when her Mr. St. James—a nineteen-year-old with a well-developed sense of fair play—had frightened the daylights out of her tormentors to the present day as a wife who often tried the patience of a husband who required only that she be happy. She simply couldn't burden him with this.
So they would go it alone, she and Cherokee. She owed that to China but far more than that: She owed it to herself.
For the first time in weeks, sunlight the strength of jasmine tea was striking one of the two scales of justice when Deborah and Cherokee reached the Old Bailey. Neither of them possessed a rucksack or bag of any kind, so they had no trouble gaining admittance. A few questions produced the answer they were looking for: Courtroom Number Three.
The visitors' gallery was up above, and at the moment it was occupied only by four out-of-season tourists wearing see-through rain slickers and a woman clutching a handkerchief. Beneath them, the courtroom spread out like something from a costume drama. Here was the judge—red-gowned and forbidding in wire-rimmed spectacles and a wig that dripped sheep curls down to his shoulders—sitting in a green leather chair, one of five that spread across the top of the room on a dais that separated him from his lessers. These were the black-gowned barristers—defending and prosecuting—lined up along the first bench and table at right angles to the judge. Behind them were their associates: junior members of chambers and solicitors as well. And across from them was the jury with the clerk in between, as if refereeing what might happen in the room. The dock was directly below the gallery, and here the accused sat with an officer of the court. Opposite him was the witness box, and it was to this box that Deborah and Cherokee directed their attention.
The Crown Prosecutor was just concluding his cross-examination of Mr. Allcourt-St. James, expert witness for the defence. He was referring to a many-paged document, and the fact that he called Simon sir and Mr. Allcourt-St. James if you will, didn't hide the fact that he doubted the opinions of anyone who didn't agree with the police and by extension the CPS conclusions.
“You seem to be suggesting Dr. French's laboratory work is wanting, Mr. Allcourt-St. James,” the Crown Prosecutor was saying as Deborah and Cherokee slid onto a bench at the front of the gallery.
“Not at all,” Simon replied. “I'm merely suggesting that the amount of residue taken from the defendant's skin could easily be consistent with his employment as a gardener.”
“Are you then also suggesting it's a coincidence that Mr. Casey”—with a nod at the man in the dock the back of whose neck Deborah and Cherokee could study from their position in the gallery—“would have upon his person traces of the same substance that was used to poison Constance Garibaldi?”
“As Aldrin's use is for the elimination of garden insects and as this crime occurred during the height of the season when those same insects are prevalent, I'd have to say that trace amounts of Aldrin on the defendant's skin are easily explainable by his profession.”
“His long-standing quarrel with Mrs. Garibaldi not withstanding?”
“That's right. Yes.”
The Crown Prosecutor went on for several minutes, referring to his notes and consulting once with a colleague from the row behind the barristers' seats. He finally dismissed Simon with a “thank you, sir,” which released him from the witness box when the defence required nothing more of him. He began to step down, which was when he caught sight of Deborah and Cherokee above him in the gallery.
They met him outside the courtroom, where he said, “What's happened, then? Were the Americans helpful?”
Deborah related to him what they'd learned from Rachel Freistat at the embassy. She added, “Tommy can't help either, Simon. Jurisdiction. And even if that weren't the problem, the Guernsey police ask Cornwall or Devon for assistance when they need it. They don't ask the Met. I got the impression—didn't you, Cherokee?—that they got a bit shirty when Tommy even mentioned the idea of help.”
Simon nodded, pulling at his chin thoughtfully. Around them, the business of the criminal court went on, with officials hurrying past with documents and barristers strolling by with their heads together, planning the next move they would make in their trials.
Deborah watched her husband. She saw that he was seeking a solution to Cherokee's troubles, and she was grateful for that. He could so easily have said, “That's it, then. You'll have to go the course and wait for the outcome on the island,” but that wasn't his nature. Still, she wanted to reassure him that they hadn't come to the Old Bailey to place further burdens upon him. Rather, they had come to let him know they'd be setting off for Guernsey as soon as Deborah had a chance to pop home and collect some clothes.
She told him as much. She thought he'd be grateful. She was wrong.
St. James reached a swift conclusion as his wife related her intentions to him: He mentally labeled the idea sheer lunacy. But he wasn't about to tell Deborah that. She was earnest and well-intentioned and, more than that, she was worried about her California friend. In addition to this, there was the man to consider.
St. James had been happy to offer Cherokee River food and shelter. It was the least he could do for the brother of the woman who'd been his wife's closest friend in America. But it was quite another situation for Deborah to think she was going to play detectives with a relative stranger or with anyone else. They could both end up in serious trouble with the police. Or worse, if they happened to stumble upon the actual killer of Guy Brouard.
Feeling that he couldn't pop Deborah's balloon so callously, St. James tried to come up with a way merely to deflate it. He guided Deborah and Cherokee to a spot where all of them could sit, and he said to Deborah, “What is it you hope to do over there?”
“Tommy suggested—”
“I know what he said. But as you've already found out, there's no private investigator on Guernsey for Cherokee to hire.”
“I know. Which is why—”
“So unless you've already found one in London, I don't see what your going to Guernsey is going to achieve. Unless you want to be there to offer China support. Which is completely understandable, of course.”
Deborah pressed her lips together. He knew what she was thinking. He was sounding too reasonable, too logical, too much the scientist in a situation where feelings were called for. And not only feelings but action that was immediate, no matter how ill thought out.
“I don't mean to hire a private investigator, Simon,” she said stiffly. “Not at first. Cherokee and I . . . We're going to meet China's advocate. We'll look at the evidence the police have gathered. We'll talk to anyone who'll talk to us. We're not the police ourselves, so people won't be afraid to meet with us, and if someone knows something . . . if the police have missed something . . . We're going to uncover the truth.”
“China's innocent,” Cherokee added. “The truth . . . It's there. Somewhere. And China needs—”
“Which means someone else is guilty,” St. James interrupted. “Which makes the situation inordinately delicate and dangerous as well.” He didn't add what he wanted to add at this point. I forbid you to go. They didn't live in the eighteenth century. Deborah was—if anything—an independent woman. Not financially, of course. He could stop her there by tightening her purse strings or whatever it was that one did to cut a woman off financially. But he liked to think he was above that kind of machination. He'd always believed that reason could be employed more effectively than intimidation. “How will you locate the people you want to talk to?”
“I expect they have phone books on Guernsey,” Deborah said.
“I mean how will you know who to talk to?” St. James asked.
“Cherokee will know. China will know. They were at Brouard's house. They met other people. They'll come up with the names.”
/> “But why would these people want to talk to Cherokee? Or to you, for that matter, once they learn of your connection to China?”
“They won't learn of it.”
“You don't think the police will tell them? And even if they do speak to you—to Cherokee as well—and even if you manage that part of the situation, what will you do with the rest?”
“Which . . . ?”
“The evidence. How do you plan to evaluate it? And how will you recognise it if you find more?”
“I hate it when you . . .” Deborah swung to Cherokee. She said, “Will you give us a moment?”
Cherokee looked from her to St. James. He said, “This is making too much trouble. You've done enough. The embassy. Scotland Yard. Let me head back to Guernsey and I'll—”
Deborah cut in firmly. “Give us a moment. Please.”
Cherokee glanced from husband to wife then back to husband. He looked inclined to speak again, but he said nothing. He took off to inspect a list of trial dates that was hanging from a notice board.
Deborah turned on St. James furiously. “Why are you doing this?”
“I just want you to see—”
“You think I'm bloody incompetent, don't you?”
“That's not the truth, Deborah.”
“Incapable of having a few conversations with people who might just be willing to tell us something they haven't told the police. Something that could make a difference. Something that could get China out of gaol.”
“Deborah, I don't mean you to think—”
“This is my friend,” she persisted in a fierce low voice. “And I mean to help her. She was there, Simon. In California. She was the only person—” Deborah stopped. She looked ceilingward and shook her head as if this would shake off not only emotion but also memory.
St. James knew what she was recalling. He didn't need a road map to see how Deborah had traveled to her destination. China had been there as soul mate and confessor during the years that he himself had failed Deborah. Doubtless she had been there as well while Deborah fell in love with Tommy Lynley and perhaps she had wept along with Deborah during the aftermath of that love.
A Place of Hiding Page 12
