A Place of Hiding

by Elizabeth George

  The grand old building was high-windowed and dim inside, looking disused with no lights shining despite the gloom of the day. Part of it, however, was still active with what appeared to be stalls. They lay beyond a wide and worn blue door that stood open from Market Street into the cavernous interior of the building. Deborah crossed to this entrance.

  The unmistakable smell assailed her first: the blood and flesh of a butchery. Glass-fronted cases displayed chops and joints and minced meats, but there were very few of these stalls left in what had obviously once been a thriving meat market. Although the building with its ironwork and its decorative plaster would have interested China as a photographer, Deborah knew that the scent of dead animal would have quickly driven both the Rivers off, so she was unsurprised when she didn't find them inside. Nonetheless, she checked round the rest of the building to make sure, tracing a route through what was a sadly abandoned warehouse of a place where once there had been dozens of thriving little businesses. In a central portion of the great hall, where the ceiling soared above her and caused her footsteps to echo eerily, a row of stalls stood shuttered and across one of them the words Sod you, Safeway had been rendered in marker pen, expressing the sentiments of at least one of the merchants who had lost his livelihood to the chain supermarket that had apparently come to the town.

  At the far end from the meat market, Deborah found a fruit and veg stall that was still in business, and beyond this once again was the street. She stopped to buy some hot-house lilies before leaving the building and pausing to examine the other shops outside.

  Within the arches across the way, she could see not only the little businesses but also everyone making transactions within them, as there were few enough people doing so. Neither China nor Cherokee was among these customers, so Deborah pondered where else they might likely be.

  She saw her answer right next to the stairs she'd descended. A small grocery proclaimed itself as Channel Islands Cooperative Society Limited, which sounded like something that would appeal to the Rivers who, for all their joking about her, were still the children of their vegan mother.

  Deborah crossed to this shop and entered. She heard them at once because the grocery was small, albeit crowded with tall shelves that hid shoppers from the windows.

  “I don't want anything,” China was saying impatiently. “I can't eat if I can't eat. Could you eat if you were in my position?”

  “There's got to be something,” Cherokee replied. “Here. What about soup?”

  “I hate canned soup.”

  “But you used to make it for dinner.”

  “My point. Would you want something that reminded you? Motel trash, Cherokee. Which is worse than trailer.”

  Deborah went round the corner of the aisle and found them standing in front of a small display of Campbell's. Cherokee was holding a tin of tomato and rice soup in one hand and a bag of lentils in the other. China had a wire basket over her arm. At the moment nothing was in it save a loaf of bread, a packet of spaghetti, and a jar of tomato sauce.

  “Debs!” Cherokee's smile was part greeting but larger part relief. “I need an ally. She's not eating.”

  “I am.” China looked exhausted, more so than she had on the previous day, with great dark circles beneath her eyes. She'd tried to hide these with makeup but hadn't been able to bring it off. She said, “Channel Islands Cooperative. I thought it would be health food. But . . .” She made a hopeless gesture that indicated the shop round them.

  The only fresh items that the cooperative appeared to contain were eggs, cheese, pre-pack meat, and bread. Everything else was either tinned or frozen. Disappointing for someone used to browsing through the organic food markets of California.

  “Cherokee's right,” Deborah said. “You need to eat.”

  “I rest my case.” Cherokee began piling items into the wire basket without much regard for what he was choosing.

  China looked too dispirited to argue. Within a few minutes, their purchases were complete.

  Outside, Cherokee was eager to hear a report on what the day had revealed so far to the St. Jameses. Deborah suggested they return to the flat before they have their conversation, but China said, “God, no. I've just got out. Let's walk.”

  So they wandered down to the harbour and crossed over to the longest of the piers. This reached out into Havelet Bay and extended to the heel print of land on which Castle Cornet squatted, sentry to the port. They continued beyond this fortification, right to the end, tracing a modest curve into the Channel waters.

  At the end of the pier, it was China who brought the real subject up. She said to Deborah, “It's bad, huh? I can see it on your face. You might as well spill it,” and despite her words, she turned to look at the water, the great grey heaving mass beneath them. Not so very far away, another island—was it Sark? Alderney? Deborah wondered—rose like a resting leviathan in the mist.

  “What've you got, Debs?” Cherokee set down the grocery bags and took his sister's arm.

  China moved away from him. She looked like a woman preparing herself for the worst. Deborah very nearly decided to paint things in a positive light. But there was no positive light that she could find, and even if there had been, she knew she owed her friends the facts.

  So she told the Rivers what she and Simon had managed to discover from their conversations at Le Reposoir. No fool, China saw the logical direction that the thoughts of any reasonable person would take once it became clear that she had not only spent time alone with Guy Brouard but had also been seen—ostensibly and by more than one person—following him on the morning of his death.

  She said, “You think I had something going with him, don't you, Deborah? Well. That's just great.” Her voice contained a blend of animus and despair.

  “Actually, I—”

  “And why not, anyway? Everyone must think it. A few hours alone, a couple of days . . . And he was rich as hell. So sure. We were fucking like goats.”

  Deborah blinked at the crude term. It was greatly unlike the China she'd known, who'd always been the more romantic of the two of them, devoted to one man for years, content with a future painted out in pastels.

  China continued. “It didn't matter to me that he was old enough to be my grandfather. Hell, there was money involved. It never matters who you're fucking when there's money to be had from the job, does it?”

  “Chine!” Cherokee protested. “Jeez.”

  China seemed to realise what she'd just said even as her brother spoke. More, she seemed to understand in a flash how it could be applied to Deborah's life, because she said hastily, “God. Deborah. I'm sorry.”

  “It's all right,” Deborah said.

  “I didn't mean . . . I wasn't thinking of you and . . . you know.”

  Tommy, Deborah thought. China meant she hadn't been thinking of Tommy and Tommy's money. It had never mattered but it had always been there, just one of a thousand things that looked so good from the outside if one didn't know how the inside felt. She said, “It's all right. I know.”

  China said, “It's just that . . . Do you really believe that I . . . With him? Do you?”

  “She was just telling you what she knows, Chine,” Cherokee said. “We need to know what everyone's thinking, don't we?”

  China swung on him. “Listen, Cherokee. Shut up. You don't know what you're . . . Oh God, forget it. Just shut up, okay?”

  “I'm only trying—”

  “Well, stop trying. Stop hovering, too. I can't even breathe. I can't take a step without you following me.”

  “Look. No one wants you to have to go through this,” Cherokee said to her.

  She gave a laugh that ruptured, but she stopped the sob by bringing a fist to her mouth. “Are you crazy or what?” she demanded. “Everyone wants me to go through this. A patsy is needed. I fill the bill.”

  “Yeah, well, that's why we've got friends here now.” Cherokee shot a smile at Deborah and then nodded at the lilies she was holding. “Friends with flowers. Whe
re'd you get those, Debs?”

  “In the market.” Impulsively, she extended them to China. “That flat needs a bit of cheering up, I think.”

  China looked at the flowers, then at Deborah's face. “I think you're the best friend I've ever had,” she said.

  “I'm glad of it.”

  China took the flowers. Her expression softened as she looked down at them. Then she said to her brother, “Cherokee, give us some time alone, okay?”

  He glanced from his sister to Deborah, saying, “Sure. I'll put those in water.” He scooped up the two grocery bags and hooked his arm round the flowers. He said to Deborah, “Later, then,” and gave her a look that spoke the words good luck as clearly as if he'd said them.

  He headed back along the pier. China watched him. “I know he means well. I know he's worried. But having him here makes it worse. Like I have to contend with him along with the whole situation.” She clasped her arms round her body, which was the first moment that Deborah saw she was wearing only a sweater against the cold. Her cloak would still be with the police, of course. And that cloak was so much the crux of her problem.

  Deborah said, “Where did you leave your cloak that night?”

  China studied the water for a moment before saying, “The night of the party? It must have been in my room. I didn't keep track of it. I'd been in and out all day, but I must've taken it upstairs at some point because when we got ready to leave that morning it was . . . I'm pretty sure it was lying across a chair. Next to the window.”

  “You don't remember putting it there?”

  China shook her head. “It would've been an automatic thing, though. Wear it, take it off, toss it down. I've never been a neat freak. You know that.”

  “So someone could have removed it, used it early that morning when Guy Brouard went to the bay, and then returned it?”

  “I guess. But I don't see how. Or even when.”

  “Was it there when you went to bed?”

  “It could have been.” She frowned. “I just don't know.”

  “Valerie Duffy swears she saw you following him, China.” Deborah said it as gently as she could. “Ruth Brouard claims she searched the house for you as well once she saw someone she thought was you from the window.”

  “You believe them?”

  “It's not that,” Deborah said. “It's whether there's something that might have happened earlier that would make what they say sound reasonable to the police.”

  “Something that happened?”

  “Between you and Guy Brouard.”

  “We're back to that.”

  “It's not what I think. It's what the police—”

  “Forget it,” China interrupted. “Come with me.”

  She led the way back along the pier. At the Esplanade, she crossed over without even a glance for traffic. She wound through several waiting buses at the town station and traced a zigzagging route to Constitution Steps, which shaped an inverted question mark on the side of one of the hills. These steps—like those Deborah had earlier descended to the market—took them up to Clifton Street and the Queen Margaret Apartments. China led the way round the back to Flat B. She was inside and at the small kitchen table before she said another word.

  Then it was “Here. Read this. If it's the only way to make you believe, then you can check each grisly detail if you like.”

  “China, I do believe you,” Deborah said. “You don't need—”

  “Don't tell me what I don't need,” China said insistently. “You think there's a chance I'm lying.”

  “Not lying.”

  “All right. Something I might've misinterpreted. But I'm telling you, there's nothing I could have misinterpreted. And nothing anyone else could've misinterpreted because nothing happened. Not between me and Guy Brouard. Not between me and anyone. So I'm asking you to read this for yourself. So that you can be sure.” Against her hand, she slapped the legal pad on which she'd made her account of the days she'd spent at Le Reposoir.

  “I believe your story,” Deborah said.

  “Read” was China's reply.

  Deborah saw that nothing would satisfy her friend other than reading what she'd written. She sat at the table and took up the pad as China moved to the work top where Cherokee had left the grocery bags and the flowers before taking himself off somewhere else.

  China had been very thorough, Deborah saw when she began reading her friend's document. She displayed an admirable memory as well. Every interaction she'd had with the Brouards seemed accounted for, and when she'd not been with either Guy Brouard or his sister or both of them together, she'd accounted for that time as well. This had apparently been spent with Cherokee or often by herself as she took her photographs of the estate.

  She'd documented where every interaction had occurred during her time at Le Reposoir. Thus, it was possible to track her movements, which was all for the good because surely someone would be able to confirm them.

  Living room, she'd written, looking at historical pictures of L.R. Guy, Ruth, Cherokee, and Paul F. there. The time and day followed.

  Dining room, she went on, lunch with Guy, Ruth, Cherokee, Frank O., and Paul F. AA comes in later, dessert time, with Duck and Stephen. Daggers at me. Many daggers at Paul F.

  Study, she continued, with Guy, Frank O., and Cherokee, discussion about the museum-to-be. Frank O. leaves. Cherokee goes with him to meet his dad and see the water mill. Guy and I stay. Talk. Ruth comes in with AA. Duck outside with Stephen and Paul F.

  Gallery, she wrote, top of the house with Guy. Guy showing off pictures, posing for camera. Adrian shows up. Just arrived. Introductions all around.

  Grounds, she continued, Guy and me. Talk about taking pictures of the place. Talk about Architectural Digest. Explain about doing things on spec. See the buildings and the different gardens. Feed the koi.

  Cherokee's room, she continued, him and me. Talk about whether to stay or go.

  On and on she had written, in what appeared to be a dogged and detailed account of what had gone on in the days leading up to Guy Brouard's death. Deborah read it all and tried to look for key moments that could have been spied upon by someone else who used them for an end that had brought China into her present situation.

  “Who's Paul F.?” Deborah asked.

  China explained: a protégé of Guy Brouard's. Sort of a Big Brother thing. Did the Brits have Big Brothers like they had in the States? An older man taking on a young kid without a decent role model? That was the deal between Guy Brouard and Paul Fielder. He never said more than ten words at a time. Just looked at Guy with goo-goo eyes and followed him around like a dog.

  “How old a boy?”

  “Teenager. Pretty poor by the looks of his clothes. And his bike. He showed up pretty much every day on this rattletrap thing, more rust than anything else. He was always welcome. His dog, too.”

  The boy, the clothes, and the dog. The description matched the teenager she and Simon had come upon on their way to the bay. Deborah said, “Was he at the party?”

  “What, the night before?” When Deborah nodded, China said, “Sure. Everyone was there. It was sort of the social event of the season, from what we could figure.”

  “How many people?”

  China considered this. “Three hundred? More or less.”

  “Contained in one place?”

  “Not exactly. I mean, it wasn't an open house or anything, but there were people wandering around all night. Caterers were coming and going from the kitchen. There were four bars. It wasn't chaos, but I don't think anyone was keeping track of who went where.”

  “So your cloak could have been pinched,” Deborah said.

  “I suppose. But it was there when I needed it, Debs. When Cherokee and I were leaving the next morning.”

  “You didn't see anyone when you were leaving?”

  “Not a soul.”

  They were silent then. China emptied the grocery bags into the tiny fridge and the single cupboard. She rooted round for someth
ing to place the flowers in and finally settled on a cooking pot. Deborah watched her and wondered how to ask what she needed to ask, how to put the question in a way that her friend wouldn't read as suspicious or unsupportive. She had difficulties enough already.

  “Earlier,” Deborah said, “on one of the previous days I mean, did you go with Guy Brouard for his morning swim? Perhaps just to watch?”

  China shook her head. “I knew he went swimming in the bay. Everyone admired him for it. Cold water, early morning, the time of year. I think he liked how people would be in awe that he'd swim every day no matter what. But I never went to watch him.”

  “Did anyone else?”

  “I think his girlfriend did, from the way people talked about it. Sort of ‘Anaïs, can't you do something to talk reason into that man?' And, ‘I do try to whenever I'm there.' ”

  “So she would've gone with him that morning?”

  “If she'd stayed the night. But I don't know if she did. She hadn't stayed over while we were there, Cherokee and me.”

  “But she did stay sometimes?”

  “She made it pretty obvious. I mean, she made sure I knew. So she may have stayed over on the night of the party, but I don't think so.”

  The fact that China refused to colour what little she knew in such a way that might guide suspicion onto someone else was something that Deborah found comforting. It spoke of a character much stronger than her own. She said, “China, I think there're lots of directions the police could have taken looking into this.”

  “Do you? Really?”

  “I do.”

  At this, China seemed to let go of something big and unnamed that she'd been holding within since the moment Deborah had come upon her and her brother in the grocery. She said, “Thank you, Debs.”

  “You don't need to thank me.”

  “Yes, I do. For coming here. For being a friend. Without you and Simon, I'd be anyone's victim. Will I get to meet him? Simon? I'd like to.”