It should have occurred to me sooner, but the thought actually came to me there, prowling round the culs-de-sac and corniches of Fort George. I was missing the point. If Eris had come to Guernsey to retrace Marian’s footsteps, she had to have visited La Fauconnerie. But Daphne and I had left the house that morning in such a hurry we’d not even tried out Eris’s picture on the owner.
I drove straight there. The camera obscura was closed, of course. The evening was drawing in. But the gate was unlocked. I went through and pulled the bell at the front door of the house.
A tall woman in an outsize cardigan and a long, paint-spattered dress answered. She had a mass of greying curled hair and a harassed expression. The sound of scales being played on a violin drifted out from the hallway, along with the tang of a spicy dinner.
‘Mrs Cresswell?’ I ventured, using the name Lefebvre had dropped earlier and hoping I’d judged the relationship correctly.
‘Yes?’
‘I’m sorry to trouble you. I visited the camera obscura this morning. I wonder, could I—?’
‘Someone about the camera, Bernard,’ she shouted behind her. ‘Can you have a word, please?’
‘It’s not actually—’
But I was too late. Already the bearded figure of her husband was bearing down on me. ‘You again. Not more about bloody Byfield.’
‘Not exactly. Could I … step in for a moment?’
‘Why not? Two pounds fifty isn’t just for a camera obscura display. You get unfettered access to the house at any hour of the day or night thrown in.’
‘I’m sorry if we got off on the wrong foot this morning. The fact is I’m very worried about a friend of mine who’s gone missing. She was last seen in St Peter Port. Now, she happens to be very interested in photographic history, so she might have visited your camera obscura. I have a picture of her if you’d care to take a look.’
‘Working on the basis that we get so few visitors I’d be bound to remember her?’
‘Bernard!’ snapped his wife, who’d lingered behind him in the hallway, listening. ‘What’s got into you? The poor man’s only asking you to look. He needs our help.’
‘Yeh, sorry.’ Bernard grimaced apologetically. ‘A lot of bills come in at this time of year. It’s the end-of-fiscal-year blues. Let’s start again, shall we? Show me the picture.’
I handed it to him and watched as he gave it a long, shamefaced stare of scrutiny. Mrs Cresswell looked over his shoulder at the same time. Eventually, they both shook their heads.
‘Are you sure?’ I pressed. ‘Just hanging around the street outside, perhaps? Or driving by – maybe in a yellow Lotus?’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Bernard.
‘Nor me,’ added his wife.
‘What about the violinist?’ I signalled with my eyes.
‘Might as well ask, I suppose,’ agreed Bernard. ‘Jamie!’ he bellowed up the stairs. The scales died at once. ‘Come down a sec.’
Jamie, a solemn little boy of twelve or so, appeared at the top of the stairs and pattered down to join us.
‘Recognize this lady?’ prompted his father.
Jamie frowned at the picture in fierce concentration, then gave his verdict. ‘No.’
‘Never mind,’ I said, hardly sounding as if I meant it.
‘Perhaps Niall knows her,’ Jamie remarked.
‘Niall?’
‘Our occasional lodger,’ Mrs Cresswell explained, apparently oblivious to the shock that must have been written all over my face.
‘Niall … Esguard?’
‘No. Hudson, actually.’
‘Ah. I see. Sorry. I thought … but it’s obviously not the same man.’ Except that it was. Obviously and undoubtedly.
‘He comes over from England on business every few weeks. When he does, he lodges with us.’
‘Helps with those bills I was complaining about,’ said Bernard.
‘Is he … here now?’
‘As it happens,’ Mrs Cresswell replied. ‘Well, staying, I mean. But he’s out at the minute.’
‘He’ll probably be back soon,’ said Bernard. ‘If you want to leave the picture.’
‘Better not,’ I responded, retrieving it from his grasp. ‘Only copy.’ I grinned. ‘And if Mr … Hudson … doesn’t live here permanently, well, there’s no real point in bothering him.’
I turned towards the door, trying not to break into a run. ‘Thanks for your help.’
I sat in the car, several doors down from La Fauconnerie, as the dusk deepened and the street lamps came on, waiting and watching. Sooner or later Niall was bound to show up. And I was willing to wait and watch for as long as I had to. What I’d do when he did appear I wasn’t sure. For the moment, all I wanted was to be certain it really was him.
What was he up to? I turned the question over in my mind as time slipped by and night slowly fell. The answer had to involve Marian’s photographs. Did he believe there was a cache of them at La Fauconnerie? Or did he believe Byfield had mastered photography himself and produced some pictures of his own? Either way, lodging with the Cresswells gave him the chance to find out. He’d stolen the negatives Quisden-Neve had extorted out of Eris, but still he was greedy for more. Well, that was no surprise. He struck me as the greedy type.
Did he know Eris was on the island? Did she know he was, come to that? Had she heard about Quisden-Neve’s murder and deduced who was responsible? If she had, it would explain why she was so shocked to see his twin brother on the pier. If only I could communicate with her in some way. If only I could make her understand help was at hand.
The passenger door was suddenly wrenched open and, before I could react, Niall Esguard had slid into the seat beside me. He was dressed in his trademark black and was grinning wolfishly.
‘Jarrett,’ he said with caricatured amiability. ‘Thought it must be you. Piece of advice. Always check the back way. It’s generally how I come and go.’
‘Esguard, I—’
‘Hudson, if you don’t mind. You could do worse than throw a few aliases around yourself. Might make you less predictable. But that wouldn’t be difficult.’
‘What are you doing on Guernsey, Mr Hudson?’
‘I could ask you the same question.’
‘I’m looking for Eris Moberly.’
‘Still no luck there? Sorry to hear it. You don’t think she’s on the island, do you? That’d be a weird coincidence. Me being over here on business and all.’
‘What business is that?’
‘None of yours.’
‘That bookseller you referred me to – Montagu Quisden-Neve. I hear he came to grief.’
‘I heard the same thing. Can’t help wondering if he didn’t have the same problem as you.’
‘What’s that?’
‘An inability to keep his nose out of other people’s affairs.’ Niall leaned closer. I could smell the tobacco on his breath, as stale and pungent as the menace in his voice. ‘Another piece of advice for you. Sincerely meant. Leave Guernsey.’
‘Why should I?’
‘It’s a dangerous place.’
‘That’s not what I’ve heard.’
‘You’ve been listening to the wrong people. For you, it’s dangerous.’
‘Are you threatening me?’
‘Take it how you like.’ He leaned back and eased open the door. ‘Can’t stop, I’m afraid. Much as I’d like to.’
‘Before you go—’
‘Yes?’
‘Take this how you like. If I find Eris has come to any harm because of you, then you’ll be the one in danger.’
‘Thanks for the tip.’
‘I’m serious.’
‘I know.’ He pushed the door wide open, climbed out and threw back a parting remark to me. ‘So am I.’ Then he slammed the door and walked away. I watched him in the rear-view mirror until he vanished at the next corner, then slapped the steering wheel in frustration. The encounter had achieved nothing, except to put Niall on his guard. There was n
o such thing as a free threat.
I drove down to the harbour, parked on Castle Pier and stared out to sea through the curtain of darkness, while the clink of halyards against masts in the marina behind me kept up a mournful rhythm. I was tired. I was weary of the chase. If she was here, why couldn’t she show herself? If she knew I was looking for her, as she must do, how could she bear to keep her distance?
I whirled round, hope and instinct meeting in the fleeting certainty that she was just behind me. But there was nobody there. The pier was empty. I was alone, as I’d been too often since the madness of Vienna. Passion had curdled into bloody-minded obsession. There was an answer and I meant to have it. There was a meaning and I would know it. There was nothing else I could do but go on.
I drove back to the hotel – a ten-minute journey across St Peter Port. As I walked across the car park towards the entrance, I barely registered the sound of a car pulling out of a parking space behind me and accelerating throatily towards the road. Then the note of the engine caught my attention. I looked round. It was a pale Lotus, its colour bleached by the street lamps. I started running towards it as its brake lights blinked at me like the red eyes of a creature hiding in the forest. Then it swung out into the road and sped away in a burst of sound.
Cursing the sour mood that had made me so unobservant, I raced back to my car and drove off in pursuit. But there was never a chance I’d catch up. I drove by guesswork, round the western periphery of the town to Fort George, then out along the main road to the airport. It was a shadow chase, scarcely better than standing in the hotel car park and doing nothing.
That’s where it ended, an hour or so later. I’d asked the receptionist, the porter and the barman if they knew the driver of a yellow Lotus and their answer had been no. Eris hadn’t gone into the hotel, of course. She’d stayed outside, lying in wait for me. She’d wanted to see me. But not to be seen. Not to speak or touch or utter a single word of explanation. I shouted her name into the night and heard only my anger in the silence that followed.
Daphne phoned next morning. I was glad to speak to her, but reluctant to tell her anything. There was secrecy bedded in my soul now, a furtiveness about my every word and thought.
‘Things are more complicated here than I’d anticipated, Ian. It may be several days before I can get away.’
‘Don’t worry. It can’t be helped.’
‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Have you turned anything up?’
‘Not a thing.’
‘What will you do?’
‘Carry on looking.’
‘Are you sure that’s wise? You sound tired.’
‘I feel fine.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘I’m not one of your clients, Daphne. You don’t need to concern yourself with my state of mind.’
‘Be careful.’
‘Of course.’
‘And phone me at once if anything happens.’
‘Naturally.’
‘I’m sorry, you know.’
‘What about?’
‘Having to leave.’
‘Don’t be. You had no choice.’ And to myself I added silently, It’s better this way. I prefer to face it alone. Whatever it is.
It was Saturday morning. I walked the crowded streets of St Peter Port, searching the jumble of faces for one I knew I wouldn’t see. I traversed the piers, scanning the ranks of parked cars in vain. I sat in a quayside pub and tried to stop thinking. But I couldn’t. I had nothing else to think about. My existence had been reduced to the narrowing circle of my search.
I went back to the hotel, intending to drive out to Fort George again and look for a gardener to interrogate. But there was no need. An answer of a kind was waiting for me at reception.
‘Package for you, Mr Jarrett,’ the girl said brightly. ‘By special courier.’
She slid a small Jiffy bag across the desk to me, and I guessed at once by the size and shape who it was from and what it contained. I picked it up and stared at the courier’s label. It showed the name of the sender and the time and place of despatch: E. Moberly, Guernsey Airport, nine o’clock that morning.
‘Do you want your key, Mr Jarrett?’
‘What?’
‘Your key.’
‘Oh yes. Sorry. Thanks.’
I took it from her and ripped open the Jiffy bag as I turned away towards the stairs. A tape slid out into my hand. There was no note. But obviously there was a message. I turned back to reception.
‘Do you know today’s flight times?’
‘They’re in the paper. Here you are.’
She produced a copy of the Guernsey Evening Press and opened it for me at the travel information page. The first flight to London on a Saturday was at nine thirty-five. That was it, then. Eris was no longer on the island. She was gone. But not without saying goodbye. There was another tape now. And this one was meant for me.
‘Not leaving us, are you, Mr Jarrett?’
‘No. But, actually, I won’t need this.’ I dropped my key back on the desk. ‘I have to go out for a while.’
I pocketed the Jiffy bag and strode out through the door. The only cassette player I had with me was in the car. I propped the tape in its jaws as I drove out of the hotel and headed for the coast road. As soon as I was clear of St Peter Port, trundling north around Belle Grève Bay, I pushed the tape home.
TEN
WHAT WAS THE last thing I said to you, Ian? You remember, when I phoned you at Lacock. ‘Don’t try to find me.’ That was it, wasn’t it? ‘Don’t try to find me.’ It was good advice. It was the only thing I’ve ever said to you that you should have acted on. But you couldn’t let go, could you? You just couldn’t do it.
My name isn’t Eris Moberly. I’m thirty-two years old, yes, but I’m not married and I don’t live in Mayfair. I’ve never been to a psychotherapist. I don’t suffer from fugues or flashbacks to another life. I didn’t come to Guernsey to figure out how Marian Esguard died. And I won’t be on the island when you hear this. Which is just as well. It wouldn’t be sensible for me to be anywhere near when you learn the truth. It’s time for you to find out the name of the game we’ve been playing. You won’t like it. Trust me on this. You’re going to feel bad about it. Very bad.
I’m sorry, Ian. Really, I am. This doesn’t give me half the pleasure I thought it might. That’s why I won’t prolong the agony. I’ll lay it on the line. I’ll tell you as much as you need to know and no more. I’ll make it clear to you where we stand, you and me.
We didn’t meet by chance in Vienna. It was planned and staged. It was a set-up from the word go. I was told to get close to you, to tangle myself up in your life any way I could. Well, sex was the obvious draw. I’ve always been good at it. Better than I’ve been at a lot of things. I was told you’d be … susceptible. And you were. So was I, come to that. You know what I mean. It was good. Bloody fantastic. If it makes you feel any better to hear me say it. Which it won’t. Not when you realize that, all along, I was getting an extra kick out of knowing what it was leading up to.
You couldn’t have escaped. If you’d turned me down that first time, I’d have found some other way to get to you. There always is another way. I learned that lesson from a good teacher. But I didn’t have to try too hard anyway. You were there for the taking. I’m sorry about the photographs, by the way. I didn’t destroy them just to protect my anonymity. I was told to do it. You had to be prised away from your profession as well as from your family. I had to become the centre of your world. First by being there. Then by not being there.
I’ve been on Guernsey ever since, waiting for you to turn up. I set things up last year with those stints as Dawn Esguard’s lodger. Plus the slice of wedding cake, of course. You couldn’t miss, once you’d been pointed in the right direction. That’s where the tapes came in. Daphne’s in on it, too, you see. In fact, she knows more than I do. Like why you were targeted in the first place. That’s the pa
rt of this I don’t understand. I don’t want to, either. There’s a reason. Of course there is. Maybe you already know what it is. If not, I reckon you’ll find out soon enough.
Is it tied up with Marian Esguard? I mean, I don’t know where all that stuff came from. I just read my lines. But it sounded genuine. And not just because it was supposed to. You are a photographer, after all. Or were. Before you dedicated your life to finding Eris Moberly.
I never met Milo Esguard, despite pumping Dawn about him. Niall, yes, of course. He’s one of us. I can’t say I like him, but I guess he has his uses. He never threatened me. Neither did Quisden-Neve. I went into his bookshop once, to size him up, just so I could describe him on the tape. But that was it. I’ve never been sure how much he knows about what’s going on. His twin brother’s been on Guernsey this week. I was told to let him see me. He was bound to mention it to you with Daphne on hand to jog his memory. That was the signal for the final phase to begin. First Daphne got out. Now me. Niall, too, I imagine. You’re on your own.
Eris Moberly doesn’t exist. That’s what it comes down to. She’s a fantasy. I didn’t experience any of the things described on the tapes. Do you understand, Ian? It’s all been a lie. The fugues, the ancient negatives, the whole bag of tricks. None of it happened to me. To somebody else, maybe. But not to me. And not to Eris Moberly.
You’ll want to know why I did it. How I could bring myself to. First and foremost, of course, there’s the money. This is the best-paid job I’ve ever had, by a long way. My employer’s very generous. Even when I had to hang around Guernsey for weeks on end he gave me the use of a flash car and a luxury pad with heated swimming pool to compensate. And I didn’t exactly slum it in Vienna. I can’t complain about the pay and conditions.
One thing you ought to know. I’ve had to get by in the past by making men believe I cared for them, by convincing them I liked the things they liked. But, in your case, I didn’t have to pretend. It really was as good for me as it was for you. Just a pity it couldn’t last. I’m sorry, Ian. It wasn’t quite good enough to make me forget who’s paying the bills.
Caught In the Light Page 24
