by Jill Downie
“Before we attend to the paperwork, there is one part of the story you have not completed for me. What happened to the baby?”
“I don’t know — I swear to you that’s the truth. I don’t even know if Sylvia miscarried, if it was a boy or a girl, or even if the baby survived.”
“The answer to that,” said Moretti, “is yes.” He stood up and gathered together the papers from the table between them. “Yes, I think we can safely assume the baby survived.” He left the room, ignoring the outstretched hand of Gianfranco Vannoni.
It had been an unpleasant journey back to the island. Lack of sleep and the repellent proximity of Gianfranco Vannoni at his elbow for the two-and-a-half-hour flight to Gatwick, plus another hour on to Guernsey, made Moretti feel a desperate need for a hot bath or a swim in the ocean. Thankfully, DC Falla had arranged for the Guernsey flight to be held for fifteen minutes, so Moretti was spared sitting at Gatwick for about two hours making small talk with his unwelcome flight companion. There must be some puzzlement at Hospital Lane as to how he had got to Florence from Alderney and back with such speed, but with any luck, such minutiae would have faded from the collective memory by the time Chief Officer Hanley returned.
This time, as he walked from the plane with Gianfranco Vannoni and saw DC Falla up on the observation deck, Moretti felt only relief.
She was waiting for him as they came through customs, with two uniformed officers.
“Good morning, sir. The officers here will take Mr. Vannoni with them to the station.”
“I’ll go along —”
“No, sir.”
Startled out of his semi-somnolent state by such lèse-majesté, Moretti watched as his partner took hold of Gianfranco Vannoni by the arms and held them out for the handcuffs carried by one of the constables.
“I’ll explain in a minute, sir.”
As Vannoni and his escort disappeared through a separate entrance from the other passengers to the waiting police van, Liz Falla said, “Sorry, Guv, but I couldn’t say in front of Vannoni. There’s been another knifing.”
They were walking briskly toward the exit doors of the airport. “Who? Not —?”
“Ms. Tremaine is at my place.”
“Your place?”
“She’s fed up with your selection of videos. I told her she’d probably see you later on today. No, the victim is Dan Mahy. He’s dead.”
“Mahy. Dear God, poor old devil. I should have got him moved into town.”
“He’d never have gone, Guv, you know that.”
“Who found him? When?”
“Someone from Social Services. This morning. We’re going out there now.”
“How did the Alderney cover story go?”
They were in the police Mercedes, heading south. Rain was falling steadily, and the wind whipped leaves and small twigs against the windscreen.
“Iffy. But everyone now thinks it was a cover for tracking down Vannoni. When asked questions, I just looked inscrutable. DCI Hathaway says there’ll be some explaining to do about not reporting.”
“There’s more to add to the story I told you on the phone, Falla, but I’ll go over it when we get to the station. How did your other inquiries go — at the airport, I mean?”
“I confirmed that the airport is closed between the hours of nine at night to nine in the morning for all flights. Even private planes can’t operate during those hours, because the tower is closed. But — a funny thing. About a week ago they found one of their jackets — those lime-green sleeveless ones worn by personnel? — down beyond one of the administrative buildings, just lying on the ground. It was one of the ones worn by the terminal duty officers, and they’re stored in a room down between the customs area and the public toilets. They swear the room is always kept locked, and don’t know how it got there. I took a look while I was waiting for you — there’s a sign up: No Unauthorized Persons Beyond This Point.”
“Interesting. Clearly some unauthorized person managed. Here we are.”
Ahead of him, Moretti could see through the heavy mist a cluster of police cars and vans, the cordon of tape cutting off the path that led to the old cottages. It was only six days, in weather just like this, since he had spoken to the old man.
“A stupid, dumb oversight.”
“What is, Guv?” Liz Falla brought the Mercedes to a halt just outside the cordon.
“My failure to grasp the importance of Dan Mahy. I was so caught up with the damned Vannoni family, I never even thought he might be in any danger. I thought a lot of it was the ramblings of old age.”
“Who was to know, Guv.” Liz Falla got out of the car, and swore under her breath as her heels sank into the soft, soggy turf.
“I should have known. That’s my job. Where was he killed?”
“In his cottage. The SOC people are out here, of course, but I’ve told them to touch nothing till you got here.”
They stumbled down the sharp incline to what was left of the Hanois cottages into the wind that whipped in off the sea below them. Moretti could hear it crashing against the rocks. Most of the cottages looked like something out of the village of San Jacopo, but the one that presumably had belonged to Dan Mahy still looked like a place of possible habitation. The heavily mossed roof was intact, and there were curtains over the windows, whose glass was still in one piece. He remembered the sensation he experienced on his last visit, as the years coalesced into one single suspended moment. Which past, indeed, had brought about the murder of Dan Mahy?
“Morning, Moretti.”
“Jimmy. Hi.”
Jimmy Le Poidevin stood in the entrance of Dan Mahy’s beloved cottage, his official garb a stark anachronistic statement against the ancient weathered door.
“The body’s in here. Also the medico. No fancy dagger this time — looks like a common or garden kitchen knife. In my humble opinion, that is.”
The front door led straight into the main living area, which looked as if it were indeed the only living area for the occupant. There was a couch close to the fireplace, a battered metal stove in a far corner, an equally battered wooden table with two chairs. Stuffing was coming out of the padded back of the couch, which was heaped with a couple of blankets and a large, stained, uncovered pillow. Two oil lamps, one by the stone fireplace, the other on the table, seemed to have provided the only illumination. The sole decoration on the walls, which bore the remnants of a faded, flowered wallpaper, was what looked like old family photographs. There was a faintly fetid smell in the air of unwashed clothing, mould, and drains.
Dan Mahy was lying in the fetal position on a piece of faded, scorched rug close to the fireplace. His heavy boots were by the door and he was wearing slippers on his feet, and he would have looked quite comfortable were it not for the knife protruding from his upper back through the dark oiled wool of his Guernsey. Moretti bent down and looked at the old man’s face. In death it appeared calm, his thin pale lips curved in a half-smile. Moretti looked up at the doctor.
“Dr.Lawson, isn’t it?” Lawson was one of the duty doctors from Princess Elizabeth Hospital Moretti liked working with. He was young, sharp witted, and yet far from opinionated.
“That’s right, Detective Inspector.”
“Any idea when this happened?”
“From the state of the body, I’d estimate probably about twelve hours ago. Early evening yesterday, say.”
Moretti turned back to Le Poidevin. “Any sign of a break-in?”
“No. The door was open.”
“So he let his visitor in.”
From the corner of the room Liz Falla said, “And from the looks of it, made his killer a cup of tea.” She pointed to two chipped mugs and a battered metal teapot on a wooden table against the wall. There was also the remains of a loaf of gâche — the yeasty, raisin-filled Guernsey bread still made on the island.
Moretti stood up, feeling as he did so the unpleasant combination of fatigue and shock dragging at his leg muscles.
“Wha
t’s been taken out of the drawer, Falla?” He pointed to a collection of small objects, scattered on the table surface above a half-open drawer set in the side of the table.
“Looks like a collection of Occupation memorabilia, Guv.” Liz Falla pulled out a pair of latex gloves and pulled them on. “Ration books, old cinema tickets, that kind of thing.”
Moretti joined her at the table. Piled on its stained, pitted surface was a hoard of wartime island ephemera, most of it the worse for wear: mildewed newspapers, recipes for everything that could possibly be made out of kelp and carrageen, tattered leaflets of various kinds in both English and German. There were some coins, one or two medals, and a couple of rusty penknives. Moretti picked one up. The German manufacturer’s name was still faintly visible on it.
“Well,” he said, looking across the table at Liz Falla, “I think we can safely say we now know where the murder weapon in the bunker came from.”
“Can we?” His partner waved her hand over the motley collection in front of them. “There’s nothing nearly as valuable in this lot, is there?”
“No, but Dan Mahy told me he had a windfall in his pied-du-cauche.”
“You think he sold it to the killer.”
“Who then killed him when we appeared to be getting closer. Why is Ms. Tremaine at your place, Falla?”
Liz Falla shot a meaningful look in the direction of Jimmy Le Poidevin, who was standing in the cottage doorway oozing impatience and hostility. “I’ll tell you on the way back to the station, Guv,” she said.
September 21st
It was only twenty-four hours since Moretti had left, and the Alderney alibi was beginning to sprout as many holes as her uncle Jack’s old wreck of a tub that he kept in St. Sampson harbour and refused to get rid of, although Liz Falla’s aunt Doreen called it the bottomless bucket. By the evening of the first full day after Moretti’s departure, she had parried questions from Detective Superintendent Hathaway, who was in charge in Chief Officer Hanley’s absence, bitten her tongue and ignored insinuations of incompetence from Jimmy Le Poidevin, and fobbed off the heavy-handed witticisms of some of her colleagues about the disappearance of Ed Moretti after only eight days of partnership with her.
Eight days, she thought, as she drove herself home in the early evening. It seems more like eight weeks, and that has nothing to with Moretti. If there was one plus in the whole sticky situation, it was that she liked working with the guy. Now there is a surprise, she reflected, as she brought the Mercedes to a halt alongside the seawall opposite her flat on the Esplanade. And the biggest surprise of all was the presence of Sydney Tremaine in the Guv’s cottage. Still waters run deep, as her grandmother always said.
As she went into her sitting room she saw that the light on her answer-phone was flashing. Given the current state of her love life it was either a member of the Jenemie group, her mother, that bloody DS Hathaway again — oh please, she thought, not him, please — or Moretti’s glamorous guest. She pressed the “play messages” button.
The first message was from Nick Le Page, Jenemie’s keyboard player.
“Liz, it’s Nick. We’ve got a gig at the weekend — the Petit Moulin. Rehearsal tonight at my place.”
Liz Falla grinned. So like Nick to assume she could make it, not being a nine-to-five man himself — correction, she thought, not being an in-any-way-employed man himself. An aging and charming flower-child who had survived the excesses of the sixties, he still did not believe in toiling and spinning, if he could possibly help it. He left that to his schoolteacher wife.
The second message was from Sydney Tremaine. Liz had checked in with her already a couple of times, and both times she had sounded fine when she picked up the phone after hearing Liz’s voice on the answer-phone. This time was different.
“Liz — please call. There’s something — I’m scared. Liz — please call.”
There was panic in her voice, and she sounded close to tears. Liz picked up the phone, waiting impatiently for Moretti’s voice on the tape to say, “I’m not here. Leave a message at the beep.”
“Ms. Tremaine — it’s Liz Falla. What’s up?”
She had barely completed the final word before the phone was picked up and she heard Sydney Tremaine.
“Thank God — it’s going to be dark soon and I don’t want to spend another night here. I’m leaving.” Her voice was ragged with tension.
“Don’t go anywhere. I’m coming right over. It’ll only take me about five minutes — promise me, don’t move till I get there. Then, I promise, I’ll get you out of there.”
Liz Falla hung up without waiting for Sydney Tremaine to reply.
Sydney Tremaine was not normally a nervous woman. Life in the performing arts had given her nerves of steel — she did not count stage fright as evidence of emotional weakness — and the slings and arrows of an outrageous husband prone to frequent temper tantrums and with unsavoury sexual proclivities had further hardened her.
His murder had changed all that. She was rattled. She was prepared to believe that her imagination might well be working overtime in the circumstances, but she simply could not endure another night on her own at Ed’s place.
At first it had been fun. Shamelessly, she had poked around, examining all Moretti’s records and the truly antediluvian player he used. She checked every book in his bookcases and came to the conclusion that anyone who shelved Robert Ludlum and Ovid’s Metamorphoses in the original Latin cheek by jowl was much too clever for her. She had not gone through the contents of the wonderful old keyhole desk, but she had taken a peek at a letter or two left on the writing surface. Well, more than a peek.
One was from someone at Scotland Yard, who had some interest also in jazz, and was about to retire. He spoke of his first meeting with Ed Moretti: “This skinny young law student who sat down at the piano and played himself into a part-time job with the rest of us pick-up players. I still have feelings of guilt, Ed, that it wasn’t the music that seduced you, but my métier. Has it been worth it? From the defence of innocence or the prosecution of evil to a profession that has been called the blind eye of history?”
The other was from a woman called Valerie. Sydney read only the opening sentence: “The house is sold, finally. I can’t wait to shake you and the dreck of yesteryear from the soles of my Mephistos.”
Holy Hanna, she thought, putting it down. What happened, Ed?
Most of the videos were old black-and-white movies — Casablanca, some Greta Garbo, some European stuff with which she was not familiar. She played his records, watched some of the movies, read an early Iris Murdoch, and drank too much wine. Then the noises started.
Swish-swish-swish. They seemed to come from above her, on a level with the upper floor. At first she was not particularly bothered. When she arrived she noticed that the high walls on each side were thick with plants and growths of various kinds, and she assumed it was the wind blowing them around, or the ivy that grew on the cottage walls. But even through the haze of too much soave she realized they were strangely rhythmic, systematic, almost. Just as she was beginning to feel jumpy, they stopped. It started to get dark, and she went into the kitchen to get herself something to eat.
As she came through the doorway she was aware of a movement outside the kitchen window that looked onto the lane at the back of the property. Shaken, she stood a moment in the doorway, then pulled herself together. Come on, she told herself — it’s probably nosey small ragazzi. She crossed the room and looked out. She could see nothing, only the heads of the fuschia nodding on the walls around the little courtyard, and the lane stretching away into the dusk. Somewhere in the distance she could hear the sound of a motor, and the sound reminded her of what she had heard outside the Héritage Hotel after the dagger was thrown at Gil.
Baloney, Sydney told herself — since when have you been able to tell the difference between the noise of one engine and another? She drew the curtains firmly over the windows and started to prepare her meal.
&nbs
p; Later, much later, the noise outside started again. Like someone, or something, shuffling through a thicket. She put on the television very loudly and watched a couple of sitcoms and a talk show. She drank more soave and then some gorgeously ripe Burgundy, and the resultant headache sent her to bed early. When she woke up in the small hours and thought she heard the sound of someone laughing — high up — she was able to convince herself it was overindulgence and overimagination.
But by five o’clock the next day, as the wind got stronger and the sun sank beyond the walls of the cottage, her nerve failed her. She phoned Liz Falla. Her relief at hearing the sound of the policewoman’s strong voice was only surpassed by the relief she felt when she saw the police Mercedes finally come into sight, stop in the courtyard, and Liz Falla step out.
“Ms. Tremaine —”
“Sydney, please. How long does it take to be on first-name terms in Guernsey? Takes forever in Britain.”
“Takes a while here too,” said Liz Falla cheerfully, closing the cottage door behind her. “You sounded —”
“— spooked. I’m hearing things. D’you want some coffee? Something stronger?”
“Better not. I’m off to a rehearsal. What are you hearing?”
“I’ll tell you in the car. I’m coming with you — yes I am, honey, or I’m taking off back to the hotel.”
So Liz Falla found herself driving to Nick Le Page’s in Vale with Sydney Tremaine alongside her.
* * *
Vale is a parish in the north and northwest corner of the island, sliced in two by a pie-shaped wedge of St. Sampson. It has a church that was once cut off from the mainland, and whose parishioners rowed to worship at high tide, the ruins of a castle alleged to have been built by the father of William the Conqueror, whose barracks have served as public housing, the remnants of many disused quarries, and some fine megalithic dolmens.
