A Line to Kill

by Anthony Horowitz

  ‘Dear God!’ Queripel exclaimed. The footprint pointed towards the door. ‘This is how he made his getaway!’

  ‘Yes. The trail continues back into the garden.’

  ‘So he was knocked out, tied down and then killed,’ Queripel said. ‘And whoever did it went back to the house … presumably while the party was still going on.’ He thought for a moment. ‘I suppose that narrows the field.’

  I was really hoping we had finished in the Snuggery, but before we left Hawthorne gently pulled back the curtains on both sides to reveal bare concrete walls with no windows. He examined the second set of doors and, using a handkerchief, slid back the bolt. He opened the door and the sunlight blazed in, as if determined to purify the grim scene. All three of us breathed in the fresh air with gratitude. Finally, Hawthorne closed the door and locked it again, leaving everything as it had been when we arrived.

  He made his way back towards us, then stopped and knelt down. As I stood there watching, he reached into his jacket pocket and took out a business card from the Braye Beach Hotel and used it to scoop up a coin that had been lying on the rug near one of the curtains. He held it up and showed it to me. It was a two-euro piece.

  ‘Do you think that was his?’ I asked.

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine, mate.’

  ‘We use English currency on Alderney,’ Dr Queripel said. ‘But France is only eight miles away.’

  ‘His wife, Helen, had just come back from Paris,’ I added. ‘And the performance poet Maïssa Lamar is French.’

  I thought I was being helpful but it was as if Hawthorne hadn’t heard.

  ‘I think, maybe, you should leave it for the police,’ Queripel said with a touch of admonition in his voice.

  ‘Whatever you say,’ Hawthorne replied cheerfully, and he slid the coin gently back onto the floor.

  We went back outside where Colin Matheson was waiting for us, still looking queasy. ‘Have you seen enough?’ he asked.

  ‘More than enough,’ I said.

  Hawthorne was unfazed. ‘Well, Charles le Mesurier certainly didn’t have a very nice end to the evening,’ he said. ‘How’s Mrs le Mesurier getting on?’

  ‘She’s gone back to bed. She’s in shock.’

  ‘When did she find him?’

  ‘This morning.’ Colin Matheson looked exhausted. ‘She woke up at half past seven and realised he wasn’t in the bed. She looked for him in the spare rooms and downstairs. Then she saw the door of the gunnery was open and so she came over here.’ He shook his head. ‘It must have been absolutely ghastly for her.’

  ‘I’ve given her a mild sedative,’ the doctor said.

  Matheson turned to Hawthorne. ‘I don’t know if you have any thoughts, Mr Hawthorne …’

  ‘Well, first of all, nobody must leave the island.’

  ‘Absolutely. Mr Torode said the same thing.’

  ‘Who is Mr Torode?’

  ‘He’s the deputy chief officer of the Guernsey Crime Services. He’s one of the officers who’s coming over.’

  ‘Right.’ If Hawthorne was put out, he didn’t show it. ‘Let’s not waste any time while he’s on his way. I’d like to talk to Helen le Mesurier. And it would be helpful if you could pick up Marc Bellamy and that girl he was working with and bring them across.’

  ‘Why?’ Matheson was surprised.

  ‘They organised the party and they were looking after the guests. If le Mesurier decided to slip off into the garden – and, for that matter, if anyone followed him – they might have noticed.’

  That made sense. With a wall completely enclosing the garden and the back door locked, the killer would surely have had to approach the Snuggery from the house. So it had to be someone who had been at the party. Someone I had seen.

  We began to walk back towards the sun lounge.

  ‘What was your relationship with le Mesurier?’ Hawthorne asked. He directed the question at Dr Queripel.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘I’m interested to know what you were doing in his study. You said you’d been in there a couple of times and that was how you knew about the paperknife. But you weren’t his GP and there was obviously no love lost between you …’

  ‘How can you possibly say that?’

  ‘Well, you haven’t exactly been shedding tears over his demise. You referred to him as Mr le Mesurier, so you weren’t on first-name terms, and I didn’t see you at the party last night. Given that Alderney isn’t exactly a whirl of social activity, I’m assuming you weren’t invited.’

  Dr Queripel was the sort of man who blushed easily and he did so now. ‘As a matter of fact, there’s plenty to do on Alderney,’ he replied. ‘And last night, my wife and I had a very pleasant evening playing bridge. But you’re right. I was not on friendly terms with Mr le Mesurier and the reason I saw him on two occasions was strictly business.’

  ‘What business?’

  ‘The power line.’

  ‘Dr Queripel is one of the most vocal opponents to the Normandy-Alderney-Britain power line,’ Matheson cut in. He looked embarrassed. Or maybe he was angry. He was certainly uncomfortable. ‘He’s actually organised quite a few demonstrations against it.’

  ‘So you’re the one painting “BAN NAB” all over the place?’ Hawthorne asked.

  ‘Not at all. I would never take part in that sort of activity. But those of us who are opposed to this awful scheme are entitled to have their voices heard and I had two meetings with le Mesurier, in his study, to get our point across.’

  We had stopped walking about halfway between the Snuggery and the house. Colin Matheson and Dr Queripel were facing each other like two boxers squaring up before a fight and at that moment all thought of the murder seemed to have vanished.

  ‘What did you say to him?’ Hawthorne asked.

  ‘The obvious. The power line and the construction around it will rip the heart out of Alderney. The cable landing chambers, the transition posts, the converter stations. There are almost no foreseeable benefits and the damage to the environment, to wildlife and to tourism will be irreversible.’

  ‘Why did you feel you had to talk to le Mesurier?’ Hawthorne asked. ‘I thought Colin here was in charge of the committee making the decisions.’

  Dr Queripel nodded. ‘Colin is the head of the committee set up by the States, but everyone knows that it’s le Mesurier who’s pulling the strings.’ He stared across at the other man. ‘I still don’t know how he got to you, Colin, or how he made you dance to his tune. Or maybe it’s just a question of how much he offered you—’

  ‘That’s outrageous!’

  ‘—but it was le Mesurier who wanted this bloody thing and he was the one who was going to benefit the most.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Well, for a start, he’d sold his own land for the converter station. He wouldn’t disclose how much he’d made out of that, but I bet it was a damn sight more than anyone else on this island was going to see—’

  ‘You should be careful what you say, Henry,’ Matheson cut in, glaring at Dr Queripel. ‘And it might help if you were a little less hypocritical. Everyone knows that the only reason you’re against this project is because you’re worried about your view.’

  ‘What is Alderney without its views?’

  ‘It’s a beautiful island and it’s a shame that the converter station has to go between your house and the sea, but it had to go somewhere.’

  ‘And it’s just a coincidence that it goes on le Mesurier’s land?’ Queripel was fighting to keep his self-control. ‘Who knows what deals he was making with Électricité du Nord? Without him, this whole thing would never have got as far as it did and – with a bit of luck – now that he’s dead, perhaps it’ll all go away.’

  ‘You don’t sound too sorry he’s been killed,’ Hawthorne remarked.

  ‘I’m not. Tying him to a chair and putting a knife through him? I can think of fifty people on this island who would have been happy to do it. And before you interrupt me, Col
in, you’re probably one of them. He had you twisted round his little finger. I’ve known you half my life. You’d never have voted for NAB if you weren’t being forced into it, and if it turns out that you decided you’d had enough and had to put an end to it, I’d be the first to shake your hand.’

  Henry Queripel spun on his heel and continued towards the house. Colin looked at us, trying to find something to say. ‘It’s all nonsense,’ he muttered. ‘I hardly knew Charles. I mean, obviously I saw him from time to time. I gave him legal advice and more recently, of course, there was the festival, which he sponsored and my wife organised. But to suggest he had any influence over me … that’s plain wrong. I supported the power line because I thought it was the right thing for the island.’

  ‘And will you still support it now?’ Hawthorne asked.

  ‘Of course. Well … I suppose we’ll have to see.’

  The three of us went after the doctor. Hawthorne was smiling and I could see he had enjoyed the whole encounter. After all, we’d only been at the murder scene a few minutes and already two possible suspects had revealed themselves to him. And all he’d had to do was watch.

  9

  Roses and Butterflies

  ‘I don’t understand. Who are you? What are you doing here? Why do I have to talk to you?’

  It looked as if Helen le Mesurier had been crying ever since she had made her grisly discovery. There were balls of damp tissues all over the bedroom floor and her eyes were red and swollen. Was she exaggerating? She had been tired and tetchy the night before, but even allowing for that, she hadn’t seemed entirely devoted to her husband. There are times when I literally want to kill him. I remembered her saying those very words and frankly, when Hawthorne had told me who’d been murdered, she had immediately come to mind as the most likely suspect.

  The bedroom was large, in the very centre of the house, with two long windows slanting towards one another, providing two different views of the garden, the Snuggery and the sea. It was filled with expensive reproduction furniture that was pretending to be eighteenth-century French. The bed was a great pile of silk and wooden curlicues. The dressing table, curving under the weight of so many perfumes and cosmetics, could have come straight out of a French farce. Helen was sitting on a gilded sofa that boasted embroidered cushions and bow legs. She was wearing a Ricky Martin T-shirt that came down to her thighs and black leggings. Someone had brought her a cup of tea in a porcelain cup and saucer. It was on an ornamental table beside her.

  Hawthorne was sitting opposite, perching on the stool that he had taken from the dressing table. Matheson had introduced him as a detective helping the police with their enquiries but Helen wasn’t having any of it. ‘Where are the real police?’ she asked Colin, angrily. ‘Who asked this man to come into my house? And what’s he doing here?’

  That was me. Her finger stabbed out in my direction even though I’d done my best to blend into the background – not easy when the wallpaper had a pattern of roses and butterflies. I tried to avoid her eye.

  ‘They’re trying to help,’ Colin said, uneasily.

  Hawthorne leaned forward. ‘We just want to know who killed your husband,’ he said reasonably. ‘The police are on their way from Guernsey, but the first twenty-four hours after a crime has been committed are the most important of all and we don’t want to waste any of them. It was a very unpleasant act of violence. He was killed in an extremely nasty way – as you saw.’ He paused. ‘You wouldn’t want anyone to think you were unwilling to help.’

  ‘I don’t care what people think.’ Helen le Mesurier turned to Colin. ‘Do I have to talk to them?’

  ‘I think it might be a good idea,’ Colin replied.

  ‘I don’t know.’ She pulled out another tissue. ‘He was sitting in a chair. He was tied up. And that knife! I bought him that knife. I got it in Barcelona.’ She began to cry again.

  ‘I can understand how upset you are,’ Hawthorne said, speaking softly. ‘But I need to ask you about your movements last night.’

  ‘I can’t help you. I don’t know anything. I came in and went to bed. I didn’t see anything.’

  It was a start, anyway. ‘You’d just come back from Paris?’ Hawthorne asked.

  ‘I got back in the afternoon.’

  ‘What were you doing there?’

  Helen dabbed at her eyes as she considered the question. ‘I went shopping.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I don’t remember. The Marais. Palais-Royal. Boulevard Haussmann …’

  Hawthorne cast an eye around the room. ‘I don’t see any shopping bags.’

  That stopped her short. I actually saw the change come over her as she realised she wasn’t just being asked questions: she was under attack. ‘I didn’t see anything I wanted to buy.’

  ‘But you were in Paris for … two days?’ She didn’t answer, so he went on. ‘Where did you stay?’

  ‘The Bristol.’

  ‘Were you alone?’ Again she didn’t speak. Hawthorne looked at her almost sadly. ‘The thing is, Mrs le Mesurier, the police are going to ask you the same questions and you can’t lie to them. They’ll talk to the receptionist. And these days, there’s CCTV, phone records …’ He spread his hands. ‘I know it’s not very nice having to talk about personal matters, but it’s all going to come out anyway, so you might as well get it over with.’

  ‘I want a cigarette.’

  ‘Have one of mine.’ He took out a packet and they both lit up. It was strange to see two people smoking indoors, but I suppose it was her house. Their lungs. ‘So who were you with?’ Hawthorne asked.

  The two of them had bonded in some strange way over the cigarettes. Suddenly, she was less antagonistic. ‘You have to understand,’ she said. ‘I did love Charles. I’d been married to him for fifteen years.’

  ‘No children?’

  ‘It didn’t happen for us, but we didn’t want children anyway. I’ve got nephews and nieces. That’s good enough for me.’

  ‘How did the two of you meet?’

  ‘I was an actress. He saw me in a production of The Sound of Music. I was one of the nuns. He offered me a job and things developed from there.’

  ‘What job?’

  ‘Modelling. PR. I helped him with his internet business and then we started going out together and in the end we got married. You didn’t know him so you may not understand, but actually I always knew what I was getting myself into. Charles was never going to stay at home and sit in an armchair, watching TV. He wasn’t that sort of man.’

  ‘What sort of man was he, Mrs le Mesurier?’

  ‘He liked life. He liked women. Lots of women. There was no stopping him.’ She looked to me for confirmation. ‘You must have seen him last night. Even that girl who was serving the drinks … he couldn’t keep his eyes off her. That’s how he was … in New York, in Saint-Tropez, in London. He was always on the move, always after the next conquest. I just had to live with it.’

  ‘Are you saying you didn’t mind?’

  ‘Why should I have minded, Mr Hawthorne? I had a lot of fun with Charles. He was witty. He was generous. And if he could be a complete prick some of the time, there were plenty of compensations.’ She counted them on her fingers. ‘I had an allowance. I had this house. I had expensive presents. I could travel. Charles might be out there being photographed with different floozies for the gossip columns, but I was the one he always came home to. And for what it’s worth, he wasn’t the only one who played the field. We both did. We had an open marriage. No secrets from each other.’

  ‘He knew who you were with in Paris?’

  Helen shook her head. ‘No. I hadn’t told him yet. I would have eventually. I didn’t get the chance.’

  ‘So who was he?’

  For the first time, she looked vulnerable. ‘If I tell you his name, will you contact him?’

  ‘I might.’

  She didn’t know whether to go on or not, but she knew she had no choice. She put the cigarette to her li
ps and the tip glowed red. ‘Jean-François Berthold,’ she said. The answer came out in a swirl of smoke. ‘I met him when he came to Alderney.’

  ‘And what was Jean-François Berthold doing in Alderney?’

  ‘He’s a land surveyor. He was working for a French company.’

  ‘Would that be Électricité du Nord?’

  ‘Yes.’ She was surprised he knew. Or perhaps she’d hoped he didn’t. ‘He’s part of the NAB project …’

  ‘Which your husband supported.’

  ‘I really don’t think that’s an appropriate question,’ Colin Matheson cut in. He had been so quiet up to now that I’d almost forgotten he was in the room.

  ‘Why not?’ Hawthorne demanded.

  ‘Charles has just been killed. Helen is in shock. And you’re suggesting some sort of … conspiracy?’

  Hawthorne turned back to Helen. ‘Are you in shock, Mrs le Mesurier?’ he asked.

  Helen sniffed. ‘I’m upset. Of course I am.’

  Hawthorne got up and went over to the window. ‘You arrived yesterday from Paris. You didn’t stay long at the party. You went upstairs. Do you know what time that was?’

  She didn’t know, so I helped her out. ‘It was ten past nine,’ I said. I remembered looking at my watch.

  ‘Did you go straight to bed?’

  ‘I unpacked and had a bath first.’

  ‘Were the curtains drawn?’

  Helen thought back. ‘No. I drew them myself. After my bath.’

  Hawthorne looked out of the window. ‘You can see the Snuggery from here.’

  ‘I didn’t see anything! I mean, I didn’t see anyone go in or come out, if that’s what you’re getting at, Mr Hawthorne. Even if I had looked out of the window – and I didn’t – it would have been too dark to see the bottom of the garden.’ She paused. ‘I think I did notice that the lights were on inside, but that’s all I can tell you.’ She was almost daring him to challenge her. ‘Is there anything else?’

  ‘Did you hear anyone come upstairs? During the party or immediately afterwards.’

  ‘No. Who would have come upstairs? Only Charles, and he didn’t, did he?’ She reached forward and stubbed out her cigarette. When she looked up again, there were fresh tears in her eyes. ‘And now we know why.’