To be fair to Deputy Chief Torode and the Criminal Investigation Department of the Guernsey police, they had wasted no time in pulling together a sizeable force, ferrying about twenty men and women from one island to another at the crack of dawn and recruiting locally too. By eleven o’clock they had spread across a section of the northern side of the island from Fort Albert to Veaux Trembliers Bay, the idea being that they would spread themselves out along the coast and then circle back inwards. It was a sensible strategy, given the position of The Lookout and the fact that Helen had left on foot. According to her text message, the meeting had been arranged for half past two and she had left more or less on the hour. How far could she have gone in thirty minutes?
We saw something of the search under way as we left the hotel, driving to Colin Matheson’s house. He lived on the other side of Alderney, just inland from Longis Beach, but we’d taken the long way round so that we could see some of the activity. It was a cloudy day and there was a slightly forlorn quality about the line of people, some in police uniform, others dressed casually, silhouetted against the coastal sky, poking at the grass with long sticks. I saw a couple of dogs straining on leads, but I can’t say they exactly filled me with confidence as they were pulling in completely opposite directions. Someone was shouting, but the wind swept the words away and I doubted anyone could hear.
‘They haven’t got a chance.’ That was Terry’s view and Hawthorne didn’t disagree.
We turned away, cutting through farmland and heading towards the other coast. Of course, in Alderney, whichever way you drove you’d soon reach water.
‘I was surprised you didn’t tell Torode about Colin Matheson,’ I said. I spoke in a low voice, aware that Terry was eavesdropping on everything we said. I had already told Hawthorne about my phone conversation with Tom McKinley.
Hawthorne was less discreet. ‘Haven’t you got it in your head yet, mate? Torode hasn’t got a clue and if he did have one, he wouldn’t know what to do with it. You heard what he said! He’s not going to solve this case. He’s got more chance of finding the meat in his shepherd’s pie than he has of working out who killed le Mesurier. And it probably matters more to him too.’
Terry laughed at that. I was right. He was listening to every word.
Judith and Colin Matheson lived with their three children in a converted barn whose true glory should have been the gardens that surrounded it – and in particular an immaculate lawn that sloped gently down from the edge of the building to the road. But as we drew in, we saw that the lawn had been desecrated. Someone had recently taken a spade to it and gouged out six letters, each one about two metres in length, the fresh earth spelling out a familiar message:
BAN NAB
The work had been done quickly, perhaps under the cover of darkness. The first N was twisted on its side and the final B was too big. It was a particularly ugly piece of vandalism, given how much care had been put into the rest of the garden. Hawthorne and I both saw it as we walked up to the front door but neither of us said anything, as if it would be somehow indecent to comment.
Colin Matheson had seen us arrive and opened the door before we rang the bell. He looked utterly worn out. The first time I’d seen him, he’d reminded me of a junior doctor. Now he was more like an undertaker. ‘I wondered if I might see you today,’ he said – to Hawthorne, not to me. ‘Is it true what I’m hearing about Helen?’
‘She’s disappeared. Yes.’
‘They haven’t found her yet?’
‘They’re looking.’
‘Please come in.’ But Hawthorne stood where he was, examining the garden. He didn’t need to ask anything. Matheson volunteered. ‘It’s horrible, isn’t it? Someone did this on Saturday morning while Judith was out with Lucy, our youngest. She has horse-riding lessons every weekend and our other two are at boarding school, so I expect they knew that the house would be empty. When she got back, this is what she found. I was actually with you when she rang.’
So this explained why Judith Matheson hadn’t come to hear me and Hawthorne give our talk. I had some issues at home. That was what she had said, and Matheson had been deliberately vague about it too.
‘I know the point they’re making,’ he went on. ‘Digging up my garden just like those cables George Elkin was going on about. But it all seems so personal, so vindictive. I wish I’d never heard of that bloody power line. I thought it would benefit the island. I thought it would help secure our future. But all it’s done is tear us apart. I don’t think this place will ever be the same again.’
He turned his back on us and walked into the house. We followed him into a wide hallway that ran all the way to the garden at the back, with a flight of stairs twisting round to the first floor. The house was elegant, classical, with landscapes and horse pictures on the walls, nineteenth-century furniture (real, not repro) and everywhere a sense of neatness and order.
‘Who is it?’ a voice called out.
‘It’s Mr Hawthorne, dear.’
‘Oh.’ A door opened and Judith Matheson strode out of the kitchen, wearing an apron, drying a plate. She saw us. ‘You didn’t say you were coming,’ she said accusingly.
‘Well, I’m investigating a murder and now a woman has gone missing, so I wasn’t exactly waiting for an invitation,’ Hawthorne replied.
Judith processed this. She gave the plate another couple of wipes. ‘Take them into the drawing room, Colin,’ she said.
You can probably tell a lot about a house by whether it has a drawing room, a living room or a lounge … certainly about the people who live in it. A few minutes later, we found ourselves sitting on high-backed, remarkably uncomfortable sofas that surrounded a coffee table, with gold mirrors and more horse pictures on the walls. A faded grand piano stood to one side and I noticed books of Grade 2 piano music – the first suggestion that there were actually children who also inhabited this house – scattered over the top. The curtains had been drawn across the windows that would have looked out over the front garden, but I could see a greenhouse and vegetable patch round the side.
For a few minutes we chatted aimlessly to Colin, whose role, it seemed, was to keep us occupied without saying anything of any significance. Then Judith reappeared, carrying coffee and biscuits on a tray. We hadn’t asked for them. Maybe it was her way of making everything feel normal.
‘You’ve seen the garden,’ she said, before she’d even sat down. ‘It’s a wicked thing to have done. Just wicked!’
‘Actually, we’re here about the murder, Mrs Matheson,’ Hawthorne reminded her.
‘Of course. I know exactly why you’re here. But although it may not have occurred to you, everything that happens on this island is connected. My grandfather planted that lawn and four generations have been looking after it, keeping it perfect – not just for our pleasure but for everyone who passes.’
‘And George Elkin’s grandfather is buried at Longis Common, which is going to be dug up too,’ Hawthorne said, innocently. ‘Is that the sort of connection you mean?’
Judith fell silent, so her husband cut in. ‘I think that’s a little unfair. The plans for Longis Common allow for the complete restoration of the grasslands. In fact, they insist on it. There will be a few months’ disruption, but after that nobody will notice any difference.’
‘Is it disruption? Or desecration?’
‘Are you taking the side of the protestors, Mr Hawthorne?’ Colin Matheson was as close to anger as he could manage. ‘Because if so, I think you should leave my house.’
‘I’m not taking anyone’s side,’ Hawthorne replied. ‘It was your wife who suggested a connection between what happened here and the death of Charles le Mesurier. I’m just trying to understand the mindset. Anyway, from what I understand, now that le Mesurier is dead, the line may not go ahead.’
He had somehow made that sound like an accusation and Matheson flinched. ‘Charles le Mesurier had nothing to do with the decision-making process,’ he replied. ‘He made his views k
nown, but so did many other people. The committee made its recommendations based on the evidence: the financial and technological benefits weighed against any environmental consequences.’
Hawthorne turned to Judith. ‘Did you support the line?’ he asked.
She hadn’t expected the question. ‘Nobody asked me my opinion,’ she faltered.
‘But …?’
‘Obviously, I supported my husband.’
‘How well did you know Charles le Mesurier?’
She looked to Colin Matheson as if he could somehow prevent this line of questioning, but he couldn’t help her. ‘Charles le Mesurier was probably the most famous person on the island,’ she said. ‘Everyone knew him.’
‘That’s not what I asked you.’
‘I met him socially quite a few times. He invited us to dinner once or twice. I wouldn’t say we were friends. Of course, I got to know him better through the festival. Once he got involved.’
‘The festival was your idea.’
‘Yes.’
‘How did you get him to finance it?’
‘It was a business opportunity,’ Judith said. ‘I told him sponsoring a literary festival would be good for Spin-the-wheel. And he liked meeting well-known people. Unfortunately, that didn’t quite work out. We invited lots of famous authors – Philip Pullman, Val McDermid, Jacqueline Wilson, Alexander McCall Smith – but they all turned us down.’
‘What did you think of Charles le Mesurier?’ Hawthorne asked. At least he had the decency to avoid my eye.
‘I didn’t really have an opinion.’
‘What about his wife?’
Judith Matheson sat up stiffly. ‘I hardly knew her.’
‘But everyone’s connected on Alderney.’
‘I met her a few times. We had nothing in common.’
Colin Matheson leaned forward. ‘Actually, Mr Hawthorne, if you don’t have any more questions …’
‘I’ve nothing more to ask your wife,’ Hawthorne said. ‘But if you don’t mind, I’d like to talk to you.’ He paused. ‘Alone.’
Judith wasn’t having any of that. ‘Anything you want to say to my husband, you can say in front of me.’
‘That’s fine by me,’ Hawthorne said, not put out at all. He smiled at Matheson. ‘Shall I go ahead, then?’
But Matheson wasn’t stupid. He was, after all, a barrister and he must have sensed what was in the air. He turned to his wife. ‘Actually,’ he demurred, ‘if this has anything to do with States business, perhaps it might be best if you weren’t here, darling. I wouldn’t want you to be compromised.’
He was lying, of course. He knew that whatever Hawthorne had in mind had nothing to do with the island’s parliament. And Judith was equally disingenuous. She must have guessed that he was lying, but she went along with it. She stood up. ‘All right.’ She was still indignant. ‘I’ll be in the kitchen.’
She walked out of the room.
‘There’s something you have to understand about Judith,’ Matheson began as soon as the door had closed. ‘She loves this island. In fact, it’s very hard to get her to leave it … even for holidays. She’s always believed that everything is perfect here, so why would she want to go anywhere else? But as a result you could say that she is insular in the exact sense of that word. She was very upset by all the arguments about NAB, and as for what happened to le Mesurier … well, I hardly need tell you, there’s never been a murder on Alderney …’
‘You don’t,’ Hawthorne agreed.
‘But I’ve been married to her for twenty years. I love her very much and I wouldn’t want anything to harm her.’ He took a breath, waiting for the blow to fall. ‘So what do you want to ask me?’
‘I think you already know, Mr Matheson. Helen le Mesurier has gone missing, but we’ve managed to recover certain text messages from her phone that suggest the two of you were … how shall I put it …?’
‘We were lovers. Briefly, stupidly, insanely.’ The collapse when it came was total. Colin Matheson buried his face in his hands and his whole body shuddered. ‘She was the one who drew me in. She was the one who started it. I wish I’d never met her!’
Hawthorne was unforgiving. ‘Why are you talking about her in the past tense, Mr Matheson? Do you know she’s dead?’
Matheson looked up. ‘I’m talking about her in the past tense because my relationship with her is over,’ he said. ‘It wasn’t even a relationship. It was sex. Twice. Never again. I hated myself at the time. I love Judith and I’ll never forgive myself for being so stupid.’
‘Where did you have sex?’
‘In that place at the bottom of the garden. The Snuggery.’
‘And she suggested it?’
‘Look … I’m not going to make excuses for myself. It was my decision and God knows I regret it. But, yes, she was the one who made all the running. She threw herself at me.’
‘Why were you at the house?’
‘I was on States business. We were fund-raising for the school and I was on the committee. She invited me to The Lookout to talk about a possible bequest and then …’ His voice was hoarse and he swallowed a mouthful of lukewarm coffee. ‘I’m not going to talk about it. If Judith ever finds out, I’ll be finished. I love her. I love my children. This house! I’ll lose everything.’
I had never seen anyone quite so lost. Colin Matheson was crying. Every piece of him seemed to be on the point of collapse.
‘Do you really believe in this power line?’ Hawthorne asked. ‘When I spoke to him yesterday, Dr Queripel said you were being forced to support NAB. He was the best man at your wedding, but that doesn’t seem to matter to you any more. You’ve lost a lot of friends. When you were put on the committee, they all thought you’d be on their side. So what happened?’
Matheson fought for control. Still, when he spoke, his voice was hoarse and strangled. ‘If I tell you the truth, is there any way you can keep it from Judith?’
‘She’s going to find out everything if you don’t.’
‘All right.’ He took out a handkerchief and wiped his eyes. It took him another minute to recover. Eventually, he began. ‘It was six months ago,’ he said. ‘Helen took me to the Snuggery, but what she never told me was … there’s a security camera.’
I glanced at Hawthorne. I couldn’t remember seeing a camera. But he didn’t interrupt.
‘What happened between us was recorded. And a few weeks later I got a phone call …’
I wasn’t sure what was going to come next, but it was the last thing I had expected.
‘Derek Abbott,’ he said, his voice full of hatred.
‘He was blackmailing you?’ Hawthorne asked.
Matheson nodded. ‘I don’t know how he got his hands on the footage. He never told me. But he made it quite clear what he wanted – my support for the power line.’
‘What was in it for him?’
‘He has shares in Électricité du Nord. If NAB goes ahead, the shares are going to surge in value. That’s what it all comes down to. He wants to make money! And he doesn’t care if he trashes my life to get it. I told you. That man is vile. He should never have come to this island. He’s positively evil.’
‘Have you paid him money?’
‘No. He’s cleverer than that. All he wanted was for the line to go ahead. That was what he told me. My job was to sway the committee, to use my influence so the decision would go in his favour. If the vote was passed, he’d destroy the evidence.’
‘You were against the line.’
‘To begin with I was undecided. On the face of it, there seemed to be benefits. But the more I looked into it, the more I saw the harm that it could do. I have friends. I’ve known Henry and Susan Queripel most of their lives. Do you think I want to see their beautiful house ruined?’
‘But that’s exactly what you do want to see,’ Hawthorne said. ‘You did what Abbott told you. You supported the line. You got it signed off. You’ve sold all your friends up the river to protect yourself.’
Matheson had no answer to that. He’d been defeated when we walked in. Now he was destroyed.
Hawthorne got up. ‘We’ll show ourselves out,’ he said.
We left the house together but we didn’t get back in the car. Hawthorne didn’t want to talk where Terry could overhear, and anyway, he needed a cigarette. We stood in the road in front of the house while he smoked.
‘I didn’t see a security camera,’ I said.
Hawthorne looked surprised. ‘Well done, Tony. I wondered if you’d notice. That’s because it wasn’t there.’
‘So how …?’
‘How did Derek Abbott get pictures from a camera that didn’t exist? Well, there are two possibilities. The first is that he somehow found out what was going to happen and he put it there. The second is that there was a camera six months ago, but for some reason Helen le Mesurier or her husband decided to take it down.’
‘How will you find out?’
‘Well, I’m not sure Derek Abbott will tell us anything – not when it’s going to put him back in jail. So our best chance is Helen le Mesurier.’
‘If they ever find her.’
‘And if she’s still alive.’
They did find her, later that afternoon. She wasn’t alive.
A railway line – used only for tourist rides in the summer – ran along the edge of Mannez Quarry, about twenty minutes’ walk from The Lookout. The line split into three and continued down to a large shed which housed the diesel engine and carriages that made the journey to Braye Road Station, twice a week on Saturdays (I had seen flyers advertising the trip back at the hotel). My first thought, as Hawthorne and I drew up, was that despite the blue water and an abundance of bright yellow gorse sprouting all around, it was a remarkably desolate, even a grim place. Perhaps it was The Odeon, the naval tower built by the Nazis, that inspired my sense of unease. It stood high above, as sinister a building as I had ever encountered, with its three dark slits dissecting the grey concrete. From the day of its construction it had been a witness to murder and barbarity. It was somehow fitting that this should have continued into the twenty-first century.
A Line to Kill Page 18