Switcheroo (A Gideon Oliver Mystery Book 18)

by Aaron Elkins

  “How would Peltier know about it?” Gideon asked. “We have no idea where he is, or even if he’s still alive.”

  “Oh, but I believe he is, and I believe I do know where he is. He’s Miranda’s boyfriend—Randy Campion!” Rafe’s voice had spiked up with elation. “Ha-ha! How could I have failed to see it?”

  “Randy who? Miranda the Dreadful has a boyfriend?”

  Rafe briefly filled him in on Campion. For most of the two years Randy had been around, he told him, Rafe had thought of him as no more than the latest in Miranda’s parade of live-in male scroungers, although by far the longest lasting. But since running into him in the street after his visit with Abbott, a number of things had begun to jump out, and they had just now fallen into place.

  Item: Randy referred to Miranda as “Mandy,” a privilege no one else had been granted for fifty years. And what had been Peltier’s pet name for her in the old days? Yes, “Mandy.” As far as Rafe knew, only her mother and Peltier had ever gotten away with that. Rafe himself had gotten a tongue-lashing he still remembered for calling her Aunty Mandy when he was little more than a toddler.

  Item: She called him “Randy.” Wasn’t that a nickname for Bertrand as well as Randall? Wasn’t it possible that they’d chosen the fake name “Randall” for him instead of some other name, for fear that she might slip up and call him by the old nickname, thus arousing suspicion that he might, after all, be Peltier? This way, being overheard calling him “Randy” was no problem.

  Item: Miranda had never accepted the bone fragments that were supposed to be Peltier’s, saying she refused to believe he was dead. Wasn’t it possible that it was because she knew he wasn’t dead?

  It was a thought Gideon had had too, but he still had reservations. “I don’t know, Rafe. Didn’t you tell us she got hysterical when she saw the bones? Ran screaming from the police station? That doesn’t sound like someone who knew he was still alive.”

  “Well, that’s the way the file describes it, but you have to consider that she might have been putting on a show—she’s certainly good enough at it now.”

  Without giving Gideon a chance to respond, he went on. “Item—and this is the one least subject to proof, because it’s a personal feeling, but for me it’s the most convincing thing of all. The man exhibits a level of comfort, almost of entitlement, about his living off Miranda that’s miles—miles—above anything the others have shown. And, for all I can tell, she lets him get away with it. Believe me, no one gets along that well with Miranda. No, I’m sure I’m right! Well, what do you think?”

  “I think you might—”

  “And consider this: Mike was looking for some sort of connection between Abbott’s murder and what happened in 1964. Well, here it is! Bertrand Peltier, deeply involved in what happened then, and now, shortly before Abbott, George Skinner’s son, is killed, here he is—what do you know about that—back on the scene. Gideon, it’s obvious!”

  “Yes, Rafe, I hear you, and there might very well be something to it—”

  But Rafe was too excited to listen. “Gideon, I’d better ring off. I need to tell Mike about this—”

  “Wait, before you hang up—back to the van for a minute? Does Mike have any kind of lead on it?”

  “Van? Oh, the van, yes. All I know is that he does have his people on the alert for it, but frankly, if it’s found its way into a covered garage or some other hideaway, I don’t see much chance of—”

  “—my getting a look at it in these next couple of days,” Gideon said.

  “I’m afraid not,” Rafe said.

  Gideon sighed. “Damn,” he said to Rafe.

  Whew, he said to himself.

  CHAPTER 24

  Not even three hours since Clapper had decided on reopening the old Skinner-Carlisle case, and already he was ruing his decision. The flipping thing was turning into a full-time job . . . but, he had to admit, one that had caught his interest. For the first time, he found himself truly believing that those ancient crimes might not only be solvable but might actually result in a prosecution. He’d been involved in cold cases before, but fifty years? If they succeeded, it might be a world record.

  Such were his thoughts on hanging up after Rafe’s phone call. Wouldn’t it be something if Rafe was right? If the prime suspect in the murders of Roderick Carlisle and George Skinner was right here under their noses? And the only suspect in the embezzlement of nearly a million pounds from Carlisle Paving and Road Construction? And certainly a “person of interest” in the death of Abbott Skinner as well, although neither Clapper nor Rafe could think of a motive. Abbott had still been in his mother’s womb in 1964 when his father and Roddy Carlisle had been killed and Peltier had vanished. Where was the thread that tied him to Abbott?

  And would Peltier really have the nerve to come back, even after all that time, protected only by a new mustache, a false name, and fifty years of aging, and to move about as openly as Rafe claimed he did? Well, yes, he just might, if, perchance, he didn’t see much downside to being found out; if for example, he was unaware that in 1999, some thirty-five years after he left, Jersey criminal law was amended to eliminate statutes of limitation—not only for capital crimes but for all crimes. If he thought he was home scot-free, he was seriously wrong. He was still on the hook for both murder and embezzlement.

  For the first time since transferring to Jersey, Clapper could feel the old, familiar excitement of the hunt building in him. “Vickery,” he said in a voice only slightly louder than his normal speech, and in three seconds Constable Vickery was standing at attention just inside the doorway, having shot from his cubicle a few yards down the hall. Clapper couldn’t help laughing. Any faster and he would have skidded to a stop with smoke coming from his heels, like a character in a movie cartoon.

  “Sir?”

  “Two things, Tom. First, I’ll need you to see what record we might have of a gent named Randall Campion. He’s been here two years, I believe, having come from England. Not only any interactions he may have had with the police, but any record at all—work permit, driving license, car registration, passport record, and so on. All right?”

  “Er, sir, you do know . . . travelers from England don’t need passports to—”

  “Exactly right, my mistake. Well, then, get whatever you can.”

  “Yes, sir, I’ll get right to it and let you know at once.” He stopped in midturn. “You said two things?”

  “Yes, I want you to check my calendar and find time for us to meet next Monday or Tuesday. A half hour. If my schedule doesn’t allow it, then arrange it for before working hours.”

  “Er . . . just us two, Chief Inspector?”

  “Just us. And no need for that look of concern, son. There’s nothing wrong, I promise.”

  Quite the contrary, in fact, Clapper thought as Vickery left. The reason he wanted to talk to the young man was to make sure he intended to sit for the sergeant’s exam coming up in a couple of months. Vickery’s sterling performance at the morgue had convinced him that he’d been underestimating the boy’s potential for police work—probably because Vickery’s natural diffidence and shyness were so at odds with Clapper’s own blunt personality. But there was more than one way to do good police work, and Clapper was now of the opinion that Vickery not only had what it took to be a good cop but could make a first-rate supervisor too. The boy did need coaching in a few minor matters—self-confidence, deportment—and Clapper was ready to provide it.

  He jotted a note to himself about it and returned to the report he’d been thinking about when Rafe had called. This too pertained to the old Carlisle-Skinner affair. It was in the case file begun when the bone fragments had been found in the tar pit in 1969, but this particular item was dated June 1964, which meant that it had been taken or photocopied from the earlier case file. It was signed by Sergeant Mark Lavoisier (he who had taken out the 1964 postmortem on Skinner, had failed to return it, and had then most inconsiderately died ten years ago).

  13 J
une 1964. At 13:35, a man who identified himself as Mr. Edmond Jouvet came to the office to offer “assistance” in the matter and was referred to PC Miller, who requested my attendance as well. Mr. Jouvet, a solicitor at Withins, Wessing, & Overton, was in a state of considerable agitation. His breath smelled strongly of whiskey (noted by PC Miller as well as myself). He insisted he knew why George Skinner had been killed and proceeded to impart a bizarre and disconnected story of exchanged children during the Occupation years and resentments arising therefrom.

  After interviewing Mr. Jouvet, it was PC Miller’s and my joint opinion that the story was most likely the distorted creation of his alcoholic state and had little or no foundation in fact. Mr. Jouvet was thanked and provided with transportation to his home, at the termination of which he had to be awakened.

  14 June 1964. Today PC Miller was despatched to call on Mr. Jouvet at Withins, Wessing, & Overton to elicit anything further from him concerning his allegations of yesterday. Mr. Jouvet, who appeared to be quite sober, told PC Miller that he had been drinking heavily yesterday as a result of a family problem, that he was not used to drinking, that he had next to no memory of his visit to the police station, and no memory at all of how he had gotten home. He asserted surprise and consternation on hearing a brief summary of what he had said, asserted several times that he had never heard of any matter involving exchanged children, and apologized profusely for taking up the police’s time.

  Under this, scrawled in pencil, was an unsigned note dated five and a half years later, December 12, 1969.

  Called on the above-mentioned Mr. Jouvet this morning just in case he might have something of interest to say. He did not. He was unreceptive, expressing resentment at being “hounded” by the police and asserting that he would file a complaint if there was another instance of it. In this officer’s opinion, his hostile and uncooperative manner suggested fear or evasiveness. This officer believes he is worth further questioning.

  Clapper’s search through the rest of the file had turned up no indication of additional questioning, so apparently it had been dropped, which left Clapper wondering. As it happened, he knew about the exchange of young George and Roddy during the Occupation—Rafe had told him—and Jouvet’s actions intrigued him. Jouvet’s visit to the police in 1964 clearly meant that he knew about it too. But why did he think it was important in the murder investigations? And why deny any knowledge of it the following day and then again five years later? Like the anonymous author of the note, Clapper believed the man was worth further questioning. He had looked up Withins, Wessing, & Overton in the telephone book, had found that the firm was still in existence in Saint Brélade, and had learned from a telephone call that one Edmond Jouvet had been with the firm for many years, had left twenty years ago, and had been living in retirement in Saint Helier.

  At the sound of a gentle throat clearing that he was beginning to know well, Clapper looked up. “Yes, Tom?”

  “There’s nothing on any Randall Campion, sir.”

  “Nothing at all? The man’s been here two years.”

  “I know, sir, but he doesn’t show up in any governmental records or newspaper indices. I’m sorry.”

  “For God’s sake, Constable, there’s nothing to be sorry about. Will you stop this endless apologizing!”

  Vickery blanched. “I’m s—” He caught himself before he said it, and after a second they laughed together, a first, and it gentled them both.

  “Actually, it’s what I hoped you’d find. Tom, do you know if Sergeant Kendry’s about?”

  “Yes, sir, he is. I saw him just minutes ago. Shall I get him for you?”

  “No, that’s all right. I’ll get him myself. I could stand a change of scene.”

  Detective Sergeant Warren Kendry’s windowless cubicle at the far end of the hallway was a change, but not for the better. At seven by eight feet, it was no larger than the four ordinary detective cubicles, and just as messy, with notices and reminders and lists tacked up on the fabric sections of the walls and taped to the glass parts. Clapper, for whom neatness was generally a priority, was sympathetic; with no room for a file cabinet and only two drawers in the department’s standard-issue desk, where were they supposed to put this stuff? Kendry also somehow managed to find space to stick up his “motivational” slogans, which he printed up at home and changed several times a week. There were three new ones today: Eagles soar, but weasels don’t get sucked into jet engines. The problem with the rat race is that even if you win, you’re still a rat. If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again. Then quit. There’s no point in being a damn fool about it.

  Clapper was in a good mood, and they made him smile. He gestured at the third one with his chin. “They got that right.”

  There was a narrow, not terribly robust visitor’s chair jammed in between the desk and the fabric wall, but Kendry knew better than to invite Clapper to sit. That had been tried before, with unfortunate results.

  “What’s up, Chief?”

  “Have you gotten started on the tar pits case yet, Warren?”

  Kendry patted the closed folder in front of him. “Just finished going through the background. I’d heard about it before, but I never knew that Roddy Carlisle was Senator Carlisle’s father.”

  “That he was, and, in fact, I’ve just had an interesting call from the senator.” Leaning on the doorless doorjamb and pretty much entirely plugging up the entryway, Clapper briefed Kendry on what Rafe had told him about Campion and on what Tom had been able to find on him in the records, which was nothing.

  “Do you want us to bring him in, Chief?”

  “No, not yet. I want your people to size him up, that’s all—could he be Peltier? But make it simple, a routine call, something procedural, nothing threatening. If he is Bertrand Peltier, we don’t want him scarpering again.”

  Kendry, who had been taking notes all along, jotted down a few final ones and pocketed the pad he was writing on. “I assume we’d be most likely to find him out at the writer’s place, the old Dechambeaux Manor?”

  “That’s certainly the first place I’d look. Who do you intend to put on the case?”

  “I’ve already put them: Buncombe and Bayley.”

  When Clapper responded with a chuckling snort, Kendry said, “You don’t think they’re right for the job, Chief?”

  “No, they’re fine. It’s the names that get to me. They sound like an old music hall act. Buncombe and Bayley. Can’t you just see ’em shuffling out in tandem from stage right, with their striped jackets and their straw boaters, twirling their walking sticks and doing a soft-shoe entrance?”

  “Bayley, maybe, but not Harvey Buncombe. Not at eighteen stone. Beg pardon, Chief. No offense.”

  “Not to worry, Warren. I have no plans to take up soft-shoe dancing.”

  Kendry smiled. Then he mused for a minute. “Now Laurel and Hardy . . . that I could see.”

  Back in his office, Clapper caught sight of the notes about Edmond Jouvet on his desk and rang Kendry even before sitting down. “And while they’re about it, have them make one more call while they’re out. There’s an old codger I want them to talk to named Edmond Jouvet, who’s also of interest in the matter. Probably best to ring him up first. He lives in Saint Helier . . .”

  CHAPTER 25

  Kendry’s allusion to Laurel and Hardy was apt. Harvey Buncombe was large, wide, and slow moving, while Lyle Bayley was wiry, tight featured, and birdlike in his movements. As with Laurel and Hardy themselves, the conventional fat/thin stereotypes did not apply. Buncombe was not avuncular and jocose but cynical and grumpy. Bayley was the easygoing, amiable one. If they ever practiced the good-cop, bad-cop routine, (which they didn’t; to anyone who had access to a television set that particular ploy was familiar to the point of boredom), it was Buncombe who would have been the nasty cop, Bayley the nice guy.

  And, in fact, that was the way they worked together, but it wasn’t a ploy; it came naturally. It wasn’t that Harvey was quick to anger�
��there was nothing brutal about him—but he was impatient with what he saw as evasion or prevarication, and he was neither good at hiding it nor interested in doing so. He also had developed, somewhere along the line, that heavy-lidded, slightly sidewise detective’s look that makes a suspect feel the game was up; he might as well save everybody the trouble and hold his wrists out for the cuffs right now. Bayley, the more literate and educated of the two, had plenty of patience and, without trying to, quickly became the nervous interrogee’s friend and comfort, an understanding recipient for whatever the looming, grumbling Buncombe had frightened the poor sod into saying. Because it worked so well, they were often assigned as a team, which pleased them both. Still, Bayley did envy that sidewise look. He’d tried it, but it just didn’t work for him.

  “It’s like a fairy tale, when you think about it,” said Buncombe, who despite his prickly nature was a romantic. “The teenage bride and her young lover separated for half a century, and then, in the sunset of their lives, finding each other again and living out their remaining years together.”

  “If it’s Peltier,” said Bayley. “But then, if it is, it’s not going to have a fairy-tale ending. There’s still about a million pounds to be accounted for, to say nothing of two dead bodies.”

  “I suppose that’s a point, yes,” said Buncombe, who was at the wheel of their unmarked gray BMW. “And there it is, the old Dechambeaux place. She’s certainly done a good job fixing it up. It was falling down when she bought it.”

  “She certainly has,” agreed Bayley. “You’ve seen the lady on the telly, have you?”

  “Hard to avoid. A real piece of work, Lyle. If she’s with him, she’ll make trouble.”

  “Oh, she’s not so bad as all that,” said Bayley predictably, and then laughed. “Besides, if need be, you’ll give her what for pretty quick.”

  Buncombe clapped an indignant hand to his chest. “Not I!”

  “Yes, right, can’t imagine what I was thinking. Ah, that’s her there, isn’t it? Tennessee Rivers in the flesh. With the gray-haired chap.”