by Aaron Elkins
“Ouch,” Gideon said. “Crinkled leather. Can you actually lift a print off that?”
John was holding it up to his face, turning it to see both sides. “Yeah, as a matter of fact, they can, nowadays. I’ve seen them get them off these vinyl money bags they have now, and those are crinklier than this. They use silver nitrate, I think it is.”
Rafe had reseated himself at the table. He was starting to look concerned. “Then why are you looking so dubious?”
“It’s not about the prints themselves, Rafe, it’s about what are they going to do with them? I mean, okay, say they now have this Randy guy’s prints. How are they supposed to use them to show he’s really Peltier?”
Rafe looked delighted by the question. “Well, would comparing them with Peltier’s old fingerprints suffice?”
“Sure, it would suffice,” John said, “but how are they supposed to do that? He’s been gone for fifty years. Don’t tell me his old prints are still on file somewhere.”
“But they are still on file,” Rafe said, beginning to laugh again. “The Nazis, God bless them.”
In their famously zealous regard for record keeping, he said, they had fingerprinted every single person on the island, even including newborns born during the Occupation years. Since Peltier had been twenty in 1964, he would have been born in 1944 and would be included in the data bank.
“And they’ve been kept all this time?” Gideon asked.
“Oh, yes, mostly for historical records, but I do occasional DNA work for the police, and once or twice in dealing with an unidentified oldster, I’ve made use of them myself.”
John slipped the lighter into the plastic lunch bag Rafe had given him. “Okay, then, you’ve got something to go on. You’ll give this to Mike?”
“Yes, first thing in the morning.” He reached for the bag.
John held back. “No, you want to put this in a bigger paper bag or a small carton, so you don’t accidentally smudge it.”
“Paper bag, paper bag,” recited Rafe, but he had no idea where they might be kept. Instead, from a wall cabinet he removed a bottle of Hennessy cognac from its slender black carton and slipped the plastic envelope inside. “There.”
Julie laughed. “Mike will think he’s getting a present.”
Rafe patted the box. “He is, and it’s better than what was in it before. Speaking of which, shall we defy convention and open the bottle before dinner? We can sip a bit of it while these plates go into the warming oven to be brought back up to temperature.” There were already brandy glasses on the table, and into each of them Rafe poured a couple of inches of the cognac, then looked up.
“I trust it goes without saying,” he said darkly, “that Gussie must never know that her marvelous dinner was eaten rewarmed.”
At eight thirty the next morning, Detective Chief Inspector Clapper was sitting in his office and thinking.
The big window behind his desk was opened to its widest, and he had swiveled his chair to face the gently shifting wall of leaves just outside, so close he could have leaned out and snapped off a branch if he’d wanted to. He had tilted the chair back, clasped his hands behind his head, and put his sizable feet up on the low sill, ankles comfortably crossed. His eyes closed, he was listening to the steady, thin drip of water on the leaves and inhaling the newly washed fragrance of fresh rain on clean pavement. It was a favorite place to sort things out, and the brownish-black smudges on the wood around his heels showed it.
“Chief?”
Clapper turned his chair around. “Yes, Warren?”
Sergeant Kendry grinned. “Just got a call from the lab. We’ve got him! Pence says it’s him, all right, the prints match.”
“Brilliant!” Then after a moment, a more hesitant: “He’s sure?”
“Well—”
Mumble-grumble.
“No, he’s sure, Chief, but he just wants you to know this is a quick eyeball judgment, which is what you asked him for. He hasn’t done any formal ridge analysis yet, but in his opinion it’s good enough to act on it.”
“Then let’s act on it. Pence knows his business. Get Buncombe and Bayley out there now. Have ’em bring the tricky sod in.”
Another grin from Kendry. “You got it, Chief.”
“Oh, Warren?” Clapper called as Kendry turned to leave. “Tell B and B from me that they did a first-rate job with old man Jouvet. That’s quite a story they got out of him. I’ve been sitting here thinking about just what to make of it.”
“Shall do.”
Clapper nodded, spun his chair back around, got his feet up on the sill again, and leaned back.
Plenty to think about.
CHAPTER 29
Twenty minutes later, at a little before nine, Miranda opened her Chinese-red front door, looking nothing like the woman they’d met yesterday, looking like hell in fact, like those spiteful Internet photos of movie stars caught without their makeup: wild, spiky gray hair; flimsy, flowered dressing gown; shapeless felt slippers. Her face was as gray as her hair and mottled with red blotches.
“Oh, God, not you two again. Did I fail to make myself clear yesterday? Do you have any idea what time it is?”
“Good morning, Mrs. Atterbury,” Buncombe said with overcooked good cheer. “We’re very sorry to bother you again, but I’m afraid we really do need to speak with Mr. Campion one more time.”
She responded with a barked note that was two-thirds grunt and one-third brusque laugh. “You and me both.”
“He’s not here?” Bayley said, his heart sinking. Christ, they’d blown it yesterday, as he’d feared. They’d scared him off. He’d bolted. There weren’t going to be any commendations from Clapper on this one.
“He’s left, has he?” Buncombe asked.
That laugh-grunt again. “Slunk off in the middle of the night like the vile little rodent he is. With thirty thousand pounds’ worth of my jewelry from my safe-deposit box, and two thousand in sterling that I kept in the house.”
“History repeats itself,” Buncombe said, more gently than Bayley might have expected.
She lifted one unkempt gray eyebrow. “If that’s meant to ferret out whether I knew he was Bertrand, the answer is yes, as I’m sure you already know.”
“I see,” Bayley said. “And did you—”
“Detectives, I don’t want to stand here all morning, answering one question after another—”
“We could go inside and sit down,” Buncombe grumbled, but if she heard him, she didn’t let on.
“—so let me give you all the answers you want right now. Yes, I knew from the start about his embezzlement. No, I had no part in it myself; I never saw a pound of it. Yes, I knew from the beginning that he wasn’t in that tar pit; I saw him off on the boat myself when he left. Yes, I expected that I would hear from him once he was settled in England.”
She paused for a cold smile. “I did too, just as he promised, didn’t I? It just took him fifty years to get around to it. It was after a book signing in Derby, no warning at all, and I was bowled over enough to accept his invitation to tea. All ‘Sweetkins-this’ and ‘Buttercup-that,’ he was, and what a terrible fool he’d been to leave me behind and begging for forgiveness, the scheming sod. And I took him in, gormless cabbage that I am. So, am I going to be arrested? Accessory to whatever?”
“We don’t know, Mrs. Atterbury,” Buncombe said truthfully. “He was never formally charged with anything, and it was a long time ago, so, personally, I’d be surprised.”
I wouldn’t, Bayley thought. Maybe regarding a 1964 embezzlement, yes, but murder is another matter. “There’s something else, Mrs. Atterbury,” he said. “I’m sure you know that Bertrand remains a suspect in the murders of George Skinner and Roddy—”
She flapped a hand at him. “No, no, no, I can disabuse you of that. A suspect he may be, but he didn’t do it. When I saw him off on that boat, they were both very much alive. I remember because that very evening Roddy rang me up to ask if I had any idea where Bertrand was. Naturally, I said I d
idn’t . . . well, I didn’t, did I, other than that he was in England? It was another two days before he and George disappeared. And then the next day, they found George’s body.”
“Nevertheless, we’d like very much to have a conversation with him.”
“That makes three of us,” Miranda said with another laugh, a heartier one this time.
“Well, do you think you can tell us anything that might help us find him?”
“He didn’t bother to tell me where he was going, I can tell you that, but I might have some useful ideas. If I do, however, you have to promise me five minutes alone in a room with the son of a bitch before you take him into custody.”
Buncombe, who had obviously and improbably taken a liking to her, laughed. “Only if you promise that there won’t be any visible bruises on him when you give him back to us.”
“Certainly, if you’ll lend me your rubber hose.” She too had softened. “Oh, what the hell, boys, come in. Give me a minute to make myself decent, and I’ll get us some coffee, and we can talk about it.”
Buncombe courteously inclined his head. “It would be a pleasure, madam.”
Meanwhile, Julie, John, and Gideon were revamping the day’s plans. Gideon had gotten out of bed at five in the morning, unable to get back to sleep. (In retrospect, he thought, that second helping of trifle might have been a mistake.) He had written and e-mailed the expanded report for Clapper and boxed up the carton of bones. That left the morning free, after all, except for dropping off the carton with Clapper. They decided that Julie and John would take the bus to the wildlife park to get the lay of the land, and Gideon would join them a little later.
As things turned out, it would be a lot later.
CHAPTER 30
“One box of bones, as ordered,” Gideon said, placing the Gentleman’s Relish carton on the corner of Clapper’s desk. With him was Rafe, whom he had run into downstairs. Rafe was there to identify Abbott, and he had come upstairs with Gideon to Clapper’s office.
“Ah, thank you, Gideon,” Clapper said, sounding very upbeat this morning. “Vickery! Vickery, dammit, where—” And then, when the constable materialized: “The transfer of custody form—I can’t find it anywhere. What have you done with the bloody thing?”
“But, sir, you explicitly told me to—” But he didn’t finish the sentence, seemingly having learned that excuses to Clapper that began with “But you explicitly told me” were unlikely to end in a happy result. “I’ll have it for you in a moment.”
As he turned to go, Clapper waved him back and held out a couple of sheets of paper. “And if you would, kindly give us three copies of this. I believe our friends will be interested.”
“Sir.”
Clapper remained behind his desk, so the two of them took up visitors’ chairs across from him. He started to speak, but Vickery was already back with the requested form. Clapper signed it and then pushed it across to Gideon for his signature. “Chain of evidence, don’t you know.”
Gideon laughed as he put his name to it. “Great, now we’ve established an irrefutable chain of custody all the way from yesterday to today. It’s only that half century in Rafe’s garage that might be a little iffy.”
Clapper chuckled too. “Well, I don’t expect they’ll be admissible as evidence, but it’s good to have them to go along with your report . . . for which I thank you, by the way. Very thorough.”
“Mike, have you had a chance to run those fingerprints of Campion’s yet?” asked Rafe.
“We have, in record time, and—get yourself ready for this—you were right: they match. Bertrand Peltier is back among us.”
“I knew it!” Rafe said, lifting a victorious fist.
“Two of my men are out there collecting him now.”
“What very welcome news.” Rafe fell back into his chair, triumphant and smiling. “I expect Miranda may be displeased, though.”
“Oh, I think I can deal with Miranda. Gentlemen, have either of you ever heard of an old man, a onetime solicitor named Edmond Jouvet?”
Head shakes from Rafe and Gideon.
“I ask because we have a statement from him that adds another little twist to the case.”
“Which case are we talking about?” Gideon asked. “Abbott’s or the old one?”
“The old one . . . well, possibly the new one too; I’m not sure yet. I’d like your opinions on it, which is why I’ve asked Tom to make copies for you.”
“If it’ll take a while for him to do it,” Rafe said, “do you suppose someone could take me out to the mortuary to take care of Abbott’s identification? It’s got me rather . . . apprehensive.”
“They’ll call as soon as they’re ready for you, Rafe,” Clapper said. “I’m sorry it’s taking so long. I know what a wretched experience it can be. Ah, here are those copies. Thank you, Tom.”
While Vickery handed them around, Clapper said, “I assume we’re all familiar with the exchange of children that your family and the Skinners made during the Occupation, Rafe.”
“Yes, I gave Gideon the whole story last night.”
“Good. Well, it seems Mr. Jouvet was directly involved in it—”
“The lawyer who drew up the agreement?” Rafe asked.
“The very man, and his recollection . . . well, go ahead and read it for yourselves. Tea for myself and Senator Carlisle, please, Vickery. I think coffee for Dr. Oliver.”
“Nothing for me, thank you, Constable,” Rafe said. “Maybe afterward. My stomach’s a little . . .” He made fluttery motions in front of his abdomen.
Vickery left on his mission, and they began reading.
22 April 2015
I, Edmond Lester Jouvet, solicitor (ret.), of 975 Buckingham Court Road, Saint Helier, JE 2, say as follows: (Unless otherwise indicated, what I say in this statement I say from my own knowledge.)
(1) On 27 June 1945 I was present at the Royal Crescent home of Howard and Grace Carlisle. Also present was their son, Roderick, seven, (hereafter referred to as Roddy) and William and Bess Skinner and their son, George, also seven. I was in attendance to assist in concluding the contract originally prepared by myself on 20 June 1940, and in resolving any remaining issues resulting therefrom.
(2) Inasmuch as the 1940 contract referred to in (1) above has now been provided to Detectives Bayley and Buncombe of the States of Jersey Police, I will assume that it is not necessary for me to describe it in detail. In brief, it was an arrangement between the families in which the identities of the two children were transposed a day before the Skinners were to evacuate to England with their two-year-old son, George. The exchange was instigated by Howard Carlisle to ensure that his son, Roddy, also two, who was unwell, would not have to endure the deprivations of the Occupation but would live in what was hoped would be the relative safety of England.
In return, George would remain in Jersey in Roddy’s stead, where the Carlisles promised to treat him in every way as their own son. Certain remunerations from the Carlisles to the Skinners were proposed and accepted. Upon termination of the Occupation and the return of the Skinners to Jersey, the children were to be reunited with their natural parents and remunerations were to be settled to the satisfaction of the signatories.
“Mike,” Rafe said, waggling the papers, “why are we reading this? We already know all this. You said it yourself.”
“I gather you haven’t arrived at paragraph five yet. I don’t think anything will be lost if we all leap ahead to it.”
But Gideon thought he’d be better off reading it as it was written and continued from where he was.
(3) The meeting on 27 June 1945 proceeded as planned. To all intents and purposes, the two families had lived up to their commitments. The children, showing a natural confusion as to their identities and the identities of their parents, were then reexchanged, the remunerations were transferred by the Carlisles and accepted by the Skinners, and signatures to that effect were appended to the contract, which was placed on the following day in the Jouvet va
ult at Lloyds Bank, Saint Helier, where it has remained from that day to this.
“My God,” Gideon heard Rafe whisper, having apparently gotten to paragraph five. “Can this be true?”
He resisted the impulse to jump ahead himself and plowed steadily on.
(4) It is my understanding that all of the above is generally known to the Carlisle and Skinner families, and to whomever else they have chosen to inform. What follows, I believe to be known by nobody now alive other than myself.
(5) At about eleven, when the Skinners made ready to leave with their son, George, the boy became hysterical and clung desperately to Mrs. Carlisle, who held him close in a most affecting scene. Efforts were made to calm him, to little avail, and at one point Mrs. Carlisle physically prevented Mrs. Skinner from wresting him from her. When Roddy, who was sitting on the floor in a corner, playing with a toy construction set, began to taunt George, Howard Carlisle suddenly stood up and said, and I quote him exactly: “This isn’t going to work, is it?”
To my astonishment, within fifteen minutes all four parents agreed that they did not want to give up the children that had lived with them for the past five years and all concerned would be better off if the 1940 exchange were not reversed (i.e., if George were not returned to the Skinners but remained with the Carlisles as their son, Roddy, and Roddy remained with the Skinners as their son, George).
“Wow,” Gideon heard himself whispering.
It was agreed that all financial and other responsibilities for the children would be assumed by the couple raising them. The adults were certain that the two seven-year-olds would soon forget that for a single day they had been “someone else,” and it is my conviction that this proved to be the case.
Although I had numerous reservations about the implications of so extraordinary an arrangement, I agreed to keep it secret. I believe I can say with truth that it was against my better judgment, and I have regretted it from that day on.
I will also say, however, that when the meeting ended at about midnight and the Skinners went off with Roddy (henceforth, “George”), both sets of parents and children seemed much relieved.