by Jill Downie
The Commission had a different mandate from the Financial Investigations Unit. It acted as a watchdog and inspection body, and was therefore involved in the financial scene on the island in general, and not necessarily as a result of a criminal investigation. Moretti had worked with Don when he was looking into the operations of so-called “captives,” the subsidiaries set up by insurance companies to cover the risk of their own financial dealings.
Don Taylor screened and taped every call, so Moretti listened to the brief message, and began. “Don, it’s Ed Moretti. I need to talk to you.”
Almost before he finished the sentence there was a click and the sound of Don’s voice. “So I hear. A body with a bullet in the head, a Porsche in the belly of the boat, and a fortune in Euros in the bed-head.”
“Do you have a direct line to Hospital Lane?”
“Word spreads, need I tell you. A contact in the harbour master’s office rang me about something else, and he’d heard about the body and the boodle from the driver of the police car. I could come over in an hour or so.”
“Meet me at my place.”
The only really significant addition Moretti had made to the contents of his family home was the sound system he had installed to carry the music so essential to him. It was a vintage quad tube system that drove a set of ESL speakers. The large speaker panel gave an incredibly smooth, sweet sound that had never, in Moretti’s opinion, been bettered. He had not had to add a piano. He still had the one that had belonged to his mother.
The sound of Oscar Peterson filled the cottage, upstairs and downstairs, above the sound of the rain that had started to fall as Moretti drove up Les Gravées. He made himself a sandwich and put on coffee for himself and Don Taylor. As he did so, he heard Don’s motorbike outside in the courtyard and went to the door.
“Christ, these things are slippery, Ed! Nearly lost my balance.”
Don Taylor was a small, wiry man of about forty, whose chief regret about working on Guernsey was the lack of space for his favourite hobby, running marathons. His other pet hobby was his ancient Rudge motorbike, which, when he was not riding it, he was either under or alongside working on it.
“That’s cobblestones for you. Covered with the slick and moss of two centuries. Come in.”
Don shook off his oilskins under the overhang by the door, then hung them and his helmet over one of the hallstand hooks and sniffed the air appreciatively.
“Oscar and freshly ground coffee beans, what could be better. You were on form last night.”
“You were at the club? I didn’t see you.”
“Tucked away at the back. I saw the yacht when I came out — spectacular, if you like that sort of thing.”
“Don’t you?”
Moretti brought two mugs of coffee from the kitchen and put them down on the flat-topped oak chest that served as a coffee table. He turned a knob on the stereo and the sound of Duke Ellington’s “Love You Madly” faded away.
“You ask that of a man with a pre-war motorbike, no car, and a penchant for running over twenty miles at a time. Not particularly.”
“I should ask you first, I suppose, if you saw anything unusual when you left. When did you leave?”
“Eleven, or just after.”
“Did you see Nichol Watt arrive, by any chance?”
“Indeed I did. Plus the usual floozy.”
Moretti felt a twinge of protectiveness toward Falla’s cousin, but decided to ignore it. “What time did he get there?”
“You had just started on ‘Night and Day.’ Hated to leave when you were all in the groove, but I had some paperwork to do. Not a thing, to answer your question about anything unusual, and I’ve given it some thought since I heard about the shooting. Okay, what do you want from me?”
Don’s eyes behind the wire-framed spectacles he always wore glinted intelligently at Moretti over his mug of coffee.
“Are you working on, or do you know anything about a Canadian called Bernard Masterson?”
“The body, eh? Nothing comes immediately to mind. Are the Financial boys in on this?”
“Not yet. At the moment there’s no evidence of financial finagling. I am assuming if they had anything on Masterson they’d let me know. One can but hope.”
Don Taylor grinned. “Life’s a sight more complex for the island bobby since the era of just tourism and tomatoes passed into the history books. Anything more you can tell me about him?”
“Here.” Moretti handed over a copy of the RCMP information. “This is what we have so far.”
Don read through the notes, sometimes going back and rereading an earlier page. This he did two or three times.
“Something’s caught your attention,” said Moretti.
“Yes.” Don looked up. “It’s this nickname of his. Funnily enough it reminds me of —” he tapped his head. “It’s in there somewhere, but I can’t access it at the moment. I’m sure you too have asked yourself why in the hell a bloke like Mr. International Montrealer was here at all. Who’s this Adèle Letourneau?”
“Also of Montreal. His housekeeper, so she says.”
“Interesting what the Mounties have to say about her.” Don read from the paper in his hand: “Masterson’s personal assistant, Adèle Letourneau, is involved in all his dealings. No question, she’s the one with the smarts, but we’ve never been able to get anything on her.”
“Having met her, I can see why. Cool as a cucumber, speaks perfect English, but I’d say French was her first language. They were once what she called ‘an item,’ but love had changed to a business arrangement, according to her. He needed someone he could trust.”
“Jealousy —” Don sang the word softly. “Yet another possible motive, right?”
“Which is why, if you can find out anything about his finances, it might be helpful narrowing them down.”
“Of course,” said Don, reaching for his mug, “he could have all kinds of financial arrangements on the island, and his name would not appear in connection with any of them.”
“I know. One other thing —” Moretti held out the scrap of paper he’d been carrying around. “What do you make of this?”
Don peered at the tiny fragment and then up at Moretti. “Looks like Masterson was thinking of buying another yacht. Why?”
“That’s what Letourneau says. But I’ve spoken to one other person outside the investigation, Ludo Ross, and he pointed out the ‘limited partnership’ phrase. Said it didn’t sound like a straightforward yacht sale to him.”
“You talked to Ludo?” Don pulled his glasses down on his bony nose and looked at Moretti over the tops of the wire frames.
“Yes. Why, do you think that was a mistake?”
“God, I don’t know.” Don laughed and flicked his glasses back into place. “It’s just that — the man is an enigma, Ed. What the hell is he doing, sitting here in that fortress of his, as if the enemy might come around the corner any second? The war was a long, long time ago, and most of those who hated his guts are long gone, I should think.”
“Paranoia, perhaps. He once told me you never get over the fear of discovery, or betrayal.”
“Maybe. And maybe Ludo has new fears to add to old ones.”
“Such as?” Moretti felt his own paranoia rising from the pit of his stomach to somewhere in his chest, where it tightened like a steel strap across his sternum.
Don shrugged his shoulders. “Don’t get me wrong, Ed, I really like the guy. This paper you showed me —” Don changed the subject “— could be legit, could be swampland in Florida. Not much here to go on, but if it’s swampland, two possibilities come to mind. That this is being touted as a tax dodge and you’ll end up paying the taxman anyway. And the other is that there are no yachts at all — remember the film The Sting? Could be all smoke and mirrors.”
“Would a sophisticated investor get caught by such a scam?”
“They do, every day, my son, every day. Greed strikes the smartest operators blind.”
&nbs
p; “Thanks, Don. I’d rather you didn’t mention any of this to anyone. I’ve already made that mistake.”
Don stood up, draining the last drop of coffee from his mug. “I’m sure it’s not a mistake, Ed. I was just voicing some thoughts of my own about Ludo Ross, that’s all.”
Outside the rain was coming down steadily, occasionally sweeping in gusts across the courtyard. Don looked even smaller than usual, enveloped in his bulky oilskins and cumbrous helmet.
“Spring has sprung,” he shouted over the revving of his bike. “Dark as night and twice as nasty.”
Moretti watched the slight figure cautiously wheeling his Rudge over the slippery cobbles. Thinking he should grab something quick to eat, he went back into the house. The phone was ringing. Not Falla. She’d phone his mobile.
“Edward? It was Gwen Ferbrache.
“Gwen. I was just about to phone you with some information on your tenants.”
“That’s why I’m ringing you. One of them is here — Miss Goldstein, that is — and she says you came to see her, and she’d like to talk to both of us.”
“Here being your place?”
“Yes. I didn’t think I’d find you at home.”
“I’ll be right over.”
It took about fifteen minutes to reach Clos du Laurier, and on the way he put in a call to Liz Falla. She sounded tense.
“I’ll be at Hospital Lane in about an hour, Falla. Anything I should know meanwhile?”
“No prints on the Browning Baby, Guv, as you might expect. The divers are down again, looking for the murder weapon. And there was a call from Gord Collenette. His wife and daughter say Lady Fellowes was carrying a small silver bag. She was also wearing long satin gloves, and she kept them on the whole time.”
“She wasn’t wearing them on the CCTV tapes, was she?”
“No. I’ve passed that on to SOCO in case they turn up on the yacht. I’m going through the statements that have come in so far from people identified on the tapes. Nothing of interest and nobody saw anything or anybody.”
“Frustrating, Falla.”
“Yes.”
Maybe that was what he heard in her voice. Frustration. “I’m on my way to see Gwen Ferbrache, just to say hello. Sandra Goldstein is there and wants to speak to me. Phone me if anything comes up.”
Back at police headquarters in Hospital Lane, Liz Falla put down her mobile and stared again in disbelief at the copy of the Guernsey Press that had been delivered to her attention at the station. Across the front page ran a headline, the inch-high letters standing out in stark relief against the white background.
Ex-Folies Star, Just Deserts, and Murder
Beneath, in smaller print, the “Special correspondent to the Press” trumpeted:
Inside sources at Hospital Lane confirm the presence of glamorous Coralie Fellowes on the marina at midnight when multi-millionaire Bernard Masterson was murdered on his yacht. Staff at the Landsend Restaurant on Albert Marina revealed that her visit to the fashionable watering hole is of great interest to the police. Detective Inspector Ed Moretti is leading the investigation, assisted by Detective Sergeant Liz Falla. For further details, see page 10.
Liz Falla turned to page ten. Apart from some details about an earlier murder case of Moretti’s there was little of substance, but the Press’s special correspondent had spun quite a yarn out of very little. He did not name his inside sources, but it was clear who they were.
They were DS Liz Falla.
“I’m on duty,” was all she had said, but he’d seen her leave the restaurant and taken it from there.
The special correspondent of the Guernsey Press was, of course, Denny Bras-de-Fer.
Chapter Six
There was no sign of a bicycle outside the Clos du Laurier, so Sandra Goldstein must have come by taxi, or walked down the lane and taken the bus. Moretti parked the Triumph inside the gate and walked up to the house. As he reached the front step, Gwen Ferbrache opened the door. She gave him a welcoming smile, but her face was grim.
“This is good of you, Edward. Come in.”
Books, books, books, that was one of his earliest childhood memories of this house. Books in bookcases, on tables, lying open on chairs. Her tiny hallway was lined with books, and there were a couple lying on the side of the stairs.
“Miss Goldstein is in the sitting room. Go on through. I’m making tea.”
Sandra Goldstein was sitting in a chair near the French window overlooking Gwen’s garden. She was rubbing her hair with a towel and she was very wet. A pair of trainers stood by the window, and her brown nail-polished feet were bare. There were patches of damp on the knees of her grey sweatpants. She looked up as Moretti came in and smiled apologetically.
“I’m sorry about this, but it was my only chance.”
“Why didn’t you use the number I gave you?”
“I didn’t want to leave a message on a machine. Besides, Julia doesn’t know I’m doing this. I’m supposed to be at the store, picking up groceries.”
“Can I ask why you decided to do — whatever this is?”
“Because you are a bright guy, and I didn’t want you making enquiries and jumping to the wrong conclusions.”
“Would a bright guy do that?” Moretti sat down opposite her.
She laughed and gave her hair a final rub before putting the towel down on her knees. “Touché. I guess I decided we needed someone else in the know. I’ve told Miss Ferbrache, and she told me she had already spoken to you.”
“About the gun, you mean.”
Moretti watched her face carefully.
“The gun.” Sandra Goldstein leaned back in the chair, closed her eyes, and laughed again, but this time there was no humour in it. “It’s a replica, a fake. A good one, but no more use to us if things got ugly than a stage prop.”
“How did you get something like that through customs?”
“I didn’t. I picked it up at the tattoo parlour in town — The Art o’ Torture. I know places like that sometimes carry this kind of merchandise.”
At this point, Gwen came into the room carrying a tea tray. Making a mental note to check out the tattoo parlour, Moretti got up to take it from her.
“Thank you, Edward. Put it down there.” Gwen indicated a table near the wing chair in which she usually sat. “I’ll pour the tea and let Miss Goldstein tell her story.”
“It’s really Julia’s story,” said Sandra Goldstein. “I imagine you’ve already guessed it’s about Ellie’s father.”
“Guessed, yes, but I’m going to drink my tea and listen.”
Moretti took the flowered china teacup from Gwen, and one of her cupcakes. They were another childhood memory, his memory-madeleine, his mother and Gwen sitting together, laughing together in this room.
Sandra Goldstein put her cup and saucer on her lap, and began. “Julia and I have known each other since we were children. We had started collaborating on the books well before Julia met and married Sam Meraldo. I never liked him, but Julia was crazy about him. From the beginning he tried to isolate her, put distance between her and family and friends. He disparaged her talent, jeered at our friendship, said I was a lesbian and jealous of him. Then Ellie was born, and things went from bad to worse. He started hitting her, threatened to take Ellie away from her, even kill them both. You cannot imagine some of the things that happened, but I’ll cut to the chase.” Sandra Goldstein’s voice shook. “Julia got a court order, came to me, and stayed with me through the divorce. Ellie was only a few months old when Julia got away from him, and the three of us had to go into hiding. That was when things got really scary.”
“Things got worse?” Moretti took another cupcake, remembering his missed lunch.
“Yes. We moved, no one knew where we were, except our editor and our lawyer.” Sandra Goldstein leaned forward in her chair, her long damp hair swinging around her face. “But he always found us. Always, always. We moved again, and he found us — oh, not in the flesh, but he kept sending us the
se things. Dolls with ropes around their necks, X-rated videos and DVDs, articles cut out of newspapers and magazines about violent death or torture with the worst details highlighted, that kind of thing. The persecution went on and we could never understand how he found us — heck, we even started suspecting our own families, and at one point Julia even started suspecting me. It was our lawyer who finally said what we didn’t want to hear: that in this cyber age he could always find us. Or hire someone to find us. We were vulnerable to anyone who had access to our name and social security number, we were exposed any time we used a cellphone or a bank card, any time we made an appointment with a dentist or a manicurist we were vulnerable.”
“Did you think of changing your names?” Moretti asked.
“A long process to do it legally, which would have meant exposing ourselves again and therefore would have been pointless in the end.”
Sandra Goldstein put down her cup, got up, and walked over to the window. “But the real problem was the books.” When she turned back to look at Moretti she was smiling. “No woodchucks out there, right? We’re miles away from woodchucks, but they keep us here. Financially, I mean. Warren and Wilma keep us very comfortably, Julia and me. In the States, Goldstein and King are as well-known as, oh, A.A. Milne. And Sam Meraldo knows that. He has said as much. I’ll follow the woodchuck trail.” The American woman sang the line quietly to the theme from The Wizard of Oz. “He’d sing that to us over the phone. It was — chilling.”
“So you came here.” Gwen took Sandra Goldstein’s cup from her and refilled it.
“After the photographs.”
“Photographs?”
“They started arriving, every week, sometimes every day — Julia at the doctor’s office, me at the grocery store, Ellie and Julia and me at the park. And every time they arrived the phone would ring and there’d be no one there. Call untraceable. He knew where we were every hour of the day. That’s why we’re here.”