A Grave Waiting

by Jill Downie

  “Why Guernsey?” Moretti asked.

  “Some of what we told you was true. We’d seen a video owned by an American friend with Guernsey roots a few years ago, before Julia met Sam, so we felt he’d not be able to work out where we are. I had to keep my name, because I’ve always been Goldstein, but Julia had kept some of her accounts and so on in her maiden name, so she went back to King. The only reason she changed her professional name was to appease Sam.”

  Moretti felt a wave of depression sweep him up and deposit him in an unpleasant trough of sadness and disgust. “What a bastard,” he said. “Sorry, Gwen. What do you want me to do?”

  “Nothing. In fact, that’s why I am here, to beg you to do nothing. No enquiries, no checking up on Sam Meraldo, nothing that might lead some pursuer in cyberspace to us. See how paranoid we are?”

  Sandra Goldstein stood up. “I must go. I still have to get the groceries. I’m so grateful to you, Miss Ferbrache, for —” She stopped.

  “Tea and sympathy?” Gwen spoke briskly. Having suppressed her own feelings of loss for half a century, she was not partial to emotional breakdowns of any kind, and for a moment it seemed as if the American woman was about to lose control. She had no desire to revisit distant anguish, and the unsuppressed pain of others often did that to her.

  “Come on, Edward, take Miss Goldstein to do her shopping.”

  “I’m just fine — you don’t have to —”

  “It’s not a problem,” said Moretti. There had been no phone call from the station, so he presumed there was no emergency — apart from investigating a murder, that is. “Where were you planning on doing your shopping?”

  “If you’re heading into town, that’d be fine. Julia is in the midst of a new painting, and she’s feeling pretty good today.”

  As Sandra Goldstein started to put on her trainers, Moretti picked up the tea tray and carried it through to the kitchen, followed by Gwen.

  “Edward,” she said, closing the kitchen door, “they have no phone, and Miss Goldstein won’t get what she calls a cellphone, because she’s afraid it can be traced.”

  “I’ll see to it,” Moretti said. “DS Falla or I can buy one in our name, and Miss Goldstein can reimburse us.”

  “Unbelievable,” said Gwen as she started to take things off the tray.

  “I wish it were,” said Moretti, “I only wish it were.”

  “Gwen tells me your mother was a Guernsey girl, but your father was Italian. A prisoner of war on the island.”

  A teenage slave labourer, his father, dragging trucks of rubble as they dug out the underground hospital.

  “Yes, he was. He was a partisan, and was captured toward the end of the war.”

  “She saved his life, your mother. That’s so romantic.”

  “She smuggled food to him, yes. He came back after the war, found her, and married her.” Moretti turned and looked at his passenger. She smelled faintly of rainwater on cotton fleece. “I would have thought life had made you cynical about romance.”

  “Crazy, aren’t I?” Sandra Goldstein turned and laughed. She had a mole like a beauty spot, he noticed, on her cheek. “May I ask whether you did check on us? You understand why.”

  “I checked on the sweater you were wearing and your website.”

  “Sweater? Oh, my hockey sweater.”

  “Florida Panthers. So Connecticut was a fabrication.”

  “Yes, sorry. We muddied the waters a tad.”

  Moretti turned the Triumph on to the Esplanade and past the Guernsey Brewery with the old dray in the forecourt, painted in the brewery’s traditional blue and white. He could barely see Castle Cornet through the mist and rain. As they passed the bus terminal Sandra Goldstein said, “You can drop me here, Edward — can I call you Edward? After all, I’m not a case of yours, am I? I’m Sandy, by the way.”

  “I’ll call you Sandy if you call me Ed. Only Gwen calls me Edward, which is not actually correct. I was christened Eduardo.”

  Moretti pulled in under the trees by the line of bus stops and leaned across to open the door.

  “Thanks, Ed. I know you’re tied up with a murder case. I appreciate it.”

  “You’re welcome.” She had hazel eyes, he noticed, like topazes against the pale tan of her skin. “I’m going to arrange a mobile for you — what you call a cellphone. It will not be traceable to you or to Ms. King.”

  “You are kind.” Her voice wavered. “If you come to the cottage, just sound your horn as you approach, okay? Then you’ll not be greeted by Julia and her fake firearm.”

  She touched his arm again, and then let herself out of the car, slamming the door behind her. Moretti watched her run across the road toward the town, her long hair bouncing on her shoulders. She was going to need a towel again. Then his eyes were drawn to a Guernsey Press billboard by one of the bus stops

  Ex-Folies Star, Just Deserts, and Murder

  Even at this distance he could read it quite clearly.

  The mobile in his jacket pocket began to ring.

  “Inside sources, Falla?”

  Liz Falla stood on the other side of Moretti’s desk. She was feeling nauseous, sick to her stomach. Not that it showed.

  “Le Marchant? Brouard? Who?” Moretti slapped the newspaper down on his desk. “Christ, Falla, we laugh about the grapevine, but this is beyond a joke. This could compromise the investigation, or the safety of a witness, and I tell you — this time I’m out for blood. Who tipped off this creep?”

  “I think it was me, sir.”

  His partner’s face was white. She swallowed hard, her jaw clenched.

  “You?”

  Moretti stared at her in disbelief. In the months they had been partners, Liz Falla’s love life had not been a major topic of conversation, but enough had been said for him to grasp she had an approach his mother’s generation would have considered flighty at their most charitable, and “no better than she should be” the more likely verdict. Not that he had given it much thought, but his own evaluation was more along the lines of foot loose and fancy free.

  “Don’t tell me you’ve had anything to do with this clown.”

  “Not anymore, and I’d rather not discuss it, if you don’t mind. Could I stick to what I think happened?” She didn’t seem chastened so much as defiant, looking him straight in the eye, chin held high.

  “With pleasure. Go ahead.”

  “I ran into Denny when I came out of the Landsend. He was hanging about the yacht. He asked for information, and I told him to get lost.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Not quite. I told him I was on duty, and he’d seen me coming out of the restaurant. After I left he went into the Landsend and asked what I’d been doing there, and someone — I think it was probably Gail Collenette — told him I’d asked about Lady Fellowes. I checked with Gord, and he confirms Denny was there, denied saying anything, but said something like ‘You know how he is with the ladies.’”

  “You told him nothing?”

  “Nothing. Denny could always make a silk purse out of a sodding sow’s ear, and that’s what he’s done.”

  “Has Hanley seen this yet? I’ll answer that — no, or you and I would be on the proverbial mat.”

  “He’s in a meeting. Only a matter of time.”

  “Then why are we hanging about here?”

  Moretti got out of his chair. He still felt angry with his partner, although he wasn’t quite sure why. Except she’d been critical enough of her cousin, so why the hell did she herself make such a lousy choice of lover?

  “You don’t believe me, do you?”

  “It doesn’t matter whether I believe you or not. It’s whether Hanley does. But I wonder if you obeyed the rules of procedure, or whether you let something slip.”

  “Obeyed the rules of procedure?” Beneath the jagged wisps of her bangs Liz Falla’s dark eyes flared into laughter. “Like you did, Guv, when Jimmy Le Poidevin said there was nothing of interest in that magazine rack?” Her laughter d
isappeared as soon as it had come and, for the first time, she looked contrite. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “You counterpunched. Fair enough. Let’s get out of here.”

  “Speaking of magazine racks, did you hear anything yet from the RCMP about Offshore Haven Cred, or whatever it is?”

  It was the first words they had exchanged since leaving the office. Standing on the other side of the car in the Hospital Lane courtyard, Liz Falla replied, “No, Guv. I got an email off to them late yesterday, about midday their time. Hopefully there’ll be a reply by this afternoon.” She opened the car door. “Where do you want to go? Lady Fellowes?”

  “Later. For the time being I’ve sent PC Le Marchant out there to keep an eye on her. It’ll be good for him. She’ll flirt and embarrass the hell out of him.” Moretti got into the passenger seat. “I want to have another go at the crew members at the Esplanade Hotel. There was a message from Betty Kerr saying they were having problems with the petit salaud. I want to lean on him a little, threaten possible confinement unless we get cooperation.”

  “He’s got a record.” Liz Falla started the BMW and turned to exit under the high stone arch of the old wall.

  “So I gather. Chucked out of the forces, GBH, and other misdemeanours. I’ll use that. But he also won awards for marksmanship at Bisley, so Martin Smith is not just a pretty face.”

  “You think the little shit did it, Guv?”

  “At the moment, I think any of them could have done it, including Masterson’s ex, but that doesn’t explain why he was here in the first place. And I think someone on the crew knows why Masterson came to Guernsey.”

  They were now passing the taxi rank on St. Julian’s Avenue, where North Esplanade turns into Glategny Esplanade. To their right lay St. Julian’s Pier and White Rock Pier. The rain was clearing, and Moretti could see Herm in the distance. He thought of Peter Walker, paddling about among the rock pools, happy as a clam.

  “Taxis, Guv.”

  “Taxis, Falla?”

  “I forgot, what with those headlines and all. PC Brouard found the taxi driver who drove Lady Fellowes. Pick-up was at nine forty-five, which tallies with the time she arrived at the Landsend.”

  “And?”

  “That’s it, Guv. There’s no record of anyone taking her home at or after one fifteen a.m. And that pick-up would have to be prearranged. Not many drivers hanging about at that hour of the night, unless she bribed some driver to keep quiet.”

  “Unlikely. Word would have got around. I think we can guess who took her home.”

  “Champagne Charlie, whoever he was.” Liz Falla suddenly stepped on the brake, jolting them both forward. “Oh, Brutus!”

  Confused, Moretti looked in the direction his partner was pointing. A large striped cat was skidding to a halt on the pavement that edged the eighteenth-century terraced houses that curved around Glategny Esplanade across from the seawall.

  “He’ll do that once too often, he will.”

  “Of course, you live here. He’s your cat?”

  “After a fashion. I think he’s his own cat myself. Must have been owned by someone once. He’s fixed, and he’s well-fed. But he shares my bed from time to time, when the weather’s rough — a foul-weather friend, you might say.”

  So the ex-flatmate, Len, had been replaced by a tabby. Where did Denny Bras-de-Fer fit in this picture, Moretti wondered. Not his problem, and he didn’t want to know.

  “Ludo Ross says there’s a word for a collection of cats. A clowder. Myself, I don’t think Brutus has ever belonged to a clowder.”

  “You know Ludo Ross? He said he’d heard you sing.”

  Beside him in the driver’s seat, Falla chuckled. “Does anyone know that man? Yes, he heard me sing at the Dunes Restaurant at La Fosse, and afterward came up and introduced himself. We met a couple of times after that. I had a drink at his place.”

  “That’s it?”

  Why hadn’t Ludo mentioned this? After his earlier conversation with Don Taylor, this sudden revelation that Ludo had not just seen and heard her, but had invited Liz Falla into his home, struck Moretti like a mini-bombshell.

  His partner turned sharply toward him, then looked back at the road. “Don’t know what you mean by ‘that’s it,’ Guv, but I went and had a drink at his place in St. Martin’s. I guessed he was your expert in million-dollar deals, but I didn’t think I needed to say I’d been there. You know him better than I do.”

  “Do I?”

  Christ, what was the matter with him, rabbiting on like this. Ludo couldn’t have been trying to get information, because this meeting took place before the murder investigation, and certainly nothing too earth-shattering in the way of crimes had been committed in the winter. Break-ins and domestics were hardly in Ludo’s line.

  Liz Falla had brought the BMW to a halt in front of the main entrance to the hotel. The sun had come out. It gleamed wetly on the leaves of the hydrangeas and fuchsias and dripped off the sword-shaped leaves of the cabbage palms. A wet palm tree, Moretti decided, is a depressing sight.

  “You’re right there, Guv — does anyone know Ludo Ross. There’s someone who’s never been part of a clowder either, I’d say. We talked about music mostly, so we talked about you and your music. He says you’re in the wrong profession, but that most people are.”

  Liz Falla didn’t look at him, and Moretti felt she was not so much avoiding his eyes as revisiting another scene. “What’s comic is I went to his house because he was old enough to be my grandfather. Don’t get me wrong, he was a perfect gentleman and there you have it. There you have it,” she repeated. Moretti wondered what exactly she was saying, but certainly a perfect gentleman of breeding, even though of advanced years, was a damn sight more appealing than the Lens and Dennys of this world, not to mention neutered tabbies.

  “How do we know the crew will be here, Guv?”

  Falla had moved on to other things. Truth was, she was feeling muddled about Ludo Ross and preferred not to explore her confusion. Here she was, worrying that her attraction to this septuagenarian meant that she was in need of some serious therapy. Normally you didn’t have to examine whether you wanted to sleep with a man. Normally. You knew or, at least, she did.

  “Because I told Betty Kerr to let them know this morning we might be returning their passports.”

  “Not seriously?”

  “Not seriously.”

  Betty Kerr was hovering in the lobby, and she positively sprinted to greet them. “DI Moretti, thank goodness you’re here. We have an emergency on our hands.”

  Betty Kerr held her hands out in front of her, as if urging them to visualize the weight of the crisis.

  “In the next few weeks I am fully booked, and I cannot possibly keep these people in four of my best rooms. They will have to go.”

  “I thought,” said Moretti, “the emergency was to do with Mr. Smith’s behaviour.”

  “Well, it’s quietened down in the past little while.”

  As she spoke, Moretti saw Adèle Letourneau appear at the far end of the carpeted corridor that led out of the lobby. She was flanked by the two Germans, with the chef bobbing along behind them, and they advanced in measured fashion toward the lobby as if taking part in some formal procession. Watching them, Moretti had the feeling of watching something rehearsed, lacking in spontaneity.

  “Inspector, thank God you’re here.” The housekeeper’s opening speech was delivered sotto voce. She rested her hands on the arms of her escorts and gave a ragged sob.

  “Why is Mr. Smith not with you?” Moretti asked.

  It was Hans Ulbricht who answered. “Because he has disappeared, Inspector. We have not seen him for hours.”

  “No wonder he’s quietened down,” said Berry Kerr, no irony intended. “We’ve had a terrible time with him. These two gentlemen got him settled down finally.”

  “How long has he been missing?”

  “It’s difficult to say,” Adèle Letourneau responded.

&n
bsp; Masterson’s housekeeper’s emotions were not under perfect control, but her appearance was. She was dressed in a black and white striped sweater and black pants, hair and makeup immaculate.

  “What happened was he came in to see me, and he’d already been drinking.”

  “That early?” asked Liz Falla. “Was that unusual?”

  “No.” The four answered in unison, and Werner Baumgarten took up the story. He had had the least to say of all the crew members since the murder, and Moretti was interested to see how the others turned to him, as if he were their leader in some way.

  “He got rough with Madame Letourneau and I heard her call out. When I went in he was tearing at her clothing. Madame was fighting tooth and nail, but he’s very strong, as you know. I pulled him off, I hit him, Hans came in, and then Miss Kerr. We got him to his room, and we locked him in, and took the key.”

  The German gave his account coolly, in even tones, without any overt emotion crossing the strong planes of his face.

  Betty Kerr added, “I thought of contacting you, but we’ve had enough police in this hotel, and these gentlemen said they could manage him.”

  “So how,” Moretti asked, “did he get out of a locked room? Is it on the ground floor?”

  “No. He broke the lock.” Betty Kerr looked thunderous. “One of our waiters, Shane Durand, saw him leave by the door in the dining room. Shane says he was laughing. He said to Shane, ‘I’m going to see a man about a yacht.’”

  “The waiter’s sure that’s what he said?”

  “Perfectly.”

  “What time would this be?” Liz Falla asked.

  “Shane isn’t sure.”

  “If Shane Durand saw him leave,” Liz Falla asked, “why is it difficult to say when he left?”

  Moretti looked at the hotel manager. Her face was flushed and she avoided his eyes.