by Jill Downie
So maybe Sandy Goldstein was the answer.
He was brought back into the present by a question from Liz Falla. The tears, thank God, were gone.
“Double V and Game-Boy never did get to meet Masterson, did they? Not the first time?”
“No. Remember, Masterson reserved two nights ‘in case’ at the hotel, and I think that was why Ulbricht and Baumgarten got anxious about Coralie’s death. They were around the yacht that night, saw her command performance, felt someone else was involved who killed Masterson. They may even have seen Ludo’s car at some point, which was why they believed Denny’s story. They knew it wasn’t Double V or Game-Boy, because they had warned them off.”
“Guv, how much of Ludo’s story was true, do you think? Was most of it moonshine?”
“God knows, Falla. That’s the advantage of being sworn to silence, you can make up anything you want. And I never questioned even his qualifications, just bought his story. His age was always a mystery, and when I really thought about it, I realized he must have missed most of the war. When we went to see him about Coralie Fellowes, he modified his story from the one I was originally told. I suspect she had been in jail for some time until Ronnie Fellowes found himself a young agent who was prepared to break the rules for him.”
“Did you always think he was involved?”
“Not always. At the beginning I thought the answer lay outside Guernsey, in financial cyberspace, with bad guys in Montreal, or the sun king of a small west-African country. But the motivation was closer to home. In the end, the one who remained was the truth.”
“Shape-shifter, that’s what he told me he was called, and that’s what he was. Melissa Machin called him a man’s man, and Mrs. Evans called him a ladies’ man. He was whatever he needed to be.”
“No man, everyman.” Moretti realized there would be a hole in his life without him.
“I’ll miss him, you know,” Liz said, as if reading his mind. “He taught me a lot, a bit like Eliza Doolittle.”
“He was your Svengali, and you were his Trilby.”
Falla grinned, her joie de vivre returning as swiftly as it had gone, another sign of youth. “Svengali I know, but I thought the other one was a hat,” she said. “I’ll have to look that up — that’s what Ludo would tell me to do. I’d better make a move.” She pulled out her pretty little smartphone and manipulated it with a speed and deftness that made Moretti feel very old. Old age was not an absolute, such an individual matter, and as he watched his partner’s sleight of hand he felt older than Ludo Ross who, in Moretti’s memory, would always seem ageless.
Falla looked at him across the table. “I’ve got a gig tonight, and it’s been a while since I played with them.” As she stood up, she said, “I’m going to need some time off, Guv. To get this — thing — out from under my feet.”
“Of course. We’re both owed some time off, and getting back to the club is top of my own list.”
Apart from Sandy. He had already left a message on her mobile, which she hadn’t returned. A twinge of apprehension struck him. Perhaps he should head straight out to Verte Rue and see how things were.
They were leaving the café as Moretti’s mobile rang. Pulling it out he said to Liz Falla, “Have a good one tonight.”
“Thanks, Guv.”
As she walked away from him, he answered his call. “Moretti.”
“Ed.” It was Chief Officer Hanley. “Could you come right over here?”
“Is there a problem?” No big surprise, because there were any number of loose ends still to tie off before the case was closed.
“You could say that.” Moretti could hear what sounded like astonishment in his superior’s voice. “There is an American gentleman here in my office, who has told me quite a story. His name is Sam Meraldo.”
Ellie looked very much like her father. Sam Meraldo had dark eyes and hair, film-star good looks, and a trace of an accent. It was easy to see why Julia King had been crazy about him.
“Detective Inspector, I am told you are the man who can help me.”
Moretti was about to open his mouth and say “over my dead body,” or something similar, when Chief Officer Hanley leaned forward and said, “This has to be done discreetly, Ed. We checked the property records, and saw that the property in question is owned by your aunt, Gwen Ferbrache.”
“She is not my aunt, sir, but she is a close family friend.”
“Exactly. So you may be able to handle this, without undue —” Hanley hesitated, then went on “— risk, to those involved.”
This was not how Ed Moretti had planned to spend his first free day after wrapping up the Just Desserts affair, sitting across the table from Sam Meraldo, of all people. He was tired, he was frustrated, but above all, he was angry. He exploded, a reaction so out of character that Hanley visibly jumped from the seat of his chair.
“How you have the gall to come here, Meraldo, spin Chief Officer Hanley a pack of lies, expect me to lead you to a woman you have terrified, and a child — your own child — you have threatened, and involve the island police force in finding them, is beyond belief!”
Before Hanley could untangle his tongue into words, Moretti pressed on across his chief officer’s outraged spluttering. “You should know, sir, that Mr. Meraldo’s wife, her daughter, and her close friend sought refuge from him here. I have no intention of leading him to them, and I think you should hear how he has persecuted them.”
Before either man could respond, Moretti went through the catalogue of harassments and abuse listed by Sandy Goldstein in Gwen Ferbrache’s sitting room: the dolls with ropes round their necks, the X-rated videos, the phone messages, the photographs, the stalking. By the end of his recital, he noticed that Hanley had moved his chair further away from Meraldo, his attention now turned in the American’s direction.
“This is — unconscionable, sir. What have you got to say about all this?”
Meraldo did not reply. Instead, he bent down and pulled a handful of papers from a briefcase on the floor, and handed them out, like a class assignment, some to Hanley, and some to Moretti.
Moretti found himself looking at the sort of material Sandy Goldstein had described, clear evidence of harassment and persecution. The crucial difference was that it was directed at Sam Meraldo, by Sandy Goldstein herself.
“Oh my God.”
Sam Meraldo smiled, wearily. “Got quite an imagination, has Sandy — heck, she’s a writer. Not the first time, Detective Inspector, I’ve been through this. Very difficult to deal with, when a child is involved. And, frankly, I don’t care a flying fuck what the relationship is between those two, but I do care about my daughter being removed without warning. I never wanted to take her away from her mother — besides, in my job I cannot care for her full-time — but I may have to do just that.” Meraldo held out another document to Moretti. “Here are my divorce papers and custody agreement with Julia, in case you need further proof.”
Moretti took the papers, but did not look at them. Instead he asked, “Why did this take you so long? We did check for any report of a missing child called Ellie King, or Ellie Meraldo, but the officer found nothing. They have been here a few weeks now.”
Sam Meraldo reached out and took the papers back, put them in his briefcase. “Because I was away on business in central Mexico, and out of touch. I am Mexican by birth, now an American citizen, and I work for a big mining consortium undertaking exploration in the mountains near Saltillo. My fault, I shouldn’t have trusted, not after what has happened. But I have to make a living, officer.”
It was Chief Officer Hanley who answered. “Mr. Meraldo, how do you want to go about this? You think there may be a risk for your daughter if we just — rush in?”
Meraldo shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know, but given Goldstein’s crazy behaviour, perhaps.” He turned to Moretti. “You seem to know the situation. You have met Sandy Goldstein?”
“I have.” Inadequate would suffice for the moment.
&
nbsp; “Or your aunt perhaps? Could she help us?”
Moretti pushed back his chair and stood up. “Not Miss Ferbrache,” he said. “I wouldn’t want to involve her in this. I’ll do it. If they see me, they’ll not — well, they’ll not fly off the handle. Or Sandy won’t.”
From the other side of the desk, Sam Meraldo looked up at Moretti. He was smiling and shaking his head.
“Isn’t she something?” he said. “She and I were involved, which is how I met Julia. We fell in love, got married, had Ellie. Sandy never forgave me. She and Julia were professionally associated, but I never grasped the complexity of the relationship.”
Svengali and Trilby. The hypnotic controller and the dominated follower. If Sandy split from Julia and stayed, would he become her new lapdog? Moretti knew what his answer to that would be.
It was an easy drive up to Verte Rue in the spring sunshine, for which Moretti was grateful. He was driving his Triumph, and he winced as the suspension grazed over the ruts and bumps in the lane. Ahead of him he saw an upstairs window was open, heard Ellie laughing, caught a brief glimpse of Julia King through the window.
If luck was on his side, Sandy was downstairs. He knew she had taken a little room at the back of the house as her workroom, and he supposed, hoped, she was there. He decided to sound his horn as he approached. If Julia and Ellie came out, he’d put them in the car. If Sandy came out, he’d cut off her retreat back into the house. He came to a halt, sounded his horn, and Sandy came running out. Moretti got out of the car to meet her, and she flung herself into his arms.
Just at that moment, an over-eager PC Brouard bounced up the lane, with Sam Meraldo sitting by him in the front seat. Moretti felt Sandy freeze, and he held on to her before she could break loose.
“Sandy, this is not a social call.”
“Fuck you, Ed.”
As she struggled to break free, PC Brouard brought the police car to a shrieking halt, skidding on the stones and gravel, leaping out with complete disregard for what they had planned at the station. At least Sam Meraldo stayed in his seat, as agreed.
“Stay!” Moretti shouted, and Brouard thundered to a halt like a well-trained canine.
“It’s over, Sandy,” he said.
“It already was.” The fight had gone out of her. She turned and gestured at the little house, the watchpost in the middle of nowhere, where she had secreted the three of them. “I’ve had enough of this place. I’m bored out of my skull, I can’t write here, and you are useless as a lover. Great in bed and lousy at being there, if you get my drift.”
He did.
Sandy turned toward the police car where Sam Meraldo sat. “He can have them both. Julia’s getting antsy, says she wants a life. I thought we had one.”
On your terms, thought Moretti. “Julia even started suspecting me,” she had said. Maybe Trilby was beginning to think for herself.
Sandy pushed him away. “She phoned him,” she said. “Julia phoned him, betrayed us on my own cellphone. And I thought we were safe here, out of sight and out of mind. But nowhere is, is it, Ed? Not any longer.”
Moretti did not feel the need to reply.
Chapter Nineteen
Paris
Charles de Gaulle Airport was chaotic, but the sun was shining, she had only her carry-on, and was quickly out of the terminal, walking along passages and tunnels to the train station. The queue for tickets for the RER train service into the city seemed particularly long, considering it was not the height of the tourist season, but time was not an issue. Around her the cacophony of languages calmed rather than assaulted her senses. Liz thought of Ludo and Coralie and the task ahead of her with anticipation now, not anxiety. Past loves, past lives. Plaisir d’amour, chagrin d’amour. Both belong here.
Besides, she had her instructions. It was like an old TV program she had seen in reruns — “Your mission, should you choose to accept it.” She had accepted it, chosen to be Ludo’s messenger. Let’s hope the messenger does not get shot for her pains, she thought. Metaphorically, hopefully, in this case.
Finding the right train was not easy, and she had dragged her suitcase up and down various escalators before locating it close to where she had bought her ticket. The clerks at the guichets seemed overwhelmed by the crush of humanity, her French was not that fluent, and, even after she had boarded the train, she was not entirely sure it was the right one.
“A Châtelet?” she asked two beautiful black girls sitting in the seat opposite, dressed in long, flowing robes of many colours, and they assured her, “Oui.” Liz thought of Dwight and what a rarity he was in Guernsey. Here the opposite was true. She looked at those around her. She was the one in the minority.
Outside the train window the graffiti-covered walls of the banlieues flashed by, depressing in their monotone ugliness, the hellish circles that surround so many cities. Inside the long carriage a golden-earringed Gypsy plied her trade, holding out what looked like horoscopes printed on little cards. A young woman brought around pieces of handmade jewellery, held them out to her, discreetly. Liz shook her head, and they smiled and moved on. They did not push or persist, so presumably this carriage commerce was tolerated up to a point, as long as passengers were not pestered.
The train slowed again, as it had done before, but this time one of the girls pointed out the window. “Châtelet.”
Liz thanked them, said “Au revoir,” and got out on to the platform.
Her instructions were to take the Métro next, toward Porte d’Orléans, getting out at Saint Sulpice station, but she decided to disobey, just a little. She would take a cab, stay above ground and watch Paris pass by in the sunlight.
Outside the station she stood in the street, and waited for a cab to pass by. None did. An elderly woman sitting on a bench watched her with interest. Liz went over and asked her where she could find a taxi, or a taxi rank. The woman said, with a note of triumph, “Pas de taxis,” and something else in which Liz caught the word Grève.
Strike. No wonder the trains had been so busy. Liz got out her street map, and pointed to the rue Cassette, where her hotel was. The woman consulted it, then pointed across the road.
“Jardin du Luxembourg,” she said. “Vous pouvez marcher.” She pointed to Liz’s case. “Ca roule.” You can walk, that thing has wheels.
The taxi strike was a blessing. Sunshine and roses, long tree-lined allées, children lining up for donkey rides, the fine gravel crunching beneath her feet. Near the Fontaine de Médicis a woman and child were feeding pigeons. On an imposing set of steps close to the Palais du Luxembourg, a bride was posing for photos, laughing at her new husband as he ran along the terrace, talking to anyone and everyone who stopped to watch. Liz Falla and her rolling suitcase were of little interest, nothing out of the ordinary, part of the Paris landscape.
From the exit near the orangerie it was only a short distance to the hotel that Ludo had chosen for her. What he had said about it in his letter to her ran through her head. “This place has memories for me, and I will enjoy thinking of you there. It was a convent in the eighteenth century, and there is something piquant about putting you and that voice of yours into an ex-nunnery.”
Apprehension filled her as she turned into the Rue Cassette. What should she expect — sackcloth and ashes and straw mattresses? Charm was only one of Ludo’s qualities; he could be cruel. Very cruel. She trundled herself and her suitcase along the narrow pavement of the twisting street past a wall that was tall enough to hide what lay behind it, and turned in to an entrance screened with a wrought-iron gate, into a hidden courtyard.
A delightful courtyard, with cobblestones and statuary, flowers and ornamental trees blooming in giant urns, a feeling of serenity protected from the bustling street behind the convent walls. Inside, soft lighting and a soft-spoken receptionist, the lobby open to an elegantly furnished salon and, beyond, a lounge and dining area, its wall of glass leading to a secret, bird-filled garden behind high, ivy-covered walls.
No sackcloth and
ashes, no straw mattress in her tastefully decorated bedroom, looking over the courtyard. Just as well Ludo is paying for all this, was Liz Falla’s reaction, as she tipped the porter. It’d be sackcloth and bread and water for me for the unforeseeable future, otherwise. The porter handed her the key to the door — an impressive piece of heavy brass with an elaborately tasselled handle, more bordello-like than convent — and departed.
She tidied up in the well-appointed ensuite bathroom, went down the curving staircase to the dining room, ate a giant croque monsieur outside in the walled garden, fortified herself with a coffee and a glass of wine, asked for directions at the desk, and set out beyond the convent walls on her mission for Ludovic Ross.
The meridian line crosses Paris where Liz Falla walked, past the church of St. Sulpice, with its enigmatic gnomon outside. Liz was not that much of a history buff — she believed in living in the present — but she had read The Da Vinci Code. The past was with her as she walked, but it was Ludo’s past, and Coralie’s past, and she was curious to meet the reason for her pilgrimage. A few steps from the church, in a side street off the Rue de Canettes, with the four ducklings for which it was named still in place over one of the seventeenth-century houses, she reached her destination, rang the bell, identified herself, and was admitted.
He was expecting her, she had made sure of that, but he was not what she had expected. She had wondered which parent he would look like, but he did not remind her very much of either Ludo or Coralie. He had the slender build of both, but there the resemblance ended. He was, she knew, about sixty years old — surreal thought that Ludo had been a teenage father — and his wary eyes surveyed her from behind spectacles perched on a strong beak of a nose. His thinning hair was grey, neatly trimmed, at odds with his clothing, which was well-worn, almost threadbare, as if he were making a statement about the insignificance of her visit.