by Jill Downie
While Falla used her mobile, Moretti walked around the hermit’s hideaway. Cosy, yes, almost: a refuge for a man of some education and learning, and ample means, apparently, for the books that were his passion. For Moretti, sanctuary was in the sound of Sidney Bechet playing “Petite Fleur,” Miles Davis playing “Tempus Fugit,” Oscar Peterson playing anything.
Why had Gus Dorey chosen to live this way? Had the world been for him too much, late and soon? Had he found the getting and spending laid waste his powers? Not hard to understand, thought Moretti. Drifting down the years the words came back to him.
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, have glimpses that would make me less forlorn …
“Guv.” He realized Falla was speaking to him, holding out her mobile. “It’s Sergeant Jones. He’s interviewing Gord Martel right now.”
“Sorry, Falla. I was thinking of Wordsworth.”
He took the mobile from her. “Sergeant Jones, Moretti here. I have a question for you to ask Mr. Martel about Gus Dorey. Did he smell?” He heard the question posed, and the postman’s indignant reaction. “I take it that’s a no? Thanks, Sergeant — yes, that’s all.”
He handed the mobile back to Falla, who was looking at him quizzically. “You have a question yourself, I think?”
“I was going to ask you where Wordsworth came in, but that’ll keep. Did he smell, Guv?”
In answer Moretti walked across to the shelf with the small pile of clothing, and picked up a shirt.
“There’s no public laundry for miles, and this stuff is impeccably laundered. There’s no way that was washed under the coldwater pump outside, near what looks like his vegetable patch, and any iron would have had to be an old-fashioned non-electric one. I don’t see one, so I doubt he used the hipbath. Therefore —?”
“Either he went into town with his washing or —”
“Someone was doing it for him. And something else. If Dr. Edwards’s suggestion that this is an aided suicide is accurate, then whoever helped Gus Dorey was not after his worldly goods.” Moretti bent down and picked up the Dickens. “They had some entirely different motive.”
“Maybe he asked his laundry person to help him end his life.”
“And maybe his laundry person gave him no choice in the matter. Because, Falla, whoever threw these books around, it wasn’t Gus Dorey, who loved them. It was the mysterious other person who was in this room with him. And they were looking for something, probably while he hung above on a rope he couldn’t have tied by himself.”
At that moment, Moretti’s mobile rang. He answered it briefly, then looked at Liz Falla, who was staring up at the crossbeam by the fireplace.
“Duty calls. That was Chief Officer Hanley. We’re needed at the station. Aloisio Brown has arrived.”
“Who, Guv?”
“The brainiac, Falla. Let’s go and face the music, shall we?”
Chapter Five
Hugo Shawcross’s back was killing him. The phone call from Marie Gastineau had come as a complete surprise, sending him rushing to his laptop to put in an all-nighter. He couldn’t remember doing that since his student days. Mind you, he thought, if I am indeed one of the undead, last night should have been a walk in the park for me. Or perhaps a stroll in St. Martin’s Churchyard among the gravestones, hand in hand with La Gran’mère du Cimetière, the ancient menhir that kept watch at the gate. Over the thousands of years she had stood there, she must have seen a vampire or two, he thought.
He giggled and stood up abruptly, instantly regretting both actions. Not only did his back hurt, but so did his head. However, the euphoria of the wine had lasted through the night until dawn, and now he just had to survive the hangover. He thought back to the message he had found on his answerphone when he got back from Elodie Ashton’s.
“Hello, Hugo. This is Marie Maxwell.”
The tone of voice was the first surprise. Light, almost flirtatious, harpy turned seductress. Very different from the unearthly shrieks and howls, reminiscent of Stoker’s encounters with Mudge, that had greeted his little joke. He sat down at his desk and listened in disbelief.
“I realize you will get this message after your evening with Elodie Ashton, and I apologize for intruding so late, but I just couldn’t leave it until tomorrow morning, because I have put the wheels in motion.”
Wheels in motion? Was he to be expelled from the island? To be burned at the stake at the foot of Fountain or Berthelot Street, like they did in the old days? Disbelief turned into apprehension. What game was this woman playing?
“Elodie, bless her, phoned me earlier this evening and explained, and it all sounds quite thrilling. A part for me!”
Aha. The cooing voice continued.
“As Elodie said, the academic sense of humour is often — esoteric, was her word for it, and I completely misunderstood, didn’t I! So, I have arranged a little get-together at my house for tomorrow evening. I have managed to get hold of most of the Island Players who really matter and I very much look forward to having a first read-through of your play.” The timbre of her voice deepened, vibrating with emotion as Marie Gastineau moved into “actress” mode. “From what Elodie says, you have seen past my façade of society hostess and sensed hidden depths. Evil is certainly within my range, and will make a welcome change from my usual roles.”
Evil? Not at all the reaction envisaged by his neighbour. Or was she the one who had suggested it?
A trill of laughter bubbled up from the answerphone, then the message concluded on a note of command, the familiar, imperious Marie Gastineau firmly back in control. “Call me in the morning to confirm — won’t you?”
“Bloody hell,” said Hugo Shawcross.
He had been regretting his abrupt departure, earlier than he had planned, thanks to that chit of a policewoman. But, it turned out it was just as well. He sat down at his desk and turned on his laptop.
Aloisio Brown sat in Moretti’s office, reading a pamphlet on the desk. He was tanned, dark-haired, probably very much like his Portuguese mother, thought Moretti. He stood up as they came in, turning a pair of large brown eyes in their direction, smiling as he did so. Next to him, Moretti heard Falla’s intake of breath. Moretti extended his hand.
“Aloisio Brown — have I said your name right?”
“Call me Al. Everyone does, except my mother.”
The smile turned into a grin, and the brown eyes turned towards Liz Falla.
“Detective Sergeant Falla, I presume?” It was clear what those brown eyes thought of what they were surveying.
“Call me Falla. Everyone does, except my mother. Well, almost everyone. Hi.”
Moretti could almost hear the violins playing.
“You have just got back from the scene of the suicide, I’m informed. Sergeant Jones let me sit on the interview with the postman. I heard your question to him, sir.”
“What did you make of it?”
“I’m not sure, but I presumed it was unexpected, given the way the deceased was living. That he didn’t smell, I mean.”
“Yes.” Quite the brainiac. “Falla, play the message from Dr. Edwards for — Al.”
Dr. Edwards’s light voice filled the office. When the message was finished, Al Brown looked at Moretti.
“Liquid sunshine,” he said.
“Liquid sunshine?”
“The sound of the pathologist’s voice.” Al Brown smiled at Liz Falla, who smiled back.
“We don’t have a pathologist on the island,” said Moretti. He could hear his own voice sounding somewhat metallic. “Dr. Edwards was the duty doctor.” There was a silence, then Moretti continued. “And doesn’t liquid sunshine mean rain?”
Before anyone could add anything to the absurd dialogue, the phone rang. Moretti picked it up.
“Moretti.”
“Hello, Detective Inspector Moretti. DS Falla told me you were the officer in charge. This is Irene Edwards.”
Moretti put her on speakerphone, and sunshine or rain filled the office
, depending on the listener’s point of view.
“I will be at the hospital this afternoon, if you are free.”
“Of course. Three o’clock suit you?”
“Perfect. See you then.”
As he hung up the phone, Moretti said. “I want to take a look at the rope first, and then get something to eat. How about you, Al?”
“Great! I just had time to check in at my digs, and I’m starving. Also, I don’t know where’s good — and cheap — to eat in St. Peter Port.”
He stood up and took his jacket from the back of the chair, put it on. Looks like he works out, thought Moretti.
“How about La Crêperie, Guv? It’s close and we can walk there, come back for the car.” Falla gave Al Brown another smile.
As he walked past him, Moretti realized he was taller than Al Brown, and that the brainiac’s dark curly hair was receding slightly at the temples.
His inner child rejoiced.
The rope lay in front of them on the table in the incident room. It had been cut close to the knot to release the hermit’s body, and the strands revealed were considerably cleaner and lighter than the rest of the rope.
“Tar, or oil. Seaweed or algae stains. He must have found this on the beach.” Moretti touched one of the dark patches with his gloved hand.
“He supplied his own rope, that’s what I thought,” said Falla. “But at the time I saw him, I thought it was straightforward, a suicide.”
“It may be, but looking at the thickness of the rope, I tend to agree with Dr. Edwards — that he had help.”
“Assisted suicide.” Al Brown bent over the rope, then straightened up. “But who helps a hermit? From what the postman said, he didn’t have friends.”
“Exactly. And who in their right mind would drop in out of the blue and casually offer to give a complete stranger a hand in his death? You saw the postman’s reaction right after his discovery of the body, Falla. Do you think he might have had anything to do with this?”
“Not unless he’s a brilliant actor, Guv.”
“But who helps a hermit?” Al Brown asked again. “By definition, a hermit’s someone who avoids human contact?” He looked at Moretti.
“Let’s go eat, and we’ll fill you in on the business of the books,” said Moretti.
The Crêperie was on Smith Street, a narrow, winding road close to the centre of the town, now closed to traffic and for pedestrians only. On their way, they passed a bookstore, its name on a board above the door decorated to look like a mediaeval manuscript: WORDS.
Al Brown stopped to look in the window, and said, “Unimaginative perhaps, but the name says it all, doesn’t it. Always good to see people are still reading the old-fashioned way.”
Falla, walking ahead of them, turned and grinned. “Thought you’d be all gadgets and iPods and e-books, you being from the big city,” she said.
Al Brown looked hurt. “How can you say that to a bloke who plays a Portuguese guitar?” he said.
“A Portuguese guitar?” Moretti and Falla spoke in unison.
“Yes, but you wouldn’t know that. I learned it at my mother’s knee.” Al Brown turned to Moretti. “I know you play jazz piano, sir,” he said. “Chief Officer Hanley told me this morning. It seemed to — puzzle him.”
Al Brown smiled. Moretti’s inner child was beginning to feel better.
“I play guitar,” Falla said. She was looking delighted. “And sing,” she added. “With a group. We call ourselves Jenemie.”
Suddenly, she stopped. “Here we are.” She pushed open the door and they were greeted by a gust of warm air laden with delicious cooking smells.
“God, that smells good! Do you play together at all?” Al Brown stood to one side of the banquette for Liz Falla to go past him, and waited for her and for Moretti to sit down.
It was Moretti who answered.
“We don’t.”
Liz Falla gave him one of the unfathomable looks he was getting to know quite well — unfathomable because he couldn’t read from it whether it was reproach, or disapproval. His mother’s generation would have called it an old-fashioned look, which covered a multitude of sins.
Over seafood crêpes for Moretti and Al Brown, and a caramelized onion crêpe for Falla, Al Brown and Liz Falla discussed the merits and differences of the acoustic and the Coimbra Portuguese guitar, which was Al Brown’s instrument. Ad nauseam, in Moretti’s unspoken opinion, but clearly not in theirs. Ignoring their conversation, his mind drifted to thoughts of yesterday’s trip with Don Taylor. Through the mist of pleasant recollection, he realized he was being asked a question.
“Books, you said, sir. The hermit was a reader?”
“More than that. A collector of rare and beautiful books that he, or someone, threw around on the floor in among his Penguin paperbacks.”
“Then that wouldn’t be him. Someone was looking for something?”
“Could be. And whoever it was did not recognize — or wasn’t interested in — a two-thousand pound Dickens first edition — give or take a pound or two.”
“My God! The postman — Gord Martel? — said the fact Gus Dorey had done that to his books showed his suicidal state of mind. But I thought he meant the untidiness, rather than anything more complicated.”
“And he might be right.” There was a framed maxim on the wall close to the bar, that had caught Moretti’s eye when they came in.
Heaven is where the police are British, the cooks French, the mechanics German, the lovers Italian, and it is all organized by the Swiss. Hell is where the cooks are British, the mechanics French, the lovers Swiss, the police German, and it is all organized by the Italians.
He looked across the table at Falla and said, “I am tempted at this point to say that my gut tells me this was not a disordered frame of mind, but perhaps that’s my Italian blood speaking, and not my British police training. Falla has strong views about that kind of thing.”
Falla snorted with derision. “So would you, if you came from my family. I believe in fingerprints, and forensics, and DNA, not hunches.”
“Does that rule out the gut? Instinct? Intuition?” asked Al Brown, turning to Falla. “You surprise me.”
“I thought intuition was now a dirty word in our business,” she replied. “I thought deduction was drawing conclusions from known facts, like alibis, motives, that kind of thing.”
“Deduction,” said Al Brown, “is also, sometimes, a blinding moment of insight into another human being. Isn’t it?”
“I think we’re back to intuition,” said Moretti. He saw that Falla was looking irritated, and felt annoyed with himself for winding her up. He was about to attract the attention of the waitress, when Al Brown said, “I should tell you why I asked to be posted here.”
“I wondered,” said Moretti, settling back on the banquette. “With your qualifications, most of the U.K. was at your disposal.”
“Did your gut tell you?” Falla stood up and motioned to Al Brown to let her out. She was still looking annoyed. “I’m off to the ladies, in that case.” She extracted herself from the banquette and left them. Al Brown looked after her and said, “Did I tread on her toes?”
“In a way. Liz Falla’s ancestral roots are linked to one of the ancient Guernsey families called Becquet, many of whose female members were burned as witches. They died out long ago — not surprisingly — so it’s not proven, but she has an aunt and a grandmother who believe otherwise, and they feel this gives her a real advantage in police work. It drives her to distraction, being told by granny and admiring Auntie Becky that she has ‘the gift.’”
“And has she?”
“I’ll leave you to decide that.” Moretti paid the bill and, after the waitress had left, said, “Let’s talk about you. Why are you here?” Focusing his gaze on him, he noticed that one of the braniac’s ears was pierced. Did he wear an earring when off-duty? That would give Hanley something else to puzzle over.
“I’m here,” said Aloisio Brown, rebuttoning his s
mart navy blazer, “because I believe in magical thinking.”
“Magical thinking?” Falla rejoined them, slinging the small black bag she carried on to her shoulder. “Sounds like my Aunt Becky’s been talking to you — did she fly over and visit you on her broomstick?” She still sounded annoyed, only this time it was with both of them. Moretti, who was checking his messages, looked up at her jibe.
“Magical thinking’s serious stuff, Falla. It has been known to kill geniuses — so even graduates of the APSG program need to watch their backs. Don’t we, DC Brown?”
Chapter Six
Princess Elizabeth Hospital was near the centre of the island, west of St. Peter Port and just outside the parish of St. Andrews, in an area called the Vauquiédor. It had started life as a mental hospital, but after the Second World War was renamed for twenty-two-year-old Princess Elizabeth, and reopened by her. A major extension in the nineties had added a radiology department, a new maternity unit and children’s ward. A new clinical block was in the works. It was also the site of the principal mortuary on the island and, when necessary, whoever was the surgeon on duty served as pathologist.
Dr. Edwards was waiting for them in the mortuary.
“Hello, DS Falla. Greetings, gentlemen.”
Shrouded in her pale blue protective gear, her hair hidden by a cap, the doctor was an androgynous figure, the divergence between her appearance and voice less marked.
Liz Falla did the introductions and, as they put on protective clothing, Moretti got straight to the point. “You think this could be an assisted suicide, Dr. Edwards.”
His voice echoed back, the sound magnified off the bare walls. Somewhere a tap was dripping.
“I do.” Irene Edwards went over to one of the tables and pulled back the sheet. “I got him out when I heard you had arrived. Take a look.”
Gus Dorey was white as the sheet he was under, frail as a one-dimensional sketch of a human being, a line drawing in death. His strong nose jutted out on his sunken face, which was otherwise wiped clean otherwise of individuality. He lay there still, unable any longer to escape the peering eyes and human contact he had avoided in life.