by Jill Downie
Dr. Edwards would have had their undivided attention even if she had not been dressed in a well-cut suit in a pearl-grey shade that followed the contours of her figure, but it didn’t hurt to look at her, Moretti thought. Clearly, Al Brown, PC Mauger, PC Le Marchant and the chief officer felt the same way. Difficult to say with Jimmy, who had closed his eyes, as if to resist the siren’s song and remain his usual confrontational self.
“First of all, Hugo Shawcross is doing quite well.” Dr. Edwards looked at Moretti. “He is out of surgery, heavily sedated, and will not be able to talk for a while, but he has already asked for pencil and paper. However, he has not written down whodunit, I’m afraid; rather, he’s asked for someone to look after his cat. That seems to be his main concern at the moment, and Liz has already taken care of that.”
“Yes.” Liz Falla grinned at the assembled officers, and Moretti felt himself smiling back, relieved at his partner’s return to her usual easy-going self. “I stayed overnight with my aunt and let him — Stoker — in to Mr. Shawcross’s house this morning. There was a key near the back door and I fed him and locked the house. It had been unlocked all night.” Liz turned to the head of forensics. “No signs of a disturbance of any kind, but might be best to take a look. I left the key with the desk sergeant. I’ll be needing it again for the cat.”
“Will do.” After opening his eyes and looking at Hanley’s face, Jimmy restrained himself from further comment, and Irene Edwards continued.
“I imagine I’m not the first to say that Mr. Shawcross was lucky, but he was. First of all, the attacker did not quite cut the carotid artery, and second of all, Ms. Ashton kept her cool. Forgive me if you already know —” quick glance at the forensics chief, “but the common carotid artery carries blood from the heart to the brain, and divides into internal and external branches. Mr. Shawcross’s right external carotid artery was partially severed. If it had been completely cut, surgery would have been far more difficult, because it would have recessed into the neck by the time we got him into the operating room. Any questions so far?”
“Was that why he was able to crawl as far as he did?” Hanley asked.
“Yes. Also, he may be a small man, but he is very fit. Quite muscular, which will have helped him when he was forced to defend himself. And there, at the end of his trail, was Ms. Ashton, waiting to apply a tourniquet.” Irene Edwards looked at Liz, and smiled, and then at Moretti.
“You had a question, Detective Inspector?”
“Yes. If Mr. Shawcross had the misfortune to be a cadaver at this point in time, I would be asking this question of our head of forensics.” Jimmy Le Poidevin looked sceptical. “From the wound on Shawcross’s neck, did you get any idea of what might have been used?”
“I know what was not used, and I’m fairly certain of this. A knife. It looks like a ligature of some kind, and not something soft, like a scarf. Obviously, we were working fast, but it also seemed to me that it was some sort of a double loop. There were two parallel lines. And there’s something else.”
Irene Edwards looked again at Liz Falla, but this time she was not smiling.
“I’ve already mentioned this to DS Falla. Mr. Shawcross’s neck is a mess, but it seemed to me there was evidence of — bite marks.”
“Bite marks?” Hanley, PCs Le Marchant and Mauger, and Jimmy Le Poidevin spoke in unison.
Moretti looked at Liz Falla and Al Brown, then at Chief Officer Hanley.
“Well, well, well,” he said.
“Why did you mention so specifically the damage to the undergrowth and bushes?” Moretti asked Al Brown. “Seems to me you had a reason.”
Moretti, Liz Falla, Al Brown and Irene Edwards were in a booth at Emidio’s eating pizza and salad. Not much of substance had been added after the doctor’s dramatic statement, and Moretti had gone over his plan of attack with his MI Team. It seemed to soothe the chief officer when he used the term, and gave the impression he was using Al Brown’s expertise, thus taking both himself and Al off the hook.
“I did.” Al refilled his coffee cup from the vacuum flask Deb had put on the table, and did the same for Irene Edwards who was sitting opposite him. “But it may be too late. Jimmy had put up tapes, et cetera, last night, but I watched a fair number of boots stomping around the area. Is he always so confrontational?”
“Always,” said Liz.
Moretti watched her pick at her salad, leaving the pizza untouched. Not like her. Must still be in shock, he thought. He turned to Irene Edwards.
“Bite marks?” It was said as a question. “I didn’t want to appear to be doubting your judgment in the incident room, but …”
“You wonder if I am off my rocker? It’s okay, so did I, but I’ve seen bite marks before, and these are bite marks. No doubt about it. Whoever tried to kill Shawcross took the time to bite the back of his neck as he was holding the — whatever it was.”
“Which suggests the ligature was held and force used, but no stick, for instance, to twist it at the back. Do you think a woman would be strong enough to do this? I’m assuming not.”
“If she was built like me, possibly. I am about a head taller than Shawcross, and that would give me an advantage, pulling whatever it was around his neck. May I make a suggestion?” It was directed as a query at Moretti, but it was made assertively, the higher register of the doctor’s voice intriguingly at odds with her physical presence.
“Please do.”
“Perhaps Hugo Shawcross was not an unwilling victim. Perhaps this was a game that got out of control. After what Liz told me about the play, I wondered.”
“Possibly,” said Moretti. “Pity he can only write his answers, because it will be easier for him to conceal clues from facial expression, body language. I’ve got PC Le Marchant on guard duty at the hospital, and no one else is allowed near him. I’m going to leave seeing him another day, because I’m hoping time for reflection will make him see sense and confess. If there’s anything to confess, that is.”
“Can’t bite marks be identified?” Liz asked. “Mind you, we’d have to narrow the field a bit before trying to do that.”
“They can, but there are a high number of false positives,” said Al. “And something else I remember from one of my courses. About game-playing and fantasy. The modus operandi may differ, but the fantasy is always the same. Whoever did this will not be able to resist trying again.”
He took a slice of pizza off the serving-plate and put it on Liz’s plate. “Eat up,” he said, “It’s going to be a long day, DS Falla, and when it’s all over you’ll still have to feed the — what did you say he’s called?”
“Stoker. Bram Stoker.”
No one laughed.
Chapter Twelve
“Gandalf?”
Beside him in the Triumph, Liz chuckled. It was good to hear.
“When Elodie first told me about Shawcross, I was worried. Not for any real reason, but because he sounded creepy, and she lives on her own. She said he looked like Gandalf and she could take him on if she had to.”
“After what Dr. Edwards said, that seems less likely. But the creepy part holds up.”
“Doesn’t it, though. Is that why you’ve got Bernie Mauger looking for satanic rituals, and all that stuff?”
“That’s why. And it’s why I’ve got Al Brown out at the hermit’s place again.”
Moretti thought of telling Falla about his last conversation with Al.
“How do you feel about hanging around overnight? Take the Honda in with you, out of sight. Someone came back the night after Dorey died. It could have been the murderer, or it could have been his laundryperson. Interesting, either way.”
He decided to leave it for the time being.
“That’s a nice place your aunt has,” he continued. “Is she in the offshore business?”
“Not in the way you mean, Guv, but in a way she is. She’s a medical researcher, editor and illustrator, and she handles it all through the Internet. But that fab cottage comes courte
sy of a divorce settlement, she told me. More than that I don’t know. Why?”
“Just curious.” Moretti changed the subject. “Do you think you can handle Marie Maxwell?”
Moretti felt, rather than saw, the look Falla gave him.
“If you don’t think I can, Guv, why aren’t you doing the interview?”
“Because I want her to feel reasonably superior and reasonably comfortable with someone she thinks she can push around.”
Beside him, Liz snorted.
“Chances are that Marla is in school right now, and I leave you to use your judgment about whether to tell her about her daughter’s Beau Sejour revelation. She might open up to another woman, particularly if she’s worried about her daughter. But don’t let her know you’ve heard about the play-reading incident, or that your aunt talked to you. See if she volunteers the information first.”
“Will do. Anything you want me to concentrate on?”
“Any possible link between Gus Dorey’s death, Hamelin’s social call and the Gastineau family. But tread carefully. We don’t want to be warned off by Hanley.”
Moretti turned into the paved courtyard outside the erstwhile Gastineau town mansion, and brought the Triumph to a halt in front of a splendid front entrance between two pillars.
“Don’t worry, Guv. I’ll play it just as I did with her silver-haired messenger-boy.”
“God help her, Falla.”
She laughed as she walked away from him, the spring back in her step.
Moretti waited until he saw the front door open, and Falla go in, then turned the Triumph around in the courtyard and headed back up the Grange in the direction of St. Martin. No need to tell her he was going to interview her godmother, and put Falla on the horns of a professional and personal dilemma.
In the few hours between returning home late at night, and the meeting with Chief Officer Hanley that morning, Moretti had done little sleeping and much thinking, and most of his thought processes involved Liz Falla’s aunt. Her presence of mind and her relationship with Falla had impeded impartiality of thought, and it had taken a while before objectivity replaced sympathy.
Had she met the blood-stained Shawcross at her door, as she said? Or had they been together at his house after the play-reading? Her godmother had openly admitted to Falla that she had encouraged both him and Marie Maxwell, and it was clear from what Falla had said of the evening spent with her and the self-professed vampire that he fancied Elodie Ashton. Which was not such a surprise, but perhaps they had more in common than an academic interest in theatre. After all, Elodie Ashton had found him too pushy, according to Falla, when he first moved in, and then had asked him to dinner. And the dinner invitation had come after Falla had told her about Marie Maxwell’s complaint to the chief officer.
The coral-pink roof of Elodie Ashton’s cottage glowed in the autumn sunshine as Moretti pulled up in the driveway. It was isolated enough in the peaceful bucolic setting of St. Martin not to have attracted a curious crowd of onlookers when emergency services had arrived the night before, and in this neck of the woods the well-heeled householders who were Elodie Ashton’s neighbours would have wanted nothing to do with domestic disturbances in the small hours.
SOCO were back at the cottage, and Moretti had specifically asked them to look out for any other footprints besides Hugo Shawcross’s on the bloodied path, and not just at the site of the initial struggle. It should have been an unnecessary request, but Al Brown’s observations were worrying.
From the front of the property, the only sign of anything unusual was the incident van, parked ahead of Moretti’s Triumph; its occupants were presumably all at work in the back garden, from where Moretti could hear the sound of voices. He decided to walk around and make it appear as if that were the purpose of his visit. As he started to follow the path around the side of the cottage, the front door opened.
“Detective Inspector.”
Elodie Ashton came out to meet him.
She had tied her spectacular hair back into a ponytail, and was wearing glasses, which did something to lessen the impact of both hair and eyes. Her dress was decidedly casual — she was enveloped in a baggy sweater and track pants that had seen better days. The oversize clothes made her seem even smaller, more vulnerable, and Moretti reminded himself that it was not always good things that came in small packages.
“Ms. Ashton, good morning. I was just on my way round to talk to the forensics people. I hope they have not been too much of an inconvenience. DS Falla tells me you work from home.”
“Not much of that this morning, Detective Inspector.” She gave a ragged laugh. “Might just as well not have bothered to put on my specs. Would I be right in thinking you need to talk to me as well as the forensics crew?”
“You would.”
No point in beating around the bush with this lady, so Moretti followed her into the cottage.
The afternoon sun filled the interior with light, unimpeded by walls. As they passed the kitchen area, Moretti saw exposed brickwork, a magnificent fireplace, copper pans catching the light. A bowl of bronze and yellow chrysanthemums stood on the kitchen table, and on the back of the large kitchen range something savoury was simmering in a sizeable stockpot.
“That smells good.”
“Making stock is a more productive way to spend the morning than pretending to work. I find cooking as soothing as —” She hesitated.
“Chopin?”
She didn’t laugh, but answered seriously. “That’s a difficult one to answer. Depends on the stress, perhaps. I was about to have a coffee, which is also good for stress. Would you like one, Detective Inspector?”
“Please.”
Elodie Ashton indicated the sofa on which she had sat the night before with Falla, and returned to the kitchen. The living area and the kitchen extended down the right side of the cottage, and what must have been smaller windows at the back had been replaced by a large picture window looking onto the garden. The staircase had been left where it originally was, but was now open, its polished boards curving into space to the upper floor. Presumably at one time the kitchen had been at the back of the cottage, because what would have been the original kitchen door remained, alongside the long, curved window, through which Moretti could see Jimmy Le Poidevin and his merry men, working away.
“Here we are.”
Elodie Ashton handed Moretti a boldly decorated pottery mug of coffee, and sat down opposite him, removing her glasses. Her eyes were blue, not green, as he had thought.
Once enquiries about cream and sugar were over, Moretti said, indicating the garden, “You’ll be glad when that’s finished.”
“Actually, I don’t mind having them there for a while. They are rather a cheerful bunch, whistling away. Company beyond a pane of glass, but minimal contact. Quite nice.”
Moretti had no problem agreeing with that.
“Good coffee,” he said. “DS Falla tells me you work from home, in the field of medical research.”
“Yes. But I’m not one of those geniuses who make great discoveries in labs. My job is to put those discoveries and theses and reports into plain English. Well, as plain as possible in what is often really obscure and esoteric subject matter.”
“So you must have a good grasp of a wide range of medical disciplines to do that.”
“I have.” Elodie Ashton did not elaborate, but pointed to a door to their left. “When the renovations were done, I had the original interior wall on that side left in place, and set up my office in there. It looks on to a little copse of trees, which is pleasant, but private.”
“I understand you started your career on the mainland. Had you ever run into Hugo Shawcross before? I know you told my partner you introduced yourself after hearing about the complaint over the play, but I thought I’d just get that question out of the way.”
The blue eyes were now flashing fire, which Moretti had not previously thought possible for blue eyes, even if you had red hair.
“Are
you suggesting I might have lied to Liz? She was the one who brought up the subject of vampirism, I did this to help her, and walked into an attempted murder. Now I wonder if I will ever be able to look out on to my garden again without seeing him. Let alone thinking about who might be waiting out there for me, in the dark. I think you’re suggesting, Detective Inspector, I tried to kill poor little Gandalf.”
Moretti kept his voice level. “So the first time you heard about the play and Mrs. Maxwell’s complaint was when your goddaughter told you.”
“Yes.” The blue eyes were now looking sceptically at him. “You are wondering, aren’t you, if this was some kind of sick game that went wrong. Right?”
“Right.”
A waste of time prevaricating with this woman. She was as sharp as — well, her godchild.
“Look.” Elodie Ashton put her coffee mug down on the table between them. “You don’t know me, but if you did, you’d know that introducing myself to Hugo Shawcross and inviting him into my home was out of character. It was a spur of the moment thing, done for Liz. I like my own company and the company of others in groups — like the Island Players, for instance. I’m good at parties and bad at tête-à-têtes. For me, there is safety in numbers. I like — distance.”
“Company beyond a pane of glass.” In many ways, she was describing him, thought Moretti. Not that he was good at parties either. “Believe it or not, I understand.”
“I believe you.”
She seemed about to add something, but stopped, which made Moretti wonder what Falla might have said about him to her godmother.
“So you went out of character for your goddaughter. Was it as entirely altruistic as that? Or did your invitation have just a little to do with the challenge of taking on a Gastineau?”
“Just a little.” Elodie Ashton smiled, relaxing back into her chair, and Moretti found himself smiling back. “Quite a lot, actually. I enjoy being part of the Island Players, and Marie Maxwell is gradually taking over. It is turning from a comradeship, if there is such a word, into a dictatorship. I couldn’t resist it, and look what happened.”