Blood Will Out

by Jill Downie

  Moretti checked his messages when he got home on his police mobile. Nothing from Al.

  Damn.

  The mobile rang in the small hours, the very small hours. Groggy with the sleep he had just fallen into, Moretti asked, “Al? What’s up?”

  The message was brief and to the point.

  “I’ve fucked up, that’s what’s up.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  In the incident room, Liz Falla, Bernie Mauger, Rick Le Marchant, and two constables added to the team that morning, plus Jimmy Le Poidevin, were awaiting the arrival of Moretti and Chief Officer Hanley. As yet, there was no sign of Al Brown, but it was clear from the information up on the board that Moretti had already been in. Liz went over and took a look at what he had posted.

  “He’s put bloody arrows between what I consider two completely separate enquiries.” The head of forensics jabbed an irritated fist at the board. “What in God’s name does he think there is to tie the assisted suicide of a vagrant and the attempted murder of this playwright or whoever he is. They simply don’t move in the same circles.”

  “I thought vagrants were, like, tramps. Didn’t Gus Dorey have a house?” asked Le Marchant. This got him an irritated glance from Le Poidevin, and a grin from Liz Falla. Before this could go anywhere, the door opened, and in came Chief Officer Hanley, followed by Moretti and Al Brown.

  “Good morning.”

  Like obedient schoolchildren, those already in the room chorused their response to their supreme leader’s greeting, sitting down after he had taken his seat. Moretti remained standing by the chief officer’s side, and Al went round to join his fellow officers. He looked washed out, forlorn, thought Liz, no longer his dapper, well-groomed self. There was an almost hangdog look about him, which she would not have thought was part of his emotional makeup.

  A rough night in the roundhouse? She was looking forward to hearing what had happened, because clearly something had, and she too was beginning to wonder if they should be running two separate lines of enquiry. Maybe whatever had happened to make Al look like death warmed up would clarify things.

  “I’m going to hand the floor over to DI Moretti.” Hanley gestured in Moretti’s direction. Then he added, brows knitted in warning, “This does not necessarily mean I am in agreement with some of his decisions about how to proceed, and the facts of the two enquiries as he has interpreted them. But I have agreed to let him put his case to you.”

  This is being set up more like a court of law than a debriefing, Liz thought. As if my DI is on trial. What happens if the Guvnor doesn’t make his case? Will they give one or t’other to another DI? Sounds like it.

  Liz studied Moretti. If her Guvnor was feeling any signs of anxiety, he wasn’t showing it. Of course, he was good at that. He simply pointed to the head of forensics.

  “Jimmy, I want you to start us off with what you’ve got.”

  The forensics head looked at the chief officer and then at Moretti, ponderously making his point. “Both crime scenes?”

  “Both crime scenes. Start with the Dorey murder.”

  “Assisted suicide, and that is still moot.”

  Moretti smiled at Jimmy, which was, thought Liz, strange in the circumstances. She had not spoken to Elodie since her aunt’s departure in the Guvnor’s car, so there was no way of knowing whether his air of tranquillity was connected in any way. However, one thing she’d make book on was that the evening had not continued as it had for her.

  Jimmy proceeded in his familiar, autocratic way, going over the appearance of the crime scene — not that he called it that — and the body, referring to the photos on the board and his notes, talking about fingerprints identified — the victim’s, and the postman’s — and unidentified. Which was where it became interesting.

  “There is one set of prints that we found on chair, table, fireplace, window, and door. And on things like food containers, shelving, et cetera. Dorey had a regular visitor, who unfortunately does not have a record, so at the moment we have no idea who this is.” Jimmy paused for dramatic effect and turned to the chief officer. “But in my humble opinion, sir, when we have identified those prints we will have found the person who helped to hang Gus Dorey. If that is what happened.”

  With the air of one who has solved the mystery of the big bang theory, Jimmy sat down, closed his folder, and waited for the murmurs of excitement to subside, all of which came from the four constables and the chief officer. Liz Falla was looking at Al Brown, who was looking at Moretti.

  “Go ahead, Al,” said Moretti. “After what we have just heard from Jimmy, we should hear your report next.” He sat back again in his chair, relaxed as if he were listening to music, which he probably was.

  Al stood up. His body language could not have been more different, but was just as easy to read.

  “I was on surveillance at the roundhouse last night, and there were a series of events which, unfortunately, I mishandled.”

  More murmurs of excitement, and Moretti sat forward.

  “Don’t editorialize, Al. Just tell it.”

  As Al went through his catastrophic night at the hermit’s hideaway, the proverbial pin could have dropped in the incident room. His account of the two intruders had them on the edge of their seats. All except Moretti. He now seemed not just at ease with the world, but positively cheerful, surveying his colleagues with what looked to Liz like — well, triumph. He had taken his lighter-talisman out of his pocket and was turning it round and round in his fingers. Or was she now seeing him in a different light? Looking at him now, she could hear fragments of music, his music, in her head. Right now, it was “Sometimes I’m Happy.”

  “And you didn’t even get her real name, this — Meg the gypsy?”

  Chief Officer Hanley’s shocked response was followed by Jimmy Le Poidevin’s incredulous snort.

  “No, sir.”

  Hanley addressed Moretti, his voice quivering with indignation. “You set up a one-man surveillance? We’ll have to put out an all-points bulletin of some kind to pick up this woman.”

  “Not necessary, sir.” Moretti put his lighter back in his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. From where Liz was sitting it looked like an email. “I know who she is.” He smiled across the room at Liz, whose strong dark eyebrows had almost disappeared beneath the jagged line of her bangs. “She won’t be going far, and I think I know how I can find her.”

  Hanley held out his hand for the email Moretti was holding.

  “This about her? You’ve made enquiries?”

  “This?” Moretti looked at the paper as if surprised to see it there, shook his head. “No. This came in from Dr. Edwards just before I arrived. Knowing that there was some reluctance on the part of some people to accept Dorey’s death as suspicious, she took another look at the body this morning.”

  “And?” Jimmy Le Poidevin interjected. “We already know what she thinks about the knot.”

  “Not the knot, Jimmy. What happened beneath the knot. Best I read to you what the doctor’s new findings are.” Moretti stood up and started to read.

  “‘DI Moretti, I owe you an apology.’” Moretti looked over at Al. “So you see, Al, even this smart professional overlooked something.” Al was now looking both crushed and relieved, thought Liz, if that was possible.

  “Can you cut to the chase? We’ve still got one more crime scene to go,” Jimmy protested.

  “Here’s the chase, Jimmy,” said Moretti. He sounded angry now, all trace of contentment or triumph gone from his manner. “Not just Gus Dorey’s neck, but his hyoid bone was fractured.” Moretti looked down at the email. “It’s a horseshoe-shaped bone in the front of the neck between the chin and the thyroid. And, let me quote Dr. Edwards again: ‘It is very difficult for the hyoid bone to be broken in an adult, because of its inflexible ossification. It strongly indicates to me that the victim was strangled, and then hanged.’ End of quote.”

  Moretti folded up the email. “So, Jimmy, not suicide. Not even assisted
suicide, but murder.” He looked around him. “And I want that kept to just the nine people in this room. If it goes any further, I’ll have someone’s guts for garters.”

  For a moment there was a stunned silence. Hanley was the first person to speak.

  “Good God. Has she any more surprises about the other victim?”

  “Not that I know of, and Mr. Shawcross is to be released from the hospital today. But I am convinced, sir, that we have one person doing this.”

  “One raving lunatic out there is, I suppose, better than two.” Hanley gave a sardonic little laugh at his observation. “But still, there’s no apparent rhyme nor reason, is there? Which will make finding this maniac all the more difficult.”

  “I’ll not deny it’s going to be difficult, but I think, sir, you’ve hit the nail on the head,” said Moretti.

  Everyone looked surprised, including the chief officer.

  “Yes,” continued Moretti. “No apparent rhyme and reason, so all we have to do is to find out what that is, and then we’ll have him. Or her,” he added.

  “Her?”

  “Possibly.”

  Chief Officer Hanley now looked despondent, a facial expression that came naturally to him, on learning that the one half of the human race he had thought excluded, now must be included.

  “However,” Moretti went on, “Al’s pretty sure the first intruder was a man, and chances are he nearly came face to face with the raving lunatic.” Moretti was smiling again, and before the chief officer could say anything about Al or raving lunatics or the failure to catch them, Moretti turned to Al and asked, “How’s your hand?”

  Al Brown held it out in front of him, and everyone looked for signs of contusions, bruises, broken bones. Apart from a faint redness on his olive skin, there was nothing to see.

  “Amazing,’ said Moretti. “Quite amazing. And now if we could have SOCO’s report on the second crime scene. Jimmy, over to you.”

  “You rubbed his nose in it a bit, Guv. All that about the coming and going between the two gardens.”

  “Didn’t I, and with reason. We can rule out the button that was found, since there’s a button missing from Shawcross’s jacket, and we can eliminate various boot-prints by comparing them with SOCO’s, but using anything as evidence in a court case will be impossible. I’d hoped the ligature might have been dropped, since the strangler took off in such a hurry, but no sign of it. I’m thinking of going and taking another look myself.”

  Moretti, Falla and Al were sitting in Moretti’s office. PC Le Marchant had been dispatched to oversee the boarding up of the roundhouse, and PC Mauger was on his way to escort Hugo Shawcross home. Moretti had deliberately chosen Bernie Mauger, because he hoped his simple country manner and his comforting bulk might — just might — encourage confidences. Gandalf needed someone in his corner, and that someone must not be Elodie Ashton. Now that he was back home again, both Falla and her godmother were at greater risk.

  The two other constables, Perkins and McMullin, had been assigned tasks they found puzzling, but theirs was not to reason why when duty called and took them away from the trivial round and the common task.

  Constable Perkins, however, had asked one question. “Billie the Bus Bum is a really unreliable witness, sir. Well, he’s nutty, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, and no,” was the unhelpful answer. “You get on every bus route on the island if necessary, and when you find him, just ask him what I told you. Okay?” The tone of voice was not chummy, and PC Perkins took the hint and left for the bus terminal on the Esplanade.

  “Billie the Bus Bum?”

  Al had recovered some of his self-possession, the self-confidence back in the tone of his voice. “Although,” he added, “I hesitate to ask, after —”

  “The flea in Constable Perkins’s ear?” Moretti pulled his papers together in front of him, and smiled at his colleagues. “Falla will tell you I’m not fond of widening the number of officers involved on a case, because on this island everyone knows everyone and is related to half of them. So, for Perkins and McMullin, it’s on a need to know basis. Billie is one of our island fixtures. He carries everything he owns in a knapsack and uses his welfare money to ride the buses. Nutty though he is, he’s a wealth of information.”

  “About Meg the escape artist?”

  “The escape artist who healed your hand, yes. I’ll fill you in on the details later, but first I want Falla to give us the news from the society columns. Over to you, Falla.”

  Liz took out her notebook. When she had opened it during the meeting, Moretti had moved swiftly on to the need to protect the roundhouse from further intruders. She had worked with him long enough to know the reason why, and to close it again. At least it was just her notebook this time, not her mouth.

  “The wedding dress was spectacular, Princesses Grace and Di rolled into one pricey package, but I’ll spare you the frills and the furbelows, whatever they are, and cut to the chase.” For a moment, Moretti heard Jimmy Le Poidevin’s exasperated voice floating on the office air, and smiled. “Tanya’s maiden name is Finlay, and her father is Duncan Finlay, the owner of Finlay Holdings, who operate a bunch of shopping plazas in the southwest. But his empire is falling apart, and he declared bankruptcy about a year before the marriage.”

  “Looks like Tanya was used to living well, and decided to use her own God-given talents when daddy’s money started to dry up,” said Moretti. “Anything more, Falla?”

  “Not much of any use. But the wedding-guest list is interesting, if it’s complete.”

  “Who’s on it?”

  “Not so much who’s on it, Guv, as who’s not. Ginnie Purvis, née Gastineau.”

  “Interesting.” Moretti stood up. “Falla, you and I are going to talk to Ginnie Purvis, and Al, I want you to go and do some shopping at WORDS. Use your charm on the owner, Jim Landers. It’ll be hard-going, because the owner of WORDS is a man of few words unless they come in books. We need to talk to everyone associated with Shawcross’s play.”

  Liz flipped to an earlier page in her notebook. “Douglas and Lana Lorrimer, Raymond Morris, Aaron Gaskell. Oh, and Charles Priestley. The beautiful boy. According to my aunt, central casting for an homme fatale.”

  Moretti was humming to himself, and Liz caught the melody.

  You do something to me.

  But his words were sombre.

  “A fatal man, or a fatal woman. Take care. Remember, whoever this is — bites.” Then he added, “‘His biting is immortal; those that do die of it seldom or never recover.’ Or her, perhaps, in this case.”

  “Wordsworth again?” said Liz, raising an eyebrow, and Moretti laughed.

  “Anthony and Cleopatra. Remember what you found on that scrap of paper, Falla. It is the rhyme and the reason for all of this.”

  “My darling,” she said.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The address for Ginnie Purvis prised out of a reluctant school secretary was on Candie Road, near the Priaulx Library and the Candie Gardens. Liz Falla had to call the school because the old phone number was now out of service. The school secretary had informed Liz she could not hand out a new number, but would pass on the message.

  “How soon will you be able to do that?”

  “Ms. Purvis is now in class and cannot be disturbed unless this is a family emergency.”

  Liz asked when Ms. Purvis took her lunch hour, then said, “Tell Ms. Purvis we will meet her at her house at that time.”

  “But Ms. Purvis will not be happy if she is late for the afternoon classes. She has two.”

  “Ms. Purvis will not be happy if we turn up at school to interview her, I am sure.”

  “Very well,” was the response, although it was clear that it was not very well.

  “I wonder if Ms. Purvis gets special treatment, as a Gastineau?”

  “Probably, but I doubt the kids she teaches care one way or another. They’ll only care if she’s magic.”

  “Magic, Guv?”

  They we
re in the Skoda, heading up towards Candie Road from Hospital Lane, with Liz watching out the car window for the address they had been given. This time, the Skoda was the car of choice, because Moretti knew they would have to leave it on the road, parked up on the pavement in the area in which Ginnie Purvis was living.

  “I believe she teaches English, and I had the good fortune to have an English teacher who was magic. Even if he had committed murder, I would still remember him as magic. You never forget.”

  “Lucky you. This is it, Guv.”

  They were outside a terrace of simple, semi-detached two-storey houses in varying degrees of upkeep, alteration and renovation. Each one was enclosed by a stone wall around a small patch of ground at the front, and Ginnie Purvis’s house had an additional hedge somewhat higher than the wall. The house on one side of her was immaculate, with a professionally landscaped small front garden of topiaried little trees and a mini-fountain amidst colour-coordinated flowers. The house attached to hers was in the throes of renovation. An old bathtub stood on a pile of rubble in front of it, and inside the open front door two men in overalls were hammering away at a wall.

  “What is a Gastineau doing here, Guv? No way I could afford one of these, even if it was one of the grotty ones, but still.”

  “Great minds, Falla. Just what I’m thinking — and here she comes. A Gastineau peddling like merry hell, approaching from the south.”

  Ginnie Purvis on a bicycle was making her way towards them, skidding up on to the pavement and screeching to a halt. As Moretti and Falla got out of the car, she too was screeching, and puffing in between.

  “Is this really necessary? In the middle of a school day? Mrs. Bonner said some very bossy young lady simply would not take no for an answer.”

  Various responses came to mind, but Moretti decided to keep his mouth shut. He gave a warning look to the bossy young lady, who appeared to be on the verge of opening hers.

  “Perhaps we could take this inside?”

  Ginnie Purvis opened a rickety iron gate and wheeled her bike through into the front garden and propped it against a wall. She removed her helmet, took a lunch bag from the carrier on the bicycle, and unlocked the front door.