A Place of Hiding

by Elizabeth George

  “Margaret, he didn't disinherit—”

  “Don't let's pretend otherwise. He investigated the laws on this contemptible little pimple of an island and he discovered what would happen to his property if he didn't hand every bit of it over to you upon purchase. He couldn't even sell it without telling Adrian first, so he made sure he never owned it in the first place. What a plan it was, Ruthie. I hope you enjoyed destroying the dreams of your only nephew. Because that's what's happened as a result of this.”

  “It had nothing to do with destroying anyone,” Ruth told her quietly. “Guy didn't arrange things this way because he didn't love his children, and he didn't do it because he wanted to hurt them.”

  “Well, that's not how things turned out, is it?”

  “Please listen, Margaret. Guy didn't . . .” Ruth hesitated, trying to decide how to explain her brother to his former wife, how to tell her that nothing was ever as simple as it looked, how to make her understand that part of who Guy was was who Guy wanted his children to be. “He didn't believe in entitlement. That's all it was. He created himself from nothing, and he wanted his children to have that same experience. The richness of it. The sort of confidence that only—”

  “What utter nonsense,” Margaret scoffed. “That absolutely flies in the face of everything that . . . You know it does, Ruth. You damn well know it.” She stopped as if to steady herself and to marshal her thoughts, as if she believed there was something she could actually base a case upon, one that would force change upon a circumstance that was fixed in concrete. “Ruth,” she said with an obvious effort at calm, “the whole point of building a life is to give your children more than you yourself had. It's not to place them in the same position you had to struggle up from. Why would anyone try to have a future better than his present if he knew it was all to be for nothing?”

  “It's not for nothing. It's learning. It's growing. It's facing challenges and getting through them. Guy believed it builds character to build your own life. He did that and was the better man for it. And that's what he wanted for his children. He didn't want them to be in a position where they would never have to work again. He didn't want them to contend with the temptation to do nothing with their lives.”

  “Ah. But that didn't apply to the other two. It's fine to tempt them, because for some reason they aren't supposed to struggle. Is that it?”

  “JoAnna's girls are in the same position that Adrian's in.”

  “I'm not talking about Guy's daughters, and you know it,” Margaret said. “I'm talking about the other two. Fielder and Moullin. Considering their circumstances, they're being left a fortune. Each of them. What've you to say about that?”

  “They're special cases. They're different. They haven't had the advantages—”

  “Oh no. They haven't. But they're snatching at them now, aren't they, Ruthie?” Margaret laughed and walked over to the open wardrobe. She fingered a pile of the cashmere sweaters Guy favoured in lieu of shirts and ties.

  “They were special to him,” Ruth said. “Foster grandchildren, I suppose you could call them. He was something of a mentor to them and they were—”

  “Little thieves,” Margaret said. “But let's make sure they have their rewards despite their sticky fingers.”

  Ruth frowned. “Thieves? What're you talking about?”

  “This: I caught Guy's protégé—or shall I continue to think of him as his grandchild, Ruth?—stealing from this house. Yesterday morning, this was. In the kitchen.”

  “Paul was probably hungry. Valerie sometimes feeds him. He'll have taken a biscuit.”

  “And shoved it into his rucksack? And set his mongrel on me when I tried to see what he'd squirreled away? You go ahead and let him walk off with the silver, Ruth. Or one of Guy's little antiques. Or a piece of jewellery. Or whatever the hell it was that he had. He ran off when he saw us—Adrian and I—and if you don't think he's guilty of something, then you might ask him why he grabbed that rucksack and fought us both when we tried to get it away.”

  “I don't believe you,” Ruth said. “Paul wouldn't take a thing from us.”

  “Wouldn't he? Then I suggest we ask the police to have a rummage round his rucksack themselves.”

  Margaret walked to the bedside table and picked up the telephone receiver. She held it provocatively to her sister-in-law. “Shall I ring them or will you do it, Ruth? If that boy's innocent, he's got nothing to fear.”

  Guy Brouard's bank was in Le Pollet, a narrow extension of the High Street that paralleled the lower North Esplanade. A relatively short thoroughfare largely cast in shadow, it was nonetheless faced on either side with buildings that spanned nearly three hundred years. It served as a reminder of the changeable nature of towns everywhere: A former grand townhouse of the eighteenth century—replete with dressed granite and quoined corners—had been refashioned during the twentieth century into a hotel while nearby a pair of nineteenth-century houses of random stone now served as clothing shops. The curved glass windows of Edwardian shop fronts so short a distance from the townhouse spoke of the life of trade that had burgeoned in this area in the days preceding World War I, while behind them loomed a completely modern extension to a London financial institution.

  The bank that Le Gallez and St. James were seeking stood at the end of Le Pollet, not far from a taxi rank that gave way to the quayside. They walked there in the company of DS Marsh of the Fraud Department, a youngish man with antiquated mutton-chop sideburns, who commented, “Bit of overkill here, wouldn't you say, sir?” to the DCI.

  Le Gallez responded acerbically. “Dick, I like to give 'em a reason to cooperate from the start. Saves time that way.”

  “I'd say a call from the FIS'd do that, sir,” Marsh pointed out.

  “Hedging my bets is a habit, lad. And I'm not a man to ignore my habits. Financial Intelligence might loosen their tongues, to be sure. But a visit from Fraud . . . ? That'll loosen their bowels.”

  DS Marsh smiled and rolled his eyes. He said, “You blokes in Homicide don't get enough entertainment.”

  “We take it where we can find it, Dick.” He drew open the heavy glass door of the bank and ushered St. James inside.

  The managing director was a man called Robilliard, and as it turned out, Le Gallez was already well known to him. When they walked into his office, the managing director rose from his chair, said, “Louis, how are you?” and extended his hand to the DCI. He went on with “We've missed you at football. How's the ankle?”

  “Recovered.”

  “We'll expect you on the pitch at the weekend, then. From the looks of you, you could use the exercise.”

  “Croissants in the morning. They're killing me,” Le Gallez admitted.

  Robilliard laughed. “Only the fat die young.”

  Le Gallez introduced his companions to the managing director, saying, “We've come for a chat about Guy Brouard.”

  “Ah.”

  “He did his banking here, yes?”

  “His sister as well. Is there something dodgy about his accounts?”

  “It's looking that way, David. Sorry.” Le Gallez went on to explain what they knew: the divesting of a significant portfolio of stocks and bonds followed by a series of withdrawals from this bank, made over a relatively short period of time. Ultimately, he concluded, they appeared to have seriously depleted his account. Now the man was dead—as Robilliard probably knew if he'd been conscious in recent weeks—and as his death was a homicide . . . “We've got to take a look at everything,” Le Gallez concluded.

  Robilliard looked thoughtful. “Of course you do,” he said. “But to use anything from the bank as evidence . . . You'll need an order from the Bailiff. I expect you know that.”

  “That I do,” Le Gallez said. “But all we want is information at the moment. Where'd that money go, for instance, and how did it go there?”

  Robilliard considered this request. The others waited. Le Gallez had earlier explained to St. James that a phone call from the Financia
l Intelligence Service would be enough to prise general information from the bank but that he preferred the personal touch. It would not only be more effective, he said, but it would also be more expeditious. Financial institutions were required by law to disclose suspicious transactions to the FIS when the FIS asked them to do so. But they didn't exactly have to jump to do it. There were dozens of ways they could drag their feet. For this reason, he'd requested the attendance of the Fraud Department in the person of DS Marsh. Guy Brouard had been dead for too many days for them to have time to cool their heels while the bank did the two-step round what the law quite plainly required it to do.

  Robilliard finally said, “As long as you understand the situation with regard to evidence . . .”

  Le Gallez tapped himself on the temple. “Got it up here, David. Give us what you can.”

  The managing director went to do so personally, leaving them to enjoy the view of the harbour and St. Julian's pier that unfolded from his window. “Decent telescope, you see France from here,” Le Gallez commented.

  To which Marsh replied, “But who would want to,” and both men chuckled like locals whose hospitality towards tourists had long ago worn thin.

  When Robilliard returned to them some five minutes later, he carried a computer print-out. He gestured to a small conference table, where they sat. He laid the print-out on the table in front of him.

  He said, “Guy Brouard held a large account. Not as large as his sister's, but large. There's been little movement in and out of hers in the last few months, but when you consider who Mr. Brouard was—Chateaux Brouard . . . the extent of that business when he was directing it?—there was no real reason to red-flag movement in or out of his account.”

  “Message received,” Le Gallez said, and to Marsh, “Got it, Dick?”

  “We're cooperating so far,” Marsh acknowledged.

  St. James had to admire the small-town deal-making that was going on among the men. He could only imagine how convoluted the entire procedure could become if parties began demanding legal counsel, orders from the head of the judiciary, or an injunction from the FIS. He waited for further developments among them, and they were immediate.

  “He's made a collection of wire transfers to London,” Robilliard told them. “They've gone to the same bank, to the same account. They began”—he referred to the print-out—“just over eight months ago. They continued through the spring and the summer in increasing amounts, culminating in a final transfer on the first of October. The initial transfer is five thousand pounds. The final is two hundred and fifty thousand pounds.”

  “Two hundred and fifty thousand? All this to the same account each time?” Le Gallez said. “Good Christ, David. Who's watching the bloody store round here?”

  Robilliard coloured faintly. “As I said. The Brouards are major account holders. He ran a business with holdings all over the world.”

  “He was God damn retired.”

  “There's that, yes. But you see, had the transfers been made by someone we didn't know quite so well—an in-and-out situation set up by a foreign national, for example—we would have red-flagged it at once. But there was nothing to suggest an irregularity. There's still nothing to suggest that.” He detached a yellow Post-it from the top of the print-out. He went on to say, “The name on the receiving account is International Access. It has an address in Bracknell. Frankly, I expect it was a start-up company in which Brouard was investing. If you look into it, I'll wager that's exactly what you'll find out.”

  “What you'd like us to find out,” Le Gallez said.

  “That's all I know,” Robilliard countered.

  Le Gallez didn't let up. “All you know or all you want to tell us, David?”

  To which question, Robilliard slapped his hand on the print-out and said, “See here, Louis. Not a damn thing tells me this is anything other than what it looks like.”

  Le Gallez reached for the paper. “Right. We'll see about that.”

  Outside, the three men paused in front of a bakery, where Le Gallez looked longingly at a display of chocolate croissants in the window. DS Marsh said, “It's something to look into, sir, but as Brouard's dead, I wouldn't bet anyone over in London's going to break a sweat getting to the bottom of this.”

  “It could be a legitimate transaction,” St. James pointed out. “The son—Adrian Brouard—I understand he lives in England. And there're other children as well. There's a possibility that one of them owns International Access, and Brouard was doing what he could to prop it up.”

  “Investment capital,” DS Marsh said. “We'll need to get someone in London to deal with the bank over there. I'll phone FSA and give them the word, but my guess's at this point, they're going to want a court order. The bank, that is. If you phone Scotland Yard—”

  “I have someone in London,” St. James cut in. “Someone at the Yard. He might be able to help. I'll ring him. But in the meantime . . .” He considered all that he'd learned over the past several days. He followed the likely trails that each piece of information had been laying down. “Let me deal with the London end of things, if you will,” he said to Le Gallez. “After that, I'd say it's time to speak frankly with Adrian Brouard.”

  Chapter 23

  “SO THAT'S THE FACT of it, lad,” Paul's dad said to him. He clasped Paul's ankle and smiled fondly, but Paul could see the regret in his eyes. He'd seen it even before his father had asked him to come upstairs to his bedroom for “a bit of a heart-to-heart, Paulie.” The telephone had rung, Ol Fielder had answered it, had said, “Yessir, Mr. Forrest. Boy's sitting right here,” and had listened long, his face going through a slow alteration from pleasure to concern to veiled disappointment. “Ah well,” he'd said at the conclusion of Dominic Forrest's comments, “it's still a good sum, and you won't see our Paul turning his nose up at it, I can tell you that.”

  Afterwards, he'd asked Paul to follow him upstairs, ignoring Billy's “Wha's this about, then? Our Paulie not turning into the next Richard Branson af'er all?”

  They'd gone to Paul's room, where Paul had sat with his back to the headboard of his bed. His father sat on the edge of it, explaining to him that what Mr. Forrest had previously thought would be an inheritance of some seven hundred thousand pounds had in reality turned out to be an amount in the vicinity of sixty thousand. A good deal less than Mr. Forrest had led them to expect, to be sure, but still a sum not to sniff at. Paul could use it in any number of ways, couldn't he: technical college, university, travel. He could buy himself a car so he wouldn't have to rely on that old bike any longer. He could set himself up in a little business if he liked. He might even purchase a cottage somewhere. Not a nice one, true, not even a big one, but one he could work on, fixing it up, making it real sweet over time so when he married someday . . . Ah well, it was all dreams, wasn't it? But dreams were good. We all have them, don't we?

  “Hadn't got that money all spent in your head, had you, lad?” Ol Fielder asked Paul kindly when he'd concluded his explanation. He gave Paul a pat on the leg. “No? I didn't think so, son. You've got some wisdom about these things. Good it was left to you, Paulie, and not to . . . Well, you know what I mean.”

  “So, tha's the news, is it? What a bloody good laugh.”

  Paul looked to see his brother had joined them, uninvited as usual. Billy lolled in the doorway, against the jamb. He was licking the frosting from an untoasted Pop-Tart. “Sounds like our Paulie's not going somewheres else to live the high life after all. Well, all's I c'n say is I like that, I do. Can't think what it'd be like round here without Paulie wanking off in his bed every night.”

  “That'll do, Bill.” Ol Fielder rose and stretched his back. “I expect you've some sort of business to see to this morning, like the rest of us.”

  “You expect that, do you?” Billy said. “No. I don't have no business to see to. Guess I'm different to you lot, huh? Not so easy for me to get employment.”

  “You could try,” Ol Fielder said to Billy. “Tha's the only d
ifference between us, Bill.”

  Paul shifted his gaze between his brother and his father. Then he lowered it to observe his trouser knees. He saw they were thin to the point of shredding at a touch. Too much wear, he thought, with nothing else to choose from.

  “Oh, tha's the case, is it?” Billy asked. Paul flinched at the tone because he knew that his father's declaration, while completely well meaning, was the invitation Billy wanted to spar. He'd been carrying his anger round for months, just waiting for an excuse to let it fly. It had only got worse when their dad had got himself taken on by the road crew, leaving Billy behind to pick at his wounds. “Tha's the only difference, is it, Dad? Nothing else, is there?”

  “You know the fact of it, Bill.”

  Billy took a step into the bedroom. Paul shrank into the bed. Billy was of a height with their father and although Ol outweighed him, he was far too mild. Besides, he couldn't waste the energy to spar. He needed all the resources he had to hold his part with the road crew every day, and even if that hadn't been the case, he wasn't ever a man to brawl.

  That, of course, had been the problem in Billy's eyes: the fact that there was no fight in their father. All of the stalls in the St. Peter Port market had got the word that their leases would not be renewed because the whole place was going to be shut down, to make way for a redevelopment scheme that meant trendy boutiques, antiques dealers, cappuccino stalls, and tourist shops. They would be displaced—the whole lot of butchers, fishmongers, and green grocers—and they could take it in the neck one at a time as their leases came up, or they could go at once. It hadn't mattered to the Powers That Be, as long as they were gone when they were ordered to be gone.

  “We'll fight 'em,” Billy had vowed at the dinner table. Night after night, he'd laid his plans. If they couldn't win, they'd burn the place down because no one took away the Fielder family business without paying the price.