The Case of the Fallen Hero (An Inspector David Graham Cozy Mystery Book 3)

by Alison Golden

  “Well, no, but…”

  “And the notion that we might all have our every waking moment scrutinized by some looming, centralized authority is the pivotal script for every dystopian sci-fi novel ever written. That’s how police states operate, Sergeant.”

  Chewing this over, Harding was forced to agree. “Yes, sir. The thing is, in cases like this, wouldn’t it have been helpful if there were a drone hovering over Gorey, taking it all in? Or a bunch of cameras on the Orgueil battlements, filming everything that happens?”

  The teapot was almost exhausted and Graham waved to the waiter for a refill. “You know,” he said, sitting back and pinching his nose, “when I first joined the force, we had to jump through a dozen fiery hoops to get a wiretap. It was almost unheard of. And not only was the technology rather flimsy and the legal side full of problems, but there was an ethical side, too.” Harding listened, doing her best to imagine an earlier, more innocent time, probably just a few years before. “After all, we were intercepting someone’s personal correspondence. In doing so, we were breaching their privacy, and all because we suspected they were up to something. Convincing the judge each time was an absolute minefield.”

  “Really? It’s a cinch these days, isn’t it?” Harding remarked.

  “Well, I can tell you, it took ages back then, and it wasn’t that long ago, really. You had to stand there and swear up and down that the target was legitimate, that they’d definitely been involved in something or in touch with someone and then,” he added, his fingers circling to evoke the endless nature of the process, “you had to sign documents detailing how you’d treat the information, who you could discuss it with, what you planned to do with it, the whole nine yards.”

  “Sounds like a giant pain in the bum,” Harding said.

  “Yes,” Graham admitted. “But it was police work. It was genuine, and thought through, and we only spied on people when we absolutely had to.”

  Harding wasn’t prepared to let this one go. “So, you want to return to a time when we fill in a stack of paperwork just to listen to one individual’s phone conversations?”

  Graham knew there was no easy answer. “I’d like the process to be more efficient, but the same standards have to apply. Not some broad-ranging, bulk collection system that just sucks up everything pretty much indiscriminately.”

  “But if it did,” Harding persisted, “we’d know about crimes before they happened. We could prevent them.”

  “Maybe,” Graham admitted cautiously. “But imagine this. Two friends are talking on the phone. They get into a discussion about it how it might be nice to have a bit more money. One of them mentions that the corner shop has poor security, and the other one makes a snarky comment that the owner has been overcharging for years.”

  “Okay,” Harding said, following intently.

  “If the conversation stops at that point, and they don’t rob the place, have they committed a crime simply by talking about it?”

  “Not as the law currently stands,” Harding had to admit.

  “But we’ve made it our business to listen to them anyway,” Graham said, tapping the table with a rigid index finger. “We acted as though they were committing a crime, just in case they did.”

  Harding wasn’t quite with him. “But if they did rob the shop, we’d have evidence pointing to them, and we’d able to arrest them.”

  “For having a conversation?” Graham asked, incredulous. “Imagine that the shop had no CCTV and that no one there was able to identify the burglars. We’d have no evidence to make an arrest, just an illegally gathered phone conversation.”

  “Yeah, but at least we’d have it,” Harding countered.

  “So,” the DI wanted to clarify, “in your perfect universe, overhearing two people talking about committing a crime would be sufficient to arrest them for having committed that crime?”

  Harding was loathe to risk the disapproval of her boss, and she was on uncertain ground. “I don’t know, sir. But it certainly would be more efficient.”

  “More efficient than what?” Graham wanted to know as an elderly couple took their seats at the next table.

  “All the interviews and forensics and what-have-you,” she replied.

  Graham found that they had reached his main point, and he made it with the certainty of many years’ thought and experience. “All of that what-have-you is the very definition of police work, Sergeant. We find out what actually happened, not what was planned to happen. We interview witnesses, like the Jouberts and the people who work at the castle, to build up a picture of the suspects. We investigate the crime scene to see what it can tell us and investigate facts, such as George having his own place and that Marie stayed elsewhere before the wedding. All of that takes time and effort, and it’s a royal pain in the arse, I don’t mind admitting,” he said. “But it’s authentic, and it doesn’t invade anyone’s privacy.”

  “But what if you don’t get a conviction, because you’re not permitted to gather stuff like phone data?” Harding said.

  “Then we don’t,” Graham said. “Simple as that. We’re going to catch whoever murdered George, if that’s truly what happened, using the same methods of deduction and the same examination of evidence that have served investigators since the beginning. But if the conviction can’t be had through fair means, it doesn’t mean we should indulge in foul ones.”

  It was Harding’s turn to be incredulous. “But then, the murderer might just get away with it!”

  Graham took a breath and chose to smile rather than continue down the road to anger, a journey he’d allowed himself to take far too often, and he never enjoyed where it led. “People have been getting away with crimes since our ancestors established the principles of right and wrong. No justice system can catch every crook, nor should they try to. A good part of what we do, for better or worse, is deterrence.” Harding was nodding now. “Simply by being outstanding, professional investigators, we show the would-be criminals of the world that should they one day choose to be idiotic enough to commit a crime, we’ll be all over them and won’t rest until we’ve found what we need to get a conviction on them. In the process, we show that we will only do it by fair and authentic detection methods.”

  Harding reflected on this. Whenever she sat down with DI Graham, particularly when he was just finishing a big pot of tea, she always found that she learned something. Often something very significant that could change her world-view or explode a long-held myth. It was like having… she searched for the word… a guru.

  “Hmm, I wonder, though,” she cautioned, “if, in this particular case, someone thought they could get away with it. That we’d never find out.”

  The reminder of their present duties was unwelcome, but timely. “Indeed, Sergeant Harding, indeed. I wonder. Let’s go and find out, shall we?”

  They stood together.

  “You know,” he said, signing the check to bill the tea to his room, “I think I fancy another chat with the Joubert family. A longer chat. A one-to-one conversation with each of them, perhaps.”

  “Good idea, boss,” Harding agreed.

  “Because, and I’ve noted this before, as you’ll recall, something is going on with this case.”

  “Agreed, sir,” Harding said, following him to the lobby.

  “And people don’t just jump to their deaths for no reason. And they don’t slip and fall from a walkway that has a two-foot thick medieval battlement all along its edge.”

  “They certainly don’t, sir,” Harding acknowledged as they ascended the stairs.

  “And they definitely don’t get pushed off, to their deaths, without someone else having a very good reason. In their minds, at least. Unless the castle had ghosts. And I don’t believe in ghosts. Do you, Sergeant Harding?”

  Janice found herself on an emotional pendulum, swinging between a renewed enthusiasm for cracking this damned case, and a growing respect – yes, an admiration – for the remarkable mind of this man, her boss. When he was in
this kind of form, he was simply unstoppable, and it was exhilarating to watch.

  “Ghosts? No, sir. I don’t, sir.”

  “Good.” He knocked animatedly on the Jouberts' door. “I’ll kick this off, if you don’t mind, Sergeant. I’m in a mood to be the one doing the talking.”

  Antoine and Mathilde Joubert were, Harding could clearly see, most surprised and put out to be receiving their third conversation of the day with members of the Gorey constabulary. Graham’s polite request for a few moments of their time carried a tone of extra urgency, Janice noted, as though he had anticipated some degree of time-consuming, French bluster and wasn’t going to have any of it.

  “Mais…” Mathilde began, “you still do not know what happened?”

  Graham remained on his feet while the others sat. The Jouberts were side by side on the bed, while Harding took the room’s desk chair and sat opposite them. “We have several theories and suspects,” Graham told her, watching the woman closely to judge her reaction, “but we are not yet – not quite – in a position to draw a conclusion or make an arrest.” He paused rather dramatically, his pacing interrupted. “Or arrests.”

  Antoine did not care for this tone. “I believe, Monsieur L’Inspecteur, that we have already told you everything we know.”

  Graham brought out his notebook. Harding knew this as either the prelude to an incisive question or the precise logging of further details. It was the former. “Did you genuinely think it wise,” Graham asked, “when describing your relationship with the late George Ross, to omit that your family owned a small farm that was directly adjacent to that of George’s parents?”

  Antoine appeared befuddled for a moment. “Farm?”

  Harding chipped in with the name of the village.

  “Well, yes,” Antoine said, stiffly, “but we didn’t see how that was important.”

  Graham blinked at him. “Really, sir? You didn’t?”

  Antoine was defensive now. Resolutely superior in temperament, he was not someone who was used to being interrogated or accused of errors. “What does this have to do with George’s death?” he asked pointedly.

  “Yes,” Mathilde agreed. “What of it?”

  The notebook flipped closed. “I really couldn’t care less if you owned neighboring farms, Madame Joubert. What does interest me is that you were a few hundred yards away when George’s parents died. And you omitted to say so.”

  Mathilde gave a curious tutting sound. “Very unfortunate,” she said sadly.

  “A terrible accident,” Antoine agreed.

  Graham turned to Harding, who recognized it was her moment. “Would you describe the events of that evening to us, please?” she asked.

  The two officers bit down their frustration at receiving yet another Gallic shrug, this time from Mathilde. What do those gestures mean? Graham asked himself again. There’s a hearty dose of ‘sod you, I don’t care if your hair’s on fire’ in each one. He found them intensely irritating.

  “It’s so long ago,” Mathilde complained.

  “And yet,” Harding said next, doing her best to ask just what her boss might in this situation, “it must have been one of the most difficult and harrowing afternoons of your life. Comforting a young boy and his sister who had just discovered their parents’ bodies following their sudden and violent deaths.”

  “Terrible,” Antoine said, but apparently felt no need to say anything further.

  “The children had all been out playing. George came screaming to our farmhouse,” Mathilde reported. “He was covered in blood. It was ‘orrible.” There was a long pause, and Mathilde only continued when she noticed Harding on the verge of encouraging her to. “He was so young, so frightened. His sister was still with the parents, in shock.

  Graham recalled that the two youngsters had been thirteen and eleven. A truly appalling experience for anyone, but doubly so for children so young.

  “We went to the farmhouse and… Well, there was nothing anyone could do. The shotgun was lying on the floor next to the father. As though he had dropped it after firing for the last time.”

  “And what did you do?”

  Antoine took over, “We had to keep the kids away from there. They took a bath at our place and we called the police. I mean, it was obvious what had happened.”

  “You are not, unless I am quite wrong, a forensic examiner?” Graham heard himself say. “Nor are you a medical professional. How can you possibly have adjudicated so finally in so complex a matter?” he demanded.

  Affronted, Antoine stood. “I am also not an idiot, sir. The man shot his wife and then himself. A child could have known that.”

  With that, Antoine sat once more. “The police came to the same conclusion.”

  “That’s not what I was told by one of the investigating officers.”

  “What?” Mathilde rasped.

  “The children were told that their parents’ deaths had been an accident,” Graham continued.

  “What would you tell two young children?” Antoine protested. “That their father had gone crazy and murdered their mother, before shooting himself? What kind of memories would that leave them with?” His fists were balled now. “You’re not a father, I can tell.”

  Graham let this go. A common trick of those with things to hide, he knew too well, was to deliberately anger the investigator, so that his own problems and memories were front and center, rather than the case having his attention. It was an old trick, and Graham wasn’t going to fall for it. “How do you explain it?” Graham asked. “A happy couple, a loving family on vacation together. Why would George’s father have done something so terrible?”

  Mathilde pressed her hands together. “Monsieur, we are no strangers to illnesses of the mind, as you know. Our two daughters have their difficulties, and both have expressed a wish, at different times and for different reasons, to end their lives. We know how the mind can be. Life is not easy, sir. And the darkest parts of ourselves can’t always be explained.”

  Harding was struck by this rather sudden moment of unexpected eloquence from Madame Joubert who, until this point, had remained relatively quiet and stoical. “C’est vrai,” her husband agreed, his brevity a marked contrast to that of his wife.

  Graham found himself at an impasse. There was no way he could delve more fully into the tragedy at the farmhouse, and if he were to press any further, the Jouberts would almost certainly demand that they be provided legal representation, something Graham was keen to avoid. Instead, he tried to find a middle path.

  “Sir, madam… This investigation is complex and ongoing. Today has been very challenging for us all. We will need to speak with you further, so please make arrangements to stay on in Jersey for at least another day. We’ll also be speaking again with Juliette, Eleanor, and as much as is possible, with Marie.”

  “May we visit her?” Mathilde asked anxiously. “Is she... how do you say… locked up?”

  Harding fielded this inquiry. “She’s not under arrest, but her doctor believes that she needs to be detained for her own safety. He’s recommended that she stay for a few days at a facility on the south coast of Jersey. You’ll be able to visit her there, perhaps tomorrow afternoon?” Harding glanced at Graham, who nodded.

  “Very well,” Antoine said. “A difficult day, yes. Most difficult.”

  Graham made a point of shaking both of the Jouberts' hands and then ushered Harding out, following her into the hallway and closing the door behind them. He had his finger to his lips and took her down into the lobby, where they spoke quietly by one of the massive potted ferns with which Mrs. Taylor had chosen to decorate the place.

  “Well?” he asked, as if Harding might have gleaned all of the answers by herself.

  “It smells,” she replied. “I don’t believe the murder-suicide story for a second. I think Mathilde and Antoine know more about the deaths of George’s parents than they’re letting on.”

  “An astute observation, Sergeant Harding. So, we organize a wiretap and
see if they call a lawyer, or anyone back in France, and incriminate themselves, right?”

  Harding stared at him. “Huh?”

  “Just kidding, Sergeant. Come on, we’ve got police work to do.”

  CHAPTER 12

  IT WAS REMARKABLE, Marina thought to herself, that a man with a badly broken arm could even form a coherent sentence, or stand up straight. The art discoveries, shocking and amazing by turns, had completely re-energized Leo, who gestured expansively with his good arm and gave them all a pretty thorough description of each work. Only two were entirely unknown to him, with neither the painting itself nor the artistic style clueing him in.

  “I assume,” he said, “that there are whole bodies of work which were simply destroyed without having been catalogued.” Then, he added grimly, “Entire legacies lost.”

  “But so much has been saved,” Harry remarked, picking up an unframed piece which he’d removed from its crate. “What’s this, for example?”

  Leo recognized it at once. “That,” he announced gleefully, “is the portrait of Madame Margareta Knelling.”

  There was silence. “Who?” Harry and Emily said together.

  “She was the wife of some industrialist or other. You wouldn’t know her, except that her portrait was painted by George Du Marais, one of the most talented Belgian artists when it comes to representations of the human form.”

  “Kind of a shame, then,” Emily said, “that Mrs. Knelling looks like a space alien.”

  The portrait was hardly a kind treatment of what was clearly an old and frail subject. Leo explained that Du Marais was known for hugely exaggerating the features of his sitters, almost in the manner of a caricature artist. “He took what she brought with her – wrinkles, dryness, extreme age, that haughty air she has – and made them the features of the painting.”

  “Maybe Mrs. Knelling hated the damned thing,” Harry suggested, “and just gave it to the Nazis.”