A Grave Waiting (10 page)

“In French, the letter
B
in the alphabet is pronounced exactly the same way as
bébé.
Baby. Babe.”

“I get it!”

Liz Falla watched an elated PC Brouard leave the room. “Connecticut's nowhere near Florida, is it, Guv?”

“Nowhere near. Interesting that there was so little on the website about Julia King-Meraldo. I'd guess the information was there originally, and then removed.”

“So it's the child and the mother who are probably in hiding — at least, that is what it looks like. That they're hiding out from something or somebody.”

“Most likely a husband or ex. To someone from Florida, Guernsey must seem like the ends of the earth.”

“Safe as houses.” Liz Falla looked at her boss, who appeared to be doodling a woodchuck on one of the sheets of paper. “What are you going to do, Guv?”

“I'll see Gwen and tell her what we think the situation is, and then I'm going to leave them alone.”

“Want me to check on whether there's a warrant out?”

“Not right now, we've too much on our plate.” He pulled a tiny fragment of paper from his pocket. “I want you to get on to the RCMP, and see if they have anything about this Offshore Haven business. Nothing came through on our initial enquiry?”

“No, but I didn't specifically ask. Did you get anything from your contact about guns, wheeler dealers, and million-dollar deals?”

“General stuff, but this was pointed out to me —” Moretti handed over the scrap of paper to Liz Falla. “Limited partnership. He thinks this is about something different from just selling someone a yacht. I'm going to get hold of a friend in the financial business to see if we can dig anything up about Masterson. He didn't just turn up here to visit his money. He was here to see someone about something, and that something got him murdered.”

“By the way,” Liz Falla stood up and closed her notebook, “Gord Collenette says he seems to remember something about Lady Fellowes's husband — ‘being taken' was the expression he used. But either he couldn't or wouldn't be specific. You might ask Don Taylor about that while you're at it.” She grinned at Moretti and turned to leave.

“You're one sharp cookie, Falla.”

Moretti's voice was sombre and she wondered for a moment if she'd overstepped some boundary. Then he added, “You've just given me another reason to worry about Coralie Fellowes.”

“Lady Fellowes, Guv?”

“Hasn't it occurred to you with whom she might have had that glass of champagne?”

By the pricking of my thumbs
. Liz Falla remembered the visit to Lady Fellowes, the witches' seat, shuddering, sneezing. At the time she had hoped, or had chosen to believe, that it was an allergic reaction to her aunt's superstitious beliefs rather than a manifestation of what her aunt called “the gift.”

“The murderer. Whoever killed Bernard Masterson had champagne with Lady Fellowes.”

“As I said, you're a smart cookie, Falla.”

Money is the root of all evil
. Of course, the aphorism was always quoted incorrectly.
The love of money is the root of all evil
, according to Saint Paul, a converted bad boy who saw many human emotions as sinful.

Money. Moretti was reasonably sure that the money boys in the Commercial Branch and the Financial Investigations Unit wouldn't move in unless there appeared to be some real connection between Masterson's death and his financial dealings. And that was fine by him. The body on the boat was by far the most interesting island crime in a long while, and he hoped to be left to investigate it, but he needed some specialized help. Which was why he was putting in a call to Don Taylor, his contact on the Guernsey Financial Services Commission, known simply as The Commission.

The Commission had a different mandate from the Financial Investigations Unit. It acted as a watchdog and inspection body, and was therefore involved in the financial scene on the island in general, and not necessarily as a result of a criminal investigation. Moretti had worked with Don when he was looking into the operations of so-called “captives,” the subsidiaries set up by insurance companies to cover the risk of their own financial dealings.

Don Taylor screened and taped every call, so Moretti listened to the brief message, and began. “Don, it's Ed Moretti. I need to talk to you.”

Almost before he finished the sentence there was a click and the sound of Don's voice. “So I hear. A body with a bullet in the head, a Porsche in the belly of the boat, and a fortune in Euros in the bed-head.”

“Do you have a direct line to Hospital Lane?”

“Word spreads, need I tell you. A contact in the harbour master's office rang me about something else, and he'd heard about the body and the boodle from the driver of the police car. I could come over in an hour or so.”

“Meet me at my place.”

The only really significant addition Moretti had made to the contents of his family home was the sound system he had installed to carry the music so essential to him. It was a vintage quad tube system that drove a set of ESL speakers. The large speaker panel gave an incredibly smooth, sweet sound that had never, in Moretti's opinion, been bettered. He had not had to add a piano. He still had the one that had belonged to his mother.

The sound of Oscar Peterson filled the cottage, upstairs and downstairs, above the sound of the rain that had started to fall as Moretti drove up Les Gravées. He made himself a sandwich and put on coffee for himself and Don Taylor. As he did so, he heard Don's motorbike outside in the courtyard and went to the door.

“Christ, these things are slippery, Ed! Nearly lost my balance.”

Don Taylor was a small, wiry man of about forty, whose chief regret about working on Guernsey was the lack of space for his favourite hobby, running marathons. His other pet hobby was his ancient Rudge motorbike, which, when he was not riding it, he was either under or alongside working on it.

“That's cobblestones for you. Covered with the slick and moss of two centuries. Come in.”

Don shook off his oilskins under the overhang by the door, then hung them and his helmet over one of the hallstand hooks and sniffed the air appreciatively.

“Oscar and freshly ground coffee beans, what could be better. You were on form last night.”

“You were at the club? I didn't see you.”

“Tucked away at the back. I saw the yacht when I came out — spectacular, if you like that sort of thing.”

“Don't you?”

Moretti brought two mugs of coffee from the kitchen and put them down on the flat-topped oak chest that served as a coffee table. He turned a knob on the stereo and the sound of Duke Ellington's “Love You Madly” faded away.

“You ask that of a man with a pre-war motorbike, no car, and a penchant for running over twenty miles at a time. Not particularly.”

“I should ask you first, I suppose, if you saw anything unusual when you left. When
did
you leave?”

“Eleven, or just after.”

“Did you see Nichol Watt arrive, by any chance?”

“Indeed I did. Plus the usual floozy.”

Moretti felt a twinge of protectiveness toward Falla's cousin, but decided to ignore it. “What time did he get there?”

“You had just started on ‘Night and Day.' Hated to leave when you were all in the groove, but I had some paperwork to do. Not a thing, to answer your question about anything unusual, and I've given it some thought since I heard about the shooting. Okay, what do you want from me?”

Don's eyes behind the wire-framed spectacles he always wore glinted intelligently at Moretti over his mug of coffee.

“Are you working on, or do you know anything about a Canadian called Bernard Masterson?”

“The body, eh? Nothing comes immediately to mind. Are the Financial boys in on this?”

“Not yet. At the moment there's no evidence of financial finagling. I am assuming if they had anything on Masterson they'd let me know. One can but hope.”

Don Taylor grinned. “Life's a sight more complex for the island bobby since the era of just tourism and tomatoes passed into the history books. Anything more you can tell me about him?”

“Here.” Moretti handed over a copy of the RCMP information. “This is what we have so far.”

Don read through the notes, sometimes going back and rereading an earlier page. This he did two or three times.

“Something's caught your attention,” said Moretti.

“Yes.” Don looked up. “It's this nickname of his. Funnily enough it reminds me of —” he tapped his head. “It's in there somewhere, but I can't access it at the moment. I'm sure you too have asked yourself why in the hell a bloke like Mr. International Montrealer was here at all. Who's this Adèle Letourneau?”

“Also of Montreal. His housekeeper, so she says.”

“Interesting what the Mounties have to say about her.” Don read from the paper in his hand: “Masterson's personal assistant, Adèle Letourneau, is involved in all his dealings. No question, she's the one with the smarts, but we've never been able to get anything on her.”

“Having met her, I can see why. Cool as a cucumber, speaks perfect English, but I'd say French was her first language. They were once what she called ‘an item,' but love had changed to a business arrangement, according to her. He needed someone he could trust.”

“
Jealousy
—” Don sang the word softly. “Yet another possible motive, right?”

“Which is why, if you can find out anything about his finances, it might be helpful narrowing them down.”

“Of course,” said Don, reaching for his mug, “he could have all kinds of financial arrangements on the island, and his name would not appear in connection with any of them.”

“I know. One other thing —” Moretti held out the scrap of paper he'd been carrying around. “What do you make of this?”

Don peered at the tiny fragment and then up at Moretti. “Looks like Masterson was thinking of buying another yacht. Why?”

“That's what Letourneau says. But I've spoken to one other person outside the investigation, Ludo Ross, and he pointed out the ‘limited partnership' phrase. Said it didn't sound like a straightforward yacht sale to him.”

“You talked to Ludo?” Don pulled his glasses down on his bony nose and looked at Moretti over the tops of the wire frames.

“Yes. Why, do you think that was a mistake?”

“God, I don't know.” Don laughed and flicked his glasses back into place. “It's just that — the man is an enigma, Ed. What the hell is he doing, sitting here in that fortress of his, as if the enemy might come around the corner any second? The war was a long, long time ago, and most of those who hated his guts are long gone, I should think.”

“Paranoia, perhaps. He once told me you never get over the fear of discovery, or betrayal.”

“Maybe. And maybe Ludo has new fears to add to old ones.”

“Such as?” Moretti felt his own paranoia rising from the pit of his stomach to somewhere in his chest, where it tightened like a steel strap across his sternum.

Don shrugged his shoulders. “Don't get me wrong, Ed, I really like the guy. This paper you showed me —” Don changed the subject “— could be legit, could be swampland in Florida. Not much here to go on, but if it's swampland, two possibilities come to mind. That this is being touted as a tax dodge and you'll end up paying the taxman anyway. And the other is that there are no yachts at all — remember the film
The Sting
? Could be all smoke and mirrors.”

“Would a sophisticated investor get caught by such a scam?”

“They do, every day, my son, every day. Greed strikes the smartest operators blind.”

“Thanks, Don. I'd rather you didn't mention any of this to anyone. I've already made that mistake.”

Don stood up, draining the last drop of coffee from his mug. “I'm sure it's not a mistake, Ed. I was just voicing some thoughts of my own about Ludo Ross, that's all.”

Outside the rain was coming down steadily, occasionally sweeping in gusts across the courtyard. Don looked even smaller than usual, enveloped in his bulky oilskins and cumbrous helmet.

“Spring has sprung,” he shouted over the revving of his bike. “Dark as night and twice as nasty.”

Moretti watched the slight figure cautiously wheeling his Rudge over the slippery cobbles. Thinking he should grab something quick to eat, he went back into the house. The phone was ringing. Not Falla. She'd phone his mobile.

“Edward? It was Gwen Ferbrache.

“Gwen. I was just about to phone you with some information on your tenants.”

“That's why I'm ringing you. One of them is here — Miss Goldstein, that is — and she says you came to see her, and she'd like to talk to both of us.”

“Here being your place?”

“Yes. I didn't think I'd find you at home.”

“I'll be right over.”

It took about fifteen minutes to reach Clos du Laurier, and on the way he put in a call to Liz Falla. She sounded tense.

“I'll be at Hospital Lane in about an hour, Falla. Anything I should know meanwhile?”

“No prints on the Browning Baby, Guv, as you might expect. The divers are down again, looking for the murder weapon. And there was a call from Gord Collenette. His wife and daughter say Lady Fellowes was carrying a small silver bag. She was also wearing long satin gloves, and she kept them on the whole time.”

“She wasn't wearing them on the CCTV tapes, was she?”

“No. I've passed that on to SOCO in case they turn up on the yacht. I'm going through the statements that have come in so far from people identified on the tapes. Nothing of interest and nobody saw anything or anybody.”

“Frustrating, Falla.”

“Yes.”