A Grave Waiting (21 page)

“Blimey, mate, what happened?” The cabbie seemed genuinely shocked. “You was mugged?”

“Yes.”

“Did they get anything?”

“My briefcase.”

“Least it wasn't your wallet. Anything of value?”

“Not much.”

Some clean underwear, some shaving tackle and, more annoyingly, the charger for his mobile. But the numbers from Masterson's computer were safely with Lang. If indeed they were safe. And the photos were safe also, tucked into a moneybelt worn against his body.

“Bit of luck then. Sure you don't want me to drop you off at a hospital?”

“Sure. My friend will take care of this.”

“Right you are, Guv.”

Guv. Liz Falla. Thank heaven for texting, eliminating the sound of the human voice. Moretti pulled out his mobile. His hands were trembling, which surprised him. He must be suffering from shock, but he didn't want his “friend” to be at home to take care of anything. He no longer knew whom he could trust.

He was in luck. The house was empty, and he tottered upstairs on shaky legs and into the sitting room. He put the key down on the desk, went into the kitchen, and ran the cold water tap, wet a tea towel, and wrapped it around his head. It hurt and kept slipping, so he took it off, poured himself a glass of cold water instead. He found a bottle of aspirin in Peter Walker's bathroom cabinet, took two, then put the bottle in his pocket.

He had to get away before Peter got back. Had he followed him? Was he in cahoots with Jan Melville? Perhaps shock was making him ridiculously paranoid, but that's how he felt. Paranoid. After all, Jan Melville had dropped him off at the Tube station, and then whoever it was had come out of nowhere, hit him, and grabbed the briefcase.

In big cities, people got mugged every day. But most people didn't get mugged with a voice hissing in their ear, “Back off.”

It was the last thing he remembered before dropping to the ground and feeling the briefcase being wrenched from his hand. Clearly the wrencher assumed he carried a laptop, and did everything electronically, as most people did these days.

“Aha,” he said out loud. “You forgot you were dealing with a plodding copper from the back of beyond.”

Even talking was painful. Moretti winced, went into the bedroom he had used, repacked his bag, went downstairs, and opened the hall closet. It was chaotic, as hall closets tend to be, but eventually he found what he was looking for. He extracted a watch cap of black wool that Peter Walker used on his sailing and birdwatching visit to Herm — was that in fact what he
had
been doing? — and pulled it over his contused skull. Moretti, as his father had, was holding on to a full head of dark hair, now edged with grey, but the bump was visible and he wanted no comments or curiosity.

He took a moment to consider whether he should leave a note saying something innocuous like, “Called back urgently. Will be in touch.” But only a moment. Picking up his belongings, he let himself out of the house and flagged down a passing cab.

At some point on the way to the airport, he left another message for Falla, and the aspirins started to kick in.

Exposition

Day Seven

“T
hat's
a real pigeon's egg, Guv. Have you got an icepack in your fridge? If not, frozen peas will do.”

Moretti started to laugh. “Ouch. There's an icepack, I think. In the door.”

Liz found it, wrapped it in a tea towel, and handed it to Moretti. “No, seriously, the peas mould themselves to the shape of —”

“I know. Peas were included in the advice I got from my London sympathizers. Thanks, Falla.”

Moretti leaned back in the armchair and held the pack to his head. “Okay, so tell me the worst.”

“The worst is that the two Germans have flown the coop. And there's more.”

While she filled Moretti in on her interview with Dorothy Le Huray, Liz looked around at her boss's home. She had been here before, on their first case as partners, when she was assigned to protect a witness in that case. Not just a witness, but the ballerina wife of the murder victim, who subsequently was involved romantically with Moretti. It had broken up fairly swiftly; she didn't know why.

The place seemed unchanged, very much still the home he had inherited when his father died. Liz knew Moretti had lost his mother when he was still quite young. She also knew the two most significant objects in the room were the family piano and her boss's truly antediluvian record player that, he maintained, reproduced the best and purest sound. She saw there was a new acquisition on the wall, a watercolour in among the Guernsey prints and some fine old black-and-white photographs, and she recognized the female figure in the painting, a nymph called Arethusa. She only knew that because her image had come up in the earlier case, which meant this was a gift from Moretti's ex-lover. Which made her think of Sandra Goldstein. Perhaps she'd have time to do some digging later at Hospital Lane.

“You should eat something,” she said. She got up and went into the kitchen. “You've got some cold chicken here in the fridge,” she called out, “and some bread. I'll make you a sandwich.” She came back, carrying a tray with chicken, bread, a plate, and a couple of knives, placing everything on the dining table in the corner of the sitting room, pushing aside a pile of records to make a space. “Do you think it was just a mugging, Guv? A coincidence?”

“No.” There was something remarkably comforting about Falla's slim fingers dexterously cutting bread and slicing chicken. Some time he really must go and hear her sing, watch those slender fingers playing her beautiful Martin guitar. “Not with ‘back off' lovingly murmured into my ear. I think one of our problems is that there are any number of red herrings, most of them supplied by that jack of all trades, Masterson. He had so many irons in the fire and most of them were — well, fishy. If an iron can be fishy. Yet they are still all linked to the main reason he was killed, and it is a very dangerous main reason. He was playing with some very big, very unpleasant men who will stop at nothing to get what they want. What I don't know is whether he was trying to stiff them, or whether things just didn't work out. Or both. He made money on the MRI scam, but it fell apart, and I suspect the same thing happened with the offshore-haven scheme. The Mounties and the taxman got on to that one before the really big money was made.”

The sandwich was good and he was hungry. Liz Falla put down a glass of orange juice on the table, sat down opposite him, kicked off her shoes, and folded her legs up beneath her. She looked even younger like that, and Moretti felt ancient, and weary, and sore. Thinking straight suddenly became difficult. “Okay, Falla,” he said, “my addled brain is having problems. Whodunit, Detective Sergeant? Who have we got in the frame?”

Liz Falla leaned toward him and counted them off on her fingers. “First: Coralie Fellowes. Yes, her Baby Browning didn't do it, but she was there, I'm sure. Second: Nichol Watt, although his ‘bloody hell' would suggest not.” She looked across at Moretti and saw he was smiling. “I know, I know, I'd just like it to be him. Okay, not likely him. Looks like he was being used as a patsy by Masterson, doesn't it? Then there's the bloke who ended up dead on the Amsterdams' front lawn, the bodyguard. And there's Garth Machin and, possibly, his wife.”

“Ah yes, the fair lady of sorrows. But the most likely killer, or killers, are the ones the little shit warned him about. The ones who get you when your back is turned, your own.”

“The so-called housekeeper and the so-called Germans. Given he was shot with a Glock, the most likely, and now the two principal suspects are on the lam. But this is a small island, Guv, and we've got all available personnel out looking for them.”

Moretti drank the orange juice, finished his sandwich, and put the plate down on the oak chest he used as a coffee table. “Falla, you did the right thing, but it's too late now. Ulbricht and Baumgarten are probably long gone, and not via the airport or by the regular ferry service.”

Liz Falla looked at him, but did not reply. She picked up the remains of his meal and took them back into the kitchen. Moretti reached into his shirt and pulled out the body pack, extracted the photographs Jan Melville had given him, and put them down on the oak chest. He watched in silence as she came back into the room, sat down, and picked them up.

“That looks like —”

“Poppa Ulbricht, don't you think? These, I am sure, are the three people Melissa Machin overheard that day, and it is fortunate she had the good sense to stay hidden. I am going to tell you what I was told about these three, and the only other person who gets that information is Hanley.”

Liz Falla listened in silence as Moretti filled her in, then asked, “Do you think the little shit ignored his own advice, tried his hand at blackmail, then was shot by one of them?”

“Yes. Probably Ulbricht. My feeling is that Baumgarten is the point man, and watches his back, but Ulbricht is the hit man. A loose cannon, Martin Smith, and he became a liability.”

Moretti was startled by his partner's sudden yelp, as if she were in pain. “
Now
I remember what was bothering me, Guv, about Melissa Machin's account. I couldn't put my finger on it at the time, but she said, ‘Bruiser? That's what his shirt said, wasn't it?' There is no way she could have seen that from inside the house and, besides, it was getting dark. I think she went outside and she saw something. She'd been cooperative right up to the end, and then she became almost hostile. She'd been so frank it never occurred to me she might have withheld anything.”

Moretti got to his feet. The icepack slipped off unheeded into the armchair as he took out his mobile. Liz could hear the sound of a phone ringing, somewhere.

“Answer it, answer it, pick the damn thing up — Mrs. Machin? This is Ed Moretti. I'm coming right over. Do you have a spy hole in your door — yes? Keep back from the windows, but watch out for me and the detective sergeant you met a day or two ago. Open the door to no one else, not even Garth — I'll explain when I get there.”

Moretti put his mobile away, picked up the photographs from the table, and repacked them in his moneybelt.

“To state the obvious,” he said, “Melissa Machin is in a whole lot of trouble, because we don't know if the Germans are off the island. We'll take her first to Hospital Lane and then, Falla, to your place. After dark.”

Liz Falla was already at the door, car keys in hand. She was smiling as she turned back to Moretti, and he remembered that her brains were matched by her coolness under fire, a metaphor he hoped would remain only a turn of phrase.

“I'm babysitting again. Right, Guv?”

“Right. And you can put those car keys away. We'll take my Triumph and leave the police car here. Someone can collect it later.”

His partner's smile broadened as she replied. “Brilliant. With that head injury, I'd better drive, hadn't I?”

Melissa Machin packed a small bag as they waited, then walked between them to the Triumph. Moretti had let Falla do the talking, and she had said the right thing.

“Mrs. Machin, please come with us. For your children's sake, please don't delay, just come with us.”

“But, Garth —”

“Leave him a note saying you are on the mainland,” Moretti said, adding, “but don't say where. I'll talk to him.”

Moretti watched the window as Liz Falla went up the stairs with Melissa Machin. On that pristine, featureless landscape, whatever Garth's wife had seen would have stood out like — a dead prizefighter. And he thought he knew what she might have seen.

“At first, I didn't really think it was odd. They were not out of place, because they were well-dressed, and their car was in keeping with most of the cars around here.”

“What kind of car?” Moretti asked.

Melissa Machin gave a faint smile. “I couldn't tell you what make, I'm afraid. It was black, shiny. I'm not good on cars.”

“So there were two of them?”

“Yes. They had such cheerful expressions, looked as if they were dropping in on the people next door. And they made no attempt to hide, so it never occurred to me they were dangerous. Not at first, not until I heard this popping noise. Like a cap gun, sort of, after I'd walked away from the window. Then I heard the sound of the car leaving, fast — the brakes squealed, something like that. I looked out the window and saw what looked like next door's gardener lying on the lawn, only it wasn't his day, and that was odd. I thought maybe he'd had a heart attack or something, so I ran out of the house to help him. Then I saw the wound and knew. Just knew.”

“That it might be something to do with what you overheard?” Liz Falla interjected. “You'd told me so much, why didn't you tell me everything, Mrs. Machin?”

Melissa Machin shook her head. “Panic, I think. I don't know, I really don't. Fear of implicating Garth any further in — whatever this is all about.”

“Did you see the two men or the car?” Liz Falla asked.

“No. Just the body on the lawn.”

Maybe it was his sore head, but Ed Moretti felt irritation rising inside him. He was tired of being nice. “Is this the full story now?”

“Yes. I promise you, I saw nothing.”

Melissa Machin was shaking visibly, but Moretti felt only exasperation.

“See, the trouble is, Mrs. Machin, you have put yourself and Garth in greater danger, which could have been avoided if you had told DS Falla the truth.”

“I didn't lie!”

“You withheld information, the two men you saw are killers, and we don't know where they are.”

As the tears started to run down Melissa Machin's cheeks, Liz Falla stood up and put a hand on her shoulder. “Which is why, Mrs. Machin, you are going to spend the night at my place.”

Wiping away her tears, Melissa Machin turned round in her chair, and looked up at Liz Falla. “What about Garth?” she asked. “Mightn't they come looking for him?”

Before Liz could answer, Moretti replied. “They might, and if your husband chooses to tell me what is going on, we may be able to save him.” He stood up, pushing his chair back with unnecessary vigour. “A word with you, DS Falla.”

Outside in the corridor, Moretti took Liz by the shoulders, which surprised them both. As she looked up into his eyes, Liz remembered Moretti being compared once to someone called Dirk Bogarde. Some time she must ask him who Dirk Bogarde was. She felt his hands tighten on her shoulders, then release, as if he suddenly became aware he was touching her.

“First, before I leave here I'm going to arrange for Adèle Letourneau to be held in police custody overnight, preferably longer. That will free up an officer to be posted full-time at the Machins'. I don't think Letourneau is of great importance in the grand scheme of things but, if she
is
the brains, then they made a mistake cutting her out. She may yet talk. But I could be wrong, and I'm worried she may be able to swim her way out of police custody. One of those wetsuits was — wet, remember? Second, I've arranged a meeting with Chief Officer Hanley. He needs to know about my Cadogan Hall meeting, and the international ramifications of this case. He is less likely to get upset if I break the rules, and less likely to blow a gasket if islanders are not involved. We'll take the Triumph to your place, and then I'll drive it back home.”

“What about Garth Machin?”

“I'd love to set him up as bait, but for tonight I've told him to stay at the office, and that his wife is safe with us. One more thing —” even in the deserted corridor, Moretti lowered his voice “— I believe the Cadogan Hall mob have thrown us to the wolves. They didn't help me in return for a few post office box numbers, but because we may bumble around and flush out these characters, and if we are killed in the process, too bad.” He held out his hand, and grinned at Liz. “You really think I'm going to leave my Triumph sitting on the Esplanade for joyriders? Come on, Falla, hand over that key.”

Reluctantly, Liz Falla took the key out of her pocket and mentally added a sports car to her wish list. As Moretti took them from her, she remembered her plan to check out Sandra Goldstein. It would have to be put off, again.

It should have been awkward, but it wasn't. Melissa Machin was as easy and compatible as any of her woman friends, and it was that thought that led Liz Falla to another.

What woman friends? She had no close friends in the force, and many of her former school friends were no longer on the island. Two had gone into the financial sector, and they had drifted apart, largely because neither could understand how bright Liz Falla could have chosen being a bobby over being a businesswoman. And she was not big on coffee klatches, hen parties, and their modern counterparts, tweeting and texting. At least, not as a solely female undertaking. There were women on the force she liked, but her rapid rise to detective sergeant had put a space between them and her.