A Grave Waiting (26 page)

“No secret commands, Ed. Like me, they were trained to kill when asked, and that's all I needed to say to them. Kill. You won't need to worry. I've seen to that. They would never have obeyed anyone else.”

Even in the soft lamplight of the salon, Ludo now looked like a very old man, his face worn and creased with pain.

“One of the hardest things I have ever done in my life,” he said.

Then he walked out of the salon, hands in the air, and faced the music.

T
he
aftermath seemed to take forever. In actual fact, it took about a week. Intelligence services do not like hanging around in public places while onlookers stare, comment, and, worse still, take photographs. The bodies — all the bodies — the yacht, Adèle Letourneau, and Ludo Ross were swiftly removed from the scenes of their crimes. No one was happier about that than Chief Officer Hanley.

But for Moretti, there was one loose end he was anxious to clear up, a loose end that was of no importance to either MI5 or MI6, but that was nagging him.

Offshore Haven Cred.

The dead could not speak, and Ludo insisted he had not pulled the brochure from the magazine rack.

“Not even to provide us with a red herring?”

“Never entered my mind, Ed. My word of honour,” he said, which had made them both laugh.

Which left only Adèle Letourneau.

“Yes,” she said, “I removed it.”

Sitting in his office, just before she was to leave the island, she looked her age. More than that. She looked empty, almost vacuous, a sense of loss clinging to her. Finally, the jig was up.

“Why?” Moretti asked.

“Because it was yet another of Bernard's grand schemes that had put us at risk. You'll put us in an early grave, I told him, more than once. Ulbricht and Baumgarten were our babysitters, keeping an eye on us for those three bastards and, as far as I knew, they didn't know about Offshore Haven and I wanted to keep it that way. But he'd talked about it to that cretin, Martin Smith. Just before I left the yacht that night, I pulled the brochure out of the magazine rack and destroyed it. I thought then he had a chance of making it through, because they needed him, and it would take time to — replace him.” Adèle Letourneau laughed, her face contorting with what looked like grief. “What I didn't know was that he had set up a meeting with a madwoman. And a madman.”

“But he didn't know about the madman, did he?”

“No. That was Bernard's trouble. He had balls of brass, and the foresight of a baby, my
bébé boule à mite
.” Her voice was caressing. She leaned toward Moretti, confidentially. “And she — she did what she was always good at, she got a man to do what she wanted.”

Moretti thought about Ludo's words.
It was just like the old days
. And, more chillingly, the murder of a woman he had once loved.
I could never refuse her anything
, he had said.

Masterson's housekeeper shrugged her shoulders. “He was mad, you know, that Ross. Like Ulbricht and Baumgarten, he was a killer. That was not about love, Detective Inspector. That was not about love.”

Moretti and Falla sat drinking coffee in the Commercial Arcade after a lengthy debriefing at Hospital Lane, prolonged by Jimmy Le Poidevin's complaints about lack of cooperation, lack of foresight, and lack of input. He had finally been silenced by Chief Officer Hanley himself.

“I suggest, Jimmy, that you take your complaints to MI6. I have no names, but I can give you their address.”

It had given them both something to laugh about in the car, but neither of them had felt much like laughing since then. Liz was unusually quiet in the cafe, looking out of the window at the shoppers and the first tourists in the arcade, the warm, beautiful day reflected on the cheerful faces passing by. In a month or so, the tourists would return en masse.

It was Moretti who broke the silence. “How is Nichol doing? Have you spoken to your cousin?”

Liz smiled, and took another bite of her chocolate-filled croissant. “He's doing well, considering what they did to him, and how long it was before he got medical help.”

Moretti nodded. “From what Bras-de-Fer says, they were holed up there a while, while Ulbricht and Baumgarten — or whoever they really are — tried to make contact for instructions on what they should do next.”

“Yes. They just left Nichol for dead on the floor. Dr. Burton says he must have a skull like concrete, but myself I think he's suffered brain damage. Apparently he has found God, so one of the nurses tells me, and is trying to get back together with his wife. My cousin is weeping and wailing — she has no idea how lucky she is.”

“God help the ex Mrs Watt, but perhaps she has more sense than your cousin. How
is
the idiot in the bathroom? They knocked him around pretty badly.”

Liz groaned. “Considering what a blubbering, weak-kneed cretin he is, he's doing brilliantly. He's regrouped, and reinvented himself as the hero of the moment. All kinds of women are lining up to lick his wounds for him. He's the man who saved the day, would you believe?”

Moretti laughed. “Denny Bras-de-Fer will come out of most of life's hornet's nests unstung and smelling of roses.”

He looked at Liz across the table. She was running a finger around the rim of her cup, her head bent forward, so he could not see her expression. There was a sadness about her today that was totally out of character, and he assumed it was not about Denny. Tentatively he asked, “Ludo's ‘something I want her to do for me' — is that giving you a problem, Falla? Is there anything I can do?”

“No.” She looked up and Moretti saw to his dismay there were tears in her eyes. “Yes. Guv, I wish I could talk about it, but I'm supposed not to do that. When I've done — it, I'll make my own decision.”

Moretti would have been only too happy to stop asking questions at that moment. His and Falla's was a working relationship that — well, worked, and he wanted to keep it that way. A quiet time professionally would suit him nicely for a while, as he decided what to do about Sandy Goldstein.

He knew what he wanted to do about Sandy Goldstein. It kept him awake at nights. But the devil, as usual, was in the details. And the most disturbing detail of all was Julia King. Sandy would never move in with him, never leave her friend and colleague on her own. But perhaps that was what he wanted in a relationship, and certainly his ex-partner back on the mainland would say it was. All sex and no commitment, Val would say. Since he had not slept around while they were together, and they had been living under the same roof, he was not sure what she meant. She seemed to want from him something more, something of himself he could not give.

So maybe Sandy Goldstein was the answer.

He was brought back into the present by a question from Liz Falla. The tears, thank God, were gone.

“Double V and Game-Boy never did get to meet Masterson, did they? Not the first time?”

“No. Remember, Masterson reserved two nights ‘in case' at the hotel, and I think that was why Ulbricht and Baumgarten got anxious about Coralie's death. They were around the yacht that night, saw her command performance, felt someone else was involved who killed Masterson. They may even have seen Ludo's car at some point, which was why they believed Denny's story. They knew it wasn't Double V or Game-Boy, because they had warned them off.”

“Guv, how much of Ludo's story was true, do you think? Was most of it moonshine?”

“God knows, Falla. That's the advantage of being sworn to silence, you can make up anything you want. And I never questioned even his qualifications, just bought his story. His age was always a mystery, and when I really thought about it, I realized he must have missed most of the war. When we went to see him about Coralie Fellowes, he modified his story from the one I was originally told. I suspect she had been in jail for some time until Ronnie Fellowes found himself a young agent who was prepared to break the rules for him.”

“Did you always think he was involved?”

“Not always. At the beginning I thought the answer lay outside Guernsey, in financial cyberspace, with bad guys in Montreal, or the sun king of a small west-African country. But the motivation was closer to home. In the end, the one who remained was the truth.”

“Shape-shifter, that's what he told me he was called, and that's what he was. Melissa Machin called him a man's man, and Mrs. Evans called him a ladies' man. He was whatever he needed to be.”

“No man, everyman.” Moretti realized there would be a hole in his life without him.

“I'll miss him, you know,” Liz said, as if reading his mind. “He taught me a lot, a bit like Eliza Doolittle.”

“He was your Svengali, and you were his Trilby.”

Falla grinned, her joie de vivre returning as swiftly as it had gone, another sign of youth. “Svengali I know, but I thought the other one was a hat,” she said. “I'll have to look that up — that's what Ludo would tell me to do. I'd better make a move.” She pulled out her pretty little smartphone and manipulated it with a speed and deftness that made Moretti feel very old. Old age was not an absolute, such an individual matter, and as he watched his partner's sleight of hand he felt older than Ludo Ross who, in Moretti's memory, would always seem ageless.

Falla looked at him across the table. “I've got a gig tonight, and it's been a while since I played with them.” As she stood up, she said, “I'm going to need some time off, Guv. To get this — thing — out from under my feet.”

“Of course. We're both owed some time off, and getting back to the club is top of my own list.”

Apart from Sandy. He had already left a message on her mobile, which she hadn't returned. A twinge of apprehension struck him. Perhaps he should head straight out to Verte Rue and see how things were.

They were leaving the café as Moretti's mobile rang. Pulling it out he said to Liz Falla, “Have a good one tonight.”

“Thanks, Guv.”

As she walked away from him, he answered his call. “Moretti.”

“Ed.” It was Chief Officer Hanley. “Could you come right over here?”

“Is there a problem?” No big surprise, because there were any number of loose ends still to tie off before the case was closed.

“You could say that.” Moretti could hear what sounded like astonishment in his superior's voice. “There is an American gentleman here in my office, who has told me quite a story. His name is Sam Meraldo.”

Ellie looked very much like her father. Sam Meraldo had dark eyes and hair, film-star good looks, and a trace of an accent. It was easy to see why Julia King had been crazy about him.

“Detective Inspector, I am told you are the man who can help me.”

Moretti was about to open his mouth and say “over my dead body,” or something similar, when Chief Officer Hanley leaned forward and said, “This has to be done discreetly, Ed. We checked the property records, and saw that the property in question is owned by your aunt, Gwen Ferbrache.”

“She is not my aunt, sir, but she is a close family friend.”

“Exactly. So you may be able to handle this, without undue —” Hanley hesitated, then went on “— risk, to those involved.”

This was not how Ed Moretti had planned to spend his first free day after wrapping up the
Just Desserts
affair, sitting across the table from Sam Meraldo, of all people. He was tired, he was frustrated, but above all, he was angry. He exploded, a reaction so out of character that Hanley visibly jumped from the seat of his chair.

“How you have the gall to come here, Meraldo, spin Chief Officer Hanley a pack of lies, expect me to lead you to a woman you have terrified, and a child — your own child — you have threatened, and involve the island police force in finding them, is beyond belief!”

Before Hanley could untangle his tongue into words, Moretti pressed on across his chief officer's outraged spluttering. “You should know, sir, that Mr. Meraldo's wife, her daughter, and her close friend sought refuge from him here. I have no intention of leading him to them, and I think you should hear how he has persecuted them.”

Before either man could respond, Moretti went through the catalogue of harassments and abuse listed by Sandy Goldstein in Gwen Ferbrache's sitting room: the dolls with ropes round their necks, the X-rated videos, the phone messages, the photographs, the stalking. By the end of his recital, he noticed that Hanley had moved his chair further away from Meraldo, his attention now turned in the American's direction.

“This is — unconscionable, sir. What have you got to say about all this?”

Meraldo did not reply. Instead, he bent down and pulled a handful of papers from a briefcase on the floor, and handed them out, like a class assignment, some to Hanley, and some to Moretti.

Moretti found himself looking at the sort of material Sandy Goldstein had described, clear evidence of harassment and persecution. The crucial difference was that it was directed at Sam Meraldo, by Sandy Goldstein herself.

“Oh my God.”

Sam Meraldo smiled, wearily. “Got quite an imagination, has Sandy — heck, she's a writer. Not the first time, Detective Inspector, I've been through this. Very difficult to deal with, when a child is involved. And, frankly, I don't care a flying fuck what the relationship is between those two, but I do care about my daughter being removed without warning. I never wanted to take her away from her mother — besides, in my job I cannot care for her full-time — but I may have to do just that.” Meraldo held out another document to Moretti. “Here are my divorce papers and custody agreement with Julia, in case you need further proof.”

Moretti took the papers, but did not look at them. Instead he asked, “Why did this take you so long? We did check for any report of a missing child called Ellie King, or Ellie Meraldo, but the officer found nothing. They have been here a few weeks now.”

Sam Meraldo reached out and took the papers back, put them in his briefcase. “Because I was away on business in central Mexico, and out of touch. I am Mexican by birth, now an American citizen, and I work for a big mining consortium undertaking exploration in the mountains near Saltillo. My fault, I shouldn't have trusted, not after what has happened. But I have to make a living, officer.”