A Grave Waiting (3 page)

The bus terminus was a site, rather than a building, opposite Albert Marina. There was a kiosk for tickets, a public convenience, and a line of bus stops beneath a canopy of trees that included some sixty-foot-high turkey oaks that were under the threat of the chainsaw to make room for more parking, the subject of heated debate.

Picking up her handbag and her shopping bag, Gwen said goodbye to Lonnie, got off the bus, and headed toward the northern end of the town. As she passed the town church she noticed that there were two or three police cars and an ambulance leaving Albert Pier, sirens wailing. An incident on the cross-channel ferry perhaps, she told herself. A fight, someone taken ill, a drug seizure.

How the world had changed in her lifetime, and not always for the better. On Liberation Day, May the ninth, 1945, she had thought nothing could ever be that bad, go that wrong again. She sighed, waited for the light to change at the foot of Market Hill, and continued on her way to the police headquarters on Hospital Lane.

The morning sunlight shone blindingly off the stainless- steel appliances in the galley, lighting up in unflinching detail the bloated face and bloodshot eyes of Jean-Louis Rossignol. Hard to tell how much was caused by past excesses, or the shock of finding his employer's body. He was seated at a small, marble-topped table opposite Police Constable Mauger, his large hands clasping a mug of tea.

“Are you in charge?” he asked querulously, as Moretti and Falla came through the door. “Where 'ave you been? I sit 'ere and I am shocked, so shocked.
Mon dieu, c'est un cauchemar!
Did you
see
—?”

From the gust of liquor-laden breath that reached Moretti, the mug of tea contained something more than Orange Pekoe.

“Yes, I did see, Mr. Rossignol, and that's why you had to wait. There's not much space in here so, PC Mauger, could you wait outside?”

Moretti waited until the burly figure of PC Mauger squeezed past the three of them into the passage outside the galley, then turned back to the chef.

“Why don't you start by telling us how you came to be here, working for Mr. Masterson.”

With a little whimper and a gulp of his toddy, the cook obliged. “I am cooking in Geneva, and I see an — ad, you say? — in April for someone to cook on a luxury yacht for the summer. Time, I think, for a change. So I apply, 'e 'ire me, and off we go, cruising to every port on the Riviera. I like it, always the change, and oh, the people I cook for!”

“Such as?” Moretti interjected.

“Big businessmen from Germany, Italy, France, America. Even sheiks — oh, the parties! And the women! Always pretty women from Mr. Masterson. Then suddenly 'e say we're going to the
Iles Anglo-Normandes
.”

“So this was unexpected?”

“Yes.”

“Did he just say ‘
Iles Anglo-Normandes
,' or did he specify Guernsey?”

“Let me think — no, 'e say Guernsey, then 'e say where that is. Why 'ere? we all wonder, but the money's right, and 'e's the boss.”

“Then what? Take us through yesterday and today. Were there visitors to the yacht when you arrived?”

“No. I think maybe tomorrow we 'ave company. Then Mr. Masterson say you all go ashore. Enjoy, 'e say. And for me to be first in the morning for 'is breakfast. Mr. Masterson is — was — Canadian. 'E ate a big breakfast in the morning.”

“Did he speak French?”

“Yes, but not like me. Sometimes I 'ave the problem to understand. Adèle also, they speak French often together.”

“Adèle?”

“Adèle Letourneau, the 'ousekeeper. Nice lady, never interferes with my kitchen.”

“So, you came back this morning at —?”

“Nine, as 'e ask. I 'ave a key to the salon door, but that was strange. It was not locked.”

“So everything would normally be locked up?”

“Yes. Mr. Masterson was so particular about that.”

“Do you know who had keys?”

“Me, Adèle, and I think maybe that
petit salaud
, Smith.”

“That would be who?”

“Valet to Mr. Masterson.”

“You didn't get on, I gather.”

“No one get on with that one. 'E once call me the friggin' fly in the fuckin' hointment.”

A low burbling sound emanated from DS Falla, quickly suppressed as she bent over her notebook.

“I see. Now, what happened after you went into the salon. Describe what you saw.”

“Dirty glasses I saw.”

“You didn't move them?”

“I am chef, not valet. So I go through to the kitchen and there is no note. Always 'e leave a note for what 'e wants for breakfast. Often eggs and bacon, sometimes
crêpes
— 'e eat them with the sausage and the syrup.” Rossignol gave a little shudder and continued. “At first I think maybe it is a trick by the
petit salaud
, but no, 'e is on shore, so I go to Mr. Masterson's cabin.”

“Slowly now. Was the door unlocked?”

“A little open, that is also strange. It is always locked when 'e is in there, and for that cabin I don't 'ave keys. Then I see the legs. ‘Mr. Masterson,' I say, and again I say it. Then I open the door and see — ah, oh, oh!”

Moretti pushed the mug toward the chef, who drank the last of its contents. Down the corridor outside the kitchen came the sound of a woman's voice, followed by that of PC Mauger.

“Jean-Louis! Jean-Louis!”

“Just a minute, ma'am. You can't go in there.”

“Adèle!” The chef broke into a fresh burst of sobbing.

Moretti went out into the corridor. “It's okay, Constable. She can come in.”

Adèle Letourneau looked nothing like any housekeeper Moretti had ever seen. Her lightly tanned features were expertly made up, framed by one of those deceptively simple hairstyles of heavy bangs and swinging, thick swags of bronze-highlighted hair that did not come courtesy of the little hairdresser around the corner. She wore jeans and a heavy navy sweater with a cowl neck. In one hand she carried a small overnight bag, and in the other she held a key.

“I didn't need this,” she said, waving the key in front of her. “There's a policeman at the end of the gangway, ambulance, police cars — what the hell is going on?”

The housekeeper's voice was smoky with nicotine, her English accented. Close up, Moretti saw she was probably well into her forties and not her thirties, as he had first supposed. Before he could say anything, Jean-Louis Rossignol wailed, “Oh Adèle, Mr. Masterson is dead! Shot!”

“Dear God.”

There was a thud as the overnight bag hit the ground, followed by the key, and then, almost, by the housekeeper. She swayed, and Liz Falla caught her.

“Here, sit down. We'll get you a glass of water.”

The chef filled a glass with mineral water out of the fridge, and handed it to the housekeeper, who needed help from Liz Falla getting it to her lips.

“Sorry. This is a shock.”

“Of course.” Moretti gave her a moment, then turned to Jean-Louis Rossignol, who was whimpering softly on the other side of the table. “PC Mauger will see you to your cabin, sir, and I must ask you to stay there while forensics checks over the yacht. We will have an officer on duty at the foot of the gangway round the clock.”

As the two men disappeared in the direction of the dining area, Moretti turned back toward Adèle Letourneau. The housekeeper was the colour of parchment, and her hand was still shaking as she took another sip of water.

“What happened?” she asked.

“Mr. Rossignol came in this morning, found no instructions for breakfast, went through to the master suite, and found your employer on the bed, shot through the head. Have you any idea why this might have happened, or who might be involved?”

“No, not as to who might be involved. But Bernard is — was — a wealthy man. I suppose theft was the motive. Was anything taken?”

“Nothing that we can see, but you will be the better judge of that. Did he have a safe?”

“Yes. In the bed-head.”

“We'll get you to check, but there's no obvious sign of it being opened. Most thieves take what they want, and don't stay around to tidy up after themselves. And speaking of tidying up — there's a champagne glass with lipstick on it in the main salon. Is it yours?”

“No.” Adèle Letourneau's hand on the glass stopped shaking. She had gone very still. Her guard was up, her shock controlled. “Bernard liked his babes, Detective Inspector.”

“You think one of his babes killed him, Ms. Letourneau? Did you have any other visitors on the yacht I should know about?”

“No. But perhaps he arranged something in town, I don't know.”

Moretti decided to change direction. “You called Mr. Masterson by his first name — had you worked with him a long time?”

“Yes.” The housekeeper finished off the water in the glass, and reached over to take the bottle of cognac left by the chef on the stovetop. “If you don't mind, I'd like some of this, and a cigarette?”

“Go ahead.”

Moretti watched as Adèle Letourneau poured herself a generous shot, and then pulled a packet of cigarettes and a lighter from the bag on the floor. The booze at this hour of the morning he could do without, but the thought of a cigarette and a cup of coffee filled him with longing. Surreptitiously he fingered the lighter he still carried in his pocket, and saw Liz Falla's half smile as he did so.

“To answer your question —” Adèle Letourneau lit her cigarette, inhaled deeply, and closed her eyes, “— we were once, what you might call, an item. When that was over, friendship remained, and trust. In his position, Bernard needed that, someone to trust.”

“And what was Mr. Masterson's business.”

“Bernard was a financier. He started off in Montreal, which is where I met him, but soon his business was as much in Europe as in North America. This summer his business was so scattered he decided to operate from the yacht. Besides, he enjoyed it.”

“Financier, Ms. Letourneau. Can you be more precise?”

The housekeeper had surprisingly light eyes for a woman with her colouring, and they were fixed on Moretti like cold, pale marbles. “Bernard started out in Quebec buying businesses for rock-bottom prices when they were failing, turning them around, and selling at a profit. He built up a wealthy and influential clientele and contacts in North America and abroad, and gradually moved into being what he called a facilitator.”

“A facilitator?”

Moretti watched Liz Falla write the word in her notebook, saw his partner's eyebrows disappear under the jagged line of her bangs.

“Can you give me an example?”

Falla's eyebrows revealed more than the housekeeper's eyes, fixed on him with apparent candour as she replied. “He was a middleman, putting together people who wanted to do business with certain goods in certain parts of the world. For instance, he just brokered a deal between Canada and Germany involving armoured personnel carriers.”

“Impressive.” Moretti pulled out the scrap of paper he had found in the magazine rack. “Would this have been one of Masterson's ventures?”

Adèle Letourneau glanced at the fragment and again her eyes met Moretti's, unblinking and candid.

“Oh, I don't think so. Bernard had moved far beyond this sort of business deal. But I know he was thinking of buying another yacht. This boat was proving a bit small.”

Liz Falla put her pad away, and sat down opposite the housekeeper. “Did he have any family? Would you like to contact anyone?”

“There's only an ex-wife, no children. He inherited his first business from his father, and as far as I know he was an only child.”

The housekeeper stubbed out her cigarette in a small metal ashtray on the table, and finished the last of the brandy in her glass. Moretti watched as the two women made eye contact, the housekeeper with that frank, straight look that revealed nothing. But maybe Falla could read her better than he could.

As he was mulling over whether to ask about guns at this point, or to wait until he spoke to Nichol Watt, Liz Falla asked another question. “Your chef says this trip to Guernsey was unexpected, Ms. Letourneau. You were more in Mr. Masterson's confidence than others. Do you know why he came here?”

Adèle Letourneau's gaze left Liz Falla's face and traversed the small galley as if in search of something neutral on which to settle.

“I have no idea,” she replied.

As she looked at Moretti over the top of the housekeeper's shiny bronze cap of hair, DS Falla's brown eyes were far more expressive than those of the dead man's ex-lover.

“D
id
you ever see anything like it, Guv?”

“Not in a bed-head I haven't.”

“How much do you think was in that safe?”

“Depending on the current rate of the Euro, there had to be close to a million pounds, give or take a fiver.”

“And she didn't even blink, did she?”

“She's good at that, not blinking. But I'd say Ms. Letourneau has undoubtedly seen many a million in cold, hard cash before today.”

Liz Falla swung the police BMW through the gateway into the courtyard outside the police headquarters on Hospital Lane. In 1993 the Guernsey police force had moved its operations into the fine eighteenth-century building that had at one time been the workhouse. Popularly known as the Pelican, after the plaque high on the courtyard wall showing a pelican feeding its young on drops of blood from its own breast, it still carried the original name set in the brickwork: Hôpital de St. Pierre Port, 1749. In Guernsey, the past often serves the present in practical ways.

As they went into the building, the desk sergeant called out to Moretti, “Ed, there's someone waiting for you.”

“Dr. Watt?”

“He phoned and left a message — here's his extension at the hospital. It's an elderly lady who says she's your aunt and needs to talk to you. Gwen Ferbrache.”

“Gwen?” Moretti took the piece of paper handed to him. “What in the —?”

Liz watched this with interest. Her boss was not a man to reveal private emotions and personal feelings, and she once wondered if he had any. She knew better than that by now, having worked with him for a year, but she also knew he liked to keep his mask of cool detachment firmly in place. But he was looking anxious now, even startled.

“Seems a bit upset, so I put her in your office. Okay?”

“Your aunt, Guv?” enquired Liz Falla as they went swiftly up the stairs. “Do you want me to take care of her while you talk to Dr. Watt?”

“No, Falla, I'll talk to her. She's not really a relative, but she's the closest friend my mother ever had. This isn't like her, unless there's something really wrong. Normally she'd try to reach me at home, but I haven't been there for the past few days.”

“That might explain it. My great-aunt Mabel gets agitated about the silliest things. She'll go on at my mother for days about getting a new dishcloth when she's got no need of another dishcloth.”

Moretti did not bother to explain. This woman would not pester him about dishcloths, because she was more than capable of getting one for herself.

“But I do want to hear what Nichol Watt has to say, first, without an audience.”

They went into another office near Moretti's that was temporarily empty, and Moretti made the call. At the sound of Watt's voice echoing down the line with its characteristic drawl, Liz Falla grimaced and silently fake vomited.

“Hi there, Moretti. Want to know something about the high-priced cadaver?”

“Time of death if possible, and something about the bullet that killed him.”

“I'll know more after the autopsy, of course, but I estimate time of death to be somewhere between eleven and twelve o'clock, of a single gunshot wound to the head. Interesting bullet from what I can see, and I think they'll find it's a hollow-point. Everything looked neat and tidy on the outside, but it'll have done a hell of a lot of damage on the inside. I did part of my forensic training in the States, and saw some of these. Not the kind of missile I'd expect to find in the average British huntsman's gun cabinet, let alone on Guernsey. I think it should be sent straight to Chepstow. I wouldn't even waste my time sending it to the Jersey crime lab. We don't see many hollow-points around these parts.”

Both of the islands had scene-of-the-crime labs, well equipped to identify drugs, analyze fingerprints, develop photographs, and take care of most of the basic needs of the island CID, but for some procedures the evidence was sent to the forensic labs in Chepstow, Surrey.

“Agreed. One other thing — he'd peed his pants. Before, or after death?”

“Before, in my opinion. I'll be able to tell you more tomorrow.”

There was a click as Nichol Watt hung up the phone.

“I tell you, Falla,” said Moretti, “he may be a shit with women, but Dr. Watt's great with corpses. You heard that?”

“He's never bothered me, Guv, but one of his harem is my stupid idiot cousin.”

“Does she know about the others?” Moretti held the door for his partner and closed it behind them.

“Oh, yes, but it doesn't make one bit of difference. She thinks she can reform him. The love of a good woman and all that crap.”

“Didn't read you as a cynic, Falla. You don't think the right woman can turn a man around?”

“No, I don't. Besides, I like the bad boys too. That's my problem.”

Moretti was saved from any response by the appearance of Gwen Ferbrache in the doorway of his office.

“I heard your voice, Edward. I'm so sorry to bother you. I tried to reach you at home, kept getting your answer phone, and you didn't get back to me.” She was smiling, but Moretti could hear the anxiety in her voice.

“It'd been a busy week, Gwen, and then I took a few days off. Went to Herm. But I'm glad to see you anyway. This is my partner, DS Liz Falla.”

Liz found Gwen Ferbrache impressive. A pair of piercing blue eyes in a tanned face framed by short white hair surveyed her, and her hand was grasped in a firm handshake. She was wearing a skirt in a heathery tweed atop a pair of black and white trainers, and a quilted blue ski jacket over a pale blue turtleneck sweater. There was about her a sense of competence and self-sufficiency that certainly didn't suggest a tendency to overreaction, be it about dishcloths or anything else.

Introductions made, Liz Falla went to rustle up cups of tea, and Moretti took Gwen Ferbrache into his office.

“Now,” he said, pulling a chair out for Gwen, and moving his own so they were both on the same side of his desk, “what's the problem? I know you wouldn't be here unless it was something serious.”

“Well,” said Gwen, placing her shopping bag on the floor and settling herself firmly against the back of the chair, “that's the problem, really. I don't know if it
is
serious, or whether it's my imagination, but I'd never forgive myself if I did nothing. You see, there's a child involved. No,” she added, seeing Moretti's expression, “it's not child abuse — at least, I don't think it is.”

At this point Liz Falla came back into the office with a tray, and cups of tea were handed out. When she made as if to leave the room, Gwen Ferbrache put out her hand. “Please don't leave on my account. Another woman's point of view might be useful, because this involves three women — well, a child and two adults.”

“Go ahead,” said Moretti, “have some tea and then start from the beginning.”

Gwen Ferbrache took a good mouthful of tea and began. “As you know, Edward, I have a property in St. Peter's, the parish of St. Pierre du Bois, called La Veile. It's been empty for some time, mostly because it's at the end of a narrow lane full of grassy ruts that turns into a morass in the winter. Verte Rue, it's known as — green lane. Very difficult for cars, but it's a nice little cottage, fully furnished, which just needed the right people. And I thought I'd found them. Just over a month ago I saw an ad in the Wanted section of the
Guernsey Press
— I have it here.” Gwen picked up her handbag, pulled out a scrap of paper, and handed it to Moretti.

“Desperately required immediately. House suitable for two females and a child, two years old,” Moretti read out loud. “This telephone number they've provided sounds familiar.”

“That's because it's the number of the Imperial Hotel, which, as you know, is quite close to my home. So I phoned and arranged to meet the two women.”

“Go back a bit. Tell me your first impressions of the person you spoke to on the phone.”

Gwen gave a little chuckle. “The first impression was that she had an American accent.”

“American?”

“Surprised me too. But she was soft-spoken, not loud or pushy, so I felt reassured, I suppose. She said her name was Sandra Goldstein and she told me she needed accommodation for herself, her friend, and her friend's daughter, and that they would be on the island for an indefinite period. She said she was a writer of children's books, and her friend was an illustrator. I arranged to meet them at the Water's Edge Restaurant in the hotel the following day for lunch. When I got there they were waiting for me — the child as well.”

“Describe them,” said Moretti. “What age, how they were dressed, that kind of thing.”

“Sandra Goldstein is late thirties, I'd say, and the other woman is somewhat younger. They sound alike, but they don't look in the least alike. Sandra Goldstein is olive-skinned, dark-haired, and quite tall. Her friend, Julia King, is fair-haired, shorter, and more rounded in build. As to what they were wearing — jeans, predictably, and quite nicely tailored shirts.”

“And the little girl?” asked Liz Falla.

“A delightful child, very well-behaved and perhaps a little quiet for a two-year-old. But she clearly adores the two women, and clings particularly to her mother. Not surprising, I suppose. Her name is Ellie. What, if anything, it is short for they didn't tell me and I didn't ask. What struck me about her was her colouring, with such a fair-haired mother it was surprising, you see. She looks as if her father may be Hispanic, or possibly black.”

“She could be adopted,” Liz Falla observed. Moretti saw she had put down her teacup and was quietly taking notes.

“True. Oh, there are so many possibilities. And, after what happened, my imagination has run riot.” Gwen sighed and twisted the handles of her handbag.

“Tell us what happened,” said Moretti.

“They came with me the next day to see the cottage and loved it. ‘It's perfect,' they said, more than once. They said they loved walking, and were quite happy to use the buses. They paid the deposit and a month's rent, and I gave them the name of a local taxi driver who knows Verte Rue and could take their luggage to the cottage for them. I left them to settle in and then, about two weeks after they moved in, I decided to pay them a visit. I went on my bicycle, because we'd had a dry spell and I don't mind bumping over the ruts, just as long as I don't get bogged down in mud.”

“You didn't phone first?” interjected Liz Falla.

“There isn't a phone in the cottage, and they said they didn't need one. I imagine they use a mobile, I don't know. It was about three in the afternoon when I got there, and there was no sign of life. So I propped my bike against the gatepost and went to the front door. I knocked, there was no reply, so I peered in the window. The child was on her own in the front parlour, playing with a plastic lorry of some kind she was pushing around the floor. She looked up, saw me, called out ‘Hi!' and came running toward the front door. I heard her trying to turn the door handle. Just then, Julia King came running from the back of the cottage — and I mean
really
running. But it was her face that gave me the jitters.” Gwen Ferbrache shivered. “She looked terrified. And then I saw what she was holding in her hand — or, at least, what I think she was holding in her hand. Only it seems so unbelievable.”

Moretti leaned forward and steadied Gwen's hands that threatened to twist the handles off her bag. “Tell us what you think you saw.”

“A gun, Edward. I think that's what I saw. She was holding a gun.”

Liz Falla stopped writing and looked up.

“Was it pointing at the child, or whoever was at the door?” she asked.

“At the door. She pushed the child behind her, and at that point Sandra Goldstein ran into the room. She saw my face at the window, thank God, and I heard her saying, ‘It's okay, Julia, it's okay.' Then they let me in, and things became even stranger.”

“In what way?” asked Moretti.

“They behaved as if absolutely nothing had happened. They gave me tea, talked about the delights of country living — spotting the first wild orchid, that kind of thing — said they were going to get bicycles, and then sent me on my way.”

“Was there any sign of the gun?”

“No. Nowhere in sight.”

“Have you been back to see them since then?”

“No! It was all far too unsettling, and I saw enough guns drawn during the occupation, thank you. But I thought I should tell you.”

“You did the right thing,” Moretti assured her, patting her hands. Liz Falla watched the gesture with interest. Demonstrative behaviour was not part of her boss's usual emotional toolkit. “I'll look into this — oh, don't worry, quite discreetly. I'll make some initial enquiries — child abductions and so on, they keep an international registry — and see what comes up. How did they pay you, by the way?”

“By cheque, drawn on a bank here in St. Peter Port. The account was in the name of Sandra Goldstein. There was no problem with it.” Gwen had recovered her equilibrium. She removed her hands from Moretti's with an impatient shake.

“Can you think of anything else, however trivial, that struck you about them, or anything they said? Did they talk about America, or where they were from?”

“They said Connecticut, but that's about it. However, I did ask how they came to be in Guernsey, and Sandra Goldstein said one of their friends in the States had been here and showed them one of the tourist videos they give out at the tourist office on the Esplanade. They wanted a quiet spot for the spring and summer, because Julia King is recovering from a serious illness. Of course, at that point I asked no further, because I didn't like to pry. There's one other small thing, a comment Mrs. King made about the name of the cottage. She asked me what ‘La Veile' meant and when I said ‘Watchpost,' she said to Miss Goldstein, ‘Isn't that perfect?'”