A Grave Waiting (7 page)

“We don't light the fire until Ellie has gone to bed,” Julia King explained. “She's much too fascinated by it. She's napping at the moment, but she'll be up again quite soon.”

Accepting the offer of a cup of tea, so as to be around when the child got up, Moretti watched Sandra Goldstein leave the room and turned to Julia King. “I was sorry to hear from Gwen that you had been ill. You are convalescing here, I understand.”

Julia King had taken the chair opposite him, and Moretti watched the colour rise up her neck and flood her face. “Yes, I feel much better than when I arrived. The rest has been good for me.”

“You are an illustrator, so Gwen tells me.”

“Yes.” Julia King relaxed again, her face brightening. “I do illustrations for Sandy's books, but I do other work too. Would you like to see some?”

“Very much.”

She got up and went over to a desk under the window and switched on the lamp, leaving the slats of the blinds closed, Moretti noticed. “Here we are, some of my other work.”

“These are — exquisite.”

Julia King's “other work” consisted of pen and ink drawings, some with a wash of colour, of country scenes, townscapes, shells, flowers, animals. None were bigger than postcard size, some tiny miniatures. The detail was painstaking, the control of her medium seemed to Moretti's untrained eye to be outstanding.

“Thank you. Your island has given me some great new material — see, one of your granite walls, bursting at the seams with flowers. I think they're just too wonderful.”

From somewhere upstairs came the sound of a child calling out.

“That's Ellie. Please excuse me while I go get her up.”

As she ran out of the room, Sandra Goldstein returned with a tray. “Julia's been showing you her work,” she said, handing a mug of tea to Moretti. “She's very talented, and a terrific illustrator.”

“Nice to have a friend as your illustrator.” Moretti helped himself to milk, and refusing the offer of a biscuit. “Have you known each other long?”

“Since school days. I was originally a journalist, and when I thought up the characters of Warren and Wilma, I knew who I wanted to draw them.”

“Warren and Wilma?”

Sandra Goldstein smiled broadly, lifting the slanting lines of her cheekbones. “Warren and Wilma Woodchuck. Julia and I are now doing our fifth book together.”

There came the sound of a child's laughter, and a small girl ran into the room. She had curly dark hair, a skin like bronze satin, and huge brown eyes.

“Cookies,” she said to Sandra Goldstein, pointing at the plate on the tray. “Cookies for Ellie. Please?”

Then she saw Moretti. She stopped and turned back to her mother, held out her arms, and started to cry.

From the door of the porch the two women watched Ed Moretti leave. The rain was just starting, and soon Verte Rue would be a nasty, messy, muddy, comfortingly impassable morass.

“Do you think he came because she saw the gun?” Julia King leaned against the taller woman.

“I don't know. He's got a difficult face to read. Not a poker face exactly, but you get the feeling he's looking at one thing and thinking another.”

“It's an interesting face, isn't it? Didn't Miss Ferbrache say his father was Italian and his mother a Guernsey girl?”

“Yes. I was amazed at how quickly Ellie settled down. He must give off good vibes.”

“What do you want to do with this?” Julia looked down at the card she held in her hand.

“Put it in the trash, I guess.”

Sandra took the business card Ed Moretti had left with them, then saw the hand-written number on it. “On second thoughts, let's hang on to it, honey. Moretti gave us his probably unlisted home phone number. You never know.”

“Then nothing will happen. Like an insurance policy.”

“Right. Then nothing will happen.”

The tail lights of the Triumph disappeared into the gloom. Julia King shivered, and Sandra Goldstein held her tight as she locked the front door.

L
iz
Falla parked the police BMW outside the Landsend Restaurant and sat for a moment in the car, looking at the yacht. She could see it quite clearly, even though the floating dock and gangway were out of sight. The area of the pier along which Lady Fellowes had walked, perilously close to the edge, was in plain view, as was the police guard Moretti had ordered. Some of the SOC crew were still on board, and she had stopped off to ask if they had found anything of interest. Nothing, apparently. All the computers had been taken to Hospital Lane, to await the decision as to whether they, like the bullet, should be sent to Chepstow.

Liz had fond memories of the Landsend. In its earlier incarnation it had been little more than a glorified fish-and-chips café, her restaurant of choice when she was a kid. No hot dogs or hamburgers for her. Just lovely white fish in chunky golden batter, with a heap of thick-cut, greasy chips on the side and bottled tartare sauce.

But the Landsend, like Guernsey, had taken on another transformation. When money replaced tourism and tomatoes as the main income earner for the island, the Landsend moved upmarket, changing its menu and its décor. Gone were the wreaths of shiny plastic seaweed, the fishing nets hanging from the ceiling, one with a beautiful plaster-of-Paris mermaid trapped inside, clad in strategically placed seaweed and seashells, smiling seductively at the diners below. Gone was the five-foot-high statue of a cheerful lobster holding the Landsend's limited menu against his red-checked apron. Now there was a huge glass wall overlooking the harbour, white walls hung with sepia-tinted photographs, white linen tablecloths, single roses in crystal bud vases, fine china, and an ever-changing menu.

Gord Collenette was still the owner, but he had brought in a French chef and an Italian maître d'hôtel, and his carefully trained servers, both male and female, were chosen for their looks. It was certainly the sort of place where Lady Fellowes might well have dined, but it was hard to imagine she had stayed there until one o'clock in the morning.

Liz got out of the car and walked up the narrow tiled pathway between potted palms and hydrangeas to the main entrance. An elegantly dressed man, eyebrows raised, mouth pursed, stood on the other side of the glass doors, and watched her open them, making no move to help her.

“And what can I do for you?” he asked, the Latin lilt doing little to sweeten the tone, eyebrows descending as he scanned her dark suit, dropping to take in her shoes, with a quick flick back up to her wrist to take in her watch, Liz's only jewellery. Nothing sexual about it, but a rapid and skilled assessment of her potential as a paying customer.

“You can fetch your boss,” said Detective Sergeant Falla, taking her ID out of her pocket and holding it up close to his face. “Tell Gord Collenette that DS Falla wants to have a word. Oh, and make it snappy, will you? This is police business.”

The maître d'hôtel blanched visibly, turned on his heel, and disappeared behind swing doors.
Guilty conscience about something,
thought Liz Falla.

To Liz's right, through the narrow opening that had once been the Landsend lobster's kingdom, she could see the restaurant was doing good business with the suit crowd. Most of the diners were male, with a sprinkling of women who looked as if they were part of the same world as the men. Glass and cutlery clinked, an occasional laugh rose above the discreet murmur of voices, and Liz thanked heaven she was not the young woman sitting opposite the diner who bore a striking resemblance to the life-size lobster. The financial business had been the direction in which she had been heading before taking a detour into police work.

“Liz Falla! What can I do for you?”

Gord Collenette was a big man and his generous proportions overflowed the narrow space between the desk and the doors. His dark hair and eyes reflected his Norman roots and, although outgoing by nature and relaxed of personality, he had a reputation as a sharp businessman.

“Hi, Gord. I want to have a word about a possible customer last night.”

“Hang on, I'll get the reservations list. It was busy — silver wedding anniversary party.”

“You won't need it — if she was here, you'd remember. Lady Fellowes.”

“She was here, and you're right, I don't need any list to remember. As my Sally said, ‘All heads turned when that outfit walked in.' According to my daughter, Gail, who was on the desk, when she was told we were booked solid she said she'd be quite happy to sit at the bar. Which she did, drinking Manhattans.”

“Do you know what time she arrived?”

“Late-ish, after ten. Looked at her watch a lot. Everyone thought she was nervous and already tipsy, to use my wife's word.”

“Who is everyone?”

“Me, for a start. Sally the waitress, Gail, Steve the barman — he's married to Gail.”

“Do you know when she left?”

“Around midnight, I think, but I'll ask Steve. He's off-duty at the moment, but he'd have a better idea.”

“Was this the first time she'd been in?”

“No, but it was unusual. She used to come with her husband, Sir Ronald Fellowes. War hero, I was told. But she's been in rarely since he died.”

Gord Collenette gave one of those apologetic half-laughs that, in Liz Falla's experience, some males made when they were about to make an uncharacteristically intuitive or sentimental observation.

“He was a nice man, crazy about her, you could see it in the way he looked at her. I'm not one for fanciful stuff, but Sally once said it was like he still saw her the way she was, when she was a star.”

“Interesting,” said Liz Falla, amused to hear herself use Moretti's default response in similar situations. “When it comes to fanciful stuff, you must hear a lot of it in your business. Did you ever hear any gossip, anything at all out-of-the-way about the Fellowes?”

Gord Collenette thought a moment. “Well, I was told by a couple of people that Sir Ronald lost a heap of money at one time. ‘Been taken' was the expression used, I recall.”

“Really? Did anyone ever say who did the taking?”

“No. It was more like island gossip. You never know how these things get started.”

Gord Collenette seemed suddenly evasive. With his particular clientele it did not pay to give credence to rumour and gossip, even if — and especially if — it might be true. Discretion and secrecy were as much a part of his life as that of the brokers and bankers who used the Landsend, sometimes almost as an extension of their offices. His dark eyes turned away from the policewoman.

“Is there anything else? I've got to get back to the kitchen.”

“That'll do for the moment — oh, did you happen to notice if Lady Fellowes was carrying a handbag, or a bag of any kind?”

Gord Collenette grinned. “Not my thing, Liz, noticing handbags. But she paid cash for her Manhattans, I remember. I'll ask Sally and Gail.”

“Great, thanks. We may have to talk to some of the other staff, some of the silver wedding party, but that's it for now.”

“So, Liz —” the restaurateur's eyes turned back in her direction “— what's Lady Fellowes been up to? She's doolally, but she looks a bit frail to me to be up to anything.”

“Can't tell you, Gord, if she's been up to anything. But as you can see, there's an investigation going on at the moment, and we are talking to anyone who was seen around this area yesterday evening.”

“On the CCTV cameras, I imagine. This is about whatever is going on over at that luxury yacht?”

“Right.”

As she turned to leave, Gord Collenette held the door open for her.

“Oh, by the way — that doorman of yours. What do you know about him?”

Gord Collenette looked surprised. “Why do you ask?”

“Just curious. That's quite an attitude he's got.”

“Isn't it, though?” said Collenette proudly. “His name is Vittorio DeBiase and he came with excellent references. Don't ask me why, but élite diners expect to be treated like he's stomping on them.”

Outside the Landsend a brisk wind was blowing the potted palm trees and flapping the awning over the entrance.

“Liz! Hey, Liz Falla, fancy bumping into you!”

Liz Falla closed her eyes. Maybe if she called on her necromantic ancestors, Denny Bras-de-Fer would be whisked off in a cloud of fire and brimstone. She opened her eyes.

No such luck. There he stood, long blond hair blowing in the wind, long body, long legs, languorous smile. Bedroom eyes. Where was her Becquet witch blood when she needed it?

“Hey, Denny. I don't fancy bumping into you.”

She had once. Fancied bumping into him, that is. In one insanely stupid moment of weakness she had allowed those bedroom eyes to persuade her into bed with him, and, after a night of remarkable physical abandonment with a complete lack of commonsense and intelligent objectivity, she had opened her eyes the next morning and known she had done something very, very silly.

Denny Bras-de-Fer was a fraud. Not a criminal — not quite — but even his name was recently acquired. It was now about two years since Englishman Dennis Bradford and his fiddle landed in Jersey to play for the tourists wherever he could get a job. With his good looks, his charm, and a touch of larceny, he did very nicely for a few months, writing the occasional article for the
Jersey Evening Post
and appearing on Channel Television, until his somewhat slanderous account of the love life of a local celebrity hit the air waves and, rechristened Denny Bras-de-Fer, he took flight with Aurigny Airways to Guernsey. He played in bars, restaurants, took up his writing career once more with the
Guernsey Press
, and slept with anyone he thought might be useful to him. If they would let him, and there were few who said no.

Liz Falla was one of them.

“Hey, no fair. You dumped me. When are you going to invite me to play with Jenemie?”

Here was the problem. You could throw Denny out of your bed, but it was difficult to throw him out of your life.

“Never, Denny. I already told you.”

This was the other problem with Denny Bras-de-Fer. He was brilliant in bed, not bad with the pen, but not very good with the fiddle.

“Worth a try. So, Liz, what's going on with the luxury yacht? Some American been murdered? What are the divers looking for? A gun is what I hear. Right?”

“Come off it, Denny. None of your business.”

“But it's your business, isn't it? For old times' sake, give me a scoop, darlin'.”

“Get lost, Denny. I'm on duty.”

Denny Bras-de-Fer hunched his shoulders and gave one of his carefully crafted wry smiles that crinkled up his eyes. “Sorry you feel that way, Liz. See you around.”

With a wave of his hand he sauntered off down the pier, leaving Liz with the uneasy feeling she had, somehow, told him too much.

As she got back into the car, her mobile rang. It was Moretti.

“I'm on my way back to the station. Leave the customs people for later, Falla. I want to look at the CCTV tape, and I want you along when we go to Lady Fellowes's place.”

Even at night, Lady Coralie Fellowes stood out on the Albert Pier CCTV camera like an orchid in a field of crabgrass. She was wearing a long, flowing dress topped with what looked like a feather boa, and a pair of very high heels.

But what was most striking about the image on the screen was the furtive way she moved, body slinking almost theatrically into the eye of the camera, with lowered head and tiny, tottering steps. Clearly the woman was fragile, a wraith on the screen, but this was more than frailty; this was fear.

“Run it again, Falla. Hell, she's close to the edge, isn't she? For a moment, I thought she was going right in — look. What's she doing?”

“Throwing something away was what I thought. I'll freeze it and try the zoom.”

“There — right there. Hold it.”

Time and Lady Coralie Fellowes stood still.

“She's throwing something in the water, Guv — she took it from her bag. It's a bit hidden by the boat, but let's see — I think it's a gun.” Liz Falla's deep voice rose an octave.

“So do I.”

So, was it going to be that simple? Something personal? Sex, and not money, after all? And yet, Coralie Fellowes had to be well over eighty years old and, from the sound of things, the murder victim liked them young.

“Okay, Falla, get on to the harbour master's office and arrange for divers. I want the area covered by the camera and around the yacht searched. Tell them they're looking for a weapon, most likely a gun. I want a word with PC Brouard, and then we'll head out.”

Moretti found PC Brouard at the desk in the entrance lobby, chatting with the duty sergeant. The discussion seemed to be about football, and was stirring up intense emotions in both men. The young constable turned around, his face the colour of a Manchester United jersey.

“Jerseys, PC Brouard.”

“Jerseys, sir?”

With a cynical curl of the lip, the desk sergeant resumed his paperwork.

“Yes, jerseys. I want you to check up on something for me, and the jersey in this case is almost sure to be American and a sports sweater of some kind — football, basketball, I don't know. It's grey, but there could possibly be other colours. It has the word
Panthers
above the face of a snarling panther, complete with paws and claws. Also, check out a series of children's books about Warren and Wilma Woodchuck by Sandra Goldstein, illustrated by Julia King.”

PC Brouard had returned to his normal colour. “Woodchucks?” he queried incredulously, scribbling in his notebook.

“Right, woodchucks. Anything you find, bring it directly to me.” Moretti spelled the names of both woodchucks and both women for the constable and went outside. Liz Falla was already waiting with the car.

“The divers will get started this afternoon, Guv. That should give us time to be there, if they bring anything up.”