A Place of Hiding (13 page)

She was reluctant to ask but she was more reluctant to remain in ignorance. So she picked her handbag off the floor and opened it, making a pretence of searching for a breath mint as she said in an offhand manner, “I expect the salt air does one a lot of good. How have your nights gone since you've been here, darling? Any uncomfortable ones?”

He flicked her a look. “You shouldn't have insisted I come to his bloody party, Mother.”

“
I
insisted?” Margaret touched her fingers to her chest.

“‘You must go, darling.' ” He did an uncanny imitation of her voice. “‘It's been ages since you've seen him. Have you even spoken to him on the phone since last September? No? So there you are. Your father will be extremely disappointed if you stay away.' And we couldn't have that,” Adrian said. “Guy Brouard mustn't ever be disappointed when there's something he wants. Except he didn't want it. He didn't want me here. You were the one who wanted that. He told me as much.”

“Adrian, no. That's not . . . I hope . . . You . . . you didn't quarrel with him, did you?”

“You thought he'd change his mind about the money if I showed up to see him in his moment of glory, didn't you?” Adrian asked. “I'd parade my mug at his stupid party and he'd be so damned happy to see me that he'd finally change his mind and fund the business. Isn't that what this was all about?”

“I have no idea what you're talking about.”

“You aren't suggesting he
didn't
tell you about refusing to fund the business, are you? Last September? Our little . . . discussion? ‘You don't show enough potential for success, Adrian. Sorry, my boy, but I don't like throwing my money away.' Despite how many buckets of cash he distributed elsewhere, of course.”

“Your father said that? ‘So little potential'?”

“Among other things. The idea's good, he told me. Internet access can always be improved and this does look like the way to do it. But with your track record, Adrian . . . not that you actually
have
a track record, which means we'll now need to examine all the reasons why you don't.”

Margaret felt the outrage slowly spill its acid into her stomach. “Did he actually . . . ? How
dare
he.”

“So pull up a chair, son. Yes, do. Ah. You have had your difficulties, haven't you? That incident in the headmaster's garden when you were twelve? And what about the hash you made out of university when you were nineteen? Not exactly what one looks for in an individual in whom one plans to make an investment, my boy.”

“He said that to you? He brought those things up? Darling, I'm so sorry,” Margaret said. “I could just weep. And you came over anyway after that? You agreed to see him? Why?”

“Obviously, because I'm a stupid lout.”

“Don't
say
that.”

“I thought I'd give it another try. I thought if I could just get this thing going, Carmel and I might . . . I don't know . . . give it another go. Seeing him—having to put up with whatever he dished out to me—I decided it would be worth it if I could save things with Carmel.”

He'd kept his attention determinedly on the road as he admitted all this, and Margaret felt her heart go out to her son despite all the characteristics about him that frequently maddened her. His life had been so much rougher than the lives of his half-brothers, she thought. And she herself was to blame for so much of what had been rough about it. If she'd allowed him to have more time with his father, the time that Guy had wanted, had demanded, had attempted to get . . . That had been impossible, of course. But if she'd allowed it, had taken the risk, perhaps Adrian's way would have been easier. Perhaps she would have less to feel guilty about.

“Did you speak to him again about the money, then? On this visit, dear?” she asked. “Did you ask him to help you with the new business?”

“Didn't have the chance. I couldn't get him alone, what with Miss Melontits hanging all over him, making sure I didn't get a moment to score any of the cash she wanted for herself.”

“Miss . . . Who?”

“His latest. You'll meet her.”

“That can't be her real—”

Adrian snorted. “It should be. She was always hanging round, thrusting them into his face just in case he started thinking of something that didn't immediately relate to her. Quite the distraction, she provided. So we never talked. And then it was too late.”

Margaret hadn't asked before because she hadn't wanted to elicit the information from Ruth, who had sounded on the phone as if she was already suffering enough. And she hadn't wanted to ask her son as soon as she saw him because she'd needed to assess his state of mind first. But now he'd given her an opening, and she took it.

“How exactly did your father die?”

They were entering a wooded area of the island, where a high stone wall richly covered in ivy ran along the west side of the road while the east side grew thick groves of sycamores, chestnuts, and elms. Between these in places the distant Channel showed through, a sheen of steel in the winter light. Margaret couldn't imagine why anyone would have wanted to swim there.

Adrian didn't reply to her question at first. He waited till they'd passed some farmland, and he slowed as they came to a break in the wall where two iron gates stood open. Tiles inset into the wall identified the property as
Le Reposoir,
and here he turned in to a drive. It led in the direction of an impressive house: four storeys of grey stone surmounted by what looked like a widow's walk, the inspiration, perhaps, of a former owner who'd undergone some form of enchantment in New England. Dormer windows rose beneath this balustraded balcony, while beneath these windows the façade of the house itself was perfectly balanced. Guy, Margaret saw, had done quite well for himself in retirement. But that was hardly surprising.

Towards the house, the drive emerged from the trees that tunneled it and circled a lawn at the centre of which stood an impressive bronze sculpture of a young man and woman swimming with dolphins. Adrian followed this circle and stopped the Range Rover at steps that swept up to a white front door. It was closed and it remained closed as he finally replied to Margaret's question.

“He choked to death,” Adrian said. “Down at the bay.”

Margaret was puzzled by this. Ruth had said that her brother had not returned from his morning swim, that he had been waylaid on the beach and murdered. But choking to death didn't imply murder at all.
Being
choked did, of course, but
being choked
had not been Adrian's words.

“Choked?” Margaret said. “But Ruth told me your father was murdered.” And for a wild moment she considered the fact that her former sister-in-law may have lied to her in order to get her to the island for some reason.

“It was murder, all right,” Adrian said. “No one chokes accidentally—or even normally—on what was lodged in Dad's throat.”

Chapter 5

“T
HIS IS JUST ABOUT
the last place I thought I'd ever be showing up at.” Cherokee River paused for a moment to observe the revolving sign in front of New Scotland Yard. He ran his gaze from the silver metallic letters to the building itself with its protective bunkers, its uniformed guards, and its air of sombre authority.

“I'm not sure if it's going to do us any good,” Deborah admitted. “But I think it's worth a try.”

It was closing in on half past ten, and the rain had finally begun to abate. What had been a downpour when they'd set off earlier for the American embassy was now a persistent drizzle, from which they sheltered beneath one of Simon's large black umbrellas.

Their sojourn had begun hopefully enough. Despite the desperate quality of his sister's situation, Cherokee possessed that can-do attitude that Deborah recalled being second nature to most Americans she'd met in California. He was a citizen of the United States on a mission to his nation's embassy. As a taxpayer he had assumed that when he entered the embassy and laid out the facts, phone calls would be made and China's release would be effected at once.

At first it had seemed that Cherokee's belief in the embassy's power was perfectly well founded. Once they had established where they were supposed to go—to the Special Consular Services Section, whose entrance was not through the impressive doors and beneath the impressive flag on Grosvenor Square but, rather, round the corner on the much more subdued Brook Street—they gave Cherokee's name at the reception desk, and a phone call into the reaches of the embassy brought an amazingly and gratifyingly quick response. Even Cherokee hadn't expected to be
greeted
by the chief of Special Consular Services. Perhaps ushered into her presence by an underling, but not greeted personally right there in reception. But that was what had happened. Special Consul Rachel Freistat—“It's Ms.,” she'd said and her handshake was of the two-fisted sort, designed to reassure—strode into the enormous waiting room and shepherded both Deborah and Cherokee into her office where she offered them coffee and biscuits and insisted they sit near the electric fire to dry out.

It turned out that Rachel Freistat knew everything. Within twenty-four hours of China's arrest, she'd been phoned by the Guernsey police. This, she explained, was regulation, something agreed upon by the nations who'd signed the Hague Treaty. She had, in fact, spoken to China herself by phone, and she'd asked her if she required someone from the embassy to fly over and attend to her on the island.

“She said she didn't need that,” the special consul had informed Deborah and Cherokee. “Otherwise we would have sent someone at once.”

“But she does need that,” Cherokee protested. “She's being railroaded. She knows it. Why would she have said . . . ?” He shoved his hand through his hair and muttered, “I don't get that one at all.”

Rachel Freistat had nodded sympathetically, but her expression telegraphed the message that she'd heard the “being railroaded” declaration before. She said, “We're limited as to what we can do, Mr. River. Your sister knows that. We've been in touch with her attorney—her advocate, it's called over there—and he's assured us that he's been present for each one of her interviews with the police. We're ready to make any phone calls to the States that your sister wants made, although she specifically said she wants none right now. And should the American press pursue the story, we'll handle all queries from them as well. The local press on Guernsey is already covering the story, but they're hobbled by their relative isolation and their lack of funds, so they can't do more than just print what few details they're given by the police.”

“But that's just it,” Cherokee protested. “The police're doing their best to frame her.”

Ms. Freistat had taken a sip of her coffee then. She'd looked at Cherokee over the rim of her cup. Deborah could see that she was weighing the available alternatives when it came to delivering bad news to someone, and she took her time before she reached her decision. “The American embassy can't help you with that, I'm afraid,” she finally told him. “While it may be true, we can't interfere. If you believe wheels are turning that will steamroll your sister into prison, then you need to get help at once. But it needs to come from within their own system, not from ours.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” Cherokee demanded.

“Perhaps some sort of private investigator . . . ?” Ms. Freistat replied.

So they'd left the embassy without attaining the joy they'd hoped for. They'd spent the next hour discovering that finding a private investigator on Guernsey was akin to finding ice cream in the Sahara. That being ascertained, they'd trekked across town to Victoria Street where now they stood with New Scotland Yard rising up before them, grey concrete and glass springing out of the heart of Westminster.

They hurried inside, shaking their umbrella over the rubber rain mat. Deborah left Cherokee staring at the eternal flame while she went to the reception desk and made her request.

“Acting Superintendent Lynley. We don't have an appointment, but if he's in and can see us . . . ? Deborah St. James?”

There were two uniforms behind reception, and they both examined Deborah and Cherokee with an intensity suggesting an unspoken belief that the two of them had come strapped with explosives. One of them made a phone call while the other attended to a delivery being offered by Federal Express.

Deborah waited until the phone caller said to her, “Give it a few minutes,” at which point she returned to Cherokee, who said, “D'you think this'll do any good?”

“No way of knowing,” she replied. “But we've got to try something.”

Tommy came down himself to greet them within five minutes, which Deborah took for a very good sign. He said, “Deb, hullo. What a surprise,” and he kissed her on the cheek and waited to be introduced to Cherokee.

They'd never met before. Despite the number of times that Tommy had come to California while Deborah had lived there, his path and the path of China's brother had never crossed. Tommy had heard of him, naturally. He'd heard his name and was unlikely to forget it, so unusual was it when compared to English names. So when Deborah said, “This is Cherokee River,” his response was “China's brother,” and he offered his hand in that way he had that was quintessentially Tommy: so utterly easy with himself. “Are you giving him a tour of town?” he asked Deborah. “Or showing him you have friends in questionable places?”

“Neither,” she said. “May we talk to you? Somewhere private? If you've time? This is . . . It's rather a professional call.”

Tommy raised an eyebrow. “I see,” he said and within short order, he was whisking them to the lift and floors above to his office.

As acting superintendent, he wasn't in his regular spot. He was instead in a temporary office, which he was inhabiting while his superior officer convalesced from an attempt that had been made on his life in the previous month.

“How
is
the superintendent?” Deborah asked, seeing that Tommy in his good-hearted way hadn't replaced a single photograph that belonged to Superintendent Malcolm Webberly with any of his own.

Tommy shook his head. “Not good.”

“That's dreadful.”

“For everyone.” He asked them to sit and joined them, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. His posture asked the question What can I do for you? which reminded Deborah that he was a busy man.

So she set about telling him why they had come, with Cherokee adding what salient details he felt were needed. Tommy listened as Tommy had always listened, in Deborah's experience: His brown eyes remained on whoever was speaking and he appeared to shut out all other noises from the offices nearby.

“How well did your sister come to know Mr. Brouard while you were his guests?” Tommy asked when Cherokee had completed the story.

“They spent some time together. They clicked because they were both into buildings. But that was it, as far as I could tell. He was friendly with her. But he was friendly with me. He seemed pretty decent to everyone.”

“Perhaps not,” Tommy noted.

“Well, sure. Obviously. If someone killed him.”

“How exactly did he die?”

“He choked to death. That's what the lawyer found out once China was charged. That's all the lawyer found out, by the way.”

“Strangled, d'you mean?”

“No. Choked. He choked on a stone.”

Tommy said, “A stone? Good Lord. What sort of stone? Something from the beach?”

“That's all we know right now. Just that it's a stone and he choked on it. Or, rather, my sister somehow choked him
with
it, since she's been arrested for killing him.”

“So you see, Tommy,” Deborah added, “it doesn't make sense.”

“Because how is China supposed to have choked him with it?” Cherokee demanded. “How's
anyone
supposed to have choked him with it? What'd he do? Just open his mouth and let someone shove it down his throat?”

“It's a question that needs to be answered,” Lynley agreed.

“It could have been an accident, even,” Cherokee said. “He could have put the stone in his mouth for some reason.”

“There'd be evidence to show otherwise,” Tommy said, “if the police have made an arrest. Someone shoving the stone down his throat would tear the roof of his mouth, possibly his tongue. Whereas if he swallowed it by mistake . . . Yes. I can see how they went straight to murder.”

“But why straight to China?” Deborah asked.

“There's got to be other evidence, Deb.”

“My sister didn't kill anyone!” Cherokee rose as he spoke. Restlessly, he walked to the window, then swung to face them. “Why can't anyone see that?”

“Can you do anything?” Deborah asked Tommy. “The embassy suggested we hire someone, but I thought you might . . . Can you ring them? The police? Make them see . . . ? I mean, obviously, they're not evaluating everything as they ought to. They need someone to tell them that.”

Tommy steepled his fingers thoughtfully. “This isn't a UK situation, Deb. They're trained here, true, the Guernsey force. And they can request mutual aid, true as well. But as for starting something from this end . . . If that's what you're hoping, it's just not on.”

“But . . .” Deborah reached out her hand, knew she was bordering on a plea—which felt utterly pathetic—and dropped her hand to her lap. “Perhaps, if they at least knew there was an interest at this end . . . ?”

Tommy studied her face before smiling. “You don't change, do you?” he asked fondly. “All right. Hang on. Let me see what I can do.”

It took only a few minutes to locate the proper number on Guernsey and to track down the investigator in charge of the murder enquiry there. Murder was so uncommon on the island that all Tommy had to mention was the word itself before the connection was being made that put him in touch with the chief investigator.

But there was nothing to be gained from the call.
New Scotland Yard
apparently didn't cut any mustard in St. Peter Port, and when Tommy explained who he was and why he was phoning, making the offer of whatever assistance the Metropolitan police could provide, he was told—as he related to Deborah and Cherokee moments after ringing off—that everything was under control in the Channel, sir. And by the way, if assistance
were
to be required, the Guernsey police would make the request for mutual aid to the Cornwall or Devon Constabulary, as they usually did.

“We've some concern as it's a foreign national you've arrested,” Tommy said.

Yes, well, wasn't
that
an interesting bit of a twist that the Guernsey police were also fully capable of handling on their own.

“Sorry,” he said to Deborah and to Cherokee at the end of the phone call.

“Then what the hell are we going to do?” Cherokee spoke more to himself than to the others.

“You need to find someone who's willing to talk to the people involved,” Tommy said in answer. “If one of my team were on leave or holiday there, I'd suggest you ask them to do some nosing round for you. You can do it yourself, but it would help if you were backed by a force.”

“What needs to be done?” Deborah asked.

“Someone needs to start asking questions,” Tommy said, “to see if there's a witness that's been missed. You need to find out if this Brouard had enemies: how many, who they are, where they live, where they were when he was killed. You need to have someone evaluate the evidence. Believe me, the police have someone who's doing it for them. And you need to make sure no evidence has gone overlooked.”

“There's no one on Guernsey,” Cherokee said. “We tried. Debs and I. We did that before we came to you.”

“Then think beyond Guernsey.” Tommy leveled a look at Deborah, and she knew what that look meant.

They already had access to the person they needed.

But she wouldn't ask her husband for help. He was far too busy and even if that were not the case, it seemed to Deborah that most of her life had been defined by the countless moments when she had turned to Simon: from that long-ago time as a bullied little schoolgirl when her Mr. St. James—a nineteen-year-old with a well-developed sense of fair play—had frightened the daylights out of her tormentors to the present day as a wife who often tried the patience of a husband who required only that she be happy. She simply couldn't burden him with this.

So they would go it alone, she and Cherokee. She owed that to China but far more than that: She owed it to herself.

 

For the first time in weeks, sunlight the strength of jasmine tea was striking one of the two scales of justice when Deborah and Cherokee reached the Old Bailey. Neither of them possessed a rucksack or bag of any kind, so they had no trouble gaining admittance. A few questions produced the answer they were looking for: Courtroom Number Three.