Blood Will Out (3 page)

There was little colour on the cliffs at this time of year, with the heather and gorse past their prime, but the sky was full of gulls wheeling and shrieking overhead in perpetual motion, and the wind carried the sound of the waves, crashing against the rocks, the familiar soundtrack of the coastline. Even up here, the air was flavoured with salt.

“You know what they say about gorse?” The wind was strong enough for Don to have to shout at Moretti. “When the gorse is not in flower, then kissing is out of fashion.”

“And gorse is always in flower. More or less.”

“So the kissing never has to stop. All one requires is the woman to kiss.”

Moretti looked at Don's face, but he was not laughing. Was this just idle banter, or something more?

The little Greek restaurant was in a tree-filled valley above Le Gouffre, a small anchorage between towering cliffs. The waitress who served them sounded Australian, but the food was Greek. They ordered a range of appetizers and coffee and sat outside, watching a large marmalade cat luxuriate in the late summer sun in this protected valley.

“Sybarites, cats. They certainly know how to seize the day,” said Don, popping an olive into his mouth and chewing with gusto. He had the voracious appetite of the long-distance runner, without a trace of body fat. “Speaking of which, is this your last day of freedom?”

The coffee was good. Hot, strong and black as — as the colour of his ex-lover's hair. Although Moretti was not sure you could call someone an ex-lover who had, in effect, been a one-night stand. Not that he'd planned it that way.

“It is, then it's back to the desk, I imagine. Break-ins and burglaries and little else. But maybe I'll have more time for the boat.”

“And playing at the club with the Fénions? Means layabouts, doesn't it? Great name for a bunch of jazz musicians — or an outsider's perception of jazz musicians. Have you got a replacement for your horn player?”

“Nope. And no hopes of one on the horizon. So it'll be Dwight on drums, Lonnie on bass and me playing piano. Won't be quite the same.”

“Still, let me know next time you are playing.”

Moretti felt a damp little cloud of depression settle over him, and fingered the lighter he always carried in his pocket. Why a lighter should be the talisman that helped him keep off the noxious weed, he couldn't imagine. But it was at moments like this he still longed for a smoke.

Don dipped a
dolma
in tzatziki and swallowed it whole. “God, I love garlic. Just as well I don't have a woman in my life at the moment. I'll stink for twenty-four hours after this lot. How about you, Ed? Any new lady in your life?”

Women again. Moretti looked across the table at the man who knew about as much about his private life as anyone, which was virtually nothing. Idle chatter about women interested him about as much as discussing island politics, or what were now called “relationships.” All three topics were minefields, as dangerous as these cliffs had been after the Germans left the island.

“No new lady, but a new man. Should take up about as much of my time as a new lady, and be far less rewarding. You've heard of fast-tracking?”

“Taking in graduates and speeding them to the top? Weren't you one?”

“Yes. APSG — the Police Accelerated Promotion Scheme for Graduates. I've got one arriving tomorrow, and my instructions are to take him under my wing.”

“Don't see you as the mother-hen type.” Don grinned. “Do you know anything about him?”

“Some. He is a Londoner, mid-twenties, has a science degree of some sort. I've spoken to him on the phone. Tells me he didn't want to be a teacher, so decided to be a policeman.”

“Charming. Anything else he shared with you that's more endearing? What's his name?”

Moretti bent down to stroke the cat, who had come over to join them rubbing hopefully around his feet. “An interesting one,” he replied, “Aloisio Brown. Mother's Portuguese. And no, I cannot think of a single aspect of this that's the least bit endearing.”

He held out a piece of taramasalata to the cat, who took it from him with great delicacy, and ate it.

I
t
was coming along well. Hugo Shawcross leaned back in his chair and rubbed his hands. Beyond the study window, he could see the chestnut trees on his neighbour's property growing darker by the minute as the sun set. He must go out soon and call Stoker in, or he'd get into a fight to the death with Mudge, the small and surprisingly aggressive tortoiseshell female that lived two houses away. Fortunately, Stoker's life was ruled by greed rather than the need to assert his neutered-male superiority, and he could be relied on to leave the fray and return to his tidbit-carrying master.

Hugo saved the last speech he had composed, and contemplated it before turning off his laptop.

You have the dark gift. But this must be our secret. You must tell no one, do you hear me? No one. (Fade to black.)

Good. A strong ending to Act One. He already knew who he wanted to have as his Lilith, and that the difficulty would not be persuading her, but her family. Her mother reminded Hugo of Stoker's multicoloured
bête noire
, a small and surprisingly aggressive female whose genteel roots gave her an unshakeable belief in her own importance.

Carey, De Saumarez, Brock, Gastineau. The ancient aristocracy of Guernsey.
Les Messux
, as they had once been known. Of course, as Noel Coward had so inimitably put it, their stately homes were frequently mortgaged to the hilt, which had rather taken the gilt off the gingerbread. Or they didn't belong to them anymore, and had become hotels, or were broken up into elegant and desirable flats, which was the case for Mrs. Elton Maxwell, née Marie Gastineau. Island gossip said that Elton Maxwell had wooed and won Marie by making her an offer she couldn't refuse: the saving of her St. Peter Port family home. They now lived in one of the luxe apartments of the Gastineaus' former Georgian home on the Grange.

Hugo padded into the hall, removed his slippers and pulled on his boots. It could be quite wet at the back of the garden, and he hoped to find some mushrooms there, as he had before. He looked briefly in the hall mirror at his reflection with a tingle of satisfaction.
Not bad for a man of his age
, he thought. His occupation was sedentary, but the treadmill in his bedroom took care of that, and his nicely barbered beard conveniently hid the jowls that were beginning to form as he moved through his middle years. He must do something soon about replacing the weights he had left behind in his rather hasty departure from the mainland. His hair was thinning at the front now, but was still thick enough at the back to be worn on the long side, implying an artistic nature. He smiled at himself, then frowned.

“Bloody idiot,” he told his reflection.

He shouldn't have done it, but he couldn't resist the temptation. Suggesting to Marie Maxwell that she could be the target of his undead affections had been foolish of him. If indeed he had any vampiric lusts, he would not have wasted his nightly visits on the undelicious Marie, but on her far more delectable daughter, Marla. Besides, from his research it seemed that vampires preferred virgins. Not that Marla Maxwell was the least bit virginal, exuding a sexuality so strong that the few young men who belonged to the group were in lust with her, rather more than with the theatre. Oh yes, the perfect Lilith.

Hugo went into the kitchen and selected a handful of fish-shaped morsels from a packet, then went to the back door, walked down the gravel path and started calling Stoker's name. As he did so, he heard a voice calling back from the garden beyond the chestnut trees.

“He's over here. Will he let me pick him up?”

Ah, his slightly standoffish neighbour with the pretty name. Elodie. A pretty name for a pretty woman.

“Not unless you are carrying food. Don't worry. I am, so he's likely to head in my direction.”

There was a scuffling noise in the undergrowth, and Stoker appeared. Hugo picked him up and started back towards his house, calling “thank you” over his shoulder. To his surprise, he heard his neighbour say, “I am a member of the Island Players. Is it true you're writing something to open the new season?”

“Yes. Just let me put Stoker in the house, and I'll be back.”

Hugo scampered back along the path, dropped Stoker unceremoniously inside the door, threw in a handful of fishy nibbles after him, and returned to the low fence near the chestnut trees. Elodie Ashton was standing there, holding a small basket.

“I was mushroom-hunting,” she said, “and your cat joined me. But I don't think mushrooms are his thing.”

“No, but they are mine. I was hoping to find some on my side. I have, before, and they're very good.”

“As long as you know what you're doing,” said his neighbour, and then added, “I'd love to hear about your play. Forgive me for not doing the neighbourly thing when you moved in, but I had a deadline. Now that's done, would you like to come over for a drink and tell me something about it?”

Would he like to? Elodie Ashton, so he was told by Brenda Le Huray, came from an old island family and knew everyone who was anyone. An ally on the Island Players would be a real stroke of luck.

“Love to! Just give me a moment to get out of these boots, and I'll join you.” Hugo started to turn back to the house.

“Tell you what,” said his now far from standoffish neighbour, “I've found some nice mushrooms over here, and I can see some beauties on your side. Why don't you pick them, bring them over and join me for dinner? They'll go very well with lamb shanks — or are you a vegetarian?”

“God no! Far from it! The bloodier the better!”

For a moment Elodie Ashton seemed startled by his facetious response, then she laughed. “Lamb shanks aren't bloody, of course.”

“Just a figure of speech. I'll pick the mushrooms and join you in about an hour?”

“Perfect.”

A shaft of sunlight sliced across the path and through the trees, making Elodie Ashton's red hair burst into flame.

More than perfect
, he thought, as he hastened back to his house.
Lamb shanks, and a pretty woman who was an island insider! Marvellous. No. Bloody miraculous.

They had needed the air-conditioning at the Beau Sejour Centre that summer, which had been hot and dry, right into September. Liz finished her exercise routine and made for the showers. Dinner with Elodie meant using the showers there, rather than waiting until she got home, her usual pattern.

As she got into the change room, Marla Maxwell was coming out of one of the shower stalls, towelling her hair and singing. Liz didn't recognize the song, but certainly the singer could have lured any red-blooded male onto the Pea Stacks in a matter of seconds, and he would have died happy.
Trouble on two nicely muscled legs
, thought Liz, as the girl surveyed herself with unabashed approval in one of the long mirrors. She was tanned without tan lines, which suggested frequent use of a tanning bed. When she saw Liz's reflection in the mirror, she turned round and fixed two startlingly blue eyes on her.

“Hiya. You're Detective Sergeant Falla, aren't you.”

“And you're Marla Maxwell. Hi.”

Liz was about to pull off her sweater when Marla Maxwell said, “I've got a problem. Can I talk to you?” The self-satisfaction was gone, and the girl now looked worried, a frown wrinkling her pristine forehead. Liz pulled her sweater back on.

“You can, but this is not the ideal place. Why don't you come and see me at the office? I'll be there tomorrow morning.”

“I don't want to be seen at the police station, because someone will tell my mother. Why not now? No one's around.”

Marla began to put on some clothes, which Liz found helpful. Although, God help her, she only fancied men, a naked Marla did nothing to establish a professional atmosphere in this already unbusinesslike setting.

“Okay. What's bothering you?” Resigned to her fate, Liz sat down on the bench in front of the lockers. Marla Maxwell threw her towel into her gym bag and started to tie her damp hair into a ponytail.

“Not what. Who. I'm being harassed.”

“That's serious and we can help you. Who is doing this?”

“That's just it. I don't know. I'm getting these weird text messages, and they're not from the people who they say they're from. And someone's following me, I'm sure of it.” Marla's low dramatic tones began to sound like something from one of the daytime soaps.

“That's all a bit garbled, Marla.” Liz took the padlock off her locker and started to take out her belongings. “If these things are happening, surely your parents should be the first to know.”

“No!” Marla Maxwell sounded as if she was about to burst into tears. “Because then they'd know about …and I'll be sent to my horrid old aunt on the mainland, and if you say anything to them I'll deny everything!” The soap opera tone had returned.

“Marla, you still live at home, don't you? And your parents are friends of the chief officer's. I'd have to tell them.”

“That's why I wanted to tell you here, not at the police station.”

At this point, two women came in, chattering away, and Marla picked up her gym bag and ran past them, bumping into them in her hurry.

On her way back to Elodie and lamb shanks, Liz mulled over her change room encounter. Overly dramatic as the girl had sounded, there clearly was something bothering her, or why would she voluntarily open up a can of worms with a member of the police force? And a can of worms it was, since she was afraid of her parents finding out whatever it was she was doing — and it was easy enough to guess what that was. Sex, yes, and probably involving some youth the Gastineaus would consider undesirable. Or, rather, unacceptable.

It was a short drive to Elodie's cottage, but by the time she got there she had decided there was nothing she could do unless the girl laid a formal complaint. She could only guess at Marla Maxwell's age, but she suspected she was younger than she looked, still in her teens. Certainly she talked like a fifteen-year-old. She sighed, remembering herself at that age, hormones a-bubble, one minute melancholy and the next over the moon, secretive and sociable, a mass of contradictions. Come to think of it, had she really changed that much?

She was laughing as she drove up the gravel driveway alongside Elodie's cottage, but her laughter died when she realized she had forgotten to pick up a bottle of red, as she had intended. Thinking about Marla Maxwell's problems had driven it clean out of her mind. Ah well. Liz got out of her car, locked it, went up and knocked on the door before letting herself in. As she did so, she heard voices, Elodie's voice, and that of a man. The scent of something delectable hung in the air. Not lamb shanks. It smelled like mushrooms cooking.

“Liz! Come on through! Into the kitchen!”

She walked into a scene of cosy domesticity. At the kitchen table, her aunt was slicing up a baguette and, at the stove stood a small, bearded man in a striped apron cooking — yes — mushrooms.

Gandalf.

As she came in, he turned around. He was not looking particularly pleased at the intrusion.

“Liz, let me introduce my neighbour, Hugo Shawcross, who will be joining us for dinner. Hugo, this is my niece, Liz.”

Gandalf nodded, managed a smile, said hello, then turned hastily back to his mushrooms. As he did so, Elodie mouthed something at Liz, shaking her head slightly. It looked as if she was saying, “Only Liz.”

Ah, no job description.

Before Liz could make any response, Elodie said, with cheerful animation, “Hugo and I have been having the most fascinating conversation.” She brandished the breadknife in the air like a cheerleader waving her pompoms. “Sit down, pour yourself a glass of wine.”

“About —?”

“About vampires,” she said. There was just a touch of hysteria in her voice, which seemed to Liz to be more about a wild desire to laugh, than fear. “Hugo can tell you all you might ever want to know about them.”

Gandalf turned away from his pan of mushrooms, and chuckled. “The undead,” he said, and held up his glass of wine, which stood close to the stove. From the colour of his cheeks, it was far from being his first, and he looked not in the least vampire-like. “Here's to the undead,” he repeated.

Almost exactly an hour after their across-the-garden-fence conversation, Hugo Shawcross had arrived at Elodie's front door carrying a very nice bottle of wine, a paper bag of mushrooms, and a buff-coloured folder.
The trouble-making play, presumably
, thought Elodie as she let him in, although it was not at all certain if he knew he was in Mrs. Maxwell's bad books. They exchanged the usual pleasantries, thank-yous for the invitation and the wine, idle chatter about mushrooms, appreciative comments from Hugo about Elodie's cottage, and an offer to do the mushroom-cooking.

“Lovely. I've already put out a suitable pan, and I'll make garlic bread — if you like garlic bread?”

“Love it.”

“So,” said Elodie, vigorously mashing crushed garlic cloves into the softened butter, “tell me about your play. I hear the subject matter is somewhat controversial?”

Hugo helped himself to a blue-and-white striped apron from a peg by the stove and put it over his immaculate white shirt. “Some have found it so, and, unfortunately, the some in this case is a Mrs. Maxwell, who has clout in the group.”

So he knew that much. “Not just in the group, Hugo. She is island aristocracy.”

“I know, and that's the other thing. I am, naturally, interested in the ancient Guernsey families — she's a Gastineau, isn't she? — but when I started asking questions about her family history she seemed quite put out, I can't think why.”

“Not a good person to get on the wrong side of. You said ‘the other thing.' What else is she upset about?”

Hugo stopped cleaning the mushrooms, and banged his fist on the wooden table. “It's my own fault,” he said. “She got up my nose with her hoity-toityness and I made a stupid joke. The play, you see, involves vampires, and the Players are hopeful it will bring in a new, younger audience. She objected, and I — laughingly — claimed to have the inside track on vampires, because I am one.”