Blood Will Out (6 page)

H
ugo
Shawcross's back was killing him. The phone call from Marie Gastineau had come as a complete surprise, sending him rushing to his laptop to put in an all-nighter. He couldn't remember doing that since his student days.
Mind you
, he thought,
if I am indeed one of the undead, last night should have been a walk in the park for me
. Or perhaps a stroll in St. Martin's Churchyard among the gravestones, hand in hand with La Gran'mère du Cimetière, the ancient menhir that kept watch at the gate. Over the thousands of years she had stood there, she must have seen a vampire or two, he thought.

He giggled and stood up abruptly, instantly regretting both actions. Not only did his back hurt, but so did his head. However, the euphoria of the wine had lasted through the night until dawn, and now he just had to survive the hangover. He thought back to the message he had found on his answerphone when he got back from Elodie Ashton's.

“Hello, Hugo. This is Marie Maxwell.”

The tone of voice was the first surprise. Light, almost flirtatious, harpy turned seductress. Very different from the unearthly shrieks and howls, reminiscent of Stoker's encounters with Mudge, that had greeted his little joke. He sat down at his desk and listened in disbelief.

“I realize you will get this message after your evening with Elodie Ashton, and I apologize for intruding so late, but I just couldn't leave it until tomorrow morning, because I have put the wheels in motion.”

Wheels in motion? Was he to be expelled from the island? To be burned at the stake at the foot of Fountain or Berthelot Street, like they did in the old days? Disbelief turned into apprehension. What game was this woman playing?

“Elodie, bless her, phoned me earlier this evening and explained, and it all sounds quite
thrilling
. A part for
me
!”

Aha. The cooing voice continued.

“As Elodie said, the academic sense of humour is often —
esoteric
, was her word for it, and I completely misunderstood, didn't I! So, I have arranged a little get-together at my house for tomorrow evening. I have managed to get hold of most of the Island Players who really
matter
and I very much look forward to having a first read-through of your play.” The timbre of her voice deepened, vibrating with emotion as Marie Gastineau moved into “actress” mode. “From what Elodie says, you have seen past my façade of society hostess and sensed hidden depths. Evil is certainly within my range, and will make a welcome change from my usual roles.”

Evil? Not at all the reaction envisaged by his neighbour. Or was she the one who had suggested it?

A trill of laughter bubbled up from the answerphone, then the message concluded on a note of command, the familiar, imperious Marie Gastineau firmly back in control. “Call me in the morning to confirm — won't you?”

“Bloody hell,” said Hugo Shawcross.

He had been regretting his abrupt departure, earlier than he had planned, thanks to that chit of a policewoman. But, it turned out it was just as well. He sat down at his desk and turned on his laptop.

Aloisio Brown sat in Moretti's office, reading a pamphlet on the desk. He was tanned, dark-haired, probably very much like his Portuguese mother, thought Moretti. He stood up as they came in, turning a pair of large brown eyes in their direction, smiling as he did so. Next to him, Moretti heard Falla's intake of breath. Moretti extended his hand.

“Aloisio Brown — have I said your name right?”

“Call me Al. Everyone does, except my mother.”

The smile turned into a grin, and the brown eyes turned towards Liz Falla.

“Detective Sergeant Falla, I presume?” It was clear what those brown eyes thought of what they were surveying.

“Call me Falla. Everyone does, except
my
mother. Well, almost everyone. Hi.”

Moretti could almost hear the violins playing.

“You have just got back from the scene of the suicide, I'm informed. Sergeant Jones let me sit on the interview with the postman. I heard your question to him, sir.”

“What did you make of it?”

“I'm not sure, but I presumed it was unexpected, given the way the deceased was living. That he didn't smell, I mean.”

“Yes.” Quite the brainiac. “Falla, play the message from Dr. Edwards for — Al.”

Dr. Edwards's light voice filled the office. When the message was finished, Al Brown looked at Moretti.

“Liquid sunshine,” he said.

“Liquid sunshine?”

“The sound of the pathologist's voice.” Al Brown smiled at Liz Falla, who smiled back.

“We don't have a pathologist on the island,” said Moretti. He could hear his own voice sounding somewhat metallic. “Dr. Edwards was the duty doctor.” There was a silence, then Moretti continued. “And doesn't liquid sunshine mean rain?”

Before anyone could add anything to the absurd dialogue, the phone rang. Moretti picked it up.

“Moretti.”

“Hello, Detective Inspector Moretti. DS Falla told me you were the officer in charge. This is Irene Edwards.”

Moretti put her on speakerphone, and sunshine or rain filled the office, depending on the listener's point of view.

“I will be at the hospital this afternoon, if you are free.”

“Of course. Three o'clock suit you?”

“Perfect. See you then.”

As he hung up the phone, Moretti said. “I want to take a look at the rope first, and then get something to eat. How about you, Al?”

“Great! I just had time to check in at my digs, and I'm starving. Also, I don't know where's good — and cheap — to eat in St. Peter Port.”

He stood up and took his jacket from the back of the chair, put it on.
Looks like he works out
, thought Moretti.

“How about La Crêperie, Guv? It's close and we can walk there, come back for the car.” Falla gave Al Brown another smile.

As he walked past him, Moretti realized he was taller than Al Brown, and that the brainiac's dark curly hair was receding slightly at the temples.

His inner child rejoiced.

The rope lay in front of them on the table in the incident room. It had been cut close to the knot to release the hermit's body, and the strands revealed were considerably cleaner and lighter than the rest of the rope.

“Tar, or oil. Seaweed or algae stains. He must have found this on the beach.” Moretti touched one of the dark patches with his gloved hand.

“He supplied his own rope, that's what I thought,” said Falla. “But at the time I saw him, I thought it was straightforward, a suicide.”

“It may be, but looking at the thickness of the rope, I tend to agree with Dr. Edwards — that he had help.”

“Assisted suicide.” Al Brown bent over the rope, then straightened up. “But who helps a hermit? From what the postman said, he didn't have friends.”

“Exactly. And who in their right mind would drop in out of the blue and casually offer to give a complete stranger a hand in his death? You saw the postman's reaction right after his discovery of the body, Falla. Do you think he might have had anything to do with this?”

“Not unless he's a brilliant actor, Guv.”

“But who helps a hermit?” Al Brown asked again. “By definition, a hermit's someone who avoids human contact?” He looked at Moretti.

“Let's go eat, and we'll fill you in on the business of the books,” said Moretti.

The Crêperie was on Smith Street, a narrow, winding road close to the centre of the town, now closed to traffic and for pedestrians only. On their way, they passed a bookstore, its name on a board above the door decorated to look like a mediaeval manuscript: W
ORDS
.

Al Brown stopped to look in the window, and said, “Unimaginative perhaps, but the name says it all, doesn't it. Always good to see people are still reading the old-fashioned way.”

Falla, walking ahead of them, turned and grinned. “Thought you'd be all gadgets and iPods and e-books, you being from the big city,” she said.

Al Brown looked hurt. “How can you say that to a bloke who plays a Portuguese guitar?” he said.

“A Portuguese guitar?” Moretti and Falla spoke in unison.

“Yes, but you wouldn't know that. I learned it at my mother's knee.” Al Brown turned to Moretti. “I know you play jazz piano, sir,” he said. “Chief Officer Hanley told me this morning. It seemed to — puzzle him.”

Al Brown smiled. Moretti's inner child was beginning to feel better.

“I play guitar,” Falla said. She was looking delighted. “And sing,” she added. “With a group. We call ourselves Jenemie.”

Suddenly, she stopped. “Here we are.” She pushed open the door and they were greeted by a gust of warm air laden with delicious cooking smells.

“God, that smells good! Do you play together at all?” Al Brown stood to one side of the banquette for Liz Falla to go past him, and waited for her and for Moretti to sit down.

It was Moretti who answered.

“We don't.”

Liz Falla gave him one of the unfathomable looks he was getting to know quite well — unfathomable because he couldn't read from it whether it was reproach, or disapproval. His mother's generation would have called it an old-fashioned look, which covered a multitude of sins.

Over seafood crêpes for Moretti and Al Brown, and a caramelized onion crêpe for Falla, Al Brown and Liz Falla discussed the merits and differences of the acoustic and the Coimbra Portuguese guitar, which was Al Brown's instrument. Ad nauseam, in Moretti's unspoken opinion, but clearly not in theirs. Ignoring their conversation, his mind drifted to thoughts of yesterday's trip with Don Taylor. Through the mist of pleasant recollection, he realized he was being asked a question.

“Books, you said, sir. The hermit was a reader?”

“More than that. A collector of rare and beautiful books that he, or someone, threw around on the floor in among his Penguin paperbacks.”

“Then that wouldn't be him. Someone was looking for something?”

“Could be. And whoever it was did not recognize — or wasn't interested in — a two-thousand pound Dickens first edition — give or take a pound or two.”

“My God! The postman — Gord Martel? — said the fact Gus Dorey had done that to his books showed his suicidal state of mind. But I thought he meant the untidiness, rather than anything more complicated.”

“And he might be right.” There was a framed maxim on the wall close to the bar, that had caught Moretti's eye when they came in.

Heaven is where the police are British, the cooks French, the mechanics German, the lovers Italian, and it is all organized by the Swiss. Hell is where the cooks are British, the mechanics French, the lovers Swiss, the police German, and it is all organized by the Italians.

He looked across the table at Falla and said, “I am tempted at this point to say that my gut tells me this was not a disordered frame of mind, but perhaps that's my Italian blood speaking, and not my British police training. Falla has strong views about that kind of thing.”

Falla snorted with derision. “So would you, if you came from my family. I believe in fingerprints, and forensics, and DNA, not hunches.”

“Does that rule out the gut? Instinct? Intuition?” asked Al Brown, turning to Falla. “You surprise me.”

“I thought intuition was now a dirty word in our business,” she replied. “I thought deduction was drawing conclusions from known facts, like alibis, motives, that kind of thing.”

“Deduction,” said Al Brown, “is also, sometimes, a blinding moment of insight into another human being. Isn't it?”

“I think we're back to intuition,” said Moretti. He saw that Falla was looking irritated, and felt annoyed with himself for winding her up. He was about to attract the attention of the waitress, when Al Brown said, “I should tell you why I asked to be posted here.”

“I wondered,” said Moretti, settling back on the banquette. “With your qualifications, most of the U.K. was at your disposal.”

“Did your gut tell you?” Falla stood up and motioned to Al Brown to let her out. She was still looking annoyed. “I'm off to the ladies, in that case.” She extracted herself from the banquette and left them. Al Brown looked after her and said, “Did I tread on her toes?”

“In a way. Liz Falla's ancestral roots are linked to one of the ancient Guernsey families called Becquet, many of whose female members were burned as witches. They died out long ago — not surprisingly — so it's not proven, but she has an aunt and a grandmother who believe otherwise, and they feel this gives her a real advantage in police work. It drives her to distraction, being told by granny and admiring Auntie Becky that she has ‘the gift.'”

“And has she?”

“I'll leave you to decide that.” Moretti paid the bill and, after the waitress had left, said, “Let's talk about you. Why
are
you here?” Focusing his gaze on him, he noticed that one of the braniac's ears was pierced. Did he wear an earring when off-duty? That would give Hanley something else to puzzle over.

“I'm here,” said Aloisio Brown, rebuttoning his smart navy blazer, “because I believe in magical thinking.”

“Magical thinking?” Falla rejoined them, slinging the small black bag she carried on to her shoulder. “Sounds like my Aunt Becky's been talking to you — did she fly over and visit you on her broomstick?” She still sounded annoyed, only this time it was with both of them. Moretti, who was checking his messages, looked up at her jibe.

“Magical thinking's serious stuff, Falla. It has been known to kill geniuses — so even graduates of the APSG program need to watch their backs. Don't we, DC Brown?”

P
rincess
Elizabeth Hospital was near the centre of the island, west of St. Peter Port and just outside the parish of St. Andrews, in an area called the Vauquiédor. It had started life as a mental hospital, but after the Second World War was renamed for twenty-two-year-old Princess Elizabeth, and reopened by her. A major extension in the nineties had added a radiology department, a new maternity unit and children's ward. A new clinical block was in the works. It was also the site of the principal mortuary on the island and, when necessary, whoever was the surgeon on duty served as pathologist.

Dr. Edwards was waiting for them in the mortuary.

“Hello, DS Falla. Greetings, gentlemen.”

Shrouded in her pale blue protective gear, her hair hidden by a cap, the doctor was an androgynous figure, the divergence between her appearance and voice less marked.

Liz Falla did the introductions and, as they put on protective clothing, Moretti got straight to the point. “You think this could be an assisted suicide, Dr. Edwards.”

His voice echoed back, the sound magnified off the bare walls. Somewhere a tap was dripping.

“I do.” Irene Edwards went over to one of the tables and pulled back the sheet. “I got him out when I heard you had arrived. Take a look.”

Gus Dorey was white as the sheet he was under, frail as a one-dimensional sketch of a human being, a line drawing in death. His strong nose jutted out on his sunken face, which was otherwise wiped clean otherwise of individuality. He lay there still, unable any longer to escape the peering eyes and human contact he had avoided in life.

“There's nothing much to him,” said Moretti. He looked at the hermit's veined hands, the bones stark against the transparent skin. “If he had tied the knot on that rope, he should have marks, even rope burns.”

“I agree.” Irene Edwards turned the hands over, laid them back down by the side of the body. “Nothing there. I already checked. And he probably would have had trouble seeing to tie a knot. He had cataracts that would soon have needed attention. Is there anything else you want to see?”

“No.”

Gently, Irene Edwards pulled the stiff sheet up over Gus Dorey's face, pulled off her gloves and looked at Moretti.

“What happens next? Procedures are different here, aren't they?”

“Yes. Outside, I think.”

Liz Falla looked at Moretti. It was not the first cadaver they had looked at together. They didn't seem to affect him. She had never sensed repugnance or discomfort in him when they looked at the recently dead; his familiar air of detachment always remained firmly in place. It was more, she thought, as if he was respecting the feelings of the dead man by taking the discussion outside.

Breaking the silence, Irene Edwards said something to the mortuary technician, who stood waiting at a discreet distance, and they left the room.

In the corridor outside, Moretti said, “The magistrates court becomes the coroners court when necessary, and they will take care of this. But I'll have to inform my chief officer first.”

“I leave it in your hands,” said Irene Edwards. “And you'll let me know?”

With one swift movement she pulled the cap off her head, the gesture loosening the chignon from the large comb that held it, and a mass of dark hair cascaded around her shoulders. She smiled, and both men blinked, Aloisio Brown smiling back at her. The comb clattered to the floor and she picked it up without comment and put in her overalls pocket.

“We will,” said Moretti. He turned to Al Brown and Liz Falla. “Right now, we need to head back to the office. I'll need to write a report and speak to Chief Officer Hanley.”

They said their goodbyes to Irene Edwards, and she disappeared back into her echoing world with its inescapable smell of human mortality and decay hanging in the air beneath the antiseptic.

As the door closed behind her, Moretti said, “I want you both to go back out to Pleinmont and search Dorey's roundhouse thoroughly, and I want you both to do the search. No one else. I want to keep this as quiet as possible.”

“Peculiar,” said Liz Falla, and both men turned to look at her. She was looking back at the mortuary.

“An odd choice of word,” said Moretti, “even in the circumstances. What is it, Falla?”

“He reminded me of someone. Even in death, white and cold like that. That's why I said ‘peculiar.'”

“Who did he remind you of?”

“I have no idea.” Liz looked at Moretti and smiled, sweetly. “But maybe it was my imagination playing tricks, Guv,” she said.

It was chilly in Gus Dorey's roundhouse. Constable Bury had been only too happy to go and sit outside in the police car and leave Al Brown and Liz to the task in hand. He helped them carry in the boxes they had brought with them and then asked, “So how long do we have to do this? There's not much here except about a million books.”

Al Brown picked up the Dickens first edition from the floor, where it still lay.

“A million books, full of magical thinking — the sort of magical thinking that matters to me, at any rate.”

“So, tell me about magical thinking.”

They had divided the room in half and had agreed that the books came first, if only so they could be removed to a safer place. Constable Bury might not have the slightest idea of their value, but others might not be so uninformed.

“Oh, here's his glasses. Remember, Dr. Edwards said he had cataracts.” Al Brown picked up a case on the floor, which had been hidden by some of the books. “Not prescription by the look of it. The kind you can get in Boots the Chemist. What do you want to know?”

“You were saying you came here because of it. You asked to be posted here. Was it because you thought we still worshipped pagan gods and danced in the light of the moon?”

Al Brown pulled himself back from Nicholas Nickleby's world and shrugged his shoulders.

“You don't? What a disappointment.” His tone changed. “Let's get a few things straight, Liz. Yes, DI Moretti told me about your aunt and your grandmother. Yes, I can understand your being pissed off. No, I don't believe you're all a bunch of primitive pagans. What I meant was that I wanted to work somewhere where there was some flexibility of structure, and I hoped to find it on Guernsey. I attended a lecture given by a retired superintendent from the Met, and he talked about your Guvnor's handling of a complex case here. He said he didn't go by the book.” Al Brown slapped the Dickens he held in his hands. “I wanted to have that chance.”

“So not going by the book is magical thinking?” Liz was piling up a heap of Penguin paperbacks, checking inside each one as she did so. “And it can destroy geniuses? Sounds like dangerous stuff to me.”

Reluctantly, Al Brown put down the Dickens. “If I keep reading these we'll get nowhere. I think DI Moretti was referring to the death of Steve Jobs, the founder of Apple, a genius who believed that magical thinking could cure him of pancreatic cancer.”

“Sorry, but I don't get it. What has that to do with my Guv not going by the book, and you coming here?”

Al put the first edition in one of the boxes and picked up the Gillray bibliography. “You've started on the Penguins, so I'll keep going with the hardcovers. It has to do with MI Teams — Murder Investigation Teams — and Action Managers, and all that crap. It was supposed to simplify and to accelerate the process, but like anything else, it depends who's in charge. I felt — trapped.”

Liz Falla looked over at Al Brown, who was lovingly examining the Gillray page by page. “DI Moretti answers to Chief Officer Hanley, which can be frustrating, but mostly our supreme leader worries about not offending the powers-that-be. That'll be what the Guvnor's talking about right now with him — paperwork and vampires.”

“
What
?”

A few Penguins and a complete Gillray later, they were both rocking with laughter. Al Brown selected a handful of small faux-leather-bound volumes. “Nelson, Collins, nice but not of great value. Does anyone read
Barlasch of the Guard
anymore?”

He looked across at Liz, but she was apparently engrossed in the paperback she was holding, her attention held by something on the page.

“Anything interesting? What's the book?”

“It's not the book. It's this.” Liz was holding out a tiny, yellowed scrap of paper. “It's an address.”

“In Guernsey?”

“No. In the U.K. A street address, somewhere in London, I think. Looks like Gus Dorey's writing. He's put his name in some of the paperbacks.”

“Does he identify whose address it is?”

“Yes. He does.” Liz smoothed the fragile piece of paper with one finger, and held it out to Al Brown.

“‘My darling,'” she said.

Chief Officer Hanley was looking remarkably cheerful for a man whose face leant itself more readily to melancholy than merriment. Moretti handed him the report on Gus Dorey and he laid it to one side without looking at it.

“What are your first impressions of DC Brown?”

“Pleasant, intelligent, as one might expect. What was your impression, sir?”

“Much the same. We'll see. Possibly a little lightweight, perhaps?”

Moretti had no idea what the Chief Officer meant and decided not to pursue it. Maybe he had noticed the pierced ear.

“About this vampire nonsense,” he began, “DS Falla knows some of the members of the Island Players, and feels it is a storm in a theatrical teacup.”

The chief officer positively beamed. “Oh absolutely. Mrs. Maxwell phoned me this morning and explained.”

“Explained?”

“Yes. Seems to have been a misunderstanding. Mind you, I didn't quite follow her clarification, which had more to do with something she called dramatic licence, than common sense. Anyway, we're off the hook, thank heaven. I don't mind telling you, Moretti, it's a great relief.”

“I can imagine, sir. A waste of police time.”

“Quite. We have other fish to fry. Organizational fish.”

The chief officer's metaphoric clarification seemed quite as cryptic as Marie Maxwell's, and left Moretti feeling apprehensive. He picked up the Gus Dorey case notes.

“These are my notes on the apparent suicide of Gus Dorey, the hermit at Pleinmont.”

“
Apparent
suicide?”

The chief officer's expression returned to its default downcast disposition.

“There is a possibility, according to Dr. Edwards, who did the initial examination, that someone helped him. And I agree with her, sir.”

One of Hanley's best qualities was his ability to listen, which he did in silence until Moretti had finished.

“So,” he replied after a moment's thought, “Assisted suicide, not murder. Were there signs of anyone else being there?”

“There were books on the floor, some of them valuable. It looked as if someone had been searching for something. Either they found it, or were scared off by activity outside. I've read the postman's statement and he says that Dorey had a mailbox in town. We'll be looking for a key, but someone else may have got to it first. DS Falla thinks the postie is not involved. Her instincts are good, sir.”

“No argument here. That's why I promoted her so fast, and put her with you. Where is she now, by the way?”

“Out at Pleinmont with DC Brown, doing a more detailed search, and packing up the books. They'll have to be put in storage here until we can track down next of kin. I'll put PC Mauger on to that, but if Gord Martel didn't know of any relative, I think we'll find no one.”

“If the intruder handled the books, we may get fingerprints. One thing about a hermit, I suppose — less chance of being swamped with hundreds of them. Did you say you thought he had been helped by someone? We may get their identification that way.”

“Only if the intruder forgot to wipe off their own prints, which is unlikely. The general public may not understand the forensic study of blood spatters or PCR analysis, but even kindergarten kids know about fingerprints. We are, of course, fingerprinting Gord Martel so we can rule him out. Or in. At this stage I am not closing any doors.”

Moretti thought of the open door in Gus Dorey's roundhouse, unlocked and unguarded. Had he, perhaps, been waiting for whoever it was to come in? There were no signs of a struggle, and even an old, frail man would surely have fought back. If only to protect his precious books.

“Wise move. Could just be common or garden theft, couldn't it?”

“Then why go to the trouble of faking a suicide, sir? That took some doing, and a lot of risk. The intruder could have taken anything while Dorey was out for what seems to have been his customary walk.”

“So you think someone wanted him out of the way?”

“I do.”

“Dear, dear.” Hanley pulled Moretti's notes towards him. “Perhaps this is a good time to have DC Brown here,” he said.

Moretti tried a little humour. “And fortunately, Mrs. Maxwell has dealt with her vampire situation, so we have more manpower available than if we were tracking down the undead.”

“Oh
that
.” Hanley waved a dismissive hand in the air. “The reason I was keen to get DC Brown here is because he is familiar with the Met's approach to murder investigation — MI Teams, Action Managers and so on. It is time we looked at reorganization, DI Moretti. We must keep up with the times.”

Moretti suspected his own face had fallen into the familiar lines of his boss's countenance.

“And,” the chief officer went on, “here we have an apparent murder, don't we? At least, that is what I would call helping to hang an old man. Wouldn't you, DI Moretti?”