Читать книгу A Grave Waiting - Jill Downie - Страница 10

Liz 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.”