Читать книгу Blood Will Out - Jill Downie - Страница 11

The drive out to Pleinmont, on the southwestern tip of the island, was one of the longer journeys on Guernsey, and gave Liz Falla time to regale Moretti with an account of her evening with the vampire. Once or twice he threw his head back and laughed with a lack of restraint that took Liz by surprise. In the short time they had been together as partners, she rarely remembered him behaving in such an extroverted way.

What had changed in his life, she wondered. She knew he had originally come back to the island after the breakup of a long-term relationship, and since his return had been involved with a couple of women, neither of them islanders. As far as she knew, those were love affairs, not life affairs — a big difference, in her book. He was an ascetic, according to Elodie, with hidden fires. Maybe the hidden fires part only showed when he was playing jazz piano.

She had looked up “ascetic.” It was one of those words she thought she knew, but really didn’t. Someone who had been briefly in her life, flaring up and self-destructing, brilliant as a shooting star, had encouraged her to do this. “Severely self-disciplined,” her dictionary said; the word “abstinent” was also used. Well, that bit wasn’t accurate.

“I was sailing around this part of the coastline yesterday, with Don Taylor — remember him? It was a great day. Reminded me of when I was a kid, risking my life climbing the cliffs at Le Gouffre with Andy Duquemin.” Moretti was laughing again. “There really is a god who looks after small boys, Falla.”

So it was a boat, not a babe. “Not small girls, Guv? It’s okay, you don’t have to answer that. That’s just some of my feminist claptrap. I know what you mean.”

“Don’t you have an aunt who lives around here? The one you’d rather not talk about?”

Liz Falla made an unnecessarily brisk twist of the wheel to the left as they turned on to the coast road.

“She’s actually my great-aunt and yes, she does. With her simples, and her goats and her ouija board — sorry, planchette. She considers the ouija board new-fangled. Here we are, Guv.”

Ahead of him Moretti saw the hermit’s roundhouse, surrounded by police tape. The strange building had been there for well over a decade, as far as he knew, but certainly had not been there when he and Andy Duquemin had roamed the cliffs and the Common. He remembered asking his father about it, when he came home on his first vacation from London University. It was his mother, the island girl, who had answered him.

“Gus Dorey. Came back with his mother after the war to find his family home in ruins. Reprisals, I imagine. He built that himself, when he came back again, years later. His parents were long gone by then.”

“Gus Dorey,” said Moretti. That visit was the last time he saw her, and he heard again the echo of his mother’s voice, saying the name. When he got out of the car the brisk wind of autumn made his eyes water. “Is there anyone watching the place, Falla?”

As he asked the question, a uniformed constable came out of the house.

“Yes, Guv. Looks like it’s PC Mauger. I think he came on duty this morning.”

PC Mauger walked briskly towards them across the rough scrub that surrounded the house, his arms folded across his body against the wind.

“’morning, DI Moretti, DS Falla. You didn’t bring any hot coffee with you, by any chance?”

“Sorry, no,” Falla replied. “Anything to report?”

“Nothing, but PC Bichard, who was here last night, thought there was someone hanging about outside. When he went out to check, he could see nothing, wondered if it was his imagination playing tricks.”

“He’s a policeman, he’s not supposed to have an imagination playing tricks.” Moretti’s voice sounded sharp, and both officers looked at him with surprise. “I’ll speak to him when we get back to the station. Let’s take a look at Gus Dorey’s hideaway. I’m assuming SOCO are done here?”

“Yes, sir. I was told not to move anything, but no need to wear gloves. There’s not much to see, sir. Is there, DC Falla?”

“Not much.”

Falla watched Moretti go ahead of them into the roundhouse, and turned to PC Mauger. “Did Pete Bichard say what he meant by ‘hanging about’?”

“Blimey, he’s in a mood, isn’t he? What’s got up his nose?” One look at Falla’s expression quelled any further comments about Moretti’s mood, and he went on, “He thought he heard a vehicle on the road, then he thought he heard it stop. Then he thought he heard someone moving around. That’s all.”

“Did he go outside and take a look?”

“Yes. It was pitch-black and he saw nothing. Then he heard a vehicle again on the road, but he saw no headlights, which was weird. Should have seen them from here.”

Falla looked back towards the road. There were few trees, and Pete Bichard was right. He should have seen headlights.

“Go and sit in the car for a bit, Bernie, get warmed up.”

Bernie Mauger trundled happily off towards the road, and Liz went into the roundhouse. Moretti was kneeling on the wooden floor surrounded by books. Behind him lay the chair, still on its side. He looked up as she came in.

“Interesting,” he said.

It was Moretti’s default word, and could mean mildly interesting, or extremely interesting, depending on the circumstance. She waited for him to elaborate, which was usually best and, given his sudden hissy fit with PC Mauger, probably advisable right now. If she wasn’t a copper, the laughing Guv of a few minutes before would seem like her imagination playing tricks.

“Some of these are quite valuable.” Moretti held up a nondescript-looking book bound in a faded green, brushing the silvery-white dust left by SOCO off the cloth cover. “First edition of Nicholas Nickleby, 1839, with the original etchings and frontispiece. Probably worth a bob or two.”

“A bob or two?” Liz crouched down beside him.

“A thousand pounds or two,” Moretti replied. “Until the place is cleared, we’ll have to keep a police guard on it. Word will get around.”

“Wow!” Liz looked at the books around them and picked up a leather-bound volume. “What’s this?” Moretti took it from her.

“Looks like a book about James Gillray, with some very nice steel engravings — he drew satirical cartoons, Falla. He had eclectic tastes, our hermit.” Moretti gestured at a scattering of ancient Penguin paperbacks with their distinctive orange, black and white covers, the little penguin standing in a white oval alongside the titles. “Do we know if he left a will?”

“Jimmy didn’t mention it, but I don’t think that was a priority. Everything was left in place, except the rope. Jimmy took it back to Hospital Lane. He’d been cut down — the hermit, I mean — by the time I got here.” They both looked up at the exposed beam, surrounded by the pink batts of insulation.

“We’ll need to find out if there’s a will. The death will soon be reported in the Guernsey Press, and possibly some lawyer in town will come forward. Though he doesn’t seem to have been a lawyer type of person.

“Let me tear myself away from these,” Moretti swept a hand over the books on the floor, “and take a look around. Not that there’s much else to look at.” He stood up, brushing the dust from his hands.

There was indeed little else in the hermit’s hideaway. The place was lined with sturdily constructed bookcases that looked homemade, and the only attempt at decoration were the shards, bottles and pieces of driftwood placed on top of them. Some of the shards were arranged on the narrow ledge beneath the one small window in the roundhouse. On the floorboards were a couple of woven wool rugs that also looked homemade, the colours faded to a blur. There were blankets and a threadbare quilt on the truckle bed that could have been easily moved closer to the fire when necessary. An ancient hipbath stood close to the fireplace, a towel draped over the higher end. A camp stove, a kettle, a few pots and pans and pieces of cutlery on a trestle table alongside a loaf of bread and some cheese, an overripe banana and an orange, some canned goods, a packet of tea. Another table was loaded with magazines, and there was a battered armchair covered in a threadbare fabric Moretti remembered from his childhood, called moquette. There was a space left on one of the bookshelves for a small pile of neatly folded clothes, and there was a well-worn pair of felt slippers near the armchair.

“Was he wearing boots, Falla, did you notice?”

“Yes, Guv, and an overcoat. One of the boots had fallen off.”

“As if he’d just come in. Hmmm.” Moretti looked up at the pink surface above him. “Interesting choice of ceiling material. Makes the place feel quite —” He paused.

“Cosy,” Falla supplied for him.

“Almost.” Moretti stood up. “I need to talk to the postman. Did you ask him to come in to the station to make a statement?”

“Yes, Guv. I told him it could wait until today, but he may have been in this morning. Want me to check if he’s been?”

“Go ahead.”

While Falla used her mobile, Moretti walked around the hermit’s hideaway. Cosy, yes, almost: a refuge for a man of some education and learning, and ample means, apparently, for the books that were his passion. For Moretti, sanctuary was in the sound of Sidney Bechet playing “Petite Fleur,” Miles Davis playing “Tempus Fugit,” Oscar Peterson playing anything.

Why had Gus Dorey chosen to live this way? Had the world been for him too much, late and soon? Had he found the getting and spending laid waste his powers? Not hard to understand, thought Moretti. Drifting down the years the words came back to him.

So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, have glimpses that would make me less forlorn …

“Guv.” He realized Falla was speaking to him, holding out her mobile. “It’s Sergeant Jones. He’s interviewing Gord Martel right now.”

“Sorry, Falla. I was thinking of Wordsworth.”

He took the mobile from her. “Sergeant Jones, Moretti here. I have a question for you to ask Mr. Martel about Gus Dorey. Did he smell?” He heard the question posed, and the postman’s indignant reaction. “I take it that’s a no? Thanks, Sergeant — yes, that’s all.”

He handed the mobile back to Falla, who was looking at him quizzically. “You have a question yourself, I think?”

“I was going to ask you where Wordsworth came in, but that’ll keep. Did he smell, Guv?”

In answer Moretti walked across to the shelf with the small pile of clothing, and picked up a shirt.

“There’s no public laundry for miles, and this stuff is impeccably laundered. There’s no way that was washed under the coldwater pump outside, near what looks like his vegetable patch, and any iron would have had to be an old-fashioned non-electric one. I don’t see one, so I doubt he used the hipbath. Therefore —?”

“Either he went into town with his washing or —”

“Someone was doing it for him. And something else. If Dr. Edwards’s suggestion that this is an aided suicide is accurate, then whoever helped Gus Dorey was not after his worldly goods.” Moretti bent down and picked up the Dickens. “They had some entirely different motive.”

“Maybe he asked his laundry person to help him end his life.”

“And maybe his laundry person gave him no choice in the matter. Because, Falla, whoever threw these books around, it wasn’t Gus Dorey, who loved them. It was the mysterious other person who was in this room with him. And they were looking for something, probably while he hung above on a rope he couldn’t have tied by himself.”

At that moment, Moretti’s mobile rang. He answered it briefly, then looked at Liz Falla, who was staring up at the crossbeam by the fireplace.

“Duty calls. That was Chief Officer Hanley. We’re needed at the station. Aloisio Brown has arrived.”

“Who, Guv?”

“The brainiac, Falla. Let’s go and face the music, shall we?”