A Grave Waiting. Jill Downie
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Swiss French — the cook, I mean. Name’s a bit of a mouthful, but I’ve got it in my book. Jean-Louis Rossignol.”
“Do we know where they were coming from?”
“Cherbourg, again according to the cook. It’d been an easy crossing, but they’d done a lot of entertaining in France, so he gave them all the night off. Even paid for them apparently.”
“Interesting. Did you find out who ‘them all’ are?”
“Yes.” Again, Liz Falla consulted her notes, reminding Moretti what a relief it had been to discover that this new, unasked for, female partner of his was as well-organized as he was. Better organized than he was. “Besides the cook there’s a personal valet, a housekeeper, and two crew members.”
“Where were they staying in St. Peter Port?”
“The Esplanade Hotel — that’s a four crown. Didn’t stint on them, did he?”
“Apparently not.”
Stinting did not seem to be part of the victim’s way of life, thought Moretti, picking up a set of ivory-handled brushes monogrammed in gold from the built-in dressing table between the entertainment console and the desk. Although Guernsey, second largest of the Channel Islands off the coast of France, had become a tax haven like the Cayman Islands or the Turks and Caicos, attracting billions of pounds, every bank under the sun, financial businesses galore, this particular high roller seemed an unlikely visitor.
Then there was the murder weapon. Guns were also unlikely visitors, and this looked like a professional hit.
“Hello — what happened here?”
Liz Falla’s glance followed that of her superior. Moretti was looking at a heavy wooden magazine rack that had tipped over near the bathroom door. Some of the contents had spilled out on the floor.
“Could it have got knocked over in a struggle?” she asked.
“What struggle? That’s what’s odd about it being like that. Looks like someone took something out of it in a hurry and knocked it over. Let’s have a look.”
Carefully reaching into the rack, Moretti pulled out one or two magazines by the corner. They were all of the Penthouse, Hustler variety, some more hardcore than others. Liz Falla whistled under her breath.
“Dirty old sod, eh? Could this be about porn?”
“Too early to tell, but none of this stuff appears to be illegal. What’s this?”
Caught in one of the brass studs decorating the rack was a fragment of glossy paper. Moretti extracted it from the stud and held it up. Enough of the fragment remained to show a fraction of a photograph and a piece of printing.
“Looks like the prow of a boat, doesn’t it. This boat?”
“Don’t think so. Different shape. Not a Vento Teso.”
“Is that what this is? Can you read any of it?”
“‘Dream big — you only live....’ Ironic in the circumstances.”
“I’ll say.”
“And there’s something else: ‘Offshore Haven Cred.’”
There was the sound of sirens outside the large oval windows of the master stateroom, a bustle of activity on the dockside.
“Here we go,” announced Falla from the window. “The technical boys and the doctor have arrived. Oh, isn’t that nice. It’s the lovely Dr. Watt.”
“Not a favourite of yours, Falla?”
“That’s right, Guv.”
She said no more, but more was not necessary. On an island that measured about twenty-five square miles, a high-profile professional man like Nichol Watt with an ex-wife on the island, another on the mainland, and at least two girlfriends got himself talked about. Moretti found his partner’s love life to be something rich and strange, since her approach managed somehow to be both casual and committed, but as far as he knew it was always off with the old before on with the new. Such niceties didn’t bother Nichol Watt.
Moretti stood up, pocketing the piece of paper. “Let’s take a look around, Falla, then go and hear what Mr. Rossignol has to say.”
The master suite in which Bernard Masterson had met his end stretched full beam across the prow of the yacht, and led into the dining room through sliding glass doors. On one side was the aft deck, set up as an outside dining area, and on the other was the kitchen. Beyond the dining room, through more sliding doors, was the main salon that housed a huge, curved bar. There were dirty glasses still on the black-and-white marble countertop, a couple of bottles alongside them, one of Scotch, the other of champagne. The bottle of champagne was empty. Moretti picked up one of the glasses in his gloved hands.
“Lipstick. Falla, get Jimmy Le Poidevin on your mobile, tell him to come here when he’s finished in the bedroom.”
As Liz Falla made her call to the forensics chief, Moretti crossed over to the windows that faced Albert Pier. It was May, and the holiday season had not yet started in earnest, but the place was busier than usual. There was much rebuilding in progress. The three great travelling cranes and the one fixed crane on the very end of the pier that faced the Little Russel, the shipping channel that led into the harbour of St. Peter Port, were getting a major overhaul, and a new crane was being erected.
Not that the area was ever that quiet or deserted, since it housed the passport office, the ships’ registry, the freight office, a bureau de change, a left-luggage office, a bicycle shop, and the offices of the various ferry lines: the Emeraude Lines, the Condor Ferries, and the high-speed catamaran service to France. There were always people about on the pier, so there was a fair chance of finding someone who might have seen or heard something. Hopefully.
And there was always the chance that someone on a boat might come up with something useful. The ambulance boat, the Harbour Authority boat, and the fisheries vessel were all moored close by, although there were fewer visiting craft than there would be in high summer. That, presumably, was how a yacht this size had found moorings in Victoria Marina itself, and not on a buoy in the outer harbour or up north at the privately owned Beaucette Marina near St. Sampson.
There was also the Landsend Restaurant not far from the Vento Teso’s moorings. He’d have a word at some point with Gord Collenette, the owner.
“All set, Guv. Where now?”
“Upstairs.”
A set of stairs in the main salon led up to the top deck, on which there was another lounge and a sky deck complete with bar, refrigerator, and another entertainment console with hi-fi, television, and a couple of pinball machines.
“Talk about over the top,” observed Liz Falla. “How many bars has this thing got?”
“Three so far. This leads to the pilothouse, I think.”
Set in a highly polished wood panel, the controls in the pilothouse looked like the dashboard of a very expensive car, with a cushy leather-upholstered swivel chair in front of the wheel. The bow deck was equipped with a Jacuzzi and yet another entertainment console.
“Everything seems to be in order.” Liz Falla peered down into the empty Jacuzzi.
“It does. Apart from those glasses and the empty champagne bottle, you’d never know any of this had ever been used. Let’s take a look below decks, where the steerage passengers, the staff that is, live.”
On the lower level there were four crew cabins in the bow, and two guest suites. The guest suites were open and appeared unused, but the doors of the crew cabins were locked.
“That’s about it, isn’t it?” Liz Falla peered into a pristine guest suite.
“Almost. On a yacht like this there should be a garage.”
“Garage?”
They