A Grave Waiting. Jill Downie
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and showed them one of the tourist videos they give out at the tourist office on the Esplanade. They wanted a quiet spot for the spring and summer, because Julia King is recovering from a serious illness. Of course, at that point I asked no further, because I didn’t like to pry. There’s one other small thing, a comment Mrs. King made about the name of the cottage. She asked me what ‘La Veile’ meant and when I said ‘Watchpost,’ she said to Miss Goldstein, ‘Isn’t that perfect?’”
Gwen stood up. “I mustn’t keep you any longer,” she said, gathering up her bags. “Besides, I have some shopping to do before I get the bus back to Pleinmont.”
“Would you like me to arrange a lift for you?” Liz Falla asked, preparing to open the door.
“Gracious me, no, young lady!” was the reply. “I like to be independent.”
Just before she left the room, Gwen Ferbrache turned back and said, “Of course, Edward, my sight isn’t what it was, and this could all be my imagination. They are two women on their own, used to living in a far more dangerous environment, and perhaps it was a stick, or something of that nature.”
“Perhaps it was,” said Moretti cheerfully.
Moretti and Falla watched the door close.
“Only it wasn’t, was it, Guv,” said Falla, gathering up cups and saucers.
“Oh no,” said Moretti. “Not a stick and not her imagination. Not with this woman. Guns, Falla — we seem to have a theme going here, and it’s not a common island theme.”
“You’ve not got grounds for a search warrant, have you?”
“None. On our way out I’ll round up PC Brouard and have him check those names you wrote down. We can do that for a start. I want him to look into a couple of other things as well. Gwen wondered if you might have any special insights. Have you?”
“Two, but they’re not that insightful. First: how smart to mention a serious illness, because most people don’t go prying at that point, do they? Second: whatever it is, one thing’s clear. They are hiding from something, or someone, and they’re scared — not just for themselves, but for the child.”
“Agreed, but we’ll have to leave it at that for now. You and I have got to go to the Esplanade Hotel. The crew are, I hope, safely corralled there, and I’ve sent DC Le Marchant to pick up passports and start to take statements. Come to think of it, I didn’t notice what the yacht was called, did you?”
Liz Falla’s grin always made her look even younger than her late twenties or whatever she was.
“Yes, Guv. My English teacher used to go on about dramatic irony, and I was never quite sure what she meant, but I think it might fit the name of Mr. Masterson’s yacht. It’s called Just Desserts. Only it’s spelled like the pudding.”
“Use every man after his desert, and who should ’scape whipping.” Moretti held the door open for his partner. “And that was some whipping, Falla. Any thoughts on what we saw in the cabin?”
“All dressed up and nowhere to go, that was the first thing that came into my mind when I saw him.”
“Right. Death was unexpected, but not his visitor. He’d literally cleared the decks, sent everyone, including his right-hand woman, on shore.”
“Petit salaud, Guv — that’s what the chef called the valet, right? What’s it mean?”
“Little shit’s close enough. Let’s go and see what the petit salaud and the rest of the Just Desserts crew have to say for themselves.”
The Esplanade Hotel is, in fact, not on the Esplanade at all, but tucked away on a hillside overlooking the harbour and the islands of Herm and Jethou. It is on a steep, narrow street that leads to Glategny Esplanade in the north of St. Peter Port, close to where Liz Falla lived in a flat in an eighteenth-century terraced house she had shared at one time with a boyfriend. The man was long gone, but the flat she had kept. She was fond of that part of the coastline, known as La Salerie after the ancient salt manufactory that had once existed there. It was away from the main shipping areas and marinas, yet close enough to the town to be convenient for work. Not that anything on the island was that far from anything else, but with the hours she worked it was useful to be only minutes away from police headquarters.
“Do you know anything much about the hotel?” asked Moretti, as his partner turned the BMW on to St. Julian’s Avenue.
“Like I said, it’s a four crown hotel. Not a five crown, I don’t know why, but it’s not that big. About a dozen bedrooms, I think. It’s got great views and a super dining room, but pricey by my standards. Len and I had a couple of meals there on birthdays and such. Len’s my ex, of course — well, one of them, but he lasted longer than most. Nearly two years.”
Liz Falla gave a short, sharp laugh that had Moretti wondering if this particular episode in Falla’s love life was not as easily disposed of as her occasional insouciant references to Len would have him believe.
“The owners live on Jersey, so there’s a manager, from the mainland. Betty Kerr, she’s called, and she’s not lost time making herself at home. She’s got a thing going with the head waiter, Shane Durand. Hope she knows what she’s doing, because he’s a lady’s man, just like his dad. Here we are.”
Liz Falla turned in through the gates and brought the BMW to a halt outside the pretty eighteenth-century frontage of the Esplanade Hotel. It had originally been one of the manor houses erected by the Guernsey privateers to reflect their dubiously acquired wealth and house their ill-gotten gains. An extensive wing had been added, but the original entrance and small tower were still intact, and a beautifully maintained walled garden descended the steep hillside.
Behind an imposing mahogany desk in the lobby, embellished with flowers in a mammoth cut-glass vase, they were greeted by the manageress herself. “Good day, detectives. I’m very glad to see you, and I’m thanking heaven it’s not the height of the season. I’ll be very glad to get these people off our hands, and your officer out of the corridor.”
Betty Kerr appeared to be in her forties, well coiffed, and discreetly dressed, as befitted her position. Her manner was crisp, suggesting steely efficiency overlaid with a patina of professional charm. She did not seem to Moretti to be the kind of female who fell for womanizing headwaiters — but then, who knew about women, and what does a woman want? If Freud didn’t know, was it any wonder Moretti had failed in the only long-term relationship in his life?
“Understandable. But first, I’d like a word with your night desk clerk. I asked if he could stay around.”
“Bert De Putron. He’s on the desk from eight to eight.”
Betty Kerr hit the bell on the desk, and a moment later the desk clerk appeared. Bert De Putron was a small man in late middle-age, who seemed only too anxious to play a role in the drama.
“Shocking business, eh?” he said, with the smile of one for whom shocking business was a welcome relief from the nightly longueurs of desk-clerking. Moretti made a mental note to speak to the constable in the corridor about passing on information. “How can I help?”
“First, by telling me if anyone either arrived or left the hotel during the night.”
“There’s not too many guests at the moment, but there was a young couple who went out about nine, and came back around midnight.”
“Give their names to DS Falla. How about the crew: Adèle Letourneau, Jean-Louis Rossignol, Martin Smith, Hans Ulbricht, and Werner Baumgarten.”
“They all arrived just before I came on. Two of them left after dinner, and came back about ten-thirty. That’d be the Germans.”
“Are you sure it was ten-thirty?” Moretti asked.
“Yes. One of the kitchen staff brought me a cup of tea as per usual. And I’m sure they were German, because that’s what they were talking, and I know the sound of that lingo only