Blood Will Out. Jill Downie
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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: WORDS.
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