Blood Will Out. Jill Downie
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he realized he was being asked a question.
“Books, you said, sir. The hermit was a reader?”
“More than that. A collector of rare and beautiful books that he, or someone, threw around on the floor in among his Penguin paperbacks.”
“Then that wouldn’t be him. Someone was looking for something?”
“Could be. And whoever it was did not recognize — or wasn’t interested in — a two-thousand pound Dickens first edition — give or take a pound or two.”
“My God! The postman — Gord Martel? — said the fact Gus Dorey had done that to his books showed his suicidal state of mind. But I thought he meant the untidiness, rather than anything more complicated.”
“And he might be right.” There was a framed maxim on the wall close to the bar, that had caught Moretti’s eye when they came in.
Heaven is where the police are British, the cooks French, the mechanics German, the lovers Italian, and it is all organized by the Swiss. Hell is where the cooks are British, the mechanics French, the lovers Swiss, the police German, and it is all organized by the Italians.
He looked across the table at Falla and said, “I am tempted at this point to say that my gut tells me this was not a disordered frame of mind, but perhaps that’s my Italian blood speaking, and not my British police training. Falla has strong views about that kind of thing.”
Falla snorted with derision. “So would you, if you came from my family. I believe in fingerprints, and forensics, and DNA, not hunches.”
“Does that rule out the gut? Instinct? Intuition?” asked Al Brown, turning to Falla. “You surprise me.”
“I thought intuition was now a dirty word in our business,” she replied. “I thought deduction was drawing conclusions from known facts, like alibis, motives, that kind of thing.”
“Deduction,” said Al Brown, “is also, sometimes, a blinding moment of insight into another human being. Isn’t it?”
“I think we’re back to intuition,” said Moretti. He saw that Falla was looking irritated, and felt annoyed with himself for winding her up. He was about to attract the attention of the waitress, when Al Brown said, “I should tell you why I asked to be posted here.”
“I wondered,” said Moretti, settling back on the banquette. “With your qualifications, most of the U.K. was at your disposal.”
“Did your gut tell you?” Falla stood up and motioned to Al Brown to let her out. She was still looking annoyed. “I’m off to the ladies, in that case.” She extracted herself from the banquette and left them. Al Brown looked after her and said, “Did I tread on her toes?”
“In a way. Liz Falla’s ancestral roots are linked to one of the ancient Guernsey families called Becquet, many of whose female members were burned as witches. They died out long ago — not surprisingly — so it’s not proven, but she has an aunt and a grandmother who believe otherwise, and they feel this gives her a real advantage in police work. It drives her to distraction, being told by granny and admiring Auntie Becky that she has ‘the gift.’”
“And has she?”
“I’ll leave you to decide that.” Moretti paid the bill and, after the waitress had left, said, “Let’s talk about you. Why are you here?” Focusing his gaze on him, he noticed that one of the braniac’s ears was pierced. Did he wear an earring when off-duty? That would give Hanley something else to puzzle over.
“I’m here,” said Aloisio Brown, rebuttoning his smart navy blazer, “because I believe in magical thinking.”
“Magical thinking?” Falla rejoined them, slinging the small black bag she carried on to her shoulder. “Sounds like my Aunt Becky’s been talking to you — did she fly over and visit you on her broomstick?” She still sounded annoyed, only this time it was with both of them. Moretti, who was checking his messages, looked up at her jibe.
“Magical thinking’s serious stuff, Falla. It has been known to kill geniuses — so even graduates of the APSG program need to watch their backs. Don’t we, DC Brown?”
Chapter Six
Princess Elizabeth Hospital was near the centre of the island, west of St. Peter Port and just outside the parish of St. Andrews, in an area called the Vauquiédor. It had started life as a mental hospital, but after the Second World War was renamed for twenty-two-year-old Princess Elizabeth, and reopened by her. A major extension in the nineties had added a radiology department, a new maternity unit and children’s ward. A new clinical block was in the works. It was also the site of the principal mortuary on the island and, when necessary, whoever was the surgeon on duty served as pathologist.
Dr. Edwards was waiting for them in the mortuary.
“Hello, DS Falla. Greetings, gentlemen.”
Shrouded in her pale blue protective gear, her hair hidden by a cap, the doctor was an androgynous figure, the divergence between her appearance and voice less marked.
Liz Falla did the introductions and, as they put on protective clothing, Moretti got straight to the point. “You think this could be an assisted suicide, Dr. Edwards.”
His voice echoed back, the sound magnified off the bare walls. Somewhere a tap was dripping.
“I do.” Irene Edwards went over to one of the tables and pulled back the sheet. “I got him out when I heard you had arrived. Take a look.”
Gus Dorey was white as the sheet he was under, frail as a one-dimensional sketch of a human being, a line drawing in death. His strong nose jutted out on his sunken face, which was otherwise wiped clean otherwise of individuality. He lay there still, unable any longer to escape the peering eyes and human contact he had avoided in life.
“There’s nothing much to him,” said Moretti. He looked at the hermit’s veined hands, the bones stark against the transparent skin. “If he had tied the knot on that rope, he should have marks, even rope burns.”
“I agree.” Irene Edwards turned the hands over, laid them back down by the side of the body. “Nothing there. I already checked. And he probably would have had trouble seeing to tie a knot. He had cataracts that would soon have needed attention. Is there anything else you want to see?”
“No.”
Gently, Irene Edwards pulled the stiff sheet up over Gus Dorey’s face, pulled off her gloves and looked at Moretti.
“What happens next? Procedures are different here, aren’t they?”
“Yes. Outside, I think.”
Liz Falla looked at Moretti. It was not the first cadaver they had looked at together. They didn’t seem to affect him. She had never sensed repugnance or discomfort in him when they looked at the recently dead; his familiar air of detachment always remained firmly in place. It was more, she thought, as if he was respecting the feelings of the dead man by taking the discussion outside.
Breaking the silence, Irene Edwards said something to the mortuary technician, who stood waiting at a discreet distance, and they left the room.
In the corridor outside, Moretti said, “The magistrates court becomes the coroners court when necessary, and they will take care of this. But I’ll have to inform my chief officer first.”
“I leave it in your hands,” said Irene Edwards. “And you’ll let me know?”
With one swift movement she pulled the cap off her head, the gesture loosening the chignon from the large comb that held it, and a mass of dark hair cascaded around her shoulders. She smiled, and both men blinked, Aloisio Brown smiling back at her. The comb clattered to the floor and she picked it up without comment and put in her overalls pocket.
“We will,” said Moretti. He turned to Al Brown and Liz Falla. “Right now, we need to head back