A Grave Waiting (14 page)

As far as Moretti could recall, Northland was an offshoot of one of the major British banks, specifically set up to handle financial planning for clients with an international asset base. It was one of many such offshore banks, which unabashedly proclaimed themselves as operating solely for “high-net” clients with assets in the millions, and whose own assets were in the billions. High on the list of attributes touted in their brochures or on Internet sites, right up there with the depth of their assets or the breadth of their services, was the quality of discretion. Facts would not be difficult to come by, if all Moretti wanted to know was the name of any of the funds administered, or types of accounts available, but if he wanted to know the names of any of the people whose funds or accounts those were, he would be stonewalled, shown the door, or simply laughed at.

He was surprised at the instant response when he identified himself to the disembodied female voice on the intercom. “Yes,” said the voice, and there was the sound of the lock releasing on the glass and metal door.

Melissa Machin must have phoned, he realized. He was glad he had sent Falla on to the station to call off the divers and see how Le Marchant was doing. There was the possibility that Garth might be more open with him if he were on his own. That is, if there was something to be open about.

As she dropped him off, Falla asked, “Why did you send Le Marchant out there in the first place? Why not send a policewoman to look after her and keep an eye out for trouble?”

“Because if she is gaga — and I am not at all sure that she is — she is much more likely to spill the beans in an unguarded moment to a man than to a woman. Le Marchant is young, wet behind the ears, and not as cool as he likes to think he is, and I have a feeling La Chancho likes dominating the male of the species.”

Falla's laugh echoed around the square as she pulled away from the curb. Moretti could still hear it as the BMW turned into Hospital Lane.

Garth's office was on the second floor, according to the list by the stairs, and according to the young woman in the lobby.

“He's expecting you.”

So Melissa had phoned. Damn.

As Moretti came around the corner at the top of the stairs, Garth was coming toward him. In his navy blue suit and crisply knotted tie he was quite unlike the sax player whose usual dress was casual to the point of dereliction, but the tie made a statement of some sort. Against a black background a well-endowed and cheerful woman rode what looked like a unicorn across its shiny silken surface.

“What the hell's going on, Ed?” Garth's voice was in a higher register than usual, betraying an anxiety he was unable to hide.

“I'm here to ask you the same question, Garth,” Moretti replied. “Let's talk in your office.”

Garth's office was a room of modest proportions whose outstanding feature was a complete lack of any individual touches. There was a large desk, a host of filing cabinets, a computer, printer, fax, all the usual office equipment. The two windows were screened by white vertical blinds, and an oatmeal-coloured carpet covered the floor. Moretti could not see a single family photograph, one piece of anything that reflected the married man or the musical man, no evidence that here was a human being with a life that gave him any pleas-ure. There were two photographs on the wall opposite the door, one of the bank's London headquarters, the other of St. Peter Port Harbour. Neither was an interesting piece of photography — not that it mattered much, since both were tucked away beyond a cabinet and therefore unviewable from the desk.

“For God's sake, Ed, the next-door neighbour has a fucking corpse in her fuchsias and one of your lot gives Melissa the third degree. She was in a state when she phoned me, and she's not the hysterical sort, Melissa.”

Garth took himself round to the far side of the desk, but he remained standing. Moretti had the impression of someone gathering control by putting distance between himself and an adversary.

Moretti pulled out the chair nearest the desk and sat down. He watched as Garth sat down pulling out a pack of cigarettes from a desk drawer, and cursed himself for quitting. It might have given them a blokes-together moment if he hadn't.

“Why not you, damnit, instead of one of your heavy-footed minions?”

“Brouard's a big lad, it's true, but he's a kindly soul. Not me, because I'm here.” As Garth lit up, Moretti leaned across the desk into the enticing fragrance of Benson & Hedges. “As you said to me, Garth — what the hell's going on? Or —
is
anything going on? The dead man was the personal bodyguard of the murder victim on the yacht in Victoria Marina, and I am wondering if he was trying to see you. He was certainly trying to see
someone
in that neck of the woods.”

“The next-door neighbour from the look of it, whom I wouldn't know from a hole in the ground. Would anyone in his right mind try to get hold of me at home on a working day? I'm always here, God help me, even at this God-forsaken hour.” Garth swept an arm around the sterile confines of his workplace.

“This particular victim was not that well-informed about how your sort live. Also, there's a possibility he was trying to see your wife, Garth.”

“Melissa? Why in the hell would he want to see Melissa?”

“Blackmail.” Moretti paused a moment to let the word sink in. “I think he may have hoped to blackmail either one of you. Preferably you, perhaps, but your wife could be more easily intimidated. Intimidation was very much this fellow's forte.”

Moretti watched as the muscles in Garth's face tightened. The underdressed lady on the unicorn galloped merrily along on the undulations of his accelerated breathing, and the cigarette in his hand shook as he put it to his mouth, scattering ash on the dark surface of his suit. Before he could respond, Moretti said, “I don't think you are going to tell me anything, are you? So let me guess this is somehow linked to whatever passed between you and Nichol at the club the other night.”

It was a wild shot in the dark, but it found its target. Garth dropped the half-smoked cigarette in the ashtray on the desk and rubbed his hands over his face. When he looked up at Moretti he seemed almost on the verge of tears.

“Leave it, Ed. You're way off base. That was something else altogether. Nichol Watt is an arsehole, as well you know, and he made a pass at Melissa. He's a bastard, that's all. A bastard,” he repeated.

“No argument here.” Moretti stood up. “No point, is there, in continuing this, so I'll be off. Just remember, Garth — I'll do whatever I can to help you and to protect your wife, if that's necessary. I can't speak to your financial or fiduciary skills, but you're far too good a musician to lose.”

“As I've already told you, I don't know what the hell you're talking about.”

“So you have. Will you be at the club tonight?”

“If I'm not hauled away to the calaboose.” Garth gave a feeble attempt at a laugh that caught in his throat and died.

“I'll see myself out.”

“Do that.” He was pulling out his cigarettes again before Moretti got to the door.

It was a short walk to the station, and Moretti had just reached the courtyard when his mobile rang. It was Don Taylor, sounding triumphant.

“Ed, I've got it. Why his nickname rang a bell. Something that happened about fifteen years ago, to do with deregistering a deposit taker.”

“Great news, Don. I'm tied up at the moment — but I'll be at the club tonight, so why don't you come over to my place afterward.”

He and Don had done this before, going back and continuing the evening with jazz, and more jazz, until dawn. Less tiring than with Ludo, because he didn't drink as much in Don's company.

A break maybe. God knew they could do with one. Because if this case involved the kind of people and the kind of money he suspected it did, he would have to have it all laid out in black and white, cut and dried, everything dotted and crossed and beyond the slightest suggestion of a shadow of a doubt. Whoever had seen to it that Masterson died with a bullet in the brain was a very big gun indeed.

He was playing “Angel Eyes” when Sandy Goldstein walked into the club that night. He must have hesitated or changed the beat in some way, because Dwight Ellis followed the direction of his glance, raised one eyebrow, grinned, and gave a soundless whistle.

She was on her own. She looked around a moment, then sat down at a table near the back. Moretti turned his attention back to the piano, and watched Garth Machin stand up and start to play. The navy-suited banker with the shaking hands earlier in the evening was nowhere in sight. This Garth Machin was a cool and collected cat, full of confidence and cuss words, very much his usual silver-tongued Fénion self. It was quite a performance, any sign of weakness gone.

Ah well.
Here's hoping Don has something useful,
thought Moretti, as the sublime tone of Garth's horn floated across the smoky room toward the table where Sandy Goldstein sat. She looked up to thank the girl who brought her a glass of wine, then back to the stage, raising the wineglass and smiling at him. Then she mouthed something at him, but Moretti could not read her lips.

He sometimes felt bliss when Garth was in full flight. Add to that a beautiful woman smiling at him, and he felt no pain. He saw Dwight grin at him again and he grinned back. One more number, then the set would be over, and he could find out how she managed to spring herself loose from La Veile and Julia King.

A piano solo for him, with some soft bass accompaniment from Lonnie. Johnny Mercer's “Laura.” Applause, acknowledged with a wave of the hand. He still had to stop himself from reaching up for a cigarette from the ashtray on top of the piano.

He had just stood up when he saw Don Taylor arrive and stop to talk to Deb Duchemin, who had taken a break from restaurant duties upstairs and, with a feeling that was far from blissful, he remembered their arrangement.

In theatre and in politics, timing is everything, so they say. He crossed the room to Sandy Goldstein's table.

“Hi. I'm glad you made it, but how did you make it?”

Sandy Goldstein laughed. She was wearing neutral colours again, black this time, with a pair of striking turquoise and silver earrings, and her hair was caught up in a loose chignon held by a large silver clip.

“Julia is working on a series of pictures for the new book, so I left her in peace. I took a cab — Gwen recommended someone reliable, and the path's not that wet at the moment. I'm glad I made it. You're good.”

“You sound surprised.”

“Yankee superiority. We invented the stuff, after all.”

“Not Yankees, if I remember my history.”

“True.”

Moretti pulled out a chair and sat down. He didn't know what perfume she was wearing, but it definitely wasn't damp fleece. He called the server over and ordered a Scotch and another glass of wine for Sandy Goldstein.

“I have a phone for you, a mobile. Or, rather, my partner has. It's in her name, so there shouldn't be any problem. I was going to bring it to you yesterday, but we had new developments in the case I'm working on. It's at the office.”

“Thank you so much. Perhaps I could pick it up tomorrow? Unless, that is, if it's not too late — we could get it after this?”

More tiger eyes than angel eyes, looking right at him and making it quite clear that this was an opening he could walk right into, if he wanted. The drinks arrived.

“I wish. But I have a —” he hesitated, and then said “— a previous arrangement. I'll get it to you tomorrow, without fail.”

“I see.” Her voice was cool. A previous arrangement, what a brilliant choice of phrase. He wouldn't have blamed her if she'd taken the glass of wine and poured it over his head. But he wanted no one, not even Sandy Goldstein, to know he was meeting with Don Taylor.

She was gone before the end of the last set, and he didn't see her leave. But it was a relief not to walk out of the club on his own in front of her, leaving her there.

Don moved out of the shadows where he was waiting near Moretti's car. As he got in he said, “I liked the way you played ‘I Don't Stand a Ghost of a Chance.'
Con fuoco
. Did the stunning woman in black and silver give you the old heave-ho?”

“Something like that.” Moretti resisted an impulse to clip Don around the ear, and accelerated away from the curb. This, after all, was his idea, not Don's. “Tell me about deregistering, tell me you've got something for me. Tell me you're not wasting my time.”

“Your time?” Don sounded aggrieved. “How about mine? I'm getting a bit old for this wee small hours of the morning shit.”

“I had to turn down the stunning woman in black and silver if you must know, because I had a date with you, and I couldn't tell her I had a date with you.”

Don laughed with unrestrained and heartless glee. “Happens to me all the time — brush-offs, I mean — but I know you don't spend so much time hanging out with Captain Heartbreak as I do.”

“Captain Heartbreak? God, Don, where'd you get him from? The back of a cornflakes box?”

They drove in silence the rest of the way, while Don hummed “Just a Gigolo” under his breath, and Moretti thought about Val and his broken mainland relationship. Appearances can be deceiving. He too had hung out with Captain Heartbreak, more than once. Then there was timing, and all that stars-are-against-me shit.

The night was indeed starless, presaging more rain. Moretti's Triumph squeaked between the old gateposts to the cottage, and he brought it to a halt on the cobblestones. As Don got out, he leaned over the low roof of the car and grinned. “Cheer up, honey, I'll make this date worthwhile for you, I promise. It's all in the name, Ed, all in the name.”

“Come in, you idiot.”

Don refused coffee, but settled for Glenmorangie instead, and Moretti joined him. He put some Branford Marsalis on the player, something with a clean, astringent quality, appealing to the intellect rather than the senses. Marsalis was wonderful, but he did not touch Moretti's heart.