A Grave Waiting (20 page)

“That's what they look like.” Moretti pulled out the list from his briefcase, glad that he'd just unpacked it, thus avoiding rummaging around in his underwear. “Tough and time-consuming to check mail if you don't know from where and to where it's going.”

“And these chappies may have resorted to snail mail to escape detection, yes.” Lang held out his hand.

There goes my trump card
, thought Moretti as he handed over his sheet of paper. Hopefully the Jan Melville connection ensured something in return.

“They may be safety deposit boxes. As you can see, there are initials after groups of letters — suggest states or cities to me. Could be names.”

“Thank you.” Lang took spectacles from his pocket, looked for a minute or so at the list, but made no comment before opening a dispatch case on the table near him, putting the list inside and relocking it. “Now. The names. They were using pseudonyms most of the time, but they were decipherable, and sometimes they were careless. Apart from your victim, three names recurred. First, Leo Van der Velde, a South African mercenary with many years of dubious experience in Africa, who uses the cover name Double V. Not very clever, and he's used it before. We've had an eye on him since a rather iffy sale of helicopters to a certain African country. He flew out of Cape Town about a month or so ago, and then we lost track of him. Possibly he was the unseen man who spoke in a whisper. We think it was Van der Velde who brought Masterson into the group. They call him Baby?” Lang paused and looked enquiringly over his glasses at Moretti.

“Baby Mothball.”

“Quaint. The next chap is probably the French-speaking African your witness heard. Patrice Adeheli. Not his real surname, but one he has used quite openly for years. It is the name of an African sun god, so I'm told, and reflects the ambitions of the user, who sees himself as the sun king of a small west-African country called Maoundi. Adaheli fled the country about a decade ago, and now lives in exile in Paris. They call him Sol, not too original.” Lang turned on the laptop and pointed at the screen. “There it is: Maoundi. A tiny chunk of real estate off the Gulf of Guinea, worth its weight in gold.”

“Gold.”

Moretti waited for Lang to say what he knew he was going to say.

“Black gold, Detective Inspector. Oil, vast reserves of it, virtually untapped, certainly underexploited. That's what this is all about, of that you can be sure. What the numbers you have given me have to do with this I cannot imagine, because it is far more likely their money is in one of your Guernsey banks rather than safety deposit boxes in America. And why they would visit their stash is beyond me, but I presume it was something set up by Baby, God knows why.”

Moretti looked across at Derek Lang, who was putting his glasses back in his pocket. “But you said three names. Van der Velde, Adaheli, and —?”

Derek Lang had a very small mouth, which now almost disappeared as he sucked his lips together before he replied. “I am going to give you the third name, Detective Inspector, against my better judgement, and because it is thought by various people that you, as an outsider, have a better chance of nailing this bunch. However, for reasons that will become clear, I would suggest you keep this one to yourself. It is the third name that has made this investigation tricky, without any real evidence to go on, and this particular conspirator is still in South Africa, as far as we know.”

“A South African?”

“No, sadly. I wish he were. He is as British as I am, son of a pillar of society with deep pockets, a litigious reputation, and more connections than an octopus has tentacles. The son is a playboy, a risk taker, and completely unprincipled, unlike his father, whose blue-eyed boy he is. He is Norman Beaufort-Jones, only son of Sir Hugh Beaufort-Jones, ex-chancellor of the Exchequer, and ex-owner of the Beaufort Brewery chain.”

“Good God.”

“Absolutely. He has been in more scrapes than a pye dog has fleas, and Poppa has bought him off every single time. If you can bring your murderer to justice without using his name — and since he is not in Guernsey, that looks possible — you'll stand a better chance of success. Otherwise you'll have one of the Beaufort-Jones' lawyers hanging around your neck, night and day.”

“So they killed the money man.”

“It would appear so. Looks like Baby was being naughty, doesn't it? Anything else you can think of that might be useful?”

“Masterson had done extensive research into
hawala
, but there was nothing specific about what he was doing with the information.”

“Ah. Looks like he was having problems moving money without having it traced. We are getting better at following the money trail.”

Lang stood up, brushing the crumbs from his jacket as he did so. “Hope this is helpful, Detective Inspector.”

“It is. Do you by any chance have photos? Beaufort-Jones should be easy, but Van der Velde and Adaheli might take time.”

“I can get those for you before you leave. The rest of the afternoon is your own, and Jan will join us for dinner tonight. We have an excellent chef on staff at the moment, because we have a major conference with American colleagues shortly.” Derek Lang's pale face flushed in anticipation.

“Sounds good. I'll check in with my sergeant and see how things are going.”

“Of course. I'll leave you to it.” Lang picked up his dispatch case and laptop. “The door you came in by can be used if you want to go outside, but best not to leave the property itself. There's a drinks cabinet in your room, and Internet access. Do you need anything else?”

“No thanks, but I'll take the coffeepot with me. By the way —” Moretti picked up his cup “— did Beaufort-Jones have a nickname? You didn't say.”

Derek Lang grinned. “He did indeed. They call him Game-Boy. Very apt, no?”

“You think he's just in it for the kicks.”

“Not entirely. Game-Boy has expensive tastes and an expensive wife to keep happy. She's Russian, ex-model, beautiful, a very greedy girl. This coup would outstrip the Beaufort Brewery millions, and make him rich beyond the dreams of even his wife's avarice.”

“Money and sex.”

“Heady stuff, yes. One often acting as an accelerant to the other. I must say it has a sweet old-fashioned ring to it, compared with the motivations we are now dealing with. I feel quite nostalgic thinking about it.”

“Money and fanaticism.”

Derek Lang didn't respond to Moretti's observation. “I'll leave you to it then, Detective Inspector. Jan will contact you. She should be arriving this afternoon, I believe.” He smiled, turned, and left the room through an interior door that presumably led to the rest of the hotel. Or whatever Cadogan Hall really was.

Moretti sat among the rhododendrons and pulled out his mobile. He had finished the coffee in his room, but there was something claustrophobic about that sealed space with its observation peephole, and he decided to make his phone call outside. After checking the suite for bugs and listening devices, none of which he found, and none of which he expected to find, he took himself out the French windows and down the steps into the gardens.

Around him in the sunshine bees buzzed busily in the pink and mauve flowers, the thick green foliage towering above his head. The grass beneath him was warm and slightly damp, and his mother's generation would have warned him about scarlet fever, arthritis, and the danger of getting piles.

“Falla?”

It was a relief to hear her voice.

“Guv. I was just going to try to get hold of you. How are things?”

“Helpful. I'll fill you in later. Is Hanley kicking up?”

“No more than usual. Later being —?”

“Tomorrow evening, I hope. Any developments?”

“Yes. You were right to say take a look at Nichol Watt's time in America. Looks like he knew Masterson there.”

“Well, well. Save the details for when I get back. Does Hanley know?”

“Yes, Guv. I had to tell him to calm him down. Well, to calm him down about you, and to give him something else to get worked up about. He wants further proof before making any moves.”

“Just as well. Don't do anything yourself until I get back, Falla, I don't want anyone scared off right now. Are you still keeping an eye on the boat people?”

“We are, but Hanley's whining about how it's stretching us thin, which it is.”

“Anything else?”

“Not really.” He heard hesitation in her voice. “Nothing that can't wait.”

“Okay then. See you tomorrow.”

As Moretti put the mobile back in his pocket, he heard a rustling sound in the bushes, and Jan Melville emerged from behind a bed of aggressively red rhododendrons.

“Hello, Ed.”

She was wearing patched jeans and an olive T-shirt, sandals on her bare feet, toenails as bright as the blooms behind her. As she sat down, a faint scent of vetiver drifted toward Moretti, and he thought of past loves and Sandy Goldstein.

“Wise move,” she said, pointing at the pocket that held his mobile. “The walls here have ears.”

“The motivation was claustrophobia rather than paranoia. I hear you are my ride back to London.”

“So I gather.”

In the daylight she looked older, the pale skin of her forehead and her cheeks furrowed, her neck above her olive shirt lined, softened with age.

“You've known Peter a long time he tells me. Longer than I have.”

“On and off, a long time. That was a dirty trick you played on him. Did he deserve it? What's the point, after all these years?”

“The point is, Detective Inspector, there is no point. I don't know if he deserved it, but I did. I had my little revenge, and I've had my little joke. Let me laugh now.”

Which she did, throwing her head back and laughing uninhibitedly until the tears came. Moretti sat and waited for her to stop.

“That sounded more like an exorcism than a little joke,” he said.

The tears in Jan Melville's eyes made them seem darker than ever. “Let me show you something.” She stood up and took a photograph out of her back jeans pocket and handed it to Moretti.

It was a snapshot of Jan Melville and the blond guitarist, arms around each other, smiling into the camera. Without the dark glasses over his long, dark eyes, the resemblance was striking.

“Good God. He's your son.”

“He's my son.”

Moretti handed back the photo, and Jan Melville put it back in her pocket and sat down again beside him.

“He's not —?”

“No. I wish. His father was a shit, but he gave me a very nice child, so no point in regrets.”

“And you produced a musician.”

“I did, piano player, I did. And I called him Peter.”

Nothing came to mind that wasn't either sentimental or trite, so Moretti said nothing.

“He is an important part of my life and I can enjoy his company more now than I could, sadly, when he was growing up. My career made that — dicey.” Jan Melville tapped Moretti on the shoulder. “Speaking of which, do you mind if we get out of here in the next little while?”

Moretti turned to her in surprise. “I'd love to get out of here in the next little while, and I'd love to know why you suggest doing so.”

“Look, Ed —” the tone of her voice had changed “— you'll have gathered by now there's someone involved in this business of yours who's got friends in high places. Some, or one, of those friends is on the inside. Lang won't tell you that in so many words, but I will. He also won't tell you that one of the chief reasons for agreeing to talk to you is not to get your list of numbers, but because you may be able to nail Beaufort-Jones for him.”

“Actually, he said just the opposite, but now it makes sense. The only sense I could make of it before was that Peter had arm-twisted to reconnect with you.”

“Which he did, but getting Derek to agree was because of Game-Boy, not because of any clout I still have. And Game-Boy's mole is the reason for all these theatrics, bring you out here instead of to the Yard or MI5 headquarters. That's why I'm the one driving you back. Your driver this morning, Jekyll, is hopefully reliable, but we can't be too careful.”

“Jekyll?” Moretti laughed. “Is that a code name? I've been hearing those most of the afternoon.”

“No, his very own. His great-great-aunt was Gertrude Jekyll, the celebrated gardening expert. He's the gardening consultant for this place. Among other things.”

Which explained the tenor of the conversation in the car. “Here's hoping he isn't going to morph into Mr. Hyde,” said Moretti. “I'll go and get my things right now, but shouldn't I tell Lang? I'm going to miss a good meal, apparently.”

“All the more for Derek. No, I'd rather no one knew officially that you have vacated the premises. I'll deal with that later, after we've gone.”

“Lang was going to get some photos for me.”

“I have them.”

Jan Melville pulled a package out of the pocket in her T-shirt. Moretti opened it and took out the three pictures inside. One was of a stunningly handsome African, another was of a laughing, fair-haired man in his thirties, smoking a cigarette, and the third was of an unsmiling middle-aged man, his skin deeply tanned and lined, his fair hair bleached white by a tropical sun.

“Interesting,” said Moretti.

Shades of Melville and her guitar-playing, look-alike son — there seemed to be a theme going here. He was looking at an older, more shopworn version of that experienced, so-called German yachtsman, Hans Ulbricht.

L
iz
Falla had always liked this part of the island. Ensconced between four parishes — Castel, St. Andrew, Forest, and St. Pierre du Bois — St. Saviour's had the feel of being part of a larger entity than Guernsey, separated as it was from the sea. Yet, if you wanted to remind yourself that you were on an island, you could walk down Petit Bot Valley and be on one of the prettiest coastlines in minutes. If ever she got a little more money she would buy a cottage here, but it would take a lot more money than Detective Sergeant Falla presently had in her piggybank.

Dorothy Watt lived in a converted fifteenth-
century farmhouse in a valley that ran behind St. Saviour's Church. As happens so often on the island, the distant past meets the more recent past at St. Saviour's, the largest of the island churches. Below the stone bench in the churchyard on which a feudal lord once held court, run the tunnels constructed by the Germans on the principle that they were unlikely to be bombed in a sacred place.

Liz Falla turned the police car through the gate, which was open, and stopped outside the heavy stone-framed entrance to the house, which formed an
L
shape around a well-maintained cobbled courtyard, not unlike Coralie Chancho's home. To the right of the front door was a large French window, obviously a modern addition, framed by rose-covered trellises, and behind the window stood Dorothy Watt. As Liz got out of the car, her mobile rang.

It was Moretti. Concisely as she could, she updated him, watching Dorothy Watt watching her. As she said, “Good luck, Guv,” Nichol's ex threw the window open and called out to her.

“Come in this way. I've just finished my workout.”

The first Mrs. Watt was a tall, strong-boned brunette in her forties who, from what Liz could tell through the folds of the towelling robe she was wearing, was in excellent shape. The knee-length garment exposed strong calf muscles above bare, tanned feet, from which she was kicking a pair of pricey-looking trainers. Presumably she had been using the treadmill on the tiled deck. Beyond her stretched an azure-tinted swimming pool beneath a canopy-shaped roof, the structure obviously an addition to the original farmhouse. The wide, tiled surround fairly sprouted mini palm trees and massive flowering plants in tubs. The arrival of big money on the island had heralded the arrival of a plethora of experts in the installation of every luxurious mod con the well-heeled considered essential.

“You're not what I expected. You remind me of someone.” A pair of shrewd hazel eyes surveyed Liz Falla.

“Really?”

Who knew what Dorothy Watt was expecting, and perhaps best not to suggest, “Probably your ex-husband's present squeeze.”

Dorothy Watt sat down on a sofa covered in a pale creamy velvet fabric that almost matched her robe, giving Liz the feeling she was interviewing a disembodied head, arms, and legs.

“My children will be back with their nanny any time, so let's do this. I try not to talk about their father in front of them if I can help it. He's enough of a problem for them as it is.”

“Of course. Do you mind if I take notes?”

“Go ahead. Sit down.” Dorothy Watt picked up a glass from a table beside her. “Can I get you anything?”

“No, it's fine, thank you.” Liz sat down on a straight-backed chair opposite Dorothy Watt and took out her notebook. “When we spoke on the phone, you mentioned the business of the MRI machines when you and Dr. Watt were in America. Perhaps you could fill us in a bit more, and I'd appreciate it if you kept this to yourself.”

“Not tell Nichol, you mean.” Dorothy Watt clearly found this funny. “Only too happy to — but how much do you already know?”

“Well,” Liz prevaricated, “I think it best I don't lead you, but leave you to tell things as you see them, Mrs. Watt.”

“Ms. Le Huray. I use my maiden name. Isn't
that
a laugh, maiden name.” To judge from Ms. Le Huray's expression, this, just as clearly, was not funny.

“You're an islander. I didn't know.”

“Why would you? When Nichol ran into problems I suggested we come here. I even thought he might straighten up in other ways too, but the leopard's spots and so on. Anyway, you didn't need to learn about Nichol the skirt chaser. The whole island knows about that, but I never thought the MRI business would come back to haunt him.” Dorothy Le Huray took a good swig from her glass. “It all started at a medical convention in Canada. Nichol met a man whose business was the leasing of medical equipment to health centres and hospitals, very expensive equipment, chiefly magnetic resonance imaging machines. When Nichol heard the kind of money that could be made — millions of dollars — he wanted in on it and, being Nichol, didn't bother himself too much with the — niceties, shall we say. He was to be the contact man in the States, using his name and the name of the hospital where he was working as references. To cut a long story short, there was, in fact, only a banking company with a fancy name and there were no MRI machines. The police told us it was not just a fraud bringing in millions of dollars, but a cover for the laundering of dirty money. In fact, the only legitimate business this fellow had was the international arms business.” Another swig of water. “God, we were terrified. Nichol was the only one on the hook, because his name was attached to just about everything. The clever bastard who conned him had kept clear by saying to Nichol that it was his standing as a medical man that was important. Too true!”

“Was Dr. Watt arrested or charged?”

“No, but he was questioned on and off for days, and it cost us a fortune in lawyers' fees, while the crook who had done all this got out of the country. I'm not sure where he is.”

In the hospital morgue,
thought Liz Falla. She watched as Dorothy Le Huray poured herself another glassful from a jug on the table beside her. “Do you remember the name of the man, Ms. Le Huray?”

“I most certainly do, because we only discovered afterward it was not his real name.”

“What did he call himself?”

“Letourneau. Buddy Letourneau.”

The name of the so-called housekeeper.

“Oh,” added Dorothy Le Huray, “that reminds me. He had a wife, Adèle. Smooth bitch. Nichol being Nichol, it was not just the millions that drew him in, she was put up as bait.”

“Put up as bait?”

“Yes.” Nichol Watt's ex-wife leaned forward. “My louse of a husband was sucked in by French knickers, Sergeant, not just Yankee dollars.” The faint fragrance of vodka wafted toward Liz Falla as Dorothy Le Huray picked up a large and spectacularly glittering watch from the small table beside her. “My children will be home soon with their nanny. Can we call this a day?”

“Yes, thank you. What you have told us will help in the investigation, Ms. Le Huray.”

“Investigation? So you think this is in some way connected to what happened on that yacht?” The shrewd hazel eyes surveyed Liz Falla. “What can Nichol's MRI contretemps have to do with that? I can understand why the dead body outside Mona's place might be connected. Murder is not a common crime here, as I don't have to tell you. We may
feel
like it, but we islanders go in for smaller stuff, like smoking a joint or stealing a neighbour's wife — oh my God!” Dorothy Le Huray leaned forward, her breasts threatening to break free of their ivory velour confines. “It's him, isn't it? Letourneau?
That's
why you're here, isn't it? And Nichol has been called in, and told you he recognized him — oh my God!”

Oh my God indeed because, of course, Nichol Watt hadn't said anything, and Liz Falla was now as anxious to leave as Dorothy Le Huray was to get rid of her.

As she said her goodbyes and thank-yous, a car turned into the driveway. Through the windows she caught a brief glimpse of a small face pressed against the glass. A hand came up and waved at her and she waved back, her mind momentarily shifted from Dorothy Le Huray's revelation by the little boy's smiling face.

As she drove through St. Martin's and St. Andrew's toward the coast road, Liz tried to recall how Nichol Watt had behaved when he came to the yacht, and remembered that neither she nor Moretti had seen or spoken to him then. Only by phone, later. She waited until she had driven back into the courtyard outside the police station and tried to contact Moretti. There was no reply. Disappointing, but not unexpected. Now that her boss was — well, wherever he was — it was unlikely she would be able to speak to him.

As she got out of the car, she saw Constable Mauger coming down the steps. She remembered he had been one of the first at the scene of the crime.

“Constable Mauger, a word.”

Mauger bounded toward her, eager to help. “DS Falla?”

“Were you in the cabin when Dr. Watt arrived to examine the body?”

“Yes. Why?”

She had to do this carefully, or Mauger would be yapping about it all over the station, and up the chain of command it would go to Chief Officer Hanley.

“Just something that came up in Dr. Watt's report that needs clarification. Did he seem — put out about anything? You know, anything out of the ordinary happen?”

Constable Mauger thought a moment, then said, as if the memory had taken him by surprise, “Well, it was a bit weird, DS Falla. He took one look at the deceased and said, loudly, ‘bloody hell.' Just like that. ‘Bloody hell.' Then it was pretty much business as usual. Since there wasn't much blood, I thought he was just surprised at a gun being involved, that's all. Why are you asking?”

“Like I said, clarification. And that clears it up. I'll pass it on to DI Moretti.”

Hopefully the mention of a superior officer would keep the constable quiet. Just as she could only hope that Dorothy Le Huray would take heed of her final warning. “I cannot give you any information as to what Dr. Watt has told us, but it would be best if you did not discuss this interview with him.”

So much now depended on whether Dorothy Le Huray preferred her revenge hot as Dwight's vindaloo, or as a meal best eaten cold.

Which made Liz think of food. She debated whether to go to the police canteen or to head for home, and it was the thought of bumping into the chief officer rather than what was on the canteen menu that guided her decision. Still, she planned to return later in the day to use the police computers, and take advantage of Moretti's absence to do some checking on Sandra Goldstein. The woman's hostility seemed puzzling, and she wanted to take a closer look at the possibility of some sort of criminal activity. Such a level of paranoia because Goldstein was interested in Moretti and saw his DS as a threat seemed unlikely.

What do you care?
she thought.
He's a big boy. He's single, he's attracted. Or seems to be. What do you care?
Not finding an answer to her question, she did what she usually did in similar circumstances. She filed it away for future consideration.

Liz Falla finished the last mouthful of her cheese omelette, put the plate in the sink, poured herself another cup of coffee, and changed CDs. The otherworldly voice of Loreena McKennitt now filling the space. Oh, how she had wanted to nail Nichol Watt for the murder, but she knew that the likelihood of Masterson's killer merely and spontaneously exclaiming “bloody hell” was remote. Watt had been taken by surprise, then pulled himself together.

Damn. She finished her coffee and checked her messages. There was one, a text message. It was from Moretti. It said:
Don't let Ulbricht and Baumgarten go anywhere
.

“Why?” she yelled into the phone as she dialled Moretti's number. “Why?”

Still no response. She put a call through to the Esplanade Hotel, which was answered by Betty Kerr.

“Oh, hello, DS Falla, and many thanks. We really needed those rooms.”

From the CD player came the sound of Loreena singing her version of the “Lady of Shalott,” and Liz Falla's warm little room suddenly turned chilly.

And moving through a mirror clear that hangs before her all the year, shadows of the world appear.

“Where are they, Ms. Kerr?”

“Didn't you know? Chief Officer Hanley said it would be all right if they returned to the yacht. They went with a police escort, and since there's a full-time guard on the pier, he really didn't see the need for me to be inconvenienced anymore.” Betty Kerr gave a little laugh. “And you needn't worry about Mr. Rossignol, Sergeant. I'm holding on to him. He's a super cook, and he's scared stiff about going back to that lot.”

Liz wasted no time in replying, hung up, and put a call through to the police station to find out who was on sentry duty. The desk sergeant put her through to PC Brouard. The sound of his voice was not reassuring, its normally strong baritone muted and uncertain.

“DS Falla, I was just about to contact you. Those two Germans went to pick up supplies, and I didn't worry too much because we've got their passports, haven't we, but they've been gone quite a bit now.”

“How much is quite a bit?”

“Hours. Well, all day, and the Letourneau woman is really pissed off —”

Liz cut PC Brouard off in mid-sentence, turned off the CD player, grabbed the keys of the police car, which she had, thank God, held on to, and left the room.

So the Letourneau woman was pissed off, was she. She wasn't the only one.

Moretti's head hurt. Badly. A lump had come up on it almost immediately, and now it was throbbing to its own internal beat. Boom, boom, boom.

A sympathetic crowd gathered, giving advice and comfort. “I've called the police … you need to get an icepack on that … a bag of frozen peas'll do the trick … you should see a doctor in case your brain swells …”

A passing taxi slowed down and pulled over to take a look, and Moretti stuck out his hand, stumbling into the seat by the driver. He had to get away before the police got there, before he had to answer any question, got taken to the police station, or even the hospital. And he had to hope the convenient taxi was not part of whatever this was. As he gave the cab driver Peter Walker's address, a Greek chorus of warnings and advice drifted through the window.