A Grave Waiting (24 page)

Moretti thought fast. A little more time would be nice, but he didn't have that luxury. “There really is only one place, and they may need convincing. You'll have to play the dumb-copper-in-the-back-of-beyond card and hope they buy it. Tell them we have a small police force of limited skills. Tell them that the yacht is unguarded since we took Masterson's housekeeper into custody, and that the harbour is not well policed at night. They may be able to use their meeting place as their getaway vehicle. Ulbricht said it could almost run itself.”

“But how do I explain how I got on the yacht?”

“Difficult,” said Moretti, “but this might work. Tell them you will take the dinghy from that beloved wooden boat of yours over to the yacht. Tell them you noticed that the divers looking for the gun had left a ladder down that side of the yacht, and you'll break the glass door to the main salon and get in that way.”

“I've done that,” said Garth eagerly. “Had to break in through our patio door once —”

Moretti interrupted him. “Don't embroider, Garth. Say as little as possible. As you said, you're a stupid jazz-playing banker in a world of sharks, and they might pick something up.” He was scribbling on a piece of paper as he talked. “Here is my mobile number. When the meeting is set up, give me the details, and dispose of this.”

Garth took it. “You're tethering me like a sacrificial goat, aren't you?”

Moretti stood up. “Yes. Climbing up rope ladders in the dark is not my idea of a good time, and I, fool that I am, will be tethered with you.”

He turned to Liz Falla. “
Just Desserts
. Perhaps it will finally have a chance to live up to its name.”

It had started to rain hard while they were at the Northlands offices. In the confined space of the Triumph, Moretti heard Liz Falla humming under her breath.

“‘Plaisir D'Amour.' You're thinking of Ross and La Chancho.”

“No. I'm thinking of Melissa Machin.” But she did not elaborate. After a moment, she said, “Did you buy Ludo Ross's act?”

“Not entirely. The grief over Coralie Fellowes was genuine enough, but he used it as a shield against revealing himself further.”

“Do you think he could have used what Garth told him to get involved? Not for the money so much as the thrill, the kicks?”

“Once a player, always a player, you mean. I hope you're wrong, Falla, but I was reminded of something today I should have realized before. Ludo Ross is charming, personable, brilliant, became an academic but, before that, was just as much a killer as Ulbricht or Baumgarten. What I don't know is whether he still is.”

They made the rest of the drive in silence. As the car passed through the old gateway, Moretti said to Liz Falla, “We don't have much time before this all gets underway, because they are going to have to improvise, and the fact that Adaheli is in Harare suggests they were hoping to move soon, or they wouldn't risk showing their hand too far in advance.”

“What's our next move, Guv?” Liz got out of the Triumph and stood on the doorstep. Moretti appeared to be taking a look around the courtyard.

“I'm going to leave a message for Hanley, the harbour authorities, and — some other people. Then I'm going to crash. We could be short of sleep over the next little while. I'll get someone to pick you up. Come in.”

Inside, Moretti saw Falla's glance take in the two wineglasses. Her eyebrows shot up in that look of surprise that made them disappear under her bangs. A drop of rain shivered like an exclamation mark on the slick of dark hair that curved around her left ear. He removed the glasses from table and took them into the kitchen.

“You know where the phone is,” he called out.

“It's okay, Guv,” was her reply. “I'll use my mobile.” There was a slight pause and then she appeared in the kitchen doorway. She was holding the lasagna in its foil package.

“Has this been out all night, unrefrigerated?” she enquired. “In that case, you shouldn't risk eating it. You'll have to throw it away.” She was smiling.

Moretti took the lasagna from her, depressed the foot pedal of the bin with unnecessary force, and threw it away.

Day Nine

T
he
sound of the water lapping against the
Just Desserts
was soothing, even under these circumstances. Moretti could hear in it the rhythm of Dwight's drums, the wizardry of Gene Krupa, the brilliance of Benny Goodman's clarinet. Slap, slap, slap. Sing, sing, sing.

“I feel sick. Why did we have to come so early?”

Garth sat on a sofa opposite Moretti, drinking Masterson's excellent Scotch. In the dim light from a table lamp Moretti could see the tremor in Machin's hands, the tic in one eyelid. The only change he was aware of in his own body was the acceleration of his heartbeat, disconcertingly out of sync with the sound of the water.

“You're lucky I didn't make you swim. Of course we came early, soon as it was dark. We still don't know where the two sham Germans are. Hopefully not around, but something tells me they will be around somewhere. Let's go over this again. What did they tell you, and who did you speak to?”

“Game-Boy. He thinks we speak the same language, glad to have me on board because I talk posh. He actually said that, laughed. He sounds a bit of a wacko to me. They agreed without much persuading about the yacht, and I think they've had to cut corners because of Masterson, so they're pushing it. ‘Not how we usually operate,' is what Game-Boy said. I am to leave all doors unlocked, and to expect them when I see them. I said I'd come by water and wait in the main salon, as you suggested. They are bringing the cash, instructions as to how to buy the diamonds, and where they are to be deposited.” Garth looked at Moretti. “I have it all on tape — isn't that enough?”

“No, it isn't. We must have the transaction take place, and then we can move in.”

“We?” Garth's voice shook. “Don't mean to be insulting, Ed, but by ‘we' do you mean the likes of PC Brouard, and that pretty sidekick of yours? You've told me nothing.”

“No, because I don't trust you.” Moretti cut off Garth's wail of protest. “Why do you think I'm here risking my own neck? Sergeant Falla — I presume that's who you mean by my sidekick — is coordinating everything, back at Hospital Lane. I will be contacting her soon. And you are right, this is far too tricky to handle by myself, so I have involved some experts in this sort of thing. Less you know about them the better. In the next few minutes, I'll be leaving you here to meet your pals, and hiding on the yacht. And you needn't have bothered to tape your conversation, because your office, your phone, everything, is now bugged.”

As Moretti stood up to leave, his mobile rang.

His first reaction was annoyance, because he had arranged with Liz Falla that he would contact her. She was in direct touch with those running the operation, and they had not been happy about his “pretty sidekick” being the point person. He had assured them she would follow instructions to the letter, and here she was, breaking the rules.

“Falla. What —?”

“Had to do this, Guv. There's a fly in the ointment.” He could hear the anxiety in her voice.

“A fly in the ointment? What fly?”

“Who, Guv, who. I know where the South Africans are, and I know who sent them there. Trouble is, we don't know if your visitors know, but they probably do.”

“Who sent them where?” The gentle motion of the yacht strengthened into something more intense, as if the wind had come up, or a vessel was approaching. “Quick, Falla. We may be about to have visitors.”

“The fly —” Falla's voice quavered “— is Denny. Denny Bras-de-Fer.”

Denny Bras-de-Fer loved a big story, and was quite willing to invent one, if necessary. It had got him into trouble in the past. This time there was no need for creativity, just ingenuity and cunning, and those were qualities he had in spades. Already there were stringers and freelancers sniffing around the yacht murder, but the fact that Masterson was a Canadian, operating outside the British Isles, had slowed down the interest of the fourth estate. Denny could smell big money — by his standards — if he could beat everyone to the punch.

Masterson's connection to Beaufort-Jones was only known to a handful of insiders, and Denny Bras-de-Fer was jumping in the deep end of a very murky pool without a lifebelt. But intelligent analysis had never been Denny's strong point. He acted on instinct, charm, and self-interest, with self-preservation as a top priority.

Besides, he did not like being rejected by women, and when Liz Falla told him to get lost, he became even more interested in the
Just Desserts
murder as a matter of principle. The satisfying furor caused by his article in the
Guernsey Press
had spurred him on to continue his investigations and, since he had no police contacts — quite the opposite, in fact — all he could do was keep an eye on the yacht.

After hours spent on a bench overlooking the
Just Desserts
, to the detriment of his beauty sleep and his social life, he was finally rewarded. He watched the arrival of a glamorous older woman and two young men, delivered by police car, and his first thought was to target the woman. His speciality, after all. But she disappeared out of sight into the bowels of the vessel, and never reappeared. Just as he was considering walking up the gangplank and presenting himself as a reporter for the
Guernsey Press,
the two men emerged. They were talking together, relaxed and cheerful, carrying what looked like shopping bags. They exchanged a joke of some kind with the solitary policeman on the pier, who appeared to be pointing them in the direction of the shops. Denny decided to follow them, which would require wheeling his Vespa along with him.

Denny loved his Vespa, a powder blue LX 50 4V. He had chosen powder blue, because it went down well with the birds — only blokes with machismo were unafraid of such a feminine shade. In his mind it created the image of a debonair, continental member of the paparazzi, the sort of sophisticate who always said “Ciao,” like he did, and never “Cheerio,” or “Goodbye.” To be sure, this model was not very powerful, but who needed that on an island this size, and it was the iconic image that mattered. He had no intention of leaving it unattended, and he soon saw that having wheels was a stroke of luck.

The two men continued along the Esplanade and, to his surprise, did not turn up any of the streets that would lead them to the shops. When they reached the foot of St. Julian's Avenue, they hailed a cab and got in. After a moment's delay, presumably as they gave the driver directions, the taxi set off up the avenue. Quick as a flash, Denny was on his Vespa following them.

Denny Bras-de-Fer was in his glory. Here he was, acting out in real life his childhood dreams and grown-up fantasies, in pursuit of his quarry. Who the quarry was, he did not know, but it was clear they had misled the copper on the pier, so possibly he was tailing the bad guys. What a coup for him if he tailed them to their hideout! Certainly they had come on the yacht, but this was no scenic excursion. Maybe they had accomplices. At some point he would phone the cops, but he wanted to see this through to the end.

The taxi turned off Les Gravées and headed south, twisting and turning along the narrow lanes, through St. Andrew and into the parish of St. Martin. The bends in the road made it tricky for Denny not to lose sight of them, so he risked following more closely, and he had to come to an abrupt halt when he saw the taxi had stopped outside the sort of gussied-up cottage only the well-heeled could own. Getting off the Vespa, he tucked it under the hedge and waited for the taxi driver to deliver his fares. A few moments later the two men emerged, and started walking up the driveway to the front door of the cottage. He could now hear them talking, casually, relaxed, in what sounded like German.

Denny waited for the taxi to leave. Then, stealthily creeping along against the hedgerow, he turned into the driveway. He was going to have to risk exposure, because there was no hedge up to the house, so he waited until they had rung the bell, and the door of the cottage opened. He heard voices, a yell, then the sound of the door closing, and silence.

The yell was worrisome, but Denny hesitated only for a moment, then started to creep up the exposed driveway, scurrying from bush to bush. When he reached the cottage he was panting, sweating, his heart beating like a bass drum in his chest. Crouching beneath the windows, he crept along the wall until heard voices. They were coming from a corner room to the right of the front door, and the windows on the side of the house had bushes close to the wall, which afforded him some cover. He scuttled around the corner, squatted beneath the window, and listened.

It was not hard to hear what was going on, although the man doing most of the talking kept his voice low. But the man he was questioning was doing the exact opposite, he was screaming, and Denny could hear every word he was saying. Over and over between the screams he was saying, “No, no, I know nothing — I killed nobody — no, I don't know who did — Christ, I'd tell you if I knew, I'm no hero — what woman? Her? — I didn't kill Masterson, and I didn't kill her — aaah!”

At this point, Denny decided he'd had enough. But, before sneaking back down the driveway and reaching the safety of his beloved Vespa, he risked a quick look through the window, raising his head a few inches above the sill.

The man screaming was a mess. His arms were tied to a chair with what looked like his trouser belt, but in spite of his bloodied face and broken nose Denny recognized him. He had seen him often enough with some dolly-bird or other in the jazz club. He was a doctor, or a surgeon or something. Nichol Watt, that was his name. Before Denny ducked down, the interrogator struck Nichol Watt again, so hard his head smacked back against the chair on which he was strapped.

But where was the other man?

He had barely formed the thought when he felt a cold, hard pressure against the back of his neck.

“Get up. Make a move and I pull the trigger.”

The pressure against his neck increased. Denny had often said to his coterie when laughing about some jape or other, some trick he had pulled on some unsuspecting sucker, “I nearly peed my pants.” It was not an expression he would use lightly again.

He was nudged in the direction of a door near the back of the cottage, and pushed through. Inside he found himself in the same room as Nichol Watt and his interrogator, who was lighting a cigarette as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening, which, for these two men, was probably the case.

“Here,” said his escort to the other man, then something in what sounded like German, but wasn't.

The blond man smiled. “A word of advice, you who are about to die. Only amateurs tail professionals on shiny baby-blue bikes. Who are you?”

His escort shoved him from behind toward the other man, and Denny's knees gave way. He fell on the ground, and started to grovel. “Please, I'm just a reporter, I'm not with the police, I'm only trying to get a story. I'm good at keeping my mouth shut, if you just let me —”

He was silenced by a kick in the small of his back, the pain travelling the length of his spine.

“We don't have time for this.” The tall, fair-haired man smiled through the cigarette smoke at him, and the dark-haired man kicked him again. This time his back went numb. “We need to know before we leave what the doctor knows about who else is — in on this. We cannot have that. Too much to lose. Come, reporter — what do you know?” The fair-haired man inhaled, hard, until the end of the cigarette glowed, and held it out.

It was with terror that Denny realized he had nothing he could tell them, because he knew nothing, and he was sure Nichol Watt would have spilled his guts if he knew anything. He couldn't even fabricate who killed who, because he had no idea what woman they were talking about. Coralie Fellowes? The papers had been told it could be natural causes, but it had to be La Chancho. Unless he could think of something, their ignorance would be their death warrant.

At that point, Denny's creativity and, above all, his instinct for self-preservation kicked in.

“I know who's behind it,” he trilled, his voice an unrecognizable falsetto. “It's not him. It's another man, a guy who was in the secret service. He's been in on the case from the beginning. If anyone killed anyone, it's him, and not him.” He pointed to Nichol Watt and was rewarded with a blow from a gun butt around the back of his head.

“Cut to the chase, reporter.”

“He lives close by, and I can take you there, get you in the door, past his dogs. They're vicious, but there's no need to worry about him, he's an old man now. His name is Ludovic Ross.”

Just before they left the room, the fair-haired man took the dark-haired man's gun and smashed it against Nichol Watt's head so hard that he and the chair fell sideways. He lay on the floor without moving. As the interrogator pointed the gun at Watt's body, the other man said, “No more bullets. We have no more bullets.”

The interrogator nodded, bent down, and took Nichol Watt's car keys from his pocket.

Benz and Mercedes were restless. Ludo Ross could hear them moving around the house as he sat listening to Brubeck playing
The Last Time We Saw Paris
with his quartet. He remembered they had disbanded shortly after recording the album.

Shame that all good things have to come to an end. Outside, the island was bursting into bloom after its gale-swept winter, but Ross had the feeling of things ending, rather than beginning.

“The sere, the yellow leaf,” he said out loud. “Coralie, Coralie.”

I'd better stop drinking,
he thought,
or I'll be crying again
. Perhaps the dogs sensed his mood. Perhaps that was all, but, like them, he was restless. It was like the old days, he felt as if he was being watched. Paranoia, a familiar bedfellow.

The thought of bedfellows brought Liz Falla to mind. Not that she had been in his bed, and he'd ruined any remote chance of that by his egregious insults. Some time, the next time he saw her, he would tell her what he felt about her voice. Magic.