A Place of Hiding (71 page)

Up in the room, St. James didn't return Lynley's call at once. Instead, he went to the desk beneath the window and punched in a different number.

In California, Jim Ward was engaged in a “meeting of the partners,” St. James was told when the call went through. Alas, the meeting was being held not in the office but at the Ritz Carlton hotel. “On the coast,” he was told with some importance by a woman who'd identified herself as “Southby, Strange, Willow, and Ward. Crystal speaking.”

“They're all uncommunico,” she added. “But I could take a message.”

St. James didn't have time to wait for a message to get through to the architect, so he asked the young woman—who seemed to be munching on celery sticks—if she could help him.

“Do what I can,” she said cheerfully. “I'm studying to be an architect myself.”

Good fortune looked down on him when he asked her about the plans which Jim Ward had sent to Guernsey. It hadn't been that long ago that the documents had left the offices of Southby, Strange, Willow, and Ward, and as it so happened, Crystal herself was in charge of all post, UPS, FedEx, DHL, and even Internet transmittals of drawings. Since this particular situation had differed so radically from their usual procedure, she remembered it all and would be only too happy to explain it to him . . . if he could wait just a moment “'cause the other line is ringing.”

He waited, and in due course her cheerful voice came back on the line. In the normal way things were done, she told him, the plans would have gone overseas via the Net to another architect, who'd carry the project on from there. But in this case, the plans were just samples of Mr. Ward's work and there was no rush to get them there. So she packaged them “like always” and handed them over to an attorney who showed up to claim them. That, she'd discovered, was an arrangement that had been made between Mr. Ward and the client overseas.

“A Mr. Kiefer?” St. James asked. “Mr. William Kiefer? Was that who came for them?”

She couldn't remember the name, Crystal said. But she didn't think it was Kiefer. Although . . . wait. Come to think of it, she didn't recall the guy's giving a name at all. He just said he was there to pick up the plans that were going to Guernsey so she'd handed them over.

“They got there, di'n't they?” she asked with some concern.

They certainly had.

How had they been packaged? St. James asked.

Regular way, she told him. Oversize mailing tube of heavy cardboard. “It didn't get wrecked on the way, did it?” she asked with equal concern.

Not in the way she was thinking, St. James said. He thanked Crystal and rang off thoughtfully. He punched in the next number and had immediate success when he asked for William Kiefer: In less than thirty seconds, the California attorney came on the line.

He disputed Crystal's version of events. He hadn't sent someone to pick up the architectural drawings at all, he said. Mr. Brouard had told him explicitly that the plans would be delivered to his office by someone from the architectural firm when they were ready. At that point, he was to make arrangements for the couriers to carry the plans from California to Guernsey. That's what happened and that's what he did.

“Do you recall the person who delivered the plans from the architect, then?” St. James asked.

“I didn't see him. Or her. Or whoever it was,” Kiefer answered. “The person just left the plans with our secretary. I got them when I came back from lunch. They were packed up, labeled, and ready to go. But she might remember . . . Hold on a minute, will you?”

It was more than a minute during which St. James was entertained by piped music: Neil Diamond misusing the English language in the cause of maintaining a dreadful rhyme scheme. When the phone line crackled to life again, St. James found himself talking to one Cheryl Bennett.

The person who brought the architectural plans to Mr. Kiefer's office was a man, she told St. James. And to the question of whether she remembered anything particular about him, she giggled. “Definitely. You hardly ever see them in Orange County.”

“Them?”

“Rastas.” The man who brought the plans was a Caribbean type, she revealed. “Dreads down to his you-know-what. Sandals, cut-offs, and a Hawaiian shirt. Pretty odd-looking for an architect, I thought. But maybe he just did their deliveries or something.”

She hadn't gotten his name, she concluded. They didn't talk. He had headphones on and was listening to music. He reminded her of Bob Marley.

St. James thanked Cheryl Bennett and soon rang off.

He walked to the window and studied its view of St. Peter Port. He thought about what she had said and what it all might mean. Upon reflection, there was only one possible conclusion to be reached: Nothing they'd learned so far was anything like what it appeared to be.

Chapter 28

S
IMON
'
S DISTRUST WAS A
spur to Deborah, and an additional spur was the fact that he would probably justify that distrust by telling himself it was owing to her not delivering that Nazi ring to the local police on his timeline. Yet his current doubts were not a reflection of the real situation. The truth was that Simon distrusted her because he
always
distrusted her. This was his reflex reaction to anything that came up which asked her for a bout of adult thinking, of which he seemed to believe her incapable. And that reaction was itself the bane of their entire relationship, the outcome of her having married a man who'd once acted in the role of second parent. He didn't always return to that role in moments of conflict. But the galling fact that he fell back upon it at all—ever—was enough to encourage her to take whatever action he most didn't want her to take.

This was why she went to the Queen Margaret Apartments when she could have window-shopped on the High Street, climbed the slope to Candie Gardens, walked out to Castle Cornet, or browsed in the jewellery shops tucked away in the Commercial Arcade. But she got no results from her visit to Clifton Street. So she dropped down the steps that rose from the market precinct below and told herself that she
wasn't
searching for China, and even if she was, what did it matter? They were old friends and China would be waiting to be reassured that the situation in which she and her brother found themselves was well on its way to being resolved.

Deborah did want to offer her that reassurance. It was the least she could do.

China wasn't in the old market at the base of the steps, and she wasn't in the food shop where Deborah had come upon both of the Rivers earlier. It was only when Deborah gave up entirely on the thought of finding her friend that she located her as she herself was turning the corner from the High Street into Smith Street.

She began ascending the slope, resigned to returning to the hotel. She paused to buy a newspaper from a vendor, and as she was tucking her purse back into her shoulder bag, she caught a glimpse of China halfway up the hill, stepping out of a shop and heading farther upwards, towards the point where Smith Street fanned out at its apex, creating a plaza that accommodated the World War I memorial.

Deborah called out her friend's name. China turned and scanned the pedestrians who were also heading upwards, well-dressed businessmen
and -women at the end of their working day in the many banks below. She lifted her hand in greeting and waited for Deborah to join her.

“How's it going?” she asked when Deborah got close enough to hear her speak. “Anything?”

Deborah said, “We don't quite know.” And then to direct their conversation into another area, one which didn't put her at risk of wanting to offer specifics in the cause of reassurance, she said, “What're you doing?”

“Candy,” she said.

Deborah thought at first of the gardens, which made little sense since China was nowhere near them. But then her mind did the little sidestep that she'd learned to do while she was in America, making a quick translation of China's version of English into her own. She said, “Oh.
Candy.
”

“I was looking for Baby Ruths or Butterfingers.” China patted her capacious shoulder bag in which she'd apparently stowed the sweets. “Those're his favourites. But they don't have them anywhere, so I got him what I could. I'm hoping they'll let me see him.”

They hadn't done on her first visit to Hospital Lane, China told her. She'd gone directly to the police station when she'd left Deborah and her husband earlier, but she'd been refused access to her brother. During a suspect's interrogation period, she'd been told, they allowed only his advocate inside to see him. She should have known this, naturally, having been held for questioning herself. She'd phoned Holberry. He'd said he would do what he could to make arrangements for her to see her brother, which was what had led her to go out and about looking for the chocolate bars. She was on her way to deliver them. She glanced towards the plaza and the junction of streets a short distance above them. “Want to come with?”

Deborah said that she did. So they walked together to the police station, a mere two minutes from the point at which they'd met.

At the reception counter, they learned from an unfriendly special constable that Miss River would not be allowed to see her brother. When China said that Roger Holberry had made specific arrangements for her to be admitted, the special informed her that he personally knew nothing about anything from Roger Holberry, so if the ladies didn't mind, he'd be getting on with his work.

“Call the guy in charge,” China told him. “The investigator. Le Gallez. Holberry probably got in touch with him. He said he'd make arrangements . . . Look. I'd just like to see my brother, okay?”

The man was immovable. If arrangements
had
been made, he informed China, by Roger Holberry via anyone, then that person—be it DCI Le Gallez or the Queen of Sheba—would have made certain that reception had access to that information. Barring that occurrence, no one save the suspect's advocate was allowed inside to see him.

“But Holberry
is
his advocate,” China protested.

The man smiled in perfect unfriendliness. “I don't see him with you,” he replied, making much of looking over her shoulder.

China began to make a hot remark which started with “Listen, you little—” when Deborah intervened. She said calmly to the special, “Perhaps you can just take some sweets to Mr. River . . . ?” at which point China said abruptly, “Forget it,” and stalked out of the station, her delivery unmade.

In the courtyard that served as the car park, Deborah found her sitting on the edge of a planter, savagely tearing at the shrubbery it held. As Deborah approached, China said, “Bastards. What d'they think I'm going to do? Break him out?”

“Perhaps we can get through to Le Gallez ourselves.”

“I'm sure he'd be thrilled to give us a break.” China threw her handful of leaves to the ground.

“Did you ask the advocate how he's coping?”

“‘As well as can be expected, considering the circumstances,' ” China replied. “Which was supposed to make me feel better but which could mean anything, and don't I know it. There's jack shit in those cells, Deborah. Bare walls, bare floor, a wooden bench that they'll only too cooperatively make up into a bed if you're forced to be there overnight. A stainless steel toilet. A stainless steel sink. And that big blue immovable door. Not a magazine in sight, not a book, not a poster, not a radio, not a crossword puzzle, not a deck of cards. It'll make him nuts. He's not prepared . . . he isn't the type . . . God. I was so glad to get out. I couldn't breathe in there. Even the prison was better. And no way can he . . .” She seemed to force herself to slow down. “I need to get Mom over here. He'd want her here, and if I do that much, I can feel less guilty about being relieved that someone else is inside and I'm not. Jesus. What does
that
make me?”

“Feeling relieved to be out is human nature,” Deborah said.

“If I could just get in to see him, to find out he's okay.”

She stirred on the planter's edge and Deborah thought she intended to attack the fortress of the police station another time. But Deborah knew it would be useless, so she stood. “Let's walk.”

She headed back the way they'd come, dipping to the far side of the war memorial and taking the direct route to the Queen Margaret Apartments. Too late Deborah realised that this route would curve directly in front of the Royal Court House, at whose steps China hesitated, gazing up at the imposing front of the building that housed all the legal machinery of the island. High above it flew Guernsey's flag, three lions on red, snapping in the breeze.

Before Deborah could suggest that they move on, China was climbing the steps to the front doors of the building. She went inside, so there was nothing for Deborah to do but to follow, which she hurriedly did.

She found China in the lobby, consulting a directory. When joined, she said, “You don't have to stay with me. I'll be okay. Simon's probably waiting for you anyway.”

“I want to stay with you,” Deborah said. “China, it's going to be all right.”

China said, “Is it.” She strode across the lobby, past the doors of wood and translucent glass on which were printed the various departments to be found within. She headed for a dramatic stairway that climbed past an oak wall holding the gilt-painted names of old island families, and on the floor above the entry she found what she was apparently looking for: the chamber in which trials were held.

This didn't seem the best place for China to go to lighten her spirits, and her choice of it served to underscore the differences between her and her brother. In the same position, with a sibling innocent of a crime but still under arrest, Cherokee had been all action in keeping with his restless nature: the ultimate man with the ultimate plan. Deborah could see that despite its being the despair of his sister, Cherokee's scheming character had its advantages, one of which was never to give in to disheartenment.

“This isn't a good place for you to be right now,” Deborah said to her friend as China sat at the end of the room farthest from the judge's bench.

As if Deborah hadn't spoken, China said, “Holberry told me about the way they do trials here. When I figured I was going to be the one, I wanted to know how things would play out, so I asked him.” She looked straight ahead, as if she could see the scene in front of them as she described it. “Here's the deal: They don't use juries. Not like we do. I mean, not like at home. There's no putting people in the jury box and asking them questions to make sure they haven't already decided to send someone to the chair. What they use here are professional jurors. It's their job, like. But I don't see how you can get a fair trial out of that. Doesn't it mean anyone can talk to them in advance? And they can read about the case if they want to, can't they? They can probably even conduct their own investigations, for all I know. But it's different than at home.”

“That makes it scary,” Deborah admitted.

“At home I'd have an idea what to do right now because I'd know how things work. We could find someone who knows how to scope out jurors and choose the best ones. We could give interviews to the press. We could talk to TV reporters or something. We could mould public opinion in some way so that if it came to a trial—”

“Which it won't,” Deborah said firmly. “Which it
won't.
You do believe that, don't you?”

“—we'd at least have made some kind of inroad into how people feel and what they think. He's not without friends. I'm here. You're here. Simon's here. We could do something. Couldn't we? If things were the same, like at home . . . ?”

Home, Deborah thought. She knew her friend was right. What she was having to face would be so much less excruciating if she were at home, where the people were familiar, the objects all round were familiar, and where, most important, the procedure itself—or at least what led up to it—was also familiar.

Deborah realised that she couldn't offer China the sense of ease that came with familiarity, not in this place that spoke of a frightening future. She could only suggest a marginally less awful environment in which she might be able to comfort the woman who'd been such a comfort to her.

She said softly into the silence that followed China's remarks, “Hey,
girlfriend . . .”

China looked at her.

Deborah smiled and chose what China herself might have said and what China's brother definitely would have said. “It's a downer here. Let's blow this joint.”

Despite her present frame of mind, Deborah's old friend smiled in turn. “Yeah. All right. Cool,” she said.

When Deborah rose and offered China her hand, she took it. And she didn't let go till they were out of the courtroom, down the stairs, and out of the building.

 

In a thoughtful state, St. James rang off from his second conversation of the day with Lynley. Vallera & Son hadn't been difficult to extract information from, according to what the New Scotland Yard superintendent had told him. Whoever had been at the receiving end of Lynley's call had apparently not been playing with a full deck of the intelligence cards: Not only had the individual yelled to someone “Dad! Hey! Got a call from Scotland here! D'you believe it?” when Lynley had identified himself after tracking down the business in Jackson Heights, New York, but he had also been cooperatively voluble when Lynley inquired as to the exact nature of Vallera & Son's professional pursuit.

In an accent worthy of
The Godfather,
the man—Danny Vallera he said he was called—informed Lynley that Vallera & Son was an enterprise that cashed paycheques, offered loans, and wired money “all around the world if you want. Why? You looking to send some bucks over here? We c'n do that for you. We c'n change stuff to dollars. What you got over there in Scotland, anyway? You guys use francs? Crowns? You on the euro? We c'n do it all. 'Course, it's gonna cost you.”

Affable to the end and clearly without a grain of sense—much less suspicion—he'd explained that he and his dad wired money in increments of nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine dollars—“And you can add the ninety-nine cents if you want to”—with a chuckle—“but that seems like stretching things, don't it?”—for discriminating individuals who didn't want the Feds to come knocking upon their doors, which they probably would do if over time Vallera & Son reported wire transfers of ten thousand dollars or more as required by “Uncle Samuel and the Washington jerk-offs.” So if someone from Scotland wanted to send someone in the U.S. of A. anything less than ten thousand buckos, Vallera & Son would be happy to play the middleman in the operation, for a fee of course. In the U.S. of A., centre of politicians on the take, lobbyists on the give, elections fixed, and capitalism gone mad, there was always a fee.