A Place of Hiding

  This was, Frank realised, a large part of why he'd come to call on his former pupil: Nobby's passage through adolescence had been rough. Frank hadn't done as much as he could have done to smooth the way.

  Bertrand Junior was the first one to see him. He stopped in mid-kick and stared at Frank, his yellow knitted cap pulled low on his face so that his hair was covered and only his eyes were visible. For his part, Norman used the moment to drop to the grass and roll about like a dog off the lead. He shouted, “Rain, rain, rain,” for some reason and danced his legs in the air.

  Nobby turned in the direction his older boy was looking. Seeing Frank, he caught the ball that Bertrand Junior finally managed to kick and he tossed it back to his son, saying, “Keep an eye on your little brother, Bert,” and walked to join Frank as Bertrand Junior promptly fell upon Norman and began to tickle him round his neck.

  Nobby nodded at Frank and said, “They're about as good at sport as I was. Norman shows some promise, but he's got the attention span of a gnat. They're good boys, though. Especially at school. Bert does his sums and reads like a whiz. It's too soon to know about Norman.”

  Frank knew this fact would mean much to Nobby, who'd been burdened equally by learning problems and by the fact that his parents had assumed these problems were the result of being the only son—and hence slower to develop—in a family of girls.

  “They've inherited that from their mum,” Nobby said. “Lucky little sods. Bert,” he called, “don't be so rough with him.”

  “Right, Dad,” the boy called back.

  Frank saw how Nobby swelled with pride at the words, but mostly at Dad, which he knew meant everything to Nobby Debiere. Precisely because his family was the centre of his universe had Nobby got himself into the position he was squirming in at this moment. Their needs—real and imagined—had long been paramount to him.

  Aside from his words about his sons, the architect didn't speak more to Frank as he joined him. Once he turned from the boys, his face grew hard, as if he were steeling himself for what he knew was coming, and an expectant animosity shone from his eyes. Frank found himself wanting to begin by saying that he himself couldn't possibly be held to account for decisions that Nobby had impulsively taken, but the fact was that he did feel a certain amount of responsibility for Nobby. He knew it grew from his failure to be more of a friend to the man when he'd been a mere boy sitting at a desk in his classroom and suffering the abuse of a child who was a little too slow and a little too odd.

  He said, “I've come from Le Reposoir, Nobby. They've gone over the will.”

  Nobby waited, silent. A muscle moved in his cheek.

  “I think it was Adrian's mother who insisted it be done,” Frank continued. “She does seem to be taking part in a drama the rest of us know very little about.”

  Nobby said, “And?” He managed to look indifferent, which Frank knew he was not.

  “It's a bit odd, I'm afraid. Not straightforward as one might expect, all things considered.” Frank went on to explain the simple terms of the will: the bank account, the portfolio, Adrian Brouard and his sisters, the two island adolescents.

  Nobby frowned. “But what's he done with . . . ? The estate must be vast. It's got to go far beyond one account and a stock portfolio. How's he got round that?”

  “Ruth,” Frank said.

  “He can't have left Le Reposoir to her.”

  “No. Of course not. The law would have blocked him. So leaving it to her was out of the question.”

  “Then what?”

  “I don't know. A legal manoeuvre of some sort. He would have found one. And she would have gone along with whatever he wanted.”

  At this, Nobby's spine seemed to melt marginally, and his eyelids relaxed. He said, “That's a good thing, then, isn't it? Ruth knows what his plans were, what he wanted done. She'll go forward with the project. When she begins, it'll be no small problem to sit with her and have a look at those drawings and plans from California. To make her see he's chosen the worst possible design. Completely inappropriate for the site, not to mention for this part of the world. Not the least cost effective with regard to maintenance. As to the expense of building, it—”

  “Nobby,” Frank cut in. “It's not that simple.”

  Behind him, one of the boys screeched, and Nobby swung round to see that Bertrand Junior had removed his knitted cap and was pulling it soundly over his younger brother's face. Nobby called sharply, “Bert, stop that at once. If you won't play nicely, you'll have to remain inside with Mummy.”

  “But I was only—”

  “Bertrand!”

  The boy whipped the cap from his brother and began kicking the ball across the lawn. Norman trundled after him in hot pursuit. Nobby watched them for a moment before returning his attention to Frank. His expression, drained of its previous and all too brief relief, now looked wary.

  “Not that simple?” he asked. “Why, Frank? What could be simpler? You're not saying you actually like the American's design, are you? Over mine?”

  “I'm not. No.”

  “Then what?”

  “It's what's implied in the will.”

  “But you just said Ruth . . .” Nobby's face returned to its hardness, a look Frank recognised from his adolescence, that anger he contained as one young bloke among many, the loner who wasn't shown the friendship that might have made his road easier or at least less solitary. “What's implied in the will, then?”

  Frank had thought about this. He'd considered it from every angle on the drive from Le Reposoir to Fort Road. If Guy Brouard had intended the museum project to go forward, his will would have reflected that fact. No matter how or when he'd disposed of the rest of his property, he would have left an appropriate bequest earmarked for the wartime museum. He had not done so, which seemed to Frank to make his final wishes clear.

  He explained all this to Nobby Debiere, who listened with an expression of growing incredulity.

  “Are you quite mad?” Nobby asked when Frank had finished his remarks. “What was the point of the party, then? The big announcement? The champagne and fireworks? The momentous display of that bloody elevation drawing?”

  “I can't explain that. I can only look at the facts we have.”

  “Part of those facts is what went on that night, Frank. And what he said. And how he acted.”

  “Yes, but what did he actually say?” Frank persisted. “Did he talk about laying the foundation? About dates of completion? Isn't it odd that he did neither? I think there's only one reason for that.”

  “Which is?”

  “He didn't intend to build the museum.”

  Nobby stared at Frank while his children romped on the lawn behind him. In the distance, from the direction of Fort George, a figure in a blue track suit jogged onto the green with a dog on a lead. He released the animal and it bounded freely, ears flopping as it raced towards the trees. Nobby's boys cried out happily, but their father didn't turn as before. Instead, he looked beyond Frank to the houses along Fort Road, and particularly to his own: a large yellow building trimmed in white, with a garden behind it for the children to play in. Inside, Frank knew, Caroline Debiere was probably working on her novel, the long-dreamed-of novel Nobby had insisted his wife create, quitting her job as a staff writer for Architectural Review, which was what she'd been happily doing as a career before she and Nobby had met and had concocted for themselves a set of dreams that were now being dashed by the cold reality brought about by Guy Brouard's death.

  Nobby's skin suffused with blood as he took in Frank's words and their implication. “N-no inten-inten-intention . . . N-never? D-do you m-mean that b-bastard . . .” He stopped. He seemed to try forcing calm upon himself, but it didn't appear to want to come.

  Frank helped him out. “I don't mean he was having us all on. But I do think he changed his mind. For some reason. I think that's what happened.”

  “Wh-wh-what about the party, then?”

  “I don't know.”

  ?
??Wh-wh . . .” Nobby squeezed his eyes shut. He screwed up his face. He said the word just three times, as if it were an incantation that would free him of his affliction, and when he next spoke, his stammer was under control. He said once again, “What about the big announcement, Frank? What about that drawing? He brought it out. You were there. He showed it to everyone. He . . . God. Why did he do it?”

  “I don't know. I can't say. I don't understand.”

  Nobby examined him then. He took a step backwards as if to get a better look at Frank, his eyes narrowing and his features becoming more pinched than ever. “Joke's on me, then, isn't it?” he said. “Just like before.”

  “What joke?”

  “You and Brouard. Having a laugh at my expense. Wasn't enough for you and the lads, then, was it? Don't put Nobby in our group, Mr. Ouseley. He'll get up in front of the class to recite and we'll all look bad.”

  “Don't be absurd. Have you been listening to me?”

  “Sure. I can see how it was done. Set him up, knock him down. Let him think he's got the commission, and then pull the rug. The rules're the same. Only the game is different.”

  “Nobby,” Frank said, “hear what you're saying. Do you actually think Guy set this up—set all this up—for the limited pleasure of humiliating you?”

  “I do,” he said.

  “Nonsense. Why?”

  “Because he liked it. Because it provided him the kicks he'd lost when he sold his business. Because it gave him power.”

  “That doesn't make sense.”

  “No? Look at his son, then. Look at Anaïs, poor cow. And if it comes to it, Frank, just look at yourself.”

  We've got to do something about this, Frank. You see that, don't you?

  Frank averted his gaze. He felt the tightening, the tightening, the tightening. Once again, though, the air carried nothing that could have restricted his breathing.

  “He said ‘I've helped you out as far as I can,' ” Nobby said quietly. “He said ‘I've given you a leg-up, son. You can't expect more than that, I'm afraid. And certainly not forever, my good man.' But he'd promised, you see. He'd made me believe . . .” Nobby blinked furiously and turned away. He shoved his hands dejectedly into his pockets. He said again, “He made me believe . . .”

  “Yes,” Frank murmured. “He was good at that.”

  St. James and his wife parted ways a short distance from the cottage. A phone call from Ruth Brouard had come near the end of their interview with the Duffys, and it resulted in St. James handing over to Deborah the ring they'd found on the beach. He would go back to the manor house to meet with Miss Brouard. For her part, Deborah would take the ring in its handkerchief to Detective Chief Inspector Le Gallez for possible identification. It was unlikely that a usable fingerprint would be found on it, considering the nature of its design. But there was always a chance. Since St. James had nothing with him to make an examination of it—not to mention the jurisdiction to do so—Le Gallez would need to carry things further.

  “I'll make my own way back and meet you at the hotel later,” St. James told his wife. Then he looked at her earnestly and said, “Are you quite all right with this, Deborah?”

  He wasn't referring to the errand he'd assigned her but rather to what they'd learned from the Duffys, particularly from Valerie, who was unshakable in her conviction that she'd seen China River following Guy Brouard to the bay. Deborah said, “She might have a reason to want us to believe there was something between China and Guy. If he had a way with the ladies, why not with Valerie as well?”

  “She's older than the others.”

  “Older than China. But surely not that much older than Anaïs Abbott. A few years, I should guess. And that still makes her . . . what? Twenty years younger than Guy Brouard?”

  He couldn't discount that, even if she sounded to his ears far too eager to convince herself. Nonetheless, he said, “Le Gallez's not telling us everything he has. He wouldn't do. I'm a stranger to him, and even if I weren't, it doesn't work that conveniently, with the investigating officer opening his files to someone who'd normally be part of another arm of a murder investigation. And I'm not even that. I'm a stranger come calling without appropriate credentials and no real place in what's going on.”

  “So you think there's more. A reason. A connection. Somewhere. Between Guy Brouard and China. Simon, I can't think that.”

  St. James regarded her fondly and thought of all the ways that he loved her and all the ways that he continually wanted to protect her. But he knew that he owed her the truth, so he said, “Yes, my love. I think there may be.”

  Deborah frowned. She looked beyond his shoulder, where the path to the bay disappeared into a thick growth of rhododendrons. “I can't believe it,” she said. “Even if she was that vulnerable. Because of Matt. You know. When that sort of thing happens—that kind of break-up between men and women—it still does take time, Simon. A woman needs to feel that there's something more between herself and the man who's next. She doesn't want to believe it's just . . . well, just sex . . .” A fan of crimson spread open on her neck and sent its colour up and across her cheeks.

  St. James wanted to say, That's how it was for you, Deborah. He knew that she was inadvertently paying their love the highest compliment there was: telling him that she had not moved easily from himself to Tommy Lynley when it came down to it. But not all women were like Deborah. Some, he knew, would have needed the immediate reassurance of seduction upon the end of a long affair. To know they were still desirable to a man would be more important than to know they were loved by him. But he could say none of this. Too much lay connected to Deborah's love for Lynley. Too much was involved in his own friendship with the man.

  So he said, “We'll keep our own minds open. Till we know more.”

  She said, “Yes. We'll do that.”

  “I'll see you later?”

  “At the hotel.”

  He kissed her briefly, then twice more. Her mouth was soft and her hand touched his cheek and he wanted to stay with her even as he knew he couldn't. “Ask for Le Gallez at the station,” he told her. “Don't hand over the ring to anyone else.”

  “Of course,” she replied.

  He walked back towards the house.

  Deborah watched him, the way the brace on his leg hampered what would have otherwise been a natural grace and beauty. She wanted to call him back and explain to him that she knew China River in ways that were born of a trouble he couldn't understand, ways in which a friendship is forged that makes the understanding between two women perfect. There are bits of history between women, she wanted to tell her husband, that establish a form of truth that can never be destroyed and never be denied, which never need a lengthy explanation. The truth just is and how each woman operates within that truth is fixed if the friendship is real. But how to explain this to a man? And not just to any man but to her husband who'd lived for more than a decade in an effort to move beyond the truth of his own disability—if not denying it altogether—treating it like a mere bagatelle when, she knew, it had wreaked havoc over the greater part of his youth.

  There was no way. There was only doing what she could to show him that the China River she knew was not a China River who would have easily given herself to seduction, who would ever have murdered anyone.

  She left the estate and drove back to St. Peter Port, winding into the town down the long wooded slope of Le Val des Terres and emerging just above Havelet Bay. Along the waterfront, few pedestrians walked. One street up the hillside, the banks for which the Channel Islands were famous would be bustling with business at any time of the year, but here there was virtually no sign of life: no tax exiles sunning themselves on their boats and no tourists snapping pictures of the castle or the town.

  Deborah parked near their hotel in Ann's Place, less than a minute's walk from the police station behind its high stone wall on Hospital Lane. She sat in the car for a moment once she'd turned off the engine. She had at least an hour—probably more—befor
e Simon returned from Le Reposoir. She decided to use it with a slight alteration in what he'd designed for her.

  Nothing was very far from anything else in St. Peter Port. One was less than twenty minutes' walk from everything, and in the central part of the town—which was roughly defined by a misshapen oval of streets that began with Vauvert and curved anticlockwise to end up on Grange Road—the time to get from point A to point B was cut in half. Nonetheless, since the town had existed long before motorised transportation, the streets were barely the width of a car and they curved round the side of the hill upon which St. Peter Port had developed, unrolling without any rhyme or reason, expanding the town upwards from the old port.

  Deborah crisscrossed through these streets to reach the Queen Margaret Apartments. But when she arrived and knocked on the door, it was to find China's flat frustratingly empty. She traced her steps back to the front of the building and considered what to do.

  China could be anywhere, she realised. She could be meeting with her advocate, reporting in to the police station, taking some exercise, or wandering the streets. Her brother was probably with her, though, so Deborah decided to see if she could find them. She would walk in the general direction of the police station. She'd descend towards the High Street and then follow it back along the route that would ultimately take her back up to the hotel.

  Across the way from the Queen Margaret Apartments, stairs carved a path down the hill towards the harbour. Deborah made for these and dipped between tall walls and stone buildings, finally emerging into one of the older parts of the town, where a once-grand building of reddish stone stretched along one side of the street and the other side featured a series of arched entries into shops selling flowers, gifts, and fruit.