A Place of Hiding (Inspector Lynley, #12)(160)

He said quietly, “There’s money missing from Brouard’s account, Inspector. A great deal of money. Did you know that?”

Le Gallez’s expression altered. St. James seized the advantage.

“Ruth Brouard told me about it. It was evidently paid out over time.”

Le Gallez considered this. He said with less conviction than before,

“River could have—”

St. James interrupted. “If you want to think River was involved in that—in a blackmail scheme of some sort, let’s say—why would he kill the goose when the golden eggs are still coming? But if that’s the case, if River was indeed blackmailing Brouard, why would Brouard accept him—of all people—as a courier selected by his lawyer in America? He would have had to be told the name by Kiefer prior to River’s coming, else how would he have known who to fetch from the airport? When he was told and if the name was River, he would have put a stop to that at once.”

“He didn’t know in time,” Le Gallez countered, but he was beginning to sound far less sure of himself.

St. James pressed forward. “Inspector, Ruth Brouard didn’t know her brother was running through his fortune. My guess is that no one else knew, either. At least not at first. So doesn’t it make sense that someone may have killed him to stop him from depleting his funds? If it doesn’t suggest that, doesn’t it suggest he was involved in something illegal? And doesn’t that suggest a motive for murder far more ironclad than anything either of the Rivers have?”

Le Gallez was silent. St. James could see by his expression that the DCI was abashed by being presented with a piece of information about his murder victim that he himself should have had. He looked to the china board where the pictures of the bottle that had contained the opiate declared that his killer had been found. He looked back to St. James and seemed to ponder the challenge with which the other man had presented him. He finally said, “Right. Come with me, then. We’ve got phone calls to make.”

“To?” St. James asked.

“The only people who can make a banker talk.”

China was an excellent navigator. Where there were signs, she called out the names of the streets they were passing as they rolled north along the esplanade, and she got them without a wrong turn to Vale Road at the northern end of Belle Greve Bay.

They passed through a little neighbourhood with its grocer, hairdresser, and car repair shop, and at a traffic light—one of the few on the island—they coursed to the northwest. In the way Guernsey had of continually changing its landscape, they found themselves in an agricultural area less than a half mile along the road. This was defined by a few acres of greenhouses that winked in the morning sunlight and, beyond them, a stretch of fields. Perhaps a quarter of a mile into this area, Deborah recognised it and wondered that she hadn’t done so before. She glanced warily at her friend in the passenger seat, and she saw from China’s expression that she, too, realised where they were.

China said abruptly, “Pull in here, okay?” when they came to the turn for the States Prison. When Deborah braked in a lay-by some twenty yards along the lane, China climbed out of the car and walked over to a tangle of hawthorn and blackthorn that served as a hedge. Above this and in the distance rose two of the buildings that comprised the prison. With its pale yellow exterior and red-tiled roof, it might have been a school or a hospital. Only its windows—iron-barred—declared it for what it was.

Deborah joined her friend. China looked closed off, and Deborah was hesitant to break into her thoughts. So she stood next to her in silence and felt the frustration of her own inadequacy, especially when she compared it to the tender kinship she’d received from this woman when she herself had been in need.

China was the one to speak. “He couldn’t handle it. No way in hell.”

“I don’t see how anyone could.” Deborah thought of prison doors closing and keys being turned and the stretch of time: days which melted into weeks and months until years had passed.

“It’d be worse for Cherokee,” China said. “It’s always worse for men.”

Deborah glanced at her. She recalled China’s description—years ago—

of the single time she’d visited her father in prison. “His eyes,” she’d said.

“He couldn’t keep them still. We were sitting at this table, and when someone passed too close behind him, he flew around like he expected to be knifed. Or worse.”

He’d been in for five years that particular time. The California prison system, China told her, kept its arms permanently open for her father. Now China said, “He doesn’t know what to expect inside.”

“It’s not going to come to that,” Deborah told her. “We’ll sort this out soon enough and you can both go home.”

“You know, I used to gripe about being so poor. Rubbing two pennies together in the hope they would make a quarter someday. I hated that. Working in high school just to buy a pair of shoes at a place like Kmart. Waiting on tables for years to get enough money to go to Brooks. And then that apartment in Santa Barbara. That dump we had, Debs. God, I hated all of it. But I’d take it all back this second just to be out of here. He drives me crazy most of the time. I used to dread picking up the telephone when it rang because I was always afraid it’d be Cherokee and he’d be saying, ‘Chine! Wait’ll you hear the plan,’ and I’d know it was going to mean something shady or something he wanted me to help finance. But right now...at this very instant...I’d gi ve just about anything to have my brother standing next to me and to have both of us standing on the pier in Santa Barbara with him telling me about his latest scam.”