A Place of Hiding (Inspector Lynley, #12)(18)

“Ghastly,” Deborah murmured.

“Bad luck,” Simon said.

A little silence fell among them then, broken only by the sounds of the rain. It splattered on the flagstones outside the kitchen door and slid in ceaseless rivulets down the window. There were three of them—and a hopeful dog—in the midnight kitchen. But they were not alone. The Question was there, too. It squatted among them like a palpable being, breathing noisome breath that could not be ignored. Neither Deborah nor her husband asked it. But as things turned out, neither needed to do so. Cherokee dipped his spoon into his bowl. He raised it to his mouth. But he lowered it slowly without tasting the soup. He stared into the bowl for a moment before he raised his head and looked from Deborah to her husband.

“Here’s what happened,” he said.

He was responsible for everything, he told them. If it hadn’t been for him, China wouldn’t have gone to Guernsey in the first place. But he’d needed money, and when this deal came up to carry a package from California to the English Channel and to get paid for carrying it and to have the airline tickets provided...well, it seemed too good to be true. He asked China to go because there were two tickets and the deal was that a man and woman had to carry the package over together. He thought Why not? And why not ask Chine? She never went anywhere. She’d never even been out of California.

He had to talk her into it. It took a few days, but she’d just broken up with Matt—did Debs remember China’s boyfriend? the filmmaker she’d been with forever?—and she decided she wanted a break. So she called him and told him she wanted to go, and he made the arrangements. They carried the package from Tustin, south of LA, where it had originated, to a place on Guernsey outside of St. Peter Port.

“What was in the package?” Deborah pictured a drug bust at the air port, complete with dogs snarling and China and Cherokee backed into the wall like foxes seeking shelter.

Nothing illegal, Cherokee told her. He was hired to carry architectural plans from Tustin to the English Channel island. And the lawyer who had hired him—

“A lawyer?” Simon queried. “Not the architect?”

No. Cherokee was hired by a lawyer, and that had sounded fishy to China, fishier even than being paid to carry a package to Europe as well as being given the airline tickets to do so. So China insisted that they open the package before they agreed to take it anywhere, which was what they did.

It was a good-size mailing tube, and if China had feared it was packed with drugs, weapons, explosives, or any other contraband that would have put them both in handcuffs, her fears were allayed when they unsealed it. Inside were the architectural plans that were supposed to be there, which set her mind at rest. His mind, too, Cherokee had to admit. For China’s worries had unnerved him.

So they went to Guernsey to deliver the plans, with the intention of heading from there to Paris and onwards to Rome. It wouldn’t be a long trip: Neither of them could afford that, so they were doing only two days in each place. But on Guernsey, their plans changed unexpectedly. They’d thought they’d make a quick exchange at the airport: paperwork for the promised payment and—

“What sort of payment are we talking about?” Simon asked. Five thousand dollars, Cherokee told them. At their expressions of incredulity, he hastened to say that yeah, it was outrageous as all get-out and the amount of the payment was the number-one reason China had insisted they open the package because who the heck would give someone two free tickets to Europe and five thousand dollars just to carry something over from LA? But it turned out that doing outrageous stuff with money was what this whole deal was about in the first place. The man who wanted the architectural plans was richer than Howard Hughes, and he evidently did outrageous stuff with his money all the time. However, they weren’t met at the airport by someone with a cheque or a briefcase filled with cash or anything remotely resembling what they’d expected. Instead, they were met by a near-mute man called Kevin Something who hustled them to a van and drove them to a very cool spread a few miles away.

China was freaked out by this turn of events, which admittedly was disconcerting. There they were, enclosed in a car with a total stranger who didn’t say fifteen words to them. It was very weird. But at the same time, it was like an adventure, and for his part Cherokee was intrigued. Their destination turned out to be an awesome manor house sitting on God only knew how much acreage. The place was ancient—and completely restored, Debs—and China shifted into photographic mode the moment she laid eyes on it. Here was a whole Architectural Digest spread just waiting for her to shoot it.

China decided then and there that she wanted to do the photographs. Not only of the house but of the estate itself, which contained everything from duck ponds to prehistoric whatevers. China knew she’d been presented with an opportunity she might never get again, and although it meant taking the photographs on spec, she was willing to invest the time, the money, and the effort because the place was that sensational. This was fine by Cherokee. She thought it would take only a couple of days and he’d have time to explore the island. The only question was whether the owner would go for the idea. Some people don’t like their homes showing up in magazines. Too much inspiration for your B-and-E types.

Their host turned out to be a man called Guy—rhymed with key— Brouard, who was happy enough with the idea. He urged Cherokee and China to spend the night or perhaps a few days or whatever it took to get the photographs right. My sister and I live alone here, he told them, and visitors are always a diversion for us.