A Place of Hiding (Inspector Lynley, #12)(78)

And was the hood up or down?

It was up, Valerie Duffy told him. But that hadn’t prevented her from seeing the face of the person who wore it, because she passed quite near to the shaft of light that came from the window and that made it easy to see her.

“It was the American lady,” Valerie said. “I’m sure of that. I got a glimpse of her hair.”

“No one else relatively the same size?” St. James asked. No one else, Valerie asserted.

“No one else blonde?” Deborah put in.

Valerie assured them she’d seen China River. And this was no surprise, she told them. China River had been thick enough with Mr. Brouard during her stay at Le Reposoir. Mr. Brouard was always charming to the ladies, of course, but even by his standards things had developed rapidly with the American woman.

St. James saw his wife frown at this, and he himself felt wary about taking Valerie Duffy at her word. There was something about the ease of her answers that was discomfiting. There was something more that couldn’t be ignored in the manner in which she avoided looking at her husband. Deborah was the one to say politely, “Did you happen to see any of this, Mr. Duffy?”

Kevin Duffy was standing in silence in the shadows. He leaned against one of the bookshelves with his tie loosened and his swarthy face unreadable. “Val’s generally up before I am in the morning,” he said shortly. By which, St. James supposed, they were to take it that he had seen nothing at all. Nonetheless, he said, “And on this particular day?”

“Same as always,” Kevin Duffy replied.

Deborah said, “Thick enough in what way?” to Valerie, and when the other woman looked at her blankly, she clarified. “You said China River and Mr. Brouard were thick enough? I was wondering in what way.”

“They went out and about. She quite liked the estate and wanted to photograph it. He wanted to watch. And then there was the rest of the island. He was keen to show her round.”

“What about her brother?” Deborah asked. “Didn’t he go with them?”

“Sometimes he did, other times he just hung about here. Or went off on his own. She seemed to like it that way, the American lady. It made things just the two of them. Her and Mr. Brouard. But that’s no real surprise. He was good with women.”

“Mr. Brouard was already involved, though, wasn’t he?” Deborah asked. “With Mrs. Abbott?”

“He was always involved somewhere and not always for long. Mrs. Abbott was just his latest. Then the American came along.”

“Anyone else?” St. James asked.

For some reason the very air seemed to stiffen momentarily at this question. Kevin Duffy shifted on his feet, and Valerie smoothed her skirt in a deliberate movement. She said, “No one as far as I know.”

St. James and Deborah exchanged a look. St. James saw on his wife’s face the recognition of another direction their enquiry needed to take, and he didn’t disagree. However, the fact that here before them was yet another witness to China River’s following Guy Brouard towards the Channel—and a far better witness than Ruth Brouard, considering the inconsequential distance between the cottage and the path to the bay—was something that couldn’t be ignored.

He said to Valerie, “Have you told DCI Le Gallez about any of this?”

“I’ve told him all of it.”

St. James wondered what, if anything, it meant that neither Le Gallez nor China River’s advocate had passed the information on to him. He said,

“We’ve come across something that you might be able to identify,” and he removed from his pocket the handkerchief in which he’d wrapped the ring that Deborah had plucked from among the boulders. He unfolded the linen and offered the ring first to Valerie and then to Kevin Duffy. Neither reacted to the sight of it.

“It looks like something from the war, that,” Kevin Duffy said. “From the Occupation. Some sort of Nazi ring, I expect. Skull and crossed bones. I’ve seen ’em before.”

“Rings like this one?” Deborah asked.

“I meant the skull and crossed bones,” Kevin replied. He shot his wife a look. “D’you know anyone who has one, Val?”

She shook her head as she studied the ring where it lay in St. James’s palm. “It’s a memento, isn’t it,” she said to her husband, and then to St. James or Deborah, “There’s ever so much of that sort of thing round the island. It could’ve come from anywhere.”

“Such as?” St. James asked.

“Military antiques shop, for one,” Valerie said. “Someone’s private collection, perhaps.”

“Or some yob’s hand,” Kevin Duffy pointed out. “The skull and crossed bones? Just the bit a National Front yobbo might like to show off to his mates. Make him feel the real man, you know. But it’s a bit too big and when he’s not aware, it falls off.”

“Anywhere else it might have come from?” St. James asked. The Duffys considered this. Another look passed between them. Valerie was the one to say slowly and as if with some thought, “No place at all that I can think of.”

Frank Ouseley felt an asthma attack coming on the moment he swung his car into Fort Road. This was no great distance from Le Reposoir, and as he’d actually been exposed to nothing that might have bothered his bronchial tubes on the route, he had to conclude he was reacting in advance to the conversation he was about to have. This wasn’t even a necessary dialogue. How Guy Brouard had intended his money to be distributed in the event of his death wasn’t Frank’s responsibility, as Guy had never sought his advice in the matter. So he didn’t actually have to be the bearer of bad tidings to anyone since in a few days the whole of the will would undoubtedly become public knowledge, island gossip being island gossip. But he still felt a loyalty that had its roots in his years as a teacher. He wasn’t enthusiastic about doing what needed to be done, however, which was what his tightening chest was telling him. When he pulled up to the house on Fort Road, he took his inhaler from the glove compartment and used it. He waited for a moment till the tightness eased and during this moment he saw that on the middle of the green across the street from where he sat, a tall thin man and two small boys were kicking a football round the grass. Not one of them was very good at it.