Chapter nineteen

Guernsey 2011

F

rustrated, Fiona tapped the steering wheel. Why had everyone chosen this fine Friday morning to come into Town and park on the Crown Pier? She had circled the parking area twice and was about to give up and head to the Albert Pier when a car pulled out of a space in front of her, and she slipped in, breathing a sigh of relief. Quickly setting the parking clock, she locked the car and jogged down to the pedestrian crossing.

She hated being late for appointments and had arranged to meet John in his office at ten, and it was now five past. He’d sounded excited when he phoned the previous evening, and Fiona was anxious to hear his news. The lights changed, and she shot across the road and up the Crown steps at a more sedate pace in honour of their steepness. Sidestepping shoppers, she managed to arrive within another two minutes, hot and out of breath.

‘Sorry, John. Car park chaos.’ She gasped as he held the door open for her.

‘No problem. I’m not going anywhere. Glass of water?’

She nodded, and he filled a glass at the tiny sink.

Fiona took a long gulp and saw him grinning at her.

‘Okay, out with it. What’s too important to tell me on the phone?’

‘A couple of things. First off, I’ve tracked down Teresa’s family home to an address near Sudbury and believe it or not, there’s a Mrs T Bichard still registered on the electoral roll.’ His eyes gleamed with excitement.

‘You’re joking! Leo’s widow is still alive? Wow! But she must be ancient, surely?’ She grinned. ‘What incredible news.’

‘She’s about ninety-four. Remember she was much younger than Leo and, according to the records, married him when she was twenty-one in 1938. But I presume she’s quite frail, and the electoral record shows a Mrs Judith Collins at the same address. And Leo’s daughter was called Judith, so it’s possible it’s her. Mind you, she’d be in her seventies. And if it is her, then she married, but there’s no Mr Collins registered. Worth waiting to hear?’ John leaned back in his chair, a satisfied smile spread across his face.

‘You bet! But you said there were two things to tell me.’ Fiona’s head buzzed with excitement. Fancy finding two generations of the family in one go.

‘The other news concerns the mysterious son of the Domailles called Duncan. My pal Ron Woods did a bit of digging for me and found out that young Duncan was a bit of a bad lad as a teenager, getting into trouble with the law on occasion, resulting in a couple of short stays in prison. Nothing major, but he left the island abruptly in the early 80s and disappeared off the radar. But then,’ John added, his smile even broader, ‘he popped up again a few weeks ago, and is still on the island.’

‘Oh! So, he could be Nigel’s killer. Do you have a description of him?’ Fiona’s stomach clenched at the thought of this man being free to wander around. And possibly try again to steal the painting.

‘Better than that, Ron emailed me a photo. It’s an old one, but it’s something to go on.’ He pushed a sheet of paper over to her.

She stared at the mugshot, presumably taken when Duncan was arrested as a young man. Tall, heavy set, with long hair framing a scowling face. A thug. Fiona shuddered. What had Nigel said? A big man? Well, this man was big back then so…

‘Not someone you’ve seen, I suppose?’

‘No, not to my knowledge. Would Inspector Woods be able to get an up-to-date photo?’

‘I can ask, but I’m planning to revisit Mrs Domaille and will ask her for a description of him. And I’d like to know where he’s been and what he’s been up to for the past thirty years.’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘Then I want to talk to Mrs Bichard or her daughter. Might have to go over.’ John hesitated. ‘It may be an idea for you to come with me. After all, you found the painting and know the story. Would you feel up to it?’

Fiona pursed her lips. It was tempting. To be the one to talk to the original owner of the Renoir, and to hear what had happened during and after the war at first hand. But there was Nigel and the funeral.

‘It depends. I haven’t been given the all clear for the funeral yet, so if it’s going to be a while, I could go. Your pal didn’t say anything about that, did he?’

John shook his head.

‘No, and from experience, I’d say it’ll be at least another week before toxicology comes back. And then you’d have to give it another week or so to make the arrangements.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Let me try and make contact with the family, and we’ll take it from there, shall we?’

Fiona straightened her shoulders. Nigel would want her to meet the Bichards. She could imagine him telling her not to worry about his funeral. It could wait. The funeral was for the comfort of the living, not the dead.

 

That night Fiona curled up in her bed, clutching Nigel’s photo, the room lit by moonlight streaming through the unclosed blinds. It had been a few days since he had last appeared and she was keen to share with him what John had discovered. She allowed herself to relax, focusing on Nigel’s face. Moments later, she sensed him in the room and opened her eyes to see his hazy figure just out of reach. She spoke quietly but quickly, telling him about John and what he’d found. ‘He’s committed to finding the man who killed you, just as I am, and we’re making such progress, darling. You said he was a big man. Is there anything else you can tell me?’ She held her breath.

Nigel’s form seemed to grow more solid, and she ached to touch him, to hold him.

‘Odd accent. Guernsey…something else…could be…Oz. Cropped hair. Lined face. Only a…glimpse. Big…hands.’ Nigel’s voice grew fainter. ‘Love you, Sis,’ he said before his body dissolved into the semi-darkness of the room.

Fiona murmured, ‘Love you, too,’ to the emptiness in front of her. A lump formed in her throat as, once more, she was alone.

***

John didn’t usually go into the office on a Saturday, but he wanted an excuse to get out of the house. His wife was holding one of her regular coffee mornings, and the noise level wasn’t conducive to serious phone conversations. He had managed to track down a phone number for the Sudbury household and now waited impatiently as the line rang out on loudspeaker in the quiet of the room.

‘Hello.’ The voice, female, sounded impatient.

‘Good morning. I’m looking for Mrs Bichard. Mrs Teresa Bichard. Do I have the right number?’

‘You do, that’s my mother. But who are you and what do you want? If you’re trying to sell something –’ The woman’s voice rose in anger.

‘No, not at all, in fact quite the opposite. Am I talking to Judith, Leo’s daughter?’

‘Yes. How do you know about my father?’ her voice faltered.

‘My name’s John Ferguson, and I’m a detective in Guernsey, employed to trace the owner of some property which is thought to have belonged to Mr Bichard,’ John said, keeping his voice calm while feeling a mounting excitement.

‘Oh!’ the woman gasped. John heard a voice in the background, and there ensued a muffled conversation for a few moments. ‘Sorry about that, my mother wants to speak to you. Just a minute.’ Silence while the phone was transferred and then an older, less confident voice came on the line.

‘Mr Ferguson? Teresa Bichard. I believe you said something about some property belonging to my late husband. Would that be a painting by Renoir, among other things?’

He heard a tremor of excitement in her voice and smiled.

‘Yes, a possibly valuable painting’s been found, and we’re checking the provenance. And there are more, less valuable pictures, too. It’s a rather sensitive and complicated issue and I, and the lady who found them, would like to visit you if that’s convenient. We can go into more detail at that point.’

‘Would you bring the paintings with you?’

‘No, we can bring a list of the less valuable pictures, and the suspected Renoir’s in safe-keeping in London. It’s being tested for authenticity, but we have a photocopy of it. Do you have a photograph of your missing picture for comparison?’

‘Yes, my husband was very thorough and kept records of all the family valuables.’ There was a pause, and another whispered conversation. ‘I’d be happy for you to come here as I’m not able to travel these days. Age, you know.’ A sigh. ‘I would like my grandson to be here as well, but he’s in London. Can we ring you back to arrange a suitable date?’

‘Of course.’ He left his mobile number and rang off. Then he jumped out of the chair, pacing around as he phoned Fiona with the news. She was equally happy at the news, saying she would advise Sam about the breakthrough. John left the office and headed straight to the Ship & Crown for a celebratory pint. He’d earned it.