chapter four

 

Guernsey 2011

 

The shop was filled with police and paramedics, and all Fiona could do was sit huddled in a proffered blanket and watch as if in a trance. Even though she could see his body from where she sat in the main shop her mind wanted to deny it. Surely it was impossible? Someone thrust a glass of water in her hand, and she took a gulp, hoping the image would somehow disappear, a figment of her imagination. But it remained, burned forever in her brain. It was clear nothing could be done for Nigel, his body had felt cold to her touch. Through blurred eyes, she watched as photos were taken and his body carefully removed from the hook and placed on a stretcher, then enshrouded in a black body bag. The memory of his purple lips and bulging eyes made Fiona feel sick, and she rushed to the toilet.

‘You all right, Miss Torode?’ the inspector called out.

After bringing up her lunch, she managed to croak, ‘Yes’, before rinsing her mouth and splashing water on her face. Taking a deep breath, Fiona returned to find only the policemen remained. Nigel had been taken to the ambulance. With his body gone, she wondered again if she’d dreamt it. She would wake up, and Nigel would be there, in his battered chair, moaning about the paperwork. But the sight of the policemen in the office told her a different story. Her knees buckled and the inspector took her arm and led her gently back to the stuffed armchair at the back of the shop.

‘Are you sure you don’t want the doctor to check you out? You’ve had a nasty shock–’

‘No, thank you. I’m just…’ Tears slid down her cheeks as Nigel’s face floated into her mind. Oh, God! Nigel, what happened?

‘I don’t want to distress you further, Miss Torode, but can you think of a reason why your brother might have taken his own life?’

Fiona’s head shot up.

‘Nigel didn’t kill himself! He would never have done that to me and had no reason to. He had…everything to live for.’

The inspector coughed.

‘We haven’t found any signs of a break-in or a struggle, and at first sight, this does look more like a suicide, I’m afraid. Naturally, we’ll be looking at all avenues, but as nothing appears to have been stolen,’ his gaze swept across the room full of antiques and art, ‘there’s no apparent motive for, for murder.’ His voice dropped to little more than a whisper, for her ears only.

Fiona remembered Nigel’s anguish when he told her about his illness almost two years ago, but at no time had he said he didn’t want to live.

‘Please, check to see if anyone else was here. I know it doesn’t look like it, but–’

The inspector sat in an adjoining chair and took her hand.

‘We will. I’ll get forensics round, and we’ll keep an open mind until after the autopsy and what, if anything, turns up here.’ He turned to ask a sergeant to call the forensics team. ‘I’m afraid we’ll have to search your brother’s stuff at the house, to make sure we don’t miss anything.’

Fiona nodded, too numb to argue. She absolutely knew Nigel hadn’t killed himself, but what else could have happened? It couldn’t be real; it was all a nightmare…

 

Fiona woke the next day and for a wonderful moment didn’t remember what had happened, looking forward to telling Nigel about her meeting with Sam. Then it hit her like a physical blow, and she gasped. Her wonderful brother, her rock, was dead. And it looked as if by his own hand. But no! Couldn’t be. Was he murdered? Oh, God. She buried her head in her hands as wild thoughts filled her mind. Whatever had happened, she could no longer talk to him, hold him. For the first time in her life, she felt completely alone. They had always been there for each other, connected as only twins are. When their parents died in a pile-up on the M1 years before, Nigel had supported her as she grieved.

Pulling herself up in bed, Fiona hugged her knees to her chest, allowing the tears to fall unchecked.

‘Nigel, how will I manage without you? And what happened? I wish you could tell me!’ She rocked back and forth, Nigel’s distorted face filling her mind. The harsh ring of the telephone cut into her grief, and she had to grab a tissue before answering it.

‘Miss Torode? Inspector Woods. Sorry to trouble you, but I wondered if forensics could come round this morning to check your brother’s room? We’ll be as quick as we can.’

She agreed to let them come in an hour and dragged herself into the bathroom for the hottest shower she could stand. Tears mingled with the stream of water as she washed her hair and body in a futile attempt to feel normal. Through the veil of numbness, she was somehow aware her life had changed. Part of her had died with Nigel, and she felt lost. She went through the motions of towelling her body, letting her hair dry into its natural curls.

Fiona pulled on black jeans and a T-shirt, and as she tugged a comb through her damp hair, she glanced at the mirror, taken aback by her pale face with black-shadowed eyes. For once she didn’t care what she looked like and shuffled downstairs to the silent kitchen. Normally Radio Guernsey would be blasting out from the stereo on the worktop, switched on by Nigel as he made their early morning coffee. Fiona’s stomach clenched as she pressed the on switch to be greeted by a cheery Jenny Kendal-Tobias announcing the next song. She switched the radio off, not able to cope with such normality. Even making her own coffee proved challenging; taking over her brother’s task of setting up the espresso machine felt like a betrayal. As she sipped the coffee, her stomach rumbled, reminding her she hadn’t eaten since lunchtime the previous day, and that hadn’t stayed down. Fiona popped a couple of slices of bread in the toaster and set out butter and marmalade. It was like chewing cardboard, and she found it hard to swallow, but persisted, knowing she would need sustenance for the long, painful day ahead.

Before the police arrived, Fiona rang her friend, Louisa. Through her tears, she managed to tell her about Nigel.

‘Oh my God! That’s awful! I can’t believe it. Why on earth didn’t you phone us last night? You shouldn’t be on your own. Look, I’m coming round now. I’ll tell Paul. Stay strong.’ Louisa’s voice broke as she said goodbye and Fiona was left sobbing. Telling her friend had brought it home to her. It was real. Nigel was dead.

 

Louisa arrived moments before the police. Fiona fell into her arms, desperate for the feel of a loving embrace.

‘Oh, Louisa, am I glad to see you. I should have phoned last night, but I was…numb…the shock…crawled into bed…’

‘I understand, but I’m here now.’ Louisa hugged her tight and Fiona saw the tears in her friend’s eyes. She wasn’t the only one to mourn her brother. The sound of a car pulling into the drive made them pull apart, and Fiona ushered in two policemen and took them upstairs to Nigel’s room. In the kitchen, Louisa was making two mugs of tea, and she sat down at the breakfast bar.

‘Do you feel up to telling me more about what happened?’ Louisa gripped her hand before pushing across a steaming mug. Fiona saw the mix of pain and sympathy in Louisa’s blue eyes and took a deep breath. By the time she’d told her friend everything, they were both crying.

‘So the police are saying it’s suicide? And surely you don’t agree with them, do you?’

‘No, definitely not. Oh, I know Nigel had low moments since his diagnosis, but at no time did he so much as hint he…he didn’t want to carry on. I think they’re expecting to find a note or something.’ Fiona raised her eyes to the ceiling from where could be heard the sound of opening drawers and cupboards. ‘But they’re not confirming anything yet, at least not until the…autopsy, later today.’ She brushed away the last tears, determined to stop giving into her emotions. She had to be strong; there would be so much to arrange.

Louisa frowned, pushing her hair behind her ear.

‘I don’t believe Nigel would have taken his life either. He was a fighter and was in his element with the business. But I must admit it’s odd that nothing seems to have been taken. Surely Nigel didn’t have any enemies?’

‘Not that I can think of.’ Fiona hesitated, wondering whether or not to share what had just occurred to her. Oh, sod it! She had to tell someone. Clearing her throat, she went on, ‘There’s a chance an intruder was looking for something which was stored there, but we’d moved it, and Nigel was unlucky enough to disturb him.’

Louisa’s eyes widened.

‘No! What was it? Something valuable? You’ve never said anything–’

Fiona twisted a used tissue to pieces before facing her friend’s shocked and somewhat hurt expression.

‘It’s virtually certain to be confirmed as a painting by Renoir. And worth millions.’