chapter seven

 

Guernsey 2011

 

After phoning their advocate and arranging to meet him the following morning, Fiona called a few distant relatives scattered across the globe, becoming more upset in the process, and explaining Nigel’s death as a burglary gone wrong. She then rang Sam Wright. Shocked by Nigel’s death, he offered his condolences. Telling him she didn’t think he’d killed himself; she mentioned a possible connection to the painting.

‘It does appear to be one hell of a coincidence. But without the provenance, it’s hard to see the link.’ She heard a deep sigh. ‘Do you feel up to doing some research? Tracing the legal owner? It’ll be needed before the painting can be properly verified, anyway.’

‘I think so. Getting my teeth stuck into something might even help. Take my mind off…what’s happened. In the meantime, could you hold onto the painting, please? It’s obviously not safe to bring it back here.’

‘Sure, no problem. But if someone is looking for it, isn’t there a chance they’ll try again? Perhaps break into your house?’

‘Oh my God! You’re right; I hadn’t thought of that.’ Fiona’s hand shook as she gripped the phone. Assuming Nigel hadn’t told the burglar where the painting was, then there was every chance they’d search the house.

‘Sorry, didn’t mean to frighten you.’ Sam sounded contrite.

‘It’s okay, better to be forewarned. I’ll sort something out, don’t worry. There are friends I can go to.’

‘That’s good. Stay in touch, Fiona, and do let me know if there’s anything I can do to help. Take care.’

They signed off and Fiona, feeling dizzy, immediately grabbed a glass of water. It looked as if she should accept Louisa’s offer after all.

 

Later that afternoon she received a call from Inspector Woods.

‘Thought I’d better let you know the results of the autopsy, Miss Torode.’ He broke off to cough. ‘We found no signs of violence and there’s no trace of a third party’s DNA on the body. We’re waiting on the toxicology results, but if there’s nothing suspicious there, we’ll treat the death as a suspected suicide, and advise the coroner accordingly. An inquest was opened and adjourned until the results are through, usually within about three weeks. I’m sorry, I know it’s not what you wanted to hear.’

Although not entirely surprised by the news, Fiona experienced a hot surge of anger on her brother’s behalf. She took a deep breath before replying.

‘I think you’re wrong, Inspector, but I understand your reasoning. Will – will I be able to organise a funeral now?’

‘No, I’m afraid not. We need the toxicology results before a death certificate can be issued prior to burial. You can make initial arrangements with a funeral director now, however. But the good news is the shop’s no longer a crime scene, so you can reopen tomorrow if you wish.’ Another bout of coughing. Definitely a smoker, she decided, thanking him for the call.

Fiona experienced mixed feelings about the delayed funeral. Part of her wanted it out of the way as quickly as possible, and another part dreaded all that it involved. The memory of her parents’ funeral came unbidden into her mind, and the pain made her catch her breath. Only the feelings of anger stopped her spiralling down into grief. She wouldn’t give in. Had to prove the police were wrong and she was right. Heeding the inspector’s words, she phoned the firm who’d arranged the funeral for her parents. They said they’d take care of a notice in the paper and she was to contact them when the death certificate was issued when further details could be finalised.

Scared of the potential threat of being burgled, Fiona had phoned Louisa earlier, admitting she’d changed her mind about staying with her. She was now glad she’d done this, as the reality of what lay ahead hit home. Packing a case, Fiona wondered about the business. There was no way she could run it herself; facing customers or worse, time-wasters with a prurient interest in Nigel’s death. No, not an option. But neither was leaving the shop closed longer than was decent after a death. Closing for a few days should be enough, but then what?

A vague memory stirred. There was a guy who’d worked for old Mr Domaille when he became too frail. Now, what was his name? Ken Turner, that was it. Nigel mentioned he was an experienced antiques dealer, now retired. Perhaps she could coax him out of retirement, for a while anyway. Grabbing the phone book she searched for his number. Luckily there was only one K. Turner registered, and he lived in St Peter Port, which might help persuade him to return to work. No having to cope with the awful traffic jams. He answered the phone on the first ring, and Fiona explained about Nigel and the need for someone with experience to run the shop for a few weeks.

‘I’m so sorry about your brother, Miss Torode. I met him briefly when he took over the business. Lovely man.’ He sighed. ‘And of course, you wouldn’t want to be in the shop for a while. Totally understandable. As it happens, time does hang heavy on my hands these days, and I was only telling the wife the other day I needed something to get me out of the house. She seemed to agree, probably glad to see the back of me.’ He chuckled, before seeming to realise levity wasn’t appropriate. ‘Not that I would have wished anything to happen to your brother, you understand. But it could be most opportune.’

Fiona sighed inwardly. If he did take the offer, she wouldn’t want to spend too much time in conversation with him. She suggested they met at the shop the following afternoon and he agreed on three o’clock. Relieved to have ticked another item off the list, she finished her packing and drove off to St Martins and Louisa’s house at Icart.

 

Driving through the gate, Fiona felt the unworthy pang of envy she experienced each time she visited. It was the setting. Perched on the cliff overlooking Saints Bay and surrounded by lawns and a mature garden bursting with colourful spring flowers, it was idyllic. From the front, it appeared an ordinary, white painted single storey house, but looks were deceiving. The inside had been brought into the twenty-first century by their architect friend, Andy, and was full of light and open spaces. A haven of calm, which is what you’d expect from a home owned by a yoga master and physiotherapist, Fiona acknowledged, feeling her shoulders ease as she rang the bell.

Louisa welcomed her with a hug, saying, ‘Paul’s working late, as usual.’ She searched Fiona’s face and said, ‘You look as if you need a drink. Come on through; we can sit outside, it’s warm enough.’ Louisa led the way through the living area, full of comfy sofas and chairs, and out onto the terrace. The early evening sun was sliding downwards, casting shadows over the garden. Fiona took a deep breath of the pure sea air. She’d made the right decision to come.

Moments later they were cradling glasses of chilled white wine and gazing over the bay to the far cliffs of Jerbourg.

‘How’s your day been? Any news?’

Fiona frowned as the day’s events returned full tilt. She told Louisa about the call from the inspector and how angry she felt.

‘I’m not surprised. So would I be.’ Louisa squeezed her shoulder. ‘But is there anything to prove the police are wrong?’

‘That’s the problem; there isn’t. I haven’t told them about the painting and I’m not sure if I should. It provides a reason for a break-in, but there’s still no proof. I’m not keen to publicise the discovery yet. We need to trace the owner first.’ She rubbed her forehead. ‘What do you think?’

‘I don’t know. Tricky. Let’s run it past Paul later, three heads being better than two.’ She sipped her wine, looking thoughtful. ‘On the phone you said you were afraid of being burgled. Is the house secure?’

‘There’s a burglar alarm, but that didn’t stop the guy getting in the shop, did it? I might have to consider other security measures, but am hoping he won’t try again just yet. Let the dust settle after…what happened.’ She swallowed her wine, determined not to cry. A sudden chill in the air made her shiver.

Louisa must have noticed. ‘Let’s go in, no point in being cold.’ Collecting their glasses they headed into the sun lounge, settling into squashy armchairs which swallowed them in feathered comfort. From here the view was direct south, towards Jersey, now invisible against the darkening horizon.

‘You two were incredibly lucky to buy this place. It must be one of the best spots on the island. Not that I’m jealous.’

‘We were lucky, thanks to Dad knowing the owner. In a way it reminds me of La Folie, having similar views and such a calm ambience. But smaller and without the Gothic towers, thank goodness!’

Fiona managed a smile. La Folie wasn’t exactly beautiful from the front, a granite mansion built as a Victorian gentleman’s ‘folly’. But now gorgeous inside and with fab gardens, it was popular with those looking for a retreat from the world. Something Fiona would love at the moment.

‘Hi, girls! Sorry to be late.’ Paul strode in and pulled Fiona to her feet, enfolding her in his arms. She loved his hugs; it was like being wrapped in the softest, air-spun blanket, offering warmth and comfort. Clinging to him she felt safe for the first time since she found her brother.

‘I can’t begin to say how sorry I am about Nigel. It’s hard to believe he’s gone. How are you coping?’ He kept one hand around her waist, brushing her hair back from her face with the other.

‘Not great. There’s the police and…and everything.’ Sitting together on a sofa, she relayed the events of the day while Louisa disappeared to the kitchen. Paul’s face creased in concern as he held her hands.

‘You’re right about Nigel. No way would he have killed himself; he knew the pain it would cause you. And when I saw him last week he was full of life, telling me about an important discovery which he couldn’t share at the time, but would make headlines.’ His mesmerising blue eyes seemed to emit a kind of energy, and Fiona experienced a flow of warmth spreading through her. Healing. Just as Nigel had described to her after his sessions with him at La Folie. Paul had offered to help with managing his debilitating symptoms, and her brother was convinced the treatments were working. Another reason why he wouldn’t have given up on himself.

‘But what can I do to change the police’s mind? We’re only speculating what happened–’

‘Dinner’s ready, you two,’ Louisa called from the dining room.

‘We’ll talk about it later. I’m sure there’s something we could do.’ Paul hooked his arm with hers, and they joined Louisa at the table, set with a mixed salad, a dish of potatoes, herby scented chicken pieces and a bottle of wine.

Fiona sniffed the air. ‘Smells delicious, Louisa. I’m absolutely starving.’

An air of awkwardness descended on them as they ate as if no-one knew a safe topic of conversation. Fiona hadn’t exaggerated when she said she was starving – she’d barely eaten since Sunday lunchtime, and her stomach was rumbling at the delicious smell of cooked chicken. It wasn’t long before all plates were clear and a collective sigh went around the table.

Paul smiled at his wife. ‘That was great, darling. Should I warn Chef he has competition?’

‘I hardly think so. But thanks for the compliment. I do wheedle a few tips out of him, though,’ Louisa said, standing to collect the plates. ‘Anyone for strawberries? Served with crème fraiche as a healthy option.’

‘Lovely. Let me help.’ Fiona grabbed a couple of dishes and walked with Louisa to the kitchen.

‘I’ll load up the dishwasher later.’ Louisa piled everything by the sink and turned to face Fiona. ‘I’ve thought about what you can do to challenge the likely verdict on Nigel’s death. I’ll explain after we’ve had dessert.

Settled on the sofas later, Louisa leaned towards Fiona, saying, ‘I think it might be worth talking to an ex-policeman I know, John Ferguson, who’s now a private investigator. He was hired by my father and helped us uncover the truth behind my mother’s death and…other things. He’s totally discreet, and you could tell him what you suspect has happened.’

Fiona sipped her coffee, letting the idea take hold. She could certainly do with someone onside.

‘That’s a great idea, darling. I liked John, and he’d be perfect. What do you say, Fiona?’ Paul smiled at her.

‘Well, if you both think it’s a good idea, then I’m all for talking to him. What have I got to lose?’

‘I can call him for you. Pave the way.’ Louisa patted her hand, encouragingly.

Buoyed by the thought of action, she agreed and waited while Louisa made the call. After chatting to him for a few minutes, she passed her the phone.

‘Hello, Mr Ferguson, I’m Fiona Torode.’ She gave him the basic facts, saying there were sensitive issues involved, unknown to the police, and would be glad of his advice.

‘If I can help in any way, I’d be glad to. Shall we meet and you can tell me more?’

They arranged a time for the following day, between her appointments with the advocate and Ken Turner. She released a deep sigh at the thought of what promised to be a full-on day.