chapter eight

 

Guernsey 2011

 

The sound of squabbling seagulls dragged Fiona out of a dream in which she was chased by a man dressed in the caricature style of a burglar – striped sweater and a black mask. Opening her eyes, she saw the sunlight pouring through the chinks in the blinds and heaved a sigh of relief. She was safe. Tucked up in Louisa’s guest room and with the sounds and smells of the clifftop filtering through the open window, a far cry from the dark tunnel in the dream.

Giving herself a shake, she crossed to the window and opened the blinds. The view over the garden and out to the sea was beguiling, the only sign of life the birds circling overhead as they kept beady eyes open for a morning snack. Resting her head against the window frame, she wished for the moment to be frozen in time, not wanting to face what needed to be faced. All the ugliness. A knock on the door destroyed that wish.

‘Fiona, are you awake? It’s eight o’clock, and we’re leaving for work soon.’

‘Yes, give me a minute.’ Pulling on a cotton kimono-style wrap, she opened the door to Louisa, dressed in her white therapist’s uniform. ‘I’d just woken up and was admiring the view. It was weird to be roused from sleep by the sound of gulls rather than heavy traffic.’

‘I bet. Want to join me for a quick coffee? I’ve already eaten.’ Louisa hugged her briefly before leading the way to the kitchen. ‘There’s the usual bread, cereals, yoghurts, etc. Just help yourself to anything you fancy,’ Louisa said, pouring two mugs of fresh coffee and sitting beside her. ‘Feeling any better?’

‘A bit, thanks. Though I’m not looking forward to today. I need to go back to the shop for the meeting with Mr Turner. It’s going to be difficult seeing where…’ She bit her lip.

Louisa squeezed her hand. ‘Yes it will, but I’m sure you’ll cope.’

‘I have to.’ She managed a weak smile before taking a sip of coffee. She would get through this day regardless. And, with luck, the detective might help her nail the bastard who killed Nigel.

 

By eleven o’clock Fiona was flagging, after an hour spent in intense discussion with the advocate. She and Nigel had made wills when they bought the business together, and she’d known she was the sole beneficiary of his estate, which included his half of the family home. It was still painful to go over the details with the advocate and to learn there would be a delay in applying for probate until the death certificate was issued. Fortunately, she was able to access the business bank account, the only bright spot in the meeting.

Needing to be revived, she left Le Marchant Street and headed down to a coffee shop in Le Pollet. The buzz of chatter and the occasional laugh added to her sense of unreality, of not being a part of the world around her. Fiona had experienced similar feelings when their parents died, wanting to hide from the world, not wanting to be pitied for her loss. An orphan at twenty-five. And now…now she had lost her only close family member, her other half, the person she’d loved best.

Desperate to lift her mood, she picked up the cup of coffee and spotted a copy of The Guernsey Evening Press left on a nearby table. A headline jumped out, ‘Local antiques dealer found dead’. Her hand shook, dropping the cup and spilling coffee over the table. A waitress rushed up.

‘Oh dear, let me clear this up for you. Are you okay? You’re a bit pale.’ She began mopping up the liquid, her glance sympathetic.

‘Sorry, I…I’ve just had a shock. Can I have another cup, please? I’ll pay…’

‘No, it’s okay. Back in a moment.’ The girl bustled off to the counter, and Fiona gripped her hands together to stop them shaking. Glancing at the paper, she was relieved to see there were few details and no mention of how Nigel had died. The phrase, ‘the police are investigating the circumstances around the sudden death’ gave little away.

Fiona pushed the paper away. She shouldn’t have been surprised the news had got out, but seeing it in print jolted her. No doubt the press would be after her for more details and a photo of Nigel, and her stomach clenched at the thought. As she drank her replacement coffee, she hoped she wouldn’t bump into anyone she knew while in town; she couldn’t face awkward questions if they’d seen the paper. Louisa had already contacted their close friends, for which she was grateful, but she knew she couldn’t put off speaking to people for much longer.

Her appointment with John was for twelve and Fiona left the café, keeping her head down as she made for his office above a shop a few doors away. A sign pointed her towards the first floor where she found a half-glazed door opening onto a tiny waiting area. Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to regain some semblance of calm as she took a seat opposite a closed door.

‘Miss Torode? John Ferguson, please come on through.’

In her head, Fiona had imagined someone like Detective Columbo, slightly scruffy and wearing old clothes, but the well-groomed man in his fifties holding out his hand was a world apart. She followed him into an office not much larger than the waiting area, filled with a polished wood desk and a couple of filing cabinets. A notepad, phone and computer adorned the desk. Ushering her into a chair, the detective sat down facing her.

She cleared her throat. ‘Thanks for seeing me so promptly, Mr Ferguson. I do appreciate it.’

His warm smile was reassuring.

‘Not at all. Let’s see if I can be of help. Perhaps you could start by telling me why you think your brother didn’t take his own life?’

Fiona explained about the recent find of the paintings, in particular, the suspected Renoir, and Nigel’s excitement. And that, being twins, they were extremely close, and he would be unlikely to do anything to give her pain.

Ferguson steepled his fingers, as if in prayer, as he digested what she told him.

‘I understand where you’re coming from. It does seem too much of a coincidence so soon after your discovery. The difficulty lies, from what you say, with the lack of any forensic evidence showing the presence of a third party. Whoever killed your brother was no amateur burglar. Which begs the question: how did they know about the painting?’ He lifted an eyebrow.

‘That’s what’s been bugging me, Mr Ferguson. Hardly anyone knew about the discovery. We didn’t even tell our friends. The only person I spoke to was Sam Wright, the art expert in London, and he’s the last person to go blabbing about something like this.’ Something struck her. ‘Are you saying you believe me? That Nigel was murdered?’ She leaned forward over the desk, her heart lifting at the prospect.

‘Please, call me John. Given what you’ve told me, I think your brother was unlucky enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. But there are still a lot of questions remaining unanswered. I take it you haven’t told the police about the paintings?’ She shook her head. ‘May I ask why not? It would provide a motive for the killing.’

Fiona bit her lip. ‘I know, but I felt it could leak out about the Renoir, and that would bring worldwide attention even before we know who the owner is. Not something I could deal with at the moment. And we need the provenance to be able to confirm absolutely that it’s genuine.’

‘Fair point. Although, if they knew, the police might look more closely at the bigger picture.’ John tapped his fingers on the desk, lost in thought. After a few minutes, he looked up and smiled. ‘How would you feel if I had a word with the chap in charge of the case? We worked together for years, and I trust him completely. I could drop a hint about something valuable being searched for, but it has to be kept secret at this stage, for various reasons, including your safety. Which is a big priority, in my book. We do need to look at the security on your house. Would you let me have a set of keys so I can take a recce?’

‘Sure. I’ve got a spare set with me.’ She handed them over.

‘Thanks. Right, if I were to drop a hint about a reason for burglary, it might lead to an open verdict at the inquest, which could be revisited when the killer’s arrested. What do you say?’

‘I can see the advantage in having the police onside, but do you think they’ll take our word for it? Inspector Woods seemed pretty convinced it was suicide.’ She liked the idea of an open verdict; it would help quash any suicide rumours.

‘In his shoes, I’d probably have thought the same. But he doesn’t know the whole story and if I can offer a reason for doubt, then…’ he spread his hands.

‘Okay, please talk to him for me. Assuming I can afford your fees,’ she said, flushing, ‘would you be happy to take on the case, John? You might end up treading on your old colleague’s toes, but I’d feel happier knowing there was someone working undercover, someone I could trust.’ She shifted on the hard seat of the chair, overcome by the ramifications of what lay ahead. Police. Detectives. Prying into people’s lives. Including her own and Nigel’s.

‘Yes, I would. And my fees are reasonable, as I take on cases to keep the old grey cells working more than to make pots of money.’ He smiled, and she found herself returning the smile. ‘The police will only be interested in the immediate past, and it looks to me as if there’s a long-buried story here. The mysterious owner of a valuable painting for a start. And someone out there knows who it is. Or was.’ He made some notes. ‘Louisa said you’re an art historian. Could be useful. Can you gain access to lists of missing or stolen paintings?’

‘Normally no, but as an associate of Sam’s I could gain clearance. Interpol holds a database of stolen art, and there’s the Art Loss Register in London which focuses on art stolen or missing after WWII.’ It was if a light had been switched on. ‘Hey, that could be the answer! Perhaps it’s connected to the German Occupation. The Nazi’s commandeered loads of artworks wherever they went, particularly from the Jews.’ She felt her face flush with excitement.

‘Not being a local, I’m afraid to admit I know little of the Occupation, but I understood it had been fairly peaceful. Would private property have been stolen?’ John’s eyebrows shot up in surprise.

‘Worse than that. Locals were sent to prison camps in France and Germany for comparatively minor offences, and the few Jews on the island were rounded up and sent to concentration camps and didn’t return. So it’s quite possible there’s a link to the painting, although I wouldn’t have thought any local would have owned a Renoir, even though this one’s a Guernsey scene. You see, Renoir spent some weeks here in 1883 and produced a number of paintings and drawings. As I understand it, all his work was sent to France and sold there. But it’s definitely worth checking.’

‘Right.’ John made a note. ‘Is the previous owner of the shop still alive? They’d be a good place to start.’

‘No, but his widow is. Mrs Domaille sold us the business after Ernest’s death, but I hear she’s now quite frail and in a nursing home.’ She paused. ‘She told us Ernest had owned the business since the war, so it’s possible she knew the person who owned it beforehand.’

‘Great. I’ll start with her. Do you know which home she’s in?’

Fiona gave him the name, and he made a note. ‘Right, once I’ve spoken to Woods, I’ll focus on Mrs Domaille if you’re happy to check out the stolen art lists?’ John tilted his head, and she nodded her agreement. ‘My gut feeling is, if we find out who originally owned the painting, we’re well on the way to finding the killer. And obtaining justice for your brother.’