chapter fourteen

 

Guernsey 2011

 

John replaced the phone with a satisfied sigh. At last, some progress. He’d finally tracked down a surviving member of Leo’s family, the grandson of his uncle. Too young to have ever met Leo, Andre Bichard had told John his father had talked about him, had met him. After arranging to meet at Andre’s home early Monday evening, John phoned the nursing home to check on Mrs Domaille. He drummed his fingers on the desk impatiently as the phone continued to ring.

‘Pine Forest Nursing Home. Can I help you?’ A rather breathless voice answered.

‘I’m enquiring after one of your residents, Mrs Domaille. Has she recovered enough to receive visitors, please?’

‘Sorry, I’m new. Hang on a moment while I check.’

John heard the sound of retreating feet and voices murmuring in the background. He sighed. So much of his time was spent hanging on the end of phones waiting to talk to people. It had been different when he was in the police. He wasn’t kept waiting then.

‘Hello? Sorry to keep you waiting. Mrs Domaille is much better and can have visitors from tomorrow. Who shall I say called?’

‘Mr Ferguson. Thank you, I’ll call round tomorrow afternoon.’

Good, more progress, he told himself, continuing to beat out a tattoo on the desk. In his line of work, you learnt to be patient, but it wasn’t always easy. The pressure was off now he was his own boss, but he liked to deliver for his clients. And this case had got under his skin.

Since moving to Guernsey thirty years ago, he hadn’t had to deal much with murders. They had usually turned out to be domestics gone too far. But this one…he sucked in through his teeth. Fiona’s obvious pain and distress had touched him, and he was determined to find her brother’s killer. And sooner rather than later.

 

Andre Bichard’s cottage was barely visible above the surrounding overgrown garden in the narrow lane off Landes Du Marche. At first glance, it looked to be an uninhabited wreck, and John double-checked the address before pulling into a nearby gateway. Pushing open the rickety gate hanging off its hinges, John battled through a mass of long grass, weeds and the few spring flowers trying to survive. The granite walls were covered in ivy, forcing itself into the mortar cracks, and the weathered window frames held dirty pieces of material masquerading as curtains.

Hoping his stomach would survive any sights or smells waiting inside, John knocked on the old wooden door. He heard the sounds of heavy feet making their way along a passage. The door inched open a crack.

‘Mr Bichard? John Ferguson, I phoned earlier.’

A heavy-set man in his fifties, John guessed, dressed in dirty jeans and T-shirt, pulled the door fully open.

‘Yeh, come in. I don’t use the front room so we’ll go in the kitchen, shall we.’ Andre led the way down a dark, unlit hall and past the front room with its door ajar, exposing a room full to the ceiling with what looked like rubbish collected over many years. John caught a whiff of unwashed body and clothes as he followed him. Even the narrow hall had piles of papers and boxes stacked against the walls, making it difficult to find a way through without knocking anything over.

The back door lay open and John wondered if he could suggest they sat outside, but as he drew closer, he saw the back garden was as impenetrable as the front. Taking a deep breath of fresh air while he could, he followed the man into the kitchen. Oddly enough, this wasn’t quite as bad as he’d expected. The kitchen units had seen better days, but the worktops looked clean and not too cluttered, with a kettle and toaster, in a matching shade of green, near a sink only half-full of dirty dishes. An old cooker and fridge sat among the units and in the middle of the room were an old Formica-topped table and plastic chairs.

Andre waved him to a chair. ‘Sit down, please. Want some tea?’ He stood near the kettle, poised to switch it on.

John decided not to risk it. How clean were the mugs?

‘No thanks, I’m good.’

He nodded and sat down.

‘So, why the sudden interest in my grandfather’s brother, Leo? He’s been dead many a year now.’ He scratched the back of his head; his eyes screwed up. John’s attention was caught by a selection of colourful tattoos on Andre’s arms and didn’t reply immediately.

‘Mr Ferguson?’ He sounded annoyed.

‘Oh, sorry, Mr Bichard. It’s to do with the antiques business Leo owned, in Contrée Mansell. Did you know he owned it before the war?’

He grimaced. ‘For sure. Dad used to go on about it, like. How his father, Nathaniel, had struggled all his life as a fisherman, while his bloody brother had married a French heiress. Pah!’ He grimaced. ‘Gave him the money to pour into the antiques business and buy a fancy house in the Talbot Valley.’ He paused to flick a crumb onto the floor. ‘When he died he didn’t leave nothing to Nathaniel; bloody Leo copped the lot. Did very well, he did, by the sound of it.’ Andre spat on the floor.

Ah, so there’s been a family split, John thought. And it’s about money. Nothing new there, then.

‘Was there a falling-out between your grandfather and Leo over the will?’

Andre scratched his head.

‘They were never close, not from what Dad said. Not sure if Leo even acknowledged Nathaniel as his uncle. He was beneath him, see. They wouldn’t have mixed in the same circles. Dad reckoned as Leo saw himself as superior to him; his father having bagged himself a wealthy wife. Huh!’ He spat again.

John edged his chair out of range.

‘How did your father and Leo get on?’

‘They didn’t. Dad was a fisherman like his father, and Leo would sometimes buy lobster and crab from him if he was having some posh dinner-party, but otherwise, they had no contact, as he told me. Dad said ’ol Leo wasn’t much of a social man, kept himself to himself before he got married. Softened up a bit then, he did.’

‘I understand Leo’s wife evacuated before the Germans arrived. Did your father see anything of Leo after that?’

‘No, he’d already joined up. But afore that, he and me ma were invited to their daughter’s christening. Dad reckoned it was the wife who insisted on it. Dad liked her, although she was from a posh family, she was friendly like.’ Andre suddenly sat forward, scowling. ‘You’re asking an awful lot of questions, you are. What’s this all got to do with the antiques shop, anyway?’

‘Something was found recently which may have belonged to Leo, and the finder’s anxious to trace his family. And if you can help us, it would be much appreciated.’ John smiled encouragingly. This man would likely sell his mother for money.

Andre looked deflated.

‘Not sure as I can help. Is there a reward?’ His eyes gleamed.

‘Could be. Do you know what happened to Leo in the occupation?’

‘When Dad came back after the war, Leo was gone. He heard as how the Germans had arrested him for being a Jew, but no-one knew nothing about that. If he was, had to be from the French side.’

‘What about Leo’s wife?’

‘Ah, now then, Dad did see her briefly.’ Andre brightened, the pound signs beckoning. ‘She contacted Dad to tell him about Leo, not that Dad was much upset like, but it was thoughtful of her, being family. Said she was quite shaken. He felt sorry for her, he told me. Didn’t stay long, went back to England and he never heard from her again.’

‘I see. You wouldn’t know where Mrs Bichard went, would you? If we can trace her or her daughter…’ he spread his hands.

Andre rubbed his nose, his eyes screwed in concentration.

‘Somewhere east, Dad said. North of London, I think.’

‘Norfolk? Cambridge? Suffolk–’

‘Suffolk! That was it. Where her folks came from.’ He sank back into his chair and grinned.

‘Brilliant. Thanks, you’ve been a great help. I’ll get back to you if we trace Mrs Bichard or her family.’ John stood, pleased to stretch his legs. ‘Was this your parents’ house? Looks old.’

‘Yes, I inherited it a few years back. Lucky to have a roof over my head, I am. Not working, you see.’ Andre lifted his bulk and John stepped back towards the door and fresh air.

‘Oh, that’s a shame. Thought it was easy to get a job here. You didn’t take up fishing, like your father?

‘I did, for a few years, anyway. But I got sick, see, found it hard to work. Depression, and something else I can’t remember the name of, the docs said. Been on benefits for some time now. Find it hard to make ends meet, I do.’ He gave John a hard stare.

‘Right, well let me see.’ He took out his wallet and placed a £20 note on the table. ‘Hope that helps, Mr Bichard. And there could be more later.’

‘Appreciate that, Mr Ferguson. I’ll see you out.’

John headed back to the front door, pulling it open before Andre reached it, and took a deep breath of fresh air. That was better.

‘Goodbye, and thanks again for your time.’ Wanting to avoid a handshake, John nodded and turned away. As he pushed his way through the mass of old shrubs and weeds, he heard Andre call, ‘Bye for now,’ before closing the front door. Slipping into his car, he switched on the engine and drove off, a big smile plastered on his face. The jigsaw had gained another piece.