chapter twenty-one

 

Guernsey 2011

 

John was sauntering up High Street when his mobile rang. It was Judith Collins, advising him her son, Michael, would be free to meet them in Sudbury on Wednesday if that suited. After saying he would confirm with Fiona, he rang her with the news.

‘Okay with me. I’ll book us on the early Gatwick flight and will stay overnight to see Sam, but you can return the same day. Could you check the trains, please? I’m in Herm, but will be back this afternoon.’

‘Sure. I’m also going to ring the nursing home, see if Mrs Domaille’s up for visitors.’

‘Good luck with that! We’ll catch up later.’

Back in the office, John confirmed Wednesday with Judith, checked the times of the trains and then rang the nursing home. He was relieved to hear she was better, although ‘not quite with it’, according to the nurse, who agreed he could visit that afternoon. He rubbed his hands. Action, that’s what he enjoyed most. Not sitting in front of a computer screen. That wasn’t real detective work. Going out and about and interviewing people was what counted.

Sorry as he was that a man had died, and violently too, John relished the task of tracking down his killer. Since transferring from the Met to Guernsey Police he had mainly dealt with white collar crime and the occasional serious assault or theft, and it stirred his detective’s soul to be involved in such a case. The last time had been when he worked for Louisa and her father, Malcolm. He’d been looking for a killer then, and they nailed two. Good stuff. Standing up, he decided to go home for lunch before visiting Mrs Domaille. And he could tell his wife about the trip to England.

 

‘Ah, Mr Ferguson, isn’t it? You’ll be wanting to see Mrs Domaille, I suppose?’

The sister he’d met last time stood, her arms folded, in the hall. As if to bar his way. He hoped not.

‘Yes, Sister, I did phone earlier…’ He offered a smile and mentally crossed his fingers.

‘So I understand. Well, you can visit her if you wish, but I have to warn you she’s regressed somewhat since your last visit. Dementia, you know.’ She spread her hands and shrugged. ‘I’ll take you down, but please, at the slightest sign of agitation, call for a nurse.’

‘Of course.’

He followed her down the corridor and into the old lady’s room. As before, she sat huddled in a chair by the window, covered in blankets. He made to walk closer when the nurse bustled forward.

‘Mrs Domaille. I have a visitor for you. It’s Mr Ferguson who came to see you recently. He won’t stay long if you don’t mind answering some questions.’

The watery eyes turned slowly towards him, and the look was blank. John’s stomach sank.

‘Who are you? What do you want?’ Her voice wobbled.

The nurse opened her mouth to say something, but he cut in, ‘It’s all right, Sister, I’m willing to try and refresh her memory. I’ll call you if there’s a problem, shall I?’

‘Well, if you promise not to distress her,’ she said, giving him a stern look. Turning to Mrs Domaille, she said, ‘I’ll leave you for a few minutes, dear. The…nice gentleman only wants a chat.’ With another warning look at John, she turned on her heel and left. Letting out a sigh of relief, he pulled a chair near the old lady who still looked puzzled, but not frightened.

John explained about his last visit and repeated what he’d told her about Nigel and the ownership of the shop.

A slight glimmer appeared behind her eyes.

‘I sold the business to that poor young man. They don’t want their money back, do they?’ She began twisting a blanket, her gaze flitting around the room as if looking for a way out.

‘Don’t worry, Mrs Domaille, they don’t. I’m here to ask you about your son, Duncan. He came to see you a few weeks ago, didn’t he?’ John kept his voice gentle, but firm.

She frowned and pulled harder on the blanket. ‘My son? I have a son?’

‘Yes, his name’s Duncan, don’t you remember? He left the island a long time ago, but he’s back now.’ He pulled out the photo Inspector Woods had unearthed. ‘Here, this is how he looked before he went away, about thirty years ago. He’s in his fifties now’. He passed her the photo, and a trembling hand reached for it. She stared at it, her forehead creased in concentration. John imagined the cogs slowly whirling in her diminished brain and felt sorry for her. Fancy not remembering you had a son.

‘I’m not sure. Don’t remember a son. But he does look a bit familiar. Duncan, you say?’

‘Yes. Take your time. No rush.’ John summoned all the patience he’d learnt over the years when questioning witnesses.

‘I don’t know. Is this the man who died?’ She looked up at him, a puzzled look on her face.

‘No, it isn’t, Mrs Domaille. It’s an old photo of your son, Duncan. Before he went away.’

He watched the old lady continued to gaze blankly at the photo, wondering if he was wasting his time.

Then, it was if a switch was flicked and she became animated.

‘Duncan. Yes, sweet little boy, he was. Till he got older. Always in trouble.’

She looked at John, and her eyes were moist.

‘What kind of trouble? With the police?’

‘Yes, but he also stole from Ernest. From the till. He couldn’t get a job, so Ernest took him on. When he found out about the missing money, his father told him to leave.’

‘I see, that must have been upsetting for you.’

She nodded. ‘For all his bad ways, I loved him, Mr – who did you say you are again?’

‘Ferguson, John Ferguson. I came to see you before. Don’t you remember?’

She stared at him and shook her head.

‘I don’t know you, do I? What do you want?’ She gripped her blanket tight, her eyes searching the room.

‘We’ve met before, Mrs Domaille. I want to talk about Duncan, your son. In the photo. Did he leave Guernsey after he fell out with Ernest?’

‘Eh?’ She studied the photo. ‘Yes, he did leave. Never said where he was going. I was that upset, I was.’ She pulled out a handkerchief and blew her nose.

‘I’m sorry to hear that. Would have been hard for you as a mother. So when he turned up recently, you must have been so pleased to see him again.’ John leaned forward and patted her arm.

‘What? He turned up here?’ She looked surprised.

John’s stomach sank again. It was worse than pulling teeth.

‘Yes, the sister said he came to see you a few weeks ago. He’ll have changed from that photo, and I was hoping you’d be able to tell me what he looks like now.’

She gazed, unseeing, at a spot above his head.

‘Perhaps he brought you flowers or chocolates?’ John prompted.

‘Duncan bring me flowers? No. He was never one for presents, even as a boy.’ She looked at the photo again. ‘Now you mention it; I do remember him coming here. He wasn’t happy. He was angry, that’s it, he was angry with me.’ She nodded, the memory stirring.

‘But why was he angry? You hadn’t seen him in years!’

‘To do with the business. Can’t remember. What was it, now?’ Her face screwed up in thought. ‘I’d sold it, that was what made him angry. Duncan said it was his inheritance; I shouldn’t have sold it without telling him. But I didn’t know where he was, did I?’ She looked at John as if for reassurance.

‘No, you didn’t, Mrs Domaille. Did the advocate say you could sell it?’

‘Yes, he did, or I wouldn’t have, would I?’ She nodded her head. ‘Duncan said Ernest had told him it would be his one day, before they fell out, that is.’ Mrs Domaille became agitated, and John filled a glass of water from the jug on the table and passed it to her.

‘So what did Duncan say then?’

‘Kept going on about what was rightfully his. He marched around the room, his face getting redder. I offered him the money I got for it, but he was still angry. What had I done wrong?’ She looked at John, her eyes glistening with tears.

‘You didn’t do anything wrong, Mrs Domaille, don’t upset yourself.’ He paused, wondering if he could risk asking more questions. He had to take the chance. ‘Can you tell me where Duncan’s living? He might be able to help with my search for the original owner.’

‘He didn’t say. Stormed off. Need his address for the advocate to send him the money. He’ll be back sometime, will want the money.’ Her voice was bitter, and John felt even sorrier for her.

‘If he does get in touch, I’d be grateful if you’d let me know. You can ask the sister to contact me.’ He stood up, saying, ‘One last thing, can you tell me what he looks like now? In case I bump into him.’

‘He’s a big man, even bigger than he was. Big muscles. Short hair, going grey. And his skin was tanned.’

‘Did he say where he’d been living all those years?’

‘Somewhere far away. Met a woman, he said, married her. I didn’t get the chance to ask if they have children. My grandchildren.’ Her face crumpled.

‘Thank you you’ve been extremely helpful, Mrs Domaille. I’m sorry to have intruded on you like this.’ He shook her hand, and she nodded.

‘Goodbye, hope you find who you’re looking for.’

He left the room, glad the poor woman didn’t know who he really wanted to find. Her son.