chapter thirty

 

Guernsey 2011

 

Sunday had been fun. Fiona knew all the couples, and they had welcomed Michael like a long-lost friend. Reluctant to spoil the happy mood, she hadn’t shared the news about the funeral, Louisa and Paul promising to keep it to themselves. It enabled her to push it to the back of her mind for a while and let her hair down. Jeanne’s children, little Harry and Freya, kept everyone on their toes as they ran around playing games and generally being the stars of the show. By the time everyone left at nine, Fiona was ready for bed, praying for a good night’s sleep. She was lucky, waking on Monday refreshed, feeling more like her old self.

As ever, she was the last to arrive in the kitchen to find her hosts munching on muesli.

‘Morning, you look well. Help yourself to coffee.’ Paul pointed to the cafetiére in the middle of the table.

She sat down with a mug of coffee and a bowl of muesli, smiling a greeting at her friends.

‘Any plans?’ Louisa asked.

‘Yes, I’m taking Michael out in the car today as he wants to see his grandparents’ house and the shop, and a bit more of the island. We’ll probably take in Moulin Huet and spend some time there. What about you two?’ She took a sip of coffee.

They shared a half smile.

‘We plan to chill out and do nothing, so are staying in and eating yesterday’s leftovers. No cooking, bliss!’ Louisa laughed.

‘Sounds good, you two deserve a day off. I’ll take my stuff with me, ready to move back home later.’ She grinned. ‘You’ll have your house to yourselves now.’

Paul, looking serious, said, ‘We’ve been happy to help and please keep us posted. We both want this man caught soon, for your sake.’

‘Amen to that,’ Fiona replied, pushing down a feeling of foreboding.

 

When Fiona pulled into her drive, she found John’s car parked to one side. He was talking to Michael in the kitchen, a copy of that day’s Evening Press on the worktop. Her stomach lurched.

‘Morning. Is it in?’

John nodded, and handed her the paper, tapping a headline on the front page.

‘There, they’ve done us proud, considering there’s no photos or quoted source.’

She read the headline, ‘Valuable work of art worth millions discovered in Guernsey!!’ The article went on to mention the finder had been to the UK to trace the owner and they were due to arrive on Thursday. The work of art was also described as having an ‘exciting local connection’ and that the full story would be published once the owner had staked their claim.

‘Great, isn’t it? That should lure the bugger out,’ Michael said, smiling broadly.

‘It is, thanks, John.’ She smiled from one to the other, part of her as pleased as the men, but another part feeling slightly sick. Roll on Thursday.

John made to leave, but stopped, tapping his forehead.

‘Nearly forgot, Ron got back to me about the trace he put on Duncan. Turns out our friend married an Australian girl and moved there years ago. It appears he didn’t mend his ways and ended up in jail for armed robbery, only released a few months ago, not knowing his father had died. Another piece of the jigsaw, right?’ He grinned.

‘Sure. Thanks for coming round, we’re going out for the day, but our mobiles will be on if anything happens.’

She escorted him to the front door, having a quick word with him, before returning to find Michael pacing around.

‘This guy sounds even more dangerous than I’d expected. Thought he was just a thug – but armed robbery! That’s big time.’ His face was creased with worry.

‘Yes, I know. I asked John what difference it makes to the police operation, and he said the inspector is going to have armed officers on alert if it looks as if he’s heading here. But, he might not have access to a gun now, and he’s only expecting to find me here.’ She was trying to convince herself as well as Michael. And somewhere in the back of her mind, Australia rang a bell. If only she could remember…

‘Hmm, let’s hope the police know what they’re doing.’ Michael drummed his fingers on the counter, looking thoughtful. Drawing in a breath, he said, ‘Shall we get going? I’ve a strong need to get out and get some fresh air.’

‘Yes. We’ll go to your grandfather’s house first. Nigel and I went there to discuss buying the business from old Mrs Domaille. I’ve no idea who owns it now; she sold it when she moved into the nursing home.’ Picking up the car keys, she led the way to the front door, setting the alarm, before locking it.

‘I’d forgotten old Ernest bought it from my grandmother after the war, at a knockdown price, too.’ He got in the car, adding, ‘Now we know he must have used the money he’d made from selling the stuff he’d stolen from the house.’ Michael shook his head, ‘What a bloody family! No wonder Duncan turned out as he did.’

Fiona, fixing her seat belt, nodded in agreement. It was about time the sins of the father were brought to light, though nothing could compensate for his betrayal of Leo. She drove off down Colborne Road, cutting across at the bottom to head uphill and the road towards St Andrew as Michael studied the Perry’s Guide to follow her route.

‘Grandmama said the house was beautiful, what was it like when you visited?’

‘You could see it had been lovely once, but the Germans had badly damaged it and I don’t think the Domailles had spent much on repairs.’ She sucked her teeth, remembering how sad she thought the house looked. ‘We got the impression Ernest had been a bit of a skinflint, liked to look posh, but didn’t want to splash the cash.’ She recalled the poor state of the roof, with slipped tiles and vegetation growing in the gaps and gutters, and the peeled paintwork of the doors and windows. Fiona couldn’t help but compare the similarities of the two family homes: Teresa’s rundown, but still achingly beautiful home in Suffolk, and what had been her marital home here. Which thought reminded her…

‘I forgot to ask, did your grandmother decide which route to take in selling the painting?’

‘Yep, the private sale. We’re giving it six months, and if there’s no great interest, we’ll go to auction next year. But Roger seems confident he’ll find a buyer soon. I hope so as, quite frankly, we need the money if my grandmother’s to get the care she needs. Ma can’t cope on her own much longer.’ He frowned, tapping his fingers on the dashboard.

‘Oh, with all the attention on the Renoir, I forgot to mention that the other paintings are worth a bit of money, too. Two or three thousand each, I’d say, so unless you wanted to keep them you could raise about twenty odd thousand quite easily.’

‘Well, that’s a nice surprise! I’ll tell Grandmama and see what she thinks. I’m pretty sure she’ll say sell, but how?’

‘As they’re both local artists and views, selling here is the obvious solution. We’ve got collectors asking to let them know when any come up for sale if you decide that’s what you want.’

‘Brilliant! As long as you don’t charge the same commission as Christie’s,’ he said, laughing.

‘Don’t worry; I’d only put on a small markup to cover our time. It would be a pleasure to help.’ She meant it, the paintings would be easy to sell and it would add to the reputation of the shop to handle their sale.

They lapsed into silence, both caught up in their thoughts and Fiona concentrated on her driving. The bank holiday traffic was less than on a work day, but narrow winding roads and lanes made it difficult to see oncoming vehicles until the last minute, forcing drivers to steer close to hedges and granite walls. By now they were in an area known as Talbot Valley, a lush, wooded area watered by tinkling streams.

‘This is wonderful, what a great place for walking. Is it far now?’ Michael gazed around in obvious delight.

‘A couple of minutes, up that lane to the left. You’ll see the house has the most amazing view down on the valley.’ She was forced to drive even more slowly along what was little more than a track, up past a derelict barn and then, rounding the last bend, they arrived at the house. Leaving the car tucked into the side of the lane, they stood facing it and Fiona noticed the house had had a makeover, new windows and doors and a repaired roof. The soft grey granite of the walls gleamed in the sun. She guessed it was Victorian, a gentleman’s residence with double-fronted bay windows and gardens stretching out either side. The driveway was short, leading to a parking area to the side, now empty of vehicles. Michael took photos with his phone.

‘I’ll email these to Ma, and she can show my grandmother, she’ll be delighted I’ve seen it. The link to my grandfather and part of our family history.’ He turned his back to the house to catch the view. Fiona copied him

Spread before them lay fields and the thick line of trees they had driven through, then glimpses of the fields on the other side of the valley. Birdsong competed with the sound of water gurgling over stones in the streams.

‘Magical, isn’t it? You could pretend there was no-one else living for miles around. No wonder my grandmother loved it.’ Michael spread his arms, taking a deep breath.

‘Yes, and now it probably looks more like it did when she lived here. I’m glad someone’s given it some TLC, I hate seeing houses neglected, don’t you?’ She gasped, covering her mouth. ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’

He grinned. ‘Don’t worry, I feel the same, but soon we’ll be able to spend money on the farmhouse. Make it as beautiful as it was when I was a boy.’ He turned once more to take a look at the house. ‘Time to leave, I think. Where to now?’

‘Thought we’d take a bit of a drive and end up at Moulin Huet in time for lunch at the tea room. Okay with you?’

‘Sounds good, let’s go.’ He brushed his hair out of his eyes, giving her a wide smile. The answering leap in her belly unsettled her. They were behaving more like a couple on a date than two people intent on catching a killer. With an inward groan, she started the engine, turned the car around and drove down the lane and headed right at the junction. She planned to take a meander towards St Martin and then through the myriad of lanes leading to Moulin Huet. At least there’d be lots of people about on the beach and in the tea room and she’d be able to relax.

 

♦♦♦

 

Thirty minutes later they pulled into the car park at Moulin Huet, taking the last free space.

Michael looked around the wooded valley which he presumed led to the beach.

‘I never expected to find so many trees on the island, doesn’t look that many from the plane. Is it far to the beach?’

‘A bit of a hike, but the tea room is nearer, about three hundred metres. There’s a super view over the bay from there, and I’m hoping these people,’ she waved her arms at the mass of cars, ‘aren’t all trying to eat at the tea room,’ she said, with a rueful smile.

He’d noticed how quiet Fiona was in the car and wondered if she was feeling apprehensive about the possible confrontation with Duncan. For himself, he was alarmed at the possibility the man would carry a gun, as even karate would not be protection against a bullet. And she was even more defenceless. If it came to the crunch, he’d shield her body, even if it meant taking a bullet himself.

They collected their beach gear from the back seat and set off down the leafy lane, accompanied by the soothing sound of a brook heading towards the open sea. Michael noticed a party of walkers leaving the coastal path to make for the beach, rucksacks bulging with towels and mats. Everyone looked happy, smiling as they called out hellos. He and Fiona returned the greetings before she led him towards a long low-level building on the right, painted white with pale green windows and doors wide open to the sun. A large grassed area sloped away below, scattered with wooden benches and tables, covered by brightly coloured parasols and filled with chattering diners. Michael stood for a moment, absorbing the view. Renoir’s view.

‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ Fiona said, shading her eyes from the sun.

‘Sure is, no wonder this place is popular.’

‘Here’s a table.’ She led the way to a small table set with two chairs at the end of the terrace immediately outside the café.

‘That was lucky.’ He grinned, glad of the relative quiet up above the grassed area set below. ‘What a fab spot. I don’t suppose old Renoir had a welcoming café when he set up his easel.’

Fiona laughed.

‘He probably had to make do with a bottle of warm beer and a meat pie. We’re lucky, this place is renowned for its great food, although no alcohol, I’m afraid.’ She offered him the menu. ‘I can recommend the crab sandwiches, which will be my choice.’

He scanned it.

‘I’ll go for that too.’ He stood. ‘What about a drink? I’ll go and order.’

‘Cappuccino, please.’

Michael joined the queue inside, and after placing the order carried their drinks outside.

‘The food will be out in a minute. Excuse me while I take some photos for my mother.’

He clicked away, moving around the edge of the garden to catch different perspectives. At the very bottom, he was able to look down on the beach, recognising some of the rocks portrayed by Renoir. As he stood still, the idea began to form for a sculpture, figures leaning on a rock, similar to the image portrayed in their painting. Excited, he rushed back to tell Fiona.

‘What a wonderful idea! Your homage to both your family and the painting. What medium would you use? And how big would it be?’ Her eyes reflected his excitement, and he had to fight down an impulse to kiss her. Fortunately, their food arrived, and the sight of the thickly filled crab sandwiches nestled among salad and crisps made his mouth water.

He picked up a sandwich and took a bite. Delicious. ‘Good choice, thanks. Not sure about the medium, there’s quite a choice…’ They had an animated discussion about the options and Michael drew a rough sketch on a paper napkin.

Fiona looked thoughtful, chewing on her sandwich. Finishing a mouthful, she said, ‘It reminds me of one of Rodin’s works. The woman emerging from stone looks like he didn’t finish it…’ she wrinkled her brow.

‘You mean Psyche?’

‘Yes! Do you see what I mean? The look of not being quite separate from the rock.’

‘I do, and it could work with a group of three figures, like those in the painting.’ He leaned back, pleased. It would be a challenge, and expensive to produce, but it could be something for the family, a tribute to his great-grandmother and her unfortunate brother and sister. He told Fiona, and she agreed.

‘Your family need a replacement for the Renoir – so why not a sculpture by that up and coming sculptor, Michael Collins?’ she said, grinning.

In a relaxed mood, they finished their lunch and walked down to the beach to find the exact spot Renoir had painted. Laughing, they took photos of each other in roughly the right place before finding a space to stretch out their towels and chill. Closing his eyes, Michael imagined what it would be like if he and Fiona were an actual couple, out for a day’s fun on the beach. The more time he spent with her, the more he enjoyed her company. But, and it was a big but, he would be leaving soon and when would they meet again? He couldn’t see how a relationship could work, even assuming Fiona would consider one while she was grieving for her brother. He’d have to be patient; not his greatest virtue.

 

The sun was losing its heat by four, and they decided to call it a day. They’d enjoyed a, decidedly bracing, swim before drying off on the towels. Now changed into shorts and T-shirts Michael bid a reluctant goodbye to the beach.

‘London’s great, but I do envy you the easy access to such fantastic beaches. And that air!’ He took an exaggerated deep breath, making Fiona giggle.

‘I know we’re never more than ten minutes from the sea here.’ She picked up her bag, ‘Let’s try and beat the queue out of the car park. Then I thought we’d take a look at the shop before heading home.’

He nodded, looking forward to seeing the business his grandfather had owned, but conscious it was where Nigel met his death. He clenched his fists. He’d love to get Duncan in a Katawa Guruma hold, not called the cripple wheel for nothing. He’d be on the floor with his balls crushed.

On the way back to Town, Michael phoned his grandmother to tell her about the value of the remaining paintings. As he expected, she agreed Fiona could sell them and he was happy to pass on the news to her.

She parked the car in a tiny lane in what she referred to as The Old Quarter. He could see why; some of the buildings, either shops or restaurants, looked to be hundreds of years old and the main street was cobbled. She walked a few yards and pointed out the smartest shop in the area, ‘N & F Antiques’, a large double-fronted building on the corner.

‘This looks great, Fiona. Has it changed much since Leo owned it, do you know?’

‘Not that much. I’ve seen old photos, and apart from the paintwork and our signage, the frontage is as it was. Come on; we need to go round the back to get in.’ She led the way and unlocked the solid back door before switching off the alarm. They were standing in a small office, cluttered with a too-large desk and filing cabinets. But it was extremely tidy, Michael noticed.

‘I’ve a guy running the place for me until I decide what to do long-term. And as you can see, he’s meticulous,’ she waved a hand around. ‘Nigel was messier, but always knew where everything was.’ She bit her lip, and Michael wondered if she was about to cry. But she didn’t, just sniffed, before leading him into the main shop.

‘It’s bigger than it looks from the outside, isn’t it? Where’s the basement?’ There was no sign of one as far as he could see.

‘It’s well hidden, let me show you.’ She moved a small table and pulled back a rug. Marked in the flooring was a trap door. Fiona squatted down and pushed on a hidden catch, and the door opened. ‘We replaced the old floor of original floorboards, and there was nothing to indicate a trap door. The other paintings belonging to Teresa are still there.’

She led the way, flicking a switch for the lights, and he joined her at the bottom. He saw rows of shelving, empty except for those nearest the steps. On these he saw neatly stacked, wrapped rectangular shapes He took in the dust-covered shelves, marked where other packages had once lain. ‘There must have been a lot of stuff down here, once,’ he said, softly.

‘Yes. We assume Ernest sold it bit by bit over the years to fund his lifestyle.’ She sounded sad, and Michael suggested she went back upstairs and he’d follow shortly. She agreed, and he stayed a few moments, wanting to make some connection with his grandfather. Daft, he knew, but there must be some essence left, surely? Apart from the paintings. After touching the old oilcloth wrappings, he went back upstairs, switched off the light and closed the trap door. After returning the rug and table to its rightful place, he joined her in the office. Fiona was sitting in the chair, staring into space.

‘Is there anything here that could have been Leo’s? The desk, perhaps? I’m trying to get an impression of him.’

Fiona stared at him as if she’d forgotten he was there. ‘It could be, it’s Victorian, and Ernest wasn’t the sort to buy new if it wasn’t necessary.’ She stood, adding, ‘Sit down and have a good look. Although we didn’t find any secret drawers,’ she said, with a slight smile.

‘I just want to be somewhere he was and to touch something he touched if that makes sense.’ He sat in the old chair and ran his fingers along the polished surface.

‘Perfect sense. Feel free to open the drawers; there’s nothing personal in them.’

It was beautifully made, befitting a gentleman, he thought. Mahogany, with a worn leather insert. He pulled on a drawer, and it ran smoothly towards him. ‘Quality workmanship would be worth a pretty penny these days.’

‘You’d be welcome to have it if you think it’s Leo’s.’

He was shocked. ‘No, I wasn’t trying to claim it…’

‘I know you weren’t. But I have no attachment to it. Why not take a photo and ask Teresa if she recognises it?’

‘That’s a good idea; I will.’ He took a few shots and then idly opened another drawer, virtually empty except for a business card on top of some unused envelopes and stamps. His eye was caught by the address on the card. He picked it up. ‘What’s this? Didn’t know you had an Australian connection.’

‘I don’t, that was on the floor…Oh! Oh, my God! We mustn’t touch it. Here, put it in this envelope.’ She pulled one from the drawer, and he dropped it in, wondering if she’d lost her mind.

‘What’s the matter?’

Fiona was taking deep breaths to calm herself, and he instinctively put his arms around her.

‘I…I knew there was something about Australia that rang a bell! I found this caught under the desk after…after Nigel died and thought it might have been something to do with a customer. I shoved it in the drawer and forgot about it.’ She stared at him, her eyes wide. ‘You know what this means, don’t you? Proof that Duncan was here!’