chapter thirty-six

 

Guernsey 2011

 

‘What…’ Fiona cried, as he pushed her back roughly into the hall, the gun close to her chest, her heart ready to burst out of her ribcage.

‘Where’s the painting?’ His voice was rough, with an unmistakable Australian twang.

‘What painting? I don’t know…’

‘Don’t play the innocent with me, or I’ll make you regret it.’ He pushed her further back until they were in the sitting room. By now she was trembling violently, convinced he would shoot her before anyone could intervene. His eyes darted around the walls before swivelling back to her. Gripping her arm he growled, ‘I saw the article in the paper. You and your brother found it, didn’t you? In the shop? And it should be mine. So where is it?’

His fierce grip caused pain to run up and down her arm, and she let out a moan.

‘How…how did you know it was in the shop?’ She managed to twist her body around, so Duncan had his back to the door. Dear God, help me to do this.

‘None of your business!’ He tightened his grip on her arm, and she moaned again as the pain worsened.

‘Did…did you kill my brother?’

‘No, why would I? Heard he hung himself, didn’t he? Nothing to do with me. Now tell me where it is, or I’ll shoot you in your foot. And then the other foot until…’

Fiona barely registered Michael launch himself into the room, grabbing Duncan in a headlock and forcing him to drop the gun. Duncan twisted around, trying to throw him off balance but Michael kept one hand around his neck while reaching down to grab him between his legs, causing Duncan to scream in pain as he crashed to the floor. Just then the police rushed in, hauling a whimpering Duncan to his feet. Within seconds he was in cuffs, the balaclava whipped away, revealing his face. The one in the police photo.

Fiona, drained of adrenaline, felt her knees give, but before she could fall, Michael caught her and pushed her gently onto the sofa.

‘Are you okay? Did he hurt you?’ His concern took away the last vestiges of her resolve and her eyes watered. Pulling out a tissue from her jeans, she blew her nose and dabbed at her eyes, keeping her head down. She was conscious of Inspector Woods telling Duncan he was under arrest for the suspected murder of Nigel Torode and the armed assault on herself.

Lifting her head, she saw him marched away by a couple of officers. Woods and John, who’d now followed into the room, turned their attention towards her.

‘Do you need a doctor? Are you hurt?’ Michael asked, forcing her to look at him.

‘No, my arm’s bruised, that’s all.’

Once satisfied she wasn’t in need of medical help, Woods left, saying he’d send someone round to take their statements the following morning. Michael disappeared to pour a couple of brandies, and John sat beside her, pulling her into a comforting embrace. Now she could cry, and the tears soaked into John’s sweater as he stroked her hair with a murmured, ‘It’s okay, it’s over, let it out. You were so brave; we were all impressed. Well done.’

At that moment Fiona wasn’t feeling brave. The whole surreal scene kept replaying in her mind like a broken record, the image of Duncan, hiding behind a balaclava and brandishing a gun, making her body shake. She could only imagine what he’d done to Nigel and how scared he must have been and this made her cry even more.

‘Here, drink this, it’ll steady you.’ Michael thrust a glass of brandy into her hands, and she took a grateful sip, letting the fiery liquid do its work.

‘Thanks,’ she said, her voice little more than a whisper. John handed her his handkerchief, her tissue a sodden mass, and she blew her nose and wiped her face, conscious she must look a wreck.

John stood, saying he’d leave them to get some sleep and would be in touch in the morning. He patted her arm and Michael escorted him to the front door, locking and bolting it before coming back and sitting beside her.

‘Is there anything else I can get you? Glass of water?’

‘Yes, please.’ Her mouth was so dry it came out in a whisper. He came back a moment later with a full glass, and she drank greedily while he sat beside her, one hand on her shoulder.

‘Well, we’ve done it. The bastard’s locked up and you’re safe. You were bloody marvellous, Fiona.’

Draining the glass, she raised her eyes to his and managed a weak smile.

‘Thanks. I’ve never been so scared in my life! Seeing him so close, pointing a gun at me, was far worse than I’d imagined. He’s a brute,’ she said, shivering.

‘He is, but you kept going. I couldn’t see you, but I heard every word, as I was listening by the door. John alerted me by phone when it was time for me to move in.’

‘I’ve never been so relieved to see anyone in my life! I really thought he’d shoot my foot.’ She picked up the brandy for a final sip, willing her body to relax.

‘Wouldn’t have put it past him. But hey, he didn’t get the chance so best not to think about it.’ He squeezed her shoulder.

‘You were br…brilliant. Have you performed that move before? He was in agony,’ she said, recalling Duncan’s anguished cry.

‘Well, actually, it’s not one we practise on each other in case we, er, damage someone. But I’ve always wanted to try it out.’ He grinned, and she found herself laughing. Might have been hysteria, but it felt good.

‘Do you want to go to bed? I’m too hyped to sleep and think I’ll stay up a while, listen to music or watch TV,’ Michael said.

She shook her head.

‘I’m not ready for sleep either. Shall we finish off that wine we opened earlier and put some music on?’

‘Good idea. You stay there and choose some music while I fetch it.’

Pushing herself up, she was relieved to find her legs had regained their strength and rummaged through the CDs stacked by the player. By the time Michael returned, Adele was blasting from the speakers. They settled down with their wine, listening to the music and going over the events of the evening once more. Eventually, they succumbed to tiredness and went to bed. It was two in the morning.

 

Fiona woke the next morning after the deepest sleep she’d had for weeks. As consciousness filtered in she was aware of a change in herself, of lightness, of a letting go of a burden. That bastard Duncan had been caught! They’d done it, thanks to John, Michael and the police. It was heady stuff until the familiar ache for Nigel surfaced. Nothing would bring him back, but it was good to have trapped his killer. It was when she slipped into the shower, Fiona saw the deep purple bruises on her arms.

As she entered the kitchen, Michael looked up from filling the cafetiére, and his eyes searched her face. He must have been satisfied with what he saw as he smiled.

‘Sleep well? Quite a night wasn’t it?’ he asked, stirring the coffee. Grabbing two mugs, he sat down, and she pulled up a chair, spreading her sore arms on the table.

‘Slept like a log. And yes, it was quite a night.’ Her fingers played with specks of food left from last night. ‘Thanks again for what you did, Michael. It was pretty impressive stuff.’ Fiona grinned at him.

‘Glad to have been of service, Madam,’ he said with a short bow, keeping a straight face.

She laughed, and he poured the coffee.

‘Wish we could chill out this morning, but the police will be here for our statements soon. John’s popping round, too. We have to decide what to tell the media.’ She took the loaf out of the bread bin. ‘Toast?’ He nodded, and she placed four slices in the toaster before setting out plates, knives, butter, honey and marmalade. ‘Does your family want to remain anonymous as the owners of the Renoir?’ Collecting the toast, she returned to the table.

Michael frowned.

‘I’d better talk to my grandmother, hadn’t thought that far ahead. She’s a very private person.’

‘I gathered that, but it’s going to make headlines.’ She sighed. ‘Nigel’s death will be linked to Duncan’s arrest, and the whole story will come out eventually, even if we don’t want that. And the news will spread to the nationals…’ She sat with her knife hovering over the butter, trying not to think about the likely media attention.

‘Oh, Fiona!’ Michael grabbed her hand. ‘I hate to think of you and Nigel being fodder for the newspapers.’

‘I don’t like it either, but it’s a price worth paying to bring justice for our families. We’ll be the usual seven-day wonder, and at the end your family will be financially secure. Not a bad result, eh?’ She raised a smile, enjoying the reassuring warmth of his fingers on hers. She would miss him when he left.

‘I guess. Let’s hope my grandmother agrees, although it doesn’t sound as if she has much choice.’ He let go of her hand, and they concentrated on finishing their breakfast before Michael disappeared to phone Teresa.

A sergeant arrived a little later and took their statements, saying the inspector would be in touch later. No sooner had he left than John arrived, giving Fiona a warm hug before asking how she was. The three of them congregated in the kitchen to discuss the aftermath of the previous night’s events.

‘I don’t suppose Duncan’s confessed to killing Nigel, has he?’ Michael asked.

‘Not yet. I spoke to Ron earlier who said he’s refusing to talk. But that could change, and anyway, he faces years inside for attacking Fiona last night.’ He gave her a reassuring smile. ‘Now, what do we tell the Evening Press? I think word got out about a major incident last night and Ron’s being pressured to make a statement. If we make a joint one, I’d be happy to speak on your behalf and save you facing any intrusion at this time.’

‘My grandmother would rather not have her name mentioned, suggesting I be her proxy, saying the painting belonged to my Guernsey grandfather before the war. We appreciate people would like to know more, but given her failing health…’ Michael spread his hands.

‘Of course, I think that’s fair enough. Fiona?’ John turned to her.

‘Presumably, with Duncan charged with either the attack on me or my brother’s death, my name will crop up anyway. So let’s admit we found the Renoir in the hidden basement of our shop, and I was the one to have it verified and tracked down the rightful owner.’

John nodded.

‘You’re right, might as well tell the truth. I can say you hired me and that you wish your privacy to be respected while you grieve for your brother. Okay?’

‘Yes. Sounds good.’ Fiona twisted her hands together at the thought of the two hurdles ahead; the inquest on Friday and the funeral the following Monday. Only then would she be left in peace to grieve Nigel truly.

‘What are your plans, Michael? Are you going home now?’

He looked from John to Fiona before replying. ‘I thought I’d stay until after the funeral, to pay my respects to Nigel. I can move into a hotel now Duncan’s under lock and key.’

Fiona’s stomach flipped. She’d imagined him wanting to rush back to London and was touched and also pleased she didn’t have to say goodbye yet.

‘There’s no need to move out, unless you want to, of course. The house is plenty big enough for two, and I’m not sure I’m ready to be on my own just yet.’ She knew she sounded pathetic admitting to it, but it was true. Although a niggling voice in her head did query if it was the sole reason for wanting him to stay.

‘Thanks, in that case, I’ll stay.’ Michael grinned at her, and she felt the heat rise in her face.

John, looking from one to the other, raised his eyebrows but only said that it was time he got going and would be in touch. He shook Michael’s hand and went with Fiona to the door.

‘I’m glad Michael’s staying a bit longer; he’s good for you.’ He patted her hand, adding, ‘I’ll write a statement for the Press and email it to you for approval. Take care, now.’

Fiona phoned Louisa to bring her up to speed, knowing her friends would be relieved to know Duncan was under arrest. Louisa promised to let the others know and, like John, expressed her pleasure that Michael was staying on for a few days. She also suggested they came round for dinner on Friday and Fiona happily agreed. She’d no sooner put the phone down when it rang.

‘Hello, Miss Torode, Inspector Woods. Thanks for your statements, by the way. Are you feeling okay after last night?’

‘Yes, I’m fine, thanks. What’s the latest on Duncan?’

‘Well, he’s proving uncooperative, but I’m not worried about it. We’ve sent both the business card you found and Nigel’s belt for DNA testing. We’ve managed to lift fingerprints off the card and found a match for Duncan’s…’

‘Why are you checking the belt? I thought he wore gloves?’

‘He did, otherwise we’d have found his prints on the alarm at least. We think the prong of the belt buckle caught on a glove, piercing a small hole and nicking a finger. Initially, forensics didn’t examine the belt because we thought it was a suicide, but once you and John gave us reason to be unsure, forensics took a closer look. They spotted a piece of skin on the prong, but of course, it could have been your brother’s.’ A bout of coughing ensued, and Fiona’s pulse raced at the possibility the skin was Duncan’s. The inspector continued, ‘Sorry about that. Where was I? Oh, the buckle, right. Well, forensics checked Duncan’s gloves after his arrest, and there’s a tiny hole in one of the fingers that matches the size of the prong on the buckle. So, there’s a good chance the skin is his and why we’re having it checked.’

‘That’s brilliant! So, assuming it is Duncan’s, would that be sufficient proof for a conviction?’

‘Yes, for sure. Combined with the fact we have him on tape saying your brother died by hanging, which has never been made public, then we have a good case. We have to wait a week for the DNA results to come back, I’m afraid, but as far as the inquest is concerned, we’re likely to get a verdict of unlawful killing. I hope that will be some comfort for you.’

‘It will, Inspector, thank you. And when will you and John make a joint statement to the Press?’

‘Probably tomorrow gives us time to work out something we all agree on. It means it will appear on Friday, the day of the inquest and it’s possible there’ll be extra interest in the proceedings and you, as the victim’s sister. So be warned. I’ll keep you posted of any developments.’

Michael listened intently as Fiona told him what the inspector had said and agreed the signs were good for a conviction. Realising it was after one o’clock, Fiona opened the fridge. ‘What do you fancy for lunch?’

He jumped up. ‘Tell you what, why don’t we go out? I noticed lots of cafés and restaurants in Town, and I’ve been stuck inside since Monday. You can choose.’

‘Good idea, I think we both need to do something normal after the last few days.’ She grabbed her bag, and they headed off towards George Road and the centre of Town. As they walked, the conversation turned to holidays and their favourite destinations. Fiona was surprised to learn they had similar tastes, both having enjoyed trips to Egypt and Greece. By the time they arrived at Dix Neuf in the Arcade, she was giggling at Michael’s shared holiday misadventures. It was both a shock and a relief to find she could still laugh.

 

♦♦♦

 

Michael thought he’d better check in on his mother and grandmother and called them that evening from his room.

‘Hi, Ma, how’s things?’

‘Same as usual. Nothing changes here, Michael. Mother’s been struggling today, and I could do with more help A carer coming in once a day isn’t enough.’ A deep sigh echoed down the line. He bit his lip, knowing how hard it was for her, but at the same time wishing she wouldn’t be so negative.

‘Yes, I’ve been thinking about that. With the rest of the paintings up for sale, we should have some money coming in soon, enough to pay for a part-time carer. I can fund the cost until we get the proceeds. Give you a bit of a break.’

‘That’s very generous of you, but are you sure you can afford it?’ Judith sounded both hopeful but uncertain. He wasn’t surprised as his mother knew there were times when he struggled to make ends meet. But his last commission had paid well, and for once he had some money in the bank.

‘Yes, Ma, or I wouldn’t have offered. Let me know what it costs for a few hours a day, or whatever works best for you. And before I forget, I’m staying here until Tuesday, the day after Nigel’s funeral.’

Judith did not comment other than to ask when he would be visiting them in Suffolk. He didn’t commit himself and asked if his grandmother was free to talk to him. Judith took the phone up to Teresa’s bedroom and said goodbye.

‘Michael, good of you to call. Any news?’ Teresa’s voice was warm with a hint of excitement. If she was in pain, she hid it well.

He explained the imminent press release would not mention her name, but he couldn’t guarantee the media wouldn’t do some digging.

‘Well, we’ll deal with that if it happens. I’m sorrier for poor Fiona, having to face unwanted intrusion at such a time. Lovely girl. Do remind her she’d be very welcome to visit us whenever she’s in England.’

‘Of course, I’ve already said as much. She used to ride, and I thought she’d enjoy a hack over the fields. Did you ride when you lived in Guernsey?’

Teresa was always a keen horsewoman, riding until well into her sixties, even teaching him to ride on his fat little pony, Toby. He could picture it now, his grandmother elegant in her immaculate riding clothes, leading him in his less than tidy outfit, across the fields on an unwilling Toby. She had been so patient with him, and Michael had loved the time they spent together. A lump formed in his throat at the thought of her present frailty.

‘Yes, a little. Leo wasn’t as keen, preferring to drive around in his shiny new MG.’ He heard her sigh. ‘It was a beautiful car, though. Dark green with cream leather and he drove with the roof down whenever he could. I often wonder what happened to it. No doubt the Germans confiscated it, but it should have been on the island when the war ended. Perhaps that dreadful man Ernest got his sticky hands on it, like everything else.’ Teresa’s voice was bitter, and Michael wished he could do something to help.

‘At least we found the Renoir, Grandmama,’ he said gently.

He heard a deep intake of breath.

‘You’re right. I was being maudlin. It happens when you get as old as I am. And I’m truly grateful for its return. Not just for the money, which will make such a difference to us, I admit, but for Leo. I only wish I could afford to keep it, for his sake, but that’s a foolish notion. I think he’d want us to be financially secure rather than poor with a valuable painting hanging on a crumbling wall.’

‘I agree. And we can always have a print made as a memento. Now, I’d better leave you to rest. I’ll call again in a day or two. Take care.’

 

The next morning Fiona showed him John’s email of the media statement and having read and approved it, she sat down to email John with their agreement to publish.

Michael studied her as she tapped away on the keyboard. She looked more rested, he thought, and her eyes held more of a sparkle. With the inquest the following day, he decided she needed a distraction to keep the current mood alive.

‘Shall we go out for the day? I’d love to see more of the island, and Paul told me there are some great bays and beaches in the north-west. We could take a picnic and swim.’

Fiona looked up and smiled.

‘Sounds lovely. Give me a minute, and I’ll check out the fridge.’

‘I’ll do it, you carry on.’ Michael put together a decent mix of picnic food and included cans of lager and bottles of water and Fiona dug out a cool bag. They collected towels and swimwear, piling everything in the car and set off. Michael wasn’t always keen on being driven by someone but had to admit Fiona was a good driver, and he sat back to relax and enjoy the ride. She kept up a running commentary as they headed out of St Peter Port and along what she called Les Banques towards something called The Bridge. He loved the names of places, part French and part parochial English and Fiona explained that the north of the island was initially split in two by a tidal channel, crossed at high tide by a bridge. The channel was drained in the early 1800s, but the name ‘The Bridge’ remained.

She drove around to L’Ancresse and parked. Out of the car, she stood still, looking out to sea, the wind tousling her hair. A look of sadness had replaced the earlier smiling face, and he joined her, holding her hand as his eyes swept admiringly over the curving expanse of golden sand.

‘Are you all right?’

She turned to face him, her eyes troubled.

‘This is where Nigel and I use to ride together, and it’s reminded me of the inquest and…funeral.’

He drew her into his arms, wanting to comfort her, yes, but also wanting to breathe in her scent, to get close to her. Like they had on the night of Duncan’s arrest, spending hours just talking, listening to music. There had been a bond between them, of a shared experience.

‘I expect everywhere you go on the island brings back memories, doesn’t it?’ He continued to hold her, and she seemed happy to stay in his arms.

She sighed.

‘You’re right. I’ll have to get used to it. Hopefully, it will be easier once…it’s over.’

He rested his chin on her head and breathed in the smell of her hair, the fruity smell of shampoo mingling with the salt of the air. He dropped a kiss on the top of her head. Fiona pulled back, her eyes locked onto his.

Her face was flushed from the breeze, and he could no longer hold back, lightly kissing her parted lips.

Her eyes opened in surprise.

‘Sorry, I hope I haven’t upset you.’

She shook her head.

‘No, it’s fine. Shall we drive on to another bay, sheltered from the wind?’

‘Sure.’

They returned to the car, and Fiona carried on driving around the coast, an odd look on her face. Not upset, exactly, more puzzled, he thought. He hoped he hadn’t blown it by kissing her so soon, but only time would tell.