A Line to Kill

8 The Snuggery

‘Who’s been killed?’ I asked. It was the one thing Hawthorne hadn’t told me. Actually, so far he hadn’t told me anything.

‘Charles le Mesurier. Who do you think?’

It was true. Le Mesurier was rich. He was also obnoxious. He had sneered at almost everybody he met. And since we were sitting in the back of a taxi on the way to The Lookout, the victim could only have been him or his wife.

‘Who told you?’ I asked.

‘Colin Matheson. Helen le Mesurier found the body and called him over to the house. He’s waiting for us there.’

The driver had been listening to all this. He twisted round. ‘There’s never been a murder in Alderney!’ he told us, his voice full of excitement. It was as if he had been waiting for it all his life.

‘What’s your name?’ Hawthorne asked.

‘It’s Terry.’

‘All right, Terry. Do me a favour and keep your eyes on the road.’

‘Yes, sir. Whatever you say.’ He stayed silent for about thirty seconds but then he couldn’t stop himself. ‘Did it happen last night? There was a party and I was there! Maybe I gave the killer a lift!’

There were more cars parked outside The Lookout, but none of them had any police markings. The front door was open and we walked straight into the three rooms, which still hadn’t been reassembled. Someone had cleared away all the plates and glasses but the furniture hadn’t been moved back into place and there was a sense of emptiness, heightened by the fact that the man who had designed and created all this had been permanently taken from it. Colin and Judith Matheson were already there waiting for us, along with a third man who had not been at the party and who was introduced to us as Dr Queripel.

‘Thank you for coming, Mr Hawthorne,’ Matheson began. I had never seen a man more out of his depth. It was as if he had no idea why he had been summoned here and, worse than that, no idea what to do. His wife was sitting in an armchair, as white as the pearls around her neck, clutching a ball of tissue in her fist. She didn’t look as if she had been crying, though. If anything, she looked angry.

‘I didn’t know if it was right to call you or not, and you may consider it an impertinence – but this couldn’t have happened at a worse time,’ Colin began. ‘There’s no good time for it to have happened, but what I mean is that, unfortunately, two of our constables are on holiday and the third, Sergeant Wilkins, is in bed with a bad back. To be honest, I think this would be beyond his pay grade anyway. We’ve sent for backup from Guernsey and there are two officers on their way, but in the meantime I thought it sensible to get at least some sort of investigation started. Strike while the iron is hot, so to speak.’

‘You did exactly the right thing,’ Hawthorne assured him. He turned to the doctor. ‘You examined the body?’

‘It’s the most horrible thing I’ve ever seen,’ Dr Queripel replied. He was in his thirties with fair hair that was already thinning and a lean face. He looked thoroughly decent in his old-fashioned suit. I could imagine him walking a dog, smoking a pipe. Perhaps not at the same time.

‘Cause of death?’

‘Mr le Mesurier has been stabbed with a paperknife. I think the knife belonged to him, by the way.’

‘You’d seen him use it?’ Hawthorne asked.

‘Yes. I wasn’t actually his GP but I’d come over to the house once or twice. He has an office upstairs and it was on his desk.’ He lowered his voice and took a step closer so that Judith Matheson wouldn’t hear. ‘As far as I can see, there’s a single deep incision at the front of the neck. I imagine the knife will be lodged in the vertebral body and may have penetrated the spinal cord. There’s quite a lot of blood, so it could have nicked the carotid artery too.’

‘No chance of suicide?’

‘Absolutely not. You can see for yourself.’

Hawthorne nodded. ‘I should take a look …’

‘Of course. We have to go out through the garden.’ Dr Queripel glanced at me, acknowledging my presence for the first time. ‘You’ll go alone?’

‘Actually, if you don’t mind, I’ll take Tony with me. I always find him very helpful.’

‘I suppose I’d better come too,’ Matheson said with reluctance.

‘Well, all right.’

The four of us went out of the sun lounge and into the garden. I was completely thrown by what Hawthorne had just said. How was I ever helpful? All I ever did was write about him, but of course that was exactly what he was hoping for now. Without realising it, I had stumbled onto – or into – the third book in our three-book contract. For anyone reading this, I suppose it will have been obvious from the start. I wouldn’t have been writing about Alderney if we’d just gone to the island, answered a few questions about books and flown home again.

But for me, everything had changed. To give one example, most of what I have described up to now has been done from memory because I had no idea I was going to need any of the finer details, but from this point onwards I began to take careful notes. It was strange, really. I had come to Alderney in the hope that I would be introducing Hawthorne to my world: books, lectures and all the rest of it. But instead, I had once again been dragged into his.

We followed the path that had been illuminated during the party and for the first time I got a proper view of the gun emplacement at the far end of the garden and its relationship to the house. The Lookout, as its name implied, had views of the sea, presumably visible from the upper floors. The garden actually ran from the back of the house to the edge of a cliff, with a beach some distance below. As we drew nearer, I could see the water through the trees.

In the daylight, the Snuggery presented itself as a grey cement box about the size of a single-car garage with metal doors that swung open like shutters and a modern glass door behind. There was a flat roof that doubled as a viewing platform, with three narrow windows just below. A flight of concrete steps climbed steeply up the side. The whole thing was enclosed by shrubs and wild flowers, as if it was trying to hide away from the modern world. It was actually quite a distance from the main house: with the party in full swing and the jazz band playing, it would have been quite possible for Charles le Mesurier to cry out without being heard.

The metal doors had been pulled back and the glass door was half open too. Colin Matheson stayed where he was, not wanting to go back in, so Hawthorne continued without him, accompanied by Dr Queripel. I hesitated for a moment too. Then I went in.

From gunnery to snuggery: there was something distasteful about the change of use. Originally built for killing Allied seamen, the concrete box had been turned into something like a Turkish harem, the walls concealed behind heavy velvet curtains, with a thick Persian rug and an ornate coffee table surrounded by cushions on the floor. The curtains on the back wall had been pulled to one side, revealing a second set of metal doors, identical to the ones through which we had entered. It might have been possible to come in this way, climbing up from the beach, but they were bolted from the inside.

Two low leather banquettes with an arrangement of dark-coloured cushions had been set against the long walls, facing each other, and an elaborate light hung from the ceiling, the wooden shade perforated with tiny triangles, circles and crescent moons. An equally exotic drinks cabinet stood to one side, one door open to reveal a selection of glasses and bottles on mirrored shelves. All that was missing was the hookah and the belly dancers.

Charles le Mesurier was sitting in a high-backed wooden chair – actually it was more like a throne – facing the garden, with his back to the second door. I’ve described many deaths in the course of my work, in books and on TV, but I’m not sure I’ve ever managed to capture the absolute horror of the real thing. It’s the smell that hits you first, sickening and unmistakable. Dead actors look nothing like dead people. Once the blood has settled and life has drained away, the human body doesn’t look remotely human. Knife wounds are particularly disgusting. And I write about these things for entertainment! Sometimes I wonder what I’m doing.

The first thing I saw was the knife handle protruding from Charles le Mesurier’s throat. It was slim, silver, ornate; a letter opener, Dr Queripel had said. The silk jacket and trousers he had worn at the party clung to him, glued there by the blood that had fountained down from the wound. There was a dark pool of it around his tasselled suede loafers.

‘It’s merciless,’ Dr Queripel muttered.

It seemed an odd choice of word, but then, with a jolt, I realised what he meant. Before he had been killed, le Mesurier’s wrists and ankles had been tied to the chair with brown parcel tape. At least, three of them had. His right hand had been left free and now lay palm upwards, limp, the fingers curled as if he was asking for money. It was a bizarre detail. What could possibly have been done to him before he was murdered, and what had his one hand been needed for?

‘You’ve seen?’ Dr Queripel asked. He was talking to Hawthorne.

Hawthorne had approached the body, avoiding the blood. He looked carefully at the entrance wound made by the knife, then examined the back of le Mesurier’s head. Finally, his eyes travelled down to the dead man’s hands. ‘Was he left-handed or right-handed?’ he asked.

‘I don’t really know. Why do you ask?’

‘His watch,’ Hawthorne said. ‘He wore a Rolex, but it’s gone.’ It was true. The shirtsleeve, saturated in blood, hung open, revealing a wrist that was bare.

‘I don’t know.’ Dr Queripel was aghast. ‘I have a feeling he was right-handed. But are you really suggesting that somebody did all this to steal his watch?’

‘There’s no sign of any break-in and he’s wearing the same clothes he had on at the party, so it looks as if he came straight here, either alone or with someone. Maybe he’d arranged a meeting. There’s a contusion on the back of his head – I’d say he’s been hit with a blunt object. He was forced into the chair and tied down. One wrist was left free. There has to be a reason.’

‘Maybe the killer ran out of tape,’ I said.

This suggestion was greeted with silence.

Dr Queripel took a step closer and Hawthorne held up a hand. ‘Please be careful!’

The doctor stopped and Hawthorne pointed to an area of carpet about halfway between the chair and the door into the garden. The dark red and mauve pattern made it difficult to make out what he had seen, but looking closer, I noticed the shape of a partial footprint. There was a curve where the toecap had come into contact with the blood. It could have been left behind by a man or a woman, but from the size I got the impression that it was someone with small feet.

‘Dear God!’ Queripel exclaimed. The footprint pointed towards the door. ‘This is how he made his getaway!’

‘Yes. The trail continues back into the garden.’

‘So he was knocked out, tied down and then killed,’ Queripel said. ‘And whoever did it went back to the house … presumably while the party was still going on.’ He thought for a moment. ‘I suppose that narrows the field.’

I was really hoping we had finished in the Snuggery, but before we left Hawthorne gently pulled back the curtains on both sides to reveal bare concrete walls with no windows. He examined the second set of doors and, using a handkerchief, slid back the bolt. He opened the door and the sunlight blazed in, as if determined to purify the grim scene. All three of us breathed in the fresh air with gratitude. Finally, Hawthorne closed the door and locked it again, leaving everything as it had been when we arrived.

He made his way back towards us, then stopped and knelt down. As I stood there watching, he reached into his jacket pocket and took out a business card from the Braye Beach Hotel and used it to scoop up a coin that had been lying on the rug near one of the curtains. He held it up and showed it to me. It was a two-euro piece.

‘Do you think that was his?’ I asked.

‘Your guess is as good as mine, mate.’

‘We use English currency on Alderney,’ Dr Queripel said. ‘But France is only eight miles away.’

‘His wife, Helen, had just come back from Paris,’ I added. ‘And the performance poet Maïssa Lamar is French.’

I thought I was being helpful but it was as if Hawthorne hadn’t heard.

‘I think, maybe, you should leave it for the police,’ Queripel said with a touch of admonition in his voice.

‘Whatever you say,’ Hawthorne replied cheerfully, and he slid the coin gently back onto the floor.

We went back outside where Colin Matheson was waiting for us, still looking queasy. ‘Have you seen enough?’ he asked.

‘More than enough,’ I said.

Hawthorne was unfazed. ‘Well, Charles le Mesurier certainly didn’t have a very nice end to the evening,’ he said. ‘How’s Mrs le Mesurier getting on?’

‘She’s gone back to bed. She’s in shock.’

‘When did she find him?’

‘This morning.’ Colin Matheson looked exhausted. ‘She woke up at half past seven and realised he wasn’t in the bed. She looked for him in the spare rooms and downstairs. Then she saw the door of the gunnery was open and so she came over here.’ He shook his head. ‘It must have been absolutely ghastly for her.’

‘I’ve given her a mild sedative,’ the doctor said.

Matheson turned to Hawthorne. ‘I don’t know if you have any thoughts, Mr Hawthorne …’

‘Well, first of all, nobody must leave the island.’

‘Absolutely. Mr Torode said the same thing.’

‘Who is Mr Torode?’

‘He’s the deputy chief officer of the Guernsey Crime Services. He’s one of the officers who’s coming over.’

‘Right.’ If Hawthorne was put out, he didn’t show it. ‘Let’s not waste any time while he’s on his way. I’d like to talk to Helen le Mesurier. And it would be helpful if you could pick up Marc Bellamy and that girl he was working with and bring them across.’

‘Why?’ Matheson was surprised.

‘They organised the party and they were looking after the guests. If le Mesurier decided to slip off into the garden – and, for that matter, if anyone followed him – they might have noticed.’

That made sense. With a wall completely enclosing the garden and the back door locked, the killer would surely have had to approach the Snuggery from the house. So it had to be someone who had been at the party. Someone I had seen.

We began to walk back towards the sun lounge.

‘What was your relationship with le Mesurier?’ Hawthorne asked. He directed the question at Dr Queripel.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘I’m interested to know what you were doing in his study. You said you’d been in there a couple of times and that was how you knew about the paperknife. But you weren’t his GP and there was obviously no love lost between you …’

‘How can you possibly say that?’

‘Well, you haven’t exactly been shedding tears over his demise. You referred to him as Mr le Mesurier, so you weren’t on first-name terms, and I didn’t see you at the party last night. Given that Alderney isn’t exactly a whirl of social activity, I’m assuming you weren’t invited.’

Dr Queripel was the sort of man who blushed easily and he did so now. ‘As a matter of fact, there’s plenty to do on Alderney,’ he replied. ‘And last night, my wife and I had a very pleasant evening playing bridge. But you’re right. I was not on friendly terms with Mr le Mesurier and the reason I saw him on two occasions was strictly business.’

‘What business?’

‘The power line.’

‘Dr Queripel is one of the most vocal opponents to the Normandy-Alderney-Britain power line,’ Matheson cut in. He looked embarrassed. Or maybe he was angry. He was certainly uncomfortable. ‘He’s actually organised quite a few demonstrations against it.’

‘So you’re the one painting “BAN NAB” all over the place?’ Hawthorne asked.

‘Not at all. I would never take part in that sort of activity. But those of us who are opposed to this awful scheme are entitled to have their voices heard and I had two meetings with le Mesurier, in his study, to get our point across.’

We had stopped walking about halfway between the Snuggery and the house. Colin Matheson and Dr Queripel were facing each other like two boxers squaring up before a fight and at that moment all thought of the murder seemed to have vanished.

‘What did you say to him?’ Hawthorne asked.

‘The obvious. The power line and the construction around it will rip the heart out of Alderney. The cable landing chambers, the transition posts, the converter stations. There are almost no foreseeable benefits and the damage to the environment, to wildlife and to tourism will be irreversible.’

‘Why did you feel you had to talk to le Mesurier?’ Hawthorne asked. ‘I thought Colin here was in charge of the committee making the decisions.’

Dr Queripel nodded. ‘Colin is the head of the committee set up by the States, but everyone knows that it’s le Mesurier who’s pulling the strings.’ He stared across at the other man. ‘I still don’t know how he got to you, Colin, or how he made you dance to his tune. Or maybe it’s just a question of how much he offered you—’

‘That’s outrageous!’

‘—but it was le Mesurier who wanted this bloody thing and he was the one who was going to benefit the most.’

‘In what way?’

‘Well, for a start, he’d sold his own land for the converter station. He wouldn’t disclose how much he’d made out of that, but I bet it was a damn sight more than anyone else on this island was going to see—’

‘You should be careful what you say, Henry,’ Matheson cut in, glaring at Dr Queripel. ‘And it might help if you were a little less hypocritical. Everyone knows that the only reason you’re against this project is because you’re worried about your view.’

‘What is Alderney without its views?’

‘It’s a beautiful island and it’s a shame that the converter station has to go between your house and the sea, but it had to go somewhere.’

‘And it’s just a coincidence that it goes on le Mesurier’s land?’ Queripel was fighting to keep his self-control. ‘Who knows what deals he was making with Électricité du Nord? Without him, this whole thing would never have got as far as it did and – with a bit of luck – now that he’s dead, perhaps it’ll all go away.’

‘You don’t sound too sorry he’s been killed,’ Hawthorne remarked.

‘I’m not. Tying him to a chair and putting a knife through him? I can think of fifty people on this island who would have been happy to do it. And before you interrupt me, Colin, you’re probably one of them. He had you twisted round his little finger. I’ve known you half my life. You’d never have voted for NAB if you weren’t being forced into it, and if it turns out that you decided you’d had enough and had to put an end to it, I’d be the first to shake your hand.’

Henry Queripel spun on his heel and continued towards the house. Colin looked at us, trying to find something to say. ‘It’s all nonsense,’ he muttered. ‘I hardly knew Charles. I mean, obviously I saw him from time to time. I gave him legal advice and more recently, of course, there was the festival, which he sponsored and my wife organised. But to suggest he had any influence over me … that’s plain wrong. I supported the power line because I thought it was the right thing for the island.’

‘And will you still support it now?’ Hawthorne asked.

‘Of course. Well … I suppose we’ll have to see.’

The three of us went after the doctor. Hawthorne was smiling and I could see he had enjoyed the whole encounter. After all, we’d only been at the murder scene a few minutes and already two possible suspects had revealed themselves to him. And all he’d had to do was watch.