A Line to Kill

12 Civil Disobedience

Terry was still waiting for us outside the hotel and quickly folded away a copy of the Alderney Journal when he saw us approach. We got in the back of the car and Hawthorne told him where we wanted to go. ‘There’s something you can do for me,’ he added as we pulled away.

‘Whatever you want, Mr Hawthorne!’ Terry was so excited, I was surprised he was able to stay on the road.

‘Do you know the driver of the minibus? The one that picked up guests from the party last night?’

‘That’s Tom McKinley. Of course I know him.’

‘Could you tell him I want to talk to him?’

Hawthorne was right next to me and I glanced at him curiously. ‘Is this about Anne Cleary?’ I asked.

‘It would be interesting to know if she really was on that bus.’

‘You’re not serious.’ It had never occurred to me that she might have lied about her journey home the previous evening.

‘Actually, I am. When someone tells me something, I check it out. That’s what I do.’

‘I can’t think of any reason why Anne Cleary would want to kill Charles le Mesurier.’

‘So what’s new?’ Hawthorne didn’t speak to me again until we arrived.

Our destination was Beaumont Farm, the home of Dr Queripel and his wife. It was on the east side of the island, where the two coastlines curved in towards each other, between Saye and Longis beaches. Curiously, the house itself had no view of the sea, at least not from the living room. Instead, a double-sized picture window looked out onto an oddly disjointed landscape. Much of it was made up of scrub grassland, the wild mix of grass and bracken that I’d seen all over the island, but it was interrupted by strips of cultivated farmland and allotments. A couple of tropical palm trees sprouted incongruously in the middle of it all, as if planted quite by accident. Further away, there was a scattering of industrial buildings – sheds and warehouses – and in the far distance, under a huge sky, a dead straight line that could have demarcated the end of the world but which was actually the edge of the island, with the English Channel on the other side.

According to Terry, the house had been in the Queripel family for generations and it certainly looked the part: solid and sensible rather than beautiful, but dominating its surroundings with a self-confidence that any new build could only envy. It was white with black beams, two storeys high, with a front door and six perfectly symmetrical windows on one side and the inevitable French windows looking out onto a garden filled with flowers on the other. The roof was red-tiled with a single, central chimney, which I guessed would almost certainly be in working order.

Terry also gave us a full rundown on the occupants. That was the joy of living in Alderney. Everyone knew everyone. More than that. They seemed to know everything about everyone too.

‘He’s a good stick, Dr Queripel. Everyone likes him. My mum had a cancer scare last year and he looked after her, made sure she got into the University Hospital in Southampton. He inherited the house from his dad. He was also a doctor but he died in a car accident about five years ago in the South of France, his wife with him. Terrible for Dr Queripel, losing both his parents that way. Mrs Queripel’s lovely. She teaches at the local school and the kids will do anything for her … except pass their exams. She’s been fighting to keep it open. Spends half her life trying to get funding … new this, new that. Never stops! People say it’s only thanks to her that it’s still there. But you can’t imagine Alderney without a school. It wouldn’t bear thinking about.’

I was relieved when we finally pulled in at the edge of a narrow lane. Hawthorne and I got out. Terry stayed behind the wheel. He was still watching us as we walked up the path to the house.

‘Tony, do me a favour, will you?’ Hawthorne said abruptly as we reached the front door. ‘While I’m talking, try not to give anything away.’

I knew that he was referring to our last two cases. On both occasions, he’d accused me of speaking out of turn. ‘That’s a little unfair,’ I retorted. ‘I’d have said I’ve been very careful so far.’

‘Maybe not as careful as you think.’

He rang the bell.

It was opened a few moments later by a strikingly attractive young woman, even if her looks somehow took me back to the 1940s. She had blue eyes and blonde hair tied back in a bun. She had no make-up apart from two very precise strokes of bright red lipstick, accentuated by the paleness of her skin. She was wearing a cardigan and baggy trousers. As she stood there, examining us, I realised that I had seen her before. She was the woman who had been sitting next to George Elkin at my session in the cinema and who had asked the question about teen literacy.

‘How can I help you?’ She managed to be polite and suspicious at the same time.

‘Are you Mrs Queripel?’ Hawthorne asked.

‘Yes.’ Now she was a little puzzled.

‘My name is Hawthorne …’

‘I know who you are.’

‘I spoke to your husband this morning. Is he in?’

‘Yes, he is.’ She gave the information reluctantly and she didn’t move, still blocking the way.

‘I’d like a word with him. Can we come in?’

‘Yes. Of course.’ Finally, she stepped aside and we went into the homeliest of homes: floral curtains, patterned wallpaper, scattered rugs, furniture that was old without quite being antique, a cat asleep on a rocking chair. ‘I’m Susan Queripel. Please come this way.’ She led us past the open door of the living room and I glimpsed the picture window, an upright piano and two striped sofas.

‘Who is it, darling?’ It was Henry Queripel who had called out and a moment later we entered the kitchen, where three people were sitting around a stripped pine table with a kettle steaming gently on an Aga to one side.

Dr Queripel was nearest to the door. He was sitting at the head of the table with his foot dangling, one leg over his knee. I was surprised to see George Elkin, the historian, opposite him. The last person was a woman I had not yet met. She was next to Elkin and my first thought was that she might be his mother. She was twice his size and looked several years older than him. But not that old. On second thoughts, she had to be his wife. She looked cheerful enough, with jet-black hair cut short and a wide smile that dimpled her cheeks, but her massive weight was unnatural and I could see the discomfort in her eyes. She was suffering from some sort of thyroid disease and I even wondered if she was able to walk. Her smile faded as we came in.

‘Mr Hawthorne!’ Dr Queripel got to his feet. ‘I didn’t expect to see you again so soon.’

‘He said he wanted to talk to you,’ Susan Queripel explained, as if she was to blame for letting us in.

All four of them were looking guilty and I could see why. We had interrupted what might have been a war council. There were leaflets and photographs scattered across the table and a great pile of flyers bearing the palindrome I’d seen as I left the airport: BAN NAB. About half a dozen makeshift signs with the same message in bright red letters had been prepared and were leaning against the far wall, waiting to be hammered into place. Elkin had smudges of paint on his fingers; caught, quite literally, red-handed.

‘I hope I’m not interrupting anything,’ Hawthorne said cheerfully.

‘Not at all.’ If Dr Queripel had been embarrassed, he was recovering quickly. ‘Would you like to sit down? Can we offer you some tea?’

‘No, thank you.’

‘If you want to speak to me on my own, we can go next door.’

‘No. I’m happy to meet everyone.’

‘We’ve already met,’ George Elkin said. ‘This is my wife, Georgina. This gentleman is a detective,’ he told her. ‘He’s here about the murder.’

George and Georgina. Somehow it suited them.

‘And since you ask, yes, you have interrupted us.’ Susan Queripel had a self-confidence that was quite steely. She didn’t even glance at her husband as she contradicted him. ‘We’re having a meeting about the Normandy-Alderney-Britain power line.’

Hawthorne turned to Dr Queripel. ‘When we met at The Lookout this morning, you told me you weren’t involved with those.’ He glanced at the painted signs.

‘Yes. That was wrong of me and I apologise. Obviously, I was shocked by what had just happened to Charles le Mesurier and I wasn’t thinking straight.’

‘You lied to me.’

‘Actually, that’s not the case. You asked me if I was involved in the painting and I don’t do any of that. I’m useless with a brush.’

‘I do the painting,’ Susan Queripel said, with pride.

‘We’ve had to be very careful,’ Dr Queripel continued. ‘Charles le Mesurier was quite a formidable opponent and he wouldn’t have hesitated to bring the full force of the law against us if we’d crossed the line. From the very start, we’ve restricted ourselves to what you might call acts of civil disobedience. The signs, some graffiti, pamphleteering, demonstrations …’

‘And murder?’ Hawthorne suggested.

Susan Queripel laughed. ‘That’s a ridiculous accusation. If you think any of us would have harmed Charles, then you obviously don’t know anything. My husband is a doctor. I teach at the school. George is a well-known historian. None of us has ever committed a crime in our lives. We’re merely exercising our democratic right as citizens of this island. We want to stop the power line. It’s true that things may change because of what’s happened. But that had nothing to do with us. The reason we’ve met today is to decide how to continue the struggle.’

‘It’s possible that we may not need to,’ George Elkin added. ‘Now that le Mesurier’s gone, Colin Matheson might explain why he made such a terrible decision to support the line in the first place. My view is that he was running scared. Well, he doesn’t need to be scared any more.’

‘None of us do!’ Georgina exclaimed.

Hawthorne had already returned to Dr Queripel. ‘When we spoke this morning, you suggested that le Mesurier had some sort of hold over Colin Matheson.’

‘I still believe that.’

‘He was firmly against the power line when it was first announced,’ Susan Queripel cut in. ‘He sat at this very table and told us that it was a terrible idea.’

‘So what changed?’

‘What changed was that he was appointed by the States to head up the NAB committee. It’s funny to think that when we heard that, we were all delighted.’

‘It was the best possible news,’ Dr Queripel agreed. ‘He was our friend. We’d known each other for years. I was the best man at his wedding, for heaven’s sake!’

‘But then almost overnight he turned against us,’ Susan Queripel continued. ‘He knew what it meant to us personally, but suddenly that didn’t matter any more. He started talking about the financial benefits it might bring to the island.’

‘There are no financial benefits,’ Georgina scowled.

‘Cheaper energy. Faster internet. New jobs. That’s what they promised, but none of it is true.’

‘I’m surprised Judith went along with it,’ Dr Queripel said. ‘She’s not stupid. And she loves this island. I can’t believe she’d just sit back and watch her husband help to wreck it.’

‘What can you tell me about Judith Matheson?’ Hawthorne asked.

‘Colin’s nothing without her and everyone here knows it.’ It was George Elkin who answered. ‘Her family has been in Alderney for generations. They made a fortune out of travel and tourism. Judith set up Colin with his chambers and she got him into the States. It’s her house they live in and her wealth that keeps their three children in private school. And God help him if he steps out of line. She’s the one who wears the trousers in that relationship.’

I wasn’t surprised to hear this. Even from the emails she had sent me, Judith Matheson had struck me as a bit of a control freak and meeting her had only confirmed this. As for Colin, he was unimpressive enough when he was on his own, but on the only occasion when I had seen them together, the ‘designated driver’ had been almost invisible.

‘He’s a coward!’ Georgina said, solemnly agreeing with her husband.

‘I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. Charles le Mesurier had something on him. It’s the only way to explain it.’

‘So what happens now – with your protests?’ Hawthorne asked.

‘We’ll wait and see,’ Dr Queripel said. ‘Nothing’s actually been signed and we’ve written to OLAF—’

‘Who are OLAF?’ I asked. I’d said nothing up to now, remembering Hawthorne’s remarks.

‘They’re the anti-fraud office working for the EU. They investigate dodgy deals, corruption and the rest of it. We never heard back from them, but we’re not giving up.’

‘The whole thing could go away now that le Mesurier is dead,’ Elkin said. ‘Whoever killed him could have done us a huge favour.’

Hawthorne rounded on him. ‘You were there that night,’ he said. ‘At the party.’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you go into the Snuggery?’

‘Why would I have done that?’

‘Well, possibly to put a knife into the man who was going to dig up your old grandpa and stick a cable through his grave.’

‘How dare you say that to me? Have you no shame?’

But Hawthorne had already moved on. ‘What about you, Dr Queripel?’

The doctor’s cheeks reddened. ‘I already told you. I was here in the house all evening, playing bridge.’

‘Who with?’

‘My wife and Georgina.’

‘Forgive me. I may be wrong. But that only makes three.’

‘No. That’s right. It was three-handed bridge.’ There was an awkward pause. ‘We usually play with George, but he felt he had to drive over to The Lookout, even though he didn’t want to attend the party.’

For once, I knew exactly what was going through Hawthorne’s mind. All four of them had a motive to murder le Mesurier. And they had arranged things so that they were each other’s alibis. Could they have all been in it together?

‘When were you on the beach?’ Hawthorne asked, unexpectedly.

Dr Queripel realised that Hawthorne was talking to him and his cheeks went a shade darker. I had never seen anyone do embarrassment so well. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘It’s a simple enough question. Have you walked on the beach today?’

‘No. I’ve been indoors.’

‘It’s just that when I came in, I noticed the bottom of your shoe. It’s the same shoe you were wearing this morning. It has a distinctive round cap, and more to the point, there are grains of sand caught in the sole.’

‘Are there?’ The doctor had crossed his knee again. He twisted the shoe and examined it. Hawthorne was right. The sand was still there.

‘I may have walked on the beach yesterday.’

‘Which beach?’

‘I don’t remember.’ Dr Queripel was trying to find a way out of this. But he couldn’t lie. It was a small island. He would almost certainly have been seen. ‘It might have been Saye Beach.’

‘Near le Mesurier’s place.’

‘The other end, actually. I’d heard there’d been a sighting of a black-winged kite and I was hoping to spot it.’

‘You’re a birdwatcher?’

‘Occasionally.’

‘I thought that was his speciality …’ Hawthorne gestured at George Elkin.

‘Henry and I often go out together,’ Elkin replied, coming to his friend’s defence. ‘I think it’s fair to say that we all have a shared love for this island: its wildlife, its topography, its history, its atmosphere of peace.’ He drew a breath. ‘It’s everything that NAB threatens to destroy.’

‘You know, actually, I think I’ve had enough of this,’ Susan Queripel said. ‘This is my home. You have absolutely no right to come in here and ask us questions, and certainly not in the way you’ve been doing. I’d like you to leave. Both of you.’

Well, that was something that had never happened before. I’d seen Hawthorne upset plenty of people, but none of them had ever tried to throw him out. He didn’t argue with her. If anything, he seemed amused. ‘Whatever you say, Mrs Queripel.’ He got to his feet.

It was George Elkin who opened the front door for us and walked with us down the drive as if to make sure we actually got into our car. But once we’d reached the lane, he stopped and looked across the fields that spread out towards the horizon. It was the middle of the day and the sun was directly overhead. I could smell salt in the air. The grass was bowing gently in the breeze.

‘It may seem all very stupid to you,’ he said. ‘But this is what it’s all about.’ He pointed. ‘That’s Charles le Mesurier’s land. He’s sold it to Électricité du Nord, presumably at a massive profit to himself, and that’s where they’ll build the converter stations, three of them, covering twenty-five acres, with facility areas and new roads attached. Do you know what a converter station looks like? It’s concrete and metal with cables and fences. It’s probably the ugliest building in the world and that’s where it’s going to be. No wonder Henry and Susan are thinking of leaving. They’ve lived in that house all their married life, but it’ll be valueless, of course. They’ll be ruined.

‘But it doesn’t end there,’ Elkin went on. ‘They’re putting a transition chamber on Longis Beach, where the sea and the land cables will connect. I don’t think we’ll be seeing much wildlife after that.’ His finger swept across the horizon. ‘And they’re going to run a 1,400-megawatt link cable across there, through Longis Common. Yes, you’re right, Mr Hawthorne. They’re going to dig up my old grandpa. But he’s not the only one. There are more than a thousand bodies buried there, poor souls who died in the most dreadful way, starved to death, tortured, murdered.’

He stood there, his face expressionless, his eyes far away. It took him a while to return to us.

‘I know you’re only doing your job, Mr Hawthorne, and you don’t really care how you get your results. I was there when you were giving your talk and it struck me then that you have absolutely no heart at all. You don’t believe in the law. You don’t want to help people or society. You don’t seem to have any understanding of morality at all. You’re a detective. That’s all that matters to you.

‘Well, I hope you do find whoever it was who killed Charles le Mesurier. It’s wrong that such a person should be at large. But when you arrive at that moment, I hope you’ll reflect on this. As the two of you stand face to face, you and the killer, I’m not sure there’ll be a great difference between the two of you. I think you live by the same rules.’

As a parting shot, it was a good one. Neither of us spoke as he turned and walked back to the house.