A Place of Hiding

“What sort of payment are we talking about?” Simon asked. Five thousand dollars, Cherokee told them. At their expressions of incredulity, he hastened to say that yeah, it was outrageous as all get-out and the amount of the payment was the number-one reason China had insisted they open the package because who the heck would give someone two free tickets to Europe and five thousand dollars just to carry something over from LA? But it turned out that doing outrageous stuff with money was what this whole deal was about in the first place. The man who wanted the architectural plans was richer than Howard Hughes, and he evidently did outrageous stuff with his money all the time. However, they weren’t met at the airport by someone with a cheque or a briefcase filled with cash or anything remotely resembling what they’d expected. Instead, they were met by a near-mute man called Kevin Something who hustled them to a van and drove them to a very cool spread a few miles away.

China was freaked out by this turn of events, which admittedly was disconcerting. There they were, enclosed in a car with a total stranger who didn’t say fifteen words to them. It was very weird. But at the same time, it was like an adventure, and for his part Cherokee was intrigued. Their destination turned out to be an awesome manor house sitting on God only knew how much acreage. The place was ancient—and completely restored, Debs—and China shifted into photographic mode the moment she laid eyes on it. Here was a whole Architectural Digest spread just waiting for her to shoot it.

China decided then and there that she wanted to do the photographs. Not only of the house but of the estate itself, which contained everything from duck ponds to prehistoric whatevers. China knew she’d been presented with an opportunity she might never get again, and although it meant taking the photographs on spec, she was willing to invest the time, the money, and the effort because the place was that sensational. This was fine by Cherokee. She thought it would take only a couple of days and he’d have time to explore the island. The only question was whether the owner would go for the idea. Some people don’t like their homes showing up in magazines. Too much inspiration for your B-and-E types.

Their host turned out to be a man called Guy—rhymed with key— Brouard, who was happy enough with the idea. He urged Cherokee and China to spend the night or perhaps a few days or whatever it took to get the photographs right. My sister and I live alone here, he told them, and visitors are always a diversion for us.

The man’s son was also there as things turned out, and Cherokee thought at first that Guy Brouard might be hoping that China and the son would hook up. But the son was a disappearing type who showed up only at mealtimes and otherwise kept to himself. The sister was nice, though, and so was Brouard. So Cherokee and China felt right at home. For her part, China connected big with Guy. They shared a common interest in architecture: hers because photographing buildings was her job, his because he was planning to put up a building on the island. He even took her to see the site and showed her some of the other structures on the island that were important historically. China should photograph all of Guernsey, he told her. She should do an entire book of pictures, not just enough for a magazine article. For so tiny a place it was steeped in history, and every society that had ever dwelt upon it had left its imprint in the form of buildings.

For their fourth and final night with the Brouards, a party had long been scheduled. It was a dressed-to-the-nines blowout that appeared to involve a cast of thousands. Neither China nor Cherokee knew what it was for, until midnight, when Guy Brouard gathered everyone together and announced that the design for his building—it turned out to be a museum—had finally been chosen. Drum rolls, excitement, champagne corks popping, and fireworks afterwards as he named the architect whose plans Cherokee and China had carried from California. A water colour of the place was brought out on an easel, and the partyers oohed, aahed, and went on drinking the Brouards’ champagne until something like three in the morning.

The next day, neither Cherokee nor his sister was surprised when no one was up and about. They made their way to the kitchen around eightthirty and browsed until they found the cereal, the coffee, and the milk. They assumed it was okay to make their own breakfast while the Brouards slept off the previous night’s drunk. They ate, phoned for a taxi, and left for the airport. They never saw anyone from the estate again. They flew to Paris and spent two days seeing the sights they’d only gazed upon in pictures. They were set to do the same in Rome, but as they went through customs at Da Vinci airport, Interpol stopped them. The police packed them back to Guernsey, where they were wanted, they were told, for questioning. When they asked, Questioning about what? all they were told was that “a serious incident requires your presence on the island at once.”

Their presence, it turned out, was required at the police station in St. Peter Port. They were held alone in separate cells: Cherokee for twenty four pretty bad hours and China for three nightmarish days that turned into an appearance in front of the magistrate and a trip to the remand section of the prison, where she was now being held.

“For what?” Deborah reached across the table for Cherokee’s hand.

“Cherokee, what are they charging her with?”

“Murder,” he replied hollowly. “It’s completely insane. They’re charging China with killing Guy Brouard.”





Chapter 2