A Place of Hiding

“The recipient of all the wire transfers from Mr. Brouard’s father. Over two million pounds in wire transfers, as it turns out.”


Margaret tried to look interested rather than aghast, but she felt as if a steel band were closing over her intestines. She forced herself to keep her gaze off her son. If Guy had actually sent him money, she thought, if Adrian had lied to her about this as well...Because hadn’t International Access been the name Adrian had been contemplating for the company he’d wished to start? So typical of him to title the scheme before he had it up and running. But wasn’t that it? His brainchild and the brilliant idea that would make him millions if only his father would act the part of venture capitalist? Yet Adrian had claimed his father had invested nothing in his idea, not so much as fifty pence. If that wasn’t the case, if Guy had given him the money all along...

Anything that made Adrian look guilty of anything had to be dealt with at once. Margaret said, “Mr. St. James, I can assure you that if Guy sent money to England, he didn’t send it to Adrian.”

“No?” St. James sounded as pleasant as she herself was attempting to sound, but she didn’t miss the look he exchanged with his wife, nor did she misinterpret what it meant. At the least, they thought it curious that she was speaking for an adult son who appeared perfectly capable of speaking for himself. At worst, they thought her an interfering bitch. Well, let them think what they would. She had more important concerns than how she appeared to two strangers.

“I expect my son would have told me about it. He tells me everything,” she said. “Since he didn’t tell me about his father sending him money, Guy didn’t send him money. There you have it.”

St. James said, “Indeed,” and looked at Adrian. “Mr. Brouard? Perhaps for reasons other than business?”

“You’ve already asked that,” Margaret pointed out.

“I don’t think he’s actually answered,” St. James’s wife said politely.

“Not completely, that is.”

And she was exactly the sort of woman Margaret particularly loathed: sitting there so placidly, all tumbling hair and perfect skin. She was probably delighted to be seen and not heard, like a Victorian wife who’d learned to lie back and contemplate England.

Margaret said, “See here,” and Adrian interrupted. “I didn’t have money off my dad,” he said. “For any reason.”

Margaret said, “There. Now, if there’s nothing else, we have a great deal to do before I leave.” She started to rise.

St. James’s next question stopped her. “Is there anyone else, then, Mr. Brouard? Anyone else you know of in England whom he might have wanted to help out in some way? Someone who might be associated with a group called International Access?”

This was the limit. They’d given the bloody man what he wanted. Now what they wanted was his departure. “If Guy was sending his money anywhere,” Margaret said archly, “there was probably a woman involved. I, for one, suggest you look into that. Adrian? Darling? Will you help me with my suitcases? Surely it’s time we left.”

“Any woman in particular?” St. James asked. “I’m aware of his relationship with Mrs. Abbott, but as she’s here on Guernsey...Is there someone in England we should be talking to?”

They would, Margaret saw, have to give him the name if they were to be rid of him. And far better that the name should come from them than that this man should dig it up for himself and use it later to tar her son. From them it could still sound innocent. From anyone else it would sound as if they had something to hide. She said to Adrian, attempting to make her tone casual if not slightly impatient in order to let the interlopers know they were imposing upon her time, “Oh...There was that young woman who came with you to visit your father last year. Your little chessplaying friend. What was her name? Carol? Carmen? No. Carmel. That was it. Carmel Fitzgerald. Guy was quite taken with her, wasn’t he? They even had something of a fling together, as I recall. Once your father knew you and she weren’t...well, you know. Wasn’t that her name, Adrian?”

“Dad and Carmel—”

Margaret kept going, to make certain the St. Jameses understood.