A Place of Hiding

“Call the guy in charge,” China told him. “The investigator. Le Gallez. Holberry probably got in touch with him. He said he’d make arrangements...Look. I’d just like to see my brother, okay?”


The man was immovable. If arrangements had been made, he informed China, by Roger Holberry via anyone, then that person—be it DCI Le Gallez or the Queen of Sheba—would have made certain that reception had access to that information. Barring that occurrence, no one save the suspect’s advocate was allowed inside to see him.

“But Holberry is his advocate,” China protested. The man smiled in perfect unfriendliness. “I don’t see him with you,”

he replied, making much of looking over her shoulder. China began to make a hot remark which started with “Listen, you little—” when Deborah intervened. She said calmly to the special, “Perhaps you can just take some sweets to Mr. River...?” at which poi nt Chi na said abruptly, “Forget it,” and stalked out of the station, her delivery unmade. In the courtyard that served as the car park, Deborah found her sitting on the edge of a planter, savagely tearing at the shrubbery it held. As Deborah approached, China said, “Bastards. What d’they think I’m going to do? Break him out?”

“Perhaps we can get through to Le Gallez ourselves.”

“I’m sure he’d be thrilled to give us a break.” China threw her handful of leaves to the ground.

“Did you ask the advocate how he’s coping?”

“ ‘As well as can be expected, considering the circumstances,’ ” China replied. “Which was supposed to make me feel better but which could mean anything, and don’t I know it. There’s jack shit in those cells, Deborah. Bare walls, bare floor, a wooden bench that they’ll only too cooperatively make up into a bed if you’re forced to be there overnight. A stainless steel toilet. A stainless steel sink. And that big blue immovable door. Not a magazine in sight, not a book, not a poster, not a radio, not a crossword puzzle, not a deck of cards. It’ll make him nuts. He’s not prepared...he i sn’t the type...God. I was so glad to get out. I couldn’t breathe in there. Even the prison was better. And no way can he...” She seemed to force herself to slow down. “I need to get Mom over here. He’d want her here, and if I do that much, I can feel less guilty about being relieved that someone else is inside and I’m not. Jesus. What does that make me?”

“Feeling relieved to be out is human nature,” Deborah said.

“If I could just get in to see him, to find out he’s okay.”

She stirred on the planter’s edge and Deborah thought she intended to attack the fortress of the police station another time. But Deborah knew it would be useless, so she stood. “Let’s walk.”

She headed back the way they’d come, dipping to the far side of the war memorial and taking the direct route to the Queen Margaret Apartments. Too late Deborah realised that this route would curve directly in front of the Royal Court House, at whose steps China hesitated, gazing up at the imposing front of the building that housed all the legal machinery of the island. High above it flew Guernsey’s flag, three lions on red, snapping in the breeze.

Before Deborah could suggest that they move on, China was climbing the steps to the front doors of the building. She went inside, so there was nothing for Deborah to do but to follow, which she hurriedly did. She found China in the lobby, consulting a directory. When joined, she said, “You don’t have to stay with me. I’ll be okay. Simon’s probably waiting for you anyway.”

“I want to stay with you,” Deborah said. “China, it’s going to be all right.”