A Place of Hiding

“But how was it done? How could someone get away?”


“The van overheated in the crush of cars, assisted by a slow leak in the radiator, as was discovered later. The driver pulled onto the verge. He had to get out to see to the motor. A motorcyclist took care of the rest.”

“In front of all those witnesses? In all the other cars and lorries?”

“Yes. But what did they actually see? A cyclist stopping to offer help to a disabled vehicle, first, and then later that same cyclist skimming along between the traffic lanes where the cars are idling—”

“Unable to follow him. Yes. I see how it happened. But where...How would Guy Brouard have known...All the way in Southern California?”

“He’d been looking for the painting for years, Deborah. If I found the story about it on the Internet, how difficult would it have been for him to do the same? And once he had the information, his money and one visit to California did the rest.”

“But if he didn’t know how important a piece it was...who the artist was...anything, really...Si mon, that means he would have had to follow every story about art that he could get his hands on. For years.”

“He had the time to do it. And this particular story was extraordinary. A World War Two veteran makes a deathbed gift of his wartime ‘souvenir’

to the hospital that saved his son’s life in childhood. The gift turns out to be a priceless work of art that no one even knew the artist had painted. It’s worth millions upon millions and the nuns are going to sell it at auction to bolster their hospital’s funds. It’s a big story, Deborah. It was only a matter of time before Guy Brouard saw it and did something about it.”

“So he went there personally...”

“To make the arrangements, yes. That’s all. To make the arrangements.”

“So...” Deborah knew how he might interpret her next question, but she asked it anyway because she needed to know, because something wasn’t right and she could sense it. She’d sensed it in Smith Street. She sensed it now. “If all this happened in California, why has DCI Le Gallez released Cherokee? Why is he telling them both—Cherokee and China— to leave the island?”

“I expect he’s got new evidence,” Simon answered. “Something pointing to someone else.”

“You didn’t tell him...?”

“About the painting? No, I didn’t tell him.”

“Why?”

“The person who delivered the painting to the Tustin attorney for transport to Guernsey wasn’t Cherokee River, Deborah. He bore no resemblance to Cherokee River. Cherokee River was not involved.”

Before Paul Fielder could even put his hand on the knob, Billy opened the front door of their terraced house in the Bouet. Obviously, he’d been waiting for Paul’s return, no doubt sitting in the lounge with the television blaring, smoking his fags and drinking his lager, shouting to be left alone if one of the younger kids happened too near. He’d’ve been watching through the window for the moment Paul came up the uneven path. When he saw Paul trudging in the direction of the door, he’d stationed himself where he would be the first to have contact with him. Paul wasn’t inside the house before Billy said, “Well, lookit here. The cat’s furball’s finally come home. Police done with you, wanker? They show you a good time up the gaol? I hear that’s what they do best, the cops.”

Paul pushed past him. He heard his dad calling out, “That our Paulie?” from somewhere upstairs and his mum said, “Paulie? That you, dear?” from the kitchen.

Paul looked towards the stairs and then the kitchen and wondered what his parents were both doing home. When darkness fell, his dad always returned from the road crew, but his mum worked long hours at the till at Boots and she always worked overtime if she could get it, which was most days. As a result, evening meals were pretty much a catch-as-catch-can affair. You took a tin of soup or one of baked beans.

You might make toast. You did for yourself, except for the little ones. Paul generally did for them.

He went towards the stairs, but Billy stopped him. He said, “Hey. Where’s the dog, wanker? Where’s your constant con-pan-yon?”

Paul hesitated. At once, he felt fear grip his insides. He hadn’t seen Taboo since the morning, when the police had come. In the back of the panda car, he’d squirmed round in his seat because Taboo was following. The dog was barking. He was running behind them, determined to catch them up.

Paul looked round. Where was Taboo?

He put his lips together to whistle, but his mouth was too dry. He heard his father’s tread on the stairs. At the same moment, his mum came from the kitchen. She wore an apron with a ketchup stain on it. She wiped her hands on a towel.

“Paulie,” his dad said in a sombre voice.

“Dear,” his mum said.