A Place of Hiding

he asked fondly. “All right. Hang on. Let me see what I can do.”


It took only a few minutes to locate the proper number on Guernsey and to track down the investigator in charge of the murder enquiry there. Murder was so uncommon on the island that all Tommy had to mention was the word itself before the connection was being made that put him in touch with the chief investigator.

But there was nothing to be gained from the call. New Scotland Yard apparently didn’t cut any mustard in St. Peter Port, and when Tommy explained who he was and why he was phoning, making the offer of whatever assistance the Metropolitan police could provide, he was told—as he related to Deborah and Cherokee moments after ringing off—that everything was under control in the Channel, sir. And by the way, if assistance were to be required, the Guernsey police would make the request for mutual aid to the Cornwall or Devon Constabulary, as they usually did.

“We’ve some concern as it’s a foreign national you’ve arrested,”

Tommy said.

Yes, well, wasn’t that an interesting bit of a twist that the Guernsey police were also fully capable of handling on their own.

“Sorry,” he said to Deborah and to Cherokee at the end of the phone call.

“Then what the hell are we going to do?” Cherokee spoke more to himself than to the others.

“You need to find someone who’s willing to talk to the people involved,” Tommy said in answer. “If one of my team were on leave or holiday there, I’d suggest you ask them to do some nosing round for you. You can do it yourself, but it would help if you were backed by a force.”

“What needs to be done?” Deborah asked.

“Someone needs to start asking questions,” Tommy said, “to see if there’s a witness that’s been missed. You need to find out if this Brouard had enemies: how many, who they are, where they live, where they were when he was killed. You need to have someone evaluate the evidence. Believe me, the police have someone who’s doing it for them. And you need to make sure no evidence has gone overlooked.”

“There’s no one on Guernsey,” Cherokee said. “We tried. Debs and I. We did that before we came to you.”

“Then think beyond Guernsey.” Tommy leveled a look at Deborah, and she knew what that look meant.

They already had access to the person they needed.

But she wouldn’t ask her husband for help. He was far too busy and even if that were not the case, it seemed to Deborah that most of her life had been defined by the countless moments when she had turned to Simon: from that long-ago time as a bullied little schoolgirl when her Mr. St. James—a nineteen-year-old with a well-developed sense of fair play—had frightened the daylights out of her tormentors to the present day as a wife who often tried the patience of a husband who required only that she be happy. She simply couldn’t burden him with this. So they would go it alone, she and Cherokee. She owed that to China but far more than that: She owed it to herself.

For the first time in weeks, sunlight the strength of jasmine tea was striking one of the two scales of justice when Deborah and Cherokee reached the Old Bailey. Neither of them possessed a rucksack or bag of any kind, so they had no trouble gaining admittance. A few questions produced the answer they were looking for: Courtroom Number Three. The visitors’ gallery was up above, and at the moment it was occupied only by four out-of-season tourists wearing see-through rain slickers and a woman clutching a handkerchief. Beneath them, the courtroom spread out like something from a costume drama. Here was the judge—redgowned and forbidding in wire-rimmed spectacles and a wig that dripped sheep curls down to his shoulders—sitting in a green leather chair, one of five that spread across the top of the room on a dais that separated him from his lessers. These were the black-gowned barristers—defending and prosecuting—lined up along the first bench and table at right angles to the judge. Behind them were their associates: junior members of chambers and solicitors as well. And across from them was the jury with the clerk in between, as if refereeing what might happen in the room. The dock was directly below the gallery, and here the accused sat with an officer of the court. Opposite him was the witness box, and it was to this box that Deborah and Cherokee directed their attention.

The Crown Prosecutor was just concluding his cross-examination of Mr. Allcourt-St. James, expert witness for the defence. He was referring to a many-paged document, and the fact that he called Simon sir and Mr.Allcourt-St. James if you will, didn’t hide the fact that he doubted the opinions of anyone who didn’t agree with the police and by extension the CPS conclusions.