A Place of Hiding

“Whatever,” he said. “He might have gotten a message to me or something. I’m involved here, you know. I asked him why he didn’t let me know he was getting her out and he said...You know what he said? ‘Miss River didn’t mention telling anyone her whereabouts.’ Like she wants to be in hiding.”


They wound back to St. Peter Port where it was no easy feat to find the holiday flats where China had been installed, despite being in possession of the address. The town was a warren of one-way streets: narrow tracks that climbed the hillside from the harbour and swooped through a town that had existed long before cars had even been imagined. Deborah and Cherokee made several passes by Georgian town homes and through Victorian terraces before they finally stumbled upon the Queen Margaret Apartments on the corner of Saumarez and Clifton Streets, situated at the crest of the latter. It was a spot that would have afforded a holiday maker the sort of views one pays highly to enjoy during spring and summer: The port spread out below, Castle Cornet stood clearly visible on its spit of land where it once protected the town from invasion, and on a day without the lowering clouds of December, the coast of France would appear to hover on the far horizon.

On this day, however, in the early dusk, the Channel was an ashen mass of liquid landscape. Lights shone on a harbour that was empty of pleasure craft, and in the distance the castle appeared as a series of crosshatched children’s blocks, held haphazardly on a parent’s palm. Their challenge at the Queen Margaret Apartments was to find someone who could point them in the direction of China’s flat. They finally located an unshaven and odoriferous man in a bed-sitting room at the back of the otherwise deserted property. He appeared to act the part of concierge when he wasn’t doing what he was currently doing, which seemed to be taking both sides in a board game that involved depositing shiny black stones into cuplike depressions in a narrow wooden tray. He said, “Hang on,” when Cherokee and Deborah turned up in his single room. “I just need to...Damn. He’s got me again.”

He appeared to be his opponent which was himself, playing from the other side of the board. He cleared this side of its stones in one inexplicable move, whereupon he said, “What c’n I do for you?”

When they told him they’d come to see his tenant-in-the-singular— because it was certainly clear that no one else was occupying any of the Queen Margaret Apartments at this time of year—he feigned ignorance about the whole matter. Only when Cherokee told him to phone China’s advocate did he give the slightest hint that the woman charged with murder was staying somewhere in the building. And then all he did was lumber to the phone and punch in a few numbers. When the party answered at the other end, he said, “Someone saying he’s the brother...?” And with a glance at Deborah, “Got a red-head with him.” He listened for five seconds. He said, “Right, then,” and parted with the information. They would find the person they were looking for, he told them, in Flat B on the east side of the building.

It was no far distance. China met them at the door. She said only, “You came,” and she walked directly into Deborah’s embrace. Deborah held her firmly. “Of course I came,” she said. “I only wish I’d known from the first that you were in Europe at all. Why didn’t you let me know you were coming? Why didn’t you phone? Oh, it’s so good to see you.” She blinked against the sting behind her eyelids, surprised by the onslaught of feeling that told her how much she had missed her friend in the years during which they’d lost contact with each other.

“I’m sorry it has to be like this.” China gave Deborah a fleeting smile. She was far thinner than Deborah remembered her, and although her fine sandy hair was fashionably cut, it fell round a face that looked like a waif ’s. She was dressed in clothes that would have sent her vegan mother into a seizure. They were mostly black leather: trousers, waistcoat, and ankle boots. The colour heightened the pallor of her skin.

“Simon’s come as well,” Deborah said. “We’re going to sort this out. You’re not to worry.”

China glanced at her brother, who’d shut the door behind them. He’d gone to the alcove that served as the flat’s kitchen, where he stood shifting from foot to foot and looking like the sort of male who wishes to be in another universe when females are exhibiting emotion. She said to him, “I didn’t intend you to bring them back with you. Just to get their advice if you needed it. But...I’m glad you did, Cherokee. Thanks.”

Cherokee nodded. He said, “You two need...? I mean, I could go for a walk or something...? You got food here? You know, here’s what: I’ll go find a store.” He took himself out of the flat without waiting for a response from his sister.

“Typical man,” China said when he was gone. “Can’t deal with tears.”