A Place of Hiding

“Which is?”


“He’s permanently scared. It was right in front of me, but I didn’t want to see it. Talk about committing to something more than weekends and vacations together, and he was always out of there. A sudden business trip. Work piling up at home. A need for a break to think things through. We split up so many times in thirteen years that the relationship started feeling like a recurring nightmare. The relationship, in fact, was starting to be all about the relationship, if you know what I mean. Hours talking about why we’re having trouble, why I want one thing and he wants another, why he backs off and I rush forward, why he feels suffocated and I feel deserted. What is it about men and committing, for God’s sake?” China picked up her spoon and stirred her tea, clearly something to do with her restlessness and not something that needed to be done. She glanced at Deborah. “Except, you’re not the person I ought to ask that question, I guess. Men, you, and committing. It was never a problem you had to face, Debs.”

Deborah didn’t have the chance to remind her of the facts: that for her three-year stay in America, she’d been completely estranged from Simon. A sharp knock at the door supervened, heralding the return of Cherokee. A duffel bag angled across his shoulder.

He set the duffel on the floor and declared, “I’m out of that hotel, Chine. No way am I letting you stay here all alone.”

“There’s only one bed.”

“I’ll sleep on the floor. You need family around you, and that means me.”

His tone said fait accompli. The duffel bag said there would be no arguing with his decision. China sighed. She didn’t look happy.

St. James found the office of China’s advocate on New Street, a short distance from the Royal Court House. DCI Le Gallez had phoned ahead to let the lawyer know he’d be having a caller, so when St. James introduced himself to the man’s secretary, he waited less than five minutes before being shown into the advocate’s rooms. Roger Holberry directed him to one of three chairs that encircled a small conference table. There they both sat and St. James laid out for the advocate the facts that DCI Le Gallez had shared with him. Holberry himself would already have these facts, St. James knew. But he needed from the advocate everything that Le Gallez had left out during their interview, and the only way to get it was to allow the other man to note any holes in the blanket of information in order to sew them up. Holberry seemed only too happy to do this. Le Gallez, he informed him, had shared St. James’s credentials in their telephone call. The DCI wasn’t a joyful soldier now that it appeared reinforcements had entered the battle on the side of the opposition, but he was an honest man and he had no intention of attempting to thwart them in their efforts to establish China River’s innocence. “He made it clear that he doesn’t believe you’ll be able to do much good,” Holberry said. “His case is solid. Or so he thinks.”

“What’ve you got from forensic on the body?”

“What’s been combed from it so far. Scrapings from beneath the nails as well. Just the externals.”

“No toxicology? Tissue analysis? Organ studies?”

“Too soon for that. We’ve got to send it all to the UK and then it’s a case of join the queue. But the means of the killing is a straightforward business. Le Gallez must have told you.”

“The stone. Yes.” St. James went on to explain to the advocate that he’d pointed out to Le Gallez how unlikely it was that a woman could have shoved a stone down the throat of anyone older than a child. “And if there were no signs of a struggle...What did the nail scrapings show you?”

“Nothing. Other than some sand.”

“The rest of the body? Bruised, scraped, banged about? Anything?”

“Not a thing,” Holberry replied. “But Le Gallez knows he’s got next to nothing. He’s hanging this all on the witness. Brouard’s sister saw something. God knows what. He’s not told us that yet, Le Gallez.”

“Could she have done it herself?”

“Possible. But unlikely. Everyone who knows them agrees she was devoted to the victim. They’d been together—lived together, I mean—for most of their lives. She even worked for him when he was getting established.”

“As what?”

“Chateaux Brouard,” Holberry said. “They made a pile of money and came to Guernsey when he retired.”

Chateaux Brouard, St. James thought. He’d heard of the group: a chain of small but exclusive hotels fashioned from country houses throughout the UK. They were nothing flashy, just historic settings, antiques, fine food, and tranquility: the sort of places frequented by those who sought privacy and anonymity, perfect for actors needing a few days away from the glare of the media and excellent for political figures having affairs. Discretion was the better part of doing business, and the Chateaux Brouard embodied that belief.