Guernsey Retreat Page 2

  ‘Yes, sir, it is. A lovely spot. But getting back to your…father and what happened. You said that your mother’s dead but what about the nephew, Archie? Could he still be alive?’

  Malcolm shook his head.

  ‘I’ve no idea. My mother managed to give him the slip when he was called up to fight shortly after their arrival in England. She took me with her to Canada. I was only a baby so remember nothing about it. She never returned to Guernsey or the UK and died in 1972. For obvious reasons neither of us wanted to meet up with him again and my mother changed her surname so he couldn’t trace us.’

  ‘Right. And did this Archie have any other family?’

  ‘No, his mother died when he was a lad and no-one knew who his father was. He had his mother’s surname, Blake.’

  The inspector scribbled in his notebook before excusing himself to go and check on progress in the tent.

  Malcolm stood, hands in pockets, watching the comings and goings. Buckets of soil were brought out of the tent and sifted before being emptied on the ground. He felt a shiver down his spine and the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. ‘Are you here, Ma? Is that my father buried over there?’ he whispered. ‘If it is, I’ll make sure he’s buried properly, don’t you worry. And if that bastard Archie’s still alive, I’ll make sure he gets what’s owing to him. Never fear.’

  Several hours later Inspector Ferguson found Malcolm in the library.

  ‘We’ve uncovered the body, Mr Roget. It’s a complete skeleton of a man and the skull’s badly crushed. So it could be your father.’

  Malcolm wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or not. At least he could honour his promise to his mother.

  ‘Is there anything left on the…the body? Clothes, a watch?’

  The inspector shook his head.

  ‘No clothes, they must have gone long ago. And no watch. But there’s a signet ring bearing the initials ‘RB’. Which fits with it being Mr Blake. There’s nothing else, which suggests his pockets were emptied before burial.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Did your mother mention a ring?’

  Malcolm cast his mind back. It was so long ago…

  ‘She said something about a family tradition, the men being given a gold signet ring on their twenty-first birthday. That was when I was twenty-one and she gave me this.’

  He stretched out his left hand, displaying a gold ring on his little finger.

  ‘Right. Well the evidence is stacking up, then. The pathologist will take a sample of DNA from the teeth and I’d be obliged if you’d allow us to take a sample from you, sir. That can be done now so as to save time.’

  ‘By all means. I want this resolved as quickly as possible, Inspector.’

  One of the forensic team was called for and the sample taken. Malcolm then asked a pressing question.

  ‘Will the area be closed off for long, Inspector? Only we’re due to open in three months and there’s much to do…’

  ‘I understand, sir. Once we’re convinced the body’s that of your father and nothing else turns up, we’ll be out of your hair. I’ll get the lab to fast-track the DNA result so we can finish the report for the coroner.’ He gave Malcolm a quizzical look. ‘You do realise there’s bound to be some publicity about this, don’t you? The local media are already on the case and we can’t suppress it.’

  Malcolm sighed. ‘Yes, I thought that would happen. I know they say that all publicity is good publicity, but I’m not sure how a body turning up a few months before we open will be good for business.’

  The inspector smiled.

  ‘You’d be surprised, sir. A bit of scandal can build up interest and, if it proves to be your father buried there, people would be sympathetic and wish you well.’

  ‘Hmm, not sure I want our family skeletons to be so literally on public show, but I take your point. You’ll keep me posted, Inspector?’

  ‘Yes, sir. As it happens, this is my last case before I retire, so I want to see it concluded as quickly and satisfactorily as you do.’

  They shook hands and Malcolm was left staring at the plans strewn over his desk. He could only hope the inspector was right and the unwanted publicity would do more good than harm. His past experience as the owner of a hotel chain tended to confirm that idea. But he would still be glad when all the muck-raking was over and he could press on with the opening. And then, finally, sit back and let someone else do all the work.

  chapter 3

  2009 – January – London

  Louisa Canning was late. She had promised her mother to be home by six and it was gone half past. Not too bad considering that her last physiotherapy patient had arrived late, causing her to miss her usual Tube connection. Consoling herself that her mother could not have long been home herself, and the dinner not likely to be spoiled, she hurried away from Angel station, clutching a bunch of red roses. Her mother’s house was five minutes’ walk away.

  Slightly out of breath, she put her key in the lock, calling out, ‘Mum, it’s me! Sorry I’m late but–’

  She got no further as a figure hurtled down the hall, knocking her off her feet, before continuing down the path.

  Shocked and wondering who the hell he was, Louisa picked herself up and, after brushing the dirt off her coat, stared briefly after the retreating figure, trying to recognise him. Realising she had never seen him before, panic set in. Her mother! Quickly collecting the bruised-looking roses, she headed for the kitchen, calling, ‘Mum! Where are you? Are you all right?’ Finding the kitchen empty, she felt fear clutch her heart and ran back down the hall to the sitting room. Pushing the door open she saw her mother collapsed on the sofa, clutching her chest.

  ‘Mum! What’s happened? Who was that man?’ She knelt down by her mother, frightened by how white she was. ‘Is it your heart? Shall I phone for an ambulance?’

  Her mother could only nod and as Louisa pulled out her mobile she saw for the first time that the room had been ransacked. Oh, God, a burglar! After alerting the police as well as the ambulance service, she tried to help her mother.

  ‘It’s okay, Mum, help is on the way. Where are your tablets? I’ll get them for you.’

  Her mother, Susan, managed to point in the direction of the kitchen and Louisa ran out and found her handbag. Fishing around she found the bottle of tablets and poured a glass of water before returning to her mother’s side.

  ‘Here you are. Just take it slowly.’ Louisa offered the glass and two tablets.

  Susan propped herself up and swallowed the tablets before sinking back onto the cushions. After a couple of minutes her breathing seemed to ease and she grabbed Louisa’s arm.

  ‘That…man…forced his way in when I opened the door. He…pushed me in here…became nasty, said wanted know where…jewels are. I said don’t know what meant. He said…they’d seen a picture me wearing them. Then I knew what he wanted. Years ago, before you born your father let me wear jewels…charity ball.’ Susan took a ragged breath and Louisa, scared, hoped the ambulance would hurry up. ‘He asked where Malcolm was, wouldn’t…believe me, said not know. Not heard years. He…he pushed me…around, threatened me, started pulling out drawers…cupboards.’

  ‘It’s all right, Mum. Save your strength. You can tell the police later, when you feel better.’

  ‘No…no time, darling. Not sure…make…it. He said saw article about the business…last week. My picture…followed me home. Louisa, promise me…find Malcolm…your father, tell him…danger. He must look after…you.’ Her mother’s hand slipped from her arm and she lay still.

  ‘No! No! Mum, stay with me! Stay with me, please! I can’t lose you!’

  Louisa sobbed over her mother’s body as the sound of the doorbell echoed down the hall.

  By the time the police finally left Louisa felt as if she had been in a pile-up. Although they had been kind, the persistent questions had made her feel dizzy. It was only the intervention of a paramedic that had brought proceedings to a halt and she’d be
en able to crawl upstairs to her own attic flat. She had been allowed to go up there as it was separate from the rest of the house, which was now out of bounds behind police tape. The doctor gave her a gentle sedative and advised her to get straight to bed, something she was only too willing to do. Louisa had been asked if there was anyone who could stay with her, but there was no-one. At least not in London.

  The image of her beloved mother being taken off in an ambulance lay seared into her brain. Although it was obvious Susan was dead, out of respect for Louisa’s feelings, the paramedics hadn’t zipped her in one of those horrible black body bags, but laid her on a stretcher, covered in blankets, her head uncovered. That image of her mother’s pale face accompanied Louisa up the stairs. Once in her own little space she undressed quickly and buried herself under the duvet, praying the sedative would give her the oblivion she craved. For the few moments before the drug kicked in, her head buzzed with questions – what was so important about the ‘jewels’ – who did they belong to – what had her mysterious father got to do with it – and, most importantly, who was the man who had killed her mother?

  The next few days passed in a blur. Susan’s sister, Margaret, came down from Yorkshire to offer Louisa much needed support. She organised the funeral director, although until the results of the post-mortem were ready, no funeral could take place. Once the police were satisfied that they’d scoured the house for prints, DNA and other clues, they allowed Louisa and Margaret access. Initially reluctant to enter the sitting room, Louisa was gently encouraged by her aunt.

  ‘Come on, I’ve tidied up so it looks quite normal. Make yourself comfortable in the armchair and I’ll make you a hot drink. What would you like?’

  ‘Tea, please,’ she muttered, curling into the embrace of the chair. She knew she looked a mess but didn’t feel like washing her long, dirty-blonde hair which hung limply around her face. All she wanted was to sleep. With Margaret taking charge she had been free to spend most of the time in bed, but now her aunt seemed to feel that it was time to face the world. A world without her mother. As the memory took hold, Louisa struggled to hold back the tears. It was so unfair! Her mother never hurt anyone and went out of her way to help others with her charity work. Messages of condolence were pouring in but she couldn’t face reading them: Margaret whisked them away to be dealt with later. At that moment she returned with a tray bearing two mugs and a plate of biscuits.

  ‘Here you are. And how about a chocolate digestive? I remembered they’re your favourite,’ Margaret smiled warily as she held out the plate.

  Louisa took a biscuit, nodding her thanks. She looked over the rim of the mug at her aunt. Mm, she looks as shattered as me. Poor Margaret! First she loses her husband and now her sister. No wonder she’s aged so much. Margaret, the younger sister, was sixty-two, but her white hair and pinched face made her look more like seventy. Louisa felt a stab of remorse that she’d let Margaret take on so much when she’d only buried Charles six months ago. She gave herself a shake. Perhaps I should do something…

  ‘I…I’m very grateful, Margaret, for your help. I’m not sure I could have survived the last few days if you hadn’t been here. But you’ve got your own problems. After all, it’s not long since Charles–’

  Tears glistened in Margaret’s eyes.

  ‘It’s not been easy, I admit, but I had to be here with you. Your mother would have expected me to help. Not that I could have foreseen the circumstances…’ She wiped her eyes.

  ‘No, neither of us could. Although we knew Mum’s heart hadn’t been strong for years, she seemed so well. So I suppose it…it might have happened at any time. But without that man threatening her she could still be alive. If I could get my hands on him I’d kill him!’ Louisa cried, gripping her mug, anger bubbling to the surface and temporarily usurping the grief.

  ‘Yes, well, I understand your feelings, but that won’t bring your mother back will it? Let’s concentrate on what needs to be done, shall we?’ Margaret said briskly, forcing Louisa to focus on what she was saying. ‘The police expect to get the post-mortem results today and then…then we can arrange the funeral. I’ve checked Susan’s Filofax for her friends and colleagues so…’

  Margaret made suggestions about the service and the necessary, but unwanted, get together at the house afterwards. Louisa began to switch off, not wanting to acknowledge the reality of a funeral. Until it happened she could pretend that her mother was away and due back any time soon. Perhaps Margaret sensed her detachment because she stood up, saying she needed to pop out to the shops before lunch and wouldn’t be long. Louisa heard the front door bang and curled up into a ball again. Oh Mum! Please come back! I miss you so much…

  chapter 4

  2009 – January – Guernsey

  ‘Can you tell us, Mr Roget, what made you decide to open La Folie Natural Health Centre? Was it something you’d always wanted to do?’ The obviously pregnant reporter held a microphone to his face, her hazel eyes focused on his.

  Malcolm had expected the question and carefully considered his answer. It would be almost the truth, he told himself.

  ‘I’ve long held an interest in the natural approach to health and healing as practised in the East. I spent some time in India and that’s where I met up with my manager, Paul England. He provided the inspiration for a centre and I provided the wherewithal and background experience.’

  ‘Thank you. I understand that you used to be in the hotel business. Is that where you gained your experience?’ She smiled at him as if it were just the two of them enjoying a cosy chat, rather than an island’s worth of TV viewers watching and listening.

  ‘Yes, I ran a small chain of hotels in Canada and I flatter myself I know what comfort and service guests require. Although La Folie is not a hotel, the principle is the same.’ He waved his arms around the entrance hall where a discreet desk acted as reception, manned by an attractive young woman in a white uniform. ‘I leave the therapy side of things to the experts, headed by Paul.’

  Malcolm noticed the reporter – now, what was her name again? – ah, Nicole Tostevin, that was it, shift uncomfortably on her feet and invited her to sit down. Moving over to a pair of elegant armchairs by the desk, she flashed him a grateful smile.

  ‘Thank you. I understand that you have a connection to Guernsey, Mr Roget. It’s rumoured that the body that was found in the grounds a few months ago was that of your father, who once owned this house. Is that true?’

  He kept his expression neutral, aware of the camera focusing on him.

  ‘You know how it is with rumours! My mother was originally from Guernsey and that’s the only connection I have. She told me stories about it when I was a lad and I promised to bring her back one day.’ Sadness clutched at his heart as he remembered that time. His mother, worn out from building up her hotel business, had taken to her bed with what everyone thought was exhaustion, but proved to be a malicious form of cancer. In an effort to cheer her up he’d said that as soon as she was well enough to travel, they’d fly to Guernsey and stay in the best hotel the island possessed. Betty’s face had lit up and for a few moments they were swept away by their plans. But days later she was dead.

  ‘Mr Roget? Are you all right?’

  Malcolm shook himself and forced a smile, the smile of the consummate businessman.

  ‘Yes, I’m sorry. My mother died, you see, and never did return. So it was with mixed feelings that I considered coming here myself. But,’ he waved his arm around the wood panelled hall, ‘I’m very glad I did. And I have high hopes that the centre will be a great success.’

  Nicole gave him a sympathetic look.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear about your mother. I’m sure she would have been very impressed with what you’re doing here, Mr Roget. As is everyone I’ve spoken to. So, you have no knowledge of the man whose body was found?’ Mm. I’ll give Nicole her due, she doesn’t give up easily! But I can’t tell her the truth, not yet. Not until…

 
He shook his head, warding off further questions by suggesting that he gave her the grand tour of La Folie and Nicole signalled the cameraman to follow them. By the time they had peered into lavish bedrooms, immaculate therapy rooms and the cosy dining room, Malcolm hoped that the subject of the body could be dropped. He liked the young woman, who seemed particularly keen to see what work had been done on the old place. It wasn’t until they were standing in the garden and she dismissed the cameraman, that he found out why she was so interested.

  ‘I have a confession to make, Mr Roget. My mother and I inherited this house from my grandmother in 2007. She and her husband bought it from the States of Guernsey after the war. So I certainly do have a connection to it!’

  ‘Well, I wasn’t expecting that!’ He thought back to the negotiations to buy the house. He remembered that two women were involved but hadn’t registered the name of Tostevin.

  She must have seen his puzzled look as she went on, ‘I wasn’t married then so I signed under my previous name of Oxford. My mother’s called Mrs Bourgaize and my grandmother was Mrs Ferbrache. It gets a bit complicated!’ She gave him a hesitant smile.

  ‘I see. How interesting. So it was your grandparents who tidied up the place and started a growing business after the war?’ He buzzed with excitement as Nicole told him what she knew of her family’s involvement in La Folie. They continued talking as Nicole led the way around the garden, explaining how much her grandmother had loved it. Malcolm had thought it perfect too, and only let his gardener carry out the minimum of remedial work. Although little was in flower in the winter, the garden was full of the muted colours of green hedging and shrubs, with white hellebores peeping out alongside snowdrops and a few early crocuses. And of course, there was the sea, spread out beyond the hedges and the cliff path. His mother hadn’t been one for gardens, but she had loved the sea, telling him how much she missed the view from La Folie.