Caught in the Light (28 page)

"Not that I've heard of. Good view of Sark coming up, actually."

"Would anyone else know about him?"

"Byfield? Don't think so. Why should they? Like I told a chap yesterday '

"Someone else was asking about him?"

"Yes."

"About Byfield?"

"Look." Our host abruptly switched off the motor, pulled back the curtains and pushed the door open, admitting a flood of sunlight in which he blinked reproachfully at us. "It's quite obvious the camera doesn't interest you. It was the same with your friend."

"Not a friend."

"Well, whatever. The fact is I know next to nothing about Lawrence Byfield."

"Tell us about the other visitor who asked after him, then," suggested Daphne. "Did he give you his name?"

"Yes. Well, that was the point really. He seemed to think his brother might have been sniffing around here a few months back. Late brother, apparently, though I never quite '

"Quisden-Neve?"

"You obviously do know him. Yes, that's the name. It meant nothing to me."

"Quisden-Neve's brother is here?"

"Well, he was yesterday."

"Maybe he saw your advert," said Daphne.

"No. He already seemed to know more about La Fauconnerie than I do myself. He was surprised I'd never met his brother. Asked me over and over again in case I'd forgotten, though I'm not likely to have, am I, with a name like that?"

"Do you happen to know where we can find him?"

"Oh yes. He told me the hotel he was staying at. Just in case I remembered something about his brother. But I think he said he was leaving today, so '

The St. Pierre Park was a modern multi-star hotel backing on to its own golf course just beyond the western outskirts of St. Peter Port. We were there far sooner than the niggardly island speed limit allowed, hoping against hope that the sibling Quisden-Neve hadn't checked out early. We were in luck but only just. A man whose voice, bearing and washed-out blue eyes I recognized immediately was clearing reception as we entered. He looked like Montagu with the benefit of more exercise, less Pomerol and a plainer taste in clothes. But, then, he was in mourning. Day-Glo bow ties weren't exactly appropriate. As I steered Daphne on to an interception course, I reminded her in an undertone to say nothing that implied I was the errant witness to his brother's murder. We were going to have to tread carefully as well as swiftly.

"Mr. Quisden-Neve?"

"Yes." He stopped and frowned at us, every crease of his expression calling up the spirit of the dead Montagu. "What can I do for you?"

"I knew your brother."

"You did?"

"My name's Ian Jarrett."

"I don't recall Monty mentioning you."

"I knew him only slightly. And recently. This is a friend of mine, by the way. Daphne Sanger."

"Charmed, I'm sure." Even in bereavement, he summoned a flirtatious smile, and seemed to dally with the notion of kissing Daphne's hand rather than merely shaking it. "Valentine Quisden-Neve."

"My condolences," said Daphne. "I never met your brother myself, but.. . you were close?"

"Twins."

"Then I'm doubly sorry. Losing a twin .. ."

"Is akin to losing a limb." He shook his head dolefully and sighed. "I'm sorry, but I have a plane to catch. When you say you knew Monty ..."

"I met him not long ago ... in connection with a mutual acquaintance."

"How very enigmatic. Monty would have approved. But I'm confused. You met him here, on Guernsey?"

"No. Bath."

"Then why ..."

"We've just come from La Fauconnerie," said Daphne. "We know a little, a very little, about Lawrence Byfield."

"As it seems do you," I continued.

"On the contrary. I know nothing." He looked at each of us in turn, then moved towards the exit. "May we talk on the hoof, as it were? I really must catch that plane. The funeral's tomorrow. And there's a great deal yet to be arranged. Tell me about the acquaintance you had in common with Monty, Mr. Jarrett."

"A young woman called Eris Moberly," I explained, as we reached the open air and headed for the car park. "She's gone missing. We're trying to find her. She and Monty shared an interest in this man Byfield."

"Hence your visit to Guernsey?"

"You could say that, though there are other I broke off, aware I couldn't afford to get in too deep. "Look, I was shocked to read of your brother's death. The circumstances sounded quite awful. I'm just wondering '

"The circumstances weren't half as awful as the theory the police have come up with. They think Monty may have been killed by some kind of homicidal rent boy. Rough trade, as I believe it's called. The fact that his predilections went quite the other way is lost on them. A bachelor, found strangled in an InterCity toilet. Q.E.D." apparently. God help us all."

"What brought you to Guernsey, Mr. Quisden-Neve?" asked Daphne.

"The conviction that Monty was murdered for some altogether more sinister reason. He'd been uncharacteristically secretive in recent months, even with me. "Got something a little hush-hush on, Val," he'd say whenever I asked. "Could be my entree to the big time." Well, so much for that. He was obviously out of his league. But which league had he strayed into? That's what I'd like to know. Since the police don't seem to want to find out, I've decided to do their job for them, as best I can. I was at his flat on Saturday morning, sorting things out, when the post came. It included a reminder for an unpaid bill from a genealogical researcher here on Guernsey. Fellow called Lefebvre. Unlike the police, I'd wondered where Monty was going on the train. They assumed London, but his bag, along with whatever tickets he was carrying, was missing. And I was sure he meant to be away several days. His toothbrush and shaving tackle weren't in the bathroom. Could it have been Guernsey? I phoned round the airlines and, bingo, there he was, booked on a flight from Heathrow to Guernsey last Thursday afternoon. I couldn't contact Lefebvre until Tuesday, because of the damned holiday. He wouldn't reveal what his bill was for over the phone, but in person it was a different story, especially when I paid him what he was owed. Settling debts never was Monty's strong point, I'm afraid."

"What was Lefebvre working on?" I asked. "Lawrence Byfield?"

"The very man. Tenant of La Fauconnerie, back in the eighteen twenties." We'd reached Quisden-Neve's hire car. He opened the boot, dumped his bag inside and looked round at us. "Bit of a dead end, wouldn't you say?"

"Not necessarily."

"Nothing worth murdering Monty for. That seems clear."

"Does it? What had Lefebvre found out?"

"I really don't have the time to go into it all. Why not ask him yourself?" He fumbled with his wallet. "Here's his card. Look, if you do turn anything up ..." He scribbled something on the back before passing it to me. "There's my phone number."

"Thanks. But look '

"I have to go. Sorry." He moved round to the driver's door, but pulled up smartly when Daphne laid a restraining hand on his shoulder.

"One last thing, Mr. Quisden-Neve."

"What is it?"

"Show him Eris's picture, Ian. Just in case."

"All right." I took it from my pocket and held it out for him to see. "Ever met her?"

He grabbed it from me and peered closely at the likeness. "As a matter of fact, I think I have. Here, in St. Peter Port. Yesterday."

"What?"

"A strange business, actually. But there's been so much '

"Tell us." Daphne interrupted. "Please."

"I didn't think at the time ..." He shrugged. "Lefebvre's office is in a tiny alley near the market. I'd parked down at the harbour, on one of the piers. I'd just got back to the car and was about to get in when another car leaving the pier, some kind of Lotus, bright yellow and brand new eye-catching number, no question squealed to a halt right by me. The driver's window was down. It was her. This woman. She was at the wheel."

"You're sure?"

"Can one ever be absolutely sure of such things? I think it was her. I feel sure, looking at this picture."

"What happened?"

"She stared at me. Almost through me. As if she'd seen a ghost."

"She mistook you for your brother," murmured Daphne.

"That's possible, if, as you tell me, she knew Monty."

"Did you speak to her?"

"No. She just stared at me for ... what? .. . half a minute. Then she raised the window and drove away. I thought no more about it."

"She's here," I said, half dazed by such a bland, unlooked-for delivery of proof. "Alive and well. On the island."

"This is important, isn't it?" asked Quisden-Neve, handing the picture back to me. "This is what it's all about."

"Almost certainly not," said Daphne with a calm perversity that somewhere, at the back of my mind, I saw the sense of. "Eris has a lot of problems. But they're unlikely to have anything to do with your brother's murder."

"Let me be the judge of that, Miss Sanger."

"Of course. Look, here's my card." Seeing Quisden-Neve's brow furrow at the sight of her professional title, Daphne added, "I was treating her. You'll understand I can't go into details. But if you want to talk further when we get back ..."

"I'm sure I shall."

"Then please phone me."

"Or we'll phone you," I said, smiling in an attempt to assure him of our good faith. It was just as well he had a plane to catch. He had too many questions. And those I was able to answer I couldn't afford to yet.

"I'm not going to let this rest, you know," he declared, as if to the world in general, as he climbed into the car.

"Don't worry," said Daphne.

"Neither are we," I concluded, before she could say it herself.

The Lefebvre Family History and Lost Heirs Service was housed in attic rooms over a hairdressing salon in the centre of St. Peter Port. The receptionist-cum-secretary told us, through a headful of cold, that Mr. Lefebvre wouldn't be back till three o'clock. We made the nearest we could to an appointment and left.

The next few hours hung heavily. I had no appetite for lunch and little inclination to describe my reaction to Valentine Quisden-Neve's sighting of Eris. Daphne took a good guess at what it was anyway, as we walked the pier car parks in an aimless reconstruction of the scene, and wondered if at any moment the yellow Lotus might reappear.

"What would she have done if it had been you rather than Quisden-Neve? That's what you're asking yourself, isn't it, Ian? Are we falling over backwards to give her the benefit of the doubt? Is she ill and in need of help or just having a good laugh at our expense?"

"You think that if you want. I'll go on believing in her, thank you very much."

"Because you have to."

"Because I choose to. I love her unconditionally. It's as simple as that."

"As a psychotherapist, I have to tell you love is neither simple nor unconditional. You love the woman you met in Vienna. She's not necessarily the woman hiding here on Guernsey."

"We'll see about that."

"Yes. We will. I'm merely trying to prepare you for the possibility -that '

"Save it, Daphne. I'm not going to argue with you about this."

"Just with yourself."

"For God's sake." I pulled up and rounded on her. "This is getting us nowhere. Why don't we go our separate ways until four o'clock and meet up then at Lefebvre's?"

"All right." She eyed me thoughtfully. "You're going to spend all that time here, aren't you? Just watching and waiting."

"Maybe."

"And, if you do see her, you'd prefer me to be elsewhere."

"I suppose I would."

"You seem to have forgotten something."

"What's that?"

"We're supposed to be on the same side." She sighed. "But have it your own way." Without another word she turned and walked away. I watched her go with a squirming sense of relief. Everything she'd said was true. But now at least I didn't have to hear it said.

Nothing happened. Lightning didn't strike twice. Or maybe Eris knew better than to return to the same place so soon. I spent so long pacing round the piers and marinas that I began to wonder if Quisden-Neve could have been mistaken. But I knew that was only frustration doing my thinking for me. He'd seen her. But I wasn't going to. Not yet, anyway.

Daphne was waiting for me by the market arcade, opposite the entrance to the alley that led to Lefebvre's office. It was just gone ten to three by the town church clock.

"You're early," she said, with a softness in her voice that hinted at regret for the harsh words we'd exchanged at the pier.

"You, too."

"That's because we're suddenly short of time. I've had an urgent message from a psychiatrist I work with. A patient he referred to me has tried to commit suicide. Quite a serious attempt, apparently. I'll have to go back right away."

"Of course. Eris is only one case to you. I do see that."

'Ian '

"You have to go. It's all right. I understand." Part of me was pleased. When I found Eris, I wanted to be alone with her. "I didn't see her, by the way. You didn't expect me to, did you?"

"No. I didn't."

"Because you think it's me she's hiding from."

"Let's talk about it later. I'm booked on a flight to Heathrow at five o'clock. I can still come with you to see Lefebvre if you'll drive me to the airport afterwards."

"All right. Let's go."

Lefebvre was alone in his office, having sent his ailing secretary home. "She was no use to me, sneezing and snuffling all over the place." Not that he looked a fastidious man. The greasy hair, dirty fingernails and frayed shirt suggested he dealt with most of his clients by post. But he was nothing if not adaptable. "I conducted the Byfield research for the late Montagu Quisden-Neve. It was a confidential transaction. The information itself, though, is still for sale, so to speak, at my usual terms."

"What are they?" asked Daphne.

"They're, ah, set out in this leaflet." He began to rummage in his desk. "Now, where ?"

"Just tell us," I interrupted.

"Very well." He stopped rummaging. "Fifty pounds." He smiled. "For this kind of thing."

"For work you've already been paid for," Daphne pointed out.