A Line to Kill

‘I told you. I’ve been with her for twelve years. And although I wouldn’t say this to anyone, I’m not just her housekeeper. I like to think of her as a friend. She’s always asking after my family and she’s generous too. There’s always an envelope at Christmas and presents for my girls.’ She sniffed. ‘People may say bad things about her. Well, of course they would. She’s wealthy and she’s gorgeous and she has all this. But she’s one of the most good-hearted people I’ve ever met. Look at the school! Both my girls went to St Anne’s and she’s always helping with books for the library and prizes for sports day. She took twenty of the children to London once – to the Natural History Museum – and it all came out of her own pocket. The coach, the ferry, everything. That’s the sort of person she is, and if someone’s hurt her … well, it doesn’t bear thinking about.’

I looked out of the window. It wasn’t anywhere near dark yet, but the sun had sunk low in the sky and I realised that it was too late to begin a search. Mauve shadows stretched across the lawn, the silent bulk of the Snuggery beyond, and for some reason I found myself thinking of Shakespeare’s play The Tempest. When I was at school, I’d played Caliban (although I’d auditioned for Ariel) and I recalled the lines:

Be not afeard; the isle is full of noises,

Sounds and sweet airs, that give delight, and hurt not.

But the noises on this isle were all bad. Perhaps it had come with the Nazis when they built their labour camps and had been lurking ever since, but I felt it now: a malign presence that had somehow insinuated itself into Alderney. The macabre death of Charles le Mesurier, the disappearance of his wife, the rancour surrounding the power line, the crimes of Derek Abbott … they were all part of it.

‘You said people say bad things about her,’ Hawthorne remarked. He paused. ‘What people? What things?’

‘Well …’ Mrs Carlisle hesitated. ‘Mrs Lem was an actress when they met. She used to appear in his online promotions and when they got married there were people who said she was only in it for the money, that she’d managed to spin the wheel in her own favour, that sort of thing. But that wasn’t true. I told you. It may not have been a conventional marriage, but they were happy with it and it worked.’

‘Did she ever bring anyone back here?’

Nora Carlisle looked at Hawthorne with disdain. ‘How would I know?’

‘Well, you made her bed. I’d imagine it would be fairly obvious.’

‘That’s a wicked thing to say and I can’t imagine what gives you the right to make such accusations.’ The housekeeper looked to Deputy Chief Torode as if he could put a stop to this line of questioning. ‘She would never have behaved that way. She wasn’t like that at all.’

‘You never met a man called Jean-François Berthold?’

‘I’ve never heard that name.’

‘When she went out at two o’clock, did she say she was going to meet someone?’

‘Not to me. She just said she wanted a walk.’

Helen had left her car – a Land Rover Discovery – outside the house. It had been parked there when we arrived. So wherever she had gone, it couldn’t have been far.

‘Is there anything else you want to know?’ Mrs Carlisle asked. For the first time she sounded tired, as if all the talking had worn her out.

‘No. You’ve been very helpful.’ Hawthorne smiled.

‘Well, I’ll go home then. There’s no point my staying here now.’

She bundled herself out of the chair and left the room.

‘I’m sure there’s a perfectly simple explanation for all this,’ Torode remarked, lazily uncurling himself from the sofa. ‘She probably felt uncomfortable sitting here with the police around. And having that woman here all day … that would have done anyone’s head in! My guess is she’s gone to the pub.’

‘Have you rung the pubs?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Have you even checked that she’s still on the island?’

Torode frowned. ‘Actually, I hadn’t thought of that. We could put a call into the local airline.’

‘She had a private jet.’

‘Oh. Right. Well, we’ll look into it. Anything else?’

‘Yes. I’d like to go upstairs.’

‘She’s not there.’

‘No. But her phone is.’

We went back up to the bedroom we had visited only that morning. Everything was very clean and dust-free. Mrs Carlisle had made the bed, puffing up the pillows, arranging silk cushions and placing a small white teddy bear holding a sachet of dried lavender in the middle of it all. I had thought the room, with its elaborate furniture and excessive ornamentation, very much a reflection of its occupant. Without her, it felt empty and strange.

Sure enough, there was a pink iPhone on the dressing table. Torode picked it up. ‘I assume this is hers,’ he said. ‘But I don’t know how you’re going to break into it without a passcode.’