A Line to Kill

It was Colin Matheson – who else could it be? I remembered the barrister in her bedroom only that morning, coming to her defence when Hawthorne had asked her about the power line. I had thought at the time that they were closer than they were pretending and Colin had been the first person Mrs Carlisle had called. But I had never thought they were as close as this. Standing there in the bedroom, I was careful not to say anything, but I was quite surprised that Hawthorne didn’t share Colin’s identity with Torode. I understood that he wanted to solve the case ahead of the police. That was the only way to be sure of getting paid. But wasn’t he actually obstructing their investigation, not giving them such vital information?

‘Well, we can give Colin a ring, I suppose,’ Torode said. ‘I see we’ve got his number at the top of the screen. Mind you, I doubt it’s relevant. This exchange happened a while ago and there’s still every chance that Mrs le Mesurier will show up.’

‘Let me know if she does,’ Hawthorne said, grimly.

Torode took the phone back. ‘We’ll send you a transcript of whatever else we find on this,’ he said. ‘I’ll get Whitlock to bring it over – if she bothers to show up again.’

‘Thank you.’

‘We’ve already made quite a bit of headway. Let’s hope you can get a result soon.’ He slipped the phone into his pocket. ‘What’s the food like at your hotel?’

‘It’s very good,’ I said.

‘Well, it’s terrible at our place. I had a shepherd’s pie just before I came out. Dry as a bone. No meat in it. None to speak of.’

Hawthorne nodded and the two of us left. He was deep in thought and didn’t say anything on the way back to the hotel and even Terry – who had been waiting outside – picked up on his mood and left him alone. He didn’t want dinner so I ordered room service on my own before falling into an uneasy sleep.

I couldn’t see the sea from my bedroom, but I could hear the waves breaking in the distance. They reminded me that I was on a tiny island – and so was the killer. We were both trapped.

16

The Search Party

The search for Helen le Mesurier began the next day.

The island of Alderney is tiny; it adds up to no more than three square miles. But it would be hard to imagine anywhere with more places to conceal a dead body. There were beaches and coves, rock faces, pools, caves and tunnels, dozens of fortifications, many of them abandoned and in ruins. If Helen had been killed, she could have been buried inland or weighed down and dumped at sea. There were dozens of isolated farms and houses where she could be held prisoner; dilapidated barns, hangars, warehouses, sheds. We’d managed to establish that Helen hadn’t left Alderney, at least not in her private jet or on a scheduled flight. But that might be bad news. Her text messages made it all too clear. It seemed that she had seen the killer and had arranged to meet him. If so, she had made a terrible mistake.

To be fair to Deputy Chief Torode and the Criminal Investigation Department of the Guernsey police, they had wasted no time in pulling together a sizeable force, ferrying about twenty men and women from one island to another at the crack of dawn and recruiting locally too. By eleven o’clock they had spread across a section of the northern side of the island from Fort Albert to Veaux Trembliers Bay, the idea being that they would spread themselves out along the coast and then circle back inwards. It was a sensible strategy, given the position of The Lookout and the fact that Helen had left on foot. According to her text message, the meeting had been arranged for half past two and she had left more or less on the hour. How far could she have gone in thirty minutes?

We saw something of the search under way as we left the hotel, driving to Colin Matheson’s house. He lived on the other side of Alderney, just inland from Longis Beach, but we’d taken the long way round so that we could see some of the activity. It was a cloudy day and there was a slightly forlorn quality about the line of people, some in police uniform, others dressed casually, silhouetted against the coastal sky, poking at the grass with long sticks. I saw a couple of dogs straining on leads, but I can’t say they exactly filled me with confidence as they were pulling in completely opposite directions. Someone was shouting, but the wind swept the words away and I doubted anyone could hear.

‘They haven’t got a chance.’ That was Terry’s view and Hawthorne didn’t disagree.

We turned away, cutting through farmland and heading towards the other coast. Of course, in Alderney, whichever way you drove you’d soon reach water.

‘I was surprised you didn’t tell Torode about Colin Matheson,’ I said. I spoke in a low voice, aware that Terry was eavesdropping on everything we said. I had already told Hawthorne about my phone conversation with Tom McKinley.