with their breath.
Liz pulled out her notebook, and said, “Go through it from the moment you parked the car.”
She watched his face as he spoke. He would be about the same age as her father, probably close to retirement; a small man with a slight build, sparse sandy hair above a freckled face dominated by a luxuriant ginger moustache. He had been delivering letters as far back as Liz could remember, and the first question was the obvious one.
“Was the hermit’s place part of your normal route? Doesn’t look like he’d be on any route.”
“Call him by his name. Gus Dorey.” Gord Martel sounded angry and his face turned red. “I liked him, and I used to add him to my route when I was done, or when I was taking my lunch break.”
“How did you meet him?”
“On the beach, not when I was working. I was out early, using my metal detector, and we got talking. He said he liked the beach before anyone else got there, but he was friendly enough. He wanted to know if I found anything interesting, and I said all kinds. He said he’d found stuff too, and would I like to see some. I could hardly refuse, could I? You never know, so I said ‘yes.’”
“And had he? Found anything interesting?”
“Shards mostly. He had them put up where they caught the light. But he also had some old bottles, that kind of thing. Said he’d never found a message from a castaway in any of them. He liked to have a laugh, did Gus. Poor old bugger.”
Gord Martel took out a large, pristine white handkerchief, unfolded it and blew his nose with vigour. Beneath the moustache his narrow lips trembled. Liz Falla gave him a moment, then took out her notebook and pen.
“Let’s go through what happened today. What time did you arrive?”
“Around my lunchtime, late morning. I parked the van …”
“Did you see anyone? Anything unusual?”
“Nothing, not a sausage. So I walked up to the house shouting like I always, did, ‘Wharro, mon viow!’”
“You spoke patois together?”
“Not me, but I think he had some of the old language. He used to say ‘Tcheerie’ to me when I left, so I started saying it back to him. Once or twice he said ‘Cheerio’ in a la-de-da kind of way, like a joke — you know, like the plum-in-the-mouth kind do. Gus was not fond of them arseholes, as he called them — sorry, miss, about the language.”
“So you called out. Did he normally come to the door? Or did you have to knock? Get his attention?”
“Mostly he heard the van and was at the door by the time I got there. When he didn’t this morning I didn’t think much of it. But when I called out again and he didn’t come, then I got worried. So I went in.”
Gord Martel gulped, and held the handkerchief to his mouth.
“Went in? The door was unlocked?”
“That was usual. He never locked it, said it was for the best. Less damage than if the yobbos broke in.”
“Had he had problems that way?”
“In the past. But not recently, from what he said.”
“Then you saw him?”
“Right. I couldn’t believe it. Swinging on that rope. I got out my mobile and got hold of you lot.”
The postman was clearly in shock, his body trembling violently beside her on the seat.
“Had he said anything before this that gave you the impression he was depressed? Suicidal?”
“Nothing. He was his usual self.”
“Which was …?”
“Cheerful. But he could get mad as a wet hen about some things. Like telephones, and tourists and the social services.”
“Things that interfered with his life?”
“Right. The maddest I ever saw him was talking about some — ‘girlie,’ he called her — from the social services who came to talk to him about his ‘lifestyle.’ It wasn’t so much at her as at that word. ‘Lifestyle.’ He did a whole speech about language and the death of it. I wish I’d written it down. He was a beautiful talker, Gus. I don’t mean ‘posh’ — he hated that too — but all the words.”
“Did he ever ask you inside?”
“If the weather was bad, yes. But mostly we talked outside.”
“What sort of mail did he get, besides magazines?”
“Nothing much. I learned not to bring him junk mail. That was another thing he hated, and the closest he got to yelling at me.”
“All those books he had — did you ever deliver books to him?”
“Some. He had a mailbox in the post office in town, on Smith Street, and once or twice he asked me to take the key and check it for him.”
“Did you always hand the key back?”
“Of course. He’d stick it back in his pocket.”
“We’ll probably find it.” Liz closed her notebook and put it away. “That’ll be all for now, Mr. Martel, but we’ll need a written statement from you. One other thing — did you notice anything different about Mr. Dorey’s place when you went in today? Was it all as it usually was, when he asked you in? Did you touch anything? SOCO have not found a note, for instance.”
“Touch anything?” Gord Martel sounded outraged at the suggestion. “I got the fright of my life seeing him hanging there, and I went straight back to the van. I didn’t even check to see if he was still alive.” At this, the postman burst into loud sobs. Liz put a hand on his shoulder, at which Gord Martel gave a loud gulp and turned to face her.
“There was nothing you could have done, Gord. The doctor said he died instantly. As it usually was, you said?”
“All I noticed was there was some stuff laying around on the floor and that, like he’d been looking for something, I thought. I’d forgotten about that.”
“So he wasn’t an untidy person?”
“Gus? No. Finicky, I used to call him, everything just so, ’specially his books. Meticulous was his word for it. Can’t have been himself, because there they were, on the floor.” Gord Martel put his handkerchief away and smiled tearfully as he looked out of the window towards the roundhouse of the hermit. “Poor old bugger,” he repeated, “Poor old bugger.”
Moretti had listened in silence to Falla’s account, watching as she consulted her notes from time to time. When she finished, she closed her notebook and said, “Poor old bugger. That’s what Gord Martel said, and that’s how I feel. And Martel’s right, Guv, about the tidiness. I was expecting to walk into a tip, but the place was all clean and tidy. He’d strung himself up from a girder that connected to the chimney, kicked the chair away, and there were books
