looked across at Liz, but she was apparently engrossed in the paperback she was holding, her attention held by something on the page.
“Anything interesting? What’s the book?”
“It’s not the book. It’s this.” Liz was holding out a tiny, yellowed scrap of paper. “It’s an address.”
“In Guernsey?”
“No. In the U.K. A street address, somewhere in London, I think. Looks like Gus Dorey’s writing. He’s put his name in some of the paperbacks.”
“Does he identify whose address it is?”
“Yes. He does.” Liz smoothed the fragile piece of paper with one finger, and held it out to Al Brown.
“‘My darling,’” she said.
Chief Officer Hanley was looking remarkably cheerful for a man whose face leant itself more readily to melancholy than merriment. Moretti handed him the report on Gus Dorey and he laid it to one side without looking at it.
“What are your first impressions of DC Brown?”
“Pleasant, intelligent, as one might expect. What was your impression, sir?”
“Much the same. We’ll see. Possibly a little lightweight, perhaps?”
Moretti had no idea what the Chief Officer meant and decided not to pursue it. Maybe he had noticed the pierced ear.
“About this vampire nonsense,” he began, “DS Falla knows some of the members of the Island Players, and feels it is a storm in a theatrical teacup.”
The chief officer positively beamed. “Oh absolutely. Mrs. Maxwell phoned me this morning and explained.”
“Explained?”
“Yes. Seems to have been a misunderstanding. Mind you, I didn’t quite follow her clarification, which had more to do with something she called dramatic licence, than common sense. Anyway, we’re off the hook, thank heaven. I don’t mind telling you, Moretti, it’s a great relief.”
“I can imagine, sir. A waste of police time.”
“Quite. We have other fish to fry. Organizational fish.”
The chief officer’s metaphoric clarification seemed quite as cryptic as Marie Maxwell’s, and left Moretti feeling apprehensive. He picked up the Gus Dorey case notes.
“These are my notes on the apparent suicide of Gus Dorey, the hermit at Pleinmont.”
“Apparent suicide?”
The chief officer’s expression returned to its default downcast disposition.
“There is a possibility, according to Dr. Edwards, who did the initial examination, that someone helped him. And I agree with her, sir.”
One of Hanley’s best qualities was his ability to listen, which he did in silence until Moretti had finished.
“So,” he replied after a moment’s thought, “Assisted suicide, not murder. Were there signs of anyone else being there?”
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