and the aroma drifted towards her as she washed her hands.
“There’s a fantastic smell over here. What is it?”
“Lamb shanks, cooking very slowly, with red wine and herbs from the garden. And garlic, of course! Some time you must let me teach you how to cook, young woman. Living on omelettes, fish and chips, and Dwight’s curries — delicious though they are, and I have some in the freezer — is not good. It’ll catch up with you, sooner or later.”
“Knock it off, El. You sound like my mother. Anyway, are lamb shanks a health food?”
“Kind of. They are good for the soul.”
Together they filled the Mason jars, fastening down the lids, and Elodie put on the coffee. “How is Dwight?” she asked. “Still playing in that jazz group with your boss?”
“Yes. He’s fine. We are not an item anymore, you know.”
“I know.” Elodie had her back to Liz, but could hear the subtle change in her voice. She took down two coffee mugs from the shelf near the fireplace and put them on the table. “Is that something you care about, or am I misinterpreting that change of key I hear?”
Liz grinned, and said, “Major to minor you mean? Actually, that’s more about my Guvnor than about Dwight. Thanks.” She took the filled coffee mug, sat down and took a sip. “He was going to come and hear me sing with my group, Jenemie. Then he had to go to London for a debriefing for this last caper — case — of ours and missed it. I was disappointed, don’t know why.”
Elodie looked at her niece, and felt a wave of tenderness. She was younger than her age in some ways, flitting from relationship to relationship, some of them from which she disentangled herself — or was disentangled. Her apparent insouciance about such things was not always genuine, her flippancy a useful cover for hurt.
“Have you heard him play? I have, once. He’s good. Went with your Uncle Vern.” She smiled. “Do you think your disappointment is artistic, or personal? Do you fancy him? He has a certain je ne sais quoi. Well, I do sais quoi. He’s rather gorgeous.”
Liz looked as shocked as if her aunt had made a deeply improper suggestion. “El, please, he’s old enough to be my father. Besides, he’s my boss.” She took a deep draught of her coffee, pushing away the thought of an earlier attraction, a man old enough to be her grandfather.
“Artistic then, I’ll take your word for it. Perhaps he doesn’t want to blur the line between business and pleasure. It can be a dangerous one to cross,” Elodie’s voice hardened, but she did not elaborate, instead adding, “and your piano-playing Guv is not that old, kid. Have you been to the Grand Saracen, the club where he plays?”
“No, only to the restaurant upstairs. Emidio’s. It used to be his father’s. His mum was a Guernsey girl.”
“A wartime romance with an Italian slave labourer, Vern told me. Tell you what, we’ll go together some time. Looks like an ascetic, your Guvnor, but having watched him play, I doubt he is. A lot of smouldering going on beneath that detached exterior. Are you on duty after your workout? Why don’t you come back here and share the lamb shanks with me? If you’re free, that is.”
“Love to. I’ll eat and take notes. Are they easy to make?”
“A doddle. You can use that slow cooker I gave you and give your microwave a break. And I may have some info for you by then. Gandalf usually takes the air around the witching hour, and I’ll stroll down in that direction and engage him in conversation.”
“Okay, but be careful.” Liz stood up and took her jacket off the back of the chair. “You may not believe in fairies or ghosts or vampires, El, but that doesn’t mean Shawcross is a pussycat.”
“He has one — a pussycat, I mean. I hear him calling it. Stoker.” The two women looked at each other, and Elodie said, “First name probably Bram, don’t you think?”
She laughed, but Liz didn’t. Elodie went over to the sink and fetched a damp cloth, came back and started to wipe the jars. She looked across the table at her niece, her voice now deadly serious. “I may not believe in vampires, Liz, but that doesn’t mean I don’t believe in wickedness, and depravity and vice. I think there is as much evil in this world as good. Possibly more.”
Liz looked at her aunt, startled at this sudden outpouring of hidden emotion, as if she had returned to some dark episode in her life, and Liz thought of her mother’s enigmatic comment on her sister’s past.
“But I don’t have to tell you that, in your job,” she added and changed the subject. “Is your boss still in London?”
“No, actually, he’s taken a couple of days off.” Liz pulled her car keys out of her pocket and added, “At this moment he’s probably messing about in his new boat.”
Ed Moretti was thinking of his father. Not being a Guernseyman, Emidio Moretti had felt no particular desire to own a boat, although he had talked about it from time to time. So Moretti had got his knowledge and his experience from his mother’s brother, who owned a boat and was only too happy to have a strong young boy as his crew. He looked across the deck of his new Westerly Centaur at his own crew, who was at that moment leaning rather perilously over the side of the boat.
Don Taylor was no young boy, but a man in his mid-forties with the string-bean build and the stamina of a long-distance runner. On an island measuring just over twenty-four square miles, he still managed to keep up his passion on the extensive network of cliff paths. He worked with the Financial Services Commission, one of the elements in the complex structure involved with the financial scene, now the island’s main source of income. Moretti had worked together with Don once before, and Don had provided a key piece of information on Moretti’s last case.
“Good decision to get a bilge-keeler with the tides around these parts.” Don’s voice drifted back on the wind to Moretti. “And you won’t lose much except to windward. You’ll not always be diesel-powered, I trust.”
“I wouldn’t dare, not with you on board, but I wanted to give the motor another good outing while I was still able to get my money back.”
Moretti looked up at the cliffs and felt happiness flooding him. Well, contentment anyway. The kind of escape and freedom he felt at the Grand Saracen, or playing the piano that had been his mother’s, in the house that had been his childhood home. Beyond the treacherous rocks around Icart Point, he could see the coast beginning to curve inwards to Moulin Huet Bay, and out again to the Pea Stacks, three great rock masses on the southeast tip of the coastline, Le Petit Aiguillon, le Gros Aiguillon, and l’Aiguillon d’Andrelot, painted by Renoir when he visited the island. Midnight assassins, Victor Hugo had called them.
L’Aiguillon d’Andrelot was also known as Le Petit Bonhomme Andriou, and was supposed to resemble a monk in his cowl and gown. Passing fishermen tipped their caps to him, or offered small sacrifices — a libation, a biscuit, even a garment. Or so Moretti was told by Les De Putron, who had laughed at the old superstition and then doffed his cap as they sailed past.
“Better safe than sorry,” he said. “Mind you do the same. Be on the safe side,” he repeated.
Looking at the massive rocks, Moretti wondered at the power of superstition. An old observation post used by the Germans at Fort Grey, once in ruins, was now a shipwreck museum, a monument to the hundreds of lives lost along that hazardous coast. But perhaps they had not made an offering
