A Line to Kill

It seemed an odd choice of word, but then, with a jolt, I realised what he meant. Before he had been killed, le Mesurier’s wrists and ankles had been tied to the chair with brown parcel tape. At least, three of them had. His right hand had been left free and now lay palm upwards, limp, the fingers curled as if he was asking for money. It was a bizarre detail. What could possibly have been done to him before he was murdered, and what had his one hand been needed for?

‘You’ve seen?’ Dr Queripel asked. He was talking to Hawthorne.

Hawthorne had approached the body, avoiding the blood. He looked carefully at the entrance wound made by the knife, then examined the back of le Mesurier’s head. Finally, his eyes travelled down to the dead man’s hands. ‘Was he left-handed or right-handed?’ he asked.

‘I don’t really know. Why do you ask?’

‘His watch,’ Hawthorne said. ‘He wore a Rolex, but it’s gone.’ It was true. The shirtsleeve, saturated in blood, hung open, revealing a wrist that was bare.

‘I don’t know.’ Dr Queripel was aghast. ‘I have a feeling he was right-handed. But are you really suggesting that somebody did all this to steal his watch?’

‘There’s no sign of any break-in and he’s wearing the same clothes he had on at the party, so it looks as if he came straight here, either alone or with someone. Maybe he’d arranged a meeting. There’s a contusion on the back of his head – I’d say he’s been hit with a blunt object. He was forced into the chair and tied down. One wrist was left free. There has to be a reason.’

‘Maybe the killer ran out of tape,’ I said.

This suggestion was greeted with silence.

Dr Queripel took a step closer and Hawthorne held up a hand. ‘Please be careful!’

The doctor stopped and Hawthorne pointed to an area of carpet about halfway between the chair and the door into the garden. The dark red and mauve pattern made it difficult to make out what he had seen, but looking closer, I noticed the shape of a partial footprint. There was a curve where the toecap had come into contact with the blood. It could have been left behind by a man or a woman, but from the size I got the impression that it was someone with small feet.

‘Dear God!’ Queripel exclaimed. The footprint pointed towards the door. ‘This is how he made his getaway!’

‘Yes. The trail continues back into the garden.’

‘So he was knocked out, tied down and then killed,’ Queripel said. ‘And whoever did it went back to the house … presumably while the party was still going on.’ He thought for a moment. ‘I suppose that narrows the field.’

I was really hoping we had finished in the Snuggery, but before we left Hawthorne gently pulled back the curtains on both sides to reveal bare concrete walls with no windows. He examined the second set of doors and, using a handkerchief, slid back the bolt. He opened the door and the sunlight blazed in, as if determined to purify the grim scene. All three of us breathed in the fresh air with gratitude. Finally, Hawthorne closed the door and locked it again, leaving everything as it had been when we arrived.

He made his way back towards us, then stopped and knelt down. As I stood there watching, he reached into his jacket pocket and took out a business card from the Braye Beach Hotel and used it to scoop up a coin that had been lying on the rug near one of the curtains. He held it up and showed it to me. It was a two-euro piece.

‘Do you think that was his?’ I asked.

‘Your guess is as good as mine, mate.’

‘We use English currency on Alderney,’ Dr Queripel said. ‘But France is only eight miles away.’

‘His wife, Helen, had just come back from Paris,’ I added. ‘And the performance poet Maïssa Lamar is French.’

I thought I was being helpful but it was as if Hawthorne hadn’t heard.

‘I think, maybe, you should leave it for the police,’ Queripel said with a touch of admonition in his voice.

‘Whatever you say,’ Hawthorne replied cheerfully, and he slid the coin gently back onto the floor.

We went back outside where Colin Matheson was waiting for us, still looking queasy. ‘Have you seen enough?’ he asked.

‘More than enough,’ I said.

Hawthorne was unfazed. ‘Well, Charles le Mesurier certainly didn’t have a very nice end to the evening,’ he said. ‘How’s Mrs le Mesurier getting on?’

‘She’s gone back to bed. She’s in shock.’

‘When did she find him?’

‘This morning.’ Colin Matheson looked exhausted. ‘She woke up at half past seven and realised he wasn’t in the bed. She looked for him in the spare rooms and downstairs. Then she saw the door of the gunnery was open and so she came over here.’ He shook his head. ‘It must have been absolutely ghastly for her.’

‘I’ve given her a mild sedative,’ the doctor said.

Matheson turned to Hawthorne. ‘I don’t know if you have any thoughts, Mr Hawthorne …’

‘Well, first of all, nobody must leave the island.’

‘Absolutely. Mr Torode said the same thing.’

‘Who is Mr Torode?’

‘He’s the deputy chief officer of the Guernsey Crime Services. He’s one of the officers who’s coming over.’