A Line to Kill

‘Every night he’d pick on another new bug, which is what they called the first-years. He was two years ahead of us and he was part of a gang, four or five of them, that used to prowl the corridors after prep. They’d pick you up and throw you in the laundry basket with everyone’s dirty clothes and then tie down the lid. You might be there for an hour before someone let you out. Or he’d do the same thing in your study … tie you to a chair with parcel tape so you’d be late for chapel and get a bollocking from the housemaster. One day, I came into my study and he’d vandalised all my photographs … my mum, my dad, my dog. He’d drawn things with a Magic Marker. I don’t need to tell you what sort of things. He was sick, I really believe that.’

He drew a breath.

‘I went on stealing. And when I got caught the third time and was thrown out of Westland, it was the happiest day of my life. My dad never forgave me, though. He was a lieutenant commander on a frigate – Broadsword. And having a son who’d been caught pilfering, he thought it reflected on him. He never really spoke to me very much after that. I tried to explain, but he wouldn’t listen.’

Marc Bellamy reached into his inside pocket and took out a slim silver pen. He placed it on the table. ‘Here you are,’ he said. ‘That’s Mrs Cleary’s pen, and when you return it to her, you can tell her I never went into her room. She lent it to Kathryn, and Kathryn left it in the bar.’

‘You took fifty euros from Maïssa Lamar’s purse.’

‘I can give you that back too …’ He fumbled for his wallet.

Hawthorne stopped him. ‘There’s no need. She’s gone. Did you take any coins?’

‘No. Nothing else.’

‘Yeah. Well. Thank you for being so frank with us.’ Hawthorne stood up and I wondered if he might be a little bit ashamed about what had just happened. As for myself, I felt nothing but pity for Marc Bellamy. I’d been through the private-education system myself – another version of the full English – and knew only too well how the casual cruelty and the pack mentality that he had described could stay with you for the rest of your life.

We left him sitting there and went back into the hotel. I’d lost any appetite for breakfast, but Hawthorne poured himself a black coffee.

‘That story he told,’ I said as we sat at another table. ‘Charles le Mesurier tying him down with parcel tape.’ Suddenly it was obvious to me. ‘Bellamy killed him!’

But Hawthorne shook his head. ‘We haven’t told anyone the full details of how le Mesurier was killed,’ he said. ‘So if Bellamy had decided to re-enact some sort of revenge, do you think he’d have told us what was done to him back in his schooldays? It would have been the same as confessing to the crime.’

‘Maybe that’s what he just did.’

Hawthorne didn’t reply, but it only allowed my thoughts to race ahead of me. Was it possible that someone else had been to Westland College at the same time as Charles le Mesurier? Colin Matheson, perhaps, or Dr Queripel? They were both about the right age. Could it be that despite all the evidence, Derek Abbott wasn’t the true killer?

Everything had changed. I might have a book after all.

22 Gannet Rock

I was looking forward to leaving Alderney. As we drove past Fort Tourgis, making our way back towards the airport, it was hard to believe that I had only been on the island for five days. So much had happened – two deaths! At the same time, Hawthorne and I had left a wake of destruction behind us. Anne Cleary had been trashed by Elizabeth Lovell, who had then been exposed as a cheat and a liar. Marc Bellamy had been forced to relive his own childhood trauma and had admitted to being a thief. Judith and Colin Matheson might divorce. Derek Abbott was heading to jail for blackmail, if not murder. There are victims in every murder story, and not just the ones who are killed.

Terry was sad to see us go, although I couldn’t say I’d miss him very much: he had presented me with an enormous bill in return for his services. As usual, he filled the journey with his chatter.

‘So, you don’t know who did it!’ he exclaimed, casting an eye at Hawthorne, bouncing it off his driving mirror.

Hawthorne was in no mood to reply.

‘There are plenty of people on the island who will be glad to see the back of him. My dad for one! We were talking about it only last night. I told you Mr le Mesurier was planning to start his own car service, as if he needed any more business in Alderney. Not that I’m saying my old man had anything to do with it, mind you. Did you talk to that French lady? I took her to the airport and she said she was a poet, but what sort of poet would have a private jet waiting for her? There was something going on there.’

We reached the top of the hill. I could see the airport in the distance.

But Terry hadn’t finished. ‘I still don’t believe I was actually parked outside the house when Charles le Mesurier was done in. And I saw his wife – his widow, sorry – the day she died too!’

That interested Hawthorne. ‘When was that?’ he asked.