Daughter of Riches Page 28

  The sun set, a ball of fire, over scenes of great excitement all over the island, bathing Sophia’s room in a last rosy glow, and at last – at last! – things began to happen.

  Just before ten o’clock Bernard and Catherine, downstairs in the kitchen, heard Sophia’s last agonised gasp and the baby’s first hiccuping cries.

  ‘You have a son,’ the doctor told Sophia. ‘ I think in view of what’s been happening today you should call him Victor – or even Winston.’

  Sophia lay back on the pillows, exhausted but also exhilarated. ‘Oh no, we’ve already decided on a name,’ she said, her voice cracking with tiredness.

  ‘And what is that?’

  ‘We are going to call him Louis.’

  Sophia cradled her baby in her arms. She looked down at the chubby face with the small button mouth which sought her breast so eagerly, the wide blue eyes and the fuzz of fair hair that covered the faintly pointed head, and a wave of love overwhelmed her. The circumstances of his conception and the terrible time that had followed were all behind her now and the thing she had feared most – that she would look at him and know that he was the son of the hateful officer who had raped her – had not happened. There was nothing about the baby to indicate which of the two Germans had fathered him and in any case it did not matter to Sophia any more. He was here and she loved him, whoever his father might be. It was almost, she thought, as if he was hers alone, this soft, sweet-smelling, utterly dependent scrap of humanity.

  If only she could ensure he would never grow up to suffer as they had all suffered these last five years! If only she could keep him safe with her love forever! Sophie hugged her baby fiercely and promised that nothing should ever hurt him if it were in her power to prevent it.

  Chapter seventeen

  Jersey, 1991

  Dan Deffains pushed open the door of the pub and felt as if he had stepped back in time. If he had a pound for every pint he’d sunk here during his days on the force he would be a rich man, he thought. Add to that another pound for all the whisky chasers and he might be able to afford one of the millionaire’s mansions that dotted the island. But he hadn’t been inside the place from the day he’d handed in his warrant card. It held too many memories and he had had no reason to want to resurrect any of them. It had hurt too damned much, feeling that he had been discarded like a used match just when he had most needed his career to fill the barren desert of his private life now Marianne was gone. Nothing, he had thought, could ever make him forget the sight of her broken body lying at the roadside, nothing could make the raw pain of loss go away. But at least work would have been a panacea. The police force had denied him that and even when he had begun to rebuild his shattered life, finding success and even fulfilment, the bitterness had remained, rankling like a festering sore.

  He had not wanted to see his old friends and not be one of them any more, he realised. That perhaps as much as anything was what had deterred him from seeking them out to pursue the Langlois case. But it was different now. With Juliet’s visit the whole thing had leaped up at him, exciting his imagination and reawakening all his old enthusiasms. Dan had always believed in grasping what opportunities presented themselves; to ignore them was to kick fate in the face. This was the right moment, he had decided, to follow his instincts and try to get to the bottom of what had happened at La Grange twenty years ago. Juliet would be his contact inside the tight-knit, tight-lipped Langlois clan. This morning she had telephoned and told him she would like to go ahead with the investigation and he had arranged to meet her again and talk some more. He was looking forward to hearing what she might be able to tell him. But he could not expect her to do it all for him. Some of the digging he had to do for himself. And that meant re-establishing contacts he had let slip over the last few years. With the excitement of following a trail, however cold, to egg him on he had made a telephone call or two, and now as he entered the bar of the pub he was surprised to find that it was far less painful to face the past than he had imagined it would be.

  Time had moved on and he had not noticed it. He was no longer the keen young policeman whose dreams of a career in the force had been shattered. He was a different man with different ambitions. The pub, though packed with memories, was a place where he could pursue them, nothing more.

  He stood for a moment in the doorway, his eyes narrowed against the fug of cigarette smoke, then made his way across to the bar to where a man was sitting on one of the high stools, instantly recognisable by the fringe of ginger hair that reached from ear to ear beneath a pink bald pate shaped like a monk’s tonsure.

  ‘Hello, Mr Gould.’

  ‘Dan! I didn’t see you come in. You’re early!’

  ‘One of my foibles, remember? I didn’t think it would matter, anyway. I guessed you’d be here first.’

  ‘I don’t like wasting good drinking time, it’s true. What are you having?’

  ‘No, this one is on me. Scotch?’

  ‘Why the hell not, if you’re buying.’

  ‘Two doubles, please,’ Dan said to the barmaid, who was hovering. The girl had changed, the eagerness to serve him had not.

  ‘So?’ the older man said as the girl set the two glasses down on the counter in front of them. ‘What did you want to see me about, Dan?’

  Dan looked around, indicating a corner table.

  ‘Shall we go over there where it’s a bit quieter?’

  ‘Suits me.’

  Out of a sense of deference that was a hangover from the old days Dan let him lead the way. Philip Gould had been the inspector in charge of his section when he had joined the force and from the start Dan had liked him. There was an honesty about Phil Gould, it shone out of his blunt featured, rather red, face and blue eyes that were fringed by stubby colourless lashes. He was a blunt man but a fair one, hard on new recruits and old stagers alike but hot in defence of any of his men whom he felt had been wronged. Dan knew Phil Gould had fought for him and he was grateful even though Phil had failed. The man had probably sacrificed any chance of furthering his career because of his outspoken loyalty to those in his command; he had never risen above the rank of inspector and with less than five years to go to retirement was unlikely to now.

  ‘I’ll get straight to the point, Mr Gould,’ Dan said when they were seated. ‘Do you remember a case almost twenty years ago when a Louis Langlois was shot?’

  ‘Louis Langlois! Now there’s a name from the past!’

  ‘You do remember.’

  ‘How could I ever forget? It rocked the island – well what else would you expect with such a notable family involved in a murder? What’s more it sticks in my mind because it was one of the first big cases I was associated with. I was a young officer at the time in the very early years of my service. I was doing an attachment with CID and not enjoying it much. The DI was a bastard by the name of Ivor Fauval. You wouldn’t remember him. He died not so long afterwards – cancer. They had a bloody great funeral for him, police officers acting as bearers, the full works, but I shouldn’t think there were many who mourned him. He was a sod all right, the sort that gets the force a bad name.’

  Dan was silent, unwilling to stop the flow, but Phil Gould looked at him suddenly, his eyes sharp behind the pale stubby lashes.

  ‘What is your interest in this anyway, Dan?’

  Dan told him about his meeting with Juliet, omitting to mention that she had given him a tailor-made excuse to investigate what he hoped might turn into a juicy story for him, and saw Phil Gould’s eyes begin to twinkle beneath his thick sandy eyebrows.

  ‘I see – there’s a girl involved in this. Pretty. I suppose?’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘I thought so. No wonder you don’t want to disappoint her. All right, what d’you want to know?’

  Dan ignored the inference. ‘Just a few basic details,’ he said carefully. He knew he was treading a fine line. The case might be almost twenty years old but he did not want to arouse Phil Gould’s suspicions that he was abo
ut to try to get it re-opened. The slightest hint of that and the inspector would bring the conversation to an end faster than he could say ‘Louis Langlois’. ‘Have you any idea why she did it?’

  ‘Domestic dispute. I suppose. You know the way it is. There were all sorts of rows simmering inside the family – business and personal too. Louis was a wide boy. He had the sort of ideas that don’t go down well in Jersey and he was a womaniser too. An even bigger bastard than Ivor Fauval!’ He chuckled. ‘He fell out with his father, Bernard, and went off God knows where. Then when Bernard died and left him a third share of all his holdings in the Langlois empire he came back and fell out with the rest of the family.’

  ‘It must have been some falling out for his own mother to shoot him,’ Dan said conversationally. ‘Domestic dispute or not that’s a pretty unusual scenario. She did do it, I suppose? If he was such a bastard and alienated everybody around him …?’

  Phil Gould laughed. ‘You know that’s what the centenier, John Germaine, tried to say at the time. He didn’t want to believe she’d done it, even though she had confessed. I remember him and Ivor Fauval going hammer and tongs about it. Fauval wanted her arrested, Germaine was reluctant to do it. That made Fauval mad as a hatter. He said Germaine was too involved personally since he’d known Sophia Langlois since they were at school. And for once I can’t say I blamed him. You know what a bloody bugbear it is having the amateurs like millstones round your neck.’

  Dan nodded. ‘True. But in this case he couldn’t have been right, I suppose?’

  Phil’s eyes narrowed and for a moment Dan wondered if he had gone too far. Then the inspector said shortly: ‘To tell you the truth, Dan, I’ve always wondered. It was too damn neat, too open and shut.’

  ‘Oh come on, Mr Gould!’ Dan steeled himself not to show excitement, ‘ if it wasn’t her why should she say it was?’

  ‘It’s my guess she was protecting someone. She thought as a respected member of the community and a woman she’d be more likely to get off lightly. And by the way, drop the ‘‘Mr Gould” for Chrissakes. I’m not your inspector now. My name is Phil.’

  Dan grinned. ‘All right – Phil.’ But he suspected the habit would be hard to break.

  ‘Yep, that would be my guess,’ the inspector continued. ‘You could argue, of course, that she’d gone off her head with grief, found the body, picked up the gun in a state of shock and then convinced herself she’d fired it. I seem to remember somebody coming up with a theory on those lines at the time – David Langlois, the youngest son, if I remember rightly. There had been a lot of burglaries around the island and it was suggested Louis might have disturbed an intruder. But personally I don’t think that holds water. Sophia might have acted very strangely when she gave herself up, refusing to say a word in explanation of what had happened, but I believe that was deliberate, the reaction of a woman in shock, perhaps, but certainly not the deranged behaviour of someone who had taken leave of her senses. I’ve rarely met anyone saner than Sophia Langlois. If she was lying she knew what she was doing all right.’

  ‘What did the post mortem say about the time of death?’

  ‘It did nothing to disprove Sophia’s claim, if that’s what you mean. But it doesn’t prove anything either. You know how notoriously difficult it is to be accurate about time of death – so many factors can throw the assessment out. In any case, Louis had been out himself and would have arrived home only half an hour or so before his mother. And he was still wearing his DJ, black tie and frilly shirt when he was shot – another thing that might point to the intruder theory.’

  ‘Nothing was taken, though, presumably? And there was no sign of forced entry?’

  ‘None. But the housekeeper was getting old and forgetful – she quite often forgot to lock up, according to David. And of course, if it all happened just moments before Sophia came home the intruder could have panicked and fled empty-handed when he heard the car. At least, that’s how the theory went.’

  ‘But you don’t believe it.’

  ‘It’s even more pat than asking us to believe Sophia did it. It was my opinion then, as now, that David came up with that one to try to take the heat off his mother. They were very close – he adored her, the way a youngest son often does. I remember the state he got in when she was sentenced …’ he shook his head, recalling the hysterical outburst of the young David and how he had had to be removed physically from the court.

  ‘So you think she was protecting someone,’ Dan said, drawing the inspector back to the point. ‘Who?’

  Phil Gould laughed, a hearty guffaw that caused people sitting at the nearby tables to turn and look at him.

  ‘Oh come on, Dan, now you’re asking! If I didn’t know that twenty years ago how the hell do you expect me to know now?’

  ‘Didn’t you ever have the slightest suspicion?’

  ‘There were enough fireworks going off in that family to make Mount Etna look like a Palmatine Star nightlight,’ Phil Gould said graphically. ‘As far as motives go I reckon any one of them could have done it. Louis had a knack of making enemies.’

  ‘So someone outside the family could have had a motive too?’

  ‘True, but you know as well as I do the closest connections are always going to be the most likely, especially where a victim is killed in his own home. And besides, why should Sophie lie for an outsider?’

  ‘Perhaps like you she thought one of the family was responsible – but perhaps she was wrong.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘But you don’t think so.’

  ‘No. Oh, shit, Dan, I don’t know. It was a bloody long time ago. And this is now – and my glass is empty.’

  Dan went to rise. ‘Let me …’

  ‘No, it’s my turn. You might have asked to meet me but I still buy my round. Same again?’

  ‘Better make mine a half of something long and not too alcoholic. I’m driving.’

  ‘Shame!’ But Phil Gould looked amused – until he remembered what had happened to Marianne.

  Whilst he was at the bar Dan thought back over what had been said. So far everything tied in with what he had already thought but he hadn’t learned a great deal that was new. Except about David trying to sell the police the burglar theory. Interesting. Had he also tried to sell it to Dan Deffains senior, his mother’s advocate, and had Dan rejected it out of hand so that it did not even warrant a mention in the file? And what about the possibility that Louis had had other enemies outside the family who might have wanted him dead? Perhaps it was something he should follow up, but it wouldn’t be easy after all this time and as Phil had pointed out Sophia would never have taken the blame unless she had believed someone she cared about was responsible. That meant very strong motives within the family – something Juliet could unearth if she tried.

  Phil returned with the fresh round of drinks.

  ‘So,’ Dan said as Phil took the head off his own pint, ‘forget motive for the moment. What about opportunity? Which of them could have done it?’

  ‘Christ, what is this – the third degree?’ Phil exploded. Beer foam had caught in his moustache and he wiped it away with the back of his hand.

  ‘I’m just interested …’

  ‘Hmm. All I can say is she must be a very attractive girl.’

  ‘She is.’

  ‘And you want to impress her.’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Well it’s about time you sorted yourself out a nice girlfriend. Though unless you’ve changed a good deal you don’t need all this crap to do that. I seem to remember young ladies going weak at the knees when you were around.’

  ‘You’re exaggerating.’

  ‘I’m bloody well not. And though I expect you’ll tell me to mind my own business I’m not joking when I say it’s time you sorted out your private life. It was rough on you, I know, but you can’t go on grieving for ever. Marianne wouldn’t expect that.’

  ‘Perhaps not. But it’s the way I want it. And we were talking
about the Langlois family, not me. Which of them could have done it?’

  ‘Dan, my brain is aching.’

  ‘Mr Gould …’

  ‘Phil, remember? Oh, all right, let me think. There were the two other sons, weren’t there, Robin and David. There was Sophia’s brother, Paul. There was his wife, Vivienne. And there was Robin’s wife, Molly. She was having an affair with Louis – you’d better not tell your little girlfriend that. It might not go down too well and I doubt she knows anything about it. She might not even believe you, of course. It’s not the easiest thing in the world to imagine your parents in flagrante delicto. As far as I can recall they were all in Jersey on the night in question and none of them had any alibi, except for the ones they gave one another.’

  ‘There was an investigation then?’

  ‘Not as such, though they all made statements. It’s just that I looked at those statements with all the interest of a keen young copper who sees his first murder case turning out to be a damp squib.’

  ‘So any one of them could have done it.’

  ‘You could say that. The only close member of the family who was not in Jersey at the time was Catherine Carteret, Sophia’s sister. She was teaching, in London, I believe, though she came dashing home as soon as the news broke. Yes, any one of them had the opportunity. And I reckon Sophia was enough of a family matriarch to lie for any one of them with the possible exception of Vivienne. If she was lying.’

  ‘But I thought you said …’

  ‘I know. That it was too neat. But there are still facts that can’t be ignored.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Number one – it was Sophia who reported Louis dead. The person discovering the body has to be a prime suspect. Number two, of all the motives hers was as strong as any and when she began talking she plugged it for all she was worth. Louis was breaking up the family by having a very indiscreet affair with his sister-in-law. Worse, he was breaking up the company. Sophia loved that company. She and Bernard had built it up together from a guest house started by her parents – she couldn’t bear to see Louis destroy it. That was her story – simple as that and every bit as devastating. Sophia is a great lady, Dan, with the emphasis on the lady. But she also has a streak of ruthlessness. She can be hard as iron and cold as steel when needs be. She could have done it. She had both motive and opportunity. You mustn’t overlook the fact – she could have been telling the truth.’ He raised his glass. ‘Well, good luck to you, Dan, and good luck to that little girl of yours. I honestly would be very pleased to hear you had put the past behind you at last and married again.’