Blood Will Out by Jill Downie Read Free Book Online Page B

his forelock when asking one of the messux or the moneymen to move an illegally parked car? What?”
    They were now in Moretti’s office. Liz Falla waited until he sat down and started to check his messages, the familiar pattern when they were not in the middle of an investigation and had anything immediate to discuss. She would have no problem guessing when he got to Chief Officer Hanley’s message, so she pulled out a chair on the other side of the desk and watched his face.
    Her Guvnor was looking rested, with a light tan, his usually sombre features more relaxed. The dark hair inherited from his Italian father was touched with grey, and there were lines around his eyes that showed even when he was not laughing. No longer laugh-lines , she thought, but he wasn’t much given to idle banter, which was probably why she hadn’t noticed them before. Gorgeous, Elodie had called him. Not her type, which was just as well. Too much going on beneath the surface . At one point he looked across the table at her and nodded.
    â€œDr. Edwards. Competent, like you said.”
    Then his expression changed. A series of emotions flitted across his face in rapid succession, moving from disbelief to laughter. Moretti switched off the machine and looked across the desk at Liz.
    â€œHas Hanley developed a misplaced sense of humour, or has he lost his marbles?”
    Liz replied, taking her voice down an octave. “This is serious stuff, Guv. We have been asked to investigate a report of a threat from a vampire, from the mouth of the undead himself.”
    â€œWho is this vampire? Does he exist? Or can you even say that about vampires?”
    â€œOh, he exists. I met him last night, as a matter of fact. I’ll get us both a coffee and fill you in, shall I?”
    â€œLet’s start with the vampire and get him out of the way. You met him last night, Falla?”
    â€œHugo Shawcross. Bit of a coincidence here — I know you’re not fond of coincidences — but he’s rented a place near my godmother, and I dropped over to see if she’d met him, knew anything about him.”
    Swiftly, succinctly, Liz filled Moretti in on the details she considered relevant to Marie Gastineau’s complaint: the play, the Island Players, the threat. Moretti listened without interrupting her, but his expression made his feelings quite clear.
    â€œâ€¦ and I feel myself, Guv, it’s all a storm in a theatrical teacup. Volatile lot, these theatre people.”
    â€œWorse than musicians? Okay, don’t answer that. I’ll tell Hanley that we’ve looked into it, and — well, what you just said.” Moretti finished his coffee with his usual grimace. “Terrible as ever, and yet I go on drinking it. Anything else before we move on to the hermit?”
    â€œOnly this.” Falla told him about her conversation with Marla Gastineau in the Beau Sejour change room.
    â€œSo the girl is getting poison-pen letters — or the twenty-first century equivalent? You tell me she’s a looker? Par for the course, surely. Lot of that going on in the social media, right?”
    â€œRight.”
    â€œTell me about the hermit.”
    â€œWhat did Dr. Edwards say?”
    â€œYou first. Not the gist, like your account about Hugo the undead. Everything, Falla. Everything.”
    â€œPoor old bugger! Just as I was bringing him one of his magazines, one of his favourites. Archaeology Today . I was expecting our usual little joke about the title. ‘Boring,’ I’d say and he’d say, ‘Not a seller. I’m their only subscriber.’ Which, of course, he wasn’t. Then we’d laugh. Poor old bugger!”
    â€œYou’re Gordon Martel, aren’t you?”
    â€œGord, yes. I know your dad.”
    Liz Falla and the shaken postman stood outside the hermit’s house, watching the SOC people going about their business, shrouded in their white overalls. Jimmy