Free Blood Will Out by Jill Downie Page A

depending on the listener’s point of view.
    â€œI will be at the hospital this afternoon, if you are free.”
    â€œOf course. Three o’clock suit you?”
    â€œPerfect. See you then.”
    As he hung up the phone, Moretti said. “I want to take a look at the rope first, and then get something to eat. How about you, Al?”
    â€œGreat! I just had time to check in at my digs, and I’m starving. Also, I don’t know where’s good — and cheap — to eat in St. Peter Port.”
    He stood up and took his jacket from the back of the chair, put it on. Looks like he works out , thought Moretti.
    â€œHow about La Crêperie, Guv? It’s close and we can walk there, come back for the car.” Falla gave Al Brown another smile.
    As he walked past him, Moretti realized he was taller than Al Brown, and that the brainiac’s dark curly hair was receding slightly at the temples.
    His inner child rejoiced.
    The rope lay in front of them on the table in the incident room. It had been cut close to the knot to release the hermit’s body, and the strands revealed were considerably cleaner and lighter than the rest of the rope.
    â€œTar, or oil. Seaweed or algae stains. He must have found this on the beach.” Moretti touched one of the dark patches with his gloved hand.
    â€œHe supplied his own rope, that’s what I thought,” said Falla. “But at the time I saw him, I thought it was straightforward, a suicide.”
    â€œIt may be, but looking at the thickness of the rope, I tend to agree with Dr. Edwards — that he had help.”
    â€œAssisted suicide.” Al Brown bent over the rope, then straightened up. “But who helps a hermit? From what the postman said, he didn’t have friends.”
    â€œExactly. And who in their right mind would drop in out of the blue and casually offer to give a complete stranger a hand in his death? You saw the postman’s reaction right after his discovery of the body, Falla. Do you think he might have had anything to do with this?”
    â€œNot unless he’s a brilliant actor, Guv.”
    â€œBut who helps a hermit?” Al Brown asked again. “By definition, a hermit’s someone who avoids human contact?” He looked at Moretti.
    â€œLet’s go eat, and we’ll fill you in on the business of the books,” said Moretti.
    The Crêperie was on Smith Street, a narrow, winding road close to the centre of the town, now closed to traffic and for pedestrians only. On their way, they passed a bookstore, its name on a board above the door decorated to look like a mediaeval manuscript: W ORDS .
    Al Brown stopped to look in the window, and said, “Unimaginative perhaps, but the name says it all, doesn’t it. Always good to see people are still reading the old-fashioned way.”
    Falla, walking ahead of them, turned and grinned. “Thought you’d be all gadgets and iPods and e-books, you being from the big city,” she said.
    Al Brown looked hurt. “How can you say that to a bloke who plays a Portuguese guitar?” he said.
    â€œA Portuguese guitar?” Moretti and Falla spoke in unison.
    â€œYes, but you wouldn’t know that. I learned it at my mother’s knee.” Al Brown turned to Moretti. “I know you play jazz piano, sir,” he said. “Chief Officer Hanley told me this morning. It seemed to — puzzle him.”
    Al Brown smiled. Moretti’s inner child was beginning to feel better.
    â€œI play guitar,” Falla said. She was looking delighted. “And sing,” she added. “With a group. We call ourselves Jenemie.”
    Suddenly, she stopped. “Here we are.” She pushed open the door and they were greeted by a gust of warm air laden with delicious cooking smells.
    â€œGod, that smells good! Do you play together at all?” Al Brown stood to one side of the banquette for Liz Falla to go past him, and