Free Blood Will Out by Jill Downie Page B

waited for her and for Moretti to sit down.
    It was Moretti who answered.
    â€œWe don’t.”
    Liz Falla gave him one of the unfathomable looks he was getting to know quite well — unfathomable because he couldn’t read from it whether it was reproach, or disapproval. His mother’s generation would have called it an old-fashioned look, which covered a multitude of sins.
    Over seafood crêpes for Moretti and Al Brown, and a caramelized onion crêpe for Falla, Al Brown and Liz Falla discussed the merits and differences of the acoustic and the Coimbra Portuguese guitar, which was Al Brown’s instrument. Ad nauseam, in Moretti’s unspoken opinion, but clearly not in theirs. Ignoring their conversation, his mind drifted to thoughts of yesterday’s trip with Don Taylor. Through the mist of pleasant recollection, he realized he was being asked a question.
    â€œBooks, you said, sir. The hermit was a reader?”
    â€œMore than that. A collector of rare and beautiful books that he, or someone, threw around on the floor in among his Penguin paperbacks.”
    â€œThen that wouldn’t be him. Someone was looking for something?”
    â€œCould be. And whoever it was did not recognize — or wasn’t interested in — a two-thousand pound Dickens first edition — give or take a pound or two.”
    â€œMy God! The postman — Gord Martel? — said the fact Gus Dorey had done that to his books showed his suicidal state of mind. But I thought he meant the untidiness, rather than anything more complicated.”
    â€œAnd he might be right.” There was a framed maxim on the wall close to the bar, that had caught Moretti’s eye when they came in.
Heaven is where the police are British, the cooks French, the mechanics German, the lovers Italian, and it is all organized by the Swiss. Hell is where the cooks are British, the mechanics French, the lovers Swiss, the police German, and it is all organized by the Italians.
    He looked across the table at Falla and said, “I am tempted at this point to say that my gut tells me this was not a disordered frame of mind, but perhaps that’s my Italian blood speaking, and not my British police training. Falla has strong views about that kind of thing.”
    Falla snorted with derision. “So would you, if you came from my family. I believe in fingerprints, and forensics, and DNA, not hunches.”
    â€œDoes that rule out the gut? Instinct? Intuition?” asked Al Brown, turning to Falla. “You surprise me.”
    â€œI thought intuition was now a dirty word in our business,” she replied. “I thought deduction was drawing conclusions from known facts, like alibis, motives, that kind of thing.”
    â€œDeduction,” said Al Brown, “is also, sometimes, a blinding moment of insight into another human being. Isn’t it?”
    â€œI think we’re back to intuition,” said Moretti. He saw that Falla was looking irritated, and felt annoyed with himself for winding her up. He was about to attract the attention of the waitress, when Al Brown said, “I should tell you why I asked to be posted here.”
    â€œI wondered,” said Moretti, settling back on the banquette. “With your qualifications, most of the U.K. was at your disposal.”
    â€œDid your gut tell you?” Falla stood up and motioned to Al Brown to let her out. She was still looking annoyed. “I’m off to the ladies, in that case.” She extracted herself from the banquette and left them. Al Brown looked after her and said, “Did I tread on her toes?”
    â€œIn a way. Liz Falla’s ancestral roots are linked to one of the ancient Guernsey families called Becquet, many of whose female members were burned as witches. They died out long ago — not surprisingly — so it’s not proven, but she has an aunt and a grandmother who believe otherwise, and they feel this gives