Chapters (31)
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.