by Jill Downie
“Come in.”
They were in a narrow hallway that led directly into a front room, with a wall, and an archway in place of a door. Most of the furniture in the room was huddled towards the centre, making the space seem even smaller. There was a strong smell of paint and turpentine in the air. Liz Falla sneezed.
“Sorry.”
She sneezed again.
“Careful. Don’t touch anything. I’m having it all repainted, and then I’ll decide what I’m doing about further renovation.”
Moretti introduced himself and his sergeant, both of them showing their police badges.
“Obviously you have just moved in, Ms. Purvis. It was necessary to make the phone call, because the only phone number we have for you was out of service.”
“Yes. Do you mind if we do this in the kitchen? This is, after all, my lunch hour.”
The kitchen, which overlooked a tiny back garden in a state of neglect, looked like it had not yet been touched. A depressing dun colour dominated the space, highlighted by dark brown cupboards above tatty countertops, with a similarly coloured floor underfoot. Ginnie Purvis gestured towards two chairs and a table. All three were of elegant design, possibly Italian, and certainly had cost a Euro or two.
“Sit down, and let’s get on with this.”
Moretti sat down, and Liz moved over to the window. Ginnie Purvis opened a top-of-the-line stainless steel fridge and removed a bottle of juice of some kind. Then she unpacked the lunch bag she had put on the counter and removed a sandwich. The thickly cut bread smelled good, and Falla heard her stomach growl in response.
Ginnie Purvis removed her heavy anorak, revealing a well-fed and sturdy body in a lime-green sweater and trousers of a colour not unlike the kitchen walls, sat herself down opposite Moretti, took a large bite of her sandwich and said through her mouthful, “Let’s get on with it. This year’s Upper Three are trouble enough if I’m on time, not that I’m ever late. What was so urgent you had to drag me out of school?”
“The attempted murder of Hugo Shawcross after returning from the play-reading at the Maxwells’ house. You have, I am sure, heard about it.”
At the window, Liz Falla watched Ginnie Purvis’s reaction. She put down her sandwich and exclaimed in exasperation, as if someone in Upper Three had mislaid her textbook, “Good grief. Of course I’ve heard about it. I’m sorry, Detective Inspector, but for this you took me out of school? Not that I’m not horrified, but I really don’t see how I can help.”
“We are speaking to everyone who was at the reading, Ms. Purvis. Where were you after the meeting? Did you come straight back here?”
“Yes.”
“Can anyone verify that?”
“You mean, do I have an alibi?” Ginnie Purvis picked up her sandwich again and took another hearty bite out of it. She demolished part of her mouthful and said, “Not unless one of my neighbours saw me come back, no. Sometimes one of the group gives me a lift, but this place is so close to the Grange I took my bicycle last night. That is one convenience of being here, as opposed to where I was living before, and it’s also close to the school. So much easier when the girls want me to participate in one of their clubs, or we are putting on a play, or something.”
The sandwich now gone, Ginnie Purvis got up to fetch a glass from the counter, and poured herself some juice.
As she returned to the table, Moretti said, “Always nice for children when they have a teacher who plays a role in their lives outside the classroom.”
The heavy features of the middle Gastineau, so like her older brother’s face, lightened into something approaching comeliness.
“So important. To them and to me. Yes.”
A burst of hammering came through the wall and the momentary transformation disappeared, returning Ginnie Purvis’s face to exasperation.
“Thank God I’m out during the day. I’ve had to speak to them about weekends, and they promise me it’ll all be over well before the Christmas holidays. Now I’m in town, I am hoping to have the Sixth Form’s Christmas party here, when my own renovations will be close to complete.” She brightened again at the thought, finished her glass of juice, and looked at her watch.
“I’ve got to go. Unless there’s anything else?”
As Moretti and Ginnie Purvis stood up, Liz Falla put away her notebook in which she had written virtually nothing, and picked up a paper bookmark from the windowsill.
“Did you get this from the station, Ms. Purvis?”
Ginnie Purvis pulled her right arm through the anorak sleeve and took the bookmark in her hand.
“Yes. I keep a few of them handy in the staff room. It’s not enough to teach the wonders of Shakespeare and the wit of Shaw. The wherewithal to be at a private school does not protect some of my girls, or their mothers, from hard home lives. They need to know there is help.” She turned the bookmark over in her hand, and looked at Falla, not Moretti. “You know the most important thing on the good side, Detective Sergeant? The last one on the list: Accepts me as I am. When that happens, everything else falls into place.”
“And on the bad side?”
Ginnie Purvis turned the small scrap of paper over, and paused a moment. Then she said, “There are a few on this side, but I’d have to say, Always blames me. Right up there with Embarrasses me in front of others. Yes, I know what that’s like.”
Moretti’s chic Italian-designed chair made a scraping noise on the floor as he put it back, and Ginnie Purvis seemed to return to the present. She put the juice bottle back in the fridge and, as she turned to face him, Moretti asked, “Where were you living before the move to Candie Road, Ms. Purvis?”
“I’m surprised you don’t know, Detective Inspector, since you were in Forest yesterday, interviewing the happy couple. Did you also meet Roddy the Body?”
It was said with heavy sarcasm.
“Roddy the — do you mean the gentleman who takes care of Mrs. Gastineau’s horse? The groom?”
Moretti felt, rather than saw, the expression in Falla’s eyes behind him, and he knew she would be remembering that first impression of hers. He had already decided to say nothing about Gus Dorey, and only had a second in which to decide to say nothing about the threats against Tanya Gastineau. For the first time since they had arrived, there was real anger in Ginnie Purvis’s face and voice, a depth of emotion unstirred by the attempted garrotting of Hugo Shawcross.
“‘Gentleman’ seems particularly inappropriate, and it all depends what you mean by ‘groom,’ but that’s who I mean. There is a nice little cottage on the grounds that I used to call my own, and I was turfed out when Roddy the Body arrived. My brother Rory is a complete and utter fool.”
“For marrying? Surely he had waited long enough?”
They had all reached the front door at the end of the narrow hallway. Ginnie Purvis turned back to them and, to Moretti’s surprise, started to laugh. It reminded him of the way men laugh when insulting each other in pubs or at football matches. He could almost see her lip curl in mock derision.
“Not for marrying, Detective Inspector. But for marrying the kind of little floosie who is usually seen jumping out of a cake!”
“Well, well, well. Enough hatred there for poison-pen letters, or texts. Or phone calls.”
“Whatever else she’s hiding, I don’t think Tanya would have kept quiet if she’d recognized Ginnie Purvis’s voice, Guv.”
Falla’s voice was sombre, but her expression was hidden from Moretti as she checked the intersection.
“The bookmarks. Tell me about them.”
“One side depicts a good relationship, the other an abusive one. What was really interesting to me was what she chose from each side. Compared with some of the other stuff, Guv, being blamed or embarrassed was pretty harmless.”
“Other stuff?”
“Bullying, hitting, violence — that other stuff.”
“And the good side? Being accepted, if I remember rightly, for what you are.”
“Yes.”
Falla turned the Skoda into the Hospital Lane car park beneath the ancient gateway from the old Maison de Charité, with the stone depiction of a pelican feeding its young from the blood dropping from her breast. She pulled in alongside the other police cars and switched off the engine. “Sometimes life is very unfair to women.”
Moretti looked at his detective sergeant, surprised.
“Why do I have the feeling you are not talking about abuse, or glass ceilings, or doing all the housework?”
“I am, and I’m not. I’m talking about something really petty and trivial and frivolous. The luck of the draw, the sheer bloody luck of being born — a babe.”
Nothing clever or trivial or frivolous to say about cakes or babes came to mind, so Moretti got out of the car, and waited for Falla to do the same.
“Come on, Falla. That sandwich made me hungry. We’ll get one of our own, some decent coffee, and go talk to Aaron Gaskell,” he said.
“I’m not surprised to see you.”
Aaron Gaskell got up, shook hands with Moretti and Falla, and indicated the two seats by his desk. Tall, good-looking, dressed in an understated and expensive way, he was the perfect accessory for the understated and expensive offshore company in St. Peter Port for which he worked.
He turned a charming smile in Liz Falla’s direction. “I think our paths crossed, did they not, a few weeks ago?”
“That’s right, sir. I’d forgotten.” Falla turned to Moretti. “Mr. Gaskell had a problem with where he was allowed to park close to his office. We got it sorted out.”
“Most satisfactorily.” The charming smile again. “But I’m not sure how I can help you, in any practical or constructive way, because I am so new to the island,” he said.
“It’s quite straightforward, sir,” said Moretti. “Where were you when Mr. Shawcross was attacked? I imagine you know when that was.”
“I was actually here, for my sins. Only the cleaning staff were in, and I can get them to confirm that, because they were not thrilled at being denied access to my office.”
“Falla will take the names from you, sir, and we’ll check.”
A few notes taken down by Falla, a shrug of the shoulders and a shake of the head from Aaron Gaskell as to why anyone would have attacked Hugo Shawcross, and then the phone on his desk rang. He picked it up, saying, “I apologize, Detective Inspector, but I really should answer this.”
“Of course.”
Moretti stood up and, as Liz Falla put away her notebook, she asked, “Just one more question, sir.” Aaron Gaskell put his hand over the mouthpiece of the phone. “Why did you join the Island Players? As a newcomer to the island, I wonder how you heard about them.”
“When I arrived they were performing a favourite of mine, that’s why.”
“Which was?”
The charming smile again. “Ionesco. The Lesson, it’s called. I am very partial to the theatre of the absurd.”
“What did you make of Gaskell when you sorted out his parking problem?”
“Too good to be true was what I made of him, then and today. I’ll check that alibi.”
“Way of life for us, isn’t it, Falla?”
“What is, Guv?”
“The theatre of the absurd, Falla. The theatre of the absurd.”
Chapter Twenty
Al Brown liked bookstores, but the ones he really liked were the tucked-away shops in corners of back streets, where the rents were low and where you could sift through out-of-print hardcovers by long-gone publishers and dog-eared paperbacks that looked as if they had already been read more than once from cover to cover.
WORDS was not like that. There were books in the window, but none outside, and certainly the width of the street would have made that difficult. The current display in the window was centred around graphic novels, a marketing term Al found vaguely amusing, since it had nothing to do with porn or sex, necessarily, but referred to illustrations and dialogue that could have come out of a comic book. He took a look at some of the titles. Quite a mix, he thought, from twentieth-century superheros to the Arthurian legends to the horrors of modern warfare. On one side of the display was a selection of books with wizards and magicians on the cover, à la Harry Potter. He opened the door to the pleasant sound of a lightly jingling bell, rather than an electric buzzer. There was an agreeable smell of freshly brewed coffee in the air.
“Good morning.”
Jim Landers was standing by a display of books by local authors, ranging from small, illustrated collections of the local flora, to accounts of the island’s wartime years and its history of witchcraft. He had a duster in his hand, which he returned to the counter near the back of the store.
“Can I help you, or do you just want to browse?”
The voice was neutral, detached, repeating what he must have said a hundred times or more without either discernible enthusiasm or the lack of it. He had what Al thought of as a distinguished look about him: tall, no sign of middle-aged spread, good bones, good posture, an air of good breeding.
“A bit of both, actually. I’ve only just arrived on the island, and it’s nice to find a bookstore like this. Some of them nowadays carry more novelties than novels.” Al gave a light laugh, without response, as a pair of calm grey eyes surveyed him, somehow managing to do so without curiosity. “Do you have the latest Martin Amis? I believe it’s just out.”
“It is. Over here, with our new arrivals.”
Al followed Jim Landers to a table close to the door.
“Great.” He picked it up. “I’ll take this. Not to everyone’s taste, I know, but I am a fan, as my father was of his father. Amis, I mean.”
“Certainly the apple didn’t fall far from the tree.”
It was impossible to tell from Jim Landers’s face or voice if this was a compliment or a criticism, but perhaps the owner of a bookstore had to be circumspect about his tastes for the sake of good customer relations.
As he took out his wallet to pay for the book, Al said, “I’ve just joined the Guernsey police force, and I’m involved in the investigation into the death of Gus Dorey — you may have read about it in the newspaper — and also the attack on Mr. Shawcross. DI Moretti is leading the investigation. Do you know him?”
This time there was a reaction in the calm grey eyes. A new alertness, as if his attention was focused on Al for the first time since he came into the shop.
“Ed Moretti, do you mean? Yes, he comes in here from time to time, buys books.”
“That’s how I found out about the shop, and I believe you are a member of the Island Players. Mr. Shawcross was writing a new play for the group, wasn’t he?”
“He was.”
Blood from a stone, thought Al Brown. But at least this one is a captive audience, and can’t just run out the door, scattering coffee beans beneath my feet.
“I understand you were at the play-reading. Are you directly involved with the production?”
Jim Landers smiled again.
“Are you just buying a book, or are you here to question me?”
“A bit of both.” Al Brown laughed. “I should introduce myself — Detective Sergeant Al Brown. Aloisio Brown, actually.”
They shook hands. Jim Landers’s handshake was not too soft, not too hard, but just right.
“Yes, I am involved with the play. Since Hugo is in no position to speak, Marie Maxwell and Raymond Morris have asked me to play the lead.”
“Doesn’t this mean you will be playing the vampire? Scary stuff — but actors like to be stretched, challenged, I believe.”
“This is not a horror-comic vampire, or one of those teenage heartthrob types.” A touch of distaste now in the measured voice. “Hugo has taken an intellectual approach to his anti-hero.”
“Brains rather than blood and gore? Sounds interesting.”
“It will be.”
The doorbell jingled, and a tall, cadaverous man came into the bookshop. He was wearing a black beret, black clothes, and sported a pencil-thin black
moustache. The Daliesque persona was not lost on Al Brown, who was brushed aside as though he were invisible.
“Jim! I come bearing glad tidings. Rory has given the go-ahead and we’ll start rehearsing out at Château Gastineau at the weekend. Hugo will be rising from his sickbed to join us. Marie has appointed herself his guardian, though I doubt whether even a Gastineau should feel safe in these circumstances.”
Salvador Dali laughed, heartily, and Jim Landers did not. He indicated Al and said, “This is one of the policemen involved with the case. Detective Sergeant Brown. I understand we are all to be interviewed. Raymond has saved you a trip, Sergeant. He’s the director of Blood Play. Raymond Morris.”
Raymond Morris looked startled.
“Good Lord. I suppose we are all suspects. What do you want to know, Sergeant? Where we all were, I imagine. I’ve directed enough whodunits in my time to know that.” Raymond Morris gave a let’s-share-the-joke smile in Jim Landers’s direction, which was not returned.
“And where were you, sir?”
The director turned again to Landers.
“Have you seen any ID, Jim? This could be anybody — I know that cliché, as well.”
Al produced his badge and held it up, slightly closer to Morris’s face than was necessary. He was beginning to feel annoyed at being treated as a mildly amusing peasant.
“I’ll repeat my question, sir. Where were you when Mr. Shawcross was attacked, which was right after the read-through at the Maxwells’. Did you go straight home? Did you go on anywhere else? Was anyone with you? Or must I just take your word?”
Al watched with interest an exchange of glances between the two men. Raymond Morris looked shaken, and even Jim Landers’s calm surface was ruffled.
“We’ll have to ask you to come into the station, of course, and make statements.”
Raymond Morris spoke first.
“This is a bit awkward, Sergeant. As a matter of fact, Jim had a brief meeting with our treasurer, Douglas Lorrimer, and I had a brief meeting with his wife.”