A Grave Waiting. Jill Downie
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She was wearing a skirt in a heathery tweed atop a pair of black and white trainers, and a quilted blue ski jacket over a pale blue turtleneck sweater. There was about her a sense of competence and self-sufficiency that certainly didn’t suggest a tendency to overreaction, be it about dishcloths or anything else.
Introductions made, Liz Falla went to rustle up cups of tea, and Moretti took Gwen Ferbrache into his office.
“Now,” he said, pulling a chair out for Gwen, and moving his own so they were both on the same side of his desk, “what’s the problem? I know you wouldn’t be here unless it was something serious.”
“Well,” said Gwen, placing her shopping bag on the floor and settling herself firmly against the back of the chair, “that’s the problem, really. I don’t know if it is serious, or whether it’s my imagination, but I’d never forgive myself if I did nothing. You see, there’s a child involved. No,” she added, seeing Moretti’s expression, “it’s not child abuse — at least, I don’t think it is.”
At this point Liz Falla came back into the office with a tray, and cups of tea were handed out. When she made as if to leave the room, Gwen Ferbrache put out her hand. “Please don’t leave on my account. Another woman’s point of view might be useful, because this involves three women — well, a child and two adults.”
“Go ahead,” said Moretti, “have some tea and then start from the beginning.”
Gwen Ferbrache took a good mouthful of tea and began. “As you know, Edward, I have a property in St. Peter’s, the parish of St. Pierre du Bois, called La Veile. It’s been empty for some time, mostly because it’s at the end of a narrow lane full of grassy ruts that turns into a morass in the winter. Verte Rue, it’s known as — green lane. Very difficult for cars, but it’s a nice little cottage, fully furnished, which just needed the right people. And I thought I’d found them. Just over a month ago I saw an ad in the Wanted section of the Guernsey Press — I have it here.” Gwen picked up her handbag, pulled out a scrap of paper, and handed it to Moretti.
“Desperately required immediately. House suitable for two females and a child, two years old,” Moretti read out loud. “This telephone number they’ve provided sounds familiar.”
“That’s because it’s the number of the Imperial Hotel, which, as you know, is quite close to my home. So I phoned and arranged to meet the two women.”
“Go back a bit. Tell me your first impressions of the person you spoke to on the phone.”
Gwen gave a little chuckle. “The first impression was that she had an American accent.”
“American?”
“Surprised me too. But she was soft-spoken, not loud or pushy, so I felt reassured, I suppose. She said her name was Sandra Goldstein and she told me she needed accommodation for herself, her friend, and her friend’s daughter, and that they would be on the island for an indefinite period. She said she was a writer of children’s books, and her friend was an illustrator. I arranged to meet them at the Water’s Edge Restaurant in the hotel the following day for lunch. When I got there they were waiting for me — the child as well.”
“Describe them,” said Moretti. “What age, how they were dressed, that kind of thing.”
“Sandra Goldstein is late thirties, I’d say, and the other woman is somewhat younger. They sound alike, but they don’t look in the least alike. Sandra Goldstein is olive-skinned, dark-haired, and quite tall. Her friend, Julia King, is fair-haired, shorter, and more rounded in build. As to what they were wearing — jeans, predictably, and quite nicely tailored shirts.”
“And the little girl?” asked Liz Falla.
“A delightful child, very well-behaved and perhaps a little quiet for a two-year-old. But she clearly adores the two women, and clings particularly to her mother. Not surprising, I suppose. Her name is Ellie. What, if anything, it is short for they didn’t tell me and I didn’t ask. What struck me about her was her colouring, with such a fair-haired mother it was surprising, you see. She looks as if her father may be Hispanic, or possibly black.”
“She could be adopted,” Liz Falla observed. Moretti saw she had put down her teacup and was quietly taking notes.
“True. Oh, there are so many possibilities. And, after what happened, my imagination has run riot.” Gwen sighed and twisted the handles of her handbag.
“Tell us what happened,” said Moretti.
“They came with me the next day to see the cottage and loved it. ‘It’s perfect,’ they said, more than once. They said they loved walking, and were quite happy to use the buses. They paid the deposit and a month’s rent, and I gave them the name of a local taxi driver who knows Verte Rue and could take their luggage to the cottage for them. I left them to settle in and then, about two weeks after they moved in, I decided to pay them a visit. I went on my bicycle, because we’d had a dry spell and I don’t mind bumping over the ruts, just as long as I don’t get bogged down in mud.”
“You didn’t phone first?” interjected Liz Falla.
“There isn’t a phone in the cottage, and they said they didn’t need one. I imagine they use a mobile, I don’t know. It was about three in the afternoon when I got there, and there was no sign of life. So I propped my bike against the gatepost and went to the front door. I knocked, there was no reply, so I peered in the window. The child was on her own in the front parlour, playing with a plastic lorry of some kind she was pushing around the floor. She looked up, saw me, called out ‘Hi!’ and came running toward the front door. I heard her trying to turn the door handle. Just then, Julia King came running from the back of the cottage — and I mean really running. But it was her face that gave me the jitters.” Gwen Ferbrache shivered. “She looked terrified. And then I saw what she was holding in her hand — or, at least, what I think she was holding in her hand. Only it seems so unbelievable.”
Moretti leaned forward and steadied Gwen’s hands that threatened to twist the handles off her bag. “Tell us what you think you saw.”
“A gun, Edward. I think that’s what I saw. She was holding a gun.”
Liz Falla stopped writing and looked up.
“Was it pointing at the child, or whoever was at the door?” she asked.
“At the door. She pushed the child behind her, and at that point Sandra Goldstein ran into the room. She saw my face at the window, thank God, and I heard her saying, ‘It’s okay, Julia, it’s okay.’ Then they let me in, and things became even stranger.”
“In what way?” asked Moretti.
“They behaved as if absolutely nothing had happened. They gave me tea, talked about the delights of country living — spotting the first wild orchid, that kind of thing — said they were going to get bicycles, and then sent me on my way.”
“Was there any sign of the gun?”
“No. Nowhere in sight.”
“Have you been back to see them since then?”
“No! It was all far too unsettling, and I saw enough guns drawn during the occupation, thank you. But I thought I should tell you.”
“You did the right thing,” Moretti assured her, patting her hands. Liz Falla watched the gesture with interest. Demonstrative behaviour was not part of her boss’s usual emotional toolkit. “I’ll look into this — oh, don’t worry, quite discreetly. I’ll make some initial enquiries — child abductions and so on, they keep an international registry — and see what comes up. How did they pay you, by the way?”
“By cheque, drawn on a bank here in St. Peter Port. The account was in the name of Sandra Goldstein. There was no problem with it.” Gwen had recovered her equilibrium. She removed her hands from Moretti’s with an impatient shake.
“Can you think of anything else, however trivial, that struck you about them, or anything they said? Did they