A Grave Waiting by Jill Downie

trailed off into a whisper and she turned her face away from them, her long red nails digging into the brocade-covered arm of the chaise.
    â€œBut last night, Lady Fellowes, you went to St. Peter Port, and you were at the harbour, late at night.”
    â€œWho told you this?” She seemed shaken, as much as angry, leaning toward Liz Falla as she spoke.
    â€œThere is a closed-circuit television camera in the area and you are on it. There is no mistaking you.”
    â€œThere wouldn’t be, would there?” Suddenly, she was all vivacity, smiling widely, showing a mouth of yellowed teeth.
    â€œWhy were you there?”
    â€œWhat was I wearing?”
    Prevarication? Or is it? thought Moretti. Leaning close to Falla, she seemed eager to hear the answer.
    â€œA long dress, looked like chiffon to me,” Liz Falla replied. “And a wrap — marabou, was it?”
    â€œYou are right. My Poiret, I remember now. I gave myself a night on the town. No crime, I think. So, I was on camera?” Coralie Chancho seemed delighted to hear of her CCTV appearance.
    â€œYes. Where did you spend the evening?”
    â€œAt the boîte at the end of the pier. I have been there before.”
    â€œThe Landsend Restaurant.”
    â€œMy husband used to take me.”
    Coralie Fellowes put her hand over the edge of the chaise and picked up a photograph from the table alongside it. A good-looking middle-aged man smiled back at her. Even in the photograph the eyes were warm, loving. She put a finger to her lips, kissed it, and then put it on his face.
    â€œI went for old times’ sake.”
    â€œHow did you get there?”
    â€œBy taxi.”
    â€œAnd you were not picked up at the restaurant?”
    â€œThe camera does not lie, they say.”
    She’s playing games, Liz Falla thought. “No, it doesn’t,” she agreed. “In that case, what did you throw into the water?”
    Coralie Fellowes’ hostility returned. “I had a cigarette and I threw an empty packet into the water.”
    â€œYou are not smoking on the camera, Lady Fellowes,” Moretti interjected.
    A shrug of the shoulders, a little moue of the mouth. “My memory is not what it was. Why — what did it look like?”
    The kohl-rimmed eyes challenged Moretti, all seduction gone from them. Physically frail she may be, but she’s tough as old boots, he told himself.
    â€œA gun, Lady Fellowes.”
    She did not flinch, or avoid his gaze, and he was reminded of Masterson’s housekeeper.
    â€œI think not, Inspector,” she said.
    â€œWe have divers searching the area. You wouldn’t like to reconsider your reply?”
    â€œI would not.” A fringe of heavily mascaraed eyelashes now hid her eyes from Moretti. “If a gun killed this man, then you may find one, n’est-ce pas? Proves nothing, does it? Mon dieu, que vous êtes beau .”
    The sudden switch was as disconcerting as she intended it to be. Moretti recoiled as if she had touched him physically. Liz Falla blinked, looked at Moretti, and hastily back at her notebook. Coralie Fellowes laughed.
    â€œHandsome is as handsome does, say you English, and I always preferred the handsome ones doing it, Inspector.”
    She laughed again, raucously. Scratch the surface and there she was, the streetwise chorine, the tough little girl who had survived and prospered to become a tough old woman, capable of killing. No doubt about that. But why?
    Moretti got to his feet. “That will do for now, Lady Fellowes, but we shall have to ask you to come to the station, and I suggest you get in touch with your lawyer first. If you think of anything else, here is the number to call.” He took out one of his cards and handed it to her.
    â€œLong time since a man gave me his number. But I never phoned them, you know. They always phoned me.” She peered at the card, her eyes disappearing from view between heavy black