"We all learn something new every day," said Playfair, his words gravid with irony. He half-smiled, showing more teeth than was perhaps necessary. "Now, tell me what we know about this magician."
"Not much, so far," admitted Alf looking down at the table. "I've got Jamie trying to track his parents down, 'cos like you says, everybody has them, but we've not had much luck so far."
"Well, who did he know in Little Haversham?" asked Playfair. "Did he live in Little Haversham, or did he have more sense? Wife, girlfriend, boyfriend, goat he was unnaturally attracted to?"
"Here!" Alf got a little agitated again. "There's no need to be talking like no-one would want to live here! He did live in the village, he's got the big house at the end of Beechwood Drive. Lived there pretty much by himself, didn't have that many visitors. Didn't keep any goats." There was a touch of emphasis on the last sentence that Playfair was oblivious to.
"Have you sent anyone out there to look round the place yet? This Jamie, perhaps?"
"Not yet," said Alf. "He wasn't killed there and he lived alone, so I didn't see that there was much point breaking into his house before we'd found any relatives."
"Pets?" Playfair leaned back on two legs of his chair again. "Visitors? There's always a reason to investigate, even if it's only thinking that you can smell gas."
"That might be how you do things up in the City," said Alf, "but we're a little more civilised down here." Miss Flava had to suppress a snigger at the look of blameless innocence that crossed Playfair's face. "No-one's been round to his house. When we track down his parents, or his next of kin, we'll take it to the next stage."
"Too slow!" Playfair's chair slammed back down to the floor and he leapt from it as though he'd been launched. Alf flinched away from him, and Miss Flava straightened up and looked alert, ready to stop whatever her boss had in mind. "This is a murder investigation, not a run-of-the-mill death! The killer isn't going to be hindered by niceties like this. If he's after something that Stormy owned he's probably already broken into the place, if there's any clues left in there that might tell us who he is then he could be pouring petrol all over the curtains right now and giggling to himself over a box of matches. You're not thinking like a murderer, you're thinking like a police officer!"
"That would be because I am a police officer," said Alf slowly. "When did you decide that the killer was a man, Sir?"
"Probabilities favour it being a man," said Playfair. "And you've not told me that he exclusively associated with women, or was surrounded by nurses and protectors who were all women. In fact, ignoring the indirect reference to his mother, I don't think you've mentioned any women in his life at all."
"So you think it was probably his father what did him in then?"
"Statistically that would be a good place to start," said Playfair. "But you can't find his parents, so unless he killed them first and their bodies are rotting in his house, which you won't search until you've found his parents, we're probably looking at someone else. What did he do? What did he do when he wasn't being Stormy the Spellcaster? Where did he drink? Who did he talk to? Why can't you answer any of these questions?"
"Why won't you just shut up?" said Alf, and in the silence that followed he looked a little sheepish. "Well, perhaps just give me a chance to answer," he said. "We're working on it, Sir, we were going to ask his parents when we found them."
"Right," said Playfair. "If you find them. Ok, enough. Miss Flava, come on. Let's go look at this house, maybe that'll provide me with some answers to my questions."
"Er Sir, I can't condone you breaking and entering–" started Alf, but was cut off by Playfair walking past him.
"Then don't," he said. "But it won't be breaking and entering because it's police business, and I'm on the case."
As he opened the door and walked out Miss Flava stood up and laid a little white business card down in front of Alf.
"The list on the front are the people who are expecting you to complain about him," she said. "The address for all of them is on the back."
Showing posts with label interview. Show all posts
Showing posts with label interview. Show all posts
Thursday, 5 January 2012
Tuesday, 3 January 2012
Interview room A
"Bugger what?" said Playfair, still emptying pockets. He'd found one that appeared to contain just a large amount of lint, which he happily strewed over the counter.
"What?" said the officer behind the counter.
"It sounded like an instruction," said Playfair. "And given that we're out in the blasted wastelands here, I wondered if you were expecting it to be followed."
"What?"
"Playfair, I think he believes that you're you," said Miss Flava, marvelling at the junk in her boss's pockets, and also noting that he'd not produced any other card than an Oyster card, despite producing about five different ones when interviewing the priest earlier. "Can you stop emptying pockets and let's get on?"
"Dead bodies don't get any deader," said Playfair, but it was relatively gentle. He stirred the large pile of junk on the counter and fished the string and sealing wax out of it. "I don't want the rest," he said. "You have a bin, I suppose? Or does it all get fed to the pigs?"
The officer behind the counter went pink, but picked up a plastic waste-bin lined with a translucent white plastic bag and swept everything Playfair had dropped on the counter into it. He put it back down on the floor, then leaned on the counter, his fingers interlinked in front of him.
"This is about that man what they found in the church, isn't it?" he said. "You'd probably better come into the interview room then. Door over there, it's not locked." He pointed, and Miss Flava looked, and nodded. "I'll just have to get Henry out from the back-room to man the counter. We don't like not having an officer visibly on duty." If Playfair noticed the jibe he paid it no attention.
The interview room was rectangular and cold. There was a table with two plastic chairs on one side and a third on the other. A couple of sheets of white A4 copier paper lay scattered on the desk, and a cheap plastic pen was on the floor under the table. Small windows, high-up, let in a begrudging amount of rather grey light and the room smelled of disinfectant.
"Now the murder happened in the church," said Playfair, sitting on the single chair and leaving Miss Flava to choose which of the other two chairs she disliked least. She opted for the blue one, leaving the orange one free. "That will cause them problems, spilled blood can deconsecrate churches if I remember right."
"I think it takes a fair amount of spilled blood," said Miss Flava. "But I don't think he meant that the murder took place inside the church building, just on the church grounds."
"Then he should say so!" Playfair leaned back, balancing the chair on two legs. He wobbled.
"Who should say so?" The officer from behind the desk came in, closing the door behind him. He pressed a switch on the wall next to the door. "Just letting people know that the room's in use," he said. "Probably don't need to lock you in, heh?"
"You should say so," said Playfair. "You said that the murder happened inside the church, while the report I've read says that the body was found in some woods. That would be what I like to call a discrepancy."
"The body was found in the woods," said the officer sitting on the free chair. He seemed uncomfortable sitting on the same side as Miss Flava, and shuffled and scooted his chair round until he was at the end of the table, facing both of them. "But it looked like he'd been murdered several times over, and then dumped in the woods. For him to bleed out like that, we think he must have been murdered quite close by, and the only building nearby is the church."
"You see–" started Miss Flava, but Playfair leapt in and spoke right over her.
"I've not seen the coroner's report yet. What do you mean, he was murdered several times over?"
"Well, strangled, stabbed, beaten and hanged," said the officer, looking apologetically at Miss Flava as he tried to acknowledge that she'd been speaking first. "It seemed a bit excessive if you ask me."
"Perhaps he was well-hated?" Playfair was being a little flippant, but the meaning was clear.
"Not that we've been able to find out. His name was Iain MacLeod, and up until three days ago he was drawing a capacity crowd to the Mountgarden theatre every weeknight. Seems like he was a pretty popular guy."
"He was an actor, then?"
"No. He was a magician."
"What?" said the officer behind the counter.
"It sounded like an instruction," said Playfair. "And given that we're out in the blasted wastelands here, I wondered if you were expecting it to be followed."
"What?"
"Playfair, I think he believes that you're you," said Miss Flava, marvelling at the junk in her boss's pockets, and also noting that he'd not produced any other card than an Oyster card, despite producing about five different ones when interviewing the priest earlier. "Can you stop emptying pockets and let's get on?"
"Dead bodies don't get any deader," said Playfair, but it was relatively gentle. He stirred the large pile of junk on the counter and fished the string and sealing wax out of it. "I don't want the rest," he said. "You have a bin, I suppose? Or does it all get fed to the pigs?"
The officer behind the counter went pink, but picked up a plastic waste-bin lined with a translucent white plastic bag and swept everything Playfair had dropped on the counter into it. He put it back down on the floor, then leaned on the counter, his fingers interlinked in front of him.
"This is about that man what they found in the church, isn't it?" he said. "You'd probably better come into the interview room then. Door over there, it's not locked." He pointed, and Miss Flava looked, and nodded. "I'll just have to get Henry out from the back-room to man the counter. We don't like not having an officer visibly on duty." If Playfair noticed the jibe he paid it no attention.
The interview room was rectangular and cold. There was a table with two plastic chairs on one side and a third on the other. A couple of sheets of white A4 copier paper lay scattered on the desk, and a cheap plastic pen was on the floor under the table. Small windows, high-up, let in a begrudging amount of rather grey light and the room smelled of disinfectant.
"Now the murder happened in the church," said Playfair, sitting on the single chair and leaving Miss Flava to choose which of the other two chairs she disliked least. She opted for the blue one, leaving the orange one free. "That will cause them problems, spilled blood can deconsecrate churches if I remember right."
"I think it takes a fair amount of spilled blood," said Miss Flava. "But I don't think he meant that the murder took place inside the church building, just on the church grounds."
"Then he should say so!" Playfair leaned back, balancing the chair on two legs. He wobbled.
"Who should say so?" The officer from behind the desk came in, closing the door behind him. He pressed a switch on the wall next to the door. "Just letting people know that the room's in use," he said. "Probably don't need to lock you in, heh?"
"You should say so," said Playfair. "You said that the murder happened inside the church, while the report I've read says that the body was found in some woods. That would be what I like to call a discrepancy."
"The body was found in the woods," said the officer sitting on the free chair. He seemed uncomfortable sitting on the same side as Miss Flava, and shuffled and scooted his chair round until he was at the end of the table, facing both of them. "But it looked like he'd been murdered several times over, and then dumped in the woods. For him to bleed out like that, we think he must have been murdered quite close by, and the only building nearby is the church."
"You see–" started Miss Flava, but Playfair leapt in and spoke right over her.
"I've not seen the coroner's report yet. What do you mean, he was murdered several times over?"
"Well, strangled, stabbed, beaten and hanged," said the officer, looking apologetically at Miss Flava as he tried to acknowledge that she'd been speaking first. "It seemed a bit excessive if you ask me."
"Perhaps he was well-hated?" Playfair was being a little flippant, but the meaning was clear.
"Not that we've been able to find out. His name was Iain MacLeod, and up until three days ago he was drawing a capacity crowd to the Mountgarden theatre every weeknight. Seems like he was a pretty popular guy."
"He was an actor, then?"
"No. He was a magician."
Sunday, 28 August 2011
Auteur
Interviewer: We're here in Café Diavolo with noted Auteur Joaquin Felther, who is currently holding a barrista hostage. Joaquin, is this behaviour entirely normal?
JF: Who's to say what's normal? These people, here, they say that it is not normal to want coffee as black as the souls of men, and they insist on adding milk to it. I will hold out until I receive my coffee the way I like it.
Int: Well, there is some frenzied activity behind the counter now, so perhaps they're seeing to it. The reason we're meeting here today, of course, is not so that I can witness you flirting with arrest, yet again, but to talk about your career to date and your new film.
JF: Ah yes, my new film! Love-song for an Elder Horror. It drove part of the test audience mad, you know.
Int: There were stories to that effect, certainly. Do you think it might be a little irresponsible to release a film that has been shown to induce insanity?
JF: People must always make the decision themselves. I do not conceal the nature of the film, and I make no recommendation that people of a susceptible disposition, or the feeble-minded, should go and see it. Indeed, I feel that these are people who very definitely should not see this film. Or any of my films. I despise these people!
Int: Well, you're no stranger to controversy, certainly. You notably once wrote a love letter to Gabriella Puccilini and published it, if that's the right word, by printing it onto banners that you hung in every public square in Trento.
JF: Yes, it was a beautiful letter and I meant every word of it.
Int: The imagery was stunning, certainly, and led to your arrest and subsequent trial on a charge of 'causing decent people to think indecent thoughts and to suffer a loss of innocence.' You plead not guilty at the time–
JF: And I would plead not guilty now! I did not make people read these words, I offered them up only as an honest depiction of my feelings and let people decide for themselves the truth of my emotion. I stirred the anthracene souls of men and women and invited the noxious vapours of self-awareness to rise.
Int: Gabriella Puccilini had been dead for thirty years when you wrote your letter. There was a discussion during your trial of whether you intended either necromancy, necrophilia, or both.
JF: And as I said at the time, my words do not advocate these things! If this is how you feel after reading my words, then you must ask yourself why you want to do these things.
Int: And recently there has been a repeal of certain laws regarding necrophilia in a number of municipalities. Do you feel that you are somehow contributing to moral decay and turpitude?
JF: Of course not!
Int: You are also famous, of course, for your interpretation of Snow White, in which you cast a prostitute as Snow White and found seven young men whose upbringing had resulted in stunted growth. The film was set in a truly brutal concrete housing estate, and Burberry sued you on release of the film for bringing their brand name into disrepute. What are your feelings about this?
JF: That was the cheapest film I ever made. The dwarves all lived in that housing estate anyway, so much of the action was shot in their own homes, and the prostitute gave us a discounted hourly rate when she realised how many days we were booking her for. Our biggest problem was her insistence on seeing other clients when she wasn't in the scene, but we solved it finally by breaking open an abandoned flat and letting her set up shop there.
Int: Critics suggest that a prostitute cannot truly be 'Snow White' and that you might have got your characters mixed up.
JF: We did consider calling her Rose Red for a while, but then we'd have had to cut the scenes with the apple.
Int: Which caused religious riots due to the biblical imagery....
JF: Hah! The symbology of the scene says even worse things, but only fusty academics noticed!
Int: Ah, your coffee has arrived. Will you let your hostage go now? It's time to conclude this interview anyway; thank-you for your time, and your typically indiscreet comments.
JF: Who's to say what's normal? These people, here, they say that it is not normal to want coffee as black as the souls of men, and they insist on adding milk to it. I will hold out until I receive my coffee the way I like it.
Int: Well, there is some frenzied activity behind the counter now, so perhaps they're seeing to it. The reason we're meeting here today, of course, is not so that I can witness you flirting with arrest, yet again, but to talk about your career to date and your new film.
JF: Ah yes, my new film! Love-song for an Elder Horror. It drove part of the test audience mad, you know.
Int: There were stories to that effect, certainly. Do you think it might be a little irresponsible to release a film that has been shown to induce insanity?
JF: People must always make the decision themselves. I do not conceal the nature of the film, and I make no recommendation that people of a susceptible disposition, or the feeble-minded, should go and see it. Indeed, I feel that these are people who very definitely should not see this film. Or any of my films. I despise these people!
Int: Well, you're no stranger to controversy, certainly. You notably once wrote a love letter to Gabriella Puccilini and published it, if that's the right word, by printing it onto banners that you hung in every public square in Trento.
JF: Yes, it was a beautiful letter and I meant every word of it.
Int: The imagery was stunning, certainly, and led to your arrest and subsequent trial on a charge of 'causing decent people to think indecent thoughts and to suffer a loss of innocence.' You plead not guilty at the time–
JF: And I would plead not guilty now! I did not make people read these words, I offered them up only as an honest depiction of my feelings and let people decide for themselves the truth of my emotion. I stirred the anthracene souls of men and women and invited the noxious vapours of self-awareness to rise.
Int: Gabriella Puccilini had been dead for thirty years when you wrote your letter. There was a discussion during your trial of whether you intended either necromancy, necrophilia, or both.
JF: And as I said at the time, my words do not advocate these things! If this is how you feel after reading my words, then you must ask yourself why you want to do these things.
Int: And recently there has been a repeal of certain laws regarding necrophilia in a number of municipalities. Do you feel that you are somehow contributing to moral decay and turpitude?
JF: Of course not!
Int: You are also famous, of course, for your interpretation of Snow White, in which you cast a prostitute as Snow White and found seven young men whose upbringing had resulted in stunted growth. The film was set in a truly brutal concrete housing estate, and Burberry sued you on release of the film for bringing their brand name into disrepute. What are your feelings about this?
JF: That was the cheapest film I ever made. The dwarves all lived in that housing estate anyway, so much of the action was shot in their own homes, and the prostitute gave us a discounted hourly rate when she realised how many days we were booking her for. Our biggest problem was her insistence on seeing other clients when she wasn't in the scene, but we solved it finally by breaking open an abandoned flat and letting her set up shop there.
Int: Critics suggest that a prostitute cannot truly be 'Snow White' and that you might have got your characters mixed up.
JF: We did consider calling her Rose Red for a while, but then we'd have had to cut the scenes with the apple.
Int: Which caused religious riots due to the biblical imagery....
JF: Hah! The symbology of the scene says even worse things, but only fusty academics noticed!
Int: Ah, your coffee has arrived. Will you let your hostage go now? It's time to conclude this interview anyway; thank-you for your time, and your typically indiscreet comments.
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