by Jill Downie
“Much the same reason as you. I’m not a desk person.”
She must have sensed his withdrawal, because she immediately turned away from him.
“Goodnight, Guv. The keys are in the car.”
Moretti watched her run lightly across the road and waited until she had unlocked the door of one of the terraced houses that curved along St. George’s Esplanade. In the night silence he could hear the clack of the door closing, shutting off the light in the passage beyond.
By the time Sydney woke up, it was late afternoon. Much of her hangover had dissipated, but she was incredibly thirsty. She pulled on her kimono and padded on bare feet to the adjoining bathroom to splash her face with cold water, then returned to the bedroom. There was no sign of Gil, and she wondered if he was on the patio.
Surely not, she thought. But she had seen little of him since the murder of Toni Albarosa, so maybe he had got over his fear and returned there. The very fact he had been advised not to do that would have been spur enough.
In the bedroom, she removed a jug of ice water from the fridge, poured herself a glass, and drank it. Refilling the glass, she took herself through to the sitting room. There was no sign of Gil there.
“Gil?”
No answer. Sydney shivered, the glass frigid against her fingers. Across the stretch of Turkoman carpet on which they had last made love she saw the closed doors to the patio, and just above the backrest of one of the chaise lounges she could see the top of Gil’s head, tipped to one side, motionless.
“Gil!” she called again.
There was no response. A chill of terror struck her, turning her stomach to ice. Dropping the glass on to the coffee table, Sydney ran to the door and threw it open.
“Gil!”
She flew across the patio and around the chair to face whatever was waiting there.
“Jesus Christ, woman! You scared the fucking daylights out of me.”
Puffy-faced with sleep, her husband looked up at her. The striations left by the marchesa’s nails were only just beginning to fade.
Sydney threw her arms around him. “I thought you were —”
“I’m not,” he interrupted her. “Sorry to disappoint you.”
“Don’t say that.” Overcome with relief, Sydney rested her face against his. “I was scared. What in the hell are you doing out here, anyway?”
“Trying to sleep before I was so rudely interrupted. It was stuffy inside, and I couldn’t work out how to unlatch the damn windows.” A lifetime of being picked up after and waited on had left Gil hopeless at many of the simpler technical manoeuvres that cropped up in everyday life.
“You should have come and woken me.”
“Be it far from me to disturb your post-coital slumbers. Besides, you’d locked the bedroom door.”
Sydney looked at her husband’s bloated, scratched face with concern. The Gil she was familiar with would have screamed and banged on the door, battering it down if necessary.
“What’s happened?” she asked. “Have you been out here all afternoon?”
“That I have not, and that’s why I’m shagged out. I got a limo and went out to the manor, to see Mario.”
“About the changes?”
“Right. I didn’t have the chance to tell you about Monty’s visit — just before you returned from your night of debauchery it was.”
“It wasn’t — I didn’t —”
“Belt up, baby. I’ve got bigger problems than whether you had it off with superwoman and supercop.”
The ice in Sydney’s stomach felt the same as the minute before, melting the tenderness of her relief at finding him alive, but this time it was the old familiar chill of a relationship on the rocks.
“Baby’ll belt up with pleasure on that subject. What problems?”
The chaise tipped perilously to one side as Gil swung his feet down. “Problems as to what the hell is going on.”
“Going on with what? Surely it’s just a question of a superstar director with a big head and big ideas? Maybe we should go home and let them get on with it — you know what it’s like for writers on a film set.”
“No.”
There was something about her husband’s unaccustomed gravity that made Sydney realize Gil was not off on one of his ego trips. “Mario seems — well, scared. Maybe he’s back on the hard stuff again, I don’t know. I had a hell of a time getting him on his own, then I cornered him in his trailer. He went all spiritual on me, told me he was being guided into the decisions he was making — went on about higher forces and trusting to other voices. It was like talking to a bloody yogi. When I tried my usual yelling and browbeating approach, he broke down, and next thing I know Monty’s sidekick, Piero Bonini, comes rushing in and orders me off the set. But I’m not leaving it there, and I think I’ve finally made that clear. Something is going on.”
“You’re paranoid, honey. What could be going on? What happened — out here — is making you imagine things.”
A cool wind was blowing in off the cliffs, and Sydney trembled in her flimsy wrap.
“Come inside, Gil. You shouldn’t be sitting out here.”
“Don’t patronize me, Syd. I’m right, I know I am. Besides, I gotta reason to hang about a bit longer, and I ain’t talkin’ script changes now.”
He was leering at her, but she knew the lechery in his eyes was not for her.
“Christ, I’m dying for a cigarette and a drink. Be a good little wifey, will you, and pour me a Scotch?”
He followed her inside, fumbling in his pocket for his cigarettes, humming to himself. All, or nothing at all. A spectacularly inappropriate choice, she thought, pouring a large Scotch into a large glass.
“I’m going back to bed,” she said.
“I’ll be going out again.”
“I’d figured that out,” Sydney said. “Research.”
“Clever kitten. Don’t you want to know who’s my research assistant?”
“No.”
“Pity. We could make it a threesome. Her idea — what a vixen! Vroom vroom! She likes you, sweetie-pie.”
Sydney poured herself another glass of water, threw it in his face, and went back to the bedroom.
It was dawn when she woke and he still was not back. Sydney went across to the bedroom door and locked it. Then she went back to bed and cried herself back to sleep, swearing as she did so that she would never, ever humiliate herself that way again. She woke up again at eight o’clock, phoned room service, and ordered breakfast.
“Coffee, grapefruit, whole wheat toast. For one.”
At nine o’clock, she began to worry.
Gil had stayed out on the tiles longer than this, many times, but ever since she had once — out of spite — reported him missing in Los Angeles and the press had got hold of it, he had taken to calling her and telling her his whereabouts. Gil had never been averse to a little gloating, anyway, and besides, he was not one for hanging around the morning after. Maybe, under the circumstances, she should be letting someone know.
Sydney got showered and dressed, then took a man’s blue shirt out of the bedroom dresser. From the top pocket she pulled out a scrap of paper and dialed the number on it.
“Moretti.”
The live voice startled her. “I thought I’d get an answering machine.”
“Is that Ms. Tremaine?” It was said with incredulity.
“Yes. I took your number off your phone when I was —”
“I’m writing up my report before going to the station. That’s how you got me. What is it?”
“It’s Gil. He’s been out all night. I didn’t want it spread around the police station and the island, so I thought I’d —”
“Is this unusual, Ms. Tremaine?” She heard the tentative note in his voice.
“Ever since I reported him missing once and we had every tabloid in the States on our doorstep, he’s let me know he’s okay. It’s unusual.”
“I’ll be right over. Don’t open your door to anyone until I get th
ere — it’ll take me about fifteen minutes.”
She heard him hang up the phone. Twenty minutes later he was with her, and Sydney was astonished at the wave of relief and pleasure she felt on seeing him.
“Sorry. It took me a little longer than I thought. My partner has gone out to the manor to see if anyone there knows anything, or has seen your husband.”
Moretti came into the suite and closed the door. “Let’s sit down, Ms. Tremaine, and go over what happened before your husband left you last night.”
Carefully he took Sydney through the events of the evening. When she got to Gil’s final remarks to her, she faltered, close to tears. Moretti leaned forward and took her by the hands. It was a gesture that surprised him quite as much as her.
“Now, Ms. Tremaine, I’ve got to get this straight. First, your husband reports you missing, and I find you at the Grand Saracen with Giulia Vannoni. Then you report him missing, and if it weren’t for the fact this is a murder inquiry, I might wonder if this isn’t a game you both play. Is it? You played games, didn’t you?”
“Yes. Gil liked games. He needed them, he said, for his books. Research, he called them. When I said he needed them to cure his whisky droop, it was the only time he hit me.”
She removed a hand from Moretti’s and put it up to her face, remembering.
“Was it generally known that he — liked games?” Moretti asked.
“Oh, yes. That was part of it for Gil. Being the centre of attention, the rest of the world as voyeur.”
“Who do you think he’s with? Have you any idea?”
“That’s just it — I think he may have taken his revenge by — oh God, I can’t believe she’d do it, but then, what do I know about her?”
“Are you saying,” said Moretti, “that your husband told you he was going to see Giulia Vannoni?”
“Not in so many words.” With difficulty, Sydney repeated her last conversation with Gilbert Ensor. Then she wept against his shoulder, and Moretti put his arms around her, and tried not to think about Chief Officer Hanley.
* * *
It was cool out, and Sydney was glad she had brought a jacket. Beside her in the Triumph, Moretti was silent, his eyes on the road.
“You’re a great pianist,” said Sydney, “with a style of your own. Have you ever thought of turning professional?”
“Often. But I’ve always woken up in time. How about yourself? Have you ever thought of going back to the stage — to dance, or to act?”
“Sometimes. I too have always woken up in time. Reality bites.”
Moretti nodded, but kept silent.
“This is nice,” Sydney said after a while. “Yours, I guess, not an official car.”
“Yes. My partner picked up the police car.”
“She’s pretty. Kind of Audrey Hepburnish.”
“Is she?” He sounded surprised.
“You hadn’t noticed? I guess I can’t call you Ed, can I?”
“You already have. Well — Eduardo. You also told me you’d have to be a nun if you wanted to learn to read.”
“Jeez, did I? Just at the moment, that doesn’t seem such a bad idea.”
“Learning to read?”
Her laughter dissolved as the Martello tower came into view.
“Oh God, Ed —”
“We don’t know they’re here. We only know that the marchesa said her niece was at her place at Icart. I just want us to sort this out quietly, so we can get on with the investigation. I’d like you to stay in the car — please, Ms. Tremaine,” Moretti added, as she started to open the door. “Lock yourself in and wait for me here. I’m going to climb over the gate.”
Sydney watched as Moretti straddled the gate and jumped over. Through the bars she saw the door of the Martello tower open. She saw Moretti walking up the path, and then she saw Giulia Vannoni coming down to meet him. A moment later, Giulia was running toward the car, with Moretti behind her.
“Sydney! Idiota! Che stupidità!”
There were various other epithets, but those she understood. She got out of the car and waited for Giulia to open the gate. She expected to be hugged, but instead Giulia took her by the shoulders and shook her.
“You — you —! Do you really think I’d do that to you? Dio mio!”
“Well, then.” Moretti’s quiet voice broke into Giulia’s angry outcry. “Ms. Vannoni is on her own and has been all night. It would seem your husband was trying to get back at you. Both of you.”
At that moment, Moretti’s mobile rang.
“Okay, Falla. We’ll be right over.”
He put the phone back in his pocket and took Sydney by the arm.
“It may be nothing, but the dogs have picked something up.”
“Dogs?” Sydney asked, bewildered.
“The dogs with the security firm — they know your husband’s scent, of course.” Moretti decided not to tell her that Liz Falla had picked up a piece of clothing from the hotel suite and taken it to the manor. “They are waiting for me. I suggest you stay here with Ms. Vannoni until I contact you.”
“No. I’ll come with you.”
“I’ll follow,” said Giulia. She locked the gate again and left them, running back up the path with her powerful stride.
* * *
There was quite a crowd gathered around the entrance to the bunker. Monty Lord, Gianfranco Vannoni, Piero Bonini, and two of the actors. Moretti recognized Gunter Sachs, talking to a younger man whom he presumed was Clifford Wesley. There were also a couple of security guards and an excited dog, the only member of the gathering showing any animation. Liz Falla was by the door, and she left the group as soon as she saw Moretti. She looked warily at Sydney Tremaine.
“Mrs. Ensor, perhaps it would be better if —”
“What have you found?” Now beyond weeping or hysteria, there was a stillness about Gilbert Ensor’s wife.
“Nothing — that is, the dog is indicating there is — something — in the bunker. We were waiting for you, Guv,” said Liz Falla, turning to Moretti.
“Okay. Let’s get this crowd away from here,” Moretti said to one of the security guards, “and get hold of some lights — torches, flashlights, lamps, whatever.” The guard spoke into his mobile and started marshalling the onlookers in the direction of the terrace. It was with relief that Moretti heard the arrival of the Ducati from the direction of the road, and watched Giulia Vannoni rounding the corner of the manor. He took Sydney Tremaine by the arm and led her away from the entrance.
“You stay with Ms. Vannoni for now — that’s an order.”
“I hear,” said Giulia, pulling off her helmet. “We can stay here, Sydney, until signor pianista comes to get us.”
Moretti was aware of two pairs of green eyes — one hostile, one haunted — watching him walk toward the dog handler.
“Tell me what happened.”
The handler held out the linen jacket he was holding. “I took the dog round the grounds first — nothing. But when we got to the top of the path —” he waved in the direction of the two waiting women, “— he led me straight down here, and he’s been at this door ever since. Mr. Lord gave me a key, but the officer said to wait for you.”
“Here they come with the lamps,” said Liz Falla.
The darkness behind the steel door was palpable, thick as the smell of mould and decay in the airless space. The pressure in Moretti’s chest eased as he saw the steady beams of light splitting the blackness ahead of them, motes of dust and moisture hanging in the air.
“You go ahead,” he said to the handler, who held the jacket to the dog’s nose. The animal whimpered excitedly, and pulled at his lead, heading for the nearest entrance, his paws slipping on the greasy stone.
“The command room,” said Moretti. “I saw this with Mr. Lord.”
Moretti, Liz Falla, and one of the security officers came around the corner after handler and dog and, at first sight, nothing appeared to be out of order. The retriever padded around the desk, followed by his
master, and started to worry at something on the floor, whimpering and yapping.
“It’s a shoe, sir,” the man called. “A slip-on type. And the phone’s been pulled down off the desk.”
Before the rest of the search party could enter the room, the dog moved past them, pulling the handler along with him, heading farther along the corridor away from the entrance.
The ground sloped beneath their feet, taking them even farther down below the surface. The rays of light from their torches illuminated entrances and alcoves in the walls, the remnants of wires, cables, and pipes hanging on to the concrete. Rivulets ran in the gutters hollowed out of the concrete floor, humidity dripped from the curved brick ceiling overhead. The air was foul, and Moretti remembered stories he’d been told of how the Organisation Todt had sent down prisoners overnight as guinea pigs, canaries in these concrete pits, to see if they could breathe. Sometimes they died.
He was beginning to think they would have to break off the search until they could get some kind of breathing apparatus, when the handler called out, “There’s an air shaft here.”
They stood beneath it, gratefully inhaling the fresher air, but the dog was restive, pulling away from the group, anxious to move on.
“What do you want to do, sir?” his handler asked.
“Continue as long as we can.”
Beside him, Liz Falla sneezed and rubbed her eyes.
With the dog leading the way, they stumbled along the narrow passage, which was suddenly intersected by another, wider passage, with the remnants of a light railroad track running down the middle. They all stopped abruptly at this point, as the dog hesitated a moment, and then turned to the right, accelerating rapidly.
Ahead of them and above them was a huge shaft. A glimmer of daylight shimmered down, faint but unmistakable. Leading up to the surface was an iron ladder fastened to the wall, its rungs rusted to the colour of lichen-covered rock. And at the foot of the ladder lay what looked like a heap of abandoned rags, but which they all knew was the body of Gilbert Ensor. The retriever sniffed at him and lay down beside him, his task completed.
