by Jill Downie
He was dressed to kill, in a suit of navy wool and cashmere, a pale blue silk shirt with gold cufflinks in the sleeves, a gold tie clasp holding a paisley-patterned tie against his bloodied chest. He was curled up on one side, face hidden, the shirt buttons across his corpulent belly pulled open, revealing blood-soaked body hair, and he was wearing one shoe over one dark blue sock. The other sock lay close by.
And as he looked at the body curled up on the floor, all Moretti could think of at that moment was the memorial in the Underground Hospital: “This memorial is dedicated to the slaveworkers who died in Guernsey for Hitler’s Organisation Todt.” Gilbert Ensor was only the last of many hundreds who had lain dying on that floor, and other similar floors.
Just beyond the body something glinted in the diffuse light from the shaft. Treading warily around the edges of the space, Moretti picked his way around the body and bent down to see what it was.
It was a dagger — another dagger, but this one was not medieval. He had seen others like it in the display cases at La Valette, alongside the numbered arm bands worn by the workers, the picks, the bull whips. It was a storm trooper’s dagger with a curved hilt, bearing the legend, “Blut und Ehre.” Blood and iron, Bismarck’s grim axiom about Germany’s survival.
For just a moment, the search party stood there looking at Gilbert Ensor, speechless. Then one of the security guards said, his voice shaking, “What in the name of all that’s holy was he doing down here? We had the devil’s own job getting him to stay inside a trailer, for God’s sakes, when we wanted to run security checks. Said he couldn’t abide confined spaces, but I suppose he was just being bolshie as usual.”
Liz Falla walked across, bent down, and peered closely at one of the gold cufflinks on Gilbert Ensor’s sleeve.
“Cherchez la femme, Guv?” she said to Moretti, and then sneezed again.
September 17th
The two women stood at the top of the path, waiting. It had started to rain and seeing them through the light mist, Moretti thought of the Widow’s Walk at Saumarez Manor, the railing around the centre of the highest storey, as on some old houses in New England facing the sea. Sydney Tremaine would never again have to pace and wait and wonder where her husband was. This time he had set out on an adventure that had cost him his life. As he started to walk up the slope, she moved away from Giulia Vannoni and came toward him.
“He’s dead, isn’t he?”
She looked like one of the women beloved of the Pre-Raphaelites — Ophelia drifting in her watery grave, her skin bloodless, waxen.
“Ms. Tremaine — Sydney.” He took her by the arm, and she did not resist as he led her to his car. He opened the passenger door, and she got in and sat there, obediently, like a child going on an outing. Moretti got in the other side and sat down. Her hands were folded in her lap, and she did not look at him.
“Yes. Your husband has been killed in the bunker, Sydney. A knife was used, but not the same type of knife. That doesn’t matter now. I shall want you to tell me again every word you can remember of what he said to you last night. If we go into the manor, can you manage that?”
“No.” She turned to look at him, and he could not read anything in her eyes. They seemed as blank as a painted surface. “Not the manor. I shall never go in there again.”
“Then we’ll go to the station, or back to the hotel, if you’d prefer. But for now I’d like someone to be with you. My partner, DC Falla, would —”
“Betty Chesler — I’d like Betty.”
She was weeping now, tears falling on her hands.
“I’ll get her.”
Strike while she’s vulnerable, he told himself. Forget about the lipstick stain on your pillow, the faint scent left on the sheets that was probably dreamt up by your overheated imagination. Remember, this woman is not frail.
“Who was on the cliff path, Sydney?”
“Giulia. Giulia running.” She turned to look at him and this time he could read the expression in her eyes. She seemed angry. “She knows something. They all know something. About the daggers, Ed. It’s all about the daggers.”
Then she wept again, and when he put his arms around her this time he did not care about the onlookers, and gave no thought at all to Chief Officer Hanley.
When the SOC crew had taken over, Betty Chesler had left with Sydney Tremaine, and reinforcements had arrived to take statements, Moretti and Liz Falla went into the manor.
Giulia Vannoni was waiting for them in her aunt’s sitting room. She was dressed in black: the black leather pants she had worn when Moretti had first seen her, a black shirt of some kind, and a black leather jacket that fastened over the firm disks of her breasts with one large leather button. The only note of colour was her scarlet lipstick that flamed against her tanned skin. Beneath the plucked arch of her eyebrows and the fringe of heavy black mascara her green eyes glittered with what looked like contempt.
“You wish me to accompany you to the police station, no? Trust the great minds of the police to go for the obvious.”
“We have some questions to ask you in connection with the death of —”
“Gilbert Ensor. Are you going to handcuff me?”
“You’re not under arrest, Signorina.”
Which was, of course, true. So why would a highly intelligent woman be carrying on as if they were about to accuse her of murder? Maybe she saw herself as some sort of a decoy, running ahead of us and dragging her wing so that we’d follow her instead of — whoever and whatever it is in her family we should be following. So let’s do that, he thought, and see what happens.
“Would you like to call a lawyer?”
“I will. Later. Let’s get this farce started, and see how far it goes.”
Giulia Vannoni walked between Moretti and Liz Falla, towering over the policewoman, her head about level with Moretti’s eyes. She must be nearly six feet, he thought, and her shoulders are about as wide as mine. She said nothing during the journey, but her physical presence in the back of his car was as potent as the perfume she had worn the first time he met her.
And she is capable of causing uproar, with her connections. We’ll have to tread damn carefully, or Hanley will have me on the carpet, thought Moretti. I’m sure he’s hoping our murderer is some benighted foreigner on the film crew who did this, and not a member of a prestigious local family.
Their arrival at Hospital Lane did not go unnoticed. Giulia Vannoni strode through the building as though she owned it, returning the stares of those passing by with a parting of her scarlet lips that was more a rictus than a smile. Once in Moretti’s office she sat down on a chair without waiting to be directed.
“Signorina —”
“How is Sydney?”
“Not good, as you can imagine. She asked for a member of the film crew, Betty Chesler, to be with her.”
“So she is safe with Betty? Of course, since you suspect me, you would think that, wouldn’t you?”
She gazed around Moretti’s office as though the decor offended her sensibilities, her eyes washing over him in contempt, and Moretti knew he must establish his control over the interview or she would run it, and him. Which was how they were all here together, instead of back at the scene of the crime, or interviewing Mario Bianchi — which was what he had originally intended. He slammed his hand down on the desk, and saw Liz Falla start, taken by surprise at her Guv’nor’s uncharacteristic outburst.
“Signorina, your arrogance is helping no one, least of all yourself. We are in my office, not in an interrogation room, and there is no tape recorder. You are a smart woman — Mr. Lord calls you the cleverest of the Vannonis — and yet you have deliberately drawn attention to yourself as a possible suspect. Why did you not tell me you were out running on the cliff path near the Héritage Hotel when the first attempt was made on Gilbert Ensor’s life?”
“So. Sydney told you.”
“Yes, but she waited until today. Did you ask her not to tell us?”
“Of course not. I
suggested to her that maybe she wished whoever it was had not missed.”
“What was her reaction?”
“Confused. That was some love-hate relationship, that one. Most are, in my experience.” Giulia Vannoni leaned back in her chair, and Moretti sensed that her act of bravado — if that was indeed what it had been — was over.
“Do you have an alibi for last night?”
“No. I was alone in my castello. You accuse me of drawing attention to myself, but this is the fact. I am a suspect.”
“Yes. But there is something more, Signorina, than your lack of alibi, or your presence on the cliff path. From the beginning I have felt a conspiracy of silence around these three episodes — from the apparently trivial incident of the damage to the costumes to the death of these two men. And I am certain that you, among others, could tell me a great deal more than you have. Why is that, Signorina?”
If I could capture the reactions of the Vannoni family to that kind of question, thought Moretti, and bottle them, the contents of those bottles would all look exactly the same. The sudden stillness of Giulia Vannoni’s body was unmistakable, the sense of withdrawal palpable. Like the regret of Anna Albarosa for drawing attention to the family crest. If Giulia Vannoni could have hung up on him, as her uncle had done, the line would now have gone dead.
“I accused you of pursuing the obvious, Detective Inspector. I was wrong, it seems. You also pursue flights of fancy — or is it that you are more paranoid than I thought? A conspiracy theory now — what next!”
She laughed scornfully but she was rattled, Moretti could see it. He remembered why Hanley had been so keen to get him back. You speak Italian. In this investigation, it would take more than his knowledge of the language to uncover the truth; it would take an understanding of his father’s people.
La famiglia, for instance.
For a man who rarely returned to his roots, his father talked a great deal about the importance of the family in Italian society — not in such grandiose and abstract terms, but it permeated his conversation about his native land. In spite of a growing divorce rate, a dropping birthrate, and the perennial problem of unfaithful wives and husbands, lovers and mistresses, that ancient institution remained the crux, Moretti knew, of the most profound and significant elements in Italian society. Its hold on the loyalty of its members was as tenacious as ever, the basis of much that was precious and good — and some that was bad.
This woman had talked about love-hate relationships, which was how his father had spoken about family: family loyalty, family obligation. He could only hope that the element of surprise would work with Giulia Vannoni where bullying or reasoning would be so much wasted breath. He asked his next question without preamble or explanation.
“This house, Signorina. The one near the sea. Where is it, and what does it have to do with these murders and Rastrellamento?”
He heard the intake of breath, and then she said, “What is all this crap? I want a lawyer.”
Without another word, Moretti picked up his phone and handed it to her.
“What a ball-breaker, eh, Guv!”
“Bit of a misnomer in her case, Falla, but I know what you mean.”
“What with one thing and another, I forgot to tell you — Giorgio phoned last night. He’s found the birth. Sophia Maria was born in Pistoia to Maria Colombo. Father unknown.”
“Pistoia was my godmother’s home town. Father unknown? Then where does the name Catellani come in?”
“She was adopted by a Franco and Rosa Catellani. Now he’s checking on the whereabouts of Sophia Maria — the Catellanis’ home town was given as Montecatini, near Pistoia and it seems she’s still alive — or at least, there’s no record of a death.”
So his godmother had given birth to a child out of wedlock. And had kept silent, a silence only broken after her death. A complete human life, obliterated by silence.
“Please thank him for me.” He had completely forgotten about Sophia Maria Catellani. “We’re going back to the manor, but first I want to see if any of the crime-scene investigators have returned.”
As Moretti and Liz Falla came downstairs, some of the crew were just coming into the building chattering like magpies, the adrenalin still pumping from the scene in the bunker.
“Hey, Moretti. We’ve left everything like you said, but there’s a problem.”
“Problem?”
Of course there’s a bloody problem, thought Moretti. There’s a mountain of problems, a bunkerful of problems. There’s a family conspiracy problem, and the fact that I may be pursuing a chimera anyway. A red herring of a house. Because, above all, there’s a change of dagger motif problem. The roots of this business may well be right here on the island, and not in Florence, or Fiesole, or the Maremma after all.
“Yes. The medico says there may be trouble establishing time of death, because of the temperature and humidity down there — Christ, what a hellhole! He may call in a pathologist from the Met for a second opinion.”
“I see. Could he at least establish if death was immediate — as in the case of Albarosa?”
“Of that he’s sure. It wasn’t. There was a struggle — Ensor fought back. And that’s not all. There’s a possibility the dagger wasn’t the cause of death. Seems the victim crawled to where he died. And the doc thinks there’s a chance he died of suffocation. Or fright. He’ll get a preliminary report to you tomorrow.”
“That confirms one thing for us, Falla,” said Moretti as they crossed the courtyard together, “Toni Albarosa was probably surprised to see whoever it was on the terrace, but was not aware he was in danger. Gilbert Ensor did not see the person he expected to see, and knew immediately he was in trouble.”
“Couldn’t he have been forced down there?”
“Possibly, but I think he was lured there, and I’m sure you’re right — he thought he was going to an assignation. From something he said to his wife I think he was expecting some sort of erotic thrill — maybe having sex in that fake command centre — I don’t know. For a man like Gilbert Ensor, sexual experimentation was as necessary as — as —.”
“A good single malt, Guv?”
Moretti looked at his colleague, who was backing the Mercedes out of the narrow parking space with practiced ease.
“I was going to say bread and butter, but that’s certainly more accurate in Ensor’s case.”
“Guv —” Moretti sensed that his partner was treading delicately, “— isn’t it possible his wife has something to do with this? I mean — I shouldn’t be saying this as a police officer, but can you blame her? And couldn’t she and Giulia Vannoni be in this together?”
“Which is why I’ve arranged for a police guard on the door of her hotel suite. And since there is also the possibility she herself is in danger, the guard serves a double purpose. As for the signorina, it’s more likely she was the decoy for someone other than Sydney Tremaine. When we get to the manor, park around the back, Falla. We are going to obey the Vannonis’ commands, and go in through the tradesmen’s entrance.”
“May I ask why, Guv?”
“Because the only mini-break we’ve had on this case came from a contact of the Vannonis’ servants. I want to see if we get lucky again.”
Security had obviously been beefed up since the discovery of Gilbert Ensor’s body in the bunker. As Liz Falla brought the car to a halt alongside a jeep and a row of motorbikes, they were immediately approached by one of the private security staff, who peered into the car, acknowledged them with a touch of his cap, and moved on. The back door of the manor was locked, and Moretti rang the ponderous iron bell pull alongside it. The sound reverberated inside the house.
“You’d expect a zombie or something to answer that, wouldn’t you, Guv?” said Liz Falla with a theatrical shiver.
The door was opened instead by a tiny black-clad woman, who fixed them with a baleful glare.
“Yes?”
“Police,” said Moretti, pulling out his identification.
“Signora, come sta? Italiana?”
“Si.” Cautiously, the door opened a little wider.
“Mi chiamo Eduardo Moretti. Mi padre era Italiano — da Pistoia.”
“Ah — Pistoia!” The door opened wider again.
Still talking, Moretti eased himself into the hallway, with Liz Falla close on his heels.
Where the passage of time and the outlay of money had bestowed a mellow richness and a warm and mature patina on the formal and family areas of the Manoir Ste. Madeleine, the servants’ areas of the building were in need of, at the very least, a fresh coat of paint. The corridor in which they stood had a general air of neglect, with faded wallpaper peeling off the walls, and some rather ratty linoleum underfoot.
“Signora, your name is —?”
“Teresa Stecconi. I’ve been housekeeper here longer than I care to remember. Oh, what a business this is! That poor man, and the poor signora and her fatherless children!”
“Indeed. You know Anna Albarosa?”
“Of course. I’ve known her since she was a little girl. I came here with them, to help them move, and I never went back. They are my family — I have no one else.”
“So you knew Patrizia.”
“Of course. Now, she knew the marchese and his father when he was a little lad — such a wild one, the marchese’s father, she said. Who would have thought he’d become such a pillar of society!”
“So he was wild, but aren’t all young ones wild? Like the marchese’s son, Gianfranco, for instance?”
The old woman snorted. “Ah, Gianfranco! He is signor perfetto compared to the marchese at his age. Mind you, that was just boyish wildness, not the crazy madness that Patrizia used to speak of. But that’s all gone now. Still waters run deep, she used to say. Who would have guessed?”
“Crazy madness? This would be when the family were still in Florence, or Fiesole?”
“No, no, before that. But I wasn’t with them then.”
