by Jill Downie
“Really? Then I wonder why Monty Lord would agree to them?”
“That’s another reason I’m glad to be leaving. All is not sweetness and light any more between those two, and they used to be thick as thieves.”
“Oh?” Moretti watched as Clifford Wesley got up from his chair and went across to a counter at one end of the trailer.
“No. Over the last day or so they’ve had words, hot and heavy ones. Want some?” He was holding up a kettle and a jar of instant coffee. When Moretti declined, he grinned. “Didn’t think you would. As Gunter says, I have depraved tastes. Can’t get used to the real stuff.”
The young actor plugged in the kettle and, when the water had heated, put a spoonful of brown powder into the mug and added water. A malodorous smell filled the trailer. Two heaping spoonsful of sugar and a similar amount of powdered creamer were added to the mix, and Wesley returned to his seat. After a couple of sips he said, “They had a loud argument the day before yesterday, in Monty’s trailer. I’d been over to Betty Chesler’s lodge for a fitting and was coming back to the manor when I heard raised voices. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, and not being that interested I just kept on my merry way. Besides, they were speaking in Italian.”
“You’re sure it was Monty Lord and Mario Bianchi?”
“Yes, I’m certain.”
“Did you hear anything at all that might have given you any idea what it was about? Had anything happened in the last few days that might have caused an argument?”
“The only thing I could think of was the new character. The schoolteacher.”
“How did you find out, and were you told anything about the new character?”
“Piero Bonini told me. He said Monty was concerned I’d be worried about my impact in the film, so I asked him — should I be worried? He laughed it off, saying they’d be crazy to alter the tragedy of the two lovers in any way. My opinion exactly.”
“Thank you for your time, Mr. Wesley.” Moretti stood up. “I’ll leave you to enjoy your coffee in peace. I shall look forward to seeing you in Rastrellamento. Don’t get up — I’ll see myself out.”
“Oh —” Clifford Wesley gestured toward Moretti with his coffee mug, “you asked me if I knew anything about the new character. All I know is they’ve apparently cast some big Italian soap star in the role. A bloke called Tibor Stanjo, or something.”
“Stanjo? That doesn’t sound Italian. Or British, or German, come to that.”
“Nope. Slovak originally, so Bella tells me. Probably cast him for his mass appeal, and for no more sinister reason.”
“Sinister? That’s an interesting choice of word, sir.”
Clifford Wesley shrugged his shoulders. “Isn’t it. Possibly all those fake feldgendarmen and repubblichini getting to me. That’s the trouble with this business, Detective Inspector, illusion becomes more real than reality itself. Probably also my imagination that Donatella and Monty are no longer as chummy as they once were — a certain coolness there now, in the last twenty-four hours. Breakfast this morning was a frosty affair.”
“Interesting. Did you get any impression of who was angry with whom?”
“Donatella was icy and giving a fawning Monty the cold shoulder. For what it’s worth, I’ve never believed there was ever really anything going on between those two — she enjoyed the admiration, and he was making sure his bread remained buttered.”
“A wise move, I would think. Thank you again.”
“Hey, don’t mention it. I tell you, they’re a colourful lot, these Vannonis. Even the murders on their property are exotic — do you know the writer, Jan Morris? Yes? She’s written some lovely stuff about Florence.” Clifford Wesley took off his glasses and put down his empty coffee mug. “If there is crime, it is gorgeous crime, all daggers and secret poisons.” His beautiful actor’s voice filled the trailer. “A romantic, foreigner’s view, wouldn’t you say? Twenty-first-century Florentines seem like a practical bunch to me.”
“An original viewpoint, sir. Safe journey home, Mr. Wesley.”
“Safer than staying around here appears to be. Good luck, Detective Inspector.”
I’ll need it, thought Moretti. A piece of sheer, utter luck. Clifford Wesley was right, there was something fake or stagey about the murder weapon. A dagger. Now why in the name of all that’s sacred, or profane, would a Vannoni attract attention by choosing part of their own coat of arms as an instrument of death?
“Guv!”
Liz Falla was walking even more briskly than usual toward him from the direction of the manor. Given the current stagnant state of the investigation, her eager-beaverness was more than welcome.
“Any luck?”
“Oh yes. Guess who’s the head gardener!”
“An ex-boyfriend.”
“Right!” Apparently unaware of any satirical subtext, Liz Falla continued. “Brad Duquemin. We used to go out together when we were still at school, so I haven’t seen him in years. He’s been here now just over a year, and he’s got the housekeeper in his pocket, so he says — well, he’s a good-looking bloke. Got a way with words, among other things. They have a little tipple in the evening before he goes home, and she’s told him quite a lot about the family.”
“Such as?”
“No, the marchesa is not having an affair with Mr. Lord. Yes, most people knew about Miss Salviati and Mr. Albarosa. And — get this, Guv — Giulia Vannoni isn’t a Vannoni!”
“Isn’t?”
“Not by blood. In the housekeeper’s opinion, that’s why she’s what she calls ‘different.’ Interesting, eh?”
“Very. Did she explain who she is if she’s not a Vannoni?”
“No, or not that he could understand — there’s a problem with the language. Oh, and she told Brad there was a fight between Mr. Albarosa and the marchesa on the night of his murder. He asked her if it was about Vittoria Salviati and she laughed and said something like ‘too many, too many,’ which Brad took to mean that kind of thing happened all the time. But she said something that sounded like ‘tradition’ — tradimento, he thinks. She said it more than once.”
“Tradimento,” said Moretti slowly. “Not tradition, Falla. Betrayal.”
“And she also kept on about honour — he understood that. So he asked her if it wasn’t to do with a woman, what was it? And she said —” Liz Falla paused for effect, “‘With an esterno for the film.’”
“Did she mean ‘location’?”
“That’s what Brad thinks. Because when he said he didn’t understand, she said ‘house.’ And that’s when she dried up. Tapped the side of her nose, said ‘basta,’ got up and left.”
“Good work, Falla. This is all useful stuff. There’s just one problem — well, there’s a whole slew of them but the one that keeps hitting me is that the Vannonis may think a deep, dark family secret is at the back of these murders and be terrified of exposure. And that the damn thing, whatever it is, has absolutely nothing to do with it.”
Liz Falla looked at him. “One thing they — well, some of the fellers at the station — told me when I was to be your partner, Guv. They said, ‘He’s got the best instincts of any of the DIs. Never puts a foot wrong when he trusts them.’ I don’t know about you, but I personally am going to trust them if that’s all right with you.”
Before Moretti could respond to her revelation about the fellers at Hospital Lane, Liz Falla pulled out her notebook. “About the bunker key in the marchesa’s bedroom — her door isn’t always locked, even with some of the film people staying. One of the cleaning ladies was around, and she says they can usually get in without asking the housekeeper. And I had a word with the head of security, as you asked. Mr. Ensor’s arrival by taxi was noted by one of the security staff, who saw him near the entrance to the bunker. He offered to escort him to the manor and was told to bugger off — Ensor’s words. The guard watched him walk as far as that path that leads to the entrance and, as he thought, turn toward the terrace. Since he knew there was a r
egular patrol in that area, he decided to do exactly what Ensor had suggested.”
“And he saw no one else?”
“No. Of that he’s sure.”
Moretti looked at his watch. “We’re still too early for Bianchi. Come on, Falla, let’s take another look at the scene of the crime.”
* * *
The SOC tapes were still across the entrance to the bunker, but the police guard and the incident van had been removed from the immediate vicinity and placed at the main gate to the manor. Moretti took the key obtained from the marchesa out of his pocket and turned it in the lock. The damp and moisture seeped out immediately, and he felt the familiar tightness in his chest. Behind him he heard Liz Falla shiver.
“First, the film set.”
“Lights, Guv?”
“They leave one by the door — here — it’s been fingerprinted.”
“There wasn’t a key on him, was there?”
Their hushed voices echoed around them.
“No. He must have been let in, or the key was removed by the murderer.”
For Moretti, there was less a sense of a terrible past in that ersatz, reconstructed room than in the dank, collapsed tunnels, the brick-filled alcoves, the deserted, echoing corridors. The phone had been left on the floor, but the single shoe had been removed to the SOC lab.
“Perhaps he thought it was connected,” said Liz Falla, resisting the temptation to rub her eyes.
“Desperately hoped it was, I’m sure,” said Moretti, bending over to look at it. “He would have been sitting at the desk when he reached for it. I imagine this was where he hoped to have his rendezvous with whoever.” He looked at the bunk bed. Its grey blanket cover was smooth, unrumpled. “He didn’t get any farther than here, I think. As soon as he saw who it was coming in through the door, he knew he was in trouble.”
“How did he get past the murderer and out of the room?” asked Liz Falla. “The doorway’s quite narrow.” She reached up and touched the top of the opening.
“I’ve been thinking about that. There must have been some sort of discussion before the murderer tried to kill Ensor. He probably tried to reason with him or her — after all, words were his stock-in-trade — and the murderer was probably equally anxious to say why he was going to kill him. He or she may have come around the side of the desk to get at Ensor, who then took off around the other side, and out into the corridor. SOC found no signs of a struggle near the door, where Ensor would have been cornered, so he must have headed down the corridor.”
“Why? Surely he knew there was no way out?”
“Desperation? Or did he know about the tunnel that’s supposed to come out in the manor? Come on.”
The single shaft of light from the lamp peeled back a narrow central strip in the darkness along the corridor, and Liz Falla stumbled as she followed Moretti.
“Take my arm, Falla. This light’s not too good.” He felt Liz Falla’s grip on his elbow.
The beam wasn’t as strong as Moretti remembered from his visit with Monty Lord. Every few feet he swept the light to one side and the other, examining the entrances and alcoves in the walls. They stopped briefly by the ventilation shaft for some air.
“Where did SOC say the blood started, Guv?”
“Just about here — they marked it — there we are. This is where the murderer either caught up with him, or chose to start stabbing.”
Circles were chalked on the floor, some of them surviving the moisture that ran down the gutters and over the surface. Some moved in the direction of an entrance, or a recess in the wall.
“Like following a trail of breadcrumbs, isn’t it?” Moretti could hear a note of hysteria in his partner’s giggle.
“Much the same. Ensor left us a route map of the end of his existence with his lifeblood. You can see where he looked for a way out — the tunnel to the manor. And it takes us, of course, to the escape shaft.”
Moretti swung the beam to the right and together they lurched over the corroded rail tracks. Ahead of them lay the chalked outline of Gilbert Ensor’s body, indistinct, but still visible.
“And here we have the answer to one of the problems, Falla. How the murderer got away without being seen by anyone. Getting away from the scene of the crime is one of the most difficult of a murderer’s tasks, and this way there’s no need to risk the door.”
Above them loomed the iron ladder, rung upon rung, disappearing into the distant darkness beyond the beam of their light.
“Not out the door? Someone went up there, Guv?” Incredulously, Liz Falla looked up into the void.
At this point the light went out.
“Shit,” said Liz Falla, and sneezed. Her grip tightened on Moretti’s elbow.
“Okay, Falla — give me a moment.” Fumbling in his pocket, Moretti extracted the disposable lighter he had not yet disposed of.
“I didn’t know you smoked, Guv.”
“I’m supposed to be giving up, but I’ve not quite succeeded.”
“Thank God, is all I can say.”
Together they made their cautious way back through the noisome, dripping darkness and into the light outside.
Neither of them spoke for a moment as they refilled their lungs with fresh, clean air. Liz Falla looked at her watch.
“Just about time for the interview, Guv.”
“So it is,” said Moretti. “But first I want to take a look at the outside of that escape shaft. Mr. Bianchi can wait a moment for us — heaven knows he’s made us wait for him.”
The bank that covered the bunker was overgrown with holly bushes, honeysuckle, pennywort, and stinging nettles. A couple of elderberry bushes had grown into flourishing trees. Clearly this was one area of the well-tended property allowed to stay wild, and Moretti noticed that he and his partner left clear evidence of their progress.
“There it is,” said Liz Falla, pointing to the apex of the mound.
The escape shaft was well concealed by the plants and grasses, and would have been as treacherous as Alice in Wonderland’s rabbit hole if it had not been covered by a solid piece of grating. Moretti bent down and pulled at it. It shifted in his hand.
“See — it’s been prised loose. And the plants around here have been trampled down by someone. Whoever it was came and went in that direction.”
They both stood up and looked toward the lake. Through the light mist that hovered over it they could see the naked torso of a green-blue woman, bathing in the water.
“A statue?”
“I hope so. She’s got no arms. We’ll go down that way, and take the path around the lake back to the house.”
They passed the woman dreaming in the lake, and the sight of her there, head bowed, motionless, flooded Moretti with a morbid awareness of his own impermanence.
They were met in the marchesa’s sitting room by someone Moretti knew well, but had not expected to see: Reginald Hamelin.
Reginald Hamelin was the senior member of one of the oldest law firms on the island. Known as the silver fox because of his magnificent head of hair and his cunning in litigious matters both matrimonial and commercial, he was officially retired, but was brought out of mothballs from time to time for certain clients who believed that anyone under the age of sixty or so wouldn’t know a tort from a tart.
“Detective Inspector —”
“Advocate Hamelin. Where is Mr. Bianchi?”
“He will be with us shortly. I wanted to speak to you first, privately.”
Moretti thought about protesting, but decided to appear acquiescent — for the moment. When pushed into a corner, the silver fox tended to show some of the less attractive characteristics of his namesake. He sat down in one of the two chairs placed opposite the marchesa’s little desk, and Liz Falla followed suit, pulling out her notepad.
“Off the record?”
“I can’t promise that, Advocate Hamelin, as you well know, but DC Falla will take no notes at this stage. We have had enough problems trying to interview Mr. Bianchi, as it is
.”
Reginald Hamelin watched Liz Falla put away her notebook and turned his attention back to Moretti. “I have managed to persuade Mr. Bianchi to come and talk to you without his psychiatrist, which is what he wanted to do. Frankly, the last thing I wanted was for my client to have two handlers — and besides, I pointed out to him that it did not help his situation if he looked incapable. Unbalanced.”
“I see,” said Moretti. “What did you want to tell me, off the record?”
Reginald Hamelin leaned across the desk, looking with what was intended to be disarming earnestness at both police officers.
“I must talk to you about Mr. Bianchi’s former drug problem. As you may or may not know, my client had a minor relapse about two years ago, and was hospitalized. I wanted to clear that up first, before you brought the matter up with him. I can assure you Mr. Bianchi is not on drugs now, and thus there is no question of his former habit having anything to do with these dreadful events. He is clean, Detective Inspector, and I told him I would deal with that before he came. He’ll submit to tests if necessary. It was the only way I could persuade the psychiatrist not to be here. He warned me there is a possibility of a complete mental breakdown if he is rigorously questioned about his past drug habit.”
“I see,” Moretti repeated, making a token response so that they could at least get started. “We shall have to hope things don’t lead in that direction, won’t we? And if you could persuade your client to make an appearance, we won’t have to move this to an interrogation room at Hospital Lane.”
Reginald Hamelin picked up a mobile phone sitting on the desk in front of him.
“Donatella? Ask Mario to come now, would you?”
They could not have been far away, because almost immediately the door opened and Mario Bianchi came in.
The Italian director’s long hair was loose on his shoulders and around his face, giving him a biblical, almost Christlike appearance. He looked tired and drawn, but Moretti recalled that when he first met him he hadn’t exactly looked the picture of health. The deep-set dark eyes above his prominent cheekbones looked haunted, and there was a nervous tic in the corner of his mouth that even the heavy moustache failed to hide. One would have had to know him years ago, thought Moretti, to know if it was the struggle to be free of drugs, the effect of the drugs, or the sensitivity of a highly creative human being that made Mario Bianchi look as if nature had made him a particularly vulnerable creature.
