by Jill Downie
“It might work.” Moretti’s respect for the resourceful-ness of his partner was growing by the minute. “You’d be best keeping it vague.”
“You’re telling me! Being indefinite is usually best when you’re pulling the wool over somebody’s eyes — at least, in my experience.” Liz Falla laughed, dipped a last chip in ketchup, and ate it. There was a small gap between her two front teeth that made her look even younger than she actually was. “What do you think, Guv? Or do you have a better idea?”
“No, I don’t, so we’ll go with yours.”
“When will you be leaving? Is that why you wanted to use my phone?”
DC Liz Falla appeared to be taking his irregular proposal in her stride, and Moretti felt it had more to do with his partner’s breezy insouciance about love and life in general than any starry-eyed admiration of his brilliant stratagem.
“No, but that might be a good idea also. I want you to use your phone — I’ll go and buy some stuff and come back and pick you up — and this is what I want you to do.”
Draining the last of his bitter, Moretti outlined the rest of his plan.
“I’m not going back to the States. If you put me on a plane, I’d only come right back here.”
“I know. Anyway, you’re a material witness. You’re not going anywhere, and the only trick is to make sure you stay alive.”
“That’s why I’m here.”
“That’s why you’re here. I presume your claim to know the reason for your husband’s death was just window dressing?”
Moretti and Sydney Tremaine were in his sitting room, her suitcase on the floor between them. She was wearing jeans and a white turtleneck sweater, but she still looked far too exotic for her setting. Now that she was standing there, her spectacular red hair backlit by a coral-shaded standard lamp, surrounded by his parents’ furniture, Moretti began to have severe doubts about his course of action.
“Yes. I’ve gone over and over anything and everything he ever said to me about Rastrellamento and I can come up with nothing. Does anyone know I’m here?”
“Only my partner, DC Falla. These are her phone numbers — her mobile and her home phone. She’ll check up on you from time to time, but she won’t come here unless it’s absolutely necessary. Don’t ever pick up the phone yourself if it rings. She’ll leave a message, and you call her right back.”
“Why? Where will you be?”
“Not here.”
At which Sydney Tremaine sat down on the sofa and started to cry.
“I can’t be left on my own, Ed. Please stay with me. I won’t get pissed, and I won’t be a pain in the ass, and I’ll even stop calling you ‘Ed’ and start calling you Detective Inspector. Please.”
Moretti sat down beside her. “I can’t stay here, Sydney, even if you call me Detective Superintendent, but maybe you shouldn’t get too pissed. Still, there are a couple of good reds in the kitchen, and I put some white wine in the fridge, and there’s plenty of food and plenty of books and CDs. There are also some videos. When did you last eat?”
“I don’t remember.” She put her arms around his neck, and he wondered why it was that some people looked like hell when they cried, and some people actually glittered with tears in their eyes. He removed her clasped hands and stood up, pulling her up with him.
“Come on. I’ll show you where everything is, and I’ll make you an omelette.” She followed him through into the kitchen.
“Look at that — a harvest table! Just gorgeous. I love antiques.”
“Is it? That table’s been in this place as long as I can remember.” Moretti went over to the fridge and took out eggs, butter, cheese, and a bottle of white wine, which he opened first. “Here — have some of this. I’ve got some questions to ask you.”
“And the first is why in the hell did I set myself up.”
“It wasn’t, but since you’ve brought it up —.”
“Guilt, I guess. Gil was a shit sometimes, but he didn’t deserve to die, and I think I may have helped matters along by taking off with Giulia.”
“It’s possible, but I don’t think so. I think your husband brought it on himself. Tell me why you went to see Giulia Vannoni.”
What Sydney told him was precisely what she had told Betty Chesler. Nothing new there, he thought, putting the grated cheese into the omelette and flipping it over. “Cut us some bread, will you? I’m going to draw the curtains and put on another light. We are going to eat, and you are going to tell me about your dancing career. I saw you once.”
“Oh God — in which movie?”
“No. On stage. Guesting with the Royal Ballet at Covent Garden. Les Sylphides.”
“One of my all-time favourites. The last act — I get goosebumps just thinking about it.”
As they sat together at the kitchen table, it occurred to Moretti this was the first time he had invited anyone to eat with him — man or woman — since he had returned to the island. He poured both of them another glass of wine, and watched the colour come back into her face. Suddenly she put down her glass and for a moment he thought she was going to cry again.
“How can I be feeling like this? My happiest moments on this island have been drinking Aperol in Giulia’s castello, and being here with you. Isn’t that just terrible?”
“Terrible, no. Honest, yes. And sad. Sad that your husband did not leave you with happier times to remember. You said it yourself, he didn’t deserve his death, but he also didn’t deserve for you to falsify your emotions. He certainly never disguised his own — from what you told me, he always satisfied his own emotions and desires, however hurtful that was to you. I have wondered whether that played any part in your instant friendship with Giulia Vannoni.”
“At first, yes, it was for revenge. But now I like Giulia for herself. Maybe I need the example of a strong woman who has carved out her own way in life.”
“With some help, in her case.” Moretti stood up. “We all need some help, which is why you are going to stay here until I get back.”
“You’re leaving?” Sydney pushed back her chair and came around the table. Moretti took a step backwards and she smiled. “Are you afraid I’ll lure you like some fairy spirit, to betray yourself, dance you to death?”
“That would be tricky. I don’t dance very well.”
“But you play piano like an angel. Be an angel and play for me before you go.”
He played “Sweet Georgia Brown,” and “Easy To Love,” “Just One Of Those Things,” and “Night And Day.” And, feeling the need for parental guidance, he finished off with “Roses in Picardy.”
“Nice,” she said. “You’re a romantic, I’d guess. And I’d also guess you’re coming off a bad relationship. Am I right?”
“I don’t know about bad, but I’m coming off one, as you put it — yes.”
“Giulia is celibate. She says it makes life simpler. Does it, Ed?”
“Yes.” And harder. And emptier, he thought. He got up from the piano. “I’ve got to go.”
“Kiss me goodbye, Ed.”
So he kissed her, picked up his bag and left, hearing her lock the door behind him.
They were used to doing without the piano player when there was an investigation underway, so they were surprised to see him at the club. Lonnie Duggan, the bass player who was also a bus driver in the summer, asked, “Shouldn’t you be looking for clues? What the hell are you doing here?” Duggan was a big slow-moving man with blindingly fast fingers.
“Cooling off. What do you want to open with?”
“We have a tenor sax tonight, so ‘I Fall in Love Too Easily.’ Okay?”
“Perfect,” said Moretti. “Garth is coming?” Garth Machin was with one of the international banks on the island, and spent long hours making millions for his clients in one of the financial buildings in La Plaiderie, not far from Hospital Lane. Classically trained, he was gifted enough to have made a career out of his saxophone, but he had opted for the security of money-making rather than the uncert
ainty of music-making. The angst induced by this decision gave his playing a delicious, melancholy edge.
“Yup, so he said.”
“He’ll be here.” Dwight Ellis gave his serene smile.
Dwight Ellis, the percussion player, was one of only a handful of island residents from the Caribbean. Trinidad, in his case. He had ended up on Guernsey after drifting around the world, playing his drums, and now worked in a restaurant in St. Peter Port that served Afro-Caribbean food. He was of an optimistic, sunny disposition that, somehow, never cloyed. Once, Moretti had asked him if he encountered more racial discrimination on such a white island than anywhere else, and he had replied, grinning, “No more, no less, man, eh? I just add ‘eh’ to everything I say, and everyone think I’m real Guernsey. I call it protective colourin’, eh?”
Garth Machin walked in, swearing away as usual, dragging on his cigarette and looking as far removed from his pinstripe persona as he could contrive. He used more obscenities than the rest of the Fénions put together, and Lonnie was of the opinion it was a public-school-boy’s effort to bring himself down to their level. Moretti read it as an outward manifestation of inner frustrations.
“Come on you lazy buggars, get up off your arses and let’s get this sodding show on the road.” He looked in surprise at Moretti. “Thought you were occupied, Ed. Heard you had other things on your mind — such as escorting beautiful Broadway broads to hotels.” He leered, and started to open his instrument case.
So, that little episode had got around. God help him if the world found out he had installed the beautiful Broadway broad in his home.
“Fuck off, Machin.” A casual, scatological response was best. Machin loved to needle, and denial would only give credence to his throwaway insinuation.
After a brief exchange of similar pleasantries, the Fénions got their sodding show on the road.
With the sound of Garth’s sax floating around him, Moretti walked north on the Esplanade, past St. George’s Hall. Once, people had danced there. Once, the Red Cross parcels that had saved the life of many islanders in the dying days of the war had been distributed there. Now it was empty and deserted, waiting for another life. He let himself in to the small hotel in which he was staying the night, grateful that he had whiled away a few of the hours. Sleep would not come easily, he knew.
September 20th
Beyond the stretch of its gravel courtyard the ochre length of the Pitti Palace, the Florence headquarters of the carabinieri, seemed to have absorbed more heat than the rest of the city. The lowering storm clouds overhead presaged thunder, and the late summer humidity hung heavy in the air.
Moretti had taken the first morning flight out of Guernsey to Gatwick, then transferring to an Alitalia flight that got him into Florence at one o’clock. He picked up his rented Alfa Romeo at the airport and drove straight to the Pitti Palace.
Giorgio Benedetti was waiting for Moretti in the entrance hall. He was at the same level of seniority as Moretti, but was somewhat younger — about mid-thirties, Moretti reckoned. They had briefly met at the drug symposium so they recognized each other, and it was easy to see what had attracted Liz Falla. Benedetti had dark hair and dark eyes and was as tall as Moretti, but there the resemblance ended: the carabinieri had an outgoing manner, a twinkle in his eye, and was quick to touch an arm or pat a shoulder.
“Buon giorno, Moretti! You made good time, and I know you have little of it, so let’s get down to business. We’ll go to my office, where I’ve got someone waiting to meet you who knows more about the part of the world that interests you than I do. A stroke of luck, really.”
“I need a few of those. Who is he?”
“A colleague of mine, Emilio Ruggero. His home town is Grosseto, and that’s where he’s planning to retire. I told him what you wanted to know, and he thinks he can help you.”
Emilio Ruggero was a short, stockily built individual who was only too happy to talk about his home town.
“I’m counting the days,” he told Moretti, his wine-coloured cheeks growing ruddier at the thought. “I visit my family there all the time, so I know the area like the back of my hand.” He held out one massive paw. “You wanted to know about a deserted village on a hill north of Grosseto, with a ruined church, and at one time a leading family who owned much of the land around — a family who may have left suddenly at the end of the war.”
“Yes. Any ideas?”
“There was one village to the north of Grosseto in the old days, high on a hill, where most of the villagers left some time after the war, moved away. It had something to do with the principal landowner taking off, if I remember rightly. Some sort of a feud or something.”
Moretti could feel his pulse quickening. “Do you remember the name of the family? Could it have been Vannoni?”
“I don’t remember a name, and by my time they were all long gone. You’d have to talk to the older generation for that, the ones who are still alive, that is.”
“I will. You don’t by any chance remember the name of the village?”
“San Jacopo — yes, that’ll be your village, I’m sure. And the church was the Chiesa San Jacopo. There was a fire there, I heard, so that’ll be your ruin.”
Emilio Ruggero chuckled and rubbed his hands together, pleased with himself. “Now, let’s take a look at the map, and I’ll show you the best way to get there.”
Half an hour later, Moretti was saying goodbye to Giorgio Benedetti on the steps of the Pitti Palace.
“Sunday is a good day to drive — there’ll be no transports or trucks on the autostrade.” Benedetti gave an exclamation and put his hand into his pocket. “I nearly forgot — I have some more information about Sophia Maria Catellani here.” He extracted a sheet of paper and handed it over to Moretti. “I don’t suppose you’ll be doing anything about her now, but when you do, look me up again and we’ll have dinner together — agreed?”
“Agreed, and I am very grateful to you for taking the time, Giorgio.”
“Anything for Elizabeta! Che gioiosa ragazza!”
Moretti folded the paper and put it away in his inside jacket pocket without looking at it.
The Alfa Romeo cleared the outskirts of Florence fairly swiftly, heading south down the autostrada. Adrenalin, and the excitement of the chase, were helping Moretti forget he was short of sleep, and he was anxious to make as few stops as possible. He had already arranged accommodation in Grosseto with the help of Emilio Ruggero, and he hoped to make just one stop on the journey.
At Poggibonsi, about fifty kilometres outside of Florence, he encountered his first major holdup with a stream of tour buses heading off to see San Gimignano’s fifteen medieval towers. With a supreme disregard for other smaller vehicles, they travelled two and three abreast, like sharks in shoals, jostling for supremacy amongst each other. He decided to stop in Siena, which was about thirty kilometres ahead.
He arrived only to discover that cars were not allowed in the centre of the city. The air here was clearer and cooler than in Florence so, leaving the car just inside the old city walls, he made his way to the Piazza del Campo, the lovely square outside the cathedral of Santa Maria.
Sitting in a little trattoria facing the white, green, and red marbles of the duomo’s facade, beneath an awning the colour of the pigment that came from the rich, brown earth of the city, Siena’s great gift to painters, Moretti ordered a glass of chianti and some taglierini pasta with porcini. As his hand went to his pocket he felt the paper Benedetti had given him, but instead he pulled out the small map Emilio Ruggero had drawn for him and took a look at it. Given that it was an unmarked, unlit, deserted village he decided, reluctantly, that he would have to wait until the next day to look for it.
The sky above the majestic roof of the Palazzo Sansedoni was blue as the walls of the Salerie Inn. Moretti looked at the fifteenth-century fountain that dominated the open centre of the square, trying to remember its name. Fonte Gaia, that was it. The fountain of joy. It hit him like a bolt from
that blue sky over him that he was feeling as happy as he had in months. Years. He wondered if it was the thrill of the chase, or the thought of Sydney Tremaine. He suspected it was a bit of both.
The Hotel Airone in Grosseto was a recent structure, built principally to serve the professional community and to attract conventions and therefore business to the city. It had satellite television and fax machines and conference rooms, and was the sort of hotel to be found in any reasonably prosperous city. What it lacked in individuality it made up in amenities. And it had good security; even the parking was patrolled.
By the time Moretti checked in, it was early evening. He decided not to eat in the hotel, but to take a brief look at the town. Along the Corso the lights of the boutiques and the artisans’ stores sparkled, and many of the locals were out taking a stroll in the cool, evening air. He found a pleasant-looking place near the Piazza Dante and sat outside to eat, and the scarlet petals of a climbing rose fell from time to time on to his table and into his Brunello di Montalcino.
Emilio Ruggero did indeed know his birthplace like the back of his hand. The map he had drawn for Moretti was precise in every detail, noting helpful landmarks and estimating the distance to the tiny lane, hardly a road, that led to San Jacopo. It was early in the morning when Moretti drove out of Grosseto, and the sun was only just coming up over distant hills, clearing the last shreds of morning mist from the valleys. The road was dotted with farmhouses and small settlements and beyond was the familiar pattern of the hill towns, rising straight up above the terraced fields. There had been rain in the night, and alongside the road the grapes on the vines glistened with moisture.
Moretti knew that he had to look out for the small town of Pagánico and head west in the direction of the Massa Maritima, but even with Emilio’s map, the turn to San Jacopo took him by surprise and he almost missed it. The entrance to the lane was overgrown with bushes, vines, and briars, obscuring the shrine that Emilio told him he’d find in the remnants of an old stone wall that marked the corner. Moretti pulled the Alfa Romeo over to the side of the road and got out to take a look.
