by Jill Downie
Nick Le Page lived in a modest bungalow chosen by his wife so that she could be close to the school where she taught. He was always careful to stress this to first-time visitors, who might otherwise have been bemused by the discrepancy between the fifties architecture and decor and its John Lennon look-alike occupant.
“Nick can play virtually anything you hand him,” said Liz to her passenger. Sydney Tremaine, clad in grey sweats, asked, “Such as?”
“Anything with a keyboard, for instance — organ, piano, accordion, even. And he plays a balalaika pretty well too. Here we are.”
Liz Falla brought the car to a halt outside a modest bungalow of off-white stucco. Beyond a low wall the small front garden consisted of gravel and coloured pebbles, a more effective ground cover than grass against the salt-sea air. It was topped by a row of pots under the bay window of the bungalow containing some sparsely flowering pelargonium in subdued colours.
They were let into the house by Brenda Le Page, who was on her way out to visit her sister, as she usually did when invaded by Jenemie. A woman of as subdued appearance as her pelargonium and of few words, the appearance of Sydney Tremaine shook whole sentences loose.
“I saw you as Anna Pavlova! Oh, you made me cry — are you here to do some singing with them?”
“Perhaps. If I’m asked.”
They sang together most of the evening — Sydney, a dazzled Nick, singer and guitar player Stewart Newton, still a teenager, whose parents hoped that performing with Jenemie would get “it” out of his system — as Liz told Sydney in the car, whereupon they both laughed — and Liz.
“Greensleeves,” “Plaisirs d’amour,” some Celtic music that was new to Sydney, Irish and Scottish folk songs. Liz Falla’s true, resonant voice floated above the cut moquette sofa and the wall-to-wall carpeting, out beyond the stuccoed walls and the gravel ground cover, drifting across the marshy fields and the old saltwater ponds, carried on the wind like her Becquet ancestors when they flew on their brooms to dance at le Catioroc.
At ten-thirty, Brenda returned home on the dot, as always, and the rehearsal was over. Liz pried Sydney loose from the prolonged goodbyes of Nick and Stewart and ushered her into the car.
“Take me to a hotel, Liz — any hotel, but I’ll not go back to Ed’s.”
“Okay.” Liz started the engine and eased away from the curb. “But I think we should pick you up some gear, don’t you? I’ll be there, and I’ll come in with you.”
“It won’t take long. I’ve already packed my bag.”
They were not followed to Moretti’s place, of that Liz was sure. Behind her, cars and motorbikes approached, and then departed down other roads, turned away down other lanes, and there was nothing behind them as they drove up the lane that led to the cottage. Sydney seemed relaxed, sleepy, talking little, humming under her breath.
So it was odd that, just as she brought the Mercedes to a halt in the courtyard, Liz Falla was engulfed by what she could only describe as a panic attack. Heart jumping, palms sweating, skin crawling, the hairs on the back of her neck prickling against the collar of her jacket — by the pricking of my thumbs.
Then she saw the movement. Something was moving along the top of the wall. A cat? Possibly. She reached across Sydney and made sure the door was locked.
“What?” The American woman was wide awake now.
“I’m not sure. Where’s that bag of yours?”
“Near the door. I nearly brought it with me. I should have brought it with me. You saw something.”
“Probably a cat. You stay here. Give me Moretti’s key. I want to check inside.”
Liz closed the front door behind her, leaving the lights off in the house. It seemed intrusive, impertinent to be in her partner’s home without his say-so. All she could hear was the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen and a tap-tap-tapping sound coming from upstairs somewhere. Grabbing a heavy walking stick from an umbrella stand by the door, she fumbled her way across the room to the staircase, feeling for the bannister. Please God, let her have done the right thing, leaving Sydney Tremaine outside, please God, whoever it was still preferred daggers to guns.
There was a small landing at the top of the stairs. She stopped, listening. The tapping was coming from behind a closed door to her left. Liz Falla felt her way along the landing, stopped by the door, and shoved it open. It shot back, the moon outside creating a pathway of light along the floor. The window was open, wide, the curtain pull tap-tapping against the window frame. A small chair to the right of the window had been knocked over. But the room was empty.
Liz Falla shut and fastened the window, but she left the chair as it was. She made a brief inspection of the second bedroom and the bathroom, then went downstairs. She checked the kitchen, made sure the back door was securely fastened, returned to the living room and retrieved Sydney Tremaine’s bag. She put the stick back in the stand, then took it out again.
The moments between relocking the front door and getting back inside the car seemed interminable. As she flung the bag in the door of the car she thought she saw something, a dark shape on the top of the wall against the moonlit sky.
“You saw it, right?”
Sydney Tremaine was shaking. She grabbed hold of Liz Falla’s jacket.
“A cat. Could be a cat.”
“Too fucking big for a cat. Oh, God. Start the engine.”
Liz was only too happy to do as she was told.
“Did you leave a window open in one of the bedrooms?”
“You kidding? I had everything sealed up tight as a drum. Which bedroom?”
“The one on the left at the top of the stairs.”
“That’s where I was. Oh, God. Take me to a hotel, take me to your police cells — take me anywhere.”
“Okay.”
“And that, Guv, is how Sydney Tremaine ended up sleeping on my sofa bed,” said Liz Falla as they turned into the courtyard on Hospital Lane.
Luck was again in Moretti’s corner. DS Hathaway, the officer left in charge in Hanley’s absence, was in a meeting, and had left a message for Moretti to report to him as soon as possible. Ensconced in his office, Moretti and Liz Falla went over the details of the tragedy in San Jacopo. Liz Falla cupped her hands around her pointed chin, and looked thoughtfully at Moretti across the desk.
“So what you’re saying, Guv, is that the baby survived, and was farmed out or adopted, found out the truth, and is now seeking revenge. The dagger was to let the Vannonis know that all this was about Sylvia and the scandal. But why kill Toni Albarosa? He wasn’t a Vannoni, and neither was Mr. Ensor.”
“I think the killer’s hand was forced,” said Moretti. “I don’t think those murders were planned, but had to be carried out because the avenger’s real, long-term, long-planned design would have been thwarted by the actions of Albarosa and Ensor. In Albarosa’s case it is still possible he or she was on their way to kill another member of the household when they ran across Toni Albarosa on the terrace.”
“What was the long-term plan, do you think, Guv? Was the avenger, as you call the person, going to wipe out the whole family, or what?”
“I think the making and completion of Rastrellamento was a crucial part of the revenge. Therefore, Mario Bianchi’s cooperation was essential. I’m not saying he knew the reason, but someone fed him the ideas and he went along with it. I also feel the ultimate gesture would have been the death of at least one principal member of the family: the marchese or the marchesa, or both of them.”
“Shouldn’t we be giving them a more specific warning, then?”
“About what? About a scandal they deny ever happened? To a woman they deny ever existed? You can be sure that Gianfranco is not going to tell anyone he spilt his guts to me. Even his adoring mamma would no longer protect him from the wrath of the marchese.”
“Okay. So let’s say we know why. Do we know who?”
“I think so. There are some problems, but it seems certain now there are two people involved.”
“Yes, and there’s something else I’ve been thinking about ever since Ensor was murdered. Remember what you said?”
“Cherchez la femme, you mean, Guv?”
“Right. So who was the woman? See, Falla, it had to be a woman who got him down there. Ensor didn’t have email at the hotel, and he had no office here. Don’t tell me it was by letter, so it had to be by phone. Let’s take a look at the statements again.”
“Which ones, Guv? The officers went through them with a fine-tooth comb.”
“I’m sure they did. Sydney Tremaine, Giulia Vannoni, Monty Lord, Mario Bianchi, and Adriana Ferrini.”
“Adriana Ferrini?”
“She’s about the right age, and I believe her mother was unmarried, so we’ll include her.”
About an hour later, Liz Falla said, “Okay, these three —” pointing at the statements taken from Giulia Vannoni, Mario Bianchi and Adriana Ferrini, “— have no good alibi for any of the three incidents. Sydney Tremaine has an alibi for the Albarosa murder, her husband, but he’s dead. Isn’t Giulia Vannoni too young to be the baby?”
“She is, but her mother and unknown father would have been the right age. We haven’t checked out the story of her parentage. And she has a motorbike — whoever was prowling outside the manor about a month ago, and whoever was at the ruined villa, had a motorbike.”
“Monty Lord couldn’t have got back from Rome in time for the first murder, could he?”
“Couldn’t he? He’s an expert pilot and flies solo. Did you check his arrival at the airport?”
“Yes. They have him clearing customs at just after nine a.m.”
“They do? I’ve been rethinking his alibi since you mentioned the airport jacket.”
“I wondered about that, because the tower has no record of giving him clearance to land. But it was a busy morning, apparently, and they were snowed under with private and corporate planes coming in for some sort of a conference. Still — he’s an American,” said Liz Falla.
“Why not Italian-American?” Moretti suggested. “There are thousands — millions — of them. He’s the right age, and he’s the person most likely to have fed the new script ideas to Mario Bianchi.”
“You’re not saying Ensor’s wife helped Monty Lord, are you, Guv? He was a shit to her, but I don’t believe that for a moment.”
“Ah, but there is another woman close to him, a woman who would do anything for him. Her alibi may be watertight, but she wasn’t the one committing murder.”
“Bella Alfieri. Ensor would never have gone into a bunker for her, Guv. Oh, I know, she’d have used the telephone, but he’d have known her voice, wouldn’t he? It’s sort of squeaky, as I recall. And besides — an Italian with a name like Monty Lord?”
“Many people in show business change their names,” Moretti reminded her. “We don’t know if it’s his real name. I know who might know: Sydney Tremaine.” He leaned across the desk and picked up the phone. “What’s your number, Falla?”
He waited as the answering machine picked up and started to speak.
“Sydney? It’s Ed Moretti.”
Across the desk Liz Falla was giving him one of her looks.
“Ed!” He had forgotten how pretty her voice was. “Where are you?”
“At police headquarters.”
“You heard what happened?”
“Yes. I have something to ask you about Monty Lord. Did you and your husband spend any time with him when you were discussing Rastrellamento?”
“We did. Many drunken luncheons and dinners. Why?”
“Did he tell you much about himself?”
“Quite a bit — in vino veritas, honey. What did you want to know?”
“Did he ever tell you whether he had changed his name?”
“Never mentioned it. As far as I know, that’s his real name.”
“I see.” Moretti felt disappointment tamping down the euphoria of hearing her voice.
“But it’s an amazing success story. He was a stuntman, you know.”
The rush of excitement Moretti was now feeling had nothing to do with Sydney Tremaine’s sweet tones.
“No, I didn’t. A stuntman?”
“Few people know. Many actors move into producing and directing, but Monty came up the hard way. He said stuntmen get little respect, so he doesn’t mention the past too much. He was pretty drunk when he told us about his time in Italy before he started producing spaghetti westerns. Some of the tricks he performed would make your blood curdle!”
“Such as?”
“Oh, you know, jumping off tall buildings and through fire, that kind of thing. But he had two specialities. One was bike-riding. Like Evel Knievel — if you wanted anything extraordinary done that involved a motorbike he was your man.”
“And the other specialty?”
“Climbing. He had absolutely no fear of heights, and he could climb up a skyscraper or the side of a mountain. They used to call him Il Ragno — the Spider.”
“And his assistant, Bella Alfieri — what about her? Was she around in those days?”
“Yes. Bella was in show business and she had a specialty of her own. She did the voices for many of the characters in Italian cartoons. They met in Rome, I believe. Monty always says he doesn’t know where he’d be without Bella, and she’s devoted to him.”
“I’m sure that’s true. One more question: did your husband carry a phone?”
“Why yes, he did — odd for a guy who was a technodinosaur. He got over that where the cellphone was concerned, because it meant he could bug Mario and Monty. It drove them nuts.”
“I can imagine.”
Moretti said goodbye and put down the phone. His head was spinning from lack of sleep and the elation of having the last pieces of the puzzle put in place by the woman who, only a short time before, he thought might be a piece of the puzzle herself.
September 22nd
The wind was gathering strength by the time Moretti and Liz Falla got out to the Manoir Ste. Madeleine, and Moretti was grateful for the showers and chill that lifted the drowsiness assailing him after he and Liz Falla snatched something to eat. It had already been a very long day.
Liz Falla pulled in alongside a battered-looking 1940s staff car with bullet holes in the doors, and attracted the attention of a security guard who was chatting with one of the extras, disconcertingly dressed in blood-drenched overalls.
“We need to get in the back entrance,” said Moretti, showing his identification.
“The front is open. They are shooting in the main salon today. I am instructed to —”
“And I am now instructing you to let us in the back,” said Moretti. The security guard shrugged his shoulders, went over to the back entrance they had used before, and let them in.
“What’s the plan, Guv, if we see Mr. Lord first?” Liz Falla sounded nervous.
“Tell him we’ve come to see Mr. Bianchi — which we have — but we make it appear we are taking him in again for questioning. Hopefully Monty Lord is in his office, and hopefully we can pull Bianchi off the set before his producer knows it.”
All was silent backstage at the manor, apart from the drone of a vacuum cleaner somewhere. So connected was the manor now in Moretti’s mind with the unreal world of Rastrellamento, that it was the reminder of day-to-day living that seemed unreal.
Rastrellamento: the examination of the past for ancient evils. That was how he had once explained the significance of the title to Liz Falla. How perfectly apt the novel must have seemed to Monty Lord when he read it, the ideal medium for his message. Perhaps he had originally intended to leave the plot as it was, but had been unable to resist the temptation to link it more closely to the past. After all, he had discovered, or known, that his director was an easy target for blackmail. If luck was on their side they would be able to break Mario Bianchi’s silence before Monty Lord was aware they were on the premises.
The passage
they were in came to an abrupt end at a pair of doors that seemed to have some sort of hectic activity going on beyond them. From the sound of the voices, speaking in both Italian and English, there were a number of people involved. Liz Falla tried the doors, but they were locked. She knocked vigorously, in an effort to be heard above the noise. Finally, someone responded, calling through the door.
“Who is it? You know you’re not supposed to come this way!”
It was the voice of Betty Chesler.
“It’s the police. Can you let us through?”
The door was opened by a frazzled Betty Chesler. “Well,” she said on seeing them, “at least it isn’t some of those extras playing the fool again. Did security send you the wrong way? Can I help you?”
The room was clearly an ante room to the main salon, and it was full of actors dressed as contadini. For a moment, time was suspended, and Moretti saw the villagers of San Jacopo as they must have looked before a tragedy beyond their control or comprehension changed their lives forever.
“Sorry to interrupt. We’re on our way through to see Mr. Bianchi, Ms. Chesler. He’s on the set in the drawing-room?”
“That’s right. He’ll be all of a tizzy today, I warn you. This is a very upsetting scene, and Mario always tends to identify with the actors — and besides, there have been some late changes again.”
“This is an upsetting scene, you say.”
“Yes. Maddalena — that’s the daughter in the film — kills herself. Vittoria’s doing a lovely job, I must say, and as for Adriana, she’s fabulous, as you’d expect. I just saw the rehearsal and when she stands there, looking at her dead daughter, you can see it all!” Betty Chesler clasped her hands in front of her in her now-familiar, overcome-with-emotion gesture.
“And what can you see? What does the director want her to convey?”
“Love and hate,” said Betty Chesler, simply. “Both love and hate. That’s what I saw when I watched Adriana’s face, Inspector.” She pointed to a door to one side of the room. “That will take you out into the area behind the set and the lights. You can wait for Mario there.”
