by Jill Downie
On the other side of the door, Moretti and Liz Falla found themselves suddenly in darkness. Ahead of them bathed in brilliant light, were Adriana Ferrini and Vittoria Salviati. The young actress was lying on a couch, as if asleep, with Adriana Ferrini standing over her. Just in front of them, silhouetted against the light, Moretti could see the head of Mario Bianchi with its distinctive ponytail. There was complete silence in the room, and the cameras were moving around the two women. There was no sign of Monty Lord.
“Aaaah — !”
The silence was broken by Adriana Ferrini’s savage cry of grief, the sound thundering from her with an operatic resonance.
“No man is worth it, Maddalena — don’t you understand? No man!” The actress crossed the set, the cameras tracking after her. “Die for your country’s honour, die for your family honour — but oh, my daughter — never, cara figlia, die for love.”
“Cut! Print!”
The applause was more than the usual pro forma smatter of sound heard around the set of Rastrellamento. There were whoops and shouts of “brava!” and some members of the crew were hugging each other.
“Well, it’s a wrap, certainly for the interior scenes.”
It was Eddie Christie who spoke, standing next to them in the darkness.
“A wrap?” Moretti asked. “You mean the film is virtually finished? I thought a new character was added.”
“Apparently Mario is rethinking the schoolteacher,” Eddie Christie replied. “We’ve been told to put any costume plans on hold.”
Liz Falla was almost left behind by Moretti’s abrupt departure, and hastened after him as he pushed his way through the laughing, chattering throng toward Mario Bianchi. Unseen and unnoticed by either of them, Bella Alfieri moved from the shadows and slipped out the door through which they had come.
* * *
“Signor Bianchi, is there somewhere we can talk?”
Far from being in a tizzy, Mario Bianchi was looking as calm and collected as Moretti had ever seen him. Almost serene, he thought to himself. Let’s hope it’s artistic satisfaction at the successful conclusion of the scene and not the effect of some mood-enhancing substance or other.
“Of course. We’ll go to my rooms.”
It was said acquiescently, almost as if Bianchi had been expecting them. There was no mention of either lawyers or psychiatrists. Liz Falla shot a surprised look at her partner as they followed the director through the crowd to the main door to the salon — the door through which Moretti and Liz Falla had come on their first meeting with the Vannoni family and Monty Lord.
Mario Bianchi had a bedroom and small sitting room on the second floor overlooking part of the terrace.
“I thought you would want to see me.” The director’s smile was that of a man at peace with himself. “You have heard about the removal of the schoolteacher from the script.”
“Not until we arrived today.” Moretti went straight to the point. “I think it was Monty Lord who forced your hand over the changes that so infuriated Gilbert Ensor.”
“Correct.” Mario Bianchi flung himself down on one of the brocaded sofas that proliferated throughout the manor and pulled out a packet of Gauloises. As he lit up, he continued talking.
“This morning I did something I should have done long ago. I told Monty to take his schoolteacher and shove him up his ass.” He smiled beatifically at the two policemen. “I feel like a new man.”
“What brought this about? Surely whatever hold he had over you did not disappear? I presume he was blackmailing you in some way?” Moretti asked.
“Yes. Just over two years ago I — well, I went back on drugs and I was caught. At the time my wife was out of the country in Switzerland, about to give birth to our son in a clinic there — she was having a difficult pregnancy — and I managed to keep it from her. I spent only a short time in jail in return for naming my supplier, a major dealer whom the police had been after for a while. The few people who were in the know made it difficult for me to get a new project — my supplier was also their supplier, so not only did their source dry up, but they were scared shitless he would name names. He didn’t, served his sentence, and is now back in business again. Monty found out — he has all kinds of contacts in Italy — but he still came to me with Rastrellamento. At first it seemed like a gift, because there was no mention of changes. All that started once we were underway, and when I objected, he told me I was in no position to make trouble, unless I wanted my wife to find out.”
Mario Bianchi took a last drag on his cigarette and stubbed it out on a cut-glass ashtray the size of a dinner plate. “I don’t know if either of you are married, but I can’t imagine life without my wife and son. We broke up once, just after we met, because I was taking cocaine and she found out, and when she came back to me, she told me, no more chances. But during this last week, when Monty made this final addition, I knew I couldn’t go on. Rastrellamento is my chance to make it back to the top of the heap, and I just couldn’t go on compromising my artistic integrity. So I risked everything and phoned my wife.”
“How did she take it?” Liz Falla asked.
“Like an angel — an angry one, when she heard about Monty. So, with her blessing, I told him the schoolteacher was out. The strange thing was how calmly he took it.”
“When did this happen?” asked Moretti.
“Only yesterday. I told the crew and I told the marchesa.”
“Why the marchesa?”
“Because she had come to me the day before in distress, asking me why I was making the script changes, and I told her it was Monty. She said he was playing games with her — cruel games, and that Rastrellamento was being used to get at her family. For the life of me I couldn’t understand how the storyline of the film could affect Donatella, but I let her know as soon as I made my decision about the schoolteacher.”
“Signor Bianchi,” said Moretti, “we believe Monty Lord is responsible for the deaths of Mr. Albarosa and Mr. Ensor. You may be in some danger yourself.”
Mario Bianchi looked dismayed. “Are you sure?” He got up and moved to the window. Around the corner of the building, Moretti could just see part of one of the Skycranes. “Monty was quite zen about the whole thing yesterday, and I cannot see any reason for him to kill anyone, let alone me.”
“There is a reason, believe me,” Moretti assured him. “Is Mr. Lord on the premises at the moment?”
“As far as I know, he’s in his trailer — at least, that’s where he said he would be. Are you going to arrest him?” Mario Bianchi was now looking his former worried self again, his fingers pulling nervously at his collar. “We need him, and we need Epicure Films Italia. Without him the money dries up, and we’re not finished shooting yet.”
“I don’t think you need worry about the money, Mr. Bianchi,” said Moretti, as he crossed to the door. “Your chance for a return to the top is quite safe, of that I’m certain. Much of his original plan has gone wrong, so there is nothing Monty Lord wants more at this moment in his life than the completion and the success of Rastrellamento.”
Sydney Tremaine put down the phone and stared into space. “You bastard, you manipulated us, didn’t you?” she said out loud. Jesus, how could she have forgotten? That was the trouble with booze — there was not only truth in it, but oblivion. How Gil would have hated knowing that his precious Rastrellamento had only been a vessel, a vehicle for another man’s hatred!
She picked up the phone, dialed. She had no specific plan in mind, but she knew she couldn’t go on sitting in Liz Falla’s flat, charming as it was, waiting for something to happen. It had felt so good when she walked out on to the terrace and challenged the killer, taking the initiative for the first time in God knew how long. Why she didn’t know, but she wanted to avenge the death of a husband she wasn’t sure she had ever loved. With Gil her life had been sometimes wonderful, but more often godawful, fights and fur flying followed by expensive peace offerings, all of it fuelled by too much whisky, or wine, or c
hampagne. Or all three. She wasn’t even sure it was Monty Lord they were after, but she was damned if she was going to let him get away with it.
The line was ringing.
“Monty Lord.” There was a new sound in the producer’s voice, but she was not sure what it signified.
“Monty?” she said, controlling the tremor in her own voice. “You killed Gil, and I am going to make sure that Rastrellamento never gets made, never gets distribution. I can do that, and you know I can. And don’t think you can get at me to stop me, just like you stopped Gil. You’ve already tried, I know. But this time I am going to be where no one can get at me, and I am going to wait there until the police have taken you in and charged you. They’re on their way, Monty, right now.”
“I know,” said the calm, detached voice at the other end. “Bella just told me.” There was a click as the line went dead. She may not have been sure a minute earlier, but now she had her answer. Hands trembling, Sydney made another call, this time to Giulia’s castello, leaving a message on the answer-phone.
“Giulia, it’s Sydney. I’m on my way to your place. Ed Moretti just phoned and asked questions about Monty Lord. It’s Monty, Giulia — Monty killed Gil and Toni. I just phoned him, told him what I knew, and that I would stop him. But I’ll be safe at your place. Be careful, Giulia. Be careful.”
Sydney hung up and made one more call.
“Taxi — yes, right away. To the tower on Icart point.” She told the driver where she was, and went to wait by the door.
Monty Lord looked at the body of Bella Alfieri, lying on the floor of the trailer. So much for complete devotion, he mused. Without him, her life would have been nothing, and yet she came bursting in the door, pleading with him to give himself up! “They are talking to Mario now. It’s gone too far, Monty — I’m scared.” The sight of her crying disgusted him, but he wouldn’t have touched her if she hadn’t turned back to the door and said, “I’m going to them, Monty, telling them how I helped you. I’m doing it for your sake, just like I helped you, for your sake.”
It gave him no choice but to stop her. He got up and went around his desk, smiling, his arms extended, and she walked right into them. Holding her close — she was so tiny against him — he removed the knife from his pocket and she never felt a thing, of that he was sure. Not like Ensor — who would have thought that bloated lecher would have so much fight in him!
Pity about Toni, because anyone who made the Vannonis suffer was a prince in his books. But Donatella was being difficult: first of all, he had no desire to sleep with her, and second of all, she was asking questions. It was time to deal with her because she was beginning to make noises about the script changes, and who should he bump into on the terrace but Toni, the tomcat. He’d pulled his knife, and Toni had taken fright and switched on one of the film lights. “What the hell are you doing, Monty?” he asked, relieved, all sunshine and smiles, and then he’d seen the knife, and that was it. Too much of a risk. Couldn’t have him saying over rolls and coffee the next morning, “Guess who I bumped into on the terrace last night carrying a knife?”
Monty Lord checked out of the window of the trailer, stepped outside and locked the door behind him. This was the tricky part, crossing the open space between the trailer and the motorbike he kept among all the other motorbikes and bicycles in the courtyard behind the manor. He’d dealt with the problem of security guards in the area by making a quick call, telling the head of security to move all his men to the front of the manor.
Walking unhurriedly, as though he hadn’t a care in the world, Monty Lord made his way through the bikes to his Moto Guzzi. There was no sign of any security guards, and fortunately, no sign of actors or crew. No one was standing around in the drizzle for a chat or a smoke.
Not that it mattered now. Almost over, Stefano, almost over, he told himself. Just stop this crazy red-headed babe from derailing Rastrellamento, and then off to the airport, and on to Florence. He’d have to settle for one Vannoni, instead of two.
Rastrellamento was his masterpiece, not Ensor’s, his show and tell. What did Ensor’s wife care about that abusive son of a bitch of a husband, anyway? This was probably more about money than anything else, but he couldn’t risk it. It wasn’t about love — not that he’d ever felt love himself. But then, he’d never looked for it, not after learning the truth. Not after learning the price paid by Sylvia and Stefan.
Monty Lord opened the throttle on his Moto Guzzi and let it rip, almost immediately cutting it back again. No need to rush — it wasn’t far. Nothing was far on this island. He knew where she’d be holed up — hell, it was so obvious she might as well have told him. The cop had no idea where he was headed, so it was unlikely there’d be a reception committee waiting for him. Ideally, the marchese should have been his first target, anyway, and it now looked as if he was going to have his wish.
His physical skills had been useful when setting up his alibi for what was intended to be his first strike, Donatella’s death. He could move through dense traffic like a shark cutting a shoal in heavy seas, travelling at speeds no car could maintain in similar circumstances. That was how he’d moved between Rome and Florence, using the skill and nerve required in his career as a stuntman. Yet many of the stunts he used to perform required limited skills, relying more on nerves of ice and what the Latins called cojones. He had both, and they had come in very useful, even when he transferred to a more respectable area of the profession. Anyone involved with the financing of movies was well advised to have both guts and balls.
Guts and balls: he’d done some stunt flying in his early days, and landing on the darkened runway was not as difficult as he’d feared. Besides, there were always some lights still on, and he’d made careful note of their position on previous trips. With the airport closed there was no danger of collision with other planes, and he had the place to himself. You needed cojones, but you also needed luck, and whoever left the keys in the door of the storage room for the safety jackets added that ingredient to his undertaking. On an earlier visit he was waiting for the arrival of the new actor taking the role of the priest, went to the toilets, and there they were. He was in and out before you could say vendetta, the jacket’s fluorescent lime green concealed under his own jacket.
And he had needed it. The only hairy moment had been when he saw someone — presumably airport security — in the doorway of the building closest to where the small private planes were parked. With a confidence born of the years following his quest for the truth, he waved and sauntered on toward the club building, round the corner, and out of sight. Then he ran across the field beyond the airport property, cutting across through a garage and into the car park of the Happy Landings Hotel, where he had left his Moto Guzzi. The manor was only about five minutes away, and the roads were deserted at that hour.
A fine plan it had been, using legitimate business as cover, only to be thwarted by Toni Albarosa’s latest amatory exploit. He had returned to the airport, which was part of his original plan, left his bike again at the hotel, cut across to where he had left his plane, dumped the jacket, re-entered, and checked in through customs as soon as the airport opened. Only the flight tower would know he had not landed when he said, and here again he had been lucky. At nine o’clock the air was full of Trislanders and Britton-Normans and sexy little private jets jostling for a landing slot.
So she was going to be where she was safe, was she. Silly bitch. The world was going to see Rastrellamento, and nothing was going to stop Il Ragno now.
The rain was coming down steadily by the time Sydney arrived at Icart Point. She paid the cab driver, pulled the hood of her anorak over her head, and jumped the gate. Running across the rough open field, heart pounding, she reached the door, unlocked it without difficulty, and locked it behind her.
Safe as houses. Safe as you could possibly be in this fortress. She awoke the vibrant colours of Giulia’s castello with a flick of the switch by the door, and pulled off her wet jacket. Across the room the
answer-phone’s light was flashing. She picked it up and heard her own voice, telling Giulia to be careful.
“What now?” she asked out loud.
“A good question. Want the answer?”
Sydney thought her already-shaky legs would give way beneath her. The breath left her body as though she had been punched.
Monty Lord was standing on the iron staircase. When she made a move toward the door he was on her in a flash, his hand like a vice on her arm.
“Oh my God. How did you get in?” she found the breath to stammer out.
“I climbed the wall, Rapunzel. Not up your pretty hair, but you’d be surprised how many footholds you can find on even a Martello tower, if you’re good at that kind of thing. And I am. And then in the window I came, ready to greet you.”
Sydney looked at Monty Lord in horror. She had forgotten the width of the windows on the upper floor, never imagined for a moment that this man could even scale the sides of a Martello tower. With his customary black he was wearing a watch cap over his shaved head that altered his appearance entirely, making his eyes seem paler and more intense than usual. The eyes of a madman was the chilling thought that crossed Sydney’s mind.
“You killed Gil.”
“Yes. With a different knife, because he wasn’t family.”
“Why throw a dagger on to the patio?”
“Waste of one of my special daggers, I know, but I was hoping it would shut him up, even persuade him to leave the island. It didn’t.”
Sydney moved slightly and his grip tightened on her arm.
“Don’t try anything, Sydney. I have one dagger left, and I can have it out and into your beautiful bod before you know what’s hit you.”
“Try what?” Anger was giving her courage. “I don’t have a concealed weapon.”
“Don’t you want to know what this is all about?”
