Читать книгу Daggers and Men's Smiles - Jill Downie - Страница 10

September 16th

The limousine wound its way through the quiet early morning lanes southwest of the capital, St. Peter Port, making its way to the parish of St. Andrew’s. Even before Guernsey was divided into parishes, the island was separated into fiefs, holdovers from the ancient feudal system, in which tenants owed allegiance to the local seigneur. Many of the old customs were long gone, as were the ancient fiefdoms, of which the Manoir Ste. Madeleine had been one.

On an island the size of Guernsey the past and present were often juxtaposed with almost jolting speed. The driver made his way past one of the smaller former fiefdoms, the Manor of Ste. Hélène, now in private hands like the Manoir Ste. Madeleine, and on past St. Andrew’s Church, carefully restored to its twelfth-century self. Hardly past the squat spire and castellations of the old church, then they were crossing the Candie Road, close to the site of the vast German underground hospital.

“The underground hospital’s over in that direction,” said the driver, Tom Dorey, a local assigned to transport the Ensors. Before Sydney could make any response, Gilbert surfaced from a fitful doze for his usual grumble.

“Getting up at this hour is insanity. If they weren’t paying me big bucks I wouldn’t be doing this, and the way I feel I will never repeat the experience.”

“The way you feel now has nothing to do with the hour. It’s the booze, honey.”

“Bullshit. My body and my inspiration purr along beatifically when they’re well-oiled with Guinness and Glenfiddich. They grind to a sickening halt when confronted with the fucking light of dawn.”

Impassively, Tom Dorey negotiated the sharp bend that preceded the gates of the manor. He had by now got used to his passenger’s tongue, and could restrain the audible intake of breath that had been his original reaction.

“You don’t have to do this too often, do you?” observed Sydney. “You only have to be in early today because Monty Lord asked for a script meeting.”

“Jesus wept — or he would have done if he was the writer on this movie. It’s not as if I were responsible for most of the script — Monty put his Hollywood hotshots onto that — but now he’s farting about with the bloody plot line.”

“Well, they do that, movie people, don’t they? What is he changing?”

“Don’t know the details yet, but it seems he wants to add another strand to the story, which’ll completely alter the balance of the plot — and Bianchi’s going along with it. He’s building up one of the minor characters — the countess.”

“Is the actress who’s playing the countess his mistress?”

“Now that I could understand. But no. Word is he’s got the hots for the Marchesa Vannoni herself. Shoots high, our Monty.”

“My, my,” marvelled Sydney. “She must be all of — what, fifty, fifty-five?”

“She’s in good nick — built like a brick olive press. Still, she’s not your typical Hollywood producer bait, I grant you. Ah, at bloody last.”

They had arrived at the main entrance to the manor, which stood open. On each of the lofty stone pillars that supported the gate stood the heraldic beast that had once been part of the crest of the old island family who had lived in the house — a greyhound-like creature with impossibly long legs. To the right, a short distance away from the gate, was what looked like the gatekeeper’s lodge — a two-storey building of unusual construction, with a pointed roof and an upper storey jutting out over the lower. The car continued up the drive toward the manor, which hove into view, giving the first-time visitor a shock — of pleasure, amusement, or aesthetic anguish, depending on the arrival’s sensibilities.

The original structure of the Manoir Ste. Madeleine dated from the seventeenth century, to which had been added an elegant Georgian extension. The crowning eccentricity was the new entrance hall, built around the middle of the eighteenth century by a seigneur who had obviously paid a visit to the châteaux of the Loire valley and come back enamoured of towers and turrets. On each side of the central doorway the turrets hung out over the main walls like stone torpedoes, with a slender tower just visible behind the pointed roof. It was surrounded by well-maintained parkland, presently covered with the trailers of the film people, with a coach house close to the main building.

“Thank God we’re here. I’ve got to take a leak.”

They had come to a halt in the courtyard behind the manor alongside a vintage Mercedes, a Bugatti, and a handful of army vehicles of various kinds dating from the 1940s.

“Where is everyone?” wondered Sydney, as she got out of the car. “It’s like the Marie Celeste.”

The usually busy courtyard was deserted. There was a complete absence of drivers, film people of every stripe, even the security guards who generally milled and shouted around the area, which was not being used for the film.

“Shut up, woman,” enjoined her superstitious husband, hustling for one of the portable toilets set up in a discreet corner of the yard. “They’re probably all on the other side of the building. You go on — I’m making a pit stop.”

Sydney made her way around the side of the manor house. To one side of her she could just see the grass-covered hump near the ornamental lake that concealed the entrance to the command bunker. One of the senior German officers had lived in the manor during the occupation, and it was on his orders that work had started on what was intended to be an elaborate complex of underground rooms and tunnels. The only sound was the squawking of the ducks that lived on the lake and the crowing of a rooster somewhere. There was still no sign of life, and the sensation of separation from reality she had experienced since their arrival hit her so powerfully that she felt vertiginous.

Gil had roared with laughter when he first saw the Manoir Ste. Madeleine.

“Dear God, it’s pure kitsch — if kitsch can be pure. Any moment now and Sneezy, Grumpy, and Doc will come waddling round that corner, singing their corny little hearts out.”

It was not how she saw it. Pure Castle of Otranto more like. More Transylvania than Ruritania. Any moment now and Nosferatu might come, swooping round the corner.

Perhaps it was the subject matter of Gil’s novel that made Sydney so aware of the island’s traumatic past — the bunker looming in the midst of the manor’s verdant parkland and, scattered throughout the island, the remaining traces of anti-tank walls, gun emplacements, artillery direction-finding towers, restored for the amusement and amazement of tourists.

And perhaps it was even earlier presences. For Sydney, the island was indeed full of strange noises: the ancient witches’ colony at L’Erée, the fairies emerging from caverns like Creux ès Faies to dance at Le Mont Saint or le Catioroc on the western coastline. At first she had been intrigued by the stories told by the tour guide who had taken members of the film company round the island, but all they did after a few days was feed her depression — which, she knew, had nothing to do with Guernsey, past or present. She felt a shiver of apprehension.

“I shall turn around this corner,” she thought, “and everything will change. The world I knew will be gone forever.”

She came around the corner into a blaze of light, so strong after the half-light of dawn that she was dazzled for a moment. As her vision cleared, she saw that the broad terrace that ran the length of the manor was floodlit by one of the arc lamps used on the movie, perched high on one of the huge Sky King cranes brought in from Rome. In the half-shadows around the periphery were gathered all the people she had expected to see in the courtyard: electricians, extras, grips. But there was hardly a sound.

“They must be shooting,” she thought.

Sydney looked around for the director, Mario Bianchi, and caught a glimpse of his dark ponytail and tall, slender figure under the lights, huddled with another tall man she didn’t immediately recognize. The man turned, and she saw it was the detective inspector with the interesting face who had come to the hotel the night before.

Of course, the business with the costumes. Betty Chesler, the costume designer, must have insisted. As Sydney approached the outskirts of the crowd, one of the men turned and saw her.

“Sydney! Where’s Gil?”

It was Betty’s assistant, Eddie Christy, minus his usual cheeky chappy expression. He looked haggard and nervous.

“Using the facilities. What scene are they shooting?”

“Oh my God, love — you don’t know?”

“Know what? Gil’s here for the meeting about the rewrite, if that’s what you mean.”

“Some rewrite, darling.”

Over his shoulder, Sydney caught sight of a figure on the ground, slumped in an unnatural position against the parapet of the terrace. A man wearing what looked like a white lab coat was taking photographs of him — stills presumably, for he certainly wasn’t carrying a movie camera.

“Who —?”

As she started her question, the crowd suddenly parted, and Sydney saw the impressive figure of the Marchesa Donatella Vannoni, clutching the arm of Monty Lord’s assistant producer, Piero Bonini. As she came closer, Sydney saw that the figure on the ground had the dark, curly hair and smooth bronze skin of the marchesa’s son-in-law, the location manager, Toni Albarosa. She also saw the handle of the dagger through his chest glistening under the arc light.

Vertigo hit her. She swayed, and Eddie Christy grabbed her and called out, “Someone, anyone, get a chair!”

A chair was provided and the crowd parted again.

“Ms. Tremaine — where’s your husband? Is he with you?”

Above her she saw the detective inspector’s face, his grey eyes urgent.

“He should be — oh God, you don’t think —?”

Was the policeman suggesting whoever this maniac was might still be around, and that Gil might be in danger? As Sydney turned around in her chair to see Piero Bonini and the marchesa walking toward the manor together, from the darkness beyond the floodlit terrace came the unmistakable roar of her husband throwing a tantrum.

Anxiety changed to relief. Gil had come around the corner and seen Monty Lord.

“That’s him,” she said. “Don’t worry — that’s not fear or pain. That’s the cry of the wounded artist, Detective Inspector. Hell hath no fury like a writer scorned.”

Sydney could hear what he was screaming at the producer, who stopped, staggering momentarily under the weight of his noble burden.

“You turd! Couldn’t you wait until I got here to make changes? Or is this your idea of a joke, scaring the fucking daylights out of me with fucking daggers — get Toni off the set and send that rubber fake back to props before I — I —”

Gilbert Ensor was halted in mid-sentence by the sudden arrival of the distraught marchesa against his ample belly, temporarily winding him. She was screaming in Italian, so he had no idea what he had said or done to upset her. Her long red nails scored his face before Piero Bonini managed to restrain her. Through the searing pain he grasped one word, said over and over again.

“Morto — morto — morto!”

Dead?

Ahead of him he saw his wife in a chair, the detective inspector alongside her. Beyond them, two ambulance attendants were covering Toni Albarosa’s body. His jaw dropped. Violent death had rendered Gilbert Ensor speechless.

There followed one of those uncanny moments of silence that sometimes comes on the heels of uproar. Then into the silence came the rumble of a powerful engine. From the half-light around the villa thundered a gleaming Ducati motorcycle, its streamlined scarlet and black body brilliant in the arc light. Sydney Tremaine saw long blond hair flying beneath a winged helmet, powerful leather-clad legs stretched against the sides of the monster as, with a dramatic flick of the wrists, the rider brought her mount to a shrieking halt and pulled off her helmet.

Ed Moretti, looking down at the face of Sydney Tremaine, was intrigued by what he saw.

“You know her?”

“No.”

Sydney got up from the chair and went toward her shell-shocked husband. The Valkyrie ran over to the marchesa, putting her arms around her. Together, they went into the manor, with Piero Bonini behind them.

Other members of the island police force had arrived to help with the dozens of statements that would have to be taken from everybody in the cast and crew. The Ensors and the Vannoni family were waiting in the manor to be interviewed by Moretti and Liz Falla. Finally, some semblance of order had been restored.

Moretti waited until the body was loaded into an ambulance and then turned to the Vannonis’ doctor, a local St. Andrew’s man called Le Pelley.

“So — what can you tell me?”

“Only what I told you before.” Le Pelley, clearly somewhat shaken himself, removed his glasses and put them in his coat pocket. “He was killed, almost instantly. Whether by luck or good management, the point of the blade got him right through the heart.”

“Time of death?”

“We’ll know more after the autopsy — but, what time is it now? Nine-thirty? I’d say about five hours ago.”

“Five hours!” Moretti was taken by surprise. “I thought you’d say midnight — something like that.”

“Definitely not midnight — he’d not been dead long when he was found around five o’clock.”

“Who found him?”

“One of the security guards, apparently. A couple stay around all night to keep an eye on the equipment.”

“Then he probably only just missed being another murder victim.”

Moretti said goodbye to Le Pelley and joined Liz Falla, who was waiting for him with a very worried-looking director, Mario Bianchi, and the reason for his expression soon became clear.

“I’ve already lost about two hours shooting time today, and the Constable tells me I can’t touch what has now become the crime scene for at least another hour. If then.”

Mario Bianchi was almost cadaverously thin. Heavy lines ran down each side of his mouth, which was largely concealed by an unfashionably heavy moustache, and Moretti wondered whether the ponytail and the facial hair were to compensate for the receding hairline above deep-set, anxious eyes. His nails were bitten to the quick, and his hands fiddled constantly with the collar of his open-necked shirt, or stroked his forehead. His command of English seemed good, and Moretti decided not to switch into Italian, if possible. Otherwise, he would have to translate for his partner, which would slow things down considerably, or exclude her completely from the interrogation.

“We’ll do what we can, Mr. Bianchi. Certainly we’re grateful for the light we were able to use. Could you not work on something else while we’re out here?”

“Work on something else,” Bianchi repeated. “You don’t understand, Inspector. We set up the day’s work in advance — the actors and technicians are called for certain times, and the lighting levels have to be decided upon with the cinematographer and the cameramen, depending on the needs of the scene and the weather conditions, and so on. These lights and cranes were in place for the scene we planned to shoot first — and which required the early light of day. That’s gone now. We’ve lost it.”

“What scene were you going to shoot out here?”

“Well, that’s the strange thing — as I was just telling the officer. It involved the violent death of a man suspected of betraying one of the principal characters in the film. And the murder weapon is a knife. It gives me the — creeps, you call it? Poor Toni!”

“Tell me something about Toni Albarosa — he was the marchesa’s son-in-law, I gather.”

“Yes, married to the eldest daughter, Anna. They live in Italy, not here. It isn’t the first marriage between Albarosas and Vannonis — at one point, the family coat of arms was actually combined, so he told me. He was a very nice lad — very hard-working.”

“Experienced? As a location manager, I mean.”

“No, but he had what we needed, Inspector — contacts. Not all of the movie is being shot here, on your island, and Toni could open doors for me. He was the first member of the family I met, when he was on holiday in Venice, and it was he who suggested his mother-in-law’s property on Guernsey, when he heard the theme of Rastrellamento. He was a charming man — I’m sure you’re going to ask me if I can think of anyone who might want to do this, and I can’t. He didn’t have an enemy in the world.”

“Then he was indeed a rare human being, sir. Few of us can say that.”

“True. But compared with other members of his family —”

Mario Bianchi broke off in mid-sentence, one hand pulling frenetically at his ponytail.

“So there were difficulties with some of the Albarosa and Vannoni clan?”

Bianchi laughed in what he clearly hoped was a light-hearted manner. “Families, Inspector, families! Nothing in particular, but you’ll see what I mean when you interview them.”

”Which I should go and do now. Thank you, Signor Bianchi. We’ll try to get out of your way as quickly as possible. Oh —” Mario Bianchi had started to walk away toward his waiting crew, when Moretti called him back, “— the woman who arrived on the Ducati. Is that Anna, his wife?”

Bianchi turned. He was laughing again, but this time he seemed genuinely amused. “No, Inspector. That was Giulia Vannoni, the marchesa’s niece. She just arrived, and is visiting the marchesa at the moment. Wife —” The director pointed to the Ducati, which still stood on the terrace, gleaming in the light. Painted on one flank was a pink lily, its petals tipped with gold.

“I’m sorry — I don’t —”

“That, Inspector, is the symbol of gay and lesbian Florence. That’s what that is.”

Moretti and Liz Falla watched the departing figure of Mario Bianchi.

“Before we go in to talk to them, DC Falla, is there anything you can tell me about the Vannonis?”

“Of course, you weren’t on the island when they arrived, were you, Guv? Well, not much, except they don’t mix — except with the high and mighty. A bloke I used to go out with says they’ve got a little message up on the front door that reads, ‘Only personal friends of the marchesa may use this door. All other visitors must go to the back entrance.’”

DC Falla’s love life was proving quite useful.

“Charming.”

In spite of being a small island — or perhaps because of it — there were some clear-cut divisions in Guernsey society. There were the hundreds of families who had lived on the island since the beginning of its recorded history and beyond, with the old island names — Bisson, Falla, Gallienne, Roussel, Le Poidevin, and many more. There were the great families — Brock, De Saumarez, Carey — the island aristocracy, some of whom had fallen on hard times, like their British counterparts. There was a transient population, who came from Europe to work in the hotels and restaurants, or to teach in one of the island schools — some of these came and went in a summer; some stayed for years. Then there were the wealthy escapees, who came to avoid the high taxes of the mainland, and who bought their way into the higher priced properties on the island — what were called “open market properties.”

Not that British escapees were any longer the dominant section of that community, since Prime Minister Tony Blair had altered the tax base in Britain. Now, the wealthy were more likely to be the managers and CEOs of the myriad banks and financial institutions that operated on the island. Many lived in the comparatively new development around Fort George; some purchased Guernsey’s equivalent of a stately home — the Manoir Ste. Madeleine, for instance. All around the island, the old farmhouses and cottages were being tastefully renovated, painted in pastel shades of dove grey, apricot, ivory, and restored to greater than former glory.

But Moretti had rarely heard of such overt class distinction.

“So, let’s beard the lioness in her den and start off with the family. Then we’ll talk to Monty Lord and the Ensors again. Insiders and outsiders — only, which is which? Somewhere between the two groups we’ll start to get some sense of this.” Moretti recalled the expression on Sydney Tremaine’s face.

“Mrs. Ensor seemed startled by Giulia Vannoni’s appearance.”

“So was I, Guv. It was quite an entrance. Those bikes cost a fortune, don’t they? Mrs. Ensor’s unlikely to be a — well, one of them —”

“— a lesbian,” supplied Moretti. Interesting that Liz Falla had problems with saying the word, but it could be she was concerned about his own delicate feelings.

“Right. Is she? Mind you, that creep she’s married to could put any woman off men, in my opinion.”

“Quite,” said Moretti, his thoughts elsewhere.

What point was the murderer making by using daggers? What was he — or she — saying? Was this all about love? It was much more likely to be about hate.

But nobody hated Toni Albarosa apparently. Still, it was amazing how often that was said about murder victims. In the Manoir Ste. Madeleine they might take the first steps toward the truth.

“Oh, by the way, Guv — I spoke to Giorgio Benedetti last night. He says if there’s anything he can do —”

“Thank you, DC Falla.”

DC Falla gave him a look he was beginning to recognize now, but for the life of him he couldn’t make out what it signified. His mother would have called it “an old-fashioned look,” but that seemed particularly inappropriate for this young woman.

If the outside of the manor house was Walt Disney or Bram Stoker, depending on your aesthetic point of view, the inside was as close to Renaissance palazzo as the designer could get, given the architectural constraints. Moretti and his colleague walked under a succession of high, embossed ceilings, past long stretches of walls hung with what looked like family portraits, heraldic devices, the heads of animals slaughtered long ago and in other countries. Overflowing baskets and jugs of flowers filled the empty summer grates of stone fireplaces built into the thick walls.

“Impressive,” said Moretti, stopping briefly to admire a luscious still life of flowers and fruit. “I wonder how much of this was changed by the film company — or does it always look like a Medici palazzo?”

“All I know is that one of the staff who’s my father’s cousin said working here was like being in Tuscany, where she’d done a wine tour one year.”

Ahead of them now was the principal reception room. And in the centre of the stateroom, amid golden brocade-covered walls, were gathered the marchesa, the woman Mario Bianchi had identified as Giulia Vannoni, and another man whom Moretti didn’t recognize. He was young, in his early twenties, handsome, but with a softness in his features that suggested a character flaw rather than gentleness or any more positive quality. The incongruous presence of two movie cameras against the golden walls added to the impression that the group was waiting for someone to shout “action!”

The three sat side by side on a gilded sofa, unsmiling, staring unblinkingly at the two policeman. Giulia Vannoni stood by the fireplace, drinking from a bottle of mineral water. She had unzipped her tight-fitting red leather jacket, displaying a minute black lycra bandeau and a tanned length of torso. Her black leather pants looked as if they had been spray-painted onto her spectacular haunches. The quintessential mesomorph, thought Moretti. He introduced himself and DC Falla.

“I’m sorry we kept you waiting. If I could first make sure we have your names correctly. You are —?” Moretti directed his first question to the young man.

“Gianfranco Vannoni.” He spread his hands and gave a shrug. “I do not speak much English.”

“My son.” It was the marchesa who spoke. “He lives in Italy, looking after our business affairs. But for the moment he is helping Mario on Rastrellamento — as assistant director. I can speak or translate for him, if necessary.”

“No need, marchesa. I speak Italian, if necessary,” said Moretti. He watched with interest as three sets of eyebrows went up.

“Moretti — you are Italian?” asked Monty Lord.

“My father was.” Moretti went swiftly through the formalities and then said, “This is a trying time for you. I am very sorry about the tragic death of Mr. Albarosa.”

“Murder.” It was the marchesa who spoke. “Murder, Detective Inspector Moretti. A sick mind playing games, perhaps. But murder. My poor daughter has been informed. She is on her way here, to say goodbye to her dear husband, the father of her children.”

The Marchesa Donatella Vannoni was, in her own way, as impressive physically as her niece. Full-lipped and full-hipped, with a mane of dark hair streaked with grey, she was an Anna Magnani of a woman, with an aura of raw sensuality about her. But somehow she conveyed an air of austere grandeur, a cold remoteness, a structure built to keep people out. There was a marked divergence between her physical opulence and her conservative style of dressing: her lush curves were controlled beneath a dark grey carapace of a dress, and a bruisingly thick gold necklace lay over the generous shelf of her bosom like a chain-link barrier against infiltrators.

Yet, in a moment of uncontrollable anger, those long carmine nails had raked Gilbert Ensor’s face.

“Indeed. We will have to have written statements from everyone, but I’d like to ask you now where you all were around four o’clock this morning — and I realize that, for most of you, the answer will be, in bed. But I’d like to know who sleeps on the premises and who does not.”

“I, of course, sleep here.” It was the marchesa.

“Does your room face the terrace?”

“Yes. I imagine your next question will be, did I hear anything, or see anything. I did not. I sleep soundly and well.”

“Signor Vannoni?”

Gianfranco Vannoni replied in Italian. “I was here last night. Does that make me a suspect?” A man used to charming his way through life, thought Moretti. He cannot resist the dangerous question, asked with humour. A charming moue of the lips and a gentle twist of his hands, their tan setting off the gleaming gold bracelet he wore.

“It could,” said Moretti. “Tell me more.”

“I went to bed early — I had to be on set by eight o’clock, and we had a meeting at nine scheduled for myself, Mario, Monty, and Gilbert Ensor. Mario was expecting fireworks.”

“From —?”

At this moment a door on the far side of the room opened, and a middle-aged man wearing a black turtleneck sweater and black pants burst into the room. He rushed across to the marchesa, who stood up, fell into his arms, and started to cry.

“It’s okay, cara, I’m here, I’m here,” he said in Italian to her. They made a somewhat incongruous couple, because the marchesa was taller than her comforter and had to crouch to be consoled. He looked up and saw Moretti.

“Monty Lord,” he said. “Forgive me, but I just got back from Italy. I met Piero in the corridor, and he told me about Toni. This is terrible, terrible.” He sat down, taking the marchesa with him in his arms.

“You are the producer of Rastrellamento?” Moretti asked.

“That is correct.”

Monty Lord was a small man in his fifties, whose shaven head seemed almost too big for his body. The darkness of his clothing brought into prominence a pair of piercing pale eyes set in a tanned face, and Moretti felt as if it were himself and his sergeant who were under examination from the shrewd, searching look to which they were both subjected.

“Mr. Vannoni was just telling me that he, you, and Mario Bianchi had a meeting scheduled for nine o’clock.”

“Right. I was joining them as soon as I got in from the airport.”

“He was saying that you were expecting fireworks and I asked from whom?”

“Gilbert,” Monty Lord replied. “I gather from Piero you already had a preview.”

Before Moretti could respond, Monty Lord went on. “Time is money, Detective Inspector. And the marchesa has had a terrible shock. Can any of this wait?”

“The sooner we get some sort of picture of the victim from those who knew him best — and an idea of the whereabouts of everyone on the set, the sooner we can establish motive, opportunity — and the guilty party.”

“But surely,” said the marchesa, “this is just a random act by some madman? You know, of course, about what happened to the costumes.”

She was interrupted by her niece who turned away from the fireplace to face Ed Moretti and Liz Falla, giving them the benefit of an alluring smile from her beautiful, heavily lipsticked mouth. “— and the attack on Gilbert Ensor. And you didn’t ask me where I slept, Inspector. But it wasn’t here.”

The intervention of Giulia Vannoni seemed to anger Monty Lord. He turned his pale gaze in her direction and exclaimed, “Oh for Christ’s sake, if we all keep interrupting we’ll never get out of here.”

This room reeks of animosity and anxiety, Moretti thought. But I’m not sure who mistrusts whom — or do they all dislike each other? He saw a look of distaste on the face of Gianfranco Vannoni as the American put a hand on his mother’s arm. Her niece, on the other hand, looked mildly amused. “Detective Constable Falla will take statements from each of you, separately. Is there a room close by she can use?”

“She can use my study,” said the marchesa. She added, “The Ensors are in my private sitting room — you will, of course, be talking to them?”

“Of course,” said Moretti. “I expected to find them in here with you.”

Monty Lord snorted. “Donatella did not want to be in the same room as Mr. Ensor after the tasteless accusation he made out there. And the less I have to do with Gil the better — we have to meet from time to time, but I’m happier if I’m not breathing the same air as that literary lout.”

“Were your disagreements limited to the script, Mr. Lord?”

“We didn’t socialize, if that’s what you mean. Gilbert’s problem is that he thinks because he wrote a bestselling novel, and because we bought the movie rights, he can now tell us what to do. He can’t.”

“But as long as you didn’t have to breathe the same air as Mr. Ensor, you were prepared to let him live?”

“Christ, yes! I was in Rome until yesterday at Cinecittà — all kinds of people would be able to confirm that. And I flew back by private plane to be here for our meeting.”

“Thank you, sir. Just give DC Falla the details and any names.” Moretti turned his attention again to Gianfranco Vannoni, speaking to him as before in Italian.

“I understand, sir, that it was on your initiative that Epicure Films came to Guernsey.”

The marchesa’s son looked startled. “No. Not that I remember. Why?”

“I just wondered — why you were all here.”

“Detective Inspector,” it was Monty Lord who intervened, “perhaps I could fill you in?”

“Thank you, sir. If I could speak to you later today.” Moretti turned to his partner. “I’ll leave you to it.”

“Signor Moretti,” the marchesa stood up, “my Anna will arrive soon, and we would like to take Toni back home.”

“And home is —?”

“Fiesole — you know it?”

“It’s quite close to Florence, isn’t it?”

“Si.” The marchesa nodded, and reached out for Monty Lord’s hand.

“I regret, Marchesa, that I cannot at this stage give you any definite day or time when we would be able to release the body. There will, of course, have to be a post-mortem, which will be performed at Princess Elizabeth Hospital.”

“Dio mio!”

Whatever else the marchesa might have said was lost in the shoulder of the American producer’s jacket, and Moretti took advantage of her dramatic collapse to make his escape.

As he left the room he could hear the sound of someone whistling. It was Giulia Vannoni. As she passed him she called out, “Don’t worry, Inspector. I have permission to leave, and I have promised to be back.”

She resumed her whistling as she passed him, running lightly and easily, her straight blond hair flopping heavily on her leather-clad shoulders. A long gone and, he had thought, long-forgotten love drifted back into his consciousness on the wings of her perfume. The name of both the woman and her perfume escaped him. The perfume’s name had something to do with chaos, or uproar. Something like that. The tune was more instantly recognizable: “La Donna è Mobile.”

Perhaps there is supposed to be a message in it for me, he thought. Although Valerie would say that in his case it was the man who was fickle. One minute committed, the next running in the opposite direction. Actually, he’d been committed — if not married — for years, but that was how she saw it.

The Ensors were waiting for him in the marchesa’s sitting room, which was also on the ground floor, near the front entrance. It was a small room compared to the others, simply furnished with English chintzes and numerous family photographs in silver frames. Sydney Tremaine sat on one of the deep window seats cut into the thick walls of the manor, and her husband lay slumped on one of the beflowered sofas. He seemed to be asleep.

“He didn’t know, you know,” was the first thing she said to Moretti. She looked pale and fragile in a white shirt of thin Indian cotton and khaki pants. “He’s had so much trouble over script changes, and he thought it was someone’s idea of a joke.”

At the sound of his wife’s voice, Gilbert Ensor opened his eyes and sat up. The marks left by the marchesa’s talons ran down his cheeks in parallel tracks of congealed blood.

“The bitch. See what she did? I could bring charges —”

“Probably not advisable in the circumstances.” Moretti’s crisp tones cut into the self-pitying whine. “But that must be your decision, naturally. Right now I would like to talk to you, Mr. Ensor, about your book and the film script for Rastrellamento.”

“How long have you got? Where would you like me to start?” The whine had changed to a petulant snappishness.

“Tell me, first of all, about your initial agreement with Epicure Films — what were the original changes that were agreed upon? What are the main differences between your novel and the script?”

“You know my work?”

“I read Rastrellamento some time ago. Refresh my memory.”

“You think all this has something to do with Gil’s book?” asked Sydney. She was looking puzzled.

“I don’t know. Perhaps we can rule it out. Go on, sir.”

“Well, there are two central plot lines: one is about a British prisoner hiding out in Tuscany just after the surrender of Mussolini, and the other concerns the struggle between the various factions in Italy at the time — the fascists, the partisans, the communists, and the efforts of the local population to deal with all these warring parties, including the presence of German troops. But if you know my work, you’ll know that I am interested in more than plot lines — I am interested in exploring the interactions of human beings, their philosophical stances and their justifications for their actions, conscious and unconscious. Much of this does not translate well to the screen, and I understand that. So much of that part of the book had to go.”

“What, do you think, attracted Monty Lord and Epicure Films to Rastrellamento?”

“Apart from my international celebrity?” Gilbert Ensor asked the question without the slightest trace of irony or self-deprecation. “Intrigue and exotic setting and historic period — and lashings of sex and violence.”

“I still don’t really understand why you’re so interested in all this.” Sydney Tremaine unfolded her long legs and perched on the edge of the window seat. “Don’t you want to know where we were and all that sort of thing?”

“Another officer will take a written statement from you both, but I am trying to establish some of the circumstances around the crime — the project you were all working on, what tensions may have arisen. Do daggers play a major role in the film, for instance?”

“Not a major role, but certainly knives were used by the resistance movement — as a silent way of killing, you understand.”

“And is there any reason in the script for you to be in Guernsey?”

“None at all. Now, that had a great deal to do with the bloke who’s just got a dagger in the chest. There’s a thought.”

“Yes.” Moretti watched the shadow crossing the flawless skin over Sydney Tremaine’s cheekbones. “I gather, Mr. Ensor, that you approved the initial cuts and alterations to your book, but that there have been changes since then that have given you problems. Why? Surely this is fairly normal in the film world?”

“The changes to the basic plot line are quite unnecessary. This isn’t Gilbert Ensor’s Rastrellamento any more — it’s more like Dante’s bloody Inferno.”

“In what way do you mean that?”

“The whole project’s become hell on fucking wheels is how I mean that — I was not speaking intellectually. Each day I spend in contact with the movie world I can feel my brain cells dying, my mental capacity shrinking like a weenie in cold water.”

Moretti ignored the outburst. “Your book and the movie have political content. If I remember rightly, you are harsh in your judgments of both the peasant population — the contadini — and the local aristocracy, when writing about their politics and their loyalties. Is it possible you have opened old wounds?”

“See, I wondered that.” Suddenly, Gilbert Ensor was quite serious. He leaned forward and offered Moretti a cigarette from a battered packet he pulled from his crumpled linen jacket.

“Thank you.” In the interests of establishing rapport — a peace offering, Moretti told his conscience, as he accepted.

“At first, when someone hurled that thing at me on the terrace, I thought it was some madman who had it in for celebrities. Then I calmed down and thought maybe it was an accident — some moronic kid playing about. Then, when I heard about the damage to the costumes, I thought it was a malicious attempt to scare us off the project.”

“But it’s a possibility, isn’t it?”

“But why Toni? If you wanted to make a point, you’d try for me again, or go for Monty, or maybe one of the actors taking political roles, wouldn’t you? Toni was Mr. Sunshine — a kind of male Pollyanna. Most of the locations had already been scouted, you know, and Monty used him to appease the marchesa. He did damn all and nobody cared, because he was so bloody cheerful and good-tempered. Got up my nose, but I like my humans to be bastards or bitches — that’s why I married Syd, isn’t it, honeybunch?”

Sydney Tremaine slipped down off the windowsill. “I’ll be right outside if you need me, Inspector,” she said.

“I probably won’t need to keep you today. Just be available to give a written statement some time.” As she walked from the room, Moretti had the feeling she was removing herself before she lost control.

“I thought it was Mario Bianchi who hired Toni Albarosa, for his local contacts — at least, that’s what he told me.”

Gilbert Ensor gave a contemptuous laugh. “He would, poor sod. Trying to hang on to the illusion he has some sort of creative control over Rastrellotitanic, as I like to call it.”

“You think the project’s doomed?”

“Oh, it’ll get made. But it won’t be the movie we started with, and I am seriously thinking of removing my name from the project.”

“Have you said that to anyone?”

“Most likely. When I’m in a blind rage or in my cups — which is most of the time lately — I say all kinds of things I don’t remember.”

“I see. Thank you, Mr. Ensor. The office will be in touch with you some time tomorrow.”

Gilbert Ensor got up from the sofa and crossed to the door. For all his marital raging and sniping, he was a lost soul without his wife to guide him through the maze and morass of everyday life — such as where to find the limousine that would take him home.

“Syd?” His plaintive call reverberated through the echoing expanses of the manor house.

But Sydney Tremaine wasn’t there.