Читать книгу Daggers and Men's Smiles - Jill Downie - Страница 11

"Not one of them, Guv, can think of any reason why anyone would want to kill the marchesa’s son-in-law.”

Moretti and Liz Falla were exchanging information as they made their way across the park and up the flight of stone steps to the upper floor of the lodge where the first attack with a dagger had taken place. Liz Falla had acquired a complete list of everyone employed on Rastrellamento from the associate producer, Piero Bonini, and was compiling a record of who lived where. Not just eagle-eyed, thought Moretti, but organized. It wasn’t her fault Hanley had said “eagle-eyed” until everyone was fed up to the back teeth with hearing it.

Most of the cast and crew lived in hotels and guest houses in St. Martin’s and St. Peter Port, with the level of luxury matching their level of importance. There were a few exceptions. All the Vannonis and Toni Albarosa were at the manor, and three of the cast were staying there also. These were the two female leads: newcomer Vittoria Salviati, who played the young love interest, Maddelena, and an established star, Adriana Ferrini, whose role as the Contessa Alessandra di Cavalli was creating the latest problems on the movie. One of the leading men, Clifford Wesley, an up-and-coming British actor, recruited from the classical stage, who was starring as the escaped British prisoner, Tom Byers, was also at the manor. The internationally known German film actor, Gunter Sachs, who was playing the commandant of the prison camp in the imaginary Tuscan village of Santa Marina, had stayed briefly, but had now transferred to the Héritage Hotel, where Betty Chesler and Eddie Christie were also billeted.

“Did Piero Bonini have any interesting comments to make about his cast?”

“Mostly he went on about Gilbert Ensor, who seems to be at the top of everyone’s hit list. Hit-and-miss list, I suppose I should say. Do you think someone thought Toni Albarosa was Ensor in the dark?”

“Could be, but unlikely. What would Gilbert Ensor be doing skulking about outside the manor in the small hours?”

“Well, that was one of the things Bonini went on about — about Ensor, I mean. Seems there’d been a spot of bother in Italy somewhere. He wouldn’t go any further, but he did say Ensor was lucky his wife was the forgiving kind, and if he’d heard that Ensor was the one with a dagger in the chest he wouldn’t have been surprised.”

“Interesting. So what was Toni Albarosa doing in the wee small hours? Did Bonini shed any light on that?”

“I was just coming to that. When I was leaving his office — he’s got a trailer on the far side of the manor, quite close to the bunker — I could hear him through the open window. He was shouting at the interpreter they’ve got here — it must have been her, because she was the only other person there — and it was all in Italian, but I can understand quite a bit now, of course, and what I managed to pick up was her name, Bella, and then another two names — Vittoria, and Toni.”

“Ah,” said Moretti.

“That’s what I thought, Guv.” DC Falla turned and grinned at Moretti.

Betty Chesler was waiting for them at the top of the steps, only too eager to speak her mind.

“I see you’ve brought your superior officer with you this time,” she said to the young policewoman. She turned and glared at Moretti. “I’m so glad someone is now taking this seriously, and what a wicked shame it took poor Toni’s death to do it! I can’t tell you how upset I was with the cavalier attitude of just about everyone about the damage — mark my words, I said to Piero, this is like an omen. It’s a warning, and there’s more to come. But until Gilbert Ensor’s wife said about the attack on her husband, no one cared a tinker’s cuss about my costumes — here, let me show you the damage.” She led the way inside.

The damaged costumes were still where Liz Falla had seen them, lined up on the foldaway table: the three women’s tailored suits, one dress, a man’s suit, and a German uniform.

“To which characters in the film do these belong?” Moretti asked, bending over them and examining the gashes in the German uniform. The dagger must have been sharp to have torn the tough fabric as it had.

“The dress and two of the suits belong to the countess, the other woman’s suit is for a fairly minor character, the housekeeper, the man’s suit belongs to the village priest, and the German uniform is for Gunter’s character. Those are the dummies I was using over there.”

Liz Falla went over and poked her fingers through the holes. “Through the heart,” she said, “— or where it would be.”

“That’s exactly what I said to Piero,” said Betty Chesler. “Through the heart, I said.”

“I presume there’d been a break-in?”

“In a manner of speaking, though it wasn’t that difficult. I wish now I’d opted for a trailer, but this was so roomy and I like the higher ceiling. Besides, I wasn’t that worried with security guards patrolling the grounds. Whoever it was came in through the window.” Betty Chesler indicated the broken pane. “And now that we’ve lost the location manager” — this was said with heavy sarcasm — “the police have dusted for fingerprints. The young lady took the dagger away.”

“He — whoever — left the weapon.”

“Yes. Very fancy, like something out of an Errol Flynn movie, as I said to the police officer here, but I imagine you’re too young, aren’t you, to know who I mean.” Betty Chesler shuddered. “I just screamed when I got in here and saw what had happened. It looked like a massacre.”

“Was it generally known that these particular costumes would be on the dummies that night?”

“Well, anyone coming in and out of here over the past three or four days would have known, because that’s how long they’ve been up. Mr. Lord and Mr. Bianchi wanted some changes to the countess’s outfits — they’re building up her role, so I hear — and Mr. Sachs had put on quite a bit of weight since his original fittings, so we had to alter them.”

“And the housekeeper and the priest?”

“Casting changes. For the housekeeper they’d gone from a jolly roly-poly English actress to a gaunt Italian lady, more of a Mrs. Danvers type — you know, like in Daphne Du Maurier’s Rebecca? And they’d gone the other way for the priest — from cadaverous to cuddly, don’t ask me why.”

“I see. Thank you, Ms. Chesler. You’ve been very helpful. If you think of anything else, this is where you can reach me.” Moretti handed her his card. Then, on the spur of the moment, he asked, “Do you have any theories yourself? You talked about an omen. A warning.”

Liz Falla was standing by the table where the attacker had left the dagger. As he said this, Moretti saw her look across sharply at him, then away. She said nothing, so he continued. “About what? Or whom?”

Betty Chesler looked at Moretti. “I don’t know for sure,” she said slowly. “I work on a lot of historical films, and sometimes I get a strange feeling, standing in a room like this, surrounded by the past. It could be just that — but whatever this is about goes a long way back. That’s my opinion.”

“A long way back — in time, you mean?”

“Right. This isn’t about what Gilbert Ensor did or said to insult Monty Lord, or what the marchesa did or said to upset — well, just about everybody, that one. I mean, I can understand why knives — guns aren’t so easy to come by, unless you’re in America — but why bother with decorative daggers? If you can find that one out, Detective Inspector, you’ve probably got the answer.”

“So these are not like any knives or daggers used in the film?”

Betty Chesler shook her blond beehive vigorously. “I don’t do weapons, but I know that much. There’s guns of all sorts, and a few knives — World War Two army issue type things, I suppose. Plus the odd bomb or grenade. But no fancy handles.”

As they went back down the steps, Liz Falla asked, “Was she helpful, or were you just saying that, Guv?”

“A bit of both. I’d like to know why such a major change in a minor character — it could mean absolutely nothing, but it could also be part of that feeling she has that all this has something to do with the past.”

“Which past, that’s what I thought when she said that.”

“Exactly. But daggers, not just knives, have been used three times and that has to be significant. Murderers have quirks, but I can’t believe this guy has managed to get hold of a handful of fancy daggers cheap, and is using them for reasons of economy.”

Liz Falla reached into the pocket of her jacket and pulled out several sheets of paper. “I got what they call a shooting schedule from Mr. Bonini, as well as the list of cast and crew members. They usually make out a schedule for the whole project and it is updated each day. It gives names, times, and location. Who are we interested in next?”

“Vittoria Salviati, DC Falla — if your Italian steered you right.”

They were in luck. The young actress was scheduled for a shoot that afternoon. By now it was late morning and, according to the schedule, she would be in makeup. Moretti went back up the steps and asked Betty Chesler where they would find her.

As they made their way back up the drive, Moretti asked, “Has anyone mentioned anything that might be of interest from any of the statements taken so far?”

“Nothing, Guv. I did ask about the security guard’s statement, and apparently he saw and heard nothing unusual, until he came across the body — except that one of those big lights were on. There’s nerve for you, illuminating the scene of the crime!”

“Unless,” said Moretti, “it was Toni Albarosa who switched it on, because he saw something unusual — something he was not supposed to see. I think we’re about to find out why he was on the terrace at night, taking a murderer by surprise. But I don’t think he was the original target.”

Vittoria Salviati was as pretty as a picture, chocolate-box beautiful. As she turned around in the chair before the brightly lit mirrors, Moretti could not restrain a sharp intake of breath. She looked no more than eighteen years old and, even allowing for the miracle of movie makeup, her pouting red lips, cloud of tousled dark hair, and huge dark eyes against her porcelain skin did indeed take the breath away. But the white around those huge dark eyes was bloodshot, and their expression was anguished. Moretti introduced himself and Liz Falla, and established that she was reasonably comfortable speaking English.

“Do I have to speak to you now? I have a difficult scene to do — could it wait until tomorrow?”

“We would like just a brief word now with you, Miss Salviati. It would be better, coming from you, rather than from anyone else — wouldn’t it?” said Moretti, gently.

The young actress turned and nodded at the makeup artist, a middle-aged man with purple hair and a nose ring. As he left the trailer, he turned and rolled his eyes knowingly at the two policemen. As soon as he had left, Vittoria Salviati burst into tears.

“You know, don’t you? Who told you?”

“Guessed would be a better word, Miss Salviati. Toni Albarosa was either coming to see you, or leaving.”

“Leaving — oh my poor, darling Toni! It was always such a chance we took, with the marchesa so close, but we could not keep away from each other — you know how it is.”

Moretti was aware of a quizzical glance in his direction from his partner.

“Did you meet on Rastrellamento, or had you known each other before?”

“We met on the first day and it was what the French call ‘coup de foudre,’ Inspector.”

“Forgive me, Miss Salviati,” said Moretti, “but — you are a very beautiful woman. You must have had men making passes at you, falling in love with you, at every step. What was different about Toni Albarosa, that you would risk an affair with a man married to the daughter of the marchesa, who was on the premises, and who clearly has a position of importance on this project?”

Vittoria Salviati swung around from the mirror on her swivel chair, giving both officers a glimpse of slim brown legs beneath her cotton wrap as she did so.

“That’s just it — he didn’t make a pass at me. He just looked at me so sweetly with his big eyes, and told me — oh, the most beautiful things you can imagine! For a whole week before he slept with me! Oh, I’m sure this is all my fault. I’m sure this has something to with that bitch of a wife of his, or that bitch of a mother-in-law of his, or both of them!”

“I don’t think you need blame yourself for his death in that way, Miss Salviati. I think that Mr. Albarosa was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Did he ever say anything to you about anything he might have seen or heard during those nightly visits? Outside in the grounds, I mean?”

“No. Mostly we didn’t talk once he got to my room.”

Moretti could think of no adequate response to this.

“Does everyone have to know?” Vittoria Salviati leaned forward anxiously in her chair, affording Moretti a generous glimpse of her much-photographed and beautiful bosom.

“Not immediately, but when we find who is responsible, the reason for Mr. Albarosa’s presence on the terrace at that hour may come out in court.”

There was a knock on the door and the makeup artist put his head into the room. “Miss Salviati’s due on the set in half an hour and — oh my God!”

With a wail and a shriek he ran across and held the actress’s face between his hands.

“Vittoria sweetie, what have they done to you, what have they said to you!” He turned and looked accusingly at Moretti and Liz Falla, the brutal sulliers of his handiwork. “Look at this mess — she’s got mascara and lipstick on her chin, for God’s sakes. I’m going to have to start all over again.”

At the foot of the trailer steps Liz Falla stopped and looked at Moretti.

“That Albarosa had a great act going, eh, Guv? Believe you me, that one works much better than that sleaze Ensor’s slimy gropings.”

“I believe you,” said Moretti. “I want to talk to Monty Lord next, but first we’ll head back into St. Peter Port, and I’ll drop you off at the station. If Chief Officer Hanley asks where I am, you can tell him I’m making further enquiries.”

“Right, Guv.”

“Okay, DC Falla, give me your first impressions,” Moretti said, as the police car pulled in to the side of a narrow lane to allow one of the town buses through. Through the open window Liz Falla called out cheerily to the driver as he passed.

“Well, first of all, I agree with the costume lady — find out why daggers and we’re on our way. But I’m not sure I agree about the past. The French say ‘coup de foudre,’ like Vittoria Salviati said, but they also say ‘cherchez la femme,’ don’t they? I think it’s all about sex myself.”

“You may be right.” Moretti smiled. His partner’s straightforward and unvarnished approach was a salutary reminder of his own tendency to intellectualize and embroider. “And Ms. Chesler may be over-exaggerating the importance of the daggers. When the purple-haired gentleman took a fit at some smudged makeup I reminded myself that we’re dealing with people who act and think theatrically. The use of decorated daggers could be merely picturesque, for effect. And nothing more.”

“The artistic temperament. Or histrionics, like my uncle Vern. So we go back to motive and opportunity?”

“For the time being. But we’ll certainly take a look at the daggers back at the crime lab. If possible, I’d like us to interview Monty Lord and the other actors whose costumes were damaged when we get back to the manor in the afternoon. By the way, I thought you were about to say something when I asked Betty Chesler about her use of the word ‘omen.’ Were you?”

“No, Guv.” There was a pause, and then Liz Falla said, “I just thought she was being fanciful.”

“Okay. I’ll pick you up from Hospital Lane when I’ve seen to some personal business.”

“Right you are, Guv.” Liz Falla cast a quick glance at Moretti. “That actress, then — do you think those were real tears?”

Moretti smiled and shrugged his shoulders “I do, but I don’t think that was just grief we saw. She’s genuinely scared that the marchesa will find out, and we’ll have to talk to the widow before we can decide if Toni Albarosa was as sweet and genuine as everyone says. But my feeling is that your instincts are right. I’ll see you in about an hour.”

The restaurant Moretti’s father had once owned was above the cellar that housed the jazz group, the Fénions. It was called Emidio’s — Moretti senior’s first name. It was now run by Rick Le Marchant, the younger brother of Emidio Moretti’s former business partner — a solution that had kept the peace in the extended family, if not the immediate family. As was not uncommon on the island, it so happened that this branch of the Le Marchant family was distantly related to Moretti’s mother, Vera Domaille.

Whenever Moretti walked in through the front door with its red awning, he was stepping into the past — which was why he so rarely ate at Emidio’s, although it boasted some of the best and most authentic Italian cooking on the island. The restaurant smelled particularly enticing today. From the direction of the kitchen wafted the yeasty, fruity fragrance of freshly baked panettone, and through the side of the glass-covered counter shimmered the dark chocolate gleam of dolce torinese, the chilled chocolate loaf his mother had loved so much.

But while he ate his veal scallopine al Marsala or scampi alla griglia, Moretti preferred his digestive system not to be awash with memories of his mother laughing at his father over the low counter that divided the kitchen from the restaurant. That bright memory was gone too soon with her early death, and from then on it was the shadow of Emidio Moretti that wandered between the red tablecloths and took the orders of local and tourist until he sold the business.

Coup de foudre. Like a thunderbolt, his father once told him. Como un fulmine, Eduardo. Not just from the pain in the empty stomach, the ache in the bones from the physical labour, and the ribs cracked from the butt of the guard’s gun. Like a thunderbolt when I saw her face — her great blue eyes and the pity in them. I smiled, and the next day there she was again — only this time she darted out and put a piece of bread in my hand. The day after that it was a piece of cheese — sometimes it was bacon or sausage, if they had any, and they had so little — we were all starving. We were lucky — we were never caught, but she took a terrible risk. Como un fulmine, Eduardo.

“Ed! What brings you here? Thought you stuck to the lower level of this establishment.”

Rick Le Marchant was a small man — small in height but of expansive circumference, with a voice and a laugh as rich and mellifluous as his stracotto or zabaione. He was about fifteen years older than Moretti, so had never been a close, personal friend, but he had been at every family get together and had been around as far back as Moretti could remember. He had originally been the business manager of Emidio’s, moving into the more creative, culinary role when his older brother retired. He had not substantially altered the decor of the restaurant, but a greater profusion of plants and vines now climbed in and around the stuccoed walls, thanks to his wife’s green thumb.

When Emidio Moretti came back to the island and courted Vera Domaille, it had been the Le Marchants who had found him his first job with Don Bertrand at the Héritage Hotel, and for the penniless Italian immigrant, they became his island family. Moretti knew his father was not the voluble, emotional Italian of popular perception, who wore his heart on his sleeve and poured out his innermost thoughts to anyone who cared to listen, but if anyone knew anything about Emidio Moretti and his family back in Italy, it would be a Le Marchant.

“Hi there, Rick. I’ll have some of your great bruschetta and, if I may, a little of your time.”

“Done. Annette can take care of three tables.” Rick Le Marchant called out to the pretty dark-haired waitress behind the counter, “Two orders of bruschetta and two espressos, Annette.”

The coffee arrived, Annette returned to the kitchen for the bruschetta, and Rick Le Marchant looked speculatively at Moretti.

“Is this business? Any problems downstairs I should know about?”

“God, no. At least, not as far as I know, and I’m sure Deb would tell you.”

Deborah Duchemin was the manager and hostess of the Grand Saracen, where Moretti played jazz piano, and in which he had a part interest. From time to time, the club ran into trouble with members of its clientele who thought it would be a fruitful drug-selling venue, and had to be dissuaded, arrested, or thrown out.

“Yup. She’s a tough biddy, that Debby. Now,” — Annette deposited the bruschetta on the table and departed — “what’s up?”

“My godmother just died in Italy. I didn’t know her that well, but she’s left me with a request in her will that’s a puzzle. I only remember meeting her on two occasions, although I think my father took me back to see his family quite soon after I was born. And yet she’s kept quiet all these years, not spoken to anyone who might have helped her, and waited until after she herself had shuffled off this mortal coil to ask for my help.”

“What does she want you to do?”

“Now that’s real bruschetta,” said Moretti, finishing a luscious mouthful. “Hold on —” he reached into his pocket and took out a piece of paper, “she wants me to find someone called Sophia Maria Catellani.”

“Sophia Maria Catellani.” Rick’s cherubic face was uncustomarily solemn.

“Does that mean anything to you?”

“Catellani means nothing to me but — I don’t know. What I mean is, Sophia Maria seems to ring some sort of bell, and yet — hold on. I’m going to make a phone call.” Rick looked across the table at Moretti. “I would have to share this with my mother. She’s in a nursing home on Mount Durand now, but her brain still functions fine. It’s her body that has let her down. That okay?”

“Fine by me.”

Moretti watched as Rick went through to his private office. He was aching for a cigarette. Instead he ordered another espresso, and exchanged a few words with Annette, who was dying of curiosity about the film people up at the manor. She was less curious about the murder than she was about whether Moretti had actually seen any of the stars, and disappointed that he had only spoken to Vittoria Salviati.

“What’s she like?”

“Beautiful.”

“I know, but what’s she like? Was she nice?”

“Yes, she was nice.”

Rick returned, and Annette scurried off to the kitchen with her scrap of insider information. Vittoria Salviati was nice.

“Did I say my mother’s brain was functioning fine? Understatement of the year. Firing on all cylinders, enough to continue to be a thorn in my side. I’ve got something.”

“She knows something?”

“Well, depends on whether you think it’s something. It may be coincidence.”

“Not sure I believe in coincidence, not in my business. Go on.”

“She says — after much hemming and hawing about what a negligent son I am, and how good a son-in-law Emidio was to his poor aged mother-in-law — that she seems to remember that if you had been a girl your name was going to be Sophia. Or Sophie. She’s not sure which, but of that much she is sure. Sophia or Sophie.”

“Well, well,” said Moretti.

As Liz Falla turned the police BMW into the courtyard of the Manoir Ste. Madeleine and found a parking space between an immaculate period Mercedes and a battered contemporary Honda, an agitated figure rushed out from among a gaggle of helmeted fascisti making their way across the courtyard. It was Gilbert Ensor. He was shouting as he approached.

“Thank Christ you’re back — where the hell have you been?”

“Having lunch, Mr. Ensor. How can we help you?”

“My wife has disappeared, and the security guards say it isn’t their business.” He was sweating profusely, his unseasonable linen jacket clinging to him.

“Disappeared? She has probably gone back to the hotel.”

“Don’t you think I’d have the sense to check that? She’s not there. We’ve had an attempt on my life and a murder — my God, you’re cool in the circumstances! If anything’s happened to her, I shall personally see you’re both hung out to dry.”

Since “keeping cool in the circumstances” appeared to be annoying the hell out of a sweating Gilbert Ensor, Moretti stifled the desire to retaliate in kind.

“Have you checked with the limousine drivers? She couldn’t have walked, and it’s unlikely she’d have taken the bus.”

“I got Bella to do that for me. She says no one has left in a limousine this morning — the only ones that returned to town were empty.”

Into Moretti’s mind drifted a vision of a donna mobile running lightly down the corridor in the manor, a humiliated young woman going out into the same corridor, the sound of someone passing, humming as she went by the door of the marchesa’s sitting room. He decided to jump to conclusions.

“I think,” he said, “she’s in good hands. Safer than here, I should think. I suggest you take a limo back to the hotel and wait for her.”

As a bewildered Gilbert Ensor turned to leave, Moretti allowed himself to add, “And stay off the patio, won’t you, sir?”

When he was out of earshot, Liz Falla looked at her senior officer. “Do you know where she is, Guv?”

“Not really. I’m going to look for Monty Lord. I want you to check whether anyone saw the Ducati leave — and whether it left with a passenger.”

“Brilliant!” said DC Falla. “Oh I hope so, Guv.”

Moretti was spared a hunt for the film producer by his appearance in the courtyard. He was coming from the direction of the stars’ trailers and he looked grim. As soon as he saw Moretti he said, “You questioned Vittoria, I hear.”

“Of course.” Moretti said no more.

“It’s all right, Detective Inspector. I knew about the little affair, but I made sure nothing was said to the marchesa. This was the last thing she needed — and not the first time such a thing had happened.”

“So Mr. Albarosa was a philanderer?”

“Yes, and a successful one. Donatella would never have told Anna, but I wanted to spare her the pain.”

“Maybe that’s why he was killed. From what I hear, Mr. Ensor is also a successful philanderer.”

“Detective Inspector Moretti — if someone is going around killing off philanderers on this film set, I’ll be lucky if I’m left with half my cast and crew.”

Moretti looked around the courtyard, which was now filling up with dozens of laughing, chattering extras dressed as peasants, contadini.

“Is there somewhere we could talk, sir? If we could get it over with today, then hopefully I won’t have to take too much of your time again.”

“My office,” said Monty Lord.

Monty Lord’s trailer office was close to the command bunker entrance by the ornamental lake. They left the path that followed the side of the manor, and walked around the grassy hillock that had grown over the concrete curve of the man-made construction beneath. A couple of mallards hastened their steps ahead of them and made for the shore of the lake, which was partly obscured at this point by a giant chestnut and some large elderberry bushes. As they walked past, Moretti could see a heavy iron grille set in a concrete wall which was almost concealed by two massive beech trees. The approach to the bunker was brick-lined, but the sides were now overgrown with ferns, brambles, ivy, and moss, giving the installation an almost bucolic appearance.

“I understand you’ll be using the command bunker during the filming of Rastrellamento, sir.” Moretti bent down and peered through the foliage.

“Yes, we intend to,” replied Monty Lord. “I’ve got the key on me, as it happens. Would you care to take a look?”

“Certainly I would. I’ve seen others, but this being on private property —”

“Sure.”

As Monty Lord led the way down the slope to the entrance, Moretti saw that the iron grille did not extend to the ground, but ran across the top of a heavy metal door. The producer pulled a keychain from his pocket, bent down, and turned the lock.

The door swung open easily, revealing a long tunnel with openings on each side, stretching away into the darkness. The chill of the place was immediate, the exposed skin of Moretti’s hands and face instantly damp with moisture.

“Do you have any lighting installed?” Moretti could hear his voice echoing ahead of him into the gloom.

“No. We’ll use our own lights for that, on cables, but we always keep something here by the door.”

Monty Lord bent down and picked up a powerful workman’s lamp and switched it on. The intense beam of light illuminated the curved ceiling above, which had a large badly rusted pipe running the length of it. Somewhere in the darkness a creature squeaked and scuttled.

“Mice?”

“Bats, I think. I’ve seen them in here before. There’s a humongous ventilation shaft farther into the chamber, and an escape shaft also. It goes deeper the farther we go away from the entrance here. We can go on in, but there’s not really much to see.” Monty Lord swung the light around, lighting up the entrances along the passage. Moretti felt a drop of moisture on his head. His heart thumped unpleasantly in his chest as he thought about his father.

“Even with a ventilation shaft, you’ll need to pump in air, won’t you, if you work at any distance from the door?”

“Yes. We have that set up. Fortunately, even on your small island, Detective Inspector, you now have air-conditioning experts, and we’ve been able to arrange that locally.”

Moretti looked around at the encircling walls, the brickwork falling away in places from the granite, the broken rusting brackets holding the overhead pipe.

“One thing I don’t understand, sir — this place is a mess. How are you going to film as if it were a fully operating command post?”

“Aha!”

Monty Lord patted Moretti’s arm and shone the flashlight on the entrance closest to them on the right of the passage.

“Look in there, Detective Inspector.”

The stones beneath his feet were slimy with some growth or other, and Moretti slipped as he walked forward.

“Careful — there now. Great, huh?”

“A surprise, yes.”

The chamber had been set up as some sort of observation post or lookout. Moretti saw whitewashed walls, a grey painted cement floor, tables, chairs, wall maps. Bulky wireless equipment and headsets took up most of the central table, and a couple of uniform jackets hung on pegs on the walls. Some black-and-white photographs and a pin-up on the walls above a bunk bed were already showing signs of moisture damage.

“The set designer’ll bring down most of the decorative vintage shit when we need it, but the damp down here is a killer. And of course we’ll use the passages as they are. We need them for one or two scenes, also the escape shaft. Seen enough?”

“Yes. Terrible place.”

The sun outside felt delicious to Moretti. He ran his hand over his face, and his skin felt clammy, as if he had sweated and cooled.

“You suffer from claustrophobia, Detective Inspector?” Monty Lord locked the gate and put his key chain back in his pocket.

“No. But my father helped build places like these, sir.”

“So that’s how an Italian ended up on Guernsey. The end of the war that would be, I guess. Was he a partisan?”

“Yes. He was betrayed by local police when the Germans arrived in his village.”

“Yet he came back here?”

“To marry my mother.”

“The power of love, Detective Inspector.”

Monty Lord looked at Moretti, who had the impression that the film producer’s thoughts at that moment were many miles away.

Monty Lord’s trailer was the workplace of a fastidious and meticulous man. There were three or four filing cabinets with detailed labelling, a metal safe, charts and plans of various kinds on the walls. The huge aluminum desktop was uncluttered, with neat piles of papers — and no ashtrays. Moretti presumed the microwave and fridge were standard fixtures but, apart from a stereo unit, there were no personal belongings, no pictures or paintings, no rugs or family photographs. The trailer was a place of business — a place for everything and everything in its place.

When they came into the trailer, a woman was standing by one of the filing cabinets, putting away some papers. She turned to face them, smiling at Monty Lord. She looked to be somewhere in her forties, and she was tiny, with the narrowest rib cage Moretti had ever seen. She was wearing a black business suit that emphasized her extreme slenderness, and a pair of heavy-framed glasses almost too large for her narrow face.

“This is Bella, my personal assistant, who is also acting as interpreter for the movie. Thanks, Bella, but I’ll have to ask you to leave us for a while.”

Bella Alfieri closed the drawer of the filing cabinet and smiled again at the producer. “Of course, Monty. I’ll be in the other trailer when you want me.”

She crossed to the door, and Moretti heard her heels clacking down the steps outside.

Monty Lord indicated a chair on the other side of the desk, and sat down himself.

“You speak Italian very well, sir,” said Moretti, taking his seat. “How did you learn the language?”

Monty Lord tipped back his chair and laughed. “Because I’ve made what seems like hundreds of movies in Italy — probably dozens, anyway. I’ve spent much of the past ten or fifteen years there, making my living. Spaghetti westerns, that’s what I made, by the reelful. I’ll never sneer at them, because they gave me the money and the connections to make movies like this one — and they made me a great deal of money. Most of them feature someone who has since become a major Hollywood star, and at one time I owned a piece of him. Now he and I make the movies we always wanted to make.”

The name Monty Lord dropped was major enough to raise Moretti’s eyebrows and make him whistle in surprise.

“That, presumably, is why Rastrellamento appealed to you. But, with your connections, why take the trouble to bring cast and crew over here — let alone all that heavy equipment you need?”

“Costs, Detective Inspector. We could have rented a fabulous Medici palazzo near Florence, but at a price that would make your blood run cold. So when my major investor suggested using the family’s Guernsey property at a rock-bottom price, I jumped at it. The other determining factor was the availability of authentic war sites, without having to build them. The room in the bunker is just one of our planned locations. We are going to use some of the coastal fortifications as well.”

“So you haven’t financed the whole enterprise yourself?”

“No. I have my major investor in Italy, and I have also set up another branch of my company — Epicure Films Italia. This is quite normal for movie work.”

“I see. Who is your major investor?”

“The marchesa’s husband and his company — Vannoni Vigneti e Boschetti.”

“I somehow thought the marchesa was a widow.” Moretti was taken by surprise.

Opposite him, Monty Lord rubbed a hand vigorously over his shining, shaved dome. “For all intents and purposes, she is.”

“The marchese is absorbed in the work of the company, you mean?”

“They live apart, Detective Inspector. He rarely if ever comes here. He has an apartment in Florence and runs the business from there.”

“Does anyone in the family have contact with him?”

“I think Anna sees the most of her father. As a matter of fact, I met Paolo Vannoni before I met Donatella, at some government shindig or other. It was he who suggested using the Guernsey property.”

“How did the marchesa feel about that, I wonder?”

“Like shit at first. Then we met and — got along.”

Apart from a slight pause it was said simply, without any discernible subtext. For Moretti, who always listened for subtexts and hidden messages, it was a curiously empty remark, devoid of emotion. Either Monty Lord was brilliant at concealing emotions, or there was indeed nothing to conceal.

“It’s a while since I read Rastrellamento, but I remember the action being quite scattered. Apart from the war sites, this film seems to be centred on the manor. Am I right?”

“Yes. The scenes in the book are far more diverse. We wanted to create a much more enclosed and claustrophobic feeling in the movie, so we focused in on the aristocratic Cavalli family in the novel, and spun the rest of the action around them.”

“You say ‘we.’ I presume you mean yourself and Mario Bianchi? Is it usual for a producer like yourself to have that kind of input?”

“It varies. Some are just the money men, and some like to have creative control. Like me.”

“Doesn’t this make for problems — with your director, I mean?”

“Not in this case. Mario is brilliant, but he’s also very unsure of himself in some ways. Often I simply reinforce what he has already decided — take the blame, you might say, and tell Gilbert. To the producer falls a number of unpleasant tasks, and that for sure is one of them.” Monty Lord gave a grim laugh.

“Why the casting changes? Is this normal?”

“Perfectly, particularly if there are changes to the script. Obviously, we pay the original actor, if he or she has a signed contract. You may have noticed we haven’t changed any of our leads — it would cost us a fortune.”

“You say you were in Rome — we will, of course, be confirming that. Where were you when Mr. Albarosa was killed?”

“Still in Italy, I think, or up in the air. Depends exactly when he was killed, but I got back to Guernsey very early this morning, as soon as your airport opened up. I am a qualified pilot and was on my own, but you could check that with the airport.”

“How long were you off the island? Were you here when the incident occurred with Mr. Ensor?”

“Unfortunately, yes, given our working relationship. I was only in Italy for just over twenty-four hours — possibly thirty-six.”

“And where, precisely, were you?”

“Here.” Monty Lord jabbed his finger downwards toward his chair. “Bella could confirm that. She was here with me taking notes that evening. I worked on my own for a while, and then called her back in to complete a couple of letters.”

Moretti put his notepad away. He often wondered what useful purpose it served. “Thank you, sir. We’ll check that with Ms. —?”

“Alfieri. Bella Alfieri. Highly competent and completely reliable.”

“Good.” Moretti stood up. “I was hoping to speak to some of your lead actors, but I see from the schedule they’re filming right now. It will have to wait until tomorrow — oh, did you know that Mr. Ensor says his wife is missing?”

“No, I didn’t.” Monty Lord seemed genuinely surprised.

“Does she have a function of any kind?”

“Apart from being Gilbert’s minder, you mean? Not officially. They’ve had some godawful fights since we started shooting, but there’s no doubt he behaves better when she’s around — or else she takes the crap he usually hands out to others. She is — was — a gifted woman. Gave it all up for that shit — what we do for love, as the song says, eh, Inspector?”

“Yes.”