Daggers and Men's Smiles (22 page)

Outside the door of the suite sat a very young policeman. Sydney smiled at him, prettily.

“Thank you for watching over me. I'm just going down to the lobby to buy cigarettes — I'm gasping.”

The constable jumped to his feet, eager to help. “I'll get them, miss. What kind do you want?”

“Oh no!” Sydney looked at him in alarm. “I can't — I just can't stay here with no one outside. I just can't.” She allowed a note of hysteria to enter her voice.

“Then I'll come with you.”

“And leave this place unattended? After what happened out on the patio I could never relax again, even if you
searched
it. Please — just stay watching for me, will you? If I'm not back in five minutes, then, of course, I'd expect you to come after me — okay?”

“Five minutes.” The young constable looked worried and confused.

“Right — thanks!”

She ran down the corridor, waving as she went.

Five minutes.
Please God
, she prayed,
may the taxi get here in five minutes.

The lobby was quiet, with only the desk clerk in attendance.

“Mrs. Ensor — should you —?”

“I'm going in to the police station — they're sending a car. The constable is staying to watch over my suite.”

Beyond the revolving doors, a taxi was pulling up. Sydney whisked through the doors and into the car.

“The tower on Icart point.”

As they exited through the gates of the hotel, she saw the young police officer standing in the doorway with the desk clerk.

She had no problems unlocking the gate, and the key worked easily in the lock of the Martello tower door. There was no sign of Giulia's Ducati on the terrazzo by the door, and the place was in darkness. Feeling for the switch, Sydney found it and put it on, feeling relief at the sudden brilliance that flooded the space. She didn't need a cigarette, but she needed a drink, badly.

In Giulia's small kitchen she found the Aperol and poured herself a glass. It did not produce instant cessation of pain, but it did give an illusion of pleasure.

About fifteen minutes later, she heard a key in the door. Giulia appeared, pushing the Ducati ahead of her. She started when she saw Sydney and her hand went to the pocket of her leather jacket.

“Don't kill me. All I took was a little Aperol. A large Aperol.”

“What are you doing here? You should be under guard somewhere, not tempting fate.
Idiota
!”

“You called me that before, I remember. Okay, so you didn't sleep with Gil, but you did keep your mouth shut about — whatever it is that's behind all this. About that I am no idiot, Giulia.”

Giulia paused, sighed and took off her jacket. “
Bene
. I'll tell you about the past, but don't think I have the answer, because I don't. I'll have some of that also.”

They carried the drinks into the living area and sat together on a sofa covered in soft black leather.

“The past, Giulia — how can this be about the past? Gil only spent time in Italy when he was researching
Rastrellamento
. Why kill him?”

“
Rastrellamento
is about the past. Do you know if he based the book on any actual events?”

“Not as far as I know, but Gil didn't talk much about the process of writing — at least, not to me. Knowing Gil, I think he'd have preferred the world to feel
Rastrellamento
was entirely a product of his genius. His imagination.”

“Perhaps it was, but I think he stumbled on to something. And I know that clever policeman feels the same way — that's where I've been, at the police station.”

“Clever policeman — Ed Moretti?”

“You are on first-name terms?” Giulia raised her eyebrows.

“Yes — well, I am, anyway, and I spent a night in his bed, and none of this is as it sounds.”

“Pity. You could do worse.”

“I did. I married Gil.” Sydney put down her empty glass. “So far I've answered most of the questions, Giulia. Tell me about the past. Your father, I guess, was a Vannoni.”

“My grandfather. My mother was not married, and she herself was the child of rape — no, don't say anything, not yet.” Giulia got up, went into the kitchen, and brought the bottle back with her. “These things happen all the time, yes, since the beginning of time, and this was wartime. The man who was actually my grandfather was probably not a German, and possibly a partisan, but I don't know. It was a small village, and one of the agreements between my grandmother and the man who married her and became father to her child was that she would never say, never talk about it. I imagine she was quite happy to go along with the deal, no?”

“I'm sure. So a Vannoni made an honest woman out of your grandmother? Forgive me, Giulia, but with what I know about your family, I find that hard to believe.”

Giulia threw back her head and laughed. “
Cara
, you know us well in so short a time! There were what the lawyers call mitigating circumstances: first, my grandfather was the younger son, and second — and much, much more significantly, he was almost certainly what was then called a degenerate. A homosexual. He had shown no desire to marry and had never been in the least interested in women. Given how things were then, it is unlikely he got much further than that. Oh, there was talk, and he was told by the family to silence the gossip. So he married my grandmother, who had been a close friend since schooldays, and was a sweet and kind husband to her and father to my mother. My mother was a wilful and wild woman, quite unlike her mother and stepfather — there is a lot of her in me. She became pregnant and refused to name the father — there is a chance she didn't know who the father was — and so I was born, and kept the Vannoni name.”

“So, by blood, you're not a Vannoni at all. Is your mother alive?”

“No. She died when I was eight, and I was raised by the marchesa. Donatella is a difficult, proud woman, but I will always have a place in my heart for her, because she was good to me, and treated me like family.”

Sydney reached out and poured herself another glass of Aperol. “I'm trying to work out how Gil's death — and Toni's — could have anything to do with your unknown father and your grandfather.”

“Maybe so, maybe not, but I think it has to do with another mystery in the Vannoni past. Not about my step-grandfather, but about his sister, Sylvia Vannoni, the eldest child. I didn't even
know
there was a sister; I thought there were just two brothers. But about ten years ago, I decided to look into my past.” Giulia's smile had more of pain than pleasure in it. “At that time I was facing up to the fact that I preferred girls to boys,
cara
, and that made me wonder if my grandfather Vannoni was indeed gay, and if he was, in fact, my real grandfather. It turned out that he was probably gay, but that he was
not
my grandfather.”

“How did you find this out?”

“Not from records. It was much easier to conceal the truth during wartime, and records were often not kept, or were inaccurate. I talked to every old family retainer I could find — there were more of them around ten years ago. And the woman who told me about Sylvia once lived at the manor. Her name was Patrizia. So the chances are that someone else on the island knows about this — and that is how your clever policeman friend asks the questions he asks.”

“Giulia,” Sydney stood up, feeling her legs shaking beneath her with stress, anxiety and Aperol combined, “shouldn't Ed Moretti be told anything that would help him catch Gil and Toni's killer?”

“But what do I know, in fact? Will any of this help him catch the man, or woman?”

“Woman?”

“It could be. I think your policeman friend has even wondered if you and I are together in this.” Sydney sat down again, and Giulia gave her a wry glance. “And you come here, no, is that what you're thinking? Family honour is just as important to a woman, and this is about honour, of that I'm sure. Patrizia told me that Sylvia died, and that she was forbidden to speak about her, or even to remember she had ever lived.”

“But that's terrible! Wiping out the memory of a human being's existence from the face of the earth! I still don't understand why you won't tell the police.”

“Because it's a mystery no one in the family will talk about. Because when I tried to talk to Donatella about Sylvia, for the first and only time in my life I was afraid of her. She threatened to throw me out of the family and, more importantly, out of the family business. I love what I do, and I would be lost without my professional life. In a toss-up between Donatella and Eduardo Moretti, Donatella wins, hands down.”

“You say all this goes back to the war years — could it have anything to do with the war?”

“I think so. In
Rastrellamento
there is a love affair, isn't there, between the daughter of the house and an escaped British prisoner, and I wonder if that is what happened to the unknown Sylvia. Did she have a child by the prisoner? Did she die in childbirth? Did the child survive?”

“Where did all this happen? Couldn't you get some answers from people living in Fiesole or Florence?”

“If that's where it happened. But it didn't. It happened, I think, at another house. A house that no one talks about, because they say there never was another house.”

“Who says there
was
another house?”

“Patrizia. She said it was closer to the sea, and claimed that she first worked for the Vannoni family in the Maremma, where she came from.”

“Then it must be there.”

“Unlikely, at that time. The Maremma then was a wild, uncivilized place. Patrizia may well have come from the Maremma, but any great house must have been on the edge of the area, to the north or to the east.”

“So, Gil was killed because he told a fiction he thought his own, that was a fact about your family. What about Toni?”

“Ah, Toni. An oversexed son of a bitch who would have sold his soul for the right price. I have asked myself whether he gave away something to — oh, I don't know, somebody working on the movie — for forty pieces of silver.”

“Who, Giulia — who?”

This time it was Giulia who stood up, towering over Sydney. “Who. The big question, yes. I think — I think it could be Donatella. Oh yes, I think it could be. Not on her own, perhaps, but with the help of someone else. Gianfranco perhaps, although I think he has not enough courage. I think you, but especially Mario and Monty, should be careful.”

“Shouldn't you warn them?”

“And have Donatella find out? That is why I cannot tell Moretti and you must not. He will have to work it out on his own.”

“Why daggers, Giulia? It could be someone crazy.”

“Oh, they are crazy all right — crazy enough to use a specific weapon, because they are saying something to those in the know. Come on.” Giulia pulled Sydney to her feet. “Let's get you back to your hotel before the police send out a search party for you. And you know what is the only thing worth remembering from this conversation?”

“To keep my mouth shut?”

“That whoever it is, is crazy. That's the only thing worth remembering, Sydney. Carry the key I gave you, always. No one in my family has keys to this place, and no one knows that you have one.”

Night was falling when they left Giulia's castello. Against the darkening sky the Martello tower took on a more sinister aura as its shadow against the ground reached out to touch the two women walking the Ducati to the gate. Sydney could hear the sound of her own breathing, swift and shallow with tension. Beside her, Giulia lengthened her stride.

September 19th

"She fooled you all right, PC Brouard — Mrs. Ensor doesn't smoke. Fortunately she got safely back, and we know where she went because of
how
she got back. On a Ducati. We've also had her destination confirmed by the taxi driver.”

The morning sun filtered in through the windows of the crowded incident room at Hospital Lane. The place was full and there was electricity in the air, which had something to do with the sensational nature of the investigation and more to do with the anticipated arrival of Chief Officer Hanley at any moment, and the real possibility of a clash of personalities between Moretti and the head of the forensics crew, Jimmy Le Poidevin.

Jimmy Le Poidevin was a heavy-set man in his forties, short of both fuse and stature, given to bombast. His outbursts were usually because he objected to having his forensic conclusions and insights questioned by anyone, and because he tended to step out of his own field of expertise and interpret the medical evidence. Although Moretti knew this was tempting because there was no coroner on the island, he always attempted to rein in Le Poidevin's flights of forensic fancy.

Most officers at Hospital Lane tended to back off and leave him alone because he was good at his job, but Moretti saw that as no reason not to push from time to time. And Le Poidevin, being an emotionally volatile extrovert himself, had assumed that Moretti's customary reserve hid a docile and acquiescent nature. Discovering in one spectacular confrontation that he was wrong did not stop him repeating the behaviour.

Moretti transferred his attention from the mortified PC Brouard to Liz Falla, who was sitting beside him, her notepad open on the table in front of her. “DC Falla's inquiries confirm that Gilbert Ensor took a taxi to the manor at about eleven-thirty, and the driver dropped him near the trailers used by the film crew.”

“Yes.” Liz Falla took over, and Moretti was again aware of the depth of her voice. “The driver says he was, I quote, ‘Full of himself and on and on about himself.' He doesn't seem to have said anything too specific about what he was up to, but the driver got the impression he was meeting a woman. When I asked him why he said, ‘You don't get in the state he was in about a bloke.'”

There was a ripple of laughter in the room, quickly suppressed as Moretti held up his hand. “Because of the large number of people involved in this film project and the number of alibis and statements we have to check, I have Chief Officer Hanley's permission to get some extra help. My main concern is that information we have withheld stays that way, which is why I have called this meeting. The second dagger, for instance. Go on, DC Falla.”

From under her notebook Liz Falla pulled a handful of papers. “These are printouts of various Internet websites selling daggers of all kinds. The one used in the Albarosa murder, and the hotel patio and costume incidents, is a copy of a seventeenth-century Italian dagger in the Wallace Collection in London — almost. It is described as ‘designed for the thrust and is often viewed as the favorite of assassins,' and it looks as if the attacker had these specially made for him, or her. The dagger in the Ensor murder is the genuine article, carried by some members of the Hitler Youth in the war, and that gets trickier. Not everyone selling something like this is that keen on publicizing it. I've checked with the Underground Hospital, the Occupation Museum, and La Valette Museum, and there's nothing missing from their display cases. Nor has anyone made inquiries about purchasing a similar dagger. I was reminded more than once that there may be others in private hands on the island.” Liz Falla turned to Moretti, who took over.

“Apart from the fact that DC Falla had to make inquiries about the Hitler Youth dagger, we have withheld that information and I want it to stay that way. As you know, the murder of Gilbert Ensor has attracted attention, and we have a few members of the mainland press on the island. Now, PC Brouard, a chance to redeem yourself — you're a computer buff, I'm told, so I'm giving you the task of going through every site you can find, anything you can find, about daggers made to order. Possibly in Italy.”

Moretti picked up Liz Falla's papers and held them out to a stunned PC Brouard, who took them without comment.

“PC Roberts, PC Le Mesurier, PC Clarkson — divide up all the statements between you and go through them with a fine-tooth comb. What are you looking for you're going to ask me, right? The answer is — I don't know. There are dozens of people without alibis because both murders took place at night. But watch out for inconsistencies, discrepancies, stories that seem too pat, or stories that seem too alike. Okay, Jimmy,” The tension in the room went up, “go over the basic nuts and bolts stuff from the murder scenes — similarities, differences, that sort of thing.”

Jimmy Le Poidevin raised an eyebrow. “You want me to tell you what you already know, Moretti? We've been over this, and you got my report, didn't you?”

Moretti smiled. His smile made Liz Falla think of an old children's fable in some book she'd had as a child. Something about a crocodile smiling. “Humour me, Jimmy. Perhaps it will suddenly transmogrify into new and important revelations.”

“Well, for a start, there's little similarity between the two crime scenes, for all that both murder weapons are daggers.”

“Go on,” said Moretti.

“First of all, the Albarosa death looks like it was either accidental or opportunistic and — either by luck or good management — it was quick and clean. The Ensor murder, on the other hand, is clearly premeditated — I mean, it must be, mustn't it, or else how did they both get down there in the first place? And whoever did it must have underestimated the victim, because he fought for his life the length of that corridor to where we found him. We're still waiting for the final results, but the P.E.H. medics are of the opinion it was death by vagal inhibition.”

Here we go
, thought Moretti.

“In layman's terms, he died of fright — like suffocation, really.” Jimmy Le Poidevin turned and faced the assembled officers, as if he were in a lecture hall. “The vagus nerve sends a signal to the brain that makes the heart stop beating. Mind you, he'd have bled to death in the end, anyway — he had one hell of a slash in the belly. Time of death is estimated at between midnight and two a.m.”

“I thought they were getting a second opinion on that,” observed Moretti quietly. Jimmy Le Poidevin turned away from his audience.

“P.E.H. think they can take care of it themselves,” he said, his face reddening.

“Then I'll talk to them myself. What I want from you are the forensic details from the two crime scenes —”

“Nuts and bolts, I know. I'm sure most of the officers here have no need of a frigging forensic kindergarten class” — a dramatic pause — “even if you do, Moretti.”

The crocodile smile again. “Don't tell us, Jimmy. Show us. You say Ensor fought his way along the length of the passage. How do you know that? Coded messages written in the dirt? Second sight? A voice from beyond the grave? Give us a frigging forensic kindergarten class, Jimmy. That's what you're here for.”

“Jesus Christ!” The red in Le Poidevin's face had deepened to an ugly purple. “Don't tell me what I'm here for, you arrogant bastard!”

The door opened, and Chief Officer Hanley joined them. He surveyed Moretti, Jimmy Le Poidevin, and the assembled staff with a melancholy sweep of the eyes.

“Good morning.”

There was a muttered ripple of “good morning, sir”s around the room, and silence fell as everyone waited for him to speak.

“I trust I didn't hear what I just heard,” he said, fixing his chief forensic officer and Moretti with the gloomy stare of one who knew only too well what he had just heard. “We have enough problems to be going on with without pitched battles between senior officers. But I'll deal with this another time, not in public in the incident room. DI Moretti — you have, I trust, explained just how — stalled, this investigation is. We need results, and we need them fast, or we will have Scotland Yard here before you can say —” Here, Hanley himself stalled, and Moretti bit his tongue on filling in “— eagle-eyed, sir?”

“— Bob's your uncle,” Hanley continued. “So, on the principle that six or seven heads are better than one —” this with a reproachful glance at Moretti, “— I have given DI Moretti some extra help. I realize it may be too much to ask, but it would be most welcome if some sort of advance could be made before my scheduled holidays. Now, are there any questions?”

“Sir,” PC Clarkson had his hand up first, “this second dagger — do you think this has anything to do with the Occupation?”

“It certainly opens up that particular can of worms,” Moretti replied.

“Then, shouldn't we ask questions locally — I mean, wouldn't it help?”

“We may have to do that eventually. But not right now.”

“Surely, Moretti, we must now accept the fact that there may well be a Guernsey connection?” asked the chief officer, his irritation barely concealed, to Jimmy Le Poidevin's undisguised relish. “I'm reluctant to do so, but I feel we should be exploring local possibilities in the light of this last weapon. Old enmities, and all that.”

“Possibly, sir, but I'd rather hold on to that information a bit longer.” Moretti stood up, and Liz Falla followed suit. “I have arranged to speak to the film director this morning — if you'll excuse me, sir.”

Outside in the corridor, Liz Falla exploded — a
sotto voce
explosion. “What a
prat
— just because the murderer was selfish enough to endanger Mrs. Hanley's holiday in Torremolinos or whatever — sorry, Guv, but what a wally!”

“That's enough, Falla. He's not the only wally in this station, but he's right about one thing,” said Moretti. “What he said about old enmities — he's got that right.”

“So you think this might have a Guernsey connection then?”

“No, I don't. But I want to keep quiet about the dagger that killed Ensor, because you never know. I've got to cover all bases, but I still believe it's a red herring. That's why Hanley and PC Clarkson and the others in there —” Moretti jabbed his thumb in the direction of the incident room door, “are on a wild Guernsey goose chase, looking busy and keeping the chief officer happy.”

The dying man lay on the dirt floor, life ebbing slowly from him. He was young, in his mid-twenties, slightly built, his nimbus of blond hair in stark contrast to the cloud of dark hair around the agonized face of the girl who cradled him in her arms. Suddenly, with what was left of his strength, he raised his face to hers and kissed her, then fell back.

“No!” The girl's frantic cry echoed in the silence.

The camera crept in noiselessly to catch the agony in Clifford Wesley's eyes, the blood caked on his clothing, as the boom of the mike was lowered to pick up his final words.

“Cosa fatta, capo ha.”

A thing once done has an end.

“Cut!”

Mario Bianchi turned and looked at Monty Lord, who stood beside him. There were tears in his eyes, slowly spilling over onto his cheeks.

“Magnifico.”

A brief spattering of applause from the assembled crew dissipated the tension, bringing everyone back into the present.

Clifford Wesley got up from the ground and gave Vittoria Salviati a hug.

“Terrific, Vicky. One take and we gave it to 'em.”

“What Mario wanted,
si
.”

Mario Bianchi's well-known preference for the immediate reaction, his dislike of repeated takes for scenes of emotional intensity, put tremendous pressure on his actors, and Wesley, with his stage experience, was at an advantage over Salviati. There was no doubt, he mused, as he allowed the dresser to peel his blood-soaked shirt off him, that Gunter was right. The murder of Toni had opened some emotional floodgate in the beautiful body and limited mind of Vittoria.

Well, it's an ill wind
, he thought.
She may have lost a lover, but found her centre. Who knows?

And who cares?
he added to himself.
With that scene in the can, I can get out of here. Take the money and run, before the arrival of this extra character dreamed up by Mario.
Rumour had it that they were casting an Italian soap star, and Clifford Wesley smiled to himself as he imagined what Gilbert Ensor's reaction would have been. He'd have gone ballistic, no question. Shame, really, that particular scene would not be played out. He used to enjoy Gil's histrionics. They reminded him of his father inveighing drunkenly against the fates in his penniless Liverpool childhood, with a luxuriance of language and epithet intensified by hardship and deprivation.

Pulling on the dressing gown offered by the wardrobe assistant, Clifford Wesley retrieved his glasses and started to make his way across the tangle of cords and leads that brought life to the cameras and lights. Monty and Mario were deep in some sort of confabulation together and, from what he could hear, the discussion was not friendly.

Second time in two days
, he thought.
I'm well out of this.