Daggers and Men's Smiles (24 page)

“Why? Surely he knew there was no way out?”

“Desperation? Or did he know about the tunnel that's supposed to come out in the manor? Come on.”

The single shaft of light from the lamp peeled back a narrow central strip in the darkness along the corridor, and Liz Falla stumbled as she followed Moretti.

“Take my arm, Falla. This light's not too good.” He felt Liz Falla's grip on his elbow.

The beam wasn't as strong as Moretti remembered from his visit with Monty Lord. Every few feet he swept the light to one side and the other, examining the entrances and alcoves in the walls. They stopped briefly by the ventilation shaft for some air.

“Where did SOC say the blood started, Guv?”

“Just about here — they marked it — there we are. This is where the murderer either caught up with him, or chose to start stabbing.”

Circles were chalked on the floor, some of them surviving the moisture that ran down the gutters and over the surface. Some moved in the direction of an entrance, or a recess in the wall.

“Like following a trail of breadcrumbs, isn't it?” Moretti could hear a note of hysteria in his partner's giggle.

“Much the same. Ensor left us a route map of the end of his existence with his lifeblood. You can see where he looked for a way out — the tunnel to the manor. And it takes us, of course, to the escape shaft.”

Moretti swung the beam to the right and together they lurched over the corroded rail tracks. Ahead of them lay the chalked outline of Gilbert Ensor's body, indistinct, but still visible.

“And here we have the answer to one of the problems, Falla. How the murderer got away without being seen by anyone. Getting away from the scene of the crime is one of the most difficult of a murderer's tasks, and this way there's no need to risk the door.”

Above them loomed the iron ladder, rung upon rung, disappearing into the distant darkness beyond the beam of their light.

“Not out the door? Someone went up there, Guv?” Incredulously, Liz Falla looked up into the void.

At this point the light went out.

“Shit,” said Liz Falla, and sneezed. Her grip tightened on Moretti's elbow.

“Okay, Falla — give me a moment.” Fumbling in his pocket, Moretti extracted the disposable lighter he had not yet disposed of.

“I didn't know you smoked, Guv.”

“I'm supposed to be giving up, but I've not quite succeeded.”

“Thank God, is all I can say.”

Together they made their cautious way back through the noisome, dripping darkness and into the light outside.

Neither of them spoke for a moment as they refilled their lungs with fresh, clean air. Liz Falla looked at her watch.

“Just about time for the interview, Guv.”

“So it is,” said Moretti. “But first I want to take a look at the outside of that escape shaft. Mr. Bianchi can wait a moment for us — heaven knows he's made us wait for him.”

The bank that covered the bunker was overgrown with holly bushes, honeysuckle, pennywort, and stinging nettles. A couple of elderberry bushes had grown into flourishing trees. Clearly this was one area of the well-tended property allowed to stay wild, and Moretti noticed that he and his partner left clear evidence of their progress.

“There it is,” said Liz Falla, pointing to the apex of the mound.

The escape shaft was well concealed by the plants and grasses, and would have been as treacherous as Alice in Wonderland's rabbit hole if it had not been covered by a solid piece of grating. Moretti bent down and pulled at it. It shifted in his hand.

“See — it's been prised loose. And the plants around here have been trampled down by someone. Whoever it was came and went in that direction.”

They both stood up and looked toward the lake. Through the light mist that hovered over it they could see the naked torso of a green-blue woman, bathing in the water.

“A statue?”

“I hope so. She's got no arms. We'll go down that way, and take the path around the lake back to the house.”

They passed the woman dreaming in the lake, and the sight of her there, head bowed, motionless, flooded Moretti with a morbid awareness of his own impermanence.

They were met in the marchesa's sitting room by someone Moretti knew well, but had not expected to see: Reginald Hamelin.

Reginald Hamelin was the senior member of one of the oldest law firms on the island. Known as the silver fox because of his magnificent head of hair and his cunning in litigious matters both matrimonial and commercial, he was officially retired, but was brought out of mothballs from time to time for certain clients who believed that anyone under the age of sixty or so wouldn't know a tort from a tart.

“Detective Inspector —”

“Advocate Hamelin. Where is Mr. Bianchi?”

“He will be with us shortly. I wanted to speak to you first, privately.”

Moretti thought about protesting, but decided to appear acquiescent — for the moment. When pushed into a corner, the silver fox tended to show some of the less attractive characteristics of his namesake. He sat down in one of the two chairs placed opposite the marchesa's little desk, and Liz Falla followed suit, pulling out her notepad.

“Off the record?”

“I can't promise that, Advocate Hamelin, as you well know, but DC Falla will take no notes at this stage. We have had enough problems trying to interview Mr. Bianchi, as it is.”

Reginald Hamelin watched Liz Falla put away her notebook and turned his attention back to Moretti. “I have managed to persuade Mr. Bianchi to come and talk to you without his psychiatrist, which is what he wanted to do. Frankly, the last thing I wanted was for my client to have two handlers — and besides, I pointed out to him that it did not help his situation if he looked incapable. Unbalanced.”

“I see,” said Moretti. “What did you want to tell me, off the record?”

Reginald Hamelin leaned across the desk, looking with what was intended to be disarming earnestness at both police officers.

“I must talk to you about Mr. Bianchi's former drug problem. As you may or may not know, my client had a minor relapse about two years ago, and was hospitalized. I wanted to clear that up first, before you brought the matter up with him. I can assure you Mr. Bianchi is not on drugs now, and thus there is no question of his former habit having anything to do with these dreadful events. He is clean, Detective Inspector, and I told him I would deal with that before he came. He'll submit to tests if necessary. It was the only way I could persuade the psychiatrist not to be here. He warned me there is a possibility of a complete mental breakdown if he is rigorously questioned about his past drug habit.”

“I see,” Moretti repeated, making a token response so that they could at least get started. “We shall have to hope things don't lead in that direction, won't we? And if you could persuade your client to make an appearance, we won't have to move this to an interrogation room at Hospital Lane.”

Reginald Hamelin picked up a mobile phone sitting on the desk in front of him.

“Donatella? Ask Mario to come now, would you?”

They could not have been far away, because almost immediately the door opened and Mario Bianchi came in.

The Italian director's long hair was loose on his shoulders and around his face, giving him a biblical, almost Christlike appearance. He looked tired and drawn, but Moretti recalled that when he first met him he hadn't exactly looked the picture of health. The deep-set dark eyes above his prominent cheekbones looked haunted, and there was a nervous tic in the corner of his mouth that even the heavy moustache failed to hide. One would have had to know him years ago, thought Moretti, to know if it was the struggle to be free of drugs, the effect of the drugs, or the sensitivity of a highly creative human being that made Mario Bianchi look as if nature had made him a particularly vulnerable creature.

Bianchi sat down alongside Reginald Hamelin, and looked across the desk at Moretti.

“We can speak Italian, if you prefer, Signor Bianchi.”

“English is fine. I'll tell you if not. Better for Signor Hamelin.”

“Very well. Signor Bianchi, I want to ask you first about your father.”

“My father?”

Mario Bianchi was clearly not expecting Moretti's opening line of questioning and, from the look on his lawyer's face, neither was he. “I thought you'd want to re-check my alibis, that kind of thing.”

“Not much point to that, sir, since most people at the time of both deaths were asleep. You are far from the only one without an alibi. For the moment, I'd like to explore other areas of investigation with you.”

“How can my father have anything to do with these deaths?” Mario Bianchi's hands went up to the open collar of his shirt with a gesture Moretti recalled from their first meeting.

“I don't know if he has anything to do with it. Yet. Your father was a prominent member of the fascist party before and during the war, wasn't he?”

“Yes, but he was an intellectual. A writer, a journalist. He didn't go around bullying, torturing, and killing people, if that's what you're suggesting.”

“I was not. But his writing may have made others do so — the pen being quite as powerful as the sword. Wouldn't you agree?”

“Of course I do, as a writer myself. It is difficult for us now to understand the forces that drove men like my father to support fascism — there was much political corruption in Italy, and a real fear of the spread of communism in Europe. Many who supported Mussolini in the early days quickly became disillusioned when he joined forces with Hitler. Although my father died when I was very young and I don't really remember him, I don't intend to sit here and revile him. Especially since I don't see what this has to do with the deaths of Toni and Gilbert Ensor over three decades later.”

Mario Bianchi's hand dropped from his collar on to his lap, and Moretti saw that the unexpected direction of his questions was having the effect he hoped for. In spite of his emotional support of his father, the director's body settled more easily into the chair, his spine relaxing against the high padded back.

“Am I right in thinking he spent much of the war in and around Siena?”

“You've done your homework, Inspector. Yes, it was safer than Rome, particularly after the fall of Mussolini.”

“You must have been fascinated by the plot of
Rastrellamento
, with your family background. Did you approach Monty Lord, or did he approach you?”

“He came to me. I'd just gone through a — a bit of a lull. It was a godsend, not just a make-work project. I now have a two-year-old son, a family. I'd have taken almost anything, but this was wonderful.”

“You say you met Toni Albarosa while on holiday in Venice, and that he was the first member of the Vannoni-Albarosa family whom you met. I'm presuming you already had been approached by Monty Lord about
Rastrellamento
— am I right? Did you suggest filming in Guernsey? I was under the impression it had been arranged between Monty Lord and the marchese.”

“Yes. The preliminary groundwork had been done, but Toni did much to smooth the way for us.”

“That surprises me. I got the impression the marchese was not enamoured of his son-in-law.”

Mario Bianchi laughed. “Paolo wasn't, but that doesn't mean he wasn't anxious for him to find some sort of job with us. Appointing Toni as location manager did much to win over the marchesa to our invasion of her home, of that I'm sure. Besides, you'd have to have met Toni to know just how charming he was — it really was difficult to dislike him.”

“So he could charm his way around most obstacles, get people to give way and agree to various requests. That must have made him very useful as a location manager.”

“It did indeed. I said to you when I first met you that he opened doors for us, and that was literally true.”

“But isn't it true that, just before his death, he had tried to get permission for a location that the family vetoed?”
Let's give it a shot
, thought Moretti,
see if it's game over.
Basta,
and a tap on the side of the nose.
But Mario Bianchi only looked surprised.

“You heard about that? See, I don't know if the family vetoed the request, or even if Toni lived long enough to make it.”

“From the information we have, he and the marchesa had a falling-out about a location on the night of his death.”

“Really?” Mario Bianchi's surprise seemed genuine. “That's news to me, and the marchesa has never said anything about it.”

“I presume you had needed another location — where, and for what?”

“It was for a crucial scene I had not planned to shoot until toward the end of our schedule — a flashback. We needed a broken-down church in a much wilder location than the island could offer us, and preferably on a hill. I wanted ruins, if possible, that I could use in the exterior shots. Toni became quite excited, said he knew just the place, but he would have to check with the Vannonis. Apparently it was some place his wife had mentioned, many years ago.”

“Near Florence, or Fiesole?”

“No, much farther south, and closer to the coast.”

“Was he more specific than that?”

“Well yes, and then
I
became quite excited, because it was close to Siena and I know the area well. He said it was a small village, now deserted, between Siena and Grosseto. There were the remains of a church, he said, because his wife had mentioned an abandoned church.”

“Did he say anything about a house?”

“Not specifically, but he said there were ruins.”

“Are you pursuing the location?”

“It's been put on hold for the time being. We may have to compromise with the setting, because all this has lost us valuable time.”

The directions the questions were now taking had made Mario Bianchi return to his nervous tics, and Moretti saw that his forehead glistened with sweat. The inconsistency was puzzling — surely he had just said he was excited by the proximity to Siena? Why was he disturbed all of a sudden? Was he lying about the reasons for dropping the location?

“Time is valuable, you say, Signor Bianchi. Haven't the numerous changes to the script and the recent addition of an extra character also lost you valuable time?”

Mario Bianchi's head jerked forward, a curtain of hair concealing his expression. For the first time in the interview, Reginald Hamelin intervened.

“These are artistic matters, aren't they? Surely Mr. Bianchi does not have to justify himself for adapting a book for the screen?” The lawyer laughed lightly, dismissively, as if to dissipate his client's obvious tension.

“It could be useful,” Moretti replied. “One of the lines of inquiry we are working on is that there is some connection between the political aspects of the script and the murders. Why, Signor Bianchi, have you and Mr. Lord had a disagreement? Is it about the character of the schoolmaster? And why cast a Slovak in the role?”

“Oh, for God's sake, who said I had any disagreement with Monty?” Mario Bianchi's hysteria bubbled close beneath the surface. “There is stress, yes, because of the money. One of our investors is a bank, and banks don't like murders in what for them was a speculative undertaking in the first place. I should have thought it was obvious why we have cast Tibor — box office, Inspector, box office. We are lucky he is available.”

Mario Bianchi broke off abruptly and turned to Reginald Hamelin. “I've had enough of this. They are waiting for me on the terrace. I can't sit here any longer.”

Moretti stood up, followed by Liz Falla, taking the initiative from lawyer and client. “Thank you, Signor Bianchi, for your time. We may of course have to speak to you again.”

Reginald Hamelin extended his hand to Moretti. “We will make ourselves available,” he said magisterially, affirming his presence in any interrogation.

Moretti and his partner had just reached the door when Mario Bianchi called after them. “
A proposito
, Inspector — Tibor Stanjo is not a Slovak. Common mistake. He has lived in Italy since he was a small child. Came when his father had to come — like you and your father here, no? He is a Slovene.”

Outside the manor there were sounds of activity from the direction of the terrace.

“Between Siena and Grosseto,” said Moretti. If he'd been a police dog instead of a policeman, he'd have been whimpering with excitement and pulling on his lead. “Whatever it was happened there. Between Siena and Grosseto. And the schoolmaster becomes even more interesting as a Slovene, rather than a Slovak.”

“I have to say, Guv,” admitted his partner, “I get all confused with those parts of the world. Slovene, Slovak — I'd have thought they were the same. Why more interesting?”

“Because there was a forced evacuation of Slovenes before the onset of the war. I remember my father talking about it — many were transferred to Italy against their will. I thought they were mostly put in northern towns, like Parma and Milan, but a schoolmaster might well have to move farther south, to a more remote region, to find employment. I'm sure this schoolmaster is not in
Rastrellamento
on some idle whim. He's there for a reason.”