Daggers and Men's Smiles (30 page)

“Yes! At great risk to themselves.”

“And he was the father, I presume.”

“Oh, no.”

“No?” Moretti sat up. It had been a long night, and he had been drifting into a semi-somnolent state, since the story was now so anticlimactic.

“No. They used him as cover. They met when my aunt Sylvia went out to take him food, and she lied about going to church as well. Said she was going to mass and confession, when she was meeting her lover.”

“Let's back up a little. They? If not the POW, then —?”

But Moretti knew, even before Gianfranco Vannoni gave him the answer.

“Some son of a bitch from Slovenia, hired as a schoolteacher when all the real men were fighting for their country. A coward and a lecher. He was her lover.”

“The schoolteacher,” Moretti repeated.

“Him. And now Mario is trying to add a schoolteacher of some ethnic persuasion or other to the cast of
Rastrellamento
. I have never seen my mother so angry. You've seen my mother in action, so you'll know just what a stink she's been raising. That's why I had to get away — she leans on me, you know, and I just had to escape for a while. But it makes you think, doesn't it?”

“But your mother is not a Vannoni.”

“That has nothing to do with anything. When she married the Marchese Vannoni she became the keeper of the family honour, who knew all the secrets. She was a Vitali. Her family owned the jeweller's stores of the same name.”

So the marchesa's family were in trade, albeit the luxury trade. The Vitalis owned one of the boutiques, Moretti knew, on the Ponte Vecchio, and he'd seen others in Rome and Milan.

Gianfranco Vannoni kept talking. “When the family moved away from San Jacopo, they settled at first in Florence. The marriage between my father and my mother was, to all intents and purposes, an arranged marriage, combining property, wealth, and name. We children in the family were told about Sylvia, and sworn to secrecy.”

“Why tell you? Why not let it rest?” Moretti asked.

“Because vicious and inaccurate lies are still being told about San Jacopo, and the family thought it best we hear the truth.”

“The truth,” Moretti repeated. “I assume this is why your mother is in Guernsey. To escape what you call vicious lies.”

“Yes, partly. About ten years ago, there was someone — we never knew who — asking questions in the region, stirring things up again. Sylvia may be dead, but the damage goes on. I have begged my mother to break the silence and put an end to her exile, but she won't hear of it. She says she only married my father for his name, and he married her for her family's money, and she's damned if she's going to end up without the one thing she wanted: a title with an unblemished reputation. My mother's social life was ruined by the stories, and it helped bring about the end of my parents' marriage. Can you blame her for hating my father for what his dead aunt has done to her life?”

Moretti did not respond. Bracing little homilies about the difference between good and evil, truth and lies, would have no impact on Gianfranco Vannoni, and really didn't matter, as far as the case was concerned. “So, your great-aunt had an illicit relationship with a Slovene schoolteacher in San Jacopo, and they used a British prisoner of war as a go-between, or as cover. The Slovene had pro-fascist sympathies, and was shot by the partisans, along with the Briton. Later, Sylvia killed herself. Is that substantially correct?”

“Yes,” Gianfranco Vannoni agreed. “Could I have a cigarette, by any chance?”

As Moretti took out his packet of cigarettes it occurred to him he hadn't smoked in over twenty-four hours. Across the table, some of the swagger returned to Gianfranco. He drew deeply on the cigarette and attempted to straighten his bedraggled jacket.

“So, Detective Inspector, what is happening about my present situation?”

“If the girl does not press charges — and it is highly unlikely she will — you will be released — but that is only because you are a material witness in a murder investigation, and should return immediately to Guernsey. That is what I have told the arresting officer, and also that I will be leaving with you.” As Moretti looked at the battered face of Gianfranco Vannoni across the table, it struck him that this debauched piece of pond life was providing him with an alibi for his own Italian adventure.

“Before we attend to the paperwork, there is one part of the story you have not completed for me. What happened to the baby?”

“I don't know — I swear to you that's the truth. I don't even know if Sylvia miscarried, if it was a boy or a girl, or even if the baby survived.”

“The answer to that,” said Moretti, “is yes.” He stood up and gathered together the papers from the table between them. “Yes, I think we can safely assume the baby survived.” He left the room, ignoring the outstretched hand of Gianfranco Vannoni.

It had been an unpleasant journey back to the island. Lack of sleep and the repellent proximity of Gianfranco Vannoni at his elbow for the two-and-a-half-hour flight to Gatwick, plus another hour on to Guernsey, made Moretti feel a desperate need for a hot bath or a swim in the ocean. Thankfully, DC Falla had arranged for the Guernsey flight to be held for fifteen minutes, so Moretti was spared sitting at Gatwick for about two hours making small talk with his unwelcome flight companion. There must be some puzzlement at Hospital Lane as to how he had got to Florence from Alderney and back with such speed, but with any luck, such minutiae would have faded from the collective memory by the time Chief Officer Hanley returned.

This time, as he walked from the plane with Gianfranco Vannoni and saw DC Falla up on the observation deck, Moretti felt only relief.

She was waiting for him as they came through customs, with two uniformed officers.

“Good morning, sir. The officers here will take Mr. Vannoni with them to the station.”

“I'll go along —”

“No, sir.”

Startled out of his semi-somnolent state by such
lèse-majesté
, Moretti watched as his partner took hold of Gianfranco Vannoni by the arms and held them out for the handcuffs carried by one of the constables.

“I'll explain in a minute, sir.”

As Vannoni and his escort disappeared through a separate entrance from the other passengers to the waiting police van, Liz Falla said, “Sorry, Guv, but I couldn't say in front of Vannoni. There's been another knifing.”

They were walking briskly toward the exit doors of the airport. “Who? Not —?”

“Ms. Tremaine is at my place.”

“Your place?”

“She's fed up with your selection of videos. I told her she'd probably see you later on today. No, the victim is Dan Mahy. He's dead.”

“Mahy. Dear God, poor old devil. I should have got him moved into town.”

“He'd never have gone, Guv, you know that.”

“Who found him? When?”

“Someone from Social Services. This morning. We're going out there now.”

“How did the Alderney cover story go?”

They were in the police Mercedes, heading south. Rain was falling steadily, and the wind whipped leaves and small twigs against the windscreen.

“Iffy. But everyone now thinks it was a cover for tracking down Vannoni. When asked questions, I just looked inscrutable. DCI Hathaway says there'll be some explaining to do about not reporting.”

“There's more to add to the story I told you on the phone, Falla, but I'll go over it when we get to the station. How did your other inquiries go — at the airport, I mean?”

“I confirmed that the airport is closed between the hours of nine at night to nine in the morning for all flights. Even private planes can't operate during those hours, because the tower is closed. But — a funny thing. About a week ago they found one of their jackets — those lime-green sleeveless ones worn by personnel? — down beyond one of the administrative buildings, just lying on the ground. It was one of the ones worn by the terminal duty officers, and they're stored in a room down between the customs area and the public toilets. They swear the room is always kept locked, and don't know how it got there. I took a look while I was waiting for you — there's a sign up: No Unauthorized Persons Beyond This Point.”

“Interesting. Clearly
some
unauthorized person managed. Here we are.”

Ahead of him, Moretti could see through the heavy mist a cluster of police cars and vans, the cordon of tape cutting off the path that led to the old cottages. It was only six days, in weather just like this, since he had spoken to the old man.

“A stupid, dumb oversight.”

“What is, Guv?” Liz Falla brought the Mercedes to a halt just outside the cordon.

“My failure to grasp the importance of Dan Mahy. I was so caught up with the damned Vannoni family, I never even thought he might be in any danger. I thought a lot of it was the ramblings of old age.”

“Who was to know, Guv.” Liz Falla got out of the car, and swore under her breath as her heels sank into the soft, soggy turf.

“I should have known. That's my job. Where was he killed?”

“In his cottage. The SOC people are out here, of course, but I've told them to touch nothing till you got here.”

They stumbled down the sharp incline to what was left of the Hanois cottages into the wind that whipped in off the sea below them. Moretti could hear it crashing against the rocks. Most of the cottages looked like something out of the village of San Jacopo, but the one that presumably had belonged to Dan Mahy still looked like a place of possible habitation. The heavily mossed roof was intact, and there were curtains over the windows, whose glass was still in one piece. He remembered the sensation he experienced on his last visit, as the years coalesced into one single suspended moment. Which past, indeed, had brought about the murder of Dan Mahy?

“Morning, Moretti.”

“Jimmy. Hi.”

Jimmy Le Poidevin stood in the entrance of Dan Mahy's beloved cottage, his official garb a stark anachronistic statement against the ancient weathered door.

“The body's in here. Also the medico. No fancy dagger this time — looks like a common or garden kitchen knife. In my humble opinion, that is.”

The front door led straight into the main living area, which looked as if it were indeed the only living area for the occupant. There was a couch close to the fireplace, a battered metal stove in a far corner, an equally battered wooden table with two chairs. Stuffing was coming out of the padded back of the couch, which was heaped with a couple of blankets and a large, stained, uncovered pillow. Two oil lamps, one by the stone fireplace, the other on the table, seemed to have provided the only illumination. The sole decoration on the walls, which bore the remnants of a faded, flowered wallpaper, was what looked like old family photographs. There was a faintly fetid smell in the air of unwashed clothing, mould, and drains.

Dan Mahy was lying in the fetal position on a piece of faded, scorched rug close to the fireplace. His heavy boots were by the door and he was wearing slippers on his feet, and he would have looked quite comfortable were it not for the knife protruding from his upper back through the dark oiled wool of his Guernsey. Moretti bent down and looked at the old man's face. In death it appeared calm, his thin pale lips curved in a half-smile. Moretti looked up at the doctor.

“Dr.Lawson, isn't it?” Lawson was one of the duty doctors from Princess Elizabeth Hospital Moretti liked working with. He was young, sharp witted, and yet far from opinionated.

“That's right, Detective Inspector.”

“Any idea when this happened?”

“From the state of the body, I'd estimate probably about twelve hours ago. Early evening yesterday, say.”

Moretti turned back to Le Poidevin. “Any sign of a break-in?”

“No. The door was open.”

“So he let his visitor in.”

From the corner of the room Liz Falla said, “And from the looks of it, made his killer a cup of tea.” She pointed to two chipped mugs and a battered metal teapot on a wooden table against the wall. There was also the remains of a loaf of
gâche
— the yeasty, raisin-filled Guernsey bread still made on the island.

Moretti stood up, feeling as he did so the unpleasant combination of fatigue and shock dragging at his leg muscles.

“What's been taken out of the drawer, Falla?” He pointed to a collection of small objects, scattered on the table surface above a half-open drawer set in the side of the table.

“Looks like a collection of Occupation memorabilia, Guv.” Liz Falla pulled out a pair of latex gloves and pulled them on. “Ration books, old cinema tickets, that kind of thing.”

Moretti joined her at the table. Piled on its stained, pitted surface was a hoard of wartime island ephemera, most of it the worse for wear: mildewed newspapers, recipes for everything that could possibly be made out of kelp and carrageen, tattered leaflets of various kinds in both English and German. There were some coins, one or two medals, and a couple of rusty penknives. Moretti picked one up. The German manufacturer's name was still faintly visible on it.