Daggers and Men's Smiles (5 page)

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

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

“Who found him?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I'm sorry — I don't —”

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

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

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

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

DC Falla's love life was proving quite useful.

“Charming.”

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

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

But Moretti had rarely heard of such overt class distinction.

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

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

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

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

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

“Quite,” said Moretti, his thoughts elsewhere.

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

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

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

“Thank you, DC Falla.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Does your room face the terrace?”

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

“Signor Vannoni?”

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

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