“That much hasn’t changed. What has changed, it seems to me, is proportion. There is more emphasis on the contessa, her entourage, her relationship with the fascists and partisans in the town, and less on the love affair between the daughter of the family and the escaped British prisoner of war. Or else both elements have been balanced out, you might say.”
“If I remember the book correctly, one of its strengths was Ensor’s ability to convey the complexities of human nature — in other words, there was no clear-cut bad guy, or good guy. Has that changed at all, particularly with the rewrites?”
“I hadn’t really thought about it before but, now you ask me, I think so. How can I put this — things have become more black and white. Perhaps that is what cinema audiences want today, and certainly that is Monty Lord’s strength — giving them what they want. Mario is the genius, and Monty the facilitator.”
“Who does the rewrites? Not Gilbert Ensor now, I gather.”
Gunter Sachs laughed. “God, no! Mario does them.”
“The director? Is this usual?”
“If you’re Ingmar Bergmann or Woody Allen, yes — Kubrick would even rewrite a scene while the actors were before the cameras. Mario is that kind of director.”
“One more question, Mr. Sachs, and then I can leave you in peace. You say things are now more black and white. In your opinion, who is the bad guy?”
Gunter Sachs got up and fetched himself another beer from the small fridge. For a moment, Moretti wondered if it was a diversionary tactic; he wanted to see the expression on the actor’s face when he replied. However, Gunter Sachs turned back, the open bottle in his hand, and the only expression Moretti could read was one of uncertainty.
“Now, there’s the strange thing. The only bad guys I can see from all this rewriting are both women; the contessa and the housekeeper. Then there’s the priest — and here things become even stranger. He’s a caricature, and he’s so — cozy. But the way the script reads, you wouldn’t trust him to christen your children, let alone take your confession.”
“Because he doesn’t keep his mouth shut?”
“Exactly.”
“Does he betray partisans? Fascists?”
“He’s a turncoat. Many were, of course. At that time, in Italy, survival often depended on being in the right camp at the right time in the war — you must know that, you being a Guernseyman. The stories I have heard since I’ve been here! But you take the carabinieri, for instance. In Rastrellamento, when the Germans arrive in the town, they take their orders from them. It is a situation familiar to many of my own countrymen. I wouldn’t have agreed to take this role if there had not been an understanding of motivation, what makes people betray. What makes them evil.”
“So the contessa is now evil?”
“She is driven by a desire to preserve the status and position of her family into — yes — evil decisions.”
“Such as — ?”
“The betrayal of her own daughter.”
“In the book, the escaped prisoner of war, Tom Byers, survives to marry the daughter.”
“Not in the movie. They both die. But that change was in the original script. Mario has always liked unhappy endings.”
“Is that good box office?”
“If the survivor is Adriana Ferrini, probably. Besides, Detective Inspector, think of Romeo and Juliet. There won’t be a dry eye in the house.”
Moretti held up the copy of Rastrellamento. “May I borrow this?”
“With pleasure.”
Moretti stood up and held out his hand. “You’ve been very generous with your time. Thank you.”
“Tell me, Detective Inspector,” said Gunter Sachs as they shook hands, “do you think the murder and the other attacks are to do with the plot of Rastrellamento?”
“It is certainly one of the many angles we are exploring, sir,” said Moretti, falling back on convenient procedural cliché. “People have long memories.”
“Ah, that is so true.”
It was only after the policeman had left his trailer that Gunter Sachs remembered what Vittoria Salviati had told him. He thought of calling Moretti back, or contacting him, then dismissed it. For the life of him he couldn’t think how a movie location could be of any importance at all in the death of Toni Albarosa.
Liz Falla was sitting on a curved stone seat between two massive pots of hydrangeas writing in her notebook.
“This is a big place, Guv. Good thing you phoned on your mobile or we could have looked for each other the rest of the day. It’s got seven bathrooms, so they tell me. I found the security people and the feller who was covering this part of the premises —” Liz’s arm swept over the expanse of terrace, “— says there was no unexpected behaviour from the dogs that night. Everything was quiet.”
“Which is exactly why the behaviour is unexpected. Whoever stabbed Albarosa had to be on the grounds — as you say, this is a big place — and I’m presuming the security staff’s rounds would be frequent enough to coincide with the murderer, concealed in bushes or among trees. Were the dogs allowed to fraternize with any of the cast and crew?”
“Yes. Usually that’s not the case, but because this is a private home, the dogs had to know who they should expect to find in the grounds. They didn’t have to be big buddies with them, just had to be familiar with their smell, apparently. I got a list.” Liz Falla consulted her notebook. “The marchesa and her son, Mr. Albarosa, Monty Lord, Mario Bianchi, and three cast members who are staying here: Miss Salviati, Ms. Ferrini, and Mr. Wesley.”
“Good work, Falla.” It came naturally, to Moretti’s relief. “We’ll need to look more closely at all of them, but I want to start with Mario Bianchi.” Moretti went over his interview with Gunter Sachs, concluding with his theory about the rewriting of the script. Liz Falla raised her eyebrows.
“Really, Guv? Then I don’t have to be a genius to know why you want to check into Mr. Bianchi. He’s directing the film — and the plot.”
“Yes. It should be easy enough to run a background check on him, because he’s a celebrity. I’ll get records to run his name through the computer and give us everything they come up with — everything. I want all the gossip, all the dirt, even from unreliable sources, like the tabloids.”
“Do you know what you’re looking for?”
“I’m hoping to find something about his family. He’s too young to have been around at the end of the war, but at the back of my mind is a feeling I’ve read something about him that has something to do with the political situation in the thirties and forties.”
“What now, Guv?”
“Back to headquarters. I want to see if anything has come up about any kind of an incident involving the Vannonis.”
There was a sudden burst of noise, and a small but voluble army of technicians came round the corner. Moretti stood up.
“We’ve been displaced, Falla. The world of make-believe is taking over while we go back to reality.”
Back to reality. The phrase kept recurring in Moretti’s mind on the drive back to St. Peter Port. Back to the reality of the war years, when the uniforms and the dresses in Betty Chesler’s lodge and the military vehicles in the car park that looked so quaint and picturesque were part of an actual and threatening landscape in which real people lived, and lost, their lives.
Chapter Eight
“Bitch — you bitch.”
“Hypocrite