Back on the patio, Gilbert seemed to have recovered. He had fetched the glass of Scotch and was already halfway through it.
“Well? Could you see anyone?”
“A jogger, a woman jogger. That was all.”
She picked up the dagger again from the small table by Gilbert’s chair. It was about twelve inches long, its steel blade bolted into a mother-of-pearl handle. She touched one edge of the two-sided blade and winced. “Sharp. And pretty, but I think that’s imitation mother-of-pearl. Looks like a modern copy of a medieval one.”
“How would you know? Oh, right, that godawful Borgia movie you were in.”
Sydney grimaced. But he was right. A disaster, with herself as Lucrezia Borgia, and the casting directors had stopped calling. The arrival of Gilbert Ensor in her life had been a godsend. As her mother always used to say: you pay for your pleasures. Oh God, did you ever. Two of his nastiest insults were to call her a Moira Shearer wannabe and “Lucrezia to the ends of your blood-red nails, darling — typecast to a T.” Both hurt, because both contained a grain of truth, and she knew it.
“I think we should call the police, Gil.”
“For chrissake — it’s just some idiot on this speck in the Atlantic who thinks he’s still in the Dark Ages.”
“Perhaps. But I think we should. After all, there was that creepy business with the costumes.”
“Jesus. I’d forgotten. That was daggers, wasn’t it? Right. Phone the police. But first, honeybunch, pour me another drink.”
Chapter Two
“Good afternoon, sir. I hope everything went as well as could be expected. In the circumstances, I mean. I’m sorry about your loss.”
Her voice took Moretti by surprise. He had forgotten how deep it was for a young woman, with a distinctly bossy timbre.
“Good afternoon, DC Falla. Yes, everything went fine. I really didn’t know my Italian godmother very well. We weren’t close.”
“No.”
Why did she say it like that? he wondered.
“What’s going on at the Manoir Ste. Madeleine? Someone been hurt?”
“Well, it’s weird.” Liz Falla turned on him the large, keen-as-mustard, eager-beaver eyes that swallowed up her small face. “More like vandalism, really.”
The police car, an 1800 cc BMW, swung smoothly around a corner, and Moretti acknowledged that DC Falla was a damn sight better driver than his last partner. Which was good, because he only liked driving behind the wheel of his own Triumph TR 6.
“I don’t get it. Why are plainclothes being called in at this stage?”
“That’s what I wondered, but I think it’s because of the Vannonis.”
Moretti’s eyebrows went up. “Are the family still around? I thought they’d just rented out the place to the film company.”
No wonder Chief Officer Hanley wants me back, thought Moretti. When this branch of the Vannoni family arrived in Guernsey some time after the war, they had made it their business to become socially involved with the top figures in the island power structure — notably the handful of politicians who ran the island, the lieutenant-governor, and the bailiff. The former was now purely a symbolic position, but still influential, the latter was head of the judicial, legislative, and executive arms of government, appointed by the sovereign. The Vannonis spent most of the year on the island, but there was still a branch of the family in Italy somewhere, where they ran their traditional businesses: olive oil and wine.
“No. They’re still on site and the son is an assistant director. I think he’s the reason they’re here in Guernsey in the first place. Or so I’m told. I don’t really understand the set-up, and I’d have to look at my notes to see who else is doing what.”
“Do you know anything about the film company?”
“A little. It’s an American outfit, but it’s not that straightforward. The company itself is called Epicure Films, and the producer is the bloke that matters. He’s an American called Monty Lord. The director is an Italian called Mario Bianchi.”
“Right, I remember. I read an article about him not so long ago. Wunderkind, who’s going to resurrect the Italian film industry single-handedly. Any other major players I should know about? It’s an adaptation of a novel by Gilbert Ensor, isn’t it?”
“You’ve heard of him? What a piece of — sorry, Guv. Anyway, you’ll see for yourself.”
DC Falla braked with a crispness not entirely called for by the terrain.
“He’s hot at the moment — writes about crimes of all kinds. Crimes of greed, crimes of passion, crimes of betrayal. Remind me, which one of his books are they filming?”
“Rastrellamento. I haven’t read it myself. I’m not big on war stories.” DC Falla replied, a note of disapproval in her voice.
“Right. I’ve read it. Set in Tuscany at the very end of the Second World War — escaped British POWs, fascists, communists, partisans. What are they doing over here, I wonder. Money, I suppose.”
“I don’t know about that. But one of the crew told me they wanted to use the remaining structures from the occupation: bunkers, gun emplacements, observation towers. That’s one of the attractions of the Vannonis’ place — that big command bunker in the grounds.”
“Right. One of the principal regimental command bunkers. Isn’t it linked to the house by a tunnel?”
“I wouldn’t know about that. My uncle who belongs to the Occupation Society says they wanted to use the underground military hospital, but you know what that’s like, Guv. Still looks like it must have done when those poor men were slaving down there.”
Yes, he knew what it was like. Clammy and dark, a curved roof hacked out of the rock overhead, with moisture dripping from the fissures, running down the gutters in the passages, an abomination of desolation.
DC Falla shuddered. “Gives me the creeps, it does. Besides, all that mould and mildew gets my eyes itching. What’s the title mean — Rastrellamento? Is it a place?”
“No. Ensor uses it symbolically as well as literally. The raking or searching of an area for escaped prisoners, the examination of the past for ancient evils, the exploration of one’s mind and thoughts for hidden motivations.”
“Not my idea of a good night out. But since he writes about violence, maybe there’s a link there. To what happened, I mean. He certainly made me feel violent.”
Something in DC Falla’s tone suggested a personal revulsion rather than a professional observation of character.
“Violence? I thought you said vandalism.”
“Well, I’m not sure you can commit an act of violence on a bunch of dummies — dressmaker’s dummies, that’s to say. Three nights ago someone got into the area at the manor where they’re being stored and slashed at a collection of dummies set up with costumes of various characters in the film.”
“They’re calling us in for an attack on a lineup of dresses?” Moretti’s cloud of depression settled more firmly over him. “Someone’s playing games. They’ll just have to tighten their security. We don’t have the manpower to guard Epicure Films’ wardrobe for them.”
“That’s what I said to Chief Officer Hanley, and the director himself had decided to keep the whole business quiet. But the costume lady was dead set against it from the beginning — there’s