“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