Daggers and Men's Smiles (23 page)

Outside his trailer, he saw the lean figure of the detective inspector, waiting for him.

“Mr. Wesley?”

“That's me. You want to talk to me? Come on in.”

He ushered Moretti over the threshold into an extremely untidy space, filled with discarded garments, glasses, newspapers, and books.

“Sorry about the mess, but I can't stand having strangers mucking about with my belongings. I prefer to wallow in my own filth.” Wesley pushed a pile of magazines off a chair and motioned to Moretti to sit down.

“Now, how can I help you? I've nothing to add to my original statement. The body count continues to go up, eh?”

“Indeed. I understand this is your last day.”

“Too bloody right it is. Thank God.”

“Does your feeling have anything to do with the changes? Do they affect your own role, or its prominence in the film?”

“Prominence!” Clifford Wesley laughed with what sounded to Moretti like genuine amusement. “Look — Detective Inspector, isn't it? — let me explain something to you. I'm twenty-eight years old and I stumbled into this business by accident while I was at university on scholarship, living hand to mouth. I spent four years in repertory theatre, making peanuts, absolutely
no
money, and then some agent sees me in a play in the middle of nowhere and next thing I know I'm in the West End, and the
next
thing I know I'm in
Rastrellamento
making more money than my dad made in his whole working life. It's a hell of a role, and apart from cutting it out altogether, there's little they can do to alter that. By the time I've finished with them there won't be a dry eye or a dry seat in the house. Fuck the schoolteacher. Fuck prominence. I'll take the money and run, thank you.”

“Schoolteacher?”

“That's the newest addition.”

“I see. I'd like to find out more from your point of view about some of the circumstances surrounding the making of
Rastrellamento
.”

“Happy to help if I can. Gil was a bastard to his wife, but he was a hell of a writer.”

“In my opinion also. Why then do you think they were making all these changes?”

“This is my first film, Detective Inspector, but I know this kind of thing happens all the time, or so Gunter tells me. However, you have to hope in this case that Mario's decisions are being dictated by his cinematic skills and not by little packets of white powder. You know about that, I imagine. Some of the changes don't make sense.”

“Really? Then I wonder why Monty Lord would agree to them?”

“That's another reason I'm glad to be leaving. All is not sweetness and light any more between those two, and they used to be thick as thieves.”

“Oh?” Moretti watched as Clifford Wesley got up from his chair and went across to a counter at one end of the trailer.

“No. Over the last day or so they've had words, hot and heavy ones. Want some?” He was holding up a kettle and a jar of instant coffee. When Moretti declined, he grinned. “Didn't think you would. As Gunter says, I have depraved tastes. Can't get used to the real stuff.”

The young actor plugged in the kettle and, when the water had heated, put a spoonful of brown powder into the mug and added water. A malodorous smell filled the trailer. Two heaping spoonsful of sugar and a similar amount of powdered creamer were added to the mix, and Wesley returned to his seat. After a couple of sips he said, “They had a loud argument the day before yesterday, in Monty's trailer. I'd been over to Betty Chesler's lodge for a fitting and was coming back to the manor when I heard raised voices. I couldn't hear what they were saying, and not being that interested I just kept on my merry way. Besides, they were speaking in Italian.”

“You're sure it was Monty Lord and Mario Bianchi?”

“Yes, I'm certain.”

“Did you hear anything at all that might have given you any idea what it was about? Had anything happened in the last few days that might have caused an argument?”

“The only thing I could think of was the new character. The schoolteacher.”

“How did you find out, and were you told anything about the new character?”

“Piero Bonini told me. He said Monty was concerned I'd be worried about my impact in the film, so I asked him —
should
I be worried? He laughed it off, saying they'd be crazy to alter the tragedy of the two lovers in any way. My opinion exactly.”

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Wesley.” Moretti stood up. “I'll leave you to enjoy your coffee in peace. I shall look forward to seeing you in
Rastrellamento
. Don't get up — I'll see myself out.”

“Oh —” Clifford Wesley gestured toward Moretti with his coffee mug, “you asked me if I knew anything about the new character. All I know is they've apparently cast some big Italian soap star in the role. A bloke called Tibor Stanjo, or something.”

“Stanjo? That doesn't sound Italian. Or British, or German, come to that.”

“Nope. Slovak originally, so Bella tells me. Probably cast him for his mass appeal, and for no more sinister reason.”

“Sinister? That's an interesting choice of word, sir.”

Clifford Wesley shrugged his shoulders. “Isn't it. Possibly all those fake
feldgendarmen
and
repubblichini
getting to me. That's the trouble with this business, Detective Inspector, illusion becomes more real than reality itself. Probably also my imagination that Donatella and Monty are no longer as chummy as they once were — a certain coolness there now, in the last twenty-four hours. Breakfast this morning was a frosty affair.”

“Interesting. Did you get any impression of who was angry with whom?”

“Donatella was icy and giving a fawning Monty the cold shoulder. For what it's worth, I've never believed there was ever really anything going on between those two — she enjoyed the admiration, and he was making sure his bread remained buttered.”

“A wise move, I would think. Thank you again.”

“Hey, don't mention it. I tell you, they're a colourful lot, these Vannonis. Even the murders on their property are exotic — do you know the writer, Jan Morris? Yes? She's written some lovely stuff about Florence.” Clifford Wesley took off his glasses and put down his empty coffee mug. “
If there is crime, it is gorgeous crime, all daggers and secret poisons.
” His beautiful actor's voice filled the trailer. “A romantic, foreigner's view, wouldn't you say? Twenty-first-century Florentines seem like a practical bunch to me.”

“An original viewpoint, sir. Safe journey home, Mr. Wesley.”

“Safer than staying around here appears to be. Good luck, Detective Inspector.”

I'll need it
, thought Moretti. A piece of sheer, utter luck. Clifford Wesley was right, there was something fake or stagey about the murder weapon. A dagger. Now why in the name of all that's sacred, or profane, would a Vannoni attract attention by choosing part of their own coat of arms as an instrument of death?

“Guv!”

Liz Falla was walking even more briskly than usual toward him from the direction of the manor. Given the current stagnant state of the investigation, her eager-beaverness was more than welcome.

“Any luck?”

“Oh yes. Guess who's the head gardener!”

“An ex-boyfriend.”

“Right!” Apparently unaware of any satirical subtext, Liz Falla continued. “Brad Duquemin. We used to go out together when we were still at school, so I haven't seen him in years. He's been here now just over a year, and he's got the housekeeper in his pocket, so he says — well, he's a good-looking bloke. Got a way with words, among other things. They have a little tipple in the evening before he goes home, and she's told him quite a lot about the family.”

“Such as?”

“No, the marchesa is not having an affair with Mr. Lord. Yes, most people knew about Miss Salviati and Mr. Albarosa. And — get this, Guv — Giulia Vannoni
isn't
a Vannoni!”

“Isn't?”

“Not by blood. In the housekeeper's opinion, that's why she's what she calls ‘different.' Interesting, eh?”

“Very. Did she explain who she is if she's not a Vannoni?”

“No, or not that he could understand — there's a problem with the language. Oh, and she told Brad there was a fight between Mr. Albarosa and the marchesa on the night of his murder. He asked her if it was about Vittoria Salviati and she laughed and said something like ‘too many, too many,' which Brad took to mean that kind of thing happened all the time. But she said something that sounded like ‘tradition' —
tradimento
, he thinks. She said it more than once.”

“
Tradimento
,” said Moretti slowly. “Not tradition, Falla. Betrayal.”

“And she also kept on about honour — he understood that. So he asked her if it wasn't to do with a woman, what was it? And
she
said —” Liz Falla paused for effect, “‘With an
esterno
for the film.'”

“Did she mean ‘location'?”

“That's what Brad thinks. Because when he said he didn't understand, she said ‘house.' And that's when she dried up. Tapped the side of her nose, said ‘
basta
,' got up and left.”

“Good work, Falla. This is all useful stuff. There's just one problem — well, there's a whole slew of them but the one that keeps hitting me is that the Vannonis may think a deep, dark family secret is at the back of these murders and be terrified of exposure. And that the damn thing, whatever it is, has absolutely nothing to do with it.”

Liz Falla looked at him. “One thing they — well, some of the fellers at the station — told me when I was to be your partner, Guv. They said, ‘He's got the best instincts of any of the DIs. Never puts a foot wrong when he trusts them.' I don't know about you, but I personally am going to trust them if that's all right with you.”

Before Moretti could respond to her revelation about the fellers at Hospital Lane, Liz Falla pulled out her notebook. “About the bunker key in the marchesa's bedroom — her door isn't always locked, even with some of the film people staying. One of the cleaning ladies was around, and she says they can usually get in without asking the housekeeper. And I had a word with the head of security, as you asked. Mr. Ensor's arrival by taxi was noted by one of the security staff, who saw him near the entrance to the bunker. He offered to escort him to the manor and was told to bugger off — Ensor's words. The guard watched him walk as far as that path that leads to the entrance and, as he thought, turn toward the terrace. Since he knew there was a regular patrol in that area, he decided to do exactly what Ensor had suggested.”

“And he saw no one else?”

“No. Of that he's sure.”

Moretti looked at his watch. “We're still too early for Bianchi. Come on, Falla, let's take another look at the scene of the crime.”

* * *

The SOC tapes were still across the entrance to the bunker, but the police guard and the incident van had been removed from the immediate vicinity and placed at the main gate to the manor. Moretti took the key obtained from the marchesa out of his pocket and turned it in the lock. The damp and moisture seeped out immediately, and he felt the familiar tightness in his chest. Behind him he heard Liz Falla shiver.

“First, the film set.”

“Lights, Guv?”

“They leave one by the door — here — it's been fingerprinted.”

“There wasn't a key on him, was there?”

Their hushed voices echoed around them.

“No. He must have been let in, or the key was removed by the murderer.”

For Moretti, there was less a sense of a terrible past in that ersatz, reconstructed room than in the dank, collapsed tunnels, the brick-filled alcoves, the deserted, echoing corridors. The phone had been left on the floor, but the single shoe had been removed to the SOC lab.

“Perhaps he thought it was connected,” said Liz Falla, resisting the temptation to rub her eyes.

“Desperately hoped it was, I'm sure,” said Moretti, bending over to look at it. “He would have been sitting at the desk when he reached for it. I imagine this was where he hoped to have his rendezvous with whoever.” He looked at the bunk bed. Its grey blanket cover was smooth, unrumpled. “He didn't get any farther than here, I think. As soon as he saw who it was coming in through the door, he knew he was in trouble.”

“How did he get past the murderer and out of the room?” asked Liz Falla. “The doorway's quite narrow.” She reached up and touched the top of the opening.

“I've been thinking about that. There must have been some sort of discussion before the murderer tried to kill Ensor. He probably tried to reason with him or her — after all, words were his stock-in-trade — and the murderer was probably equally anxious to say why he was going to kill him. He or she may have come around the side of the desk to get at Ensor, who then took off around the other side, and out into the corridor. SOC found no signs of a struggle near the door, where Ensor would have been cornered, so he must have headed down the corridor.”