by Jill Downie
It was a passionate speech, delivered cold and hard, in the marchese’s sandpaper rasp. Moretti felt chilled.
“I presume you have read Rastrellamento, Marchese?” he asked.
“Yes. It is not my kind of literature, but Mario told me there would be many changes.”
“What do you dislike about it, sir?”
“I am not one for harking back to the past, Detective Inspector. Life goes on. And now, speaking of life going on, I must go.”
“Thank you for getting in touch with us, sir. Of course we will let the family know as soon as we have any solid information.”
“Grazie.”
Before the word was completely out of Paolo Vannoni’s mouth and he had a chance to hang up, Moretti broke in.
“One thing, Marchese. About the manor — it is yours, I believe?”
“Yes.”
“And you live in Florence all year round?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Is there another property in the family? Besides the Albarosa villa, I mean. Another house?”
For a moment, Moretti thought the marchese had hung up on him.
“No. No.”
Then the line went dead.
“There’s a turn-up for the books, Guv. Fancy him calling all the way from Florence. Now why would he do that?”
“Did you pick any of that up?” Moretti asked, scribbling furiously. “I want to get it down before I forget.”
“I caught the word ‘drugs,’ and I think I heard him say something about the director and his son, didn’t I?”
“You did, Falla. You did indeed. One brings an unsavoury element with him and the other has no backbone.”
“Then he hung up on you when you asked him about a house. I don’t get it.”
“Hold on and I’ll tell you what Dan Mahy said.”
Moretti finished writing and filled Liz Falla in on his rambling interview with Dan Mahy, leaving out the comments about his own father and mother.
“I might have thought it was all the ravings of someone gone soft in the head, if the marchese hadn’t reacted to my inquiry as if I’d accused him of murdering his son-in-law himself. Not that he’d have minded, because for that he’s off the hook.”
“Why would he take a powder about another house?”
“Whatever the reason, Paolo Vannoni is prepared to throw the reputation of not only Mario Bianchi, but also his own son, to the wolves. He handed us two suspects on a plate: Gianfranco and Mario. That’s why he phoned, Falla — to divert our attention from the internal affairs of the family itself. But I think we should double-check the two statements, anyway.”
“I’ll pull them, Guv.”
“It’s getting late, but I want to return to the manor and ask the marchesa why she said nothing about the prowler. Perhaps she will be a little more forthcoming — and I want to see her reaction to her husband’s comments.”
This time Donatella Vannoni was graciousness itself. She offered coffee, tea — even a beer — and made sympathetic noises about the length of their day. Gone was the defensive, hostile woman of the morning. As soon as Moretti saw her face, he knew the marchese had phoned her, and that any element of surprise he might have hoped for was gone. The enmity between husband and wife was not going to play into his hands, as he had hoped. The marchesa was even prepared to agree that her encouragement of the relationship between Toni Albarosa and her daughter had been “a terrible mistake.”
“And as to the prowler, Detective Inspector, why would I tell you? The housemaid in question is unreliable, given to hysterics — she probably imagined the whole thing.”
“And Dan Mahy?”
“Who? Oh, that poor man — senile, I’m told. Lives in squalor, I believe, on the coast somewhere — his wife was on staff here. You knew that? He still hangs around the place, and we do what we can for him.”
Outside the door of the marchesa’s private sitting room, Moretti and Liz Falla stood and looked at each other.
“Nothing like a threat to the dysfunctional family to make all its members suddenly remember they are in complete accord about everything,” observed Moretti. There was a faint smell of expensive cigar in the passage, and he was longing for a cigarette.
“That was the most frustrating —” began Liz Falla.
“Signor! Signorina! A moment of your time?”
A figure was approaching them down the long stretch of corridor with the bravura and élan of a luxury ocean liner, the floating skirt of her gown creating an ivory wake around her.
“Wow! Adriana Ferrini!” breathed Liz Falla, star-struck.
“Yes! That’s me!”
Ferrini’s rich laugh preceded her. She was dressed as if for a garden party in a floor-length chiffon and satin creation, her sumptuous mouth, flashing eyes, and almond skin perfectly made-up, her bronze-tinted hair arranged in carefully casual disarray around her internationally celebrated face. Where the marchesa wore gold so heavy it still bore the appearance of the nugget from which it came, Adriana Ferrini’s choice of ornamentation was diamonds, sparkling imposingly in her ears and against the luminous satin of her gown.
The door of the marchesa’s sitting room opened.
“Adriana. I was just about to ring for —”
“Donatella darling, I must speak to these two officers. Later.”
Moretti’s sixth sense, numbed by the previous half-hour’s stonewalling, sprang to life. Standing between the two women, he could almost feel the animosity vibrating in the air as they exchanged their apparently innocuous banalities.
“My suite is on the next floor, officers — we could talk there.”
Adriana Ferrini occupied a splendid set of rooms that faced the front and one side of the villa. The windows of her sitting room overlooked the far end of the long terrace, well away from the scene of Toni Albarosa’s murder, and the noise, bustle, and lights of the film set. Motioning them toward two brocade-covered gilt chairs by a low marble table, she sat down on a matching sofa opposite.
“Would you prefer to speak in Italian?” Moretti asked.
“Of course, I heard you were fluent. No, no. I’ve spent much time in America. It would be better for the signorina, I think?”
The marchesa and the actress were built on the same scale — imposing women, with strong bones, long legs, and generous breasts. But there the resemblance ended. Where the marchesa’s dark eyes suggested banked fires kept rigidly under control, only to erupt in anger when she felt threatened, Adriana Ferrini’s emotions constantly bubbled to the surface during the course of the interview, her body moving to the rhythm of her mood, her hands constantly in motion. If ever, thought Moretti, one wanted to show Chief Officer Hanley the difference between a Neopolitan and a Florentine, one would only have to place the two women side by side.
“So,” she began, “is it a compliment or an insult that neither of you have interviewed me yourselves?”
Before either Moretti or Liz Falla could respond, she threw her head back and roared with laughter, tossing her meticulously tousled mane of bronze hair. Even the lobes of her ears were magnificent.
“Am I not a suspect?”
“In a murder investigation,” Moretti replied, “everyone without an alibi is suspect. But you are certainly not at the top of our list. We have, of course, read your statement. You asked to speak to us — is that because you wish to add to that statement?”
The amusement left Adriana Ferrini’s face as swiftly as it had appeared, to be replaced by what looked like apprehension. “Do police officers give any importance to feelings, forebodings — what I can only call atmosphere? I cannot add any facts to my statement, but I need to give you my impressions.”
Liz Falla thought of Moretti’s instructions to her that morning and her own chilly frisson in the manor lodge, smothered as swiftly as it had been born.
“Impressions, Signora, can be crucial to an investigation. In my experience, women are particularly good at picking up the clues that lie in a
smile, a frown, the way someone looks at someone else,” Moretti replied.
Like whatever it was I sensed between you and your hostess, he thought to himself.
“I’m glad you feel like that. Because, even before Toni was killed, I had the feeling something was going to happen. Behind all this, someone is pulling the strings — only I don’t know why.”
“Pulling the strings — are you talking about the changes in the screenplay?”
“Among other things. When we first arrived here, everything was sweetness and light, but that has changed. I really don’t know what Mario is up to, or why. Movie scripts get rewritten all the time, as I know only too well, but there is a feeling of — oh, I don’t know — a hidden agenda to these changes. Mario and I were good friends, then he hit a bad patch, and now he’s pulled out of it. Or so I thought. His wife is a lovely person, and he had everything going for him again.”
“Have you asked him about the changes?”
“Yes. He talks about creative freedom and so on and so forth.”
“Perhaps that’s what it’s all about.”
“Look, Signor.” Adriana Ferrini leaned forward, hands on her knees. “I’m not a member of any artistic elite. I’m not a contessa or a principessa or a marchesa. I come from peasant stock, and I came up the hard way. Now I have diamonds and furs, and homes in three countries, but I also have my sound peasant common sense. I know soft soap when I hear it, and bullshit when I smell it.”
“So,” said Moretti. “Give us your theory, Signora. Use that sound peasant common sense of yours. What, in your opinion, is the hidden agenda?”
“Family.” It was said firmly, without hesitation. “Mario is under pressure from someone in the Vannoni-Albarosa family to make changes to the script — and now you’re going to ask me why, aren’t you? Well, I don’t know. But if I had to put my money on anyone, it would be on Donatella. She spends a great deal of time with Mario and Monty Lord, apart from general get-togethers at mealtimes and cocktails and so on. She is manipulative and cold — a combination I detest.”
“Then why are you staying here?”
“Because I can get more privacy. Not that anyone on your island has bothered me, but a few paparazzi appeared on the hotel doorsteps and were disappointed. Besides, the atmosphere has changed since I arrived.”
“Then who do you think murdered Toni Albarosa — and why?”
“Why is easier. He was two-timing a member of the Vannoni family, right here at the manor. Who? Donatella? Gianfranco? Giulia?”
“Signora —” Liz Falla’s tone was tentative, until Adriana Ferrini turned and smiled at her. “We were under the impression the marchesa was unaware of her son-in-law’s affair.”
Adriana Ferrini snorted and tossed her head. “Monty is such a romantic — he told you that, didn’t he? Donatella has the poor naive man believing she is in need of protection from the wicked world, when it is Monty who should watch out for his virtue, and his heart.”
“In your opinion,” Moretti asked, “has the film been compromised? Is it in jeopardy? Is someone trying to stop it being made?”
“Are either of you married?”
Adriana Ferrini’s unexpected response had both Moretti and Falla speechless for a moment and then they answered in unison.
“No.”
La Ferrini gave one of her celebrated, throaty laughs. “Che peccato! The reason I ask is not to embarrass you, but because there is often a time in a marriage when the husband or wife says one to the other, ‘I don’t know what it is, but something is not right, I am not happy — and I can’t put my finger on it, but it’s not your fault, darling.’ That’s how I feel about all this, and I have even wondered if Toni’s death has absolutely nothing to do with Mario’s games with the script. I told you I could only give you impressions.”
“This has been very useful, Signora, and we are grateful you have given us the time.” Moretti stood up, and Liz Falla followed his lead.
“Oh, by the way — have any members of the family ever spoken about another house, apart from the manor?”
“Another house?” Adriana Ferrini thought a moment, and then shook her head. “No, not another house. But I know the Vannonis are not originally from Florence or Fiesole — one of my maids told me that when she heard about Rastrellamento. There’s Anna’s house in Fiesole, the marchese’s apartment in Florence, and this place. I wouldn’t know about Gianfranco — not my favourite character. Perhaps they had a place that was destroyed during the war — have you asked them? Is it important?”
“Possibly not. They say there is no other house.”
“Ah.” Adriana Ferrini stayed seated on the couch and extended her hand. “I hope I have not wasted your time.”
“Far from it.”
“They tell me you are a pianist, Signor Moretti. A jazz pianist. I must come and hear you play sometime.”
“It would be an honour, Signora.”
Moretti and Liz Falla were at the door when the actress called after them.
“Officers — if what my maid told me is true, you are not dealing with Florentines here. It might be useful to remember that.”
Outside the manor, night had fallen.
“What did she mean about them not being Florentines, Guv?”
“I think, Falla, she was talking about passion.”
“You don’t just mean sex, do you?”
“No.”
Inside the police car, the phone started to ring. Liz Falla got in and answered it.
“The results are in from the post-mortem, Guv. No surprises. Estimated time of death about four o’clock in the morning, a single stab wound to the heart, massive internal bleeding, and little external bleeding. No signs that Albarosa put up a fight, no cuts to his arms or hands. Oh, and the blow was upward, suggesting the attacker was shorter than his victim.”
“Or her victim,” said Moretti. “It could have been a woman — a woman he knew from the sound of it.”
“It doesn’t rule out too many people, because Albarosa was tall. What now, Guv?”
“Home, Falla. No need to go back to the station. We’ll drop off at your place first and I’ll take the car on home. Do you live with your parents?”
“That would cramp my style, Guv,” said Liz Falla cheerily, putting on the headlights and heading out of the courtyard. “I’ve got a flat out at La Salerie, on St. George’s Esplanade by the old harbour. Used to share it with a feller, but I ditched him and kept the flat.”
His partner’s unself-conscious insouciance about her love life was light years away from the sturm und drang Moretti had gone through with Valerie. Maybe it was a generational thing — she certainly made him feel like Methuselah.
“Nice pub out there — watch out.”
A dog appeared in the headlights, his eyes glowing red.
“Ooh, very Hound of the Baskervilles,” said Liz Falla, hitting the brakes. “And there’s his handler.”
A uniformed figure emerged from the shadows, and Moretti rolled the window down and identified himself. The man called the dog to heel and waved them on. In the wing mirror, Moretti saw him watching them until they were out of sight.
Instead of heading out to the coast and taking Val des Terres back onto the Esplanade skirting the harbour, they came back into St. Peter Port by La Charotterie and Le Bordage, down the steep slope of Fountain Street, with the town church on their left. As they turned the corner onto the North Esplanade, Moretti said, idly, his thoughts elsewhere, “You brought us back in along La Valée de Misère, Falla. The Vale of Suffering.”
His wandering mind snapped briskly back into the present as, beside him, his partner shuddered violently.
“Don’t say that.” Her voice was ragged, and she sounded angry.
“I’m sorry.” Surprised, Moretti turned to look at her, but all he could see was her profile against the window of the car, the lights along the harbour wall flashing as they passed. “This was a nasty part of the town, but it was a long
time ago, Falla. Four hundred years or more. Is that what’s bothering you?”
“Yes, Guv. Sorry I spoke to you like that. Blame my grandmother, Guv, and her stories.”
“Did she give you nightmares when you were a child?”
“Yes. More than that, she says we are descended from the Becquet family — you know the ones.”
“Becquet? Weren’t a few of them executed in the sixteenth century as witches?”
“More than a few. The family died out, but my grandmother insists that’s who we are. My dad says there’s no proof whatsoever, and she just likes to dramatize everything.”
“Like your uncle Vern.”
“Right.” At least he had made her laugh. “Why anyone would want to claim that lot as ancestors beats me.”
“Perhaps she needs them for some reason.”
“Perhaps. Here we are.”
Liz Falla brought the car to a halt alongside the sea wall on St. George’s Esplanade. Moretti opened the car door and was assailed by the pungent smell of salt and seaweed from the bay beyond. The moon was almost full and he could just see on the horizon the dark humps of the islands of Herm and Jethou. He got out, walked across the pavement, and leaned over the sea wall. The tide was on its way out, leaving behind rock pools edged with acorn barnacles, dog whelk, and coralweed, quivering with the hidden lives of lugworm and shore crabs, long strands of thongweed floating in them like hair. He heard Liz Falla shut the door of the car, then the click of her heels as she walked around to join him.
“I live just across the road,” she said. “I like it here. It’s not spectacular, or postcard-pretty, mind you, but that’s what I like. It looks, feels, and smells real.”
“It’s pleasant,” Moretti agreed. “Why did you want to be in the police, Falla?”
“Me?” She sounded surprised at the question. “I didn’t want to sit at a desk in Lloyds Bank or the Crédit Suisse. I needed excitement, but I wanted to find my excitement in the here and now, not in claptrap about four-hundred-year-old satanists.” She shivered, but this time it was with mock fear. “How about you, Guv?”
How to encapsulate in a few words, as she had done, the twisting path that had brought him to Hospital Lane? That would mean disclosure, exposure, confidences. His fault, he had asked the first question.