Daggers and Men's Smiles. Jill Downie
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figure, legs wobbling slightly from his recent exploits. “They’re paying you a fortune. And shouldn’t you put something on?”
“Oh, right.”
Gilbert Ensor picked up a pair of corduroy trousers from a chair and, hopping from foot to foot, hauled them over his legs, zipping them up around his protruding stomach where they hung comfortably and baggily. He opened the door onto the small private patio that adjoined the suite and stepped outside.
Beyond the high stone wall was a stretch of grass, and beyond that was the steep cliff that lay between St Martin’s Point, the southernmost tip of the island, and St. Peter Port, the capital of Guernsey. A wrought-iron gate set in the wall led to one of the cliff paths that encircled the island — not that Gilbert had ever pulled back the bolt. Exercise was anathema to him.
“All that walking and running and huffing and puffing uses up creative energy. Any I have left over I save for sex.”
Sydney knew that was true. She also knew that his precious spare energy was not always saved for her. She sighed and poured him out a triple Scotch. With any luck he’d then fall asleep and stay out of trouble. Not sexual trouble. She was used to that. The trouble she dreaded was the constant fighting with any member of the film company who came close enough. She poured herself a Perrier and picked up both glasses.
“Sydney!”
His scream was high-pitched, shrill. Oh dear God, she thought. Not his bee allergy again, not a mad dash to the hospital — in which of all those expensive matching suitcases was the Epipen? She put down the glasses and ran on to the patio, the stones unpleasantly moist beneath her bare feet.
“Have you been stung?”
“That’s one way of putting it.”
Gilbert Ensor’s quivering forefinger was pointing at something that lay on the ground, gleaming in the slanting rays of the afternoon sun.
“It’s a dagger.” Sydney picked it up, turning it over in her hands.
“No kidding, genius. It came hurtling through the gate, just as I was about to sit down. Landed at my feet.”
“Through the gate? You sure it wasn’t just lying there?”
“Perfectly.”
Sydney ran over to the gate. The design of leaves and ferns was certainly far enough apart to allow a narrow knife through, but hitting the target — any target — would have been well-nigh impossible. She struggled with the bolt, and pushed it back.
“Where are you going, for God’s sake?”
“To take a look. You stay there.”
The rough path on the grassy expanse beyond the patio was deserted. Sydney ran to the edge, and saw that beneath what appeared to be the lip of the cliff was another path. Above her head a couple of black-back gulls whirled and screamed in avian mockery of Gilbert’s shriek. In the distance, somewhere, she could hear the noise of some kind of engine, or motor. Sydney stood on the edge of the slope and peered in the direction of the sound.
The path below her was thickly hedged, the undergrowth and trees beyond it hiding the edge of the cliff and the sea below, but it ran reasonably straight at this point. Out of the corner of her eye she was aware of movement, and turned swiftly to her right. A woman was running with athletic strides along the rough track and, even at this distance, Sydney Tremaine, the ex-ballerina, could see that this was no casual jogger.
“Hey!”
Either the woman didn’t hear, or she chose not to hear. Sydney caught a glimpse of long blond hair flying, the faint gleam of the reflective tape on the heels of her running shoes before she turned the corner of the cliff and was out of sight.
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.”
"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