Daggers and Men's Smiles. Jill Downie
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“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 a fair bit of damage and she’s out for blood. Then this Gilbert Ensor turns up with his wife and the costume lady confides in her. Seems that the evening before — which was the evening after the incident with the dummies — someone threw a dagger onto the patio of the Ensors’ hotel suite. It didn’t hit anyone. Ensor was out on the patio when it happened, and when you meet him you’ll see why someone might take a potshot at him — but I went out to take a look at it.”
“A dagger? Not just a knife?”
“No. Fancy-looking thing, but sharp enough to do real damage. Mrs. Ensor says it looked medieval to her.” DC Falla turned toward Moretti. The bronze tinge in her dark hair as it caught the light reminded him of the black cat who had been the family pet, Merlo. He hadn’t thought about him in years. “Mrs. Ensor’s like a film star herself, Guv. American. Funny, I had the feeling I’d seen her somewhere.”
“You may well have done. If I remember rightly, Ensor married Sydney Tremaine.” His partner shrugged her shoulders. “Principal dancer with, I think, the American Ballet Theatre. I saw her once, guesting at Covent Garden. You probably saw her in a film. She had a brief screen career and then retired. To marry Gilbert Ensor.”
“Good luck,” said Liz Falla, fervently. “I remember now. It was a film about a Russian dancer — Anna something or other. I didn’t like it that much.”
“Anna Pavlova. I didn’t like it much myself. But you’re right, she’s a looker.”
“I told the Ensors we’d drop by this evening. He wasn’t thrilled at the idea. I get the feeling he just likes being a pain in the backside — as if it’s good for his image, or something. My uncle Vern would say it’s the artistic temperament, so you’ll likely understand him better, you being a piano player.”
“We’ll see.”
In what spare time he had, Ed Moretti played jazz piano with a local group, the Fénions, in a nightclub called the Grand Saracen. Named for a legendary Guernsey pirate, it operated out of the cellar of one of the eighteenth-century houses that faced the old harbour — a vault that had been used to store the wine, spirits, and tea that flooded in and out of the island from all over the world. Not everyone approved of a senior member of the small plainclothes island police force moonlighting in what used to be a smuggler’s den.
“We might as well go there right now. Where are they staying?”
“The Héritage, Guv. St. Martin’s.”
“Did you meet the American producer?”
“No. He’s been away on business in Rome, apparently. Something to do with renting equipment, someone called the location manager told me. He’s Italian, by the way. Albarosa. Toni Albarosa.”
“I’m sorry I had to take time off just as you were — assigned, DC Falla, and I didn’t get everything done, anyway. I need more than a day to deal with Italian red tape and bureaucracy, and God knows when I’ll be able to get back.”
“Is there any way I could help, Guv?”
“I don’t think so, DC Falla, but thanks for offering.” Moretti restrained a smile.
“It’s just that,” — DC Falla’s small, strong hands whipped the wheel in evasive action around a couple of late-summer hikers meandering near the middle of the road — “remember that inspector from the Florence carabinieri who came over here for the symposium about money laundering?”
“Nice bloke, I remember. What was his name?”
“Benedetti. Giorgio Benedetti. We — that is, Guv, we had a bit of a fling, as you might say, before he left. He calls me from time to time.”
“Good Lord, DC Falla —” Moretti turned sideways in his seat and looked at his companion. Her profile showed no signs of emotion whatsoever, let alone embarrassment, “— should you be telling me this?”
“I don’t see why not. I was off-duty at the time — well, not when we met, but I went on holiday and he — stayed on for a week. I could ask him to cut some of that red tape for you.”
“Would he do that?”
“For me, yes. Mind you, I’d just as soon this didn’t get around Hospital Lane.”
“Understood. I’ll bear that in mind.”
They had come to a halt outside the Héritage Hotel, one of the island’s top luxury establishments. Behind its elegant Regency facade it offered ensuite facilities with all of its twelve individually decorated bedrooms, and the Ensors were occupying two suites on the ground floor, joined by a connecting door. One of the chief attractions for Gilbert Ensor was its dining room’s international reputation.
“Greetings, Ed.”
They