Moretti and Falla Mysteries 3-Book Bundle. Jill Downie
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in a white shirt of thin Indian cotton and khaki pants. “He’s had so much trouble over script changes, and he thought it was someone’s idea of a joke.”
At the sound of his wife’s voice, Gilbert Ensor opened his eyes and sat up. The marks left by the marchesa’s talons ran down his cheeks in parallel tracks of congealed blood.
“The bitch. See what she did? I could bring charges —”
“Probably not advisable in the circumstances.” Moretti’s crisp tones cut into the self-pitying whine. “But that must be your decision, naturally. Right now I would like to talk to you, Mr. Ensor, about your book and the film script for Rastrellamento.”
“How long have you got? Where would you like me to start?” The whine had changed to a petulant snappishness.
“Tell me, first of all, about your initial agreement with Epicure Films — what were the original changes that were agreed upon? What are the main differences between your novel and the script?”
“You know my work?”
“I read Rastrellamento some time ago. Refresh my memory.”
“You think all this has something to do with Gil’s book?” asked Sydney. She was looking puzzled.
“I don’t know. Perhaps we can rule it out. Go on, sir.”
“Well, there are two central plot lines: one is about a British prisoner hiding out in Tuscany just after the surrender of Mussolini, and the other concerns the struggle between the various factions in Italy at the time — the fascists, the partisans, the communists, and the efforts of the local population to deal with all these warring parties, including the presence of German troops. But if you know my work, you’ll know that I am interested in more than plot lines — I am interested in exploring the interactions of human beings, their philosophical stances and their justifications for their actions, conscious and unconscious. Much of this does not translate well to the screen, and I understand that. So much of that part of the book had to go.”
“What, do you think, attracted Monty Lord and Epicure Films to Rastrellamento?”
“Apart from my international celebrity?” Gilbert Ensor asked the question without the slightest trace of irony or self-deprecation. “Intrigue and exotic setting and historic period — and lashings of sex and violence.”
“I still don’t really understand why you’re so interested in all this.” Sydney Tremaine unfolded her long legs and perched on the edge of the window seat. “Don’t you want to know where we were and all that sort of thing?”
“Another officer will take a written statement from you both, but I am trying to establish some of the circumstances around the crime — the project you were all working on, what tensions may have arisen. Do daggers play a major role in the film, for instance?”
“Not a major role, but certainly knives were used by the resistance movement — as a silent way of killing, you understand.”
“And is there any reason in the script for you to be in Guernsey?”
“None at all. Now, that had a great deal to do with the bloke who’s just got a dagger in the chest. There’s a thought.”
“Yes.” Moretti watched the shadow crossing the flawless skin over Sydney Tremaine’s cheekbones. “I gather, Mr. Ensor, that you approved the initial cuts and alterations to your book, but that there have been changes since then that have given you problems. Why? Surely this is fairly normal in the film world?”
“The changes to the basic plot line are quite unnecessary. This isn’t Gilbert Ensor’s Rastrellamento any more — it’s more like Dante’s bloody Inferno.”
“In what way do you mean that?”
“The whole project’s become hell on fucking wheels is how I mean that — I was not speaking intellectually. Each day I spend in contact with the movie world I can feel my brain cells dying, my mental capacity shrinking like a weenie in cold water.”
Moretti ignored the outburst. “Your book and the movie have political content. If I remember rightly, you are harsh in your judgments of both the peasant population — the contadini — and the local aristocracy, when writing about their politics and their loyalties. Is it possible you have opened old wounds?”
“See, I wondered that.” Suddenly, Gilbert Ensor was quite serious. He leaned forward and offered Moretti a cigarette from a battered packet he pulled from his crumpled linen jacket.
“Thank you.” In the interests of establishing rapport — a peace offering, Moretti told his conscience, as he accepted.
“At first, when someone hurled that thing at me on the terrace, I thought it was some madman who had it in for celebrities. Then I calmed down and thought maybe it was an accident — some moronic kid playing about. Then, when I heard about the damage to the costumes, I thought it was a malicious attempt to scare us off the project.”
“But it’s a possibility, isn’t it?”
“But why Toni? If you wanted to make a point, you’d try for me again, or go for Monty, or maybe one of the actors taking political roles, wouldn’t you? Toni was Mr. Sunshine — a kind of male Pollyanna. Most of the locations had already been scouted, you know, and Monty used him to appease the marchesa. He did damn all and nobody cared, because he was so bloody cheerful and good-tempered. Got up my nose, but I like my humans to be bastards or bitches — that’s why I married Syd, isn’t it, honeybunch?”
Sydney Tremaine slipped down off the windowsill. “I’ll be right outside if you need me, Inspector,” she said.
“I probably won’t need to keep you today. Just be available to give a written statement some time.” As she walked from the room, Moretti had the feeling she was removing herself before she lost control.
“I thought it was Mario Bianchi who hired Toni Albarosa, for his local contacts — at least, that’s what he told me.”
Gilbert Ensor gave a contemptuous laugh. “He would, poor sod. Trying to hang on to the illusion he has some sort of creative control over Rastrellotitanic, as I like to call it.”
“You think the project’s doomed?”
“Oh, it’ll get made. But it won’t be the movie we started with, and I am seriously thinking of removing my name from the project.”
“Have you said that to anyone?”
“Most likely. When I’m in a blind rage or in my cups — which is most of the time lately — I say all kinds of things I don’t remember.”
“I see. Thank you, Mr. Ensor. The office will be in touch with you some time tomorrow.”
Gilbert Ensor got up from the sofa and crossed to the door. For all his marital raging and sniping, he was a lost soul without his wife to guide him through the maze and morass of everyday life — such as where to find the limousine that would take him home.
“Syd?” His plaintive call reverberated through the echoing expanses of the manor house.
But Sydney Tremaine wasn’t there.
Chapter Four
“Not one of them, Guv, can think of any reason why anyone would want to kill the marchesa’s son-in-law.”
Moretti and Liz Falla were exchanging information as they made their way across the park and up the flight of stone steps to the upper floor of the lodge where the first attack with a dagger had taken place. Liz Falla had acquired a complete list of everyone employed on Rastrellamento from the associate producer, Piero Bonini, and was compiling a record of who lived where. Not just eagle-eyed, thought Moretti, but organized. It wasn’t her fault Hanley had said “eagle-eyed” until everyone was fed up to the back teeth with hearing it.
Most of the cast and crew lived in hotels and guest houses