Moretti and Falla Mysteries 3-Book Bundle. Jill Downie
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much of what we do is dull as ditchwater, thought Moretti. As boring as being the accountant, or lawyer, his parents had wanted him to be when he had graduated from university in London. Between his hands lay the life of a star in the creative firmament, and it would have made interesting reading in other circumstances. So far are we from the truth, he thought, that the key word for the search is “anything.”
“What about this, then?”
Liz Falla’s finger stopped suddenly in mid-page. “Fasciti. That’s ‘fascist,’ isn’t it? Read this, Guv.” She passed the sheet over to Moretti.
It was a report from about five years earlier in the Italian newspaper, Nazione, about the career of Mario Bianchi, which went into his background in more depth than the usual piece of journalistic puffery. The writer described what he called “the cultural roots of the Bianchi phenomenon,” attributing the film director’s writing ability and social conscience in large part to his father.
“This is what I was trying to remember, Falla,” said Moretti. “His father was Antonio Bianchi, a famous war correspondent for — here it is — Corriere della Sera. He’s probably best known for a book he wrote in secret, Il Giorni Avanti, which was published in 1944, saying that Hitler was evil and that Mussolini had corrupted the high ideals of fascism. He was shot to death about ten years after the war ended — says here no one was ever sure if it was murder or suicide. And look at this.”
Moretti held out a photograph of Mario Bianchi, apparently taken from some tabloid, with a short article beneath it in gigantic letters, studded with exclamations:
The Pressures of Genius! Young Mega-Director Mario Bianchi Picked Up in Drug Raid! Police Sources Reveal the Award-Winning Director in Possession of Heroin and Cocaine!
The same information, in more restrained print and tone, appeared in the Nazione, and a later excerpt told readers that Bianchi, a first offender, had been given probation, as long as he underwent treatment for his addiction.
“Well, well,” said Liz. “It would certainly make him a likely candidate for blackmail. I wonder if that director, Mr. Lord, knew about it.”
“We’ll ask him. My feeling is that this kind of thing is so common he probably isn’t that concerned as long as Bianchi can do his job. And I suppose we didn’t pick it up here, because he doesn’t have a record.”
Moretti and Liz Falla ran through the rest of the information but, apart from a growing list of movie achievements and awards, and the fact that Bianchi had married quite recently, there was no further mention of drugs, or idealist fascist fathers.
“Interesting,” said Moretti. “If you look at the dates of his films, there appears to be a bit of a drought before Rastrellamento. Perhaps he was just writing, or enjoying his newly married state.”
Before Liz could respond, the telephone on the desk between them rang. Moretti picked it up and gave his name.
“Detective Inspector Moretti, this is the Marchese Paolo Vannoni. I am told you are in charge of the murder inquiry into the death of my son-in-law?”
The voice was cultured, the English heavily accented but fluent, a dry brittle quality to the tone, like sandpaper against wood.
“You are phoning from Florence?”
Moretti scribbled the marchese’s name on a piece of paper and held it out to Liz Falla, who raised her eyebrows and whistled noiselessly.
“Yes.”
“Would you prefer to speak in Italian?”
“It would be better, yes.” They switched languages. “Time is passing, Inspector, and I am told that no one has seen fit to keep the family informed as to how the inquiry is progressing. No explanations, no information as to when we can bury Toni. Nothing. What do you have — anything? A suspect, at least, I hope.”
As the language changed to Italian, the sandpaper changed to steel.
Moretti thought of Giulia Vannoni’s flippant request at the Grand Saracen, Sydney Ensor’s game-playing, the marchesa’s arrogance, both his and his partner’s feeling that something — God knows what — was being withheld. He counterattacked.
“Marchese, you cannot expect me to discuss our inquiries with you over the phone. This is a complicated business, since there is a possibility that your family and the Albarosa family have been targeted for some reason. And, sir, as to being kept informed, there have been incidents involving a prowler at the manor, and not one member of the family has seen fit to tell us about them.”
From the other end of the line came a rusty chuckle, suggesting years of disuse.
“Detective Inspector, forgive me. You should understand I am very much regretting my decision to encourage the making of Rastrellamento at the manor, and I am sure that Toni’s death and the previous events to which you refer are all connected to a wild and dissolute element in that unstable and corrupt world. Why you think the family has been targeted I cannot imagine. Nothing like this had ever happened until I gave permission.”
Let’s be conciliatory, thought Moretti, and see where this is leading — see why this distant, disconnected aristocrat picked up the phone to speak to me.
“You may be right, sir. But can you think why your son-in-law would be the target? I was under the impression that until the making of this film, he had not been part of that unstable and corrupt world, as you call it?”
“Detective Inspector Moretti —” the marchese too was sounding conciliatory, his tone almost confiding, “— Toni’s marriage to Anna was a great mistake, encouraged by my wife, in spite of my misgivings. It has caused a permanent rift between us. My daughter was crazy about him and, in fact, became pregnant by him. The family is a good one, so I gave my permission.”
“Would permission have been necessary in this day and age?”
“If Anna wanted to remain in the family and to receive her share of the property and inheritance, yes.”
“I see. Why, sir, did you give permission for the filming of Rastrellamento?”
“Well — money, of course was one of them. Vannoni Vigneti e Boschetti is doing very well, but our way of life is increasingly expensive to maintain. The other reason was the talent of the director, Mario Bianchi. Which is ironic.”
“Ironic? How?”
“I feel he is a bad influence for my son, Gianfranco, who has no willpower and little backbone, and I regret it deeply if I have opened the wrong door — which I may have done. Mario has brought an unsavoury element along with him.”
This time, Moretti waited.
“Drugs.”
Droghe.
Across the desk, Liz Falla leaned forward in her chair.
“You are saying then, sir, that in your opinion this could be a drug killing?”
“Drug related, yes.”
“Do you have any evidence to support your theory?”
“It is the only one that makes sense. It is your job to find the evidence.”
“Why then use daggers?”
“Detective Inspector, I cannot see into the mind of some hop-headed addict.”
Moretti changed direction. “I understand you are close to your daughter, Anna. Yet you say the marriage distanced you from your wife. You never come here, I believe, and she rarely returns to Italy.”
The marchese was back to sandpaper and steel again. “What any of this has to do with Toni’s death I cannot think. All this is a waste of time, an unnecessary intrusion into people’s lives.”
“Nothing is private, Marchese, in a murder investigation, as I told your wife.”
Moretti expected