Moretti and Falla Mysteries 3-Book Bundle. Jill Downie
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and bottle them, the contents of those bottles would all look exactly the same. The sudden stillness of Giulia Vannoni’s body was unmistakable, the sense of withdrawal palpable. Like the regret of Anna Albarosa for drawing attention to the family crest. If Giulia Vannoni could have hung up on him, as her uncle had done, the line would now have gone dead.
“I accused you of pursuing the obvious, Detective Inspector. I was wrong, it seems. You also pursue flights of fancy — or is it that you are more paranoid than I thought? A conspiracy theory now — what next!”
She laughed scornfully but she was rattled, Moretti could see it. He remembered why Hanley had been so keen to get him back. You speak Italian. In this investigation, it would take more than his knowledge of the language to uncover the truth; it would take an understanding of his father’s people.
La famiglia, for instance.
For a man who rarely returned to his roots, his father talked a great deal about the importance of the family in Italian society — not in such grandiose and abstract terms, but it permeated his conversation about his native land. In spite of a growing divorce rate, a dropping birthrate, and the perennial problem of unfaithful wives and husbands, lovers and mistresses, that ancient institution remained the crux, Moretti knew, of the most profound and significant elements in Italian society. Its hold on the loyalty of its members was as tenacious as ever, the basis of much that was precious and good — and some that was bad.
This woman had talked about love-hate relationships, which was how his father had spoken about family: family loyalty, family obligation. He could only hope that the element of surprise would work with Giulia Vannoni where bullying or reasoning would be so much wasted breath. He asked his next question without preamble or explanation.
“This house, Signorina. The one near the sea. Where is it, and what does it have to do with these murders and Rastrellamento?”
He heard the intake of breath, and then she said, “What is all this crap? I want a lawyer.”
Without another word, Moretti picked up his phone and handed it to her.
“What a ball-breaker, eh, Guv!”
“Bit of a misnomer in her case, Falla, but I know what you mean.”
“What with one thing and another, I forgot to tell you — Giorgio phoned last night. He’s found the birth. Sophia Maria was born in Pistoia to Maria Colombo. Father unknown.”
“Pistoia was my godmother’s home town. Father unknown? Then where does the name Catellani come in?”
“She was adopted by a Franco and Rosa Catellani. Now he’s checking on the whereabouts of Sophia Maria — the Catellanis’ home town was given as Montecatini, near Pistoia and it seems she’s still alive — or at least, there’s no record of a death.”
So his godmother had given birth to a child out of wedlock. And had kept silent, a silence only broken after her death. A complete human life, obliterated by silence.
“Please thank him for me.” He had completely forgotten about Sophia Maria Catellani. “We’re going back to the manor, but first I want to see if any of the crime-scene investigators have returned.”
As Moretti and Liz Falla came downstairs, some of the crew were just coming into the building chattering like magpies, the adrenalin still pumping from the scene in the bunker.
“Hey, Moretti. We’ve left everything like you said, but there’s a problem.”
“Problem?”
Of course there’s a bloody problem, thought Moretti. There’s a mountain of problems, a bunkerful of problems. There’s a family conspiracy problem, and the fact that I may be pursuing a chimera anyway. A red herring of a house. Because, above all, there’s a change of dagger motif problem. The roots of this business may well be right here on the island, and not in Florence, or Fiesole, or the Maremma after all.
“Yes. The medico says there may be trouble establishing time of death, because of the temperature and humidity down there — Christ, what a hellhole! He may call in a pathologist from the Met for a second opinion.”
“I see. Could he at least establish if death was immediate — as in the case of Albarosa?”
“Of that he’s sure. It wasn’t. There was a struggle — Ensor fought back. And that’s not all. There’s a possibility the dagger wasn’t the cause of death. Seems the victim crawled to where he died. And the doc thinks there’s a chance he died of suffocation. Or fright. He’ll get a preliminary report to you tomorrow.”
“That confirms one thing for us, Falla,” said Moretti as they crossed the courtyard together, “Toni Albarosa was probably surprised to see whoever it was on the terrace, but was not aware he was in danger. Gilbert Ensor did not see the person he expected to see, and knew immediately he was in trouble.”
“Couldn’t he have been forced down there?”
“Possibly, but I think he was lured there, and I’m sure you’re right — he thought he was going to an assignation. From something he said to his wife I think he was expecting some sort of erotic thrill — maybe having sex in that fake command centre — I don’t know. For a man like Gilbert Ensor, sexual experimentation was as necessary as — as —.”
“A good single malt, Guv?”
Moretti looked at his colleague, who was backing the Mercedes out of the narrow parking space with practiced ease.
“I was going to say bread and butter, but that’s certainly more accurate in Ensor’s case.”
“Guv —” Moretti sensed that his partner was treading delicately, “— isn’t it possible his wife has something to do with this? I mean — I shouldn’t be saying this as a police officer, but can you blame her? And couldn’t she and Giulia Vannoni be in this together?”
“Which is why I’ve arranged for a police guard on the door of her hotel suite. And since there is also the possibility she herself is in danger, the guard serves a double purpose. As for the signorina, it’s more likely she was the decoy for someone other than Sydney Tremaine. When we get to the manor, park around the back, Falla. We are going to obey the Vannonis’ commands, and go in through the tradesmen’s entrance.”
“May I ask why, Guv?”
“Because the only mini-break we’ve had on this case came from a contact of the Vannonis’ servants. I want to see if we get lucky again.”
Security had obviously been beefed up since the discovery of Gilbert Ensor’s body in the bunker. As Liz Falla brought the car to a halt alongside a jeep and a row of motorbikes, they were immediately approached by one of the private security staff, who peered into the car, acknowledged them with a touch of his cap, and moved on. The back door of the manor was locked, and Moretti rang the ponderous iron bell pull alongside it. The sound reverberated inside the house.
“You’d expect a zombie or something to answer that, wouldn’t you, Guv?” said Liz Falla with a theatrical shiver.
The door was opened instead by a tiny black-clad woman, who fixed them with a baleful glare.
“Yes?”
“Police,” said Moretti, pulling out his identification.
“You go front,” she said, starting to close the door.
“Signora, come sta? Italiana?”
“Si.” Cautiously, the door opened a little wider.
“Mi chiamo Eduardo Moretti. Mi padre era Italiano — da Pistoia.”
“Ah — Pistoia!” The door opened wider again.
Still talking, Moretti eased himself into the hallway, with Liz Falla close on his heels.
Where the passage of time and the outlay of money had bestowed a mellow richness and a warm and mature patina on the formal and family areas