Moretti and Falla Mysteries 3-Book Bundle. Jill Downie
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questioned by anyone, and because he tended to step out of his own field of expertise and interpret the medical evidence. Although Moretti knew this was tempting because there was no coroner on the island, he always attempted to rein in Le Poidevin’s flights of forensic fancy.
Most officers at Hospital Lane tended to back off and leave him alone because he was good at his job, but Moretti saw that as no reason not to push from time to time. And Le Poidevin, being an emotionally volatile extrovert himself, had assumed that Moretti’s customary reserve hid a docile and acquiescent nature. Discovering in one spectacular confrontation that he was wrong did not stop him repeating the behaviour.
Moretti transferred his attention from the mortified PC Brouard to Liz Falla, who was sitting beside him, her notepad open on the table in front of her. “DC Falla’s inquiries confirm that Gilbert Ensor took a taxi to the manor at about eleven-thirty, and the driver dropped him near the trailers used by the film crew.”
“Yes.” Liz Falla took over, and Moretti was again aware of the depth of her voice. “The driver says he was, I quote, ‘Full of himself and on and on about himself.’ He doesn’t seem to have said anything too specific about what he was up to, but the driver got the impression he was meeting a woman. When I asked him why he said, ‘You don’t get in the state he was in about a bloke.’”
There was a ripple of laughter in the room, quickly suppressed as Moretti held up his hand. “Because of the large number of people involved in this film project and the number of alibis and statements we have to check, I have Chief Officer Hanley’s permission to get some extra help. My main concern is that information we have withheld stays that way, which is why I have called this meeting. The second dagger, for instance. Go on, DC Falla.”
From under her notebook Liz Falla pulled a handful of papers. “These are printouts of various Internet websites selling daggers of all kinds. The one used in the Albarosa murder, and the hotel patio and costume incidents, is a copy of a seventeenth-century Italian dagger in the Wallace Collection in London — almost. It is described as ‘designed for the thrust and is often viewed as the favorite of assassins,’ and it looks as if the attacker had these specially made for him, or her. The dagger in the Ensor murder is the genuine article, carried by some members of the Hitler Youth in the war, and that gets trickier. Not everyone selling something like this is that keen on publicizing it. I’ve checked with the Underground Hospital, the Occupation Museum, and La Valette Museum, and there’s nothing missing from their display cases. Nor has anyone made inquiries about purchasing a similar dagger. I was reminded more than once that there may be others in private hands on the island.” Liz Falla turned to Moretti, who took over.
“Apart from the fact that DC Falla had to make inquiries about the Hitler Youth dagger, we have withheld that information and I want it to stay that way. As you know, the murder of Gilbert Ensor has attracted attention, and we have a few members of the mainland press on the island. Now, PC Brouard, a chance to redeem yourself — you’re a computer buff, I’m told, so I’m giving you the task of going through every site you can find, anything you can find, about daggers made to order. Possibly in Italy.”
Moretti picked up Liz Falla’s papers and held them out to a stunned PC Brouard, who took them without comment.
“PC Roberts, PC Le Mesurier, PC Clarkson — divide up all the statements between you and go through them with a fine-tooth comb. What are you looking for you’re going to ask me, right? The answer is — I don’t know. There are dozens of people without alibis because both murders took place at night. But watch out for inconsistencies, discrepancies, stories that seem too pat, or stories that seem too alike. Okay, Jimmy,” The tension in the room went up, “go over the basic nuts and bolts stuff from the murder scenes — similarities, differences, that sort of thing.”
Jimmy Le Poidevin raised an eyebrow. “You want me to tell you what you already know, Moretti? We’ve been over this, and you got my report, didn’t you?”
Moretti smiled. His smile made Liz Falla think of an old children’s fable in some book she’d had as a child. Something about a crocodile smiling. “Humour me, Jimmy. Perhaps it will suddenly transmogrify into new and important revelations.”
“Well, for a start, there’s little similarity between the two crime scenes, for all that both murder weapons are daggers.”
“Go on,” said Moretti.
“First of all, the Albarosa death looks like it was either accidental or opportunistic and — either by luck or good management — it was quick and clean. The Ensor murder, on the other hand, is clearly premeditated — I mean, it must be, mustn’t it, or else how did they both get down there in the first place? And whoever did it must have underestimated the victim, because he fought for his life the length of that corridor to where we found him. We’re still waiting for the final results, but the P.E.H. medics are of the opinion it was death by vagal inhibition.”
Here we go, thought Moretti.
“In layman’s terms, he died of fright — like suffocation, really.” Jimmy Le Poidevin turned and faced the assembled officers, as if he were in a lecture hall. “The vagus nerve sends a signal to the brain that makes the heart stop beating. Mind you, he’d have bled to death in the end, anyway — he had one hell of a slash in the belly. Time of death is estimated at between midnight and two a.m.”
“I thought they were getting a second opinion on that,” observed Moretti quietly. Jimmy Le Poidevin turned away from his audience.
“P.E.H. think they can take care of it themselves,” he said, his face reddening.
“Then I’ll talk to them myself. What I want from you are the forensic details from the two crime scenes —”
“Nuts and bolts, I know. I’m sure most of the officers here have no need of a frigging forensic kindergarten class” — a dramatic pause — “even if you do, Moretti.”
The crocodile smile again. “Don’t tell us, Jimmy. Show us. You say Ensor fought his way along the length of the passage. How do you know that? Coded messages written in the dirt? Second sight? A voice from beyond the grave? Give us a frigging forensic kindergarten class, Jimmy. That’s what you’re here for.”
“Jesus Christ!” The red in Le Poidevin’s face had deepened to an ugly purple. “Don’t tell me what I’m here for, you arrogant bastard!”
The door opened, and Chief Officer Hanley joined them. He surveyed Moretti, Jimmy Le Poidevin, and the assembled staff with a melancholy sweep of the eyes.
“Good morning.”
There was a muttered ripple of “good morning, sir”s around the room, and silence fell as everyone waited for him to speak.
“I trust I didn’t hear what I just heard,” he said, fixing his chief forensic officer and Moretti with the gloomy stare of one who knew only too well what he had just heard. “We have enough problems to be going on with without pitched battles between senior officers. But I’ll deal with this another time, not in public in the incident room. DI Moretti — you have, I trust, explained just how — stalled, this investigation is. We need results, and we need them fast, or we will have Scotland Yard here before you can say —” Here, Hanley himself stalled, and Moretti bit his tongue on filling in “— eagle-eyed, sir?”
“— Bob’s your uncle,” Hanley continued. “So, on the principle that six or seven heads are better than one —” this with a reproachful glance at Moretti, “— I have given DI Moretti some extra help. I realize it may be too much to ask, but it would be most welcome if some sort of advance could be made before my scheduled holidays. Now, are there any questions?”
“Sir,” PC Clarkson had his hand up first, “this second dagger — do you think this has anything to do with the Occupation?”
“It certainly opens up that particular can of worms,” Moretti replied.
“Then, shouldn’t we ask questions locally — I mean, wouldn’t it help?”
“We