Moretti and Falla Mysteries 3-Book Bundle. Jill Downie
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concealed, to Jimmy Le Poidevin’s undisguised relish. “I’m reluctant to do so, but I feel we should be exploring local possibilities in the light of this last weapon. Old enmities, and all that.”
“Possibly, sir, but I’d rather hold on to that information a bit longer.” Moretti stood up, and Liz Falla followed suit. “I have arranged to speak to the film director this morning — if you’ll excuse me, sir.”
Outside in the corridor, Liz Falla exploded — a sotto voce explosion. “What a prat — just because the murderer was selfish enough to endanger Mrs. Hanley’s holiday in Torremolinos or whatever — sorry, Guv, but what a wally!”
“That’s enough, Falla. He’s not the only wally in this station, but he’s right about one thing,” said Moretti. “What he said about old enmities — he’s got that right.”
“So you think this might have a Guernsey connection then?”
“No, I don’t. But I want to keep quiet about the dagger that killed Ensor, because you never know. I’ve got to cover all bases, but I still believe it’s a red herring. That’s why Hanley and PC Clarkson and the others in there —” Moretti jabbed his thumb in the direction of the incident room door, “are on a wild Guernsey goose chase, looking busy and keeping the chief officer happy.”
The dying man lay on the dirt floor, life ebbing slowly from him. He was young, in his mid-twenties, slightly built, his nimbus of blond hair in stark contrast to the cloud of dark hair around the agonized face of the girl who cradled him in her arms. Suddenly, with what was left of his strength, he raised his face to hers and kissed her, then fell back.
“No!” The girl’s frantic cry echoed in the silence.
The camera crept in noiselessly to catch the agony in Clifford Wesley’s eyes, the blood caked on his clothing, as the boom of the mike was lowered to pick up his final words.
“Cosa fatta, capo ha.”
A thing once done has an end.
“Cut!”
Mario Bianchi turned and looked at Monty Lord, who stood beside him. There were tears in his eyes, slowly spilling over onto his cheeks.
“Magnifico.”
A brief spattering of applause from the assembled crew dissipated the tension, bringing everyone back into the present.
Clifford Wesley got up from the ground and gave Vittoria Salviati a hug.
“Terrific, Vicky. One take and we gave it to ’em.”
“What Mario wanted, si.”
Mario Bianchi’s well-known preference for the immediate reaction, his dislike of repeated takes for scenes of emotional intensity, put tremendous pressure on his actors, and Wesley, with his stage experience, was at an advantage over Salviati. There was no doubt, he mused, as he allowed the dresser to peel his blood-soaked shirt off him, that Gunter was right. The murder of Toni had opened some emotional floodgate in the beautiful body and limited mind of Vittoria.
Well, it’s an ill wind, he thought. She may have lost a lover, but found her centre. Who knows?
And who cares? he added to himself. With that scene in the can, I can get out of here. Take the money and run, before the arrival of this extra character dreamed up by Mario. Rumour had it that they were casting an Italian soap star, and Clifford Wesley smiled to himself as he imagined what Gilbert Ensor’s reaction would have been. He’d have gone ballistic, no question. Shame, really, that particular scene would not be played out. He used to enjoy Gil’s histrionics. They reminded him of his father inveighing drunkenly against the fates in his penniless Liverpool childhood, with a luxuriance of language and epithet intensified by hardship and deprivation.
Pulling on the dressing gown offered by the wardrobe assistant, Clifford Wesley retrieved his glasses and started to make his way across the tangle of cords and leads that brought life to the cameras and lights. Monty and Mario were deep in some sort of confabulation together and, from what he could hear, the discussion was not friendly.
Second time in two days, he thought. I’m well out of this.
Outside his trailer, he saw the lean figure of the detective inspector, waiting for him.
“Mr. Wesley?”
“That’s me. You want to talk to me? Come on in.”
He ushered Moretti over the threshold into an extremely untidy space, filled with discarded garments, glasses, newspapers, and books.
“Sorry about the mess, but I can’t stand having strangers mucking about with my belongings. I prefer to wallow in my own filth.” Wesley pushed a pile of magazines off a chair and motioned to Moretti to sit down.
“Now, how can I help you? I’ve nothing to add to my original statement. The body count continues to go up, eh?”
“Indeed. I understand this is your last day.”
“Too bloody right it is. Thank God.”
“Does your feeling have anything to do with the changes? Do they affect your own role, or its prominence in the film?”
“Prominence!” Clifford Wesley laughed with what sounded to Moretti like genuine amusement. “Look — Detective Inspector, isn’t it? — let me explain something to you. I’m twenty-eight years old and I stumbled into this business by accident while I was at university on scholarship, living hand to mouth. I spent four years in repertory theatre, making peanuts, absolutely no money, and then some agent sees me in a play in the middle of nowhere and next thing I know I’m in the West End, and the next thing I know I’m in Rastrellamento making more money than my dad made in his whole working life. It’s a hell of a role, and apart from cutting it out altogether, there’s little they can do to alter that. By the time I’ve finished with them there won’t be a dry eye or a dry seat in the house. Fuck the schoolteacher. Fuck prominence. I’ll take the money and run, thank you.”
“Schoolteacher?”
“That’s the newest addition.”
“I see. I’d like to find out more from your point of view about some of the circumstances surrounding the making of Rastrellamento.”
“Happy to help if I can. Gil was a bastard to his wife, but he was a hell of a writer.”
“In my opinion also. Why then do you think they were making all these changes?”
“This is my first film, Detective Inspector, but I know this kind of thing happens all the time, or so Gunter tells me. However, you have to hope in this case that Mario’s decisions are being dictated by his cinematic skills and not by little packets of white powder. You know about that, I imagine. Some of the changes don’t make sense.”
“Really? Then I wonder why Monty Lord would agree to them?”
“That’s another reason I’m glad to be leaving. All is not sweetness and light any more between those two, and they used to be thick as thieves.”
“Oh?” Moretti watched as Clifford Wesley got up from his chair and went across to a counter at one end of the trailer.
“No. Over the last day or so they’ve had words, hot and heavy ones. Want some?” He was holding up a kettle and a jar of instant coffee. When Moretti declined, he grinned. “Didn’t think you would. As Gunter says, I have depraved tastes. Can’t get used to the real stuff.”
The young actor plugged in the kettle and, when the water had heated, put a spoonful of brown powder into the mug and added water. A malodorous smell filled the trailer. Two heaping spoonsful of sugar and a similar amount of powdered creamer were added to the mix, and Wesley returned to his seat. After a couple of sips he said, “They had a loud argument the day before yesterday, in Monty’s trailer. I’d been over to Betty Chesler’s lodge for a fitting and was coming back to the manor when I heard raised voices. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, and not