Daggers and Men's Smiles (2 page)

“Oh, right.”

Gilbert Ensor picked up a pair of corduroy trousers from a chair and, hopping from foot to foot, hauled them over his legs, zipping them up around his protruding stomach where they hung comfortably and baggily. He opened the door onto the small private patio that adjoined the suite and stepped outside.

Beyond the high stone wall was a stretch of grass, and beyond that was the steep cliff that lay between St Martin's Point, the southernmost tip of the island, and St. Peter Port, the capital of Guernsey. A wrought-iron gate set in the wall led to one of the cliff paths that encircled the island — not that Gilbert had ever pulled back the bolt. Exercise was anathema to him.

“All that walking and running and huffing and puffing uses up creative energy. Any I have left over I save for sex.”

Sydney knew that was true. She also knew that his precious spare energy was not always saved for her. She sighed and poured him out a triple Scotch. With any luck he'd then fall asleep and stay out of trouble. Not sexual trouble. She was used to that. The trouble she dreaded was the constant fighting with any member of the film company who came close enough. She poured herself a Perrier and picked up both glasses.

“
Sydney
!”

His scream was high-pitched, shrill.
Oh dear God
, she thought. Not his bee allergy again, not a mad dash to the hospital — in which of all those expensive matching suitcases was the Epipen? She put down the glasses and ran on to the patio, the stones unpleasantly moist beneath her bare feet.

“Have you been stung?”

“That's one way of putting it.”

Gilbert Ensor's quivering forefinger was pointing at something that lay on the ground, gleaming in the slanting rays of the afternoon sun.

“It's a dagger.” Sydney picked it up, turning it over in her hands.

“No kidding, genius. It came hurtling through the gate, just as I was about to sit down. Landed at my feet.”

“Through the gate? You sure it wasn't just lying there?”

“Perfectly.”

Sydney ran over to the gate. The design of leaves and ferns was certainly far enough apart to allow a narrow knife through, but hitting the target — any target — would have been well-nigh impossible. She struggled with the bolt, and pushed it back.

“Where are you going, for God's sake?”

“To take a look. You stay there.”

The rough path on the grassy expanse beyond the patio was deserted. Sydney ran to the edge, and saw that beneath what appeared to be the lip of the cliff was another path. Above her head a couple of black-back gulls whirled and screamed in avian mockery of Gilbert's shriek. In the distance, somewhere, she could hear the noise of some kind of engine, or motor. Sydney stood on the edge of the slope and peered in the direction of the sound.

The path below her was thickly hedged, the undergrowth and trees beyond it hiding the edge of the cliff and the sea below, but it ran reasonably straight at this point. Out of the corner of her eye she was aware of movement, and turned swiftly to her right. A woman was running with athletic strides along the rough track and, even at this distance, Sydney Tremaine, the ex-ballerina, could see that this was no casual jogger.

“Hey!”

Either the woman didn't hear, or she chose not to hear. Sydney caught a glimpse of long blond hair flying, the faint gleam of the reflective tape on the heels of her running shoes before she turned the corner of the cliff and was out of sight.

Back on the patio, Gilbert seemed to have recovered. He had fetched the glass of Scotch and was already halfway through it.

“Well? Could you see anyone?”

“A jogger, a woman jogger. That was all.”

She picked up the dagger again from the small table by Gilbert's chair. It was about twelve inches long, its steel blade bolted into a mother-of-pearl handle. She touched one edge of the two-sided blade and winced. “Sharp. And pretty, but I think that's imitation mother-of-pearl. Looks like a modern copy of a medieval one.”

“How would you know? Oh, right, that godawful Borgia movie you were in.”

Sydney grimaced. But he was right. A disaster, with herself as Lucrezia Borgia, and the casting directors had stopped calling. The arrival of Gilbert Ensor in her life had been a godsend. As her mother always used to say: you pay for your pleasures. Oh God, did you ever. Two of his nastiest insults were to call her a Moira Shearer wannabe and “Lucrezia to the ends of your blood-red nails, darling — typecast to a T.” Both hurt, because both contained a grain of truth, and she knew it.

“I think we should call the police, Gil.”

“For chrissake — it's just some idiot on this speck in the Atlantic who thinks he's still in the Dark Ages.”

“Perhaps. But I think we should. After all, there was that creepy business with the costumes.”

“Jesus. I'd forgotten. That was daggers, wasn't it? Right. Phone the police. But first, honeybunch, pour me another drink.”

"Good afternoon, sir. I hope everything went as well as could be expected. In the circumstances, I mean. I'm sorry about your loss.”

Her voice took Moretti by surprise. He had forgotten how deep it was for a young woman, with a distinctly bossy timbre.

“Good afternoon, DC Falla. Yes, everything went fine. I really didn't know my Italian godmother very well. We weren't close.”

“No.”

Why did she say it like that? he wondered.

“What's going on at the Manoir Ste. Madeleine? Someone been hurt?”

“Well, it's weird.” Liz Falla turned on him the large, keen-as-mustard, eager-beaver eyes that swallowed up her small face. “More like vandalism, really.”

The police car, an 1800 cc BMW, swung smoothly around a corner, and Moretti acknowledged that DC Falla was a damn sight better driver than his last partner. Which was good, because he only liked driving behind the wheel of his own Triumph TR 6.

“I don't get it. Why are plainclothes being called in at this stage?”

“That's what I wondered, but I think it's because of the Vannonis.”

Moretti's eyebrows went up. “Are the family still around? I thought they'd just rented out the place to the film company.”

No wonder Chief Officer Hanley wants me back
, thought Moretti. When this branch of the Vannoni family arrived in Guernsey some time after the war, they had made it their business to become socially involved with the top figures in the island power structure — notably the handful of politicians who ran the island, the lieutenant-governor, and the bailiff. The former was now purely a symbolic position, but still influential, the latter was head of the judicial, legislative, and executive arms of government, appointed by the sovereign. The Vannonis spent most of the year on the island, but there was still a branch of the family in Italy somewhere, where they ran their traditional businesses: olive oil and wine.

“No. They're still on site and the son is an assistant director. I think he's the reason they're here in Guernsey in the first place. Or so I'm told. I don't really understand the set-up, and I'd have to look at my notes to see who else is doing what.”

“Do you know anything about the film company?”

“A little. It's an American outfit, but it's not that straightforward. The company itself is called Epicure Films, and the producer is the bloke that matters. He's an American called Monty Lord. The director is an Italian called Mario Bianchi.”

“Right, I remember. I read an article about him not so long ago. Wunderkind, who's going to resurrect the Italian film industry single-handedly. Any other major players I should know about? It's an adaptation of a novel by Gilbert Ensor, isn't it?”

“You've heard of him? What a piece of — sorry, Guv. Anyway, you'll see for yourself.”

DC Falla braked with a crispness not entirely called for by the terrain.

“He's hot at the moment — writes about crimes of all kinds. Crimes of greed, crimes of passion, crimes of betrayal. Remind me, which one of his books are they filming?”

“
Rastrellamento
. I haven't read it myself. I'm not big on war stories.” DC Falla replied, a note of disapproval in her voice.

“Right. I've read it. Set in Tuscany at the very end of the Second World War — escaped British POWs, fascists, communists, partisans. What are they doing over here, I wonder. Money, I suppose.”

“I don't know about that. But one of the crew told me they wanted to use the remaining structures from the occupation: bunkers, gun emplacements, observation towers. That's one of the attractions of the Vannonis' place — that big command bunker in the grounds.”

“Right. One of the principal regimental command bunkers. Isn't it linked to the house by a tunnel?”

“I wouldn't know about that. My uncle who belongs to the Occupation Society says they wanted to use the underground military hospital, but you know what that's like, Guv. Still looks like it must have done when those poor men were slaving down there.”

Yes, he knew what it was like. Clammy and dark, a curved roof hacked out of the rock overhead, with moisture dripping from the fissures, running down the gutters in the passages, an abomination of desolation.

DC Falla shuddered. “Gives me the creeps, it does. Besides, all that mould and mildew gets my eyes itching. What's the title mean —
Rastrellamento
? Is it a place?”

“No. Ensor uses it symbolically as well as literally. The raking or searching of an area for escaped prisoners, the examination of the past for ancient evils, the exploration of one's mind and thoughts for hidden motivations.”

“Not my idea of a good night out. But since he writes about violence, maybe there's a link there. To what happened, I mean. He certainly made me feel violent.”

Something in DC Falla's tone suggested a personal revulsion rather than a professional observation of character.

“Violence? I thought you said vandalism.”

“Well, I'm not sure you can commit an act of violence on a bunch of dummies — dressmaker's dummies, that's to say. Three nights ago someone got into the area at the manor where they're being stored and slashed at a collection of dummies set up with costumes of various characters in the film.”

“They're calling us in for an attack on a lineup of dresses?” Moretti's cloud of depression settled more firmly over him. “Someone's playing games. They'll just have to tighten their security. We don't have the manpower to guard Epicure Films' wardrobe for them.”

“That's what I said to Chief Officer Hanley, and the director himself had decided to keep the whole business quiet. But the costume lady was dead set against it from the beginning — there's a fair bit of damage and she's out for blood. Then this Gilbert Ensor turns up with his wife and the costume lady confides in her. Seems that the evening before — which was the evening after the incident with the dummies — someone threw a dagger onto the patio of the Ensors' hotel suite. It didn't hit anyone. Ensor was out on the patio when it happened, and when you meet him you'll see why someone might take a potshot at him — but I went out to take a look at it.”

“A dagger? Not just a knife?”

“No. Fancy-looking thing, but sharp enough to do real damage. Mrs. Ensor says it looked medieval to her.” DC Falla turned toward Moretti. The bronze tinge in her dark hair as it caught the light reminded him of the black cat who had been the family pet, Merlo. He hadn't thought about him in years. “Mrs. Ensor's like a film star herself, Guv. American. Funny, I had the feeling I'd seen her somewhere.”

“You may well have done. If I remember rightly, Ensor married Sydney Tremaine.” His partner shrugged her shoulders. “Principal dancer with, I think, the American Ballet Theatre. I saw her once, guesting at Covent Garden. You probably saw her in a film. She had a brief screen career and then retired. To marry Gilbert Ensor.”

“Good
luck
,” said Liz Falla, fervently. “I remember now. It was a film about a Russian dancer — Anna something or other. I didn't like it that much.”

“Anna Pavlova. I didn't like it much myself. But you're right, she's a looker.”

“I told the Ensors we'd drop by this evening. He wasn't thrilled at the idea. I get the feeling he just likes being a pain in the backside — as if it's good for his image, or something. My uncle Vern would say it's the artistic temperament, so you'll likely understand him better, you being a piano player.”

“We'll see.”

In what spare time he had, Ed Moretti played jazz piano with a local group, the Fénions, in a nightclub called the Grand Saracen. Named for a legendary Guernsey pirate, it operated out of the cellar of one of the eighteenth-century houses that faced the old harbour — a vault that had been used to store the wine, spirits, and tea that flooded in and out of the island from all over the world. Not everyone approved of a senior member of the small plainclothes island police force moonlighting in what used to be a smuggler's den.

“We might as well go there right now. Where are they staying?”

“The Héritage, Guv. St. Martin's.”

“Did you meet the American producer?”

“No. He's been away on business in Rome, apparently. Something to do with renting equipment, someone called the location manager told me. He's Italian, by the way. Albarosa. Toni Albarosa.”

“I'm sorry I had to take time off just as you were — assigned, DC Falla, and I didn't get everything done, anyway. I need more than a day to deal with Italian red tape and bureaucracy, and God knows when I'll be able to get back.”

“Is there any way I could help, Guv?”

“I don't think so, DC Falla, but thanks for offering.” Moretti restrained a smile.

“It's just that,” — DC Falla's small, strong hands whipped the wheel in evasive action around a couple of late-summer hikers meandering near the middle of the road — “remember that inspector from the Florence carabinieri who came over here for the symposium about money laundering?”

“Nice bloke, I remember. What was his name?”

“Benedetti. Giorgio Benedetti. We — that is, Guv, we had a bit of a fling, as you might say, before he left. He calls me from time to time.”

“Good Lord, DC Falla —” Moretti turned sideways in his seat and looked at his companion. Her profile showed no signs of emotion whatsoever, let alone embarrassment, “— should you be telling me this?”

“I don't see why not. I was off-duty at the time — well, not when we met, but I went on holiday and he — stayed on for a week. I could ask him to cut some of that red tape for you.”

“Would he do that?”

“For me, yes. Mind you, I'd just as soon this didn't get around Hospital Lane.”

“Understood. I'll bear that in mind.”

They had come to a halt outside the Héritage Hotel, one of the island's top luxury establishments. Behind its elegant Regency facade it offered ensuite facilities with all of its twelve individually decorated bedrooms, and the Ensors were occupying two suites on the ground floor, joined by a connecting door. One of the chief attractions for Gilbert Ensor was its dining room's international reputation.

“Greetings, Ed.”

They were met at the door by the owner and manager of the Héritage, Don Bertrand, who was an old school friend of Moretti's. Both of them had attended Elizabeth College, the Guernsey private school for boys, and Moretti's father had worked for Don Bertrand's father, when he turned his family home into a hotel after the war. When Moretti senior returned to the island he had first worked in the greenhouses, and then he had moved into the dining room of the Héritage. It was with regret that Bertrand senior had seen Moretti senior leave, to run his own restaurant in St. Peter Port.

“Hi, Don. You can guess why we're here.”

“Of course. Hello, Constable Falla. Did you have so much fun last time you couldn't keep away?” Don Bertrand's bright blue eyes twinkled in his deeply bronzed face — the tan of a sailor, rather than of a sun worshipper.

“Something like that, sir.”

“Hope you can get some sense out of him. He's three sheets to the wind as usual. Terrific for the bar receipts as long as he doesn't disturb the other guests.”

“Does that happen?” asked Moretti. “Could this incident be the action of an irritated guest?”

“Could be — who knows. Mind you, things are quieting down now, and I've been able to keep the suite next to his vacant for the last week.” Don Bertrand was leading them along the corridor that led from the main foyer to the part of the hotel that overlooked the cliff and the sea.

“You checked, didn't you, DC Falla, as to whether anyone had heard or seen anything?” Moretti asked.

“Well —” Liz Falla looked sheepish. “I talked to the staff, Guv, but I didn't see any point in upsetting other guests, when no one had actually been hurt.”

“For which I was bloody grateful,” was Bertrand's reply. “As you know, Ed, we are a Five Crown hotel, which means we have a porter at the desk at all times, all night. However, we cannot patrol the land beyond the hotel, and I have suggested to Mr. Ensor that he keeps off the patio. It was not — well-received. Here we are.”

They were outside a door with a peephole and a plaque on it that read Garden Suite. At the end of the corridor was another, similar door.

“Is that the empty suite?” Moretti asked.

“No, that's the door to the suite which the Ensors have also taken — or, rather, the film company have. All arrangements were made by them. We have one of the actors here as well, and two members of the film company — a man and a woman — but they are upstairs. The actor is a German. Nice guy, the German. Well, all of them are.”

Moretti remembered that Don Bertrand senior had been imprisoned somewhere in France or Germany for most of the war.

“I'll leave you to it. Good luck! See he doesn't break up the furniture.”