La Ferrini gave one of her celebrated, throaty laughs. “Che peccato! The reason I ask is not to embarrass you, but because there is often a time in a marriage when the husband or wife says one to the other, ‘I don’t know what it is, but something is not right, I am not happy — and I can’t put my finger on it, but it’s not your fault, darling.’ That’s how I feel about all this, and I have even wondered if Toni’s death has absolutely nothing to do with Mario’s games with the script. I told you I could only give you impressions.”
“This has been very useful, Signora, and we are grateful you have given us the time.” Moretti stood up, and Liz Falla followed his lead.
“Oh, by the way — have any members of the family ever spoken about another house, apart from the manor?”
“Another house?” Adriana Ferrini thought a moment, and then shook her head. “No, not another house. But I know the Vannonis are not originally from Florence or Fiesole — one of my maids told me that when she heard about Rastrellamento. There’s Anna’s house in Fiesole, the marchese’s apartment in Florence, and this place. I wouldn’t know about Gianfranco — not my favourite character. Perhaps they had a place that was destroyed during the war — have you asked them? Is it important?”
“Possibly not. They say there is no other house.”
“Ah.” Adriana Ferrini stayed seated on the couch and extended her hand. “I hope I have not wasted your time.”
“Far from it.”
“They tell me you are a pianist, Signor Moretti. A jazz pianist. I must come and hear you play sometime.”
“It would be an honour, Signora.”
Moretti and Liz Falla were at the door when the actress called after them.
“Officers — if what my maid told me is true, you are not dealing with Florentines here. It might be useful to remember that.”
Outside the manor, night had fallen.
“What did she mean about them not being Florentines, Guv?”
“I think, Falla, she was talking about passion.”
“You don’t just mean sex, do you?”
“No.”
Inside the police car, the phone started to ring. Liz Falla got in and answered it.
“The results are in from the post-mortem, Guv. No surprises. Estimated time of death about four o’clock in the morning, a single stab wound to the heart, massive internal bleeding, and little external bleeding. No signs that Albarosa put up a fight, no cuts to his arms or hands. Oh, and the blow was upward, suggesting the attacker was shorter than his victim.”
“Or her victim,” said Moretti. “It could have been a woman — a woman he knew from the sound of it.”
“It doesn’t rule out too many people, because Albarosa was tall. What now, Guv?”
“Home, Falla. No need to go back to the station. We’ll drop off at your place first and I’ll take the car on home. Do you live with your parents?”
“That would cramp my style, Guv,” said Liz Falla cheerily, putting on the headlights and heading out of the courtyard. “I’ve got a flat out at La Salerie, on St. George’s Esplanade by the old harbour. Used to share it with a feller, but I ditched him and kept the flat.”
His partner’s unself-conscious insouciance about her love life was light years away from the sturm und drang Moretti had gone through with Valerie. Maybe it was a generational thing — she certainly made him feel like Methuselah.
“Nice pub out there — watch out.”
A dog appeared in the headlights, his eyes glowing red.
“Ooh, very Hound of the Baskervilles,” said Liz Falla, hitting the brakes. “And there’s his handler.”
A uniformed figure emerged from the shadows, and Moretti rolled the window down and identified himself. The man called the dog to heel and waved them on. In the wing mirror, Moretti saw him watching them until they were out of sight.
Instead of heading out to the coast and taking Val des Terres back onto the Esplanade skirting the harbour, they came back into St. Peter Port by La Charotterie and Le Bordage, down the steep slope of Fountain Street, with the town church on their left. As they turned the corner onto the North Esplanade, Moretti said, idly, his thoughts elsewhere, “You brought us back in along La Valée de Misère, Falla. The Vale of Suffering.”
His wandering mind snapped briskly back into the present as, beside him, his partner shuddered violently.
“Don’t say that.” Her voice was ragged, and she sounded angry.
“I’m sorry.” Surprised, Moretti turned to look at her, but all he could see was her profile against the window of the car, the lights along the harbour wall flashing as they passed. “This was a nasty part of the town, but it was a long time ago, Falla. Four hundred years or more. Is that what’s bothering you?”
“Yes, Guv. Sorry I spoke to you like that. Blame my grandmother, Guv, and her stories.”
“Did she give you nightmares when you were a child?”
“Yes. More than that, she says we are descended from the Becquet family — you know the ones.”
“Becquet? Weren’t a few of them executed in the sixteenth century as witches?”
“More than a few. The family died out, but my grandmother insists that’s who we are. My dad says there’s no proof whatsoever, and she just likes to dramatize everything.”
“Like your uncle Vern.”
“Right.” At least he had made her laugh. “Why anyone would want to claim that lot as ancestors beats me.”
“Perhaps she needs them for some reason.”
“Perhaps. Here we are.”
Liz Falla brought the car to a halt alongside the sea wall on St. George’s Esplanade. Moretti opened the car door and was assailed by the pungent smell of salt and seaweed from the bay beyond. The moon was almost full and he could just see on the horizon the dark humps of the islands of Herm and Jethou. He got out, walked across the pavement, and leaned over the sea wall. The tide was on its way out, leaving behind rock pools edged with acorn barnacles, dog whelk, and coralweed, quivering with the hidden lives of lugworm and shore crabs, long strands of thongweed floating in them like hair. He heard Liz Falla shut the door of the car, then the click of her heels as she walked around to join him.
“I live just across the road,” she said. “I like it here. It’s not spectacular, or postcard-pretty, mind you, but that’s what I like. It looks, feels, and smells real.”
“It’s pleasant,” Moretti agreed. “Why did you want to be in the police, Falla?”
“Me?” She sounded surprised at the question. “I didn’t
