glasses and put down his empty coffee mug. “If there is crime, it is gorgeous crime, all daggers and secret poisons.” His beautiful actor’s voice filled the trailer. “A romantic, foreigner’s view, wouldn’t you say? Twenty-first-century Florentines seem like a practical bunch to me.”
“An original viewpoint, sir. Safe journey home, Mr. Wesley.”
“Safer than staying around here appears to be. Good luck, Detective Inspector.”
I’ll need it, thought Moretti. A piece of sheer, utter luck. Clifford Wesley was right, there was something fake or stagey about the murder weapon. A dagger. Now why in the name of all that’s sacred, or profane, would a Vannoni attract attention by choosing part of their own coat of arms as an instrument of death?
“Guv!”
Liz Falla was walking even more briskly than usual toward him from the direction of the manor. Given the current stagnant state of the investigation, her eager-beaverness was more than welcome.
“Any luck?”
“Oh yes. Guess who’s the head gardener!”
“An ex-boyfriend.”
“Right!” Apparently unaware of any satirical subtext, Liz Falla continued. “Brad Duquemin. We used to go out together when we were still at school, so I haven’t seen him in years. He’s been here now just over a year, and he’s got the housekeeper in his pocket, so he says — well, he’s a good-looking bloke. Got a way with words, among other things. They have a little tipple in the evening before he goes home, and she’s told him quite a lot about the family.”
“Such as?”
“No, the marchesa is not having an affair with Mr. Lord. Yes, most people knew about Miss Salviati and Mr. Albarosa. And — get this, Guv — Giulia Vannoni isn’t a Vannoni!”
“Isn’t?”
“Not by blood. In the housekeeper’s opinion, that’s why she’s what she calls ‘different.’ Interesting, eh?”
“Very. Did she explain who she is if she’s not a Vannoni?”
“No, or not that he could understand — there’s a problem with the language. Oh, and she told Brad there was a fight between Mr. Albarosa and the marchesa on the night of his murder. He asked her if it was about Vittoria Salviati and she laughed and said something like ‘too many, too many,’ which Brad took to mean that kind of thing happened all the time. But she said something that sounded like ‘tradition’ — tradimento, he thinks. She said it more than once.”
“Tradimento,” said Moretti slowly. “Not tradition, Falla. Betrayal.”
“And she also kept on about honour — he understood that. So he asked her if it wasn’t to do with a woman, what was it? And she said —” Liz Falla paused for effect, “‘With an esterno for the film.’”
“Did she mean ‘location’?”
“That’s what Brad thinks. Because when he said he didn’t understand, she said ‘house.’ And that’s when she dried up. Tapped the side of her nose, said ‘basta,’ got up and left.”
“Good work, Falla. This is all useful stuff. There’s just one problem — well, there’s a whole slew of them but the one that keeps hitting me is that the Vannonis may think a deep, dark family secret is at the back of these murders and be terrified of exposure. And that the damn thing, whatever it is, has absolutely nothing to do with it.”
Liz Falla looked at him. “One thing they — well, some of the fellers at the station — told me when I was to be your partner, Guv. They said, ‘He’s got the best instincts of any of the DIs. Never puts a foot wrong when he trusts them.’ I don’t know about you, but I personally am going to trust them if that’s all right with you.”
Before Moretti could respond to her revelation about the fellers at Hospital Lane, Liz Falla pulled out her notebook. “About the bunker key in the marchesa’s bedroom — her door isn’t always locked, even with some of the film people staying. One of the cleaning ladies was around, and she says they can usually get in without asking the housekeeper. And I had a word with the head of security, as you asked. Mr. Ensor’s arrival by taxi was noted by one of the security staff, who saw him near the entrance to the bunker. He offered to escort him to the manor and was told to bugger off — Ensor’s words. The guard watched him walk as far as that path that leads to the entrance and, as he thought, turn toward the terrace. Since he knew there was a regular patrol in that area, he decided to do exactly what Ensor had suggested.”
“And he saw no one else?”
“No. Of that he’s sure.”
Moretti looked at his watch. “We’re still too early for Bianchi. Come on, Falla, let’s take another look at the scene of the crime.”
The SOC tapes were still across the entrance to the bunker, but the police guard and the incident van had been removed from the immediate vicinity and placed at the main gate to the manor. Moretti took the key obtained from the marchesa out of his pocket and turned it in the lock. The damp and moisture seeped out immediately, and he felt the familiar tightness in his chest. Behind him he heard Liz Falla shiver.
“First, the film set.”
“Lights, Guv?”
“They leave one by the door — here — it’s been fingerprinted.”
“There wasn’t a key on him, was there?”
Their hushed voices echoed around them.
“No. He must have been let in, or the key was removed by the murderer.”
For Moretti, there was less a sense of a terrible past in that ersatz, reconstructed room than in the dank, collapsed tunnels, the brick-filled alcoves, the deserted, echoing corridors. The phone had been left on the floor, but the single shoe had been removed to the SOC lab.
“Perhaps he thought it was connected,” said Liz Falla, resisting the temptation to rub her eyes.
“Desperately hoped it was, I’m sure,” said Moretti, bending over to look at it. “He would have been sitting at the desk when he reached for it. I imagine this was where he hoped to have his rendezvous with whoever.” He looked at the bunk bed. Its grey blanket cover was smooth, unrumpled. “He didn’t get any farther than here, I think. As soon as he saw who it was coming in through the door, he knew he was in trouble.”
“How did he get past the murderer and out of the room?” asked Liz Falla. “The doorway’s quite narrow.” She reached up and touched the top of the opening.
“I’ve been thinking about that. There must have been some sort of discussion before the murderer tried to kill Ensor. He probably tried to reason with him or her — after all, words were his stock-in-trade — and the murderer was probably equally anxious to say why he was going to kill him. He or she may have come around the side of the desk to get at Ensor, who then took off around the other side, and out into the corridor. SOC found no signs of a struggle near the door, where Ensor would have been cornered, so he must have headed down the corridor.”
“Why? Surely he knew there was no way out?”
