‘Most definitely.’
I was already on my feet, ready to follow Virgilio to the door, when my phone started ringing. It was Tristan Angel’s ex-wife, and I put it on speaker.
‘Hello, is that Mr Armstrong?’ It was a distinctly upper-class English accent.
‘Good morning, Ms Taylor-Mead. Thanks for calling back.’
‘I got your message.’
She sounded understandably hesitant and I was quick to explain. ‘I’ve been asked to speak to you by Chief InspectorPisano of the Florence police. Would you mind if I ask where you’re calling from?’
‘I’ve just finished having breakfast at the Four Seasons hotel in Florence.’ I saw Virgilio’s eyes open wide as he murmured a translation to Marco, whose command of English is very basic. Ms Taylor-Mead’s voice dropped a tad. ‘Why do the police want to speak to me?’
‘It’s about your ex-husband. When did you last see him?’
I could sense a brief hesitation before she replied. ‘Face to face, it must be over three years ago, although I have communicated with him by mail and over the Internet a number of times since. What’s he done now?’
There was something about her manner that made me think she wasn’t telling the whole truth, so I took a chance. ‘So, are you saying that you didn’t meet up with him yesterday morning?’
‘Yesterday morning…?’ She sounded flustered. ‘Who says I met him yesterday?’
I took another chance. ‘He did. He told some of his employees that he was meeting you at the Four Seasons.’
There was a long pause during which at one point, I thought she had maybe even put the phone down, before I heard her take a deep breath. ‘You’re right, I had arranged to meet him yesterday morning, but the bastard never showed up. I came all the way from England to talk to him, and he didn’t have the decency to see me after all.’ Her voice had gone up a few octaves, and I could definitely hear anger. Whether this was genuine or simulated remained to be seen.
I glanced across at Virgilio and saw him mime driving a car. I relayed the message to Angel’s ex-wife. ‘It’s important that the police speak to you as soon as possible. Would it be convenient if we come and see you now?’
Another pause before she replied, reluctantly, ‘Yes, I supposeso. I’ve actually booked to climb to the top of the duomo, but I’m sure I can rebook that. How long will it take you to get here?’
The one thing we didn’t want was for her to do a runner, so I improvised. ‘An officer is stationed outside your hotel now, and I’ll get him to come in and see you in a few minutes. I’ll be there very soon with Chief Inspector Pisano. Are you happy for the interview to take place in the hotel?’
‘Wherever.’ There was resignation in her tone.
Virgilio already had his phone in his hand by the time my call finished. In a matter of seconds, he had arranged for a pair of officers to break all speed records and get to the Four Seasons hotel in the next couple of minutes and keep an eye on Ms Taylor-Mead. No sooner had he arranged that than he turned to Marco.
‘You happy to start the interviews here with the help of Dini? Her English has really come on.’ Sergeant Dini had had to spend time over the winter on sick leave, recovering from a serious injury, and clearly, she hadn’t been wasting her time. ‘If you run into any language problems, tell the people we’ll be back within the hour.’ He glanced across at me. ‘Shall we go?’ I nodded, and he gave me a grin. ‘At least we might get a good cup of coffee at the Four Seasons.’
11
WEDNESDAY MORNING
With the aid of the siren as well as the blue lights, we got to the Four Seasons in record time. On the way, Virgilio got a call from Sergeant Dini informing us that Ms Jane Taylor-Mead was indeed booked into the hotel – sharing a room with a Mr Simon Frost.
There was a blue and white squad car parked right opposite the entrance to the hotel in one of Florence’s narrow stone-paved streets at the edge of thecentro storico. I already knew the hotel – created out of one of the city’s most splendid old palazzi – but this would be the first time I had been inside. Virgilio screeched to a halt in front of the imposing cream façade of the hotel and we jumped out. I glanced down at Oscar, who was looking around with interest.
‘I have a feeling dogs might not be allowed in here.’
Virgilio held up his warrant card towards me. ‘Sniffer dogs are always allowed in. He’ll be fine.’ He hurried across to a uniformed officer standing in the shade of a cluster of flags hanging above the entrance, and a short conversation ensued,after which Virgilio beckoned to me and we went in through the elegant glass doors.
‘She’s in the lobby and there’s another officer keeping an eye on them from a distance.’
The lobby turned out to be an atrium, flooded with natural daylight and featuring a fine marble statue of two figures in the centre. Cloister-like arches surrounded the seating area, set among ancient stone planters and a magnificent floral display. A uniformed constable stepped forward and saluted as soon as he spotted Virgilio.
‘They’re over there, sir – the woman with the floral dress and the man with the white shirt.’
We walked over to where the two figures were sitting side by side on what was probably a very expensive, old-fashioned, green, velvet sofa, with a glass-topped coffee table in front of them. She was looking every bit as beautiful as she had in the photos I had seen online although, inevitably, a few years older now. Sergeant Dini had told us that she was forty-four, which would make her ten years younger than her ex-husband, while the man alongside her was probably at least ten years younger than her. He was a fit-looking man with short-cropped, blond hair, and my immediate feeling was that he might well be military. I hastened to make the introductions.
‘Ms Taylor-Mead, Mr Frost? This is Commissario Pisano of the Florence murder squad, and my name is Armstrong. I’m here to help out with the language if needed.’
