I stayed outside with Oscar, who didn’t seem in the least bit bothered that he had been forbidden admittance, while the others checked out the interior. When they came out again, they looked after him, while Anna and I went in. Like the exterior, the interior was at first sight disappointingly plain. Rows of grey stone pillars led the eyes to the altar, which did at least have a fine black and white marble backdrop and some splendid frescoes on the ceiling above it. The roof was a simple affair criss-crossed with wooden beams, and there were very few statues or ornaments in what was a spartan environment. The place did, however, make up for its lack of ornamentation with its antiquity – Anna told me that it was almost a thousand years old. Above all, on a day like today, it had the advantage of being ten or twenty degrees cooler in there than outside, and emerging from the duomo into the open air was like walking into a furnace.
We crossed the road to a nearby restaurant that had been recommended by Virgilio and Marco and went up the stairs to the terrace. Out here in the open, with a canopy to keep the direct sun away, there was a hint of a breeze, the temperature was more agreeable and the view spectacular. From where I was sitting, I could see the city of Florence below us quite clearly as far as Piazzale Michelangelo on the far side, but then the panorama of rolling hills beyond was swallowed up in the heat haze. Even so, we were in a delightful position, and the view positively screamed Tuscany. I could see that Tricia and Shaun looked equally impressed, and Anna brought up the subject of weddings yet again.
‘I can think of worse places to get married than Fiesole. Have you considered a wedding in Tuscany, Tricia?’
I seemed to remember them already having had that conversation, but I made no comment and reached for the menu. I let the discussions wash over me without my participation by pretending to decide what to eat while secretly still thinking about the recent murders. The two women we had seen this morning had both given the impression of answering all questions honestly, but I was still left with the feeling that we weren’t being told everything. I even wondered for a moment whether Penelope and Emilia might have got together to commit the murders, but I was lost for a motive. And if there was no motive for them to have done it, it seemed probable that they had had nothing to do with the deaths.
In that case, surely the most logical explanation was that the deaths had to be connected with the arms trade. While it was quite possible that Angel had been murdered in the duomo by the shadowy ‘ghost’, was there any way in which Shabah or his comrades could have contrived to murder Hicks at the villa inside what had been in effect a closed and guarded environment? Might one of the secret service people from Rome have been a double agent? Could it be that somebody at the villa was a secret jihadi sympathiser? If so, the obvious candidate was Penelope, but I still tended to doubt that she was the murdering type.
My musings were interrupted by the arrival of a waiter, and decision time as far as food was concerned.
I had been doing a lot of eating this week already, so I decided to go for something relatively light and simple and chose what turned out to be an extremely tasty dish of roast aubergines accompanied by courgette flowers stuffed with ricotta, anchovies and parmesan cheese, served on top of a heap of that frizzygreen salad whose name always escapes me. Anna normally eats far less than I do, and I was mildly surprised to hear her order a ham, mushroom and truffle risotto. Shaun managed to talk Tricia into sharing a Florentine steak, and the waiter retired with our order. He reappeared a minute later with a carafe of water and a bottle of red wine for us, as well as a bowl of water and a couple of dog treats for Oscar, and we settled down to admire the view.
It turned out that I had missed quite a lot of the wedding-venue discussions, and Tricia had somehow moved on from Anna’s suggestion of a wedding in Tuscany to somewhere further afield.
‘I’ve been wondering about somewhere more exotic, like Morocco.’ Tricia glanced across at Anna and me. ‘Have either of you ever been there?’
We both shook our heads, and I reminded her that the closest to Morocco we had ever been as a family had been a holiday to the Costa del Sol about twenty years ago. Tricia nodded at the memory and carried on with her dreams of the perfect wedding.
‘I like the idea of going somewhere unusual and unspoilt and I’ve been looking at the map of North Africa. The fact is that the Mediterranean coastline of Spain, France, Italy and Greece is quite densely populated and overdeveloped nowadays, while the north coast of Africa is much less developed.’
I pointed out gently that quite a lot of that coastline was probably not ideal for a holiday. Libya, for example, was still a dangerous place to visit, and she gave me one of her old-fashioned looks, before going on to say something that struck an immediate chord with me.
‘I’m not stupid, Dad. Of course I know that, but there are lots of safe places. While I was looking at the map, I came across alittle place right on the coast that looked interesting. Believe it or not, it’s actually a Spanish territory, marooned in Morocco, where they speak Spanish and use the euro, but it’s on the mainland of Africa. Have any of you ever heard of it? The place is called Melilla.’
I must have jumped, because all eyes turned towards me and Anna raised an inquisitive eyebrow. ‘You know it?’
I shook my head. ‘I don’t know it, but I know somebody who claims to have been born and lived there. She told me she was working there until relatively recently.’
Tricia looked enthusiastic. ‘Are you going to be seeing her again?’ I nodded and she gave me a pleading look. ‘Please could you ask her what it’s like, and whether she would recommend it for a holiday?’
I promised that I would speak to my contact and report back. While waiting for our food, I surreptitiously googled Melilla and to my surprise discovered that Spain has several separate enclaves on the North African mainland, no doubt remnants of its colonial past. Any further geographical investigation was interrupted by a movement at my feet as Oscar’s fine-tuned nostrils told him a steak was approaching our table.
As I ate – and the food was extremely good – I found myself wondering about Emilia Cortez. She had told us that she had joined her present law firm a year ago and had taken over the Tristan Angel account after Christmas. Over the past seven or eight months, she had got to know more about TXA Supplies and its boss. Could it be that she had discovered something sinister that had caused her to resort to such vicious action? Was the fact that she came from the little Spanish enclave carved out of the continent of Africa significant? Could it be that she had contacts and sympathies with African nations, or groups with a grievance against TXA? Rather than Penelope with her jihadiboyfriend, was Emilia the cuckoo in the TXA nest? Was she our murderer?
As soon as I had finished my plateful, I left Oscar strategically positioned between Tricia and Shaun, dedicated to a masterful performance of a poor starving hound dying of hunger, in the hope that my daughter and her beloved would hand him down some pieces of steak, and I headed for the loo. As soon as I was out of sight – Anna had instructed me to forget about work at least for a few hours, but I knew I had to do this – I pulled out my phone and sent a message to Virgilio.
Emilia Cortez comes from Melilla. Have just discovered that this is in fact a Spanish territory in North Africa. Suggest you contact Spanish authorities and check what she was doing there, why she left, and who her friends/contacts were. Might prove negative but think it worth a try. Dan
At the end of the meal, we all went for a walk further up the hill through the narrow streets of Fiesole, no doubt originally created when all that was needed was the space for two laden mules to pass, until we swung around to the north and headed back down to the piazza again. Now we had a beautiful view out over the tree-clad foothills – in England, we would have called these mountains – of the Apennines, the higher summits hidden in the heat haze. Before returning to the van, Anna insisted that we had to check out the Roman theatre, and she was right. Only a stone’s throw from the piazza, we found a beautifully preserved, fan-shaped theatre, built into the hillside over two thousand years ago. A modern stage with rigging for lights had been built on top of the old stone stage, and I could well imagine how atmospheric it would be to sit here on a summer evening, listening to music, gazing out over the hills. I pulled out my phone and was just in the process of searching for summerconcerts in Fiesole when it started ringing. I gave the others an apologetic wave and sat down on a stone seat, feeling the warmth of the sun under my thighs as I did so.
‘Ciao, Dan.’ It was Virgilio and he had news. ‘There’s been another murder attempt at Villa Botticelli.’
My dreams of soothing music and summer sunsets disappeared in an instant. ‘You say “attempt”, so it didn’t succeed. Who was the intended victim?’
‘Vincent Archer. He was very lucky. Shots were fired at him from close quarters, but they missed him. He’s unhurt, but understandably shocked.’ The familiar frustrated tone entered his voice yet again. ‘What the hell is going on? The place is crawling with police, and yet the murderer just carries on without a care in the world.’
‘Any suspects?’
‘Hardly anybody appears to have an alibi. At first glance, it looks as though almost any of them could have done it.’
‘Do you want me to come along and help with more interviews?’
‘You know I’d value your help, but surely you’ve done enough already.’
From his tone, I got the feeling he would appreciate some support, and I didn’t need to think twice. As I say, Virgilio is my best friend and, besides, I felt fully invested in the case now – every bit as much as if I were still DCI Armstrong. I had a sense that things were coming to a climax and I wanted to be involved. I glanced at my watch and saw that it was a quarter to four. ‘I’m at the Roman theatre in Fiesole at the moment. I need to drop the others back into town but I should be able to get to you in about half an hour, certainly by four-thirty. Is that okay?’
‘Of course. Thanks, Dan, I appreciate it.’
