Virgilio grinned. ‘Bring him by all means. An investigation wouldn’t be an investigation without Oscar.’
The journey out to Fiesole didn’t take long. Virgilio’s blue lights on his otherwise unmarked black Alfa Romeo efficiently cleared the way as he guided us skilfully through the afternoon traffic. As we drove out of town, he called Marco at thequesturato request backup, and then he and I discussed the case. I could tell that he was apprehensive about what national and internationalrepercussions it might cause, and I had considerable sympathy with him. In the course of my years at Scotland Yard, I had found myself involved in a number of cases involving national security and the espionage community. I knew to my cost that when national or international interests were at stake, the normal rules of right and wrong sometimes became blurred, and more than once, I had been left with an unpleasant taste in my mouth as a result of intervention from above. Virgilio clearly felt the same way.
‘I’d dearly like to get the case wrapped up before the security services descend on us but, first things first, we need to find out if Angel’s death was because of his job or his personal life. I imagine somebody in his position would have had no shortage of enemies – some of them highly dangerous people.’
‘I’m afraid you’re probably right. As for his personal life, let’s hope there will be somebody at his villa who can fill us in.’
Halfway up the winding road towards Fiesole, Virgilio turned off to the right onto what was little more than a narrow lane running around the contour of the hill. I began to spot high fences and solid walls, many with CCTV cameras mounted on them, as we passed homes belonging to wealthy people who clearly valued their privacy. Every now and then, I got a glimpse down the hill onto the rose-pink roofs of Florence, with the massive dome of the cathedral standing out in the midst of all the buildings. Views like this don’t come cheap.
Villa Botticelli was completely hidden behind a stone wall at least three metres high and bristling with security cameras. The entrance was set back from the lane, and two massive metal gates, the height of the wall, blanked off any possibility of seeing what lay inside. I spotted two video cameras pointing straight at us when Virgilio pulled up beside a shiny brass plate with the name of the villa on it and an intercom. He pressed the buttonand waited. It took a few seconds before the speaker crackled and a man’s voice replied in Italian.
‘Yes, who is it?’ After three years in Tuscany, I was beginning to recognise Italian accents pretty well and I could tell that this was the voice of a local.
Virgilio’s response was terse. ‘Police. We need to come in.’
‘Of course, but I’ll need to see ID. Please hold your warrant card up to one of the cameras.’
Virgilio and I exchanged glances. The cameras had to be top-of-the-range equipment if they could read a warrant card through the windscreen of a vehicle. It looked as though security was paramount at Villa Botticelli. Virgilio did as instructed, and a couple of seconds later, an electric motor began to whine and the gates started to open. The tyres crunched as we drove along a short gravel drive through a thick barrier of rhododendron bushes to a circular parking area outside the front door of the villa. I stared at the house in silent appreciation for a few seconds before getting out.
The gardens surrounding the villa were immaculate, with beautifully mown lawns – no doubt watered by an irrigation system – and perfectly trimmed box hedges. The villa itself was magnificent. It was probably hundreds of years old – Anna would have known – but it had been painstakingly maintained. The walls were a wonderful sun-bleached pink that contrasted perfectly with the dark-green louvred shutters on the windows. A beautiful curving stone stairway led up to the front door, set in an exquisite carved surround. It was clear that no expense had been spared.
A shiny dark-blue Mercedes saloon and a brand-new VW people carrier similar to mine were parked outside, but no doubt without the lingering smell of Labrador inside theirs. Beside them was a sparkling silver Range Rover, and all three vehicleshad Italian registration plates. As they were all so new and so clean, I wondered if they had maybe been rented. Paul had told me that the victim had owned properties around the world so if he had been here for only a short visit, rental seemed likely. I took another long, appreciative look at the villa. Not bad for a holiday home. Not bad at all.
We climbed out of the car and I released Oscar from the back seat, where he had been sitting proudly throughout the trip like a visiting member of the nobility. He then immediately let the side down by cocking his leg against a fine statue of a Vestal Virgin, but in his defence, it wasn’t very often that he could claim possession of a villa as elegant as this.
We walked up the steps to the front door and it was opened just before we got there by a mature woman dressed in black. She looked quite a stern character, although her expression softened when she saw Oscar. He trotted up to her and she reached down to ruffle his ears.
‘Is this one of those sniffer dogs?’ She spoke Italian with a strong Tuscan accent.
Virgilio nodded as he flashed his warrant card before her eyes. ‘Yes, indeed, he’s one of the team. My name is Commissario Virgilio Pisano. Tell me, Signora…?’
‘Manetti.’
‘Thank you. Tell me, Signora Manetti. Are we right in thinking that this villa belongs to a British gentleman called Angel, Tristan Angel?’
‘Yes. But I’m afraid he isn’t in just now. Would you like to speak to Signor Eddie?’
‘And who might he be?’
For the first time, Signora Manetti looked a bit uncertain. ‘He’s Signor Angel’s “right-hand man”.’ She used the Englishterm, her accent still Tuscan, but easily comprehensible. ‘Does that help?’
Virgilio gave her a little smile. ‘He’ll do fine. How can we find him?’
She beckoned to us to come inside and we followed Oscar over the threshold. ‘If you would like to accompany me to the small lounge, I’ll go and call him.’
4
TUESDAY AFTERNOON
Inside the front door, we found ourselves in a long entrance hall with a suit of armour standing against the left wall and a pair of crossed swords hanging opposite it. Whether these were the genuine article or more modern replicas remained to be seen, but it was clear that somebody had been trying to create an impression of antiquity, even if a modern vertical radiator against the end wall and a state-of-the-art security-system control panel behind the door didn’t look more than a few years old.
The ‘small’ lounge was the size of the whole downstairs of my house, and it had been furnished with a pair of ultramodern sofas and a coffee table made of a highly polished slab of stone with an amazing fossil of some sort of sea creature in it. Against the wall on one side was a white piano, and at the end of the room was a fine sculpted stone fire surround. It looked like something out of a design magazine.
Signora Manetti retreated, and a few seconds later, just as I was trying to decipher the signature on a fine oil painting of none other than the duomo itself, the door opened and Eddie, Tristan Angel’s ‘right-hand man’ appeared.
The man was probably in his late thirties or early forties, and he was as tall as I am – a bit over six feet – but broader in the shoulders and ripped with muscle. Apart from his build, it was his face in particular that struck me. It looked as though it had been hewn out of granite and then dropped nose first onto the floor. I had a feeling I was looking at an ex-boxer, and a rock-hard one at that.
He padded across the tiled floor towards us remarkably silently, with just a hint of a limp, producing a theatrical bow as he greeted us. Although he was behaving politely, there was definitely something threatening about him, and I had a feeling he had most probably been employed as a bodyguard for the arms dealer. Interestingly, Oscar retreated behind my legs as the man approached. He was wearing shorts and a khaki T-shirt and there were tattoos on both his arms and white scars on both legs. When he opened his mouth to speak, I spotted at least three teeth missing – quite possibly knocked out in the ring – and his voice instantly revealed his London origins.
