Chapter 5
TUESDAY AFTERNOON
Eddie returned as promised, and we followed him down a wide corridor lined with paintings to a sculpted wooden door. He opened it without knocking and ushered us in, raising his voice to announce us in formal tones, heavy with irony.
‘My lords, ladies and gentlemen, please be upstanding for the Italian fuzz.’ With that, he gave an exaggerated bow and withdrew, closing the door silently behind him.
Needless to say, nobody stood up. For our part, we stopped by the door and took a good look around.
The dining table was absolutely huge, and I counted eight people sitting around it, although there would have been room for twice that number.
It still bore the remains of the meal, some people drinking coffees and others eating dessert.
The room itself was even bigger than the lounge from which we had just come and it had two big French windows leading out to the terrace, beyond which I could see olive trees, palm trees and three ancient cypresses.
The first figure to make an impression on me was a man mountain at the far end of the long table, who towered a head above most of the others, and whose shoulders were half as wide again as any of them.
He had a shaved head and was wearing sunglasses, even though he was indoors.
He was positively bulging with muscles, honed to perfection, and he would have frightened the life out of the average nightclub bouncer.
I had little doubt that, like Eddie Smith, he had been engaged to protect Tristan Angel – but, of course, as it had turned out, he hadn’t been able to prevent his murder.
Had this giant of a man been negligent, or could it be that he was the murderer?
What, I wondered, would happen to him now? Would he be out of a job?
As my eyes roamed around the room, I immediately identified the woman described by Eddie as Penelope, Angel’s latest ‘bit of stuff’.
She was a young woman with long, blonde hair hanging down around her shoulders, and a classic almond-shaped face.
She was a stunner. Oscar clearly felt the same way and his tail started wagging, but I kept him close to my side for now in case he should decide to go over and climb onto her lap.
‘Good afternoon, gentlemen. What brings you here to the Villa Botticelli?’
The voice came from a slim, fit-looking man, maybe in his late forties, wearing a light-blue designer polo shirt.
He sounded courteous, but there was something about him that didn’t sit well with me.
There was a certain arrogance to him and, in spite of his polite words, I got the impression that he had little time for the police, particularly Virgilio and me.
I felt my hackles rise but studiously avoided showing any reaction.
He was sitting at the head of the table with another good-looking woman alongside him.
She looked a bit older than Penelope and she had glossy, black hair tied back in a businesslike ponytail.
The man in the polo shirt had an authoritative air and I had a feeling I was looking at Tristan Angel’s successor – or at least the man who aspired to that position.
From what Eddie had told me, this had to be Donald Hicks, Angel’s second in command.
I introduced Virgilio – referring to him as Chief Inspector Pisano rather than Commissario Pisano for the sake of simplicity – adding that I was here to act as interpreter.
At this point, I let Oscar wander over and do a circuit of the table introducing himself, and I was mildly surprised to see the huge bodyguard make a real fuss of him and pass him down a handful of grissini that disappeared in an instant.
The big man definitely knew his way to my dog’s heart.
Virgilio took two paces towards the table and I followed, ready to translate if necessary.
He addressed the diners in English, and they all appeared to understand him well without my help.
‘Good afternoon, I’m sorry to disturb your lunch, but I’m afraid that I have to inform you of the death of Mr Tristan Angel.
’ As all the heads looked up in unison, he specified, ‘He was murdered this morning.’
Like Virgilio, I was interested to see what reaction this announcement would provoke.
I tried to keep a very close eye on all the people around the dining table as he spoke, noting that he added a little bit of extra emphasis to the word ‘murdered’.
The man at the head of the table didn’t bat an eyelid.
The blonde woman dropped her eyes to her plate, and the bodyguard remained impassive, while an expression of surprise and maybe fear flitted across the face of the dark-haired woman.
The reactions of the remaining four men were more interesting.
One of these was maybe in his mid-sixties, one probably in his mid-fifties, around my age or a little younger.
The older man was completely bald, while the other still had a fine head of hair.
Neither of them showed much emotion, although I felt sure I spotted a momentary look of what might have been fear on the face of the older man.
The other two were a good bit younger, maybe in their early forties.
The reaction of one of these two was the most noticeable.
He was a strongly built black man and, like Eddie, he looked well able to handle himself, but his head jerked up at the word ‘murdered’ and he stared across the table at Virgilio in disbelief.
‘The boss has been murdered?’ His American accent was unmistakable. ‘What the hell? Who…? How?’ He looked genuinely stunned – although over the years, I had come across quite a number of talented actors and I didn’t immediately discount him as a potential murderer.
His question was echoed by the man at the head of the table.
‘What on earth makes you think that Tristan was murdered?’ His tone was measured and emotionless.
I immediately added a mental asterisk alongside the name Hicks.
Being involved in a murder inquiry normally brings out strong emotions in people, but this lack of reaction had a sinister edge to it.
Of course, I reminded myself, the arms business was not for the faint-hearted, and this was a man who had probably been involved in many tense and nerve-wracking situations.
He had no doubt developed a pretty thick skin by now.
Even so, his lack of reaction meant that he rose up my list of potential suspects.
Virgilio replied to both men and he didn’t mince his words. ‘Because somebody shot him in the head at point-blank range.’
This produced stunned silence around the table before the bald man spoke up. ‘Are you sure it was Tristan?’ His tone was impassive but, once again, I felt I might have spotted a momentary look of something more than surprise on his face.
Virgilio transferred his attention to him. ‘And your name is?’
‘Archer, Vincent Archer.’
Virgilio duly made a note of the man’s name. ‘Thank you, Mr Archer. We will need one of you to give us a positive ID of the body, but it’s looking very likely that the victim was indeed Mr Angel. Tell me, were you or anybody else here aware that he had a tattoo?’
Archer shook his head and glanced towards the woman with the blonde hair.
As he did so, I noticed that some of the others did the same.
She was halfway through eating an impressive ice-cream sundae and looked up.
‘You’re talking about the angel tattoo, right?
’ Her accent was educated English, her manner almost offhand.
Virgilio turned towards her. ‘Yes. Could you tell me where he had the tattoo, Miss…?’
‘My name’s Penelope Green, and Tristan has… had a tattoo on his arm, up near his shoulder, his right shoulder, I think.’
As she spoke, I caught a glimpse of the other woman’s face.
There was a distinct glint in her eyes – and not a friendly one – and I wondered if this might be because she was looking across at Penelope Green.
Jealousy, maybe? Might this mean that Sergeant Dini’s suggestion of the murder being a crime of passion might be right after all?
Two good-looking women in close proximity to a good-looking and successful man could potentially spell trouble.
The man at the top of the table took over the conversation – no doubt trying to reinforce his position as the head honcho. ‘Where did the murder take place?’
Virgilio deliberately ignored his question. ‘Could I have your name, please?’
‘Donald Hicks. I am… was Tristan’s Director of Operations.’
‘Director of what operations?’
‘Overall responsibility for procurement and sales for the company TXA Supplies.’
‘And what does your company supply?’
‘More or less anything, from boots to helicopters.’ Hicks was still looking and sounding totally matter-of-fact. Nobody could have guessed that he and his late employer dealt in what those in the arms business refer to as ‘materiel’ – better known as lethal weaponry.
Virgilio made a note and continued. ‘The victim was a very wealthy man who made his money in a very shady business.’ It looked for a moment as if Hicks was about to object, but Virgilio didn’t give him a chance to speak as he carried on.
‘Would I be right in assuming that you were all involved one way or another with that same business, or is this a social gathering for some of you?’
This question immediately elicited a response from the dark-haired woman.
‘I am not employed by TXA Supplies.’ Her English was fluent, but with a noticeable Spanish accent.
‘And your name, Signora…?’
‘My name is Emilia Cortez Garcia. I’m a lawyer.’
‘Were you a friend of Mr Angel?’ I could see Virgilio scribbling hard to get down her full name.
There was a momentary hesitation before she answered. ‘I wouldn’t call him a friend. We only met a few times for business, but he was always pleasant.’
I found myself wondering about that split-second hesitation. Did she have something to hide? Had she and the victim had a relationship, or had she even been responsible for his death? I put a question mark alongside her name on my list.
Virgilio switched his attention to the blonde woman, who was still concentrating on her ice cream – reminding me how hungry I was.
‘Tell me, Miss Green, how do you fit into this equation?’
She dropped her spoon onto her plate. ‘I fit in, as you put it, by being the company’s communications officer, and I’d prefer it if you didn’t call me “Miss”.’ She shot a sharp look at Virgilio, and her tone was distinctly chilly, but he didn’t bat an eyelid.
‘My apologies, Signora Green.’
Virgilio went around the table, making a note of all the names, before informing them that he would like to speak to each of them individually.
It was agreed that these interviews would take place in the small lounge, and he asked all of them to bring their passports with them, telling them that they would be required to hand these over to the police and remain here at the villa until the investigation was concluded.
Outside in the corridor, we met Marco Innocenti and Sergeant Dini, who had just arrived along with a team of other officers.
The two of them accompanied us into the lounge, where Virgilio gave them a brief outline of what we had learnt so far.
When he had finished his summary, he raised an eyebrow in my direction.
‘What’s your take on the murder, Dan? Any theories?’
‘Nothing spectacular. One thing’s for sure: they’re a tough bunch.
The man who did most of the talking, Hicks, looked as though he intends to take Tristan Angel’s place as head of the organisation – assuming, of course, that there aren’t a whole lot of other people elsewhere who plan on taking control.
I imagine that it’s a very profitable business, so I can see the desire to take over Angel’s empire providing a tempting motive for murder.
Then there’s the nature of the business itself.
Over the years, Angel is bound to have made enemies around the world – either people who have suffered as a result of his arms sales, or customers who felt short-changed about something.
Alternatively, there are two beautiful women here, either of whom may or may not be the victim’s lover, although the Spanish woman claims to have met him only a handful of times for business.
As we all know, jealousy can be a powerful motivator for murder.
Almost all of the men here look tough enough to commit murder – although pointing a little pistol and pulling the trigger could have been done by a child – but I’m at a loss to find a motive for any of them at this stage. ’
Virgilio’s phone started ringing and he took the call. It didn’t last long and he had a face like thunder by the time the conversation ended.
‘That was the vice questore. He informs me that we’re going to have the pleasure of the company of operatives of AISE arriving later today.
’ He glanced across and translated the acronym for my sake.
‘The Azienda Informazioni e Sicurezza Esterna, AISE, is our equivalent of the CIA, and they will no doubt try to horn in on our investigation. For all I know, we might find agents from the CIA itself turning up soon as well.’ He snorted with frustration and glanced at his watch.
‘It’s almost two. Let’s start the interviews right away before the spooks arrive and start to screw things up for us. ’