Chapter 8
TUESDAY EVENING
I called Lina, who told me there was nothing urgent waiting for me in the office, so I drove straight home.
My house is halfway up one of the hills south of the river Arno, a twenty-minute drive to the south-west of Florence – traffic permitting.
It used to belong to a farmer and it’s bang in the middle of vineyards and olive groves.
Behind it is a little bit of land on which I’ve planted a small vegetable garden, but I’ve been wondering about maybe putting in a few olive trees of my own – although I’d probably be in my eighties before I start getting any fruit off them.
Access is up a dusty, potholed track, but it’s worth the uncomfortable ride for the view alone, back over the valley of the River Arno to the green bulk of the distant Apennines.
I pulled up in the shade at the side of the house alongside Anna’s car and in the mirror saw Oscar pull himself to his feet, shake himself, and start wagging his tail in anticipation of getting out of the van.
Anna and I spend most of the summer months living out here in the country, and the winter months living in her lovely old apartment a stone’s throw from the Ponte Vecchio.
Florence in high summer can be suffocatingly hot, but out here in the hills, there’s usually a breath of wind rustling the leaves and providing at least some relief from the heat.
I went in and made straight for the fridge, while Oscar headed first for his water bowl and then to Anna in the hope of convincing her that I’d forgotten to feed him and he was dying of starvation.
She gave me a kiss and him a biscuit, and I asked what she was doing.
When she told me she was preparing a salad of fresh artichokes, fennel, black olives and quails’ eggs to accompany the ribs she wanted me to grill on the barbecue, my stomach reminded me that the sandwich in Fiesole hadn’t been that big.
Tricia and Shaun hadn’t returned from their day of sightseeing so, as it was barely five o’clock, I pulled out my laptop and settled down to investigate the people from TXA Supplies.
I started with the victim, Tristan Xavier Angel, age fifty-four.
He had attended the prestigious – and expensive – Winchester School, before doing a degree in mechanical engineering at Oxford University.
He had emerged from there with a second-class degree and had gone straight into the Grenadier Guards where, as Penelope had said, he rose to the rank of major before leaving.
Thirteen years ago, he had left the army and started the company.
Since then, his career trajectory had been ballistic – no pun intended.
I found a number of photos of him, every single one of them showing him looking elegant and unruffled.
There was no doubt that he had been a smooth operator.
Some of the photos were of him with his ex-wife, a predictably drop-dead-gorgeous-looking woman, but I read that the marriage hadn’t lasted and had terminated in acrimonious divorce almost four years ago.
I read as much as I could about the company and this included several fiercely critical newspaper articles, describing Angel and TXA as callous profiteers, interested only in money.
I tried to single out which foreign powers might have hated him enough to send a hitman to eliminate him, but the choice was too great.
As Paul had told me, there were probably numerous governments – let alone shadier organisations – around the world rejoicing at the news of his death.
From the point of view of the investigation, this did little to help.
Donald Hicks, the new man in charge, had also been in the Grenadier Guards and had left at the same time as Angel.
No doubt the two had known each other, and Hicks had joined TXA Supplies from the outset.
I checked through the other staff members one by one, and it came as no surprise to find that three more of them were ex-military – Alexander Murray, Liam O’Connell and Vincent Archer.
Peter Schneider, the man mountain, had been born in Munich, Germany, and had made a name for himself as an international weightlifter before working as a bodyguard and then joining TXA.
Carl Sinclair, a US citizen, had worked for seven years in a well-known PR company in New York before joining the company.
I found a Facebook page belonging to Penelope Green that supported her claim to have a master’s degree in international trade.
There were photos of her enjoying holidays around the globe, and I wondered vaguely where the money had come from to allow her to travel to places like the Maldives, Colombia, Canada and the USA. Maybe she came from a wealthy family.
The only results I could see for Emilia Cortez confirmed the name of the law firm in Paris where she had told us she worked.
She appeared to have no social media presence, but I was a fine one to talk and I didn’t hold that against her.
As for Eddie Smith, I couldn’t find a thing – but with a common name like Smith, it would have been hard to single him out from the hundreds of thousands of other Smiths spread around the United Kingdom.
Maybe Paul in London would be able to dig up some dirt on him.
Was Eddie, or one of the other people at the villa, a murderer, or had Angel been killed on the orders of an outside organisation or nation?
I didn’t envy Virgilio trying to find out.
It was just after six when I heard a car outside and saw that Tricia and Shaun had returned.
I went out to see how they’d got on and they told me they had had a satisfying, if tiring, day.
They looked predictably dishevelled and they disappeared upstairs to shower and change after what must have been a long, hot day tramping around the streets of Florence.
While they did that, I got to work preparing the barbecue.
I had only just lit the charcoal and was relaxing under the pergola with a cold beer when I heard the sound of a car coming up the track, and Virgilio appeared.
His house is only a fifteen-minute drive from mine and he often comes out for a walk, a chat, a beer or all three.
Oscar recognised the car and trotted across to greet him, while I dug out another bottle of beer and held it out towards him as he approached.
He looked as if he needed it. He took it gratefully and slumped down into a chair alongside me.
‘AISE in Rome have sent no fewer than four operatives, and they’re headed by a character with whom I’ve had the misfortune of working before.
’ He paused to take a long swig of beer.
‘His name’s Maurizio Toselli, and he thinks he’s the brightest man on the planet while, in reality, he hasn’t got a clue. ’
‘How did your previous run-in with him go?’
‘He trampled over evidence, ignored what key witnesses were saying and, if I hadn’t been there, the perpetrator would never have been caught.’ His tone became gloomier. ‘I have a horrible feeling history is about to repeat itself.’
‘At least you’re still in charge of the investigation…’ something in Virgilio’s expression stopped me ‘…or aren’t you?’
He shook his head. ‘I’ve just come from the questura now.
I’ve been informed that Toselli has “irrefutable proof” that Angel was killed by agents of an unspecified foreign power.
In consequence, I’ve been told to let it go and to remove all my officers from the villa while he and his people search the place and go through Angel’s papers, looking for God knows what. ’
‘Presumably, he didn’t explain what his “irrefutable proof” was?
’ Virgilio shook his head again and I went on.
‘Of course, he might be right, but, for what it’s worth, I got the feeling there was something going on at the villa.
I can’t put my finger on it but, even before Penelope Green spoke to me by the pool, I could sense tension, fear even, in the air.
Maybe it was just that they knew they were being targeted, or maybe some or all of them are hiding a secret, but if I’d been in charge of the investigation, I wouldn’t have let it drop so quickly. ’
Virgilio looked up and nodded morosely. ‘My feelings entirely.’ He took a sip from the bottle in his right hand while stroking Oscar’s head with the other. Oscar had worked out that his friend was feeling frustrated and was resting his nose on Virgilio’s knee in solidarity.
I felt for Virgilio. I knew from bitter experience that having to give up on a case could be infuriating. ‘Before you got pulled off the case, did you manage to find out anything else? Anything from Forensics? Did anybody at the villa test positive for gunshot residue?’
His answer came as a shock. ‘Yes, all of them.’
‘All of them?’ I could hardly believe my ears. ‘How can that be?’
‘Our friend Mr Hicks explained it to me. Understandably, in their line of work, most of them are familiar with weapons, and it transpires that yesterday evening, they had a clay-pigeon shoot in the grounds. They all took a turn, even the visiting lawyer, so they all have varying amounts of residue on their hands, hair and clothes, and Gianni says there’s no way he can distinguish whether it came from a shotgun or a pistol. ’
‘How very convenient. Whose idea was it? Hicks?’
‘According to him, it was Tristan Angel’s idea, but he would say that, wouldn’t he?’
‘And there’s no sign of the murder weapon?’
‘There’s a cabinet containing two shotguns, both legally registered. The cabinet was locked and the key was inside a drawer of Angel’s desk in his study upstairs. Apart from those, no other weapons found.’