Chapter 18
THURSDAY MORNING
‘Porca miseria!’
There was real exasperation in Virgilio’s voice when he mouthed the Italian expletive that translates literally as ‘pig misery’ – it’s the kind of thing you say when you smash an expensive bottle of wine or miss your train – and I didn’t blame him.
We were sitting in his office at a quarter to eight in the morning, and he was digesting Billy’s message about Penelope that I had just relayed to him.
Marco Innocenti was sitting alongside me, and he looked equally bamboozled.
Virgilio glanced down at the pad on his desk and started counting off the suspects.
‘So, what have we got? It’s possible that Penelope Green might somehow still be involved with this Islamist character and responsible, directly or indirectly, for both murders.
Alternatively, Donald Hicks might have murdered his boss, either to get the top spot in the company or to conceal some misdeed, and then been murdered in revenge by Angel’s faithful servant, Eddie Smith, or one of the others.
At the same time, Vincent Archer, aided and abetted by Angel’s ex-wife and boyfriend, might also be responsible for both murders, so as to stop the company from moving into illegal waters.
The fact that by removing Angel and Hicks, they would also get bigger shares of the company for themselves would be an added bonus.
’ He looked across at the two of us. ‘All right so far?’
We both nodded and he continued. ‘But, of course, it doesn’t stop there.
Maybe Vincent Archer committed murder to conceal the fact that he’d been syphoning money from the company and was about to be uncovered.
Exactly the same argument could apply to Donald Hicks, Liam O’Connell, or Alex Murray, but, without a forensic investigation of the company’s accounts, there’s no way of proving that.
Then there’s always the question of sex.
Was Angel having an affair with Penelope Green?
Did Emilia Cortez kill him out of jealousy?
’ He ran a weary hand across his shaved head in frustration.
‘The next thing we know, it’ll turn out that Rosina the housekeeper is a Mafia hitwoman.
’ He looked across his desk at us. ‘Any guesses?’
I saw Marco shake his head and I had to agree that I was equally stumped – and I certainly wasn’t going to mention my suspicions about Shaun.
‘You’re right, we have a lot of suspects and a lot of possible motives, and virtually everybody had the opportunity and the means.
For what it’s worth, I’m still convinced that we’re looking for a single killer, rather than two completely different people with completely different motives, but I’m no closer than you are to knowing who that might be. ’
Virgilio got to his feet. ‘Right, let’s head up to the villa and interview Penelope Green again. I want all phones and computers belonging to the residents checked for suspicious emails – particularly if any of them reference Shabah. Let’s hope there hasn’t been another murder in the meantime.’
It was something of a relief when we got to the villa to find that everybody was still alive.
Virgilio had very sensibly stationed a couple of officers inside the house overnight with strict instructions not to close their eyes even for a minute.
Whether this deterrent had been responsible or not, the fact that there had not been a third murder was to be applauded.
Rosina showed us into the small lounge and kindly brought us coffees and the news that all of the occupants of the villa were already on their feet, and most had already had their breakfast. A constable was sent to summon Penelope for interview, and she was looking understandably uneasy when she came in and sat down. Virgilio didn’t waste time.
‘Signora Green, what can you tell me about a man named Ibrahim Hassan?’
I studied her closely as she registered the name. There was surprise, followed almost instantaneously by what looked like regret. She dropped her eyes to Oscar who, predictably, had positioned himself at her side, nose on her knee.
‘He’s dead.’ Her voice was deadpan. After a couple of seconds’ silence, she looked up, straight at Virgilio. ‘What makes you bring him up? That was a long time ago.’
Virgilio ignored her question. ‘When was the last time you saw him?’
She answered immediately. ‘I’m thirty now, and the last time I saw him, I was eighteen.’
‘And where was that?’
‘In a café in the centre of Amman, the capital of Jordan. I used to live there.’
‘And you haven’t seen him since?’
Her expression became more confrontational. ‘Unless you believe in reincarnation, there’s no way I could have seen him because, as I just told you, he’s dead.’
Virgilio pretended to read from his pad. ‘The report I have here indicates that he was killed when the terrorist training camp he was attending was obliterated by US Air Force bombers. Does that sound right to you?’
She shook her head, and there was real anger in her voice as she replied. ‘No, it doesn’t sound right to me at all. He was a good man, fighting for freedom, and he didn’t deserve to be murdered in that way.’
Virgilio ignored her outburst. ‘I’m sorry, that’s my poor English. I should have asked you whether you also heard that he’d been killed in a bombing raid. Did you?’
She nodded and dropped her head once again as Virgilio continued.
‘How did you hear about his death?’
‘From friends in Amman. My family moved away, but I stayed in touch with a few people by email.’
‘Did you stay in touch with Ibrahim Hassan?’
She didn’t answer immediately, and I found myself wondering why. Did this mean she had been in contact with Hassan more recently? Her answer, when it came, appeared to contradict that idea.
‘Yes, I did for a couple of months – until he went back to Iraq. After that, communication ceased almost immediately, and a few weeks later, I got the news of his death. Why are you asking me about him?’ Her voice was muffled.
Virgilio didn’t answer. ‘Tell me, Signora Green, does the name Shabah mean anything to you?’
A look of bafflement appeared on her face. ‘No, should it?’ There was a brief pause while she marshalled her thoughts. ‘If it helps, Shabah in Arabic means ghost. Please tell me why you’re asking me these things.’
Virgilio glanced across at me, and I fielded the question.
‘As you know, we’re investigating a double murder and we have to follow up all leads.
We’ve found a number of communications between a person calling himself Shabah and Tristan Angel, culminating in one only a few hours before Angel’s murder, arranging to meet in the duomo.
’ I wasn’t going to mention Billy Nelson, so I opted for a bit of obfuscation.
‘It’s been suggested that this Shabah person might be an Iraqi jihadi, and we’re following up all known links.
As part of our inquiries, your connection with Ibrahim Hassan twelve years ago was flagged, and that’s why we’re asking.
Can we take it that you’ve heard nothing more from him since his death? ’
She nodded again. ‘I’ve heard nothing more.
You can cross him off your list. I know he’s dead because his sister told me so.
’ In response to my inquiring look, she explained.
‘Mariam was part of my group of friends. She’s married to a Jordanian now and she still lives in Amman.
We exchange greetings every now and then but, inevitably, we’ve grown apart over the years.
But she assured me that Ibrahim was dead and she wouldn’t lie about something like that. ’
While her eyes were once more trained on Oscar, Virgilio and I exchanged glances.
I felt sure that the same thoughts must be going through his head as were going through mine.
If Hassan had escaped death and was now pursuing a bloody career as a jihadi, his sister was the last person who would be likely to give him away.
However, I had to admit that the impression that Penelope had given had struck me as convincing.
Yes, she might be a very talented actress but, somehow, I tended to believe her – as, apparently, did Oscar.
Whether Hassan had been killed or not, I felt pretty sure that she believed him to be dead.
Nevertheless, a question mark would still have to remain alongside the name Penelope Green on my list of suspects.
Virgilio asked her a few more questions before releasing her to return to whatever she’d been doing.
No sooner had she left the room than one of the young constables put his head around the door and addressed Virgilio.
‘Sorry to bother you, sir, but the Spanish woman is causing a bit of a scene. Could one of you come and talk to her?’
Marco jumped to his feet. ‘I’ll come.’
Virgilio held up his hand. ‘Bring her back here, Marco. We need to have another talk to her anyway.’
Virgilio and I had only just started to discuss our reactions to the interview with Penelope when the door opened again and Marco ushered in Emilia Cortez, her face flushed, and steam almost coming out of her ears. She didn’t even stop to sit down.
‘How much longer do I have to stay here? This is intolerable. I should have returned to Paris yesterday, and my boss is most unhappy, as am I.’
Virgilio adopted his calm, pacifying voice.
‘Please come in, Signora Cortez, and take a seat.’ He waited until she had sat down opposite us before continuing, still using his sympathetic voice.
‘I can quite understand your frustration, Signora, but we are faced with a double-murder investigation, and the simple fact of the matter is that the murder of Donald Hicks, if not Tristan Angel, was almost certainly committed by somebody here at the villa, so everybody is a suspect.’ His tone became less gentle.
‘And that includes you, Signora Cortez.’