Chapter 9
‘So this guy Jakob Eriksson has killed three of his rivals,’ says Amy. ‘But Vern Blackwood is refusing to believe that he might be next on the list. Doesn’t even want us to investigate the man? Sends us after Griffin and the ex-wife instead.’
Amy, Rosie and Steve have travelled down from the villa to the city of Lucca to discuss exactly where they stand.
‘I’m sure he has his reasons,’ says Rosie. ‘And I’m sure we’ll have some fun finding out what they are.’
Lucca is filled with tiny cafés, tiny Fiats and tiny piazzas, all dotted at perfect intervals, so you can stop every five minutes for a coffee or an Aperol Spritz.
You wonder why the travellers of ancient times didn’t come back from towns like Lucca and say, ‘Rip this all up and just make it look like Italy.’
Whoever designed Amy’s hometown of Watford, for example, could usefully have taken notes.
‘You’re happy to stay?’ Rosie asks, as they turn yet another picturesque corner into another picturesque cobbled alleyway.
‘I can think of worse places,’ says Amy, reaching down to stroke a cat on a moped.
Amy likes Lucca. It would be impossible not to. This maze of narrow streets, circled by wide city walls, which must at some point have protected something from someone, but now carry cyclists, rollerbladers and young lovers.
‘Do you trust him?’ says Rosie. ‘Vern Blackwood? Something’s off about him, don’t you think?’
‘Of course something’s off about him,’ says Amy. ‘If something wasn’t off he’d just go to the police, wouldn’t he? We’re not going to get a lot of cases where something isn’t off about someone.’
‘Good,’ says Rosie. A police car heads towards them, down the narrow street. As it passes, the driver toots his horn, and the passenger gives the two ladies a loud whistle and a cry of appreciation. ‘Nice to know the police are here if we need them though.’
Amy and Rosie have been taking a walk around the top of the city wall, a wide avenue lined with trees. Someone would be able to tell you what the trees were, but not Amy. Trees are for hiding behind while someone shoots at you, not for getting sentimental about.
They have left Steve to his own devices because he wanted to find postcards to send to his friends at The Brass Monkey, even though he has literally just been talking to Tony Taylor in the car on the way down from Vern Blackwood’s villa.
Amy finally spots the man himself in the distance, sipping an espresso and, it seems, reading an Italian newspaper.
Steve had texted them a full hour ago to say he was at a bar ‘that does coffees’ and ‘has red tablecloths’ and ‘is near a big church, you can’t miss it’. It has taken until now to track him down.
As they reach him, Amy notices that there are four espresso cups on the table, each with a fresh residue of thick brown coffee ringing the top.
‘What took you so long?’ says Steve.
Rosie sits. ‘Are you reading an Italian newspaper, Stevie?’
Steve looks down at the paper, La Gazzetta dello Sport.
‘Browsing,’ says Steve.
‘You don’t speak Italian though,’ says Rosie.
‘It’s sport,’ says Steve. ‘You can get the gist of it.’
‘And have you had four espressos?’ Amy asks.
‘Had to,’ says Steve. ‘I asked for one, and it was so tiny I knocked it back, so I asked for a bigger one, and they said they don’t do bigger ones, so I asked for another one, and, same thing, tiny, so I said if you don’t do bigger ones then can I have two small ones, and they said, are you sure, and I said, am I sure I want two tiny coffees, yep, I’m pretty sure.
In England I have a big coffee, which I do, you know that as well as anyone, Amy, I’ve got the big mug Trouble bought me for Christmas, “World’s Best Human”, bit of Nescafé, Bob’s your uncle, Roberto’s your uncle, I suppose, and that doesn’t seem to do me any harm, so, yep, mercy bien, I’ll have two more, grazie mille. ’
‘They’re quite … strong,’ says Amy. ‘Quite a lot of caffeine?’
‘Caffeine,’ says Steve, laughing. ‘I think I can handle a bit of caffeine. Caffeine, she says, I was a police officer for twenty-five years, Ames, if I can handle murder and arson and corruption, and let me tell you, the corruption was the worst thing of all, you try to do your job, and what’s that TV show, the one I like?
Anyway, it was like that, I was a bit more of an idealist in those days, fitter too, I could run ten k in under –’
Rosie gestures to a passing waiter. ‘Two Aperol Spritzes, please. And two more espressos for my friend.’
Amy clicks her fingers in front of Steve’s face, and he recoils. ‘What did you make of Vern Blackwood, Steve?’
‘Nice house,’ says Steve. ‘Made a lot of money doing something that doesn’t sound too awful, like he sells some vitamins to people who want vitamins and they’re not vitamins, but nobody knows they’re not vitamins and they come back for more vitamins, it’s a funny word, isn’t it, “vitamins”, if you say it often enough, but if you want to know what I think, I think why does someone who works in such a sleepy little business need three bodyguards and why would someone want to kill one of those bodyguards?
It’s a long road from vitamins to murder.
There’s that word again, “vitamins”. And “murder”.
So if you want to know what I think, I think he’s not telling us the whole truth.
A note from a guy, but the guy didn’t do it, sure, okay, sure, fine, okay, got it, sure … ’
Amy settles back in her chair. Her wonderful father-in-law might be addled but he’s right.
Right that there’s a missing piece somewhere.
Right that you need a very, very good reason for putting a bullet in someone’s head.
And right that if someone leaves you a note confessing all, then you need a good reason not to believe them.
Steve and Rosie will go and work their magic, and Amy will stay here and work hers.
The waiter returns with two spritzes and presents them to Rosie and Amy, then turns to Steve.
‘Sir, I’m afraid our insurance won’t allow us to serve you another espresso. I hope you understand?’
‘Sure, sure,’ says Steve, distracted by La Gazzetta dello Sport, which he is now reading with fierce concentration. ‘Bloody Fiorentina, up to their old tricks again.’
The sun has not stopped shining since the moment they arrived in Lucca. In fact, the sun has been shining a lot ever since she was sent to look after Rosie D’Antonio. There has been a lot of rain in Amy Wheeler’s life, and she can’t blame Watford for all of it.
They have a murder, and they have a note confessing to the murder, signed by an actual murderer.
Can there really be any more to it than that?