Intruders
Chapter Eight
Admittedly, I am not an avid reader, not even close.
Albert had encouraged me to try some of the crime and thriller novels he favoured by British authors such as PD James, Ian Rankin and Ruth Rendell.
I managed two or three and enjoyed them, but in the time it took me to finish one book, Albert could consume six.
Not much tries my patience, but finding a book in an oversized library, where most of the spines are either blank or embossed with barely legible gold or silver letters, is one of the most frustrating and arduous things I have ever attempted.
If Albert used some kind of classification system to organise his books, it’s a mystery he took to his grave.
Working systematically, I take over two hours to search through one entire section, from ceiling to floor, using a library step ladder and the nearby oak writing desk.
Out of a room of thirty identical sections—three admittedly empty—this feels like a minor accomplishment, but when sunshine floods the room from the sole window, my attention dissolves.
I need fresh air. I crouch down and squeeze the final book back into place—something about germ theory—before choosing to wash up in the bedroom, then head outside and stretch my legs.
A fresh, yellow-and-white-striped towel has been folded neatly and placed at the end of my bed.
Lorenzo had carried a similar one with him the day before.
Intrigued, I head out to the balcony, wiping my hands on the towel and surveying the scene below.
I notice the long net pole Lorenzo discarded has gone.
When I head down to check, I see immediately that the swimming pool has been cleansed.
Did Lorenzo do this for me? I scrutinise the depths and see that the pool is now spotless.
Sunlight glistens invitingly from the still surface.
I can’t stop the grin that emerges at the sight.
Perfect. Although I would be happy to strip naked from my clothes and dive straight in, I decide—even though the grounds appear empty and while Lorenzo feels it is acceptable to shower naked—to hurry back to my room and pull on the Speedos from my pack.
When I return, the sun may be glorious, but the first touch of chill water on my skin is life-affirming and electric, and my limbs come to life with muscle memory. Ten punishing lengths of the pool and I am finally breathing heavily and feeling alive again, blood pumping through my veins.
For the next four days, I slip into a comfortable routine.
Breakfast on the patio follows an early morning swim.
After that, I tackle the more arduous and tedious task of searching the library, systematically going through the room shelf by shelf.
But there’s still no sign of an author called Luria.
Lunch is usually a simple affair of bread, Italian cold meats, cheeses and salad, followed by fresh fruit.
In the afternoon, I scout around the villa alone, trying to appear inconspicuous, to see if I can find a room with a CCTV feed.
But even though I find rooms with beautifully restored murals and simple furniture, I find none with computer displays or television monitors.
As I had predicted, I sit alone on the patio each evening where Mrs Bellacci serves me dinner.
Since our words about cleaning the pool, she has spoken to me very little, once to apologise, telling me they usually clean and treat the water a day before guests come to stay.
I have to assume my arrival took them by surprise.
When she brings me dinner, she bids me a cursory good evening and says a simple buon appetito as she serves.
I remember my manners and, after thanking her, ask her to thank Lorenzo as well for doing an excellent job.
After that, she is gone. I remember from the first evening with the doctor that she prefers to clear the table once visitors have left, and I always return to my room after I’ve eaten.
Unsurprisingly, since that first evening, I have seen nothing of Lorenzo.
On Sunday, as I climb the staircase to my room, I feel my mobile phone buzzing in my pocket.
Once inside, I notice the space has been made up, which is not unusual, but my rucksack is no longer on the floor but on a chair.
I wonder if someone has checked through my things.
I ignore the suspicion for the time being and pull out the phone.
“Josh?” I ask when the call connects.
“No, it’s Nishan,” comes the voice, sounding relieved but slightly rattled.
“Perfect timing, actually. I was about to give you a call while Josh is out getting coffee. I’m at the flat right now, the one where we left your phone plugged in.
The place got burgled overnight. They used a glass cutter on a windowpane in the back door to gain entry.
Drawers and wardrobes have been left open around the flat, but naturally, there was nothing in them.
They did swipe the brand-new kettle and toaster from the kitchen, but left the flat-screen and microwave oven, which is a little odd but does make me think it’s the work of petty thieves.
I called the police this morning and let them have a nose around, gave them a list of what had been stolen for insurance purposes.
The thing is, I didn’t include your phone in the list, which is also gone.
I honestly believe it’s just opportunists grabbing whatever they could carry away, but Josh insisted I call and let you know. ”
“Was there anything on there that could lead them to me?”
“That depends. First off, I cloned your device and everything on it. I also installed a program that allows me to kill everything remotely. And I mean everything, including any apps and data, in the unlikely case this ever happened. I even left them a little surprise in the form of a tiny incendiary device concealed beneath the cover. Gives the term burner phone a whole new meaning. What I’m saying is not to worry, because they won’t be able to use it again, the fuckers.
I already activated the shutdown after I made a trace to find the last place of use.
Whoever nicked your phone switched it off here, because this flat is the last known location.
As soon as they try to turn it on, everything will be wiped, and my unexpected gift will begin to work its magic.
The only issue is that if they were looking for you, they’d have figured out you’re not living here.
Which means they’ll start looking elsewhere.
And if it has anything to do with Albert’s delightful family, I am sure his solicitor will have mentioned the Italian building site. ”
“Thanks for the warning. Honestly, Nishan, I agree with you—”
“Hold up, hold up! Josh has just turned up. Give me a second.”
“Hello, your lordship, or whatever they call you now,” comes Josh’s loud and cheerful voice.
Nishan has put his phone on speaker. “We’re enjoying Sunday morning cinnamon lattes and cream cheese bagels from the artisan cafe down the road.
Has he told you this place got turned over last night?
Bastards. They stole both my prized Rolex watches—”
“Don’t listen to him, Gabe. He’s never owned a Rolex in his life,” says Nishan.
“Yeah, well. The insurance company don’t know that, do they?”
“And how exactly are you going to explain storing prized Rolex watches in an empty flat?”
“Trust me, I’ll think of something.”
“He will, Nishan,” I say with a chuckle before becoming serious. “But I agree. It does sound like petty theft. Even so, take care at your end. If the thieves were targeting me, they might have also figured that you manage the rental and might be helping me.”
“I think you’re giving them too much credit,” said Nishan. “But if anyone does call and ask, I’ll tell them you’re an old friend who needed a place to hang for a couple of days before moving on.”
“You’ll tell them it’s none of their fucking business,” chimes in Josh.
“Look, I don’t want my problems getting you guys into—”
“Bollocks! We’re on your side, remember?
And don’t you worry your pretty face about us, Gabe,” says Josh.
“We can take care of ourselves. Not only is our flat set up like a bloody bank vault thanks to my lovely paranoid boyfriend, but I still know people, if you know what I mean? We’re more concerned about you. ”
“Well, as I say, I appreciate the call. How are things otherwise?”
“Same old shit. This is the only bit of excitement we’ve had since you left. How are you doing? Are you enjoying your new role as a lord of leisure?”
“Very funny. But honestly, this place is like paradise. Nothing for miles around and days of sunshine. I get fed three meals a day, have a huge bed to sleep in and a swimming pool all to myself. What’s not to love?”
“Lucky bastard,” says Josh.
A pause falls between us, and I decide to push him to answer something that has been bugging me before he ends the call and rejoins Nishan.
“Josh, back when we worked the bars together, did I ever give you the impression that I spoke or understood any other languages?”
“That’s an odd question. Where’s this coming from?”
“Just one of those funny moments. Probably nothing. I just wonder if it might have something to do with my life before I lost my memory.”
“No, you never spoke another language in front of me. Although there was that one time…”
“What time?”
“Didn’t I tell you? Maybe not, because I thought it was nothing. Something happened in the early days when we were both working late. Do you remember Polish Tomek?”
“Vaguely. So many coworkers came and went. What about him?”