Chapter 7
MONDAY EVENING
Dinner was served in a dining room that echoed our Alpine surroundings.
Like the rest of the villa, this had wooden beams, wooden windows and doors, along with a polished wooden floor.
In case there could be any doubt as to where we were, the wall was hung with paintings of mountain scenes interspaced with pairs of old wooden skis, rope-strung snowshoes like tennis racquets, and a couple of stuffed marmots on the mantelpiece for good measure.
These little brown furry animals were posed standing on their hind legs, and I couldn’t help being reminded of the TV adverts featuring Russian-accented meerkats.
I mentioned this sotto voce to Anna, and she gave me a conspiratorial wink and a little grin.
‘Behave yourself. Be thankful there isn’t a stuffed Alpine guide here as well.’
Name cards had been prepared, and we found ourselves separated.
Anna was positioned next to Selena near the head of the table, while I had Ingrid, the widow of Bartolomeo’s partner, to my left at the opposite end of the table from our host, close to the kitchen door, from which a series of enchanting aromas emerged, totally mesmerising my ever-hungry Labrador – and me, if I was honest. Lunch today had been a banana in the van, so I was definitely ready for food.
As for Oscar, although he had just had his evening meal, he’s always ready for food.
Opposite me was William, the PA, looking distinctly uncomfortable.
Nevertheless, he managed to produce a hint of a welcoming smile in reply to my greeting across the table, but Ingrid’s stony expression didn’t crack for a second when I said hello.
She did, at least, produce an answer, but her tone was as glacial as the air outside.
‘Good evening.’
Although I was very keen to speak to her, in the hope of getting some idea of what sort of person she was, and whether she might have homicidal ambitions, this wasn’t the place for such a conversation so for now, I left her to her own thoughts and turned my attention to my other neighbours.
The seat to my right was occupied by Cinzia Naselli, now changed into a very fetching dress the same chestnut colour as her hair.
I noticed that Oscar had positioned himself between me and her and was now resting his nose on her lap, clearly approving of her wardrobe choice, while she fondled his ears in response.
Opposite her was Fiona, looking as lovely as ever, and she was the first to speak, ostensibly addressing me, but speaking loud enough for the others to hear.
‘Do you have much experience of Piedmontese food, Dan?’
I shook my head. ‘None at all. This is the first time I’ve been to Piedmont.
I’m based in Florence and most of my time is spent down there.
As for food, the Tuscans claim that they make the best food in Italy.
’ I allowed myself a little smile. ‘But they also claim to speak the best Italian, have the most beautiful historic buildings, and the best wines – oh, and don’t forget the best extra virgin olive oil and the best bread in the world.
Tell me about Piedmontese food and drink.
The smells coming from the kitchen are amazing. ’
‘You’re in for a treat – we all are. Paolo’s a professionally trained chef, and his cooking is superb.
Tonight, he’s promised us some local specialities.
A word of warning – go slow on the antipasti because the food will just keep on coming.
Piedmont is famous for its starters, and I’ve been at dinners where there have been a dozen cold starters followed by half a dozen warm antipasti before we even got onto the pasta course, let alone the meat course.
Fortunately, Paolo favours quality over quantity, but I advise you to take it easy all the same.
’ She glanced at William beside her. ‘I know you’ve only been over here for a few months, William, but you must have had some memorable meals with Bartolomeo. ’
He grinned back at her. ‘I know what you mean. There was one meal last month in Turin where they served us a truckload of antipasti, four different types of pasta, then boiled meats followed by roast meats, not to mention cheese and dessert as well. I’m sure I’ve put on pounds and pounds since September. ’
I picked up on his words. ‘So does this mean you’ve only worked for Aquila for three months?’
He nodded, and I took a closer look at him. I reckoned he was a bit older than I had first thought, probably about the same age as Fiona, around thirty, and, beneath his apparent shyness, he was a good-looking young man. I thought I would try to find out a bit more about him.
‘If you don’t mind my asking, what made you decide to come to Italy to work? Presumably, you speak the language.’
‘My Italian’s reasonable. I did GCSE French and Italian years ago at school but then I read PPE at Cambridge and I neglected my languages.
I’ve always loved Italy so I did an intensive language course in Milan over the summer, and I’ve never worked so hard in my life to get up to speed.
I get by pretty well now, but it’ll be a while before I’m fully fluent.
Presumably, you speak Italian like a native if you live over here. ’
I smiled in return, hoping that his limited fluency in Italian didn’t hamper him in his job. ‘Nobody could mistake me for an Italian but, yes, after three years in the country, I manage reasonably well. Can I ask why you decided to come and work in Italy?’
‘I needed a change of scene. My original intention was to go into politics, so when I left Cambridge, I got a job as assistant to my local MP.’ He produced a little grin.
‘It took me a few years, but I finally decided that politics was far too complicated for me – not to mention very poorly paid. I was brought up to tell the truth and to believe what people told me, but I soon found out that that’s just about the first thing that goes out of the window when you get involved with politics. ’
I could sympathise with him. During my time with the Metropolitan Police, I had come into contact with a number of political figures and had noted the remarkable way that none of them seemed capable of giving a straight answer to a simple question.
As I knew that my previous career and my current profession were being kept a closely guarded secret while I was here, I made no comment and turned towards Ingrid to see if I could shake the sour expression off her face.
‘What about you, Ingrid? Are you familiar with Piedmontese food?’
For a moment, I thought she was going to refuse to answer, but she finally decided to make an effort. ‘Do I know Piedmontese food? I’ve had nothing but Piedmontese food for the last three years, ever since I married my husband.’ Her English was excellent, with a distinct French accent.
‘And you don’t like it?’ I took a closer look at her.
From her perfectly styled dark hair and giant pendant earrings to her antique coral necklace and long, manicured nails, she looked impeccable – and expensive.
Beneath the sour expression, she had an attractive face.
What was it Bartolomeo had called her: Ingrid, lovely Ingrid?
She certainly was that. She ran her tongue across her dark-red lips, exposing a set of gleaming white teeth, before responding.
‘I’m not saying I don’t like Piedmontese food, but what is it you English say? Familiarity causes contempt or something like that? I’m only too happy to go back home to France as often as I can for some real food.’
I was pleased to hear her starting to communicate so I tried to keep the conversation going. ‘Whereabouts are you from in France?’
‘Brittany – far over in the west of France.’
I gave her an encouraging smile. ‘I know it well. We had several family holidays near La Baule. Beautiful sandy beaches, but not a lot of mountains there. I imagine it’s not just the food that you’re finding so different here.’
For the first time, a hint of a smile appeared on her face. ‘I do sometimes dream of sitting by the sea with a plate of moules marinière and a glass of Muscadet.’ Her smile broadened. ‘And now that Vincenzo is no longer here, I should be able to get back there more often.’
I kept the smile on my face, but I couldn’t help a feeling of disbelief that thought of her husband’s recent violent death should have brought a broader smile to her lips. Moules marinière or not, Ingrid was a cold fish.
Marina appeared from the kitchen with a magnum of sparkling wine and filled our glasses. We then heard the sound of a knife being tapped against a glass and all eyes turned towards the head of the table where Bartolomeo was on his feet.
‘I would like to thank you all for coming here and, in particular, to thank Selena, our illustrious guest and hopefully, the new face of Aquila Sports.’
I checked Selena’s expression, but it was inscrutable. Presumably, she had yet to sign the contract.
‘Wishing you all a relaxing few days here in the mountains and a very happy Christmas later this week. Salute, cin cin.’ He raised the glass to his lips and drained it before beaming across the room at Marina.
‘An excellent choice, Marina. Who needs champagne when we make such outstanding wine here in Piedmont?’
We all joined in with the toast and, although I’ve never been terribly keen on fizzy wine, I had to agree that this was indeed excellent – dry but with a lovely fruity aftertaste.
I resolved to ask Marina for the name of it so I could add a few bottles to my slowly growing cellar.
The reason my wine collection isn’t growing faster is because I don’t have the willpower to resist drinking it.
And with my daughter due to be married in the new year, I had a feeling a few bottles of this super bubbly wouldn’t hang around for long either.