Chapter 12
TUESDAY AFTERNOON
Although best practice dictates that a potential murder scene should not be touched before the arrival of the police, I decided to move Bartolomeo’s body back to the villa for several reasons.
The first reason was because it looked as though it might well have been an unfortunate accident, and so this was not in fact a murder scene, secondly because the snow was now a foot or more deep in places and, more significantly, the wind was beginning to get up and create deeper drifts, and there was no way of knowing if the police would be able to get up here today.
There was a real risk of the body being completely submerged.
But the main reason I didn’t insist on leaving the body out here was because I wanted to play down any hint of murder as a possibility for now.
If we really did have a killer in our midst at the villa, I didn’t want to alert him or her, but I didn’t voice this to Paolo.
As far as I was concerned, there were only three people at the moment with rock-hard alibis, and these were Anna, Fiona and me – because we hadn’t been here.
Everybody else, even Paolo, had to be considered as a potential suspect.
Getting the body back to the villa turned out to be easier than I had feared.
Paolo took a heartbroken Winston with him and left me to keep guard over the body while he hurried back to the villa to get what he referred to as the timber sledge.
While waiting for him to return with the sledge, Oscar and I walked around the huge boulder until I found what was obviously the way up.
Somewhere in the mists of time, the rock had split, forming a narrow pathway in a gulley leading up to the top, in which somebody had sculpted some crude steps.
It looked as though it should be easy enough to climb under normal circumstances but, with several feet of drifting snow lying on the steps, I heeded Anna’s instructions and didn’t do anything silly.
There was no point in risking falling off the rock myself.
The sight of the snow-covered access also conformed my belief that Bartolomeo wouldn’t have risked climbing up after the snow had started – but if it had been dry up there, how had he managed to lose his footing and fall to his death?
If it had been an accident, then Paolo’s hypothesis was probably the most likely – he had climbed up before the snow had started to fall but had been caught out by its sudden arrival.
It occurred to me that alcohol might also have had something to do with it.
Maybe he had partaken too liberally of the contents of his hip flask while admiring the view.
The accidental-death scenario definitely had legs – but did I really believe it?
The other thing I did was to start making a careful search of the ground all around the rock, looking for footprints in the snow.
It very quickly became obvious that this was a waste of time because even my own footprints from five minutes ago were rapidly disappearing under the unrelenting dump of snow.
It looked as though the weather forecasters’ prediction that the snowstorm should start moderating around now had been wrong.
With Oscar glued to my legs, I managed to find a modicum of shelter from the strengthening wind and I wondered, yet again, exactly what had happened here.
Was this a crime scene? There was, of course, always the possibility that he had taken his own life, but I would have assumed that he had been a man with everything to live for.
Of course, I reminded myself, his excessive drinking might have been a sign of depression, which had overflowed and caused him to end it all. Anything was possible.
My musings were interrupted a few minutes later by the return of Paolo with the sledge.
This turned out to be a real antique, made of wood and leather, that had obviously been used in the past for hauling timber and other supplies up the valley.
Between the two of us, we lifted Bartolomeo’s body onto the ancient, but still serviceable, contraption and secured it in place with some old ropes.
It looked as though the sledge had originally been pulled by a horse or mule, and there was a robust leather harness attached to the front.
We hooked the straps over our shoulders and found it relatively easy to follow the rapidly disappearing tracks made by Paolo on his way down here, and we were back at the villa in less than ten minutes.
Word had spread, and we were met at the front door by all the residents, and I made sure that I studied them surreptitiously to gauge their reactions to Bartolomeo’s death.
Valentina and Fiona were in tears. Marina, Selena and Anna weren’t crying, but they looked stunned.
Big brother Umberto’s expression was one of shock rather than grief, while William was as white as a sheet.
Calogero Naselli looked understandably shocked, and his wife, Cinzia, looked as though she had been crying, but the others were more interesting – to a detective.
Orlando’s face displayed absolutely nothing – no visible emotion at all – and Ingrid’s expression was exactly the same as his.
They could have been studying a painting or reading the newspaper.
There was even one person who looked pleased at this development – Umberto’s glamorous wife, Gloria, whose slightly curled lips betrayed a hint of a smile.
Leaving Oscar with Anna, Paolo and I carried Bartolomeo’s body upstairs to his room on the top floor, where we laid him on the bed.
Paolo went off to call the police, while I dug out a pair of disposable gloves from my breast pocket, peeled off the dead man’s thick jacket and subjected the body to close scrutiny.
His chest was still slightly warm to the touch, and this confirmed, not only the excellent insulating properties of the Aquila jacket, but my estimate that he had been dead for barely an hour or so.
The sole wound I could see on him was the massive head trauma, and I couldn’t detect anything on his lips or fingernails that might have suggested poison but, as I say, I’m no pathologist. Certainly, at first sight, it would appear that he had died as a result of falling from the top of the massive boulder and striking the rocky outcrop with his head.
Nothing suspicious – apart from the fact that he had been telling me only a few hours ago that he was in fear for his life.
I felt in his pockets and retrieved a bunch of keys and a near-empty hip flask.
There was nothing else apart from a couple of tissues.
All I could do for now was to turn off the radiator and let the room cool down.
I checked the four keys on the key ring and tried one of them in the door lock.
It worked, so I went out, closed the door behind me and locked it, pocketing the keys.
When I got down to the hall, I saw Marina standing there helplessly, still looking shell-shocked.
I went over and laid a comforting hand on her arm, adding a few words of support.
‘At least he would have died instantly. When he fell off that rock, he suffered a massive blow to his head. He wouldn’t have known anything about it.
Paolo and I have laid him on his bed, I’ve turned off the radiator and I’ve locked the door. Do you have another key?’
She blinked a couple of times and roused herself. ‘Um, no. In the kitchen, we have a master key that opens all the internal doors in the house – but not his bedroom or his study. I need to get the key from him each time before I can go in and clean.’
I released my grip on her arm and pulled out the keys to show her. ‘I’ve got his keys and his phone here. I’ll hang onto them until the police come. All right with you?’
If she thought it strange that one of the guests had taken the owner’s belongings, she didn’t show it. I made no mention of my true occupation as I still felt it best to act as though I were just another guest – for now.
At that moment, Paolo emerged from the kitchen and hurried along the corridor to us.
‘I’ve spoken to the Carabinieri and, predictably, they say they can’t send anybody at the moment.
The road up to San Giorgio is currently impassable until the authorities can free up a snowplough to get on it, and they may even have to wait until the snow abates.
I told them the circumstances of Bartolomeo’s death, and they sounded confident that it had been an accident.
They asked if it might have been suicide and I told them straight that there was no chance of that.
He would never have taken his own life and, besides, why would he?
He had it all. To be honest, the police sounded fairly relaxed about his death. ’
Paolo glanced around. There were just the three of us, but he lowered his voice all the same. ‘Are you a detective?’
I had no option but to give him a nod of the head.
‘I had a feeling Bartolomeo would have sought help from a professional, and you have that look about you. He was really shaken up by the death of Signor Vincenzo, and we advised him to get himself some protection.’ He caught my eye, and I couldn’t miss the implied criticism, so I did my best to explain.
‘I’m a private investigator, not a bodyguard.
I told him I don’t provide that sort of protection and that if he was really worried, he should get himself a proper bodyguard but, to be honest, I thought that he would be safe in a remote location like this.
Tell me, Paolo, what’s your gut feeling about today? Do you think it was an accident?’
He shrugged his shoulders. ‘I really have no idea. Everything points to it having been a tragic accident but, coming so soon after the death of Signor Vincenzo, who knows?’ He glanced at his wife. ‘What do you think, Marina?’