Mae glanced back to the goliath greenhouse and pretty windmill against the blue morning sky. It was so picturesque. “In Italy, there’s been a surge of illegal agricultural workers. A part of it comes from the collapse of traditional family-run farms, the sort once predominant in Italy. Large industrial farms, like this one, are taking over from the old family farms. Migrants have often worked for very little on the big farms, but in the olden days, as Fiorella would say, the farmers fed them well, gave them a decent place to live. That’s changed. Now it’s all about cost—cost to the consumer, what the consumer will pay, what’s cheap. Famers have to find a way to make a profit. Italians call it caporalato; it’s organised crime taking advantage of desperate refugees, illegal migrants, whatever they happen to be called, it’s illegal hiring and exploitation of farm workers, trapping them for little or no pay.”
The pen he’d had behind his ear went sailing into the tulips next. “There’s a surge of caporalato throughout Europe. I think it’s what we’ve found here. Criminal gangs rent out migrants, and deduct services like transportation, accommodation, food and water from whatever meagre pay they receive. This gives farmers—and agricultural companies—an opportunity to avoid payroll taxes and avoid taking any responsibility for the hiring of illegal workers. It’s modern-day slavery. We went through just one part of this farm. I counted nine motorhomes. I’m sure there are more. If twelve or thirteen men are in each motorhome that’s nearly one hundred and twenty people existing in those cramped, unhygienic conditions. And on a farm this size there may be more men, more motorhomes or camps or lorries we didn’t see. We need to find our hairy gorilla friend, Mr Bianco.”
“The man you met back at the motorhome said we’d find him in the crocodile greenhouse in the chateau gardens.”
“And that is where we are heading.”
“Do you think we’ll find any crocodiles?”
Chapter Twenty-One
Chateau Sicilië stood at the far end of a sculpted, low maze and garden paths bursting with spring colour. A gravel pathway lined with the last of the spring daffodils, hyacinth, muscari, and fritillaria opened to a curving fresh-mown lawn and a small amphitheatre, a fountain of the water nymph Galatea in the centre. Statues of Proserpina, her mother Ceres, and the Four Seasons were interspersed amid topiaries and water features that ran along the paved walk that led to the rear terrace of the chateau. At the start of the path, opposite the maze, a tall yew hedge rose up high, its top perfectly manicured, an old black weathervane, a Trinacria—the gorgon-headed, three-legged symbol of Sicily—barely visible on the other side.
Instead of moving to the house, Kitt backtracked and followed the hedge until he found a slightly overgrown archway where a carved Medusa sat upon a pedestal. Behind the serpentine head, offset from centre, stood another not-so-overgrown archway cut into the hedge, a narrow chain across it. Kitt removed the chain and Mae went through an arch of thick greenery. The hedge, pink blooms of a saucer magnolia and the white blossoms of surrounding dogwood trees kept the greenhouse well-hidden, as it was meant to.
Unlike the gigantic greenhouse near the windmill, this glasshouse was a scaled-down version similar the Three-Climate Greenhouse at The Hortus. Late Victorian, slightly Edwardian, the base of each of the three structures stone, the framework white aluminium set with glass. It was rather picturesque.
Kitt ignored the Toegang verboden sign with the red circle safety symbols, pulled the door open, and stepped into a little foyer where air blasted from vents above with a wooooosh. When the rushing gust ended, he opened another door and stepped into a very warm, very humid greenhouse lush with flora and a wet smell one usually came across at a zoo.
Mae pulled off the windmill scarf and shoved it in the coat’s pocket alongside Tanja’s mobile. She slid off the coat and draped it over an arm. To the right of the entrance stood a rack hung with small gardening secateurs, gloves, brushes, and a long handled microfibre duster for cleaning off plants, keeping cobwebs at bay, and encouraging photosynthesis. A gardening trolley stood beside a wide sink that was framed by old-style apothecary shop shelves holding large, labelled glass jars full of dried leaves. Some jars had little skulls and crossbones pictures on them. Beneath louvre vents and a large fan regulating the climate was a low table holding a box of surgical face masks and thick rubber gloves, the sort scientists wore when handling dangerous chemicals. Strings from surgical masks waved about in the fan’s breeze.
For a few moments, they wandered around and Mae re-braided her hair. The glasshouse was arranged and displayed in the style of a Victorian conservatory on a grand estate garden, crossed with small areas that stuck to the usual layout of plants set in rows, some low to the ground, some on benches about a metre high. Green seedlings grew in shelving high along the front of the glass. A centre path made of brick and lined on either side with gravel that allowed for drainage ran between rows filled with pink rhododendron, blue hydrangea, tall, white narcissus, equally tall pink and purple bell blossoms of foxglove, as well as deep purple larkspur, bright red poinsettia, and pointy-edged mistletoe. A large red and white plastic bag labelled Kippenmest Gedroogd sat atop another stainless-steel garden trolley, which stood at the front of a cannabis plant and a trellis trussed with a spill of vivid purple clematis.
Kitt started forward. Mae tugged at his sleeve. “Vlaming mentioned edibles and nutraceuticals, didn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“Clearly this is the chateau Bianco and Tanja discussed, but do you remember Vlaming also mentioned there was a chateau on a garden tour he ran, one that closed to the public to run experimental greenhouses and interbreeding programs to produce hybrids? Do you think this is that chateau?”
“Yes, I think this is that chateau. And I see where you are going.”
“That’s good you do because I don’t. I have no idea what kind of hybrids they think they’re making because this looks like, and I am not joking, a poison garden, like the one at Alnwick, in Northumberland. Alnwick is outdoors.” She moved to the right, inspecting the tall, red-centred amaryllis on the right, then went left to inspect violet-stalked rhubarb. “You say I read too much spy fiction. You say I confuse fact with fiction. Here’s a fictional fact that’s not fiction at all. There’s a garden like this one in a Bond novel. Of course, that garden is stocked with nasty poison plants, venomous snakes, piranha, and a pond of bubbling lava—yes, lava—this garden just has the nasty poison plants. Don’t touch anything in here, don’t smell anything in here.”
“Interesting.”
“Interesting how?”
A muscle in Kitt’s jaw pulsed, his smile sardonic. “Like Vincent Weed, I believe Llewelyn and Tanja Goedenacht were poisoned. I wouldn’t be surprised if whatever it was that killed them came from this garden.”
Mae exhaled, frustration colouring the sound. “Yes. Whatever it was, was in the chai, and Mr Weed was right. I learned a few things about common house and garden plants from Caspar. Whether or not I was interested, whether or not I wanted to know, I learned things because he talked about gardening and horticulture and his knowledge rubbed off. I know Narcissus,” she pointed, “mistletoe, foxglove and clematis are all pretty garden plants that are deadly. I’m surprised there’s no oleander—oh, wait it’s over there, just about to flower,” she gestured to a spot across a path. “Oleander will stop your heart.”
“It’s a cardiac glycoside, like foxglove.”
“Do you think foxglove or oleander or lily of the valley was put into the chai?”
“I…” Kitt went still. The humid air suddenly arid, the unexpected dryness clearing away the fog of his weariness and fear and fury. He knew. He knew who, he knew exactly who had tainted Llewelyn’s Christmas-scented tea with poison. But he didn’t know why. “May I have my mobile?” he said. “I need to ring Bryce and we need to check if Mr Bianco is still here.”
“I don’t have your mobile.”
He spat out a coarse word. “I left it on the console between the se
ats.”
“I have Tanja’s phone.”
“This is why I love you.”
“Shall I send Mr Bianco a message?”
“Yes. I think we ought to send Mr Bianco a message.”
Mae shifted the coat on her arm, dug her glasses out of one pocket and Tanja’s phone out of the other. The mobile had been switched off. She rubbed her eyes before she slipped on the readers. “I’m tired. I’m so tired.”
“So am I.”
“What time did we leave yesterday? I think I’ve been awake for thirty hours. That’s like a flight from Australia to London. What if we just leave all this here, go find a hotel and sleep for a few hours, then come back. I’ll send Bianco a message that says, ‘please join me for afternoon tea at the crocodile greenhouse.’” She pressed the side switch to turn on the mobile, her thumbs hovering above the screen, and she chuckled, then her mouth sagged and her chuckle turned into a wheeze. Bianco. That name, it had been on a list. Bianco, Man, Torrisi, Russo, Valentine all names that had been on a Gallia Mafia family hit list. Torrisi was a brand of Italian coffee, Russo was a very common Sicilian name, Valentine was the name she shared with Caspar. Man was Li Man, a ‘cleaner’ for the Gallia Mafia family. Bianco was the Sicilian town Misterbianco.
Only maybe it wasn’t.
She looked down at the mobile’s screen powering up, then up at Kitt, “Bianco,” she said. “We were wrong. Bianco is Mister Bianco, not Misterbianco. It was never Misterbianco.”
“What?”
“Last year, with the thirty-seven million pounds in the secret trust account set up in Caspar’s name, the money laundering, the Mafia, the list of names, the hit list I saw in your kitchen before I killed the man Vivi Gallia had sent to kill me, Bianco was a name on the list that the family’s banker Ernst Largo had. You, Vitali with the Direzione Investigativa Antimafia—the DIA—and I thought Bianco was the town Misterbianco, because the cleaner Li Man had a villa there. We were wrong. The Bianco now is Mister Bianco then.”
“That’s ridiculous. And not ridiculous. What if you’re wrong again?”
“But what if I’m right?”
“It could be a coincidence. Bianco is a common Italian name.”
“I know I’m tired. I know you’re tired, but I also know you don’t believe in coincidence. Perhaps it’s why the Italian asked you to step away.” Fatigued and more than a little dazed, Mae yanked off her glasses and gazed about the toxic garden, eyes wandering over an exit sign suspended from the glass ceiling, over pink hydrangea, orange angel’s trumpet, dark berried belladonna, and monkshood, also known as wolfsbane—every bloody part of wolfsbane could kill you.
Then another plant caught her attention. She moved across the gravel path to a single, very healthy green plant with heart-shaped leaves the size of a hand. It was displayed on a tall, square stand beneath a large glass bell cover with a hook on the top. A chain, running from the hook to a pulley above, was attached to a reel with a crank handle. The plant was bigger than the ones she had seen in The Hortus Three-Climate Greenhouse. She shoved her glasses into a pocket.
Kitt had followed her. He slid a hand about her waist. “I don’t believe in coincidence,” he said, tugging the phone from her grip, finding a string of messages from Bianco waiting. He ignored them and sent a message to Bryce: Follow Mae’s necklace.
She exhaled. “It’s all parasitic and poisonous. Everything, from last July to now, is nothing but a creeping, strangling plant with poisonous roots, leaves and flowers. The plant in front of us is a gympie-gympie, a stinging nettle from the rainforests of Australia. This one is quite large. In the Alnwick Poison Garden, the most dangerous plants are kept in cages. Some of the plants in here you don’t have to worry about unless you eat them or get the sap on your skin, but this one… If you touch a leaf or even brush against it, tiny silica hairs break off and act like micro-hypodermic needles injecting a neurotoxin into your skin.” She shook her head with more than a little disbelief.
“Did Caspar teach you this?” He pocketed Tanja’s phone.
She looked at him and slipped away, taking his hand, heading back to where they had stood before. “No. Any reasonable, safety-conscious gardener ought to know about foxglove, mistletoe, and oleander, but that plant there is not a common garden variety. I saw gympie-gympie specimens inside a glass case at The Hortus. I read the little greenhouse information placard there, then read a bit more about it on the internet as I sat there listening to you and Tanja Goedenacht make suggestive comments about a wooden marital aid.”
“I don’t remember making any sort of suggestive comm—”
A loud whooshing came from the doorway at the far side of the greenhouse, air blasting from a system that regulated the climate, keeping moisture and temperature levels constant. There was movement between rows, the shape of a man passed in the shadowed hollows of foliage. Late twenties, he wore thick rubber gloves, white safety coveralls, and rubber boots. A mask hung beneath his neck, it swayed as he started wheeling the trolley that had been near the trellis with the purple clematis, the bag of Kippenmest sitting upright atop of the trolley, a yellow, cartoon chicken smiling from the red plastic. He saw them, stopped, and locked the trolley’s wheels with a foot pedal. “Kunje neit lezen? Deze broeikast is dicht voor ‘t publiek!”
Kitt turned to Mae. “Did you get that? I don’t speak Dutch.”
She frowned. “You spoke it at the airport and the sex shop yesterday.”
“Yes, I said, please, thank you, good morning, and fuck off—the essentials that get you far in any language.”
“Perhaps you should have kept the clipboard.”
“Yes.” He swivelled about to the man, mouth curved into a broad smile as he gave a rousing Texas, “Howdy!”
“You really miss that feckin’ cowboy hat, don’t you?” Mae muttered.
The man rolled his eyes and huffed. “You’re American. Okay. Fair enough. Deh sign on deh door, it says no trespassing—in Dutch. This oranje, greenhouse, is not open to deh public. You have come too far from deh big house. Chateau Sicilië does not do weddings or functions anymore. Turn around and go back. Now.”
Mae put a hand to her heart and a Texas twang in her voice. “Sorry. We stopped to look at the gardens and saw the sign on the gate, the one that said the chateau was closed, but we let m’dog out to pee before we turned around, and he plum ran off. Have yew seen him?” Mae bit her lower lip for a second. “A small, skinny dog that runs very fast. I left my cell phone in the car, so we came in there to see if maybe there was a phone so I could check with my brother to see if Felix had come back to the gate. My brother is at the car.”
“I said turn around and go back.”
“Can yew help find m’dog?”
He half turned, smiling, and Mae saw him take something from his pocket. “I fed your dog to deh crocodile,” he said. “Now, turn around and go back.” With the jerk of his hand, a blade opened.
“Are you threatening my wife?”
“No.” He looked Mae up and down. “Your wife is a little old, but we’ll still use her, You, we have no use for, so I am threatening you.”
When the boxcutter slashed through air, Kitt was ready. So was Mae. She tossed her coat in the man’s face. Kitt stepped sideways and the man’s momentum took him straight into the potting bench.
Before the man whirled and slashed again, Mae had snatched the red plastic bag with the smiling chicken. The razor’s edge sank into the wrapping and split as she drove forward, five kilos bursting with a pungent stench, thrusting him backward, the plastic splitting apart as he struck the stainless-steel edge of the potting bench.
And then Kitt was on him, and the man fell, a putrid mixture of cow manure and compost raining down on them both. The man lashed upwards, spitting, gagging.
Mae caught the look on her husband’s face, which wasn’t any look at all, and his cool dispassion stayed with her as she spun about and ran for the entrance, for the way they’d come in, and there came a s
harp, abrupt scream, then a whoosh from the front door.
She twisted about and shot between rows of lethal garden plants, heading for the green exit sign she’d seen suspended from the ceiling, to another door somewhere in a poison garden. She hit a dead end of wolfsbane, backtracked, rounded a curve, and found herself back where Kitt still fought, but not the man she’d left him with. That man was on the ground, blood pooled under his head, shit all over him. This man was sinewy and hopping up and down like a lunatic kickboxer or mixed martial artist in rubber boots and white protective coveralls.
Stupidly, she hesitated, watching Kickboxer’s knee shoot up like a piston and Kitt twisted as a kneecap slammed into his ribs instead of stomach. He sucked a painful breath through his teeth and jabbed out with a hard left, his fist meeting chin, the man’s head snapping right, arms flapping. Kitt grabbed a fluttering, gloved wrist, jerked the arm behind the man’s back, high between his shoulder blades, and in two steps, drove the man face-first into the garden trolley and held him there, glancing back at her, jaw set, mouth ruthless, his eyes a chilling, stony blue-grey.
Mae’s stomach turned as she whirled and took off again, running, only to stop abruptly, skidding on wet gravel to stare, not at more irritating or toxic plants, or the brightly hued butterflies flitting past in a hothouse that was a scaled down version of the tropical green house at The Hortus, but at what sat in the centre of the tropical hothouse garden. The gravel path of green jungle rattan palms, bright red and green bromeliads, rubber trees, orchids, bamboo, and bougainvillea with fat spines that circled around a pond filled with water lilies—and a greenish-brown reptile.
The zoo scent strong here, the tip of a long, flattish snout showed just below the water line, ridged eyes watched her from the other side of a hip-high glass wall smeared with blood and chicken feathers. “Go on outta that!” she muttered, then gravel crunched behind her and she whirled, right fist smacking Kitt’s blood-speckled shoulder.
True to Your Service Page 28
