by JJ Marsh
She raised her voice above the musicians and yelled, “Will!” waving an arm to point at their escape route.
He wasn’t difficult to spot, as he had Luke on his shoulders. He acknowledged her with a nod and guided Adrian, who was still filming the event, between the throng to follow them. Gratitude for his intuition and understanding swelled in her chest. Whatever would they do without Will?
The moment they turned into the side street, the intensity of the music and claustrophobia of the crowd lessened. Beatrice took a deep breath and released Matthew’s hand. Rotten oranges lay in the gutter, leaving a fetid smell which was almost comforting, like compost. They headed for the sunlit beach, like swimmers making for the surface, and burst out into the daylight with huge intakes of breath.
“That was special,” said Matthew.
Adrian laughed. “Special is one word for it. Intense, scary and a bit alarming are just a few more. I’m glad we chose to avoid the more dramatic processions. Never mind scaring Luke, I would have wet myself.”
The beach became their haven for the day. They paddled, dozed, chatted and read in the shade of a huge umbrella, shifting positions whenever the sun grew too hot. Will and Luke went beachcombing, Matthew and Adrian revisited their conversation on the wines of Puglia and Beatrice relaxed into a beach chair, just resting her eyes.
As the afternoon wore on, families began to descend onto the seafront, walking off their Easter Sunday feasts. The atmosphere was jovial and celebratory, entirely lacking in the religious intensity of the morning. Luke came dashing back with a hoard of shells and fishy-smelling pebbles, and announced he was hungry.
Adrian offered to cook for everyone that evening and Matthew placated Luke with the promise of an ice-cream. Will escorted grandfather and grandson to a gelateria down the harbour, while Adrian and Beatrice made their way back to their apartment in the late afternoon sun. Beatrice linked her arm in his and leant her head against his shoulder. “Despite the fact that no one has given me a chocolate egg, that was a rather lovely Easter Sunday,” she said.
“No one has given you a chocolate egg yet,” Adrian replied as they turned the corner into their street. “Yes, when we’re all together, it’s perfect. Although this morning was livelier than I expected, a few hours of sun and seaside completely relaxed me. I even forgot about the stalker. I checked with Will and neither of us has seen anyone remotely like him all day. Perhaps stalkers get Sundays off.”
“He might be washing his beret,” Beatrice suggested, causing Adrian to snort.
Their apartment block came into view, lit by spring sunshine and Adrian let out a sigh. “Italy and I were made for each other. This country embraces the good things in life with no apology. Which reminds me, we’ve had some thoughts about your dessert. Do you remember birthday parties when you were ... oh shit.”
To Beatrice’s surprise, Adrian shoved her up against a wall and pressed his body against hers, his hand forcing her head against his shoulder.
“Sssh!” he hissed.
Beatrice didn’t move, her nose filled with the scent of aftershave and fabric conditioner. After a moment, he released her and leaned away to look up the street. Walking away from them was an older man, with grey hair and a brown leather bomber jacket. Neither moved until he had turned the corner.
“Was that ...?”
“Yes, it was. And he just came out of our apartment building.”
They ran upstairs, careful to check every room. Nothing had been disturbed, no valuables were missing, no sinister messages had been scrawled on the bathroom mirror in lipstick or blood. Beatrice frowned. Had he got into the building but not the apartment? If so, what was he looking for? A thought occurred to her and she trotted downstairs to open the post box.
Stuffed with junk mail, the box contained no unsubtle envelope containing a cryptic threat made out of newspaper headlines. Nothing but pizza fliers and supermarket special offers. The front door opened, making her jump. Will, Matthew and Luke seemed equally startled to see her standing in the gloomy hallway.
“Beatrice?” asked Will, his face full of concern.
“Here you are! Just coming to look for you. How long does it take to get an ice-cream anyway? What flavour did you get, Luke?”
She led the way upstairs, with a discreet shake of the head at Will. Not in front of the boy. He said no more.
Once Matthew had retired for a rest and Luke took his games console into the living room, Beatrice summoned Adrian and Will to the roof terrace.
“The truth of the matter is that man came out of this building. Whether or not he’d been in this apartment, we have no way of telling. But in future, we set markers which only we know about. Then we can be sure only we come in and out of this place.”
“I can take care of that,” said Will. “My question is, if he did get into our apartment, how? Has someone given him a key?”
Adrian looked from one to another, his puzzlement clouding his features. “This place belongs to Agusto and Isabella. Surely they wouldn’t give anyone else a key, unless it’s a cleaner or concierge?”
“What reason would a cleaner or concierge have to follow us around the city?” asked Will. “You need to find out who has access to this place, Beatrice. I’m going to call Tanya and request we activate Location Services on Luke’s iPad. We’ll tell her it’s just a precaution but I want to know where he is at all times.”
Beatrice clasped her hands together and thought. “Good plan. The question is, how do I approach Isabella without letting her know I suspect her of having a part in this?”
Adrian shook his head with some vehemence. “Will told me your suspicions and I think you are both being ridiculous. Agusto and Isabella are lovely people, nice to children, friendly, talented and incredibly stylish. I cannot and will not believe she is double-crossing you. That is paranoia, plain and simple.”
Beatrice made no reply. She had long since ceased to trust people on the basis of their appearance.
“My feeling is not to show our hand. Not just yet,” said Will. “What we could do is lay a honey trap. How many people knew how to make your ice-cream thing?”
“Me, Agusto and Suhail. Maybe Isabella too, if Agusto told her.”
“No one else?”
“To my knowledge, it would be only four people,” Beatrice said. “Gennaio was away on business and no one else is privy to Agusto’s creations.”
Will cupped his jaw in his hand. “How about we create a dessert for the restaurant but when telling anyone what’s in it, miss out a specific ingredient? You make it, get it approved and then ensure only you know exactly what’s in it. You tell only Agusto and Isabella the recipe, omitting the key ingredient. Then let’s see how the Nonna chain picks that up.”
“I couldn’t do that without including Suhail. He’s the one who actually makes the things; I just pretend to be a chef. But yes, if I ever think of a dessert, we might be able to pull that off,” Beatrice sighed.
“We had an idea on that score,” Adrian offered.
“One minute.” Will placed a hand on Adrian’s arm. “Beatrice, do you really think we can trust Suhail? I’m not sure the plan will work if we include another person. He could pass on the original recipe himself or tell Agusto and Isabella what we’re trying to pull.”
“I’m not sure. My gut tells me he’s not been completely honest with me, but at the same time, I don’t doubt his loyalty.”
Will flipped open his notebook. “Loyalty to whom, that’s the question. Anyway, before we leave the question of the Nonna chain, I wanted to tell you that I found the one in Switzerland. Chalet Nonna is in a tourist town called Einsiedeln. There’s a big monastery and massive church which houses a black Madonna. The restaurant is pretty new but has a website and online menu. Their selection includes all the Ecco dishes we know have been plagiarised, including your affogato.”
Seagulls screeched overhead and the sun grew pinker. Beatrice’s brain buzzed, trying to make connections. “Then we’
re right about this being some kind of wider network. Someone is stealing recipes and selling them to new ventures. I’m guessing they pay a fee and get a certain number of recipes per month, per quarter, whatever. All of them have Nonna in the title, but the owners appear to have no connection. Unless the Swiss manager comes from Naples?”
Will checked his notebook. “No, the owner is Swiss. Stefan Kallin, thirty-eight years old and this is his first catering business. Previous jobs include journalism, travel writer, food critic and now he’s opened his own place.”
Beatrice pricked up her ears. “How do you spell his surname?”
“K-A with an umlaut-L-I-N,” Will answered.
“In that case it’s pronounced ‘Kaylin’, not ‘Kallin’. I partnered with a Herr Kälin on a case in Zürich a few years back. I’ve no idea how common a name it is, but I might just give him a call. Can’t hurt, can it? Adrian, you said you had an idea.”
“Not on the whole fake restaurant thing, but I was thinking about desserts. Can you tell me again exactly what the chef wants?”
Beatrice interlaced her fingers and stretched her arms over her head. “I know this off by heart. It kept me awake this morning. On Tuesday morning, I want every one of you to bring me an idea for a top-class Ecco dish. All these dishes need a story. Personal, local, global, I don’t mind. Bring me new ideas and I will work with them all. Isabella said I shouldn’t worry about it as he expects nothing of me. Which makes me feel worse.” She thought back to the afternoon in the restaurant, Isabella’s hair in the sunshine, the golden bubbles rising to the surface of her glass. “She also said that if I could make Prosecco in an edible form, that would satisfy her.”
Adrian clasped his hands together in delight. “Really? In that case, our idea is absolutely perfect. What special birthday treat do you remember from your childhood?”
“Pineapple upside-down cake,” Beatrice said instantly.
Adrian rolled his eyes. “And how would the other ninety-nine per cent of the British public respond to that question?”
“Jelly and ice-cream?”
“Precisely!”
“Adrian ...”
“Wait, let me finish. You want a British dish with its own story, updated with a contemporary Italian twist. Our suggestion? Lavender and honey ice-cream, classic English garden-style, served with Prosecco jelly. Subtle, fragrant and designed around childhood memories of the chef - that’ll be you. It’s very spring-like and Eastery, and best of all, it looks simple but it’s easy to cock it up.”
A picture formed in Beatrice’s mind. Her family garden in Gloucestershire, surrounded by dry stone walls and oak trees. Hollyhocks and roses, honeysuckle and clematis, filling the air with the fragrance of summer. A Labrador dozing on a freshly mown lawn, a wrought-iron table bearing plates of sandwiches, Scotch eggs and sausage rolls. Overhead, bunting blowing in the breeze. Half a dozen children singing ‘Happy Birthday’, her mother bearing a cake with six candles and her father recording it all on cine camera.
“I think that idea is quite brilliant! The only concern is that I have no idea how to make it.”
Adrian gave her a knowing smile and withdrew a printout from the pocket of his jeans. “Nor do I. But the Internet does.”
Chapter 24
Two days of holiday fed Suhail’s soul. He spent his free time camping in the mountains. He meditated, prayed and recognised his place in the universe. Until that Sunday, he had not even realised how much was missing. Connected by his faith, cradled by the earth, he stared at the heavens and gave thanks for all his blessings. Over small camp fires, he heated water and the contents of random cans. His food was fuel, not an experience to be spun as a story or rated with stars. Alone with his thoughts, he found himself in the right place. Solitude was sustenance.
On Monday afternoon, he packed up his tent and cleaned away all traces of his presence, covering his fireplace with earth. That was when the memory ambushed him. He squatted down on his haunches and covered his eyes, all the better to see the images his mind offered.
Two little boys, the smaller one chasing his big brother in circles round a fire in the desert, their feet scattering sand as they ran. The smell of roasting meat and sound of childish laughter seemed real and present. A woman with a woven bag was unpacking bread. She called the boys and looked up at him with a smile like a caress. Her eyes reflected the firelight. And then she was gone. The velvet dusk, the warmth of the fire, the meat juices dripping into the pan below, the texture of the sand beneath his feet, the laughter of his sons, all gone. Instead, he was alone on an Italian mountainside.
He walked down the slopes and caught the little train back to Napoli, keeping away from people. For their sake and his own. He had not washed for two days and his body odour might offend his fellow travellers. His own reluctance to engage with society, on the other hand, could not be attributed to a single sense. People and their conversations, opinions, attitudes and judgements fractured his thoughts. Thinking, for Suhail, was an activity best practised alone. He rarely had sufficient time and space to indulge his favourite pastime in peace.
On this occasion, he had weighed silence and found it wanting. Dishonesty could take active forms, such as lying, cheating and deceiving. Or it could be passive, such as saying nothing. Suhail had sworn allegiance to silence ever since the one time he had spoken up and it cost him everything. He found it better to move quietly about his business, remaining distant and uninvolved. He was not responsible for what he knew and it was not his fault if people got hurt. He had done nothing.
Two days of examining his philosophy of disengagement brought him to a profound dissatisfaction. Retreating from the world and taking no responsibility was not living, but existing. If a man does nothing, neither good nor evil, which side is he on? Time to take action and speak up once again. If there was a price to pay, he had nothing left to lose.
Outside his apartment, he took a deep breath before unlocking the door, preparing to re-enter his everyday life, repeating his thanks for two days of purity and replenishment.
The key would not turn. He tried the handle and the door swung open. Suhail walked into the small bedsit and his peace vanished. He looked around at the broken crockery and torn clothes, read the graffiti on the walls and noted the stench of urine coming from his mattress. That was the last push. Time to leave. His most treasured possessions remained in their hiding-place behind the loose roof tile, which thankfully the vandals had not found. He packed them into a leather bag, threw the few remaining clothes they had not destroyed into his holdall and switched off the lights.
There was only one place to go. He sent one more prayer: please do not let bad luck follow.
Chapter 25
When the buzzer rang, Beatrice was mid-sentence. Everyone in the apartment looked to one another for an explanation. Luke’s head lifted up from its habitual 45-degree angle over his phone, Will snapped shut his laptop and the discussion on recipes between Beatrice, Adrian and Matthew fell silent.
“Visitors on Easter Monday evening?” Will bounded out of his chair and picked up the intercom. “Hello?”
An electronic crackle came from the speaker. “My name is Suhail and I need the help of Beatrice Stubbs.”
With a glance at Beatrice for permission, Will buzzed him in and ran downstairs to greet their unexpected guest. Beatrice waited in the hallway until they returned. Suhail’s worried expression lifted just a touch on seeing her face.
“Suhail? Is everything all right?”
“I am deeply sorry to disturb you during your holiday. I find myself in an emergency situation and I must ask for your help. Also I beg your forgiveness. The last time we spoke, I was not truthful. I told no lies, but I omitted certain information. Can we talk?”
Beatrice considered the circumstances, Suhail’s bulging holdall and the man’s nervous stance. “Yes, of course we can talk. Do you need somewhere to stay? Because we have two spare rooms, you know.”
He hesitated, with
a glance at Will. Just then, Adrian and Luke came out of the living room.
“Hello, Suhail!” chirped Luke.
Suhail smiled. “Hello, Luke, hello, Adrian.” He looked back at Beatrice. “Thank you. I would be forever in your debt.”
“Come upstairs and let’s take our conversation onto the terrace. And this time, we take our gloves off the table.”
Beatrice took Suhail and a pot of mint tea up to the terrace.
“I apologise one thousand times for intruding.”
“Yes, you said. And I said it’s fine. I’m glad you’re here and really don’t have time to tell you so one thousand times. You and I are on the same side; at least I think we are. Can we be honest with each other?”
Suhail’s eyes glowed with genuine warmth. “We are on the same side, Beatrice, I give you my word. This debt of gratitude I shall never forget. I am so sorry for my lack of truthfulness the last time we spoke. Even at the time, it was wrong to deceive you and in my heart, I knew it.”
Beatrice sighed. It was going to be a long night. “Apology accepted. Can I make a request? Facts first and beat yourself up later?”
He bowed his head, his hand unconsciously touching his bandaged throat.
“Sorry, bad choice of phrasing.” Beatrice poured the tea. “Where shall we begin?”
Suhail looked up and spoke in a flood of words. “Isabella and Agusto hired you to find the spy in Ecco’s kitchen. You will never succeed because the spy is already dead. Rami was the one who sold recipes, this much I know, because he tried to persuade me to join him. I refused and our friendship was broken.”
Beatrice observed this sad man’s face, more animated than she’d ever seen it before. “You refused to cooperate and now they’re applying pressure.”
“That is correct. I am not a coward. I will stand up to these people. They offer me money, status, position, but what is that without honour? I refuse. Then they use physical violence, personal threats via messages in my locker and today my apartment was smashed. I repeat, I am not a coward. Neither am I stupid. I cannot stay there.”
