The Hermitage: A DCI Ryan Mystery (The DCI Ryan Mysteries Book 9)

by LJ Ross

  “Ryan?” she said weakly. “This seems a bit extravagant for what we need.”

  He said nothing, and the next minute he was out of the car and striding around to hold open the car door for her.

  “The villa belongs to my parents,” he explained, with a touch of embarrassment. “It belonged to my grandparents before that.”

  “And your great-grandparents before that?” she teased him, craning her neck to see the edge of a turquoise blue swimming pool just visible around the side of the villa. “Who the heck was your great-grandad, Ryan? Cosimo de Medici?”

  “Ha ha,” he said.

  “I wasn’t joking,” she muttered to herself, as a woman in a smart black dress and heels opened the doors and smiled across at them.

  “That’s the housekeeper, Magda. Come on,” he urged. “Let’s go inside.”

  * * *

  If Ryan had thought the interior of the villa would settle Anna’s jangling nerves, he’d been sadly mistaken. The exterior had been impressive, but the interior was like the palace of Versailles, with acres of marble flooring underfoot, expensive-looking antique furniture and gigantic, Venetian chandeliers hanging from every ceiling. It was a far cry from their home back in Elsdon, with its flagstone floors and homely décor.

  Once they had exchanged pleasantries with the housekeeper and installed themselves in one of the many beautiful, airy, drawing rooms, Ryan handed her a strong coffee.

  “You look as though you might keel over,” he said, then gestured to their surroundings. “Bit gawdy, isn’t it?”

  She almost choked on her coffee.

  “It’s luxurious,” she said, carefully. “It has your mother’s good taste written all over it.”

  To illustrate the point, she wandered over to a carved sideboard and picked up one of the silver-framed photographs resting on its polished surface. It showed Ryan as a younger man of perhaps nineteen or twenty, during one of his summer breaks from university. In the picture, he was tanned a deep, golden brown and was smiling broadly at the camera as he leaned back against a bright red Vespa scooter, the helmet slung under his arm.

  “I’ll bet you were a menace,” she murmured, running an affectionate fingertip over his face in the picture.

  “Why’s that?” he asked, walking over to join her. “Because of the scooter?”

  Anna set the photograph down and turned to him with laughing eyes.

  “No, silly. Because, even at that age, you were a sight for sore eyes. The Italian ladies must have been tripping over themselves to jump on the back of that scooter.”

  Wisely, Ryan chose neither to confirm nor deny.

  “I still have that scooter, you know. It’s parked in the garage.”

  “Is that so?” she said, snaking her hands around his waist. “Well, before this trip is over, I think you’ll need to take me for a spin.”

  “That’s a promise,” he said.

  * * *

  The villa was not Ryan’s choice of accommodation simply because it was the most convenient, nor because it was free. His father was a retired diplomat who had, at the height of his career, held the highest office as the United Kingdom’s ambassador to France. Although he had never been based permanently in Italy, David Ryan had fortified each of his homes with the best security that money could buy. Consequently, the villa had been equipped with tall, perimeter fences with CCTV cameras set at intervals, as well as a state-of-the-art internal and external alarm system wired to a dedicated security room which was manned around the clock. He also had access to the best personal security and had made his extensive list of contacts available to his son for the duration of his stay. Safety was of the utmost importance where family was concerned, and Ryan could not have agreed more.

  “Armstrong is good with technology,” he said, as he talked Anna through the security system inside the villa. “But this place is like Fort Knox and it’s monitored by security personnel twenty-four hours a day. It helps to know that.”

  “Does it?” she queried, and thought she understood for the first time why he had not mentioned this aspect of his life before. “You grew up like this?”

  Ryan scrubbed a hand through his dark hair.

  “That picture you saw—the one with me on the scooter? It makes me look carefree, as if I’d spent that summer riding around picking up girls. The reality was, I had a pair of bodyguards shadowing every move I made. It was the same for my sister,” he added, swallowing the sudden pain. “It wasn’t my parents’ fault, but our childhood was a gilded cage. We wanted for nothing, including love and affection, but we could never stray too far or move out of sight. It was too risky.”

  “That explains why you’ve always been such a terrible cynic,” she said, matter-of-factly.

  Ryan flashed a smile.

  “It always pays to expect the unexpected.”

  They stepped inside the bedroom that would be theirs for the duration of their stay and Anna stopped dead.

  “Wow. I’m going to need a minute, here.”

  Hazy afternoon light beamed through floor-to-ceiling sash windows. Floaty curtains swayed on the breeze and gave the impression of calm. Parquet flooring softened the large space and a giant super-king-size bed stood in the middle of it all, dressed in plain white linens.

  “I don’t know whether to call your mother and tell her I love her, or shout at you for keeping this place a secret for so long,” she confessed.

  Ryan huffed out a laugh.

  “I don’t know what Phillips is going to make of all this,” he said. “I mentioned a trip to the Lake District last month and he almost bit my head off, so I dread to think what he’ll have to say when he finds out there’s a villa in Tuscany at his disposal.”

  “Perish the thought,” Anna said, gravely.

  CHAPTER 7

  While Ryan and Anna settled into their home for the next few days, another man touched down in Florence. He paused to sniff the air, smiling at the unmistakeably rich scent of Tuscany with its olive groves and warm winds circling the valley. It had been too long since his last visit, but he intended to make up for lost time and enjoy everything the city had to offer.

  Nathan Armstrong cut a dapper figure as he crossed the tarmac towards the terminal building, dressed in a sharp suit complete with silk pocket square and matching cravat he’d tucked casually around his neck. Of course, he’d changed into a fresh shirt before exiting the plane and had taken the time to replenish his aftershave; a man in his position must always be ready for the flash of a camera or the unexpected attention of one of his fans.

  A liveried chauffeur hurried across to take his bags and lead him through fast-track customs—the province of VIPs like himself—and into the limousine his Italian publisher had arranged to collect him from the airport. Appearances were important, and a man of his stature needed to look the part. It would hardly do for him to be seen arriving into Florence in the back of a poky little Fiat; people might think his popularity was starting to wane.

  Armstrong was distressed to find that he had almost passed through the terminal building without having been noticed, when a woman standing beside a carousel of his books looked up and spotted him.

  “Nathan Armstrong!” she squealed as she hurried across, and he only just held back a grimace when he noticed her wide feet with unpainted toenails flapping about in the dusty old flip-flops she wore. If this was his reader demographic, perhaps it was time he sought a new profession.

  “Yes?” he affected an air of surprise at having been recognised.

  “I thought it was you!” she gushed. “I’ve read all of your books and loved every single one! I cannot believe it has been twenty years since I first read Il Mostro.”

  He schooled his features into a modest expression and inclined his head.

  “It’s very kind of you to say so, signorina,” he replied. “Il Mostro will always be very special to me. Indeed, that’s why I’m here in Florence, to celebrate its anniversary.”

  “And the mo
vie,” she went on, gazing up at him. “I must watch it again, soon. I remember the first time I saw it at the cinema. I was terrified for weeks.”

  Armstrong managed to hold back a laugh. He’d found the film rather tame, when compared with reality.

  “Well, I’m so pleased to have met you,” he said, with every appearance of sincerity. “But I’m afraid I’m in rather a hurry.”

  He half-turned, but paused just long enough for her to thrust a copy of the 20th Anniversary Edition of Il Mostro in his face, begging him to autograph it.

  He sighed, checking his slim gold watch as a matter of form.

  “I suppose…just for you, bella. What’s your name?”

  She giggled, and he made a show of signing the book, which inevitably drew attention from passing travellers who slowed down to see who he was. While Armstrong enjoyed the attention, his chauffeur stood a respectful distance away and decided to light a cigarette, rightly assuming he could be there for a while.

  Fifteen minutes later, Armstrong managed to tear himself away from a gaggle of fans and was bidding them a modest farewell when he saw the policeman standing patiently beside the exit doors. He made him straight away—after all these years, he could spot them a mile off—and told himself not to react. Instead, he strolled across to his chauffeur and together they headed towards the car park, beyond the automatic exit doors leading out of the terminal building.

  “Signor Armstrong?”

  He wheeled around with a pleasant smile already painted on his face.

  “Yes?”

  “I am Inspector Alessandro Ricci,” the policeman said, showing Armstrong his identification card. “Might I have a word?”

  Armstrong looked confused.

  “What about, Inspector?”

  “Signore, I would rather not discuss these matters on the street,” he replied, casting his eyes around the busy ‘Arrivals’ area. “But, if I may ask you to call into the station tomorrow morning at, say, ten o’clock?” Ricci handed him a card with the address.

  Armstrong told himself to stay calm.

  “I have a rather busy schedule, Inspector—”

  “It will not take long, signore. An hour, at most.”

  “What does it concern?”

  He scanned Ricci’s face but could read nothing there.

  “It concerns two missing persons,” Ricci said, without expression.

  Armstrong shook his head, affecting an air of confusion.

  “None of my acquaintances have been reported missing,” he said. “If it concerns strangers, I must say that I meet so many people, I can hardly see how I can help you.”

  Ricci merely smiled.

  “Until ten o’clock,” he said, and was about to turn away when Armstrong’s voice stopped him. This time, there was no cajolery or affected confusion, but a thread of steel.

  “Do I need to call my lawyer, Inspector?”

  Ricci gave one of his shrugs in response.

  “I cannot say, signore. That will be up to you, if you feel it necessary.”

  “For a man in my position? Yes, I think it’s necessary.” He paused, lowering his voice so that only Ricci could hear. “I take it you’re not suggesting that I have anything to do with these unfortunate souls having gone missing?”

  Ricci’s tone remained friendly.

  “I am not suggesting anything, signore. I merely seek your cooperation with our investigation in answering some questions.”

  “And if I refuse?”

  Ricci spread his hands in an apologetic gesture.

  “It would be unfortunate,” he said. “We may then need to compel your attendance at an interview. It would be preferable, for both of us, to keep things as quiet as possible. Do you not agree?”

  Armstrong’s lips twisted.

  “I’ll be at the station for ten o’clock,” he snarled.

  As Ricci strolled off, Armstrong’s eyes followed him until he had disappeared out of sight. Only then did he turn to the chauffeur standing a discreet distance away.

  “Speak a word of this to anyone and I’ll have you sacked.”

  Much later, when he was ensconced in the privacy of his apartment, Armstrong locked the door and sank into one of the comfortable leather armchairs arranged in the seating area. He sat there for long minutes in the surrounding silence and thought of one thing.

  Ryan.

  He was behind it, of that he was certain.

  * * *

  Ryan stood on the terrace of the Villa Lucia, his forearms resting against the thick stone balustrade as he looked out across the city, spread out before him in a tapestry of terracotta and peach, with cypress trees dotted here and there. The sun dipped low against the horizon, washing the landscape in misty rays of rich ochre as it made its final descent over the edge of the world.

  But he hardly noticed. His thoughts were far away as he watched the distant lights of a plane coming in to land, blazing a trail through the cloudless sky as it made its gradual descent into Florence.

  “It looks like an oil painting,” Anna said, from the doorway behind him.

  Ryan straightened up and turned to face her, hitching his hip onto the edge of the wall. He’d changed into casual chinos and a plain white cotton shirt rolled up at the sleeves, since it was a warm evening. Anna felt suddenly awkward. He was her husband, the man she shared a bed with each night, but Ryan seemed different here. He looked very much at home in his surroundings and it was a sharp reminder that he had lived for more than thirty years before she’d met him; a life filled with grand villas and God only knew what else she had yet to discover. It was disconcerting to find that there was still so much of him to discover, especially as her own history seemed to have been laid bare in comparison.

  Sensing her turmoil, Ryan reached out to take her hand and tugged her towards him.

  “How are you doing?” he murmured, touching his lips to hers.

  “Better now,” she admitted. “I was feeling a bit like a duck out of water.”

  “You’re never out of place when you’re beside me,” he replied, with irrefutable logic.

  “You know what I mean,” she muttered. “All this…it’s a bit above my pay bracket.”

  Ryan surprised her by laughing.

  “It’s a bit above mine, too,” he assured her. “I’m a lowly murder detective, remember? Don’t start thinking we can afford crystal chandeliers in the hallway back home, especially with the next round of funding cuts coming from the Home Office.”

  She gave him a none-too-gentle nudge in the ribs, and he became serious once more.

  “Anna, it’s just stuff. None of it matters,” he said, gently.

  “Easy for you to say, since you grew up with it,” she pointed out. “All this will be yours one day, won’t it?”

  The corners of his lips twitched, and he considered cracking a joke about him taking out more stringent life insurance, but he guessed—correctly—that it would not be well-received in her present mood.

  “I suppose you’re right, but it just goes to prove we can’t take anything with us when we die. I don’t need bricks and mortar to be happy, Anna. I need you, especially now.”

  She searched his face, noting the lines of worry etched into his skin.

  “Armstrong’s here in Florence, isn’t he?”

  Ryan scrubbed a hand over his face and then nodded.

  “Yes, he’s here. Even if I hadn’t just heard it from Ricci, I would have known,” he muttered. “There’s a tension in the air…It sounds ridiculous. I can’t explain it.”

  “I understand,” she said. Ryan was a man who relied upon evidence and fact, but he never overlooked his instinct, either.

  “Ricci caught him at the airport,” he continued. “He’s set up a meeting tomorrow morning at the police station.”

  “So soon?”

  Ryan shrugged.

  “The sooner the better,” he said. “Ricci also told me that Armstrong’s staying at one of the old palazzos in the centre of town
, it’s recently been converted into apartments.”

  “Now you know where he’ll be.”

  “Yes. I want to be there in the room when they question him, but I can’t.” It hadn’t stopped him from trying to persuade his new colleague in GIDES to let him observe, at least. He’d have to be content with that.

  “It wouldn’t help if you were in the room with him,” Anna was bound to say. “Armstrong would be more inclined to be antagonistic. Besides, Ricci seems like a capable man.”

  Ryan made a non-committal sound in his throat.

  “I don’t know him, so I don’t know if he’s capable or not,” he said. “Plus, Ricci’s not invested, yet. He still believes Armstrong’s a celebrity and that it makes him above the law. He can’t see it, yet.”

  “It?” she queried.

  The last rays of sunlight were reflected in Ryan’s blue-grey eyes as he looked across at her.

  “The man behind the mask,” he explained. “I saw flashes of the real ‘Nathan Armstrong’ during the investigation in Kielder, but then the mask slipped back into place and he was the arrogant author again, just another quasi-celebrity. I want to peel back the mask to see what’s festering beneath.”

  There was a short pause while they watched the sun disappear behind the distant silhouette of the Duomo, the cathedral whose famous curved outline dominated the skyline. Lights flickered as the night came alive and, Ryan knew, there would be thousands of people roaming the city’s quaint streets without a care in the world. Lovers would be walking hand in hand over the Ponte Vecchio while students and tourists strolled through the grand piazzas, never thinking of the danger lurking in their midst.

  Darkness masked all kinds of misdeeds.

  “Tomorrow can’t come soon enough,” he muttered, then turned on his heel and strode back inside the villa.

  CHAPTER 8

  In the village of Warkworth, Phillips accepted a second custard cream biscuit from the last calling point on their house-to-house interviews. From her position on the sofa beside him, MacKenzie rolled her eyes and thought that, at the rate he was going, they’d be lucky to finish before midnight.