by LJ Ross
“I’m going to make him an offer he can’t refuse.”
Ryan slapped a palm against his own face.
“For God’s sake, I didn’t mean, ‘what’s the next movie line’, Frank. I meant, what’s next on our list of things to do?”
Phillips glanced covertly at their smiling faces and was glad his ploy had worked.
“Oh, aye. Well, I think it’s bedtime, for starters. Been a long day and it’ll be another long one tomorrow, if I’m any judge.”
After the fire was guarded and their cups returned to the kitchen, Ryan put a hand on his friend’s shoulder.
“Thanks, Frank. To both of you.”
“Don’t mention it, son. What else is family for?”
* * *
As Phillips climbed into a bed not much smaller than the square footage of his entire house back home, another man stared at the television screen in his apartment. The room was in darkness, otherwise, with only the glare from the screen bouncing off Armstrong’s unmoving figure seated directly in front of it. His eyes bored into the face of an Italian newsreader, who was delivering a report that was, by now, a few hours old.
It had been recorded outside the Uffizi Gallery as the party guests had departed the building just after midnight, the local Who’s Who of Florence pausing to wave to the cameras. He was amongst them and had given an interview, hitting just the right note somewhere between modesty and affability. But the interview had been superseded, cut short since the story of Ryan’s attack had reached the news desk. Images of Ryan taken from old press reels portrayed him as the handsome hero; the detective with an unrivalled reputation for getting his man and championing the victims of crime.
“Almost killed at the Palazzo Russo,” they said.
“The same address as Nathan Armstrong,” they said.
And the public were left to draw any inference they liked from that.
Unable to stand any more, he turned the television off but remained seated in the darkness for a while afterwards. It gave him no trouble to sleep on the same bed where he’d found Martina Calari—the sheets had been changed, after all—but he was too immobilised by rage to think of sleep.
How dare they come here, to the apartment he owned, and invade his domain? How dare they threaten all that was his, by rights?
He knew who it was—of course he did.
It had taken a little while to understand, but after the first three bodies turned up—each of them with an electrical cord wrapped around their neck—it hadn’t taken too much of a leap to figure out who was stalking him across Europe. He had a name, a name Armstrong barely recognised and hadn’t heard in many years, but he was undoubtedly using an alias now and would likely have changed his appearance.
If the situation were reversed, he would have done the same thing, himself.
But the situation could not be allowed to continue, especially now that Ryan was in Florence. The forensic team had been inside his apartment for hours, swabbing everything. Ryan’s attack had afforded them the perfect excuse to gather samples from his home, samples they could now compare with Martina Calari’s DNA to form a link.
Of course, he’d simply say this unknown assailant must have been using his apartment for his own reprehensible ends, but there was only so many times a person could deny their involvement without some of the dirt beginning to stick.
He had Ryan to thank for that. If the man had only let things lie, if he hadn’t kept digging, always digging, then things might have continued happily for the rest of his days and nobody would be any the wiser.
What did it matter, anyway?
What difference would Duncan Gray have made to the world? Why did Ryan care? He was just nobody. Nothing.
And everybody had loved him, the voice inside his head whispered. Everybody liked Duncan.
Not you.
Never you.
Armstrong stood up to pace around in the darkness, remembering his childhood holidays at Kielder in Northumberland, thinking of all the times he’d wanted to be accepted, to be part of the gang. They’d let him in, of course, especially since his family had money enough to buy cans of lager and as many packets of crisps as their greedy little hands could hold.
He’d been one of them, but only just.
After Duncan…it was like he’d been reborn. The world seemed insignificant, somehow, and everybody in it just pawns to play with. He couldn’t even remember who the next had been, or where, only that they’d served a purpose at the time. Perhaps they’d insulted him or taken something that should have been his. It hardly mattered now.
But he remembered one person in graphic detail.
He would never forget that one.
CHAPTER 31
Sunday, 25th February
Divide and conquer was the order of the following day.
Ryan had awoken to blistering pain around his throat but, thankfully, none of the tell-tale signs that his cervical spine had been damaged during his assault the previous evening. He hadn’t held out much hope of sleep but, in the end, he fell into an exhausted slumber with his arm curled protectively around his wife. Anna had moved at some point during the night, restlessly shifting this way and that until, unable to chase away the nightmares, she’d risen at first light to swim a quick thirty lengths in the pool outside.
He watched her completing the final laps from the terrace, admiring the way she cut through the water, back and forth until she had exhausted her body and emptied her mind. It was early yet, and the morning fog that had rolled in from the surrounding hillsides overnight lingered, bringing with it a cold wind which swept over the high cypress trees lining the garden’s perimeter.
“Water’s chilly, today,” Anna said, bundling herself into the towelling robe he’d laid out for her. “Feels good to get the blood flowing, though.”
Ryan smiled, knowing that she was used to swimming in far colder waters than the heated outdoor pool could boast.
“Rather you than me,” he said, although he might have liked to swim a few lengths, if his neck would have allowed it. “Coffee?”
He poured a cup for her and she sat down beside him on the terrace, content to sit in silence as they looked out across the city vista stretching far below.
“I thought I’d take Phillips down to the Commissariato San Giovanni,” Ryan said. “Banotti told me they’d made appointments with various people who attended the party last night so that, rather than disturbing the event, they could come down to the station today and give a statement. I have to know who it was. Somebody must have looked out of place, somebody mustn’t have been on the guest list,” he muttered.
“I can show MacKenzie around,” Anna offered. “Take her around the main points of interest, so she can understand the route of the Vasari Corridor.”
Ryan nodded.
“Stay together,” was all he said.
Anna stretched her hand across the table to squeeze his, very briefly.
“It’s me who should be warning you not to venture out alone,” she said, in mild reproof. “I can’t stand another scare like last night, Ryan.”
He tried to laugh, but the sound came out as a cough.
“Trust me, I can’t either.”
Anna grew serious.
“If…whoever this person is, wants to damage Armstrong, they singled you out as the conduit. Just because you survived the first attempt doesn’t mean they won’t try again. Be careful.”
Ryan was serious too.
“I was careful last night, that’s the damning thing about it. I didn’t forget my training, I entered with caution and was still surprised. That takes a certain amount of cunning, or skill.”
“You think they’re military trained?” she asked.
“Or police,” he muttered, and his thoughts strayed to Ricci, who had been notably absent the evening before.
“Are you sure it was a man?”
“I thought so, yes. But, the more I think about it, the more uncertain I am. Physical strength is a factor in face-to-fa
ce combat, where things like height and muscle mass can make a real difference. But once you have a noose around somebody’s throat, it doesn’t take too much strength to hold on for as long as possible. It just takes sheer, bloody willpower.”
“So you’re saying they might have been female, after all?”
“At a push, yes. The main determinant would be height and breadth to appear similar to Armstrong. He’s a man of around six feet and he’s trim, around average size—but toned, as you might expect of a raging narcissist,” he said, pausing to take another sip of coffee. “The marks on my neck show the angle of the noose was low, suggesting the assailant was shorter than me. That doesn’t necessarily tell us much, since I’m a couple of inches over six feet in my socks.”
Anna thought of the marks on his neck and something must have shown on her face, because he tugged the top of his jumper up, to hide it again.
“The marks will fade,” he said, gently.
She merely shook her head, battling sudden tears.
“I thought—I thought you were gone,” she said, huskily. “I found you there on the floor and, even in the darkness, you were so pale. You weren’t moving, and I couldn’t hear you breathing. I’ve never been so terrified.”
Ryan listened, his chest tightening with emotion.
“I thought I’d failed us,” he confessed. “I’d been careless with my own life, enough to deprive us of a future. I could feel myself fading and I remember thinking of you, of us, and it was the only thing that kept me alive. I’m certain of it.”
Without a word, she stood up and walked across to him, sliding onto his lap. His arms held her tightly to him and she let all the stress and worry pour out as they clung together.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.
“For what?” she asked, with a sniff. “Being who you were born to be? I fell in love with you because you’re a fighter and because you go the extra mile, when others would abandon their ideals. I could never ask you to change, to become less than you are.”
Ryan closed his eyes, rubbing his cheek against her wet hair.
“You’d have a quieter life,” he said.
“Who needs quiet?” she argued. “I’ll have enough quiet when I’m dead.”
“I love you.”
“Same goes, Chief Inspector.”
* * *
Meanwhile, Phillips found himself in the throes of ecstasy.
“That was incredible,” he said. “The best I’ve ever had.”
“I’m so glad you think so,” Magda replied. “I’ve never had any complaints.”
“You’ll get none from me, pet.”
MacKenzie walked into the kitchen and took one look at Phillips’ guilty face.
“I swear, I didn’t mean to,” he told her.
Her eyes strayed to the crumbs on his plate, then across to the housekeeper, who gave the motion that her lips were sealed.
“Was that…a stottie cake?”
“Aye,” Phillips said, with a daft grin. “And it was delicious. I’ve half a mind to ask Magda to come and do the catering for the wedding.”
“Frank, there are no words,” MacKenzie said, and found herself laughing. Where in the world had she found this charming, funny man with his silly sense of humour that could melt even the hardest of hearts?
“Breakfast is the most important meal of the day,” he declared. “Got to keep my strength up.”
“I’ll bear it in mind,” she muttered. “I think Ryan’s looking for you. I’ve just had a message from Melanie Yates, back in the office, about the Warkworth case. I’ll stay behind and deal with that, then take a look around the city with Anna while you’re with Ryan.”
“Be interesting to see how they do things, over here,” he said.
“Catching criminals is a fine art,” MacKenzie replied. “Given their pedigree in that department, I’d say they probably turn their hand to criminal detection with the same eye for detail.”
“Aye, well, I was never much of an artist at school, but I can spot a duffer at fifty paces.”
“They’ll write books about you, in years to come.”
“They’d better,” he sniffed.
CHAPTER 32
Inspector Ricci and Sergeant Banotti were already sipping strong coffee in Ricci’s office at the Gruppo when Ryan tapped on the door, just after eight-thirty. Their eyes skimmed past him and widened at the sight of a new arrival; specifically, at his choice of apparel. It was true that the Italians were known for a superior sense of fashion but, all the same, it took a lot to elicit the kind of surprise they exhibited upon seeing what DS Phillips liked to call his ‘Holiday Civvies’. They consisted of a pair of linen trousers he’d bought in the early-nineties and which had, he was convinced, been shrunk sometime during the intervening years. He’d paired them with one of several multi-coloured shirts he’d acquired over the years, this one with a fetching print of miniature palm trees and pink flamingos which glowed in the dark. His thinning hair was protected from the sun by an oversized Panama hat and the pièce de résistance was a pair of leather, open-toed sandals he had picked up from a bazaar.
“Bon-jorno!” he said.
When their faces remained blank, Ryan stepped in.
“Ricci, Banotti, this is my sergeant and good friend from Northumbria CID, Detective Sergeant Frank Phillips.”
They mumbled greetings and indicated he should pull up a chair beside them.
“Thank you for joining us, sergeant. I’m afraid we had no warning of your arrival,” Ricci said, with a hint of irritation.
“Aye, well, you know us Brits love a bit of foreign travel,” Phillips said. “I think our Chief Constable had a word with your Director General.”
“I see. And, at the risk of sounding unwelcoming, are we to expect any more of your team?”
This last question was directed towards Ryan, who gave him a blithe smile.
“We missed you last night, Ricci.”
The inspector’s eyes frittered away.
“It seems I missed all the action,” Ricci agreed. “I was needed elsewhere, I regret to say. A personal matter.”
Ryan gave him a level look.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said. “Hopefully, the matter has resolved itself now.”
Ricci fiddled with the pen he held in his hand.
“I—yes, yes. But, on to more important concerns—I was shocked to hear what happened to you, my friend. How are you feeling, now?”
The truth was, Ryan was feeling dreadful, but he wasn’t about to divulge that.
“Better than I was,” he said, because at least that much was true. “It’ll take more than that to kill me off,” he added.
Ricci raised his eyebrow at the tone, but said nothing.
“We went over Armstrong’s apartment at the Palazzo Russo,” Banotti said. “We bagged up the cord that was used and will test it for fingerprints and so forth. We will do all we can to find whoever did this to you, you may rely upon that. We may be from different countries, but we are on the same team,” she said.
Phillips smiled his approval.
“That’s the ticket. Now, what about getting our hands on a bit of CCTV?”
“Already done,” Ricci was pleased to say. “The cameras are top of the range at the Palazzo and their security team was very helpful. I’ve had a couple of my officers going over the footage this morning and it seems as though our culprit walked out of the Palazzo with his mask back on, posing as Armstrong, once again. The concierge even said ‘good evening’ to him as he left, but was surprised since he couldn’t remember Mr Armstrong having passed through the foyer on his way in.”
“I bet he was,” Ryan murmured. “He’d have been even more surprised to see the man—the real Armstrong, that is—coming back inside the Palazzo twenty minutes later.”
“Indeed,” Ricci said. “It seems our imposter left the Palazzo and returned to the party, dressed as Armstrong. The footage from the CCTV cameras on the street and at th
e Uffizi confirm it.”
“He’s a cool one,” Phillips remarked. “Having just fled the scene of an attempted murder, he kept a steady pair of hands, didn’t he?”
“He’s fortunate he didn’t pass the ‘real’ Armstrong, on the way,” Ryan said. “That might have made for an interesting exchange.”
“Hard to say who’d come out of it on top,” Phillips mumbled.
“Chiara and I were discussing theories,” Ricci said. “We are struggling to understand why anybody would wish to pose as Armstrong, or to attack you. It makes no sense.”
“It makes perfect sense,” Ryan confounded them by saying. “As long as you begin to understand that Armstrong is not the man you think he is. The whole time I’ve been here in Italy, I’ve sensed your reluctance to accept what I’ve been telling you—what anybody in Northumbria CID will tell you—which is that Nathan Armstrong is the killer who got away. When you start believing that, it’s much less difficult to imagine why somebody would want to frame him for murder and see him put behind bars, where he belongs.”
Ricci and Banotti exchanged a glance.
“If we accept what you say, if we set aside what the world knows about Armstrong, you’re asking us to believe that somebody has been planning a campaign against him for months…possibly, years. For what? Vengeance?”
“Got it in one, son,” Phillips said, cheerfully.
Ricci’s lips twitched.
“But, who? Who could hate him so much?”
“That’s where you come in,” Ryan said, enigmatically. “Logic tells us this person knew something of Armstrong’s plans, about his address on every calling point of his book tour, and even about the details of the mask he planned to wear last night. It must be somebody with access to that kind of information, added to which, they’re technologically savvy. We know that already from their tampering with the CCTV at the Uffizi.”
“They have to be somebody unthreatening, too,” Phillips put in. “Recognisable, or at least known to Martina Calari, otherwise she’d never have let down her guard.”
“On that point, we heard back from the pathologist,” Banotti said. “They ran tests on her blood and hair and found no trace of drugs in her system or, at least, none that showed up.”
