by LJ Ross
“That’s true,” Ryan admitted. “And I don’t remember smelling alcohol during the struggle, although I was hardly making notes at the time.”
“Do any of them feel like the right one?” Phillips interjected.
Ryan shrugged, wishing he knew the answer to that himself.
“I wish I knew,” he replied. “I was watching them in that interview, trying to pick out mannerisms, trying to see their hands and gauge their size.”
Ryan laughed at himself.
“It was a useful lesson today,” he said. “I know from reading all the textbooks that victims of serious crime tend to overstate their aggressor’s size, imagining them to be monsters rather than ordinary, average people like you and me. Somehow, I thought having that knowledge would make me immune; that I’d be able to give a full, detailed account.”
He took a sip of water to ease his dry throat, before continuing.
“But I realised, I’m no different. When I close my eyes, I think of a shadow, a superhuman force I couldn’t overcome. But in the end, it was just a man—though I can’t say for certain which one. I might have shaken his hand and never known it was the same hand that had been around my throat.”
Phillips clapped a manly hand around Ryan’s shoulder.
“Don’t beat yourself up, lad. None of us would have been able to give chapter and verse on somebody they hardly saw, let alone in the dark with a bloody cord strangling the life out of us.”
“Who was the third option?” MacKenzie asked.
“That would be the journalist, Andrea Conti. He looks the part and knows everyone in Florence, and likely everything going on in the city. He didn’t seem overly enamoured by Armstrong, given the direction of his questions last night but, on the other hand, it’s his job to weed out answers to hard questions.”
“It couldn’t really be him, could it? Conti’s based permanently in Florence, so he couldn’t have really followed Armstrong around Europe, assuming that’s what’s been happening,” Anna pointed out.
“I wondered about that, but he travels around Italy a lot and works freelance, these days, mostly from home. It’d be different if he was clocking into the offices of the Florence Daily News from nine till five each day, needing to account for his whereabouts. To be on the safe side, I’ve asked Ricci to check the movements of all of these people but that’ll take time waiting for the Italian passport service to come back with the data.”
“Okay, so who’s the fourth reserve?” MacKenzie asked.
“The Head of Security at the Uffizi Gallery, a chap called Matteo Alfonsi. He’s ex-Carabinieri, so he knows how to look after himself and he knows how the police system works. He had full access to the camera and security systems at the Uffizi and could have found out how to access Armstrong’s apartment from the Vasari Corridor whenever he liked. Added to all that, he was pulled up on sexual harassment charges raised by Martina Calari before she died.”
“On paper, he looks the most likely, but I sense a ‘but’ coming,” MacKenzie said, and Ryan nodded.
“He’s the least likely in terms of physical type and he was a bundle of nerves in the interview room. I’d peg him for taking a backhander to wipe the cameras, but he doesn’t have the steady hands it took to kill Martina Calari or to attack me.”
“Ricci’s going to look into the financials,” Phillips told them. “And he says he’ll bring Alfonsi back in to sweat him a bit more tomorrow. Man after my own heart.”
“While all this is going on, what’s Armstrong doing with himself? Aside from managing to paint himself as the victim,” Anna said.
“That’s the worry,” Ryan muttered. “The minute you take your eye off a cobra, it’ll strike. Let’s not forget the real reason I came here, in the first place. Just because Armstrong didn’t kill those people, doesn’t mean he hasn’t killed others.”
CHAPTER 39
Ryan had been right in his observation about snakes.
While the police teams tried desperately to join the dots, Nathan Armstrong took matters into his own hands and went about the business of removing the man who had been a scourge on his life for months, maybe even years. If he had been some unknown, a vagrant in the street, Armstrong would have had no qualms about seeing to it himself.
It wouldn’t be the first time.
However, the man was wily. Armstrong would allow him that much, and it was probably the closest he would ever come to paying a compliment to another living soul. The man had created a new persona for himself, one that came with a certain protective armour which made it difficult for Armstrong to penetrate without being discovered. Until the heat died down and the press stopped reporting the drama, he could feel Ryan’s eyes boring into the back of his head, watching and waiting for him to slip up.
There was no denying it had been a restless few months, a time of upheaval and uncertainty when he’d almost been afraid to open the door in case he found a new deposit in his home or hotel, awaiting disposal. The man had been voracious, like a cat who went out hunting at night and brought home the kill for its master.
His Master. Yes, he liked the sound of that.
Yet, even the best pets sometimes needed to be put down. The novelty value of the campaign against him had long since worn off and Armstrong had absolutely no intention of ending his days in a cell. But it was becoming harder and harder to get rid of the bodies at short notice and he was not a magician, after all. The inconvenience alone was enough to send him into a rage and it was imperative he stayed in complete control, at least until Ryan moved on and the eye of the law turned elsewhere.
And so, he’d come to the most logical place.
It had taken some smooth talking to get past the gates of the Spatuzzi villa and, needless to say, he was unaccustomed to the kind of rough welcome he’d received from the guards—two rifles aimed at his head.
Luckily, Armstrong was not a man who was easily put off and, considering the sensitive information he held in his possession, it was in the interests of all concerned that those rifles were lowered, and he was admitted to meet with the woman whose son was now buried in a landfill site on the edge of Vienna.
Not that he had any intention of telling her that.
He admired the objets d’art as he moved through the hallway and paused to look at a painting, until one of the guards muttered something rude and shoved him towards one of the doorways.
“Ecco il bastardo,” they said, announcing his arrival to the mistress of the house, whom he’d met briefly the evening before.
“Restare,” she murmured, and the two guards remained standing just inside the doorway to an enormous living space.
“Beautiful room,” he said, oozing the kind of charm that usually softened up old ladies. “Your taste is faultless, signora.”
She lit a slim cigarette and took a drag, dark eyes fixed on his face as she blew out a long tendril of smoke.
“This is the second time in a week that I’ve received an unexpected gentleman caller,” she said, in the quiet tone she was known for. “I am surprised you found the courage to knock on my door, signore. I can only assume you have come to confess your sins to the mother whose son you have taken.”
The words were clipped and cold; so cold that Armstrong could almost feel the temperature dropping inside the room.
“I fear you’re mistaken on that score,” he said, conversationally.
“Non giocare con me,” she snarled. “Do not play with me. There will be only one winner, here.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he said, spreading his hands in an open gesture. “I understand you’re labouring under the misapprehension that I have killed your son, Riccardo—an idea that was probably planted by that idiot, Ryan.”
She said nothing, but continued to smoke rhythmically.
“The man is a fanatic,” he said, with a trace of pity. “He’s got the idea into his head that I’m all kinds of evil genius but, I ask you, would a killer come and speak to the mother of one of his v
ictims? Especially when that mother is somebody of your…calibre, signora.”
She stubbed out the cigarette in a nearby ashtray.
“These sound like the ramblings of a desperate man.”
“On the contrary, I’m here because I want to help you find the right man. Neither of us is, let’s say, whiter than white.” His voice grew dark. “But in this instance, I was not involved in the disappearance of your son. There is a man with a grudge against me, something from years ago, and he hoped to implicate me in a series of murders.”
“That you committed.”
“No—that I knew nothing about! These people were chosen at random and killed to vilify me and draw the attention of the police. But it was not I who was responsible.”
“More lies,” she spat. “More arrogant lies, concocted by a man who knows the net is closing around him.”
“There is no net.” He shrugged. “I’ve gone from being a suspect to being a victim, thanks to this poor, insane fool. The police are searching for him right now.”
Spatuzzi walked across the plush carpet and sank into one of the leather sofas. Armstrong was about to do the same but one icy look from her stopped him.
He had not been invited to sit.
“If you are lying to me now, cafone, it will be the last words you speak.”
Armstrong was almost turned on. There was plenty of life in the old girl yet.
“His name,” she breathed.
Armstrong gave the man’s name—at least, the one he was using at the moment—and she surprised him by laughing.
“Impossible,” she scoffed.
“Improbable,” he corrected her. “But true, nonetheless. May I sit?”
She made no objection, this time, so he helped himself to a chair and settled down to relay a curated version of the facts. Spatuzzi remained silent throughout, looking at him with dark, unblinking eyes filled with hate.
In the end, she asked him one question.
“Where is my son?”
He held a hand to his heart.
“I wish I knew. Truly, signora.”
She looked away, into the embers of the fire.
“Get out,” she said, so softly he strained to hear.
Armstrong had no wish to outstay his welcome, so he rose quickly and gave a small, unnecessary bow before he turned to saunter out.
But the doors were barred.
“Signora—”
She murmured an instruction to her guards and they unslung their rifles, propping them against the door before removing their jackets.
“I thought you would be grateful,” Armstrong cried.
“For what, stronzo? That you were not the one to end my son’s life?” She rose suddenly, teeth bared. “It is still because of you, because of your past mistakes, that my son was killed.”
Her eyes flicked past him to the guards and then she returned to her seat to enjoy the show.
* * *
Much later, Armstrong found himself outside the front gates of the Spatuzzi villa. Everything hurt, especially his ribs and torso but, blessedly, they’d avoided his face. He supposed that was a professional courtesy, of sorts.
He stumbled back to his rental car, grunting with the effort, and didn’t relax until he’d collapsed inside the driver’s seat with the doors locked. He checked his face in the rear-view mirror and was relieved to find he’d been right on that score.
Hardly a scratch.
The same could not be said for the rest of him, but he was sure he could find some discreet back-street doctor who would be willing to check over the damage for the right price. All in all, he considered it another job well done.
Whistling, he started up the engine and drove slowly back to Florence.
CHAPTER 40
Darkness cloaked the Villa Lucia, cocooning those who gathered inside in its velvety fold to hunt a killer. There was a stillness to the air; a calm before the storm which had been gathering all day and still permeated the night air so that it swirled heavily through the old rooms.
“It’s so humid, it feels like an old-fashioned pea-souper,” Phillips said, peering out into the cloudy night where the blurry lights of Florence were only just visible.
“It’ll pass by morning,” Ryan said, stepping into the drawing room. “Anna’s having a shower and MacKenzie’s just had a message come through from Yates. She’s hoping it’s the files.”
“That’d be good.” Phillips turned away from the window to study his friend’s face, where the signs of strain were visible to anybody who looked closely. “How’s your neck feeling?”
It was on the tip of Ryan’s tongue to downplay the pain, to give some trite, superficial answer, but Phillips would not accept anything less than the truth.
“Hurts like hell,” he replied. “I’ve taken as much ibuprofen as I dare.”
“You should have it checked over again,” Phillips said.
“I will, just as soon as this is over,” Ryan said, and his friend sighed. “Don’t worry about me, Frank. It hurts where the bastard had his hands around my neck, that’s all—no permanent damage.”
“You know best,” Phillips said, in a fatherly tone.
Ryan walked over to join him at the window, keeping a weather eye on the doorway.
“Ah, since I’ve got you alone for a minute, there’s something I wanted to chat to you about.”
“Oh aye? Nothing serious, is it?”
“No, nothing like that. In fact, it’s entirely positive.”
Phillips’ eyebrows raised as he listened to Ryan’s suggestion, then deepened to a frown, finally settling on an expression somewhere between excitement and trepidation.
“You think she’ll go for it?” he worried.
“Go for what?” MacKenzie asked, interrupting their tête-à-tête.
From the guilty looks on their faces, she assumed they’d been discussing the details of Phillips’ stag do and pursed her lips.
“Well, whatever it was, can just wait. Mel’s sent the files through on Tony Manetti. I used the printer in the study, so we don’t have to huddle around a computer. I know it’s old-fashioned, but—”
“It gets the job done,” Ryan said. “What have we got?”
MacKenzie handed him the prison records and divided the remaining case and court files between herself and Phillips.
“Let’s dive in and find out.”
* * *
Anna joined them a short while later and then beat a silent retreat, understanding that there were some areas of their business that she was not privy to, nor would she want to be. It was true that she dabbled in research and her expertise had been useful to Ryan’s team from time to time over the years. But the truth was, she had no desire to read over the gory details of human destruction, even if the rules allowed it. Mapping the Vasari Corridor was one thing but spending her days uncovering the darkest side of human nature was quite another.
Instead, she settled down to read the thriller of the moment, Il Mostro. They said that an author left shadows of themselves on the pages of the books they wrote, so she accepted a cup of Magda’s excellent tea and prepared to see what Nathan Armstrong had chosen to reveal on the pages of his magnum opus.
Next door, all was quiet save for the occasional rustling of a page, or the crackle of a log in the fireplace.
“He looks so ordinary,” Phillips said, as he studied the most recent picture taken of Tony Manetti. “Aged forty-nine, brown eyes, greying hair, average build. We might have passed him twenty times on the street and never known it.”
Ryan was studying Manetti’s picture, too, assessing the shape of the face and the line of the jaw. But he knew it was in the eyes that he’d recognise the man; people could buy coloured contact lenses and change their appearance with prosthetics or make-up but there was a certain individuality to a person’s eyes that seldom changed.
And there was something in Manetti’s eyes that he recognised as being a gateway to the man’s soul.
“
Here’s the original statement Tony Manetti gave to the police on Friday, September 25th, 1998,” MacKenzie said, skim-reading its contents. “He says he and his long-term boyfriend, Andrew Wharton, had a disagreement which caused him to leave the house and spend most of the evening away from home. He states he was at a gay bar in Newcastle until just after midnight, after which he decided to return home and resolve things with Andrew.”
“Things escalated further?” Phillips asked, but MacKenzie shook her head.
“Not according to Manetti. He says he let himself back into the flat at roughly 12:45 on the morning of Friday 25th and found the place in disarray. Lamps were broken in the hallway and a mirror was cracked. He was immediately concerned that his boyfriend had been hurt and searched the house. He says he found Andrew in the kitchen, clearly having been strangled.”
Ryan’s eyes narrowed, and he propped his head on his hand, spearing his fingers into his hair as he considered the implications of that minor detail.
“The kitchen? What was the murder weapon—or was it manual strangulation?”
“He says there was an electrical cord lying on the floor,” MacKenzie said, flicking the page with the edge of her finger. “Just like the cord that was used on you, last night.”
Bingo, Ryan thought.
“Go on,” he said.
“Manetti says he ran over to remove the cord from around Andrew’s neck and to check whether he was still breathing, but he was obviously dead and seemed cold to the touch. He called the ambulance service and requested the police, too, reporting that a murder had been committed.”
“I’ve got a police note here which says they found a suitcase half-filled with Andrew’s clothing and the rest strewn on the floor, giving the strong impression Andrew had been on the verge of leaving Manetti. They theorised that was what caused Manetti to fly into a rage and, ultimately, to murder him.”
“What about forensic evidence?” Ryan asked. “A recording of his 999 call?”
MacKenzie looked at the scanty paperwork and shook her head.
“No transcript of his call or reference to a recording,” she said. “As for forensics, I’ve got a two-page report which states that Manetti’s prints and DNA were found all over the flat.”
