Last to Leave: A Superintendent Mike Yeadings Mystery (Superintendent Mike Yeadings Mysteries)

by Clare Curzon

  A low voice threatened. ‘Scream and I cut your throat.’ Cold steel pricked at her cheek.

  She believed him. And it wasn’t Nick’s voice. This was one of the men who’d tried to kill him. She shivered and lay still.

  8

  Once he had her mouth taped he didn’t speak again until he had her trussed hand and foot in the van. Then he set it gently coasting downhill towards the village road where he switched on the engine. A mile from the house the van pulled into a field gateway and he came round to open the rear doors. Jess shrank away, making little animal noises through the gag.

  ‘Listen,’ he said, easing the tape from her mouth. ‘Charles wants you out of the country until he can get back. It seems you’re a bit of a loose cannon. If the wrong people get hold of you they could put pressure on him. Do you understand?’

  ‘And I’m the Pope,’ she spat at him.

  Then he explained. It was he, Roger Beale, who’d passed the note from Charles to Nicholas who’d handed it to Flo Carden, Claudia’s hired help as she left the house after washing-up.

  Nicholas had claimed it was for his girlfriend, Jess Dellar, only nobody must know. Flo, simple soul, had agreed to act as go-between in a clandestine affair. She was to go back and push it under Jess’s door.

  ‘So where is Nicholas now?’ Jess demanded, still doubting.

  ‘Back at the house. Your brother’s going to get him away.’ Yes, that was what Eddie had said he would do. And Jess remembered the name Beale. She’d taken a call from him once at work and handed the phone on to Charles. He’d moved away to continue the conversation, but she’d picked up that it was a friendly one.

  ‘How do I know you’re who you say you are?’ she demanded.

  He sighed. ‘The last thing I’d want to carry is ID. But I’ll show you something.’

  He threw back a canvas in the van’s opposite corner. It had concealed a smart travel trolley. ‘In it you’ll find several outfits all correctly sized; handbag complete with makeup, a credit card in a new name, ditto new passport and a stack of euro banknotes.

  ‘Your flight tickets are in this envelope. You’ll find everything’s in order. Instructions here.’ He took a single sheet of paper from an inside pocket and handed it to her. ‘When you’ve memorized that, I shall destroy it. Understood?’

  She glared at him while he stared evenly back. ‘I understand all right. It’s just I’m still not sure I believe you.’

  ‘So what – I’m a rapist? You’re an item for white slave export?’ His sarcasm was cutting. ‘A lot of planning has gone into this; just don’t go all girlie and mess things up.’

  Careful planning. Yes, she could appreciate that. Who else but Charles would be behind such deviousness? Or dare to deprive her of all dignity? It bore his hallmark. And the note sent via Beale had been signed with her private name for her lover. That precaution was in case the note fell into the wrong hands. For the present he’d had to hide their connection.

  The man Beale loosed her wrists and ankles. Silently she opened the envelope with the flight tickets, checked on the destination and that a return half was included, the date left open. Her name was given as Laura Nelson.

  Then she read the instructions. They were brief, clear, and included restricted freedom of action until the evening flight took off from Heathrow.

  It seemed to be kosher; and it did follow on from the order Charles had given her in person before his flight to Washington: that she should accept Carlton’s invitation because he needed to know where she’d be this weekend.

  ‘Right,’ she said, handing back the sheet of paper. ‘You can go ahead and destroy it.’ She managed a tone of some authority, head held high.

  She traded a glare for the steely way he was observing her. ‘There was no need to manhandle me the way you did.’

  He permitted himself a sliver of smile. ‘I’d no choice. You could have squawked.’

  He was right. If she’d had a single second to draw breath she’d have gone off like the QEII leaving dock. You don’t stand on ceremony when you’re attacked out of the blue. And he’d never have had time to explain fully while they struggled in the corridor with his hand over her mouth.

  ‘After Nicholas turning up like that, I should have been expecting trouble,’ she admitted, sounding almost humble. Beale was one of Charles’s lieutenants, after all: knew the ropes. He’d be reporting back on her. ‘God knows it was a weird enough night up till then.’

  Now he really smiled; a great melon slice. Nice teeth, she thought wistfully; square and glowing white in the dim light of the van’s rear. She would bet they tasted minty. Nice build too. Six foot two or three. He’d look good in beach shorts.

  ‘Ready to go further?’ he demanded.

  He meant the journey, of course. Her mind had taken a different tack for a second. ‘Sure. Drive on. Only keep your eyes on the road, because I’m going to change into something rather smarter.’

  And so, after a long detour until he released her that afternoon at the airport, then a reasonable flight, she had landed by dusk at Marco Polo airport, Venice.

  It was much as she remembered it from a student visit three years back, but, walking through towards the boats, she found the telephones had all been changed. None took coins any more. There were no translations in English, French or German, and she hadn’t enough Italian to make sense of the instructions.

  Forget a common agricultural policy or a common currency – why hadn’t someone insisted on a common European language? Which must, she thought, of course, be English, even at risk of war with chauvinist France.

  Meanwhile she had to rely on her inadequate Spanish, which locals were free to accept as Italian with an outlandish accent. It sufficed to get a response first from a youngish woman with a quantity of luggage by her feet, but she too was new to the machines and appealed to a pert-looking lad of ten or so who regarded them both with incredulous scorn. He guided them to a machine that gobbled Jess’s 5-euro note and delivered a small card. From this the boy nonchalantly tore off one corner and inserted the card in a telephone’s slot, where it was rejected three times in different positions.

  Jess watched a dull flush creep up the child’s neck and spread into the prominent ears. So un-cool. She felt mortified for him. Eventually he thought to feed the torn end in first, magnetic strip uppermost. A dialling tone sounded. The child faded. The youngish woman shrugged and signalled for someone to come and dispose of her luggage.

  Jess called the memorized number, was instructed where to contact her next escort, and purchased a boat ticket for Lido. Then she dragged her trolley to the jetty labelled Ailaguno and took a seat on the waiting water-bus.

  It waited ten minutes, gradually filling, then chugged into a wide half-circle before shooting off at full throttle. White spray thrown up from the bow eased the heat of an exhausted day. Jess ran a finger under the neck of her new silk blouse and savoured the welcome chill.

  Overhead, silver-blue was dimming into indigo, with a fine sickle moon that looked stuck on velvet. All along the shorelines of the islands distant lights were appearing in a denser design than the random stars above. On all sides the lagoon opened out darkly, and for the first time in days Jess relaxed, giving herself up to the throb of the engine and the hiss of spray.

  After some forty minutes the boat slowed to pull in at Murano, below the museum. The island seemed dead, and when a few passengers streamed off, sight and sound of them were instantly swallowed up by the tall, blank-faced buildings lit only by occasional globes fixed high against stone walls. The very darkness of the place and the black, sucking water seemed sinister. It had all been so different before, by daylight.

  The vaporetto reversed and pulled out into the final stage of the crossing. Another fifteen minutes of roaring and rocking before she recognized the illuminated Campari sign rising high from the water, then the wood and glass shelter of the debarcadero at Lido-Venezia.

  Here, following her phoned instructions,
she disembarked and crossed the square by the taxi rank. All down the main street opposite, in brightly lit windows, closed shops displayed fashion goods, floral arrangements, brilliantly boxed confectionery. Towing the trolley, she crossed over, passing crowded bars, trattorias and restaurants where diners lingered over their evening meal. A few closed shops further, and then she turned right into the broad walk of Lepanto.

  Twenty steps into the pedestrian precinct a man stepped from a shadowed doorway, murmured ‘Permeso?’ and took the luggage trolley from her. Round the next corner a car was waiting with the engine quietly running. The front passenger door swung open. As her baggage was stowed she observed the driver, a handsome, plump woman with raven-dark hair, middle-aged and unalarming.

  Reassured, but uncertain quite what she had let herself into, Jessica Dellar accepted the seat offered. The man got in behind, unseen, and without a further word spoken they slid off into the night.

  She had been mistaken about the woman. She wasn’t plump, but well-fleshed and stood splendidly tall, was possibly older than Jess had assumed, and certainly impressive: a sort of Maria Callas presence. Perhaps a diva? Lido was a place where you expected to see celebrities.

  Electronically operated gates swung open to admit the car to a short, curved drive close-walled by evergreens. The house appeared to be of white stone and they entered by a flight of wide steps.

  A square hall paved with rose-veined marble had several rooms off it on both sides. At the far end, beside a small jungle of flowering shrubs and a tinkling water feature rose a slender circular stairway supported on matching marble columns.

  Impressed, Jess thought ruefully of her cramped little narrowboat where Charles had seemed contentedly at home roughing it. This was a different challenge.

  She determined to mind her manners as required in a well-regulated Italian family. ‘How very kind of you to come and meet me,’ she said, properly, to the diva. ‘Is Charles here yet?’

  Her hostess waved her through to a small salon where a table was laid with supper for one. She appeared not to have heard the question, and Jess thought perhaps she had no English.

  ‘I am sure you would like some refreshments. The meals on flights are quite impossible, I find,’ the diva said. Her voice was low, full-toned, with a hint of laughter in it. The Italian accent was barely detectable.

  ‘Aren’t you joining me?’ Jess ventured.

  ‘I dined earlier, thank you; but a glass of wine would be pleasant while we get to know each other. My name, signorina, is Giulia. You may call me that. I trust your journey was not too uncomfortable?’

  ‘The return by water was wonderful. The lagoon is magic at night. So mysterious.’

  ‘Return. Ah, you have been here before? Good. You must tell me how you would like to spend your time here as our guest.’

  Our, Jess noted, and wondered who else was in the house. The man who had met her had vanished, gone perhaps to garage the car. With all the inner doors open, she was sure he hadn’t yet followed them in.

  ‘I’m Jessica,’ she introduced herself, as her hostess removed the cover from a serving-dish.

  ‘Yes.’ Clearly this wasn’t news to her. ‘Or you were. Here you are Laura Nelson. Please be sure to remember that.’ She waved a casual hand at the laid table. ‘Fresh salmon with a lime and coriander sauce,’ she indicated. ‘Baby potatoes. There are various salads. Please help yourself.’ She filled two glasses for the girl, one with water and the other with wine.

  Although she had spoken of their getting to know each other, she stayed silent while Jess ate, sipping slowly at her own white wine and occasionally admiring her be-ringed fingers.

  Despite the woman’s apparent detachment once she’d done the welcoming bit, Jess was aware of her as something between hostess and jailer. On duty anyway. There were questions aplenty she would like to have put to her but the atmosphere was forbidding. For the present she must respect the level of discretion Charles’s staff exercised, but if it went on too long she knew she’d be breaking out. They couldn’t hold her indefinitely without providing some explanation.

  She declined the dessert. It was one of those elaborately sculpted Italian confections of sponge, liqueur and icing sugar. The coffee was exactly the way she liked it, strong and unsweetened, with a hint of Mocha.

  ‘You are young,’ Giulia remarked. ‘Myself, I cannot take caffeine at night. I would never sleep a wink. But I think you have had an exciting day and will be ready to retire now.’

  The last sentence was spoken as a question, but with an undertone of firmness. Jess decided the woman had been an actress rather than a singer. She left no doubt about the significance of anything she said. It was still irritating that she hadn’t answered the query about Charles. The omission had certainly been deliberate. As Jess rose from the table she resolved not to be put off.

  ‘Sitting most of the day, I really need exercise,’ she said. ‘I think I’ll take a walk before I turn in.’

  ‘But of course. Let me show you the garden. It will be my pleasure.’

  So escort duty was to be maintained. But at least a tour outside the house might give some idea of the fastness she was to be confined in.

  There were dogs. As the women left by a side door into a terraced walk they appeared silently and stood watching at a distance of some ten yards. Giulia murmured a few words and they fell in behind, not at heel but maintaining the same distance, two sleek Dobermans with beautiful movement.

  The garden was small, as on all the islands, but skilfully laid out with pergolas, twisting walks and steps to connect its three levels. There was the constant sound of water where it gushed from the mouths of three putti into a pool edged with yellow iris. The air was scented with lavender, box, and a small red flower shaped like a hop but redolent of sage. At the far end from the road the garden met a high stone wall interrupted by a wrought iron gate with a formidable-looking lock. Beyond and below it Jess caught the gleam of dark water and the lagoon’s quiet slap and cloop.

  As she walked Giulia brushed the surrounding shrubs with her fingers letting off fresh scents at every turn. She was far too much in control, Jess decided. ‘When are you expecting Charles to arrive?’ she demanded.

  They had reached the end of a circuit, and light from a window illuminated the older woman’s face as she turned. It was smooth and calm, almost featureless.

  ‘You supposed you were to meet him here?’ she questioned. Her elegant shoulders rose as she shrugged the possibility away.

  ‘No, signorina. It is not for an assignation that you have come. It is to prevent your being killed.’

  9

  Last night, after the garden tour with Giulia, they’d returned to the drawing-room and she’d met the two men. Stefano, sprawled on a chaise longue, shirt unbuttoned to expose a long, bronzed torso, had languidly waved a bare leg towards Giulia, then sprung upright at sight of their guest.

  ‘Signorina,’ he’d said with extravagant adulation, and mocking her.

  Then, on being introduced, she’d recognized Franco, (stolid and stocky while the other one was willowy) as the almost silent young man who had met her at Lepanto. He advanced from his chair and offered a firm handclasp. ‘It is a pleasure to have you with us, signorina.’ His English was almost perfect. She guessed he would be about eighteen and possibly Giulia’s son. They had the same high, wide forehead and slightly hooked nose, but he was shorter by some three or four inches.

  ‘Can I get you a drink, signorina? Mama?’

  ‘Laura?’ Giulia prompted, raising an eyebrow.

  ‘Thank you. A mineral water would be lovely.’

  ‘And a sambuca for me, then.’ She moved across to a sofa by the open window and arranged herself theatrically while her son poured and Stefano brought their drinks to them. Close to, Jess saw that he was some ten years older than the other young man, so perhaps the woman’s lover? Certainly his casual informality suggested something close.

  ‘My son and my nephew will
be delighted to entertain you, Laura,’ Giulia said silkily, as though she had guessed what was in the girl’s mind. ‘Between them they must know all there is to know about the islands, and unless you stop Franco he will lecture you until you die of boredom. Also, Laura, you will find both are quite adequate at tennis and swimming. The pool here is tiny, but we have a cabin on Lido’s south shore where you may swim in the Adriatic.’

  ‘That’s very kind, but I’m not sure how long I’ll be staying.’ Giulia was assuming too much, and Jess resented the repetition of the new name she had to go under. It implied she wasn’t capable of remembering that precaution herself. In fact the whole business of her enforced removal from old Carlton’s home and the journey here smacked too much of the press-gang. The moment had come when she must stand on her hind legs and make it clear she would please herself what she did.

  Giulia’s suggestion in the garden that her life might be in danger was ridiculously melodramatic. Roger Beale had explained that for the moment her presence in England could be embarrassing for Charles. That much she’d accept. She knew he was involved in some big, multinational deal with political undertones, and while negotiations hung in the balance a breath of scandal could tip the scales. Even that consideration seemed over-correct in these permissive days; but presumably he knew the prejudices of the important foreigners he had to haggle with.

  ‘Let me show you the lights,’ Franco had offered, cutting through her thoughts. He led her through double doors on to the balcony. Like the one jutting from her own bedroom above, it was on the lagoon side of the villa and overhung a little jetty where a small white powered craft tilted gently at its mooring.

  ‘There are more trees in Venice than in any other city in Europe,’ he told her.

  Jess pictured the tortuous alleys, the palazzi, galleries, crowded boutiques and humped bridges – nothing green except a glimpse here and there of a branch reaching out from some secret, walled garden.