Words Can Kill (Ghostwriter Mystery 5)

by C. A. Larmer

  The woman disappeared and a few minutes later her front door opened to reveal another woman, younger, prettier. She had long flowing hair that was bleached blonde and dark at the roots, and her voluptuous figure had been wedged into a tiny red dress. Just. She was chewing on some gum and batting eyelashes that were caked with mascara so chunky Roxy wondered how her eyelids didn’t stick together.

  “Ola?” she asked hopefully and the woman shook her head.

  “Ola no here. I Sofia. Ola ’ave-eh no room tonight.”

  “Actually I don’t need a room. I’m looking for my friend who is staying at Ola’s.” Roxy produced the photograph. “Max Farrell. Australian man.”

  The woman looked at the photo, then darted a quick look back at Roxy before giving her a shrug.

  Well that was helpful. “Have you seen this man around?”

  Again she shrugged, raising her fleshy shoulders high, her ample bosom almost lifting out of her dress.

  Roxy tried not to scowl as she said, “Do you know where I can find Ola?”

  “You come back tomorrow. She back tomorrow.”

  This was not what Roxy wanted to hear. Time was flying by and she felt so close now, just inches from Max.

  “Is there a police station here?”

  Sofia looked surprised by the change of tack and stepped back a little behind her front door. “It closed. You come back tomorrow. Ola here tomorrow.”

  “And Max?”

  “I no see him.” Her tone had turned irritable, and Roxy knew how she felt.

  She looked around. Where could Ola be? Surely she had to be in Riomaggiore somewhere. It was a relatively isolated village, chances were Roxy had just passed her eating her dinner at a café or restaurant.

  She thanked the woman, for what she didn’t know, and threaded her way back down the path, Sofia standing by her door, chewing madly as she watched her go. Back on the main road, Roxy noticed that the sleazy waiter was now leering at a group of young, badly sunburnt women in insanely short shorts and tight tank tops. They looked like British backpackers and were making a beeline for a pizza bar at the other end of the jetty, much to his disappointment.

  Roxy walked up to the waiter and asked about Ola. “I no see,” he said. “You want-eh table now?”

  “No thanks.”

  “We share one together, you and me. Not so lonely.”

  You had to give the man points for persistence, she thought, and in different circumstances she might have found him amusing, but not tonight. Barely able to crack a smile, she made her way back to the main drag, through the underpass, up the stairs and towards Monty who was just closing up shop when she got there.

  “You find-eh you boyfriend?” he asked.

  “Friend,” she corrected, thinking, “What is it with these people?!” “Ola wasn’t there either. Do you know where she might be?”

  “No at hotel?”

  “No.”

  He gave it some consideration. “One-eh minute.” He dashed back inside his shop for a few seconds, then returned with a key and finished closing up, giving the front door a good rattle to check it was locked. Satisfied, he waved Roxy along and began striding with determination back down towards the bay.

  For the next half hour the two of them went door-to-door, from bar to restaurant to café to bar again. At each venue, Monty stopped and chatted in fluent Italian to whomever was in charge and each time he shrugged his shoulders, stroked his moustache and kept walking. Eventually, he held his hands up and open, as though he had exhausted all possibilities.

  “Ola no here. You try again, tomorrow, no?”

  Roxy’s heart sank. She did not want to try again tomorrow. She wanted to speak to Ola tonight. Now. This woman had seen Max Farrell, she was her closest link.

  As they walked back to Roxy’s apartment, a young local man stopped to say hello to Monty, greeting him like a long lost friend, and they spoke in Italian for a few minutes before Monty must have explained Roxy’s quest. He turned to look at her then and suggested a few cafés they had already tried.

  “What about parking station?” he said. “Maybe Ola go away. You ask there.”

  Monty was looking dubious but Roxy was determined. “I need to find out,” she told him. “I won’t get any sleep tonight if I don’t.”

  “It’s-eh big walk, no?”

  “I’m happy to do it. Please, you get on with your night. I know how to find my way there.”

  Monty seemed to hesitate, as though wrestling with his conscience and, Roxy guessed, his hungry stomach, before he said, “Okay, I show you.”

  “No, no! Monty, really, you’ve done more than enough.”

  He wasn’t listening, however, was already saying good-bye to his friend and heading back through town and up the hill towards the car park. Roxy had to race to keep up with him.

  The parking station at the very top of the town was a busy place by day but at this hour was virtually deserted and for a moment Roxy wondered if she should have waited until tomorrow as everyone had suggested. Monty was certainly friendly but she couldn’t help wondering if she should be letting a strange Italian man lead her away from the village, away from Caroline and the crowds.

  Caroline! Roxy had forgotten all about her, but before she could give her another thought they had reached the top of the parking station and Monty was deep in conversation with a skinny, middle-aged man behind the toll booth out the front. He was nodding enthusiastically and it was the first positive sign all night so when Monty turned back, Roxy was surprised to hear him say, “He no see Ola. She still in town.”

  She stared at the man. “Really?”

  He nodded.

  “How do you know she’s still around? Maybe she left without you seeing?”

  They looked at each other and chuckled at that. Monty explained, “Everyone park-eh their car here. Henri see everyone who come and go. He say, she no go. She must-eh be in Riomaggiore.”

  Henri said, “Last Friday, she go away, I see.” He put his fingers to his eyes. “This week, she no go, car still here. You want see?”

  “No, I believe you. What about the train? Maybe she took the train somewhere?”

  That made the men laugh even harder.

  “Ola never use train,” Monty explained, as though it were written in blood.

  “You try piazza?” the parking attendant said then and Monty smacked a palm across his forehead.

  “Naturalmente!” He turned to Roxy. “Come-eh!”

  Before she could object, he was striding back towards town, all the way down towards the underpass. This time, however, he took a detour up a set of steps, which, Roxy guessed, led above the train tunnel. Just as Roxy’s legs were beginning to buckle and she was second-guessing herself all over again, they stepped out into a wide, paved terrace that served as a playground for the local families. There were over a dozen children running about, dolls in hand, balls at their feet, several on scooters and skateboards, and to one side, a group of mostly black-clad women ignoring them completely, deep in conversation beneath bright streetlights. It seemed late for the kids to be out and about, but then what did Roxy know? They’d probably had a two-hour siesta in the middle of the day, which she’d always thought was a rather civilised thing to do.

  “Ola!” Monty boomed and from amongst the crowd a large woman turned around, mono-brow raised expectantly. “You come-eh!”

  Roxy caught her breath. At last.

  Ola was an elderly woman with scratchy grey hair and the faint fuzz of a moustache above her top lip. She had a no-nonsense look about her and strode swiftly across the piazza towards them, checking Roxy out the entire way.

  “Che cos’é?” she said to Monty, her tone cranky, her eyes still on Roxy.

  He spoke to her in Italian and then she raised her hands as if saluting the sky.

  “Ahhh, you come-eh for Max!”

  Roxy felt the same rush of relief. “Yes! You know where he is?”

  The woman dropped her hands. Her mono-bro
w dipped a little. “Me? No!”

  Roxy stared at her and then at Monty. He also frowned, then proceeded to speak to the woman again who returned fire with loud bursts of Italian and much hand waving. After several mystifying minutes he turned back to Roxy.

  “Okay, so Ola say Max-eh stay with her, then go away.”

  “Away? Where?”

  He spoke to Ola again before saying, “She no know. He disappear-eh.”

  No, no, no, no, Roxy thought. Not again! “When?!”

  There was another loud exchange between the two locals and then he said, “Last-eh Friday. He go away-eh and no come back.”

  This was more than Roxy could bear. She found her way to a low rock wall and dropped down, deflated again. Each time she got a little closer to Max, found someone who had seen him or knew something of him, he seemed to slip back out of her reach again. The two locals were talking in loud bursts, their hands gesticulating wildly as they spoke, and eventually Monty joined her on the rock wall. His eyes were downcast.

  “Ola say, can you get-eh Max’s things. Pay his bill, no?”

  “His things? You mean luggage?”

  “Yes-eh.”

  She felt a glimmer of hope. “Max’s luggage is still at Ola’s hotel?”

  “Yes-eh, he go away, no pay, no take-eh the bag.”

  Roxy felt her heart lift. She knew, logically, this was a worrying development. Disappearing without your luggage was not a good sign, yet she was buoyed by the revelation. If Max’s stuff was still in Ola’s Villas, perhaps there was a clue in there, too. Perhaps there was something that would shed light on where he’d gone and why.

  It was something.

  It also indicated that this had to be Max’s last stop. No matter where he was, what condition he was in—and she was not letting her mind go there—she knew that he had to be close. He had to be here, somewhere.

  Encouraged, she stood up and pushed her glasses firmly into place. “Can you show me?” she said to Ola. “Now.”

  ********

  Muffled voices woke Max from his sleep and he swung his head around with a start.

  Everything was dark, musty, dank. He felt his heart drop all over again as he realised his predicament, and then tried to move but his hands had been tied firmly behind his back, his eyes covered with something, an oily tasting rag in his mouth. He strained to hear what was being said but it was as though they were speaking through water.

  He caught what sounded like “polizia” and “riskio”, but that was all. Then, after a short silence, a loud creaking sound made his blood pressure spike as he realised someone was entering the room. He heard the crunch of boots approaching and felt his entire body stiffen, his nerves on edge as someone stopped and leaned in, a stale breath now hot against his face. The rag was suddenly ripped from his mouth.

  “Come, eat.” It was a man’s voice, familiar yet not familiar. Gruff, impatient, angry.

  Something was being shoved through his lips and he realised it was a piece of bread, dry and slightly stale. He wondered if it was poisoned but he was so famished he didn’t care, opening his mouth wider as the man thrust the pieces in, then chewing like his life depended on it, which it probably did. After several mouthfuls, there was a slight pause before something hard and plastic was being shoved against his lips and he resisted at first until he realised it must be a water bottle, luscious drops of liquid dripping through. He opened his mouth again and swallowed eagerly, some of it gushing down his neck and across his sweat soaked shirt. It felt good.

  “Come!” the man said again, yanking him by the arms and dragging him to his feet. His legs felt weak and wobbly and he struggled to keep up as the man pulled him roughly across the room before halting, creaking something open, and shoving him forward.

  Suddenly someone else was grasping at his belt buckle, undoing his jeans, and he flinched, trying to back away.

  “You stay!” the man growled. “Toilet!”

  He stopped writhing and let them help him. It was demoralising and mortifying but he was glad of it, too, and not just because he was desperate to relieve himself. It also gave him a tiny shred of hope. Whoever these people were, whoever had tied him up and locked him away for what seemed like forever now, had a little heart, a little consideration. They wanted him to stay alive. Or they wouldn’t bother with all this, would they?

  It was enough for him to hold on to.

  Chapter 16

  The room that Max had booked in Riomaggiore was smaller and less luxurious than Roxy and Caroline’s, and theirs was barely two-star. A tiny bedsit with a single bed against one wall and a sofa bed for a lounge, there was a makeshift kitchenette, a miniature dining table with two un-matching wooden chairs, and a bathroom befitting a jockey. The single bed had a sickly pink bedspread over it, incongruous in this dark and dreary room, but Roxy noted it was neat and tidy, and wondered when he’d last used it.

  With Monty’s help, she had learned from Ola that Max had arrived late Wednesday evening, six days ago, and had made a loose booking for the week. Ola was not a hundred percent sure when she’d last seen the Australian, but believed it was Friday morning when he was heading out for breakfast, to Ted’s, she said, “around nine-eh”. Or at least that’s what she remembered. She hadn’t really given it much thought, she explained unapologetically, probably wouldn’t until he was due to book out tomorrow, except that the Australian woman went missing and now the police were enquiring of all visitors to the town. She had been asked to tell Max to contact the local police except she could not find him and was surprised to see his room had not been touched in days, the fresh towels exactly where she had left them on Friday morning, the sheets untouched as well.

  She told Roxy all of this as they made their way back through the maze of streets to Ola’s Villas, Monty helping to translate when language became a barrier and, despite Roxy’s pleas, refusing to leave her side.

  “I will help-eh you find you boyfriend, he will be okay!” he’d said and Roxy admired his optimism, she was starting to feel a little more buoyant herself. That is, until she saw Max’s room, the untouched bed, his black duffle bag sitting unopened beside it.

  “See!” Ola said after she’d unlocked the door and switched on the harsh lighting. “He bag still ’ere!” She pointed at it then stepped across to the bathroom. “And-eh ’ere!” Roxy caught a glimpse of a bathbag on the sink. “Other man, ’e go, but you friend, ’e stay.”

  Roxy’s eyes widened. “Other man?”

  Ola frowned at her. “Yes, ’e go. I no see ’e things. So why Max-eh stay?”

  “Do you mean woman?”

  Ola looked at Roxy like she was the dimmest tourist she’d ever met. “No! Man-eh.”

  “Max met up with another man here?”

  Her patience was wearing thin. She glowered at Monty as if it was all his fault then turned back to Roxy and explained: “You friend-eh he book-eh room with other man, no? They check in together. I no say this?”

  “No,” Roxy said, prickles of confusion creeping up her back. “So where is this other man?”

  Ola shrugged. “He stay-eh two night, then he go and Max-eh stay. But now he go and I no get pay.” She rubbed her fingers together in the universal sign of cash.

  “So this man was a friend of Max’s?”

  Again, her expression spoke volumes about Roxy’s mental capacity. “Yes! Of course-eh!”

  “Do you know who the man is? Where he ended up going?”

  “I don’t know-eh. How I know this?” She glared at Monty again.

  “What about a woman?” Roxy persisted. “Did you see him with a blonde Australian woman?”

  Ola almost bared her teeth. “No! I tell polizia, he no with Australian woman, he with American man. I tell them. Why no one listen to me?!”

  “American man?” Roxy’s alarm bells were clanging to life.

  Monty must have misread her expression because he put a hand on Ola’s shoulder and said, “She no care about other man-eh, Ola. S
he want-eh find Max.”

  “No, no, I am interested,” Roxy interjected. Very much so. “Can you describe the other man?”

  Ola gave it some thought. “He tall-eh, skinny, too skinny. Loooots of tattoos.” Her downturned lips and scrunched mono-brow told Roxy exactly what she thought of that.

  “Did he have a large tattoo on his right shoulder? Like a serpent or a dragon or something?”

  Ola considered this, weighed it up. “Hmmmm, maybe. Something big-eh there. Ugly.” She tapped her shoulder, her lips drooping further. “He Americana.” As if that explained everything.

  The bells in Roxy’s head had turned into a fully blown orchestra and she was struggling to get her thoughts together. She sat on the sofa and gave herself a little shake.

  It couldn’t be? Could it?

  This “other man” had to be Max’s flatmate, Jake. It sounded exactly like him. Yet ... yet what was he doing here, in Riomaggiore, a full forty-eight hours before he showed up dead in his Berlin apartment?

  Roxy leapt to her feet again. “Oh God, I’ve got to call Caroline!”

  She grappled for her phone as Ola and Monty watched, looks of bemusement across their faces. Ola said something in Italian to Monty who shook his head sadly.

  It took several attempts for Roxy to key Caroline’s number into her phone, her fingers were trembling and her brain was racing. Unlike her, Caroline had not switched to a local SIM card when they arrived in Europe. She wanted Max to be able to reach her at her usual number, so Roxy was forced to call her on that, too. She knew the call would be re-routed and expensive, but she didn’t care. She needed to speak to her, and quickly.

  The phone picked up after just one ring. “Jesus, Roxy, where the hell have you been?! It’s almost 9:30, I’m starving!”

  “Sorry, Caroline.”

  “Where are you? If you’re enjoying a Merlot somewhere without me, I’m going to kill—”

  “Caroline, it’s not that. I’ve found something.”

  “What?!”

  Roxy sighed. “It’s a long story. Why don’t you put on a jacket and come and meet me. You need to see this.”