The Dying Diplomats Club

by Matthew Benns

  ‘Yes,’ said Nick. ‘The symptoms he succumbed to included sore throat, cramps, nausea, diarrhoea – all the things we expect from COVID-19.’

  ‘So how does that tally with your theory he was murdered?’

  ‘Well, my Brindisi bombshell, they are also the exact same symptoms that come with arsenic poisoning.’

  CHAPTER 6

  A Very Stylish Victim

  ‘What a weekend,’ said Nick from his position on the garden sofa. ‘I cannot believe we had to queue for forty minutes to get into Bunnings just to buy stuff to do more work. Oh, darling, you’ve missed a bit.’

  La Contessa, dressed in one of Nick’s now-paint-spattered old shirts, followed where he was pointing and applied the roller. ‘Thank you. While you have been hard at it there on the sofa, have you had any more thoughts on Charles Turner’s arsenic poisoning?’

  ‘Funnily enough, I have,’ said Nick, putting down his copy of HiberNation and picking up his martini. ‘It all links in to our Chinese friend in apartment number 7.’

  ‘Well, we have never seen him,’ said La Contessa, continuing to haphazardly roll paint onto the fence. ‘Do you think it’s because he is an albino and hiding from the sun?’

  ‘Or something more sinister,’ said Nick. ‘I checked him out and he was Turner’s business partner for many years in China. Until Turner suddenly had to sell his assets there to Mr Hu and get out of the country.’

  ‘Bribery?’ asked La Contessa.

  ‘Yes – the bribes were too small. Mr Hu was based out of Wuhan and arrived before the world went into lockdown. It was widely assumed he had given Turner coronavirus.’

  ‘But you don’t think he did?’ said La Contessa. ‘Because no one else in Turner Towers got it?’

  ‘Exactly. I think somebody close to Turner poisoned him with arsenic.’

  ‘The same person who tried to poison us,’ said La Contessa. They heard a beep and headed outside.

  ‘Isn’t she beautiful?’ said their neighbour Georgios, gesturing to the brand-new red BMW M3 parked outside Turner Towers.

  ‘Lovely,’ said Nick. ‘Aren’t you superstitious, parking it in exactly the same spot where that poor girl crashed through the roof?’

  ‘You know, lightning don’t strike twice,’ said Georgios.

  At that moment, the Rolls Royce carrying Turner’s widow turned onto the street with Minns at the wheel.

  ‘Baxter!’ cried La Contessa from the pavement beside Nick as the beagle bounded out of the unfastened gate and bolted across the road towards them. The Rolls Royce swerved and Nick pushed La Contessa and Georgios to safety a split second before it hit the BMW and piled it into a street lamp.

  ‘Baxter, you’re safe,’ said La Contessa, hugging the hound as she emerged from the bushes where she had been shoved.

  ‘Oh no, my car,’ cried Georgios. ‘It’s new and it’s gone again.’

  Nick dashed over to the Rolls, which had so many airbags inflated inside it that it looked like a bag of marshmallows. No one was hurt.

  ‘Naughty Baxter – look what happened when they tried to avoid you,’ La Contessa scolded the dog, who wagged his tail.

  ‘Why don’t you help Catherine up to her apartment?’ said Nick. ‘And have a look around while you are there.’

  La Contessa picked up the steely tone in Nick’s voice and asked, ‘What is it, darling?’

  ‘They didn’t swerve to avoid Baxter,’ said Nick. ‘They were trying to hit him.’

  *

  ‘Well the widow Turner is safely tucked up in her apartment,’ said La Contessa, walking back through the garden gate to find Nick and Detective Inspector Cleaver chatting over a drink, with Baxter resting at their feet.

  ‘And how was she, my Naples nightingale?’ asked Nick.

  ‘Not unlike your martinis: badly shaken and unduly stirred,’ said La Contessa. ‘But so dazed she did not notice my rummaging through her cupboards on the pretence of looking for brandy – and finding this.’

  ‘Good work, darling!’ said Nick as La Contessa flourished an empty test tube identical to the one Baxter had retrieved from the mystery man attempting to poison their wine.

  ‘That clearly puts Catherine in the frame for poisoning her husband and getting someone to try the same thing on us,’ said Nick triumphantly.

  ‘Hmmm,’ Cleaver demurred. ‘But it is stolen evidence and far from conclusive. Not only that, I think there is another neighbour who looks very dodgy indeed.’

  ‘Really, who?’ asked La Contessa.

  ‘Georgios Papadakis. There is clearly something wrong with someone who has claimed full insurance on two brand-new BMWs in a matter of weeks.’

  ‘Rather than worrying about old George, Detective Inspector, I think you need to be focussing on the death of Charles Turner, which I now suspect was caused by arsenic poisoning rather than the coronavirus,’ said Nick.

  ‘I am going to need something more than a hunch to start investigating that can of worms,’ said Cleaver, taking a sip of his martini.

  Nick’s brow furrowed in concentration. ‘I think I may have just the way to get you the evidence you need.’

  *

  As the last notes of ‘Tutti Frutti’ played, La Contessa threw herself into Nick’s outstretched arms with a daringly high kick and a final twirl.

  ‘Gosh, we haven’t danced like that in ages,’ she said. ‘Darling, are you all right? You are very red. Very fruity.’

  ‘Absolutely fine, my Ferla feather,’ said Nick, gingerly lowering himself onto the sofa. ‘Do we have any ice?’

  ‘Oh dear, is it for your back?’ asked La Contessa.

  Nick looked at her in astonishment. ‘Of course not – it’s for my recovery martini.’

  ‘So much is changing,’ said La Contessa. ‘Little Richard is dead, Alan Jones is retiring from radio, and coronavirus restrictions are lifting – but we still haven’t solved Rose Turner’s murder.’

  At that moment, Nick’s phone buzzed to life, with Cleaver’s name appearing on the screen. Nick answered and listened, waving La Contessa away as she desperately tried to eavesdrop.

  ‘Well,’ she said when he finally ended the call, ‘what has happened?’

  ‘Our old friend Brice Jauffret —’

  ‘That French fraud who dognapped Baxter? I hope something horrible has happened to him,’ interrupted La Contessa.

  ‘Do be careful what you wish for,’ said Nick. ‘Cleaver said he has been found in a Daewoo Matiz.’

  ‘Oh, that is horrible,’ said La Contessa.

  ‘What’s really horrible is that Monsieur Jauffret was dead at the time,’ said Nick.

  La Contessa’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘Oh, I feel terrible now. Was he murdered?’

  ‘Yes, bludgeoned with a hairdryer,’ said Nick. ‘It seems whoever killed Rose is tidying up their loose ends.’

  He put Baxter’s lead on and went to stand by the gate.

  La Contessa looked out at the road. ‘Darling, it’s so rude. There are cars on the road clogging our thoroughfares,’ she said. ‘Now the coronavirus restrictions are easing, pesky people are coming out and getting in my way.’

  ‘There are certainly a few things we are going to miss about this long coronacation together,’ said Nick.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed La Contessa. ‘The crisp clear quality of the air, the strange quiet in the mornings . . .’

  ‘The homemade martinis and special afternoon cuddles,’ continued Nick wistfully.

  ‘Trust you to think of that,’ said La Contessa. ‘And why are you hovering by the gate so furtively?’

  ‘I’m waiting for the unsuspecting spouses of Turner’s former lawyer and doctor to come past walking their dogs.’

  ‘Oh really? What are you up to, Nick Moore?’

  ‘Well my little Lipari lovebird, I am going to bump into them and break the news that their partners are having an affair.’

  La Contessa gasped. ‘But Nick, you will ruin their lives. They have no idea that we
have spotted their other halves canoodling on the balcony the second their backs are turned.’

  ‘I know,’ said Nick. ‘But sometimes detective work is a dirty business. If I break the news to them and offer proof, like the pictures I took yesterday with my telephoto lens, they might be prompted to seek revenge.’

  ‘Gosh, darling, how Machiavellian you are. What do —?’ But La Contessa’s question was cut off as Nick opened the gate.

  ‘Here they come,’ he said.

  Half an hour later he returned with Baxter to find La Contessa wringing a tissue between her fingers.

  ‘What on earth’s the matter?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t think I like being a detective any more, darling,’ she said through tears. ‘I don’t like that you had to tell those two people their partners were cheating on them.’

  ‘I know my, sensitive Salerno sweetmeat,’ said Nick, putting a comforting arm around her. ‘But I can assure you that Amanda and Stephen were both very grateful I interrupted their dog walk to tell them what their spouses were up to back in Turner Towers.’

  ‘Really?’ said La Contessa, perking up. ‘Did they rush back to confront them?’

  ‘At speed,’ said Nick. ‘To catch them in the act.’

  ‘Gosh,’ said La Contessa, all remorse forgotten. ‘I wonder if we can see that through the telescope?’

  She was already off the sofa and at the telescope under the orange tree before Nick could answer.

  ‘Oh yes!’ she exclaimed. ‘Amanda appears to be throwing Mark’s shirts off the balcony. He looks like he is begging her not to throw over his barrister’s gown and wig . . . too late.’

  ‘And how is Emily explaining her philandering to her husband?’ asked Nick.

  ‘It looks like she is trying to explain while Stephen is packing a bag,’ said La Contessa. ‘I think she would have more success if she had time put on a few more clothes.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said Nick, heading for the fridge to make a celebratory martini. ‘This is exactly the disruption we need to smoke out Rose’s killer.’

  The ensuing soap opera played out for hours.

  ‘Darling, I think we have played a part in our first Covidivorce,’ said La Contessa from her familiar position at the telescope under the orange tree.

  ‘Unsurprising, given that Dr Chen and Mr Hutchinson QC were romping like rabbits behind their spouses’ backs,’ observed Nick from the sofa.

  ‘But who would have thought it would end like this?’ said La Contessa. ‘The adultrous pair have moved in together in the Chens’ apartment.’

  ‘Yes, well despite the easing of restrictions, we are still in lockdown and not able to really start jumping around all over the place,’ said Nick.

  ‘Of course, darling,’ said La Contessa. ‘But whoever would have thought that their jilted spouses, Amanda and Stephen, would have moved in platonically together in the apartment above?’

  ‘Very practical,’ said Nick. ‘They are dog-walking companions.’

  ‘And the dogs are snuggled up there on the same blanket,’ said La Contessa. ‘But I still can’t see how telling them that they were being cheated on will help us smoke out the killer.’

  ‘Well, my Isernian innocent, my hunch is that Amanda and Stephen were only in Turner Towers through marriage and might know nothing of the murder,’ said Nick. ‘Now they may want some revenge – and who knows what their errant spouses know?’

  At that moment, Baxter leaped from his blanket and, barking furiously, pelted into the house.

  ‘I believe that heralds someone delivering a letter,’ said Nick. ‘Never underestimate the wrath of a partner scorned.’

  ‘Gosh darling, how exciting!’ enthused La Contessa as Nick returned from the letterbox with a package in his hand and Baxter padding along at his heels. ‘What is it?’

  ‘I’m pretty certain this will be the fruits of our labours,’ said Nick. ‘A revenge package from one of the cuckolded partners of Dr Emily Chen or Mark Hutchinson QC.’

  Nick ripped open the brown envelope and pulled out a copy of a death certificate with Charles Turner’s name on it.

  ‘It says Charles Turner died from a myocardial infarction,’ La Contessa read over his shoulder. ‘That’s basically a heart attack, isn’t it, darling?’

  ‘Mmmmmm,’ said Nick, who was thoroughly engrossed in a second highly complex-looking document from the envelope.

  ‘What is it with men? Completely incapable of multi-tasking,’ huffed La Contessa, who had also managed to tie a tartan bow tie onto Baxter. ‘What’s that you are reading?’

  ‘Mmm . . . what’s that, my Valentano valentine?’ said Nick distractedly. La Contessa stamped her foot and, aware of the early warning signal, he snapped back to attention.

  ‘This, my little Napoli nymph, is the result of the blood test run just before Charles Turner died. Clearly he had been feeling sick, which is not surprising given the levels of arsenic trioxide in his blood,’ said Nick.

  ‘Darling, you were right! He was being poisoned with arsenic,’ gasped La Contessa. ‘Who could have done it?’

  ‘The other question,’ said Nick, ‘is why would his doctor ignore that and sign a death certificate giving a heart attack as the cause of death?’

  CHAPTER 7

  The Mystery Arborist

  ‘What a dreadful night,’ said La Contessa. ‘Who on earth was up chopping and sawing in the wee small hours?’

  ‘Yet you look as fresh as a mountain rose,’ said Nick, having just popped out to pick up The Daily Telegraph. A gust of wind blew autumn leaves into the garden from the tree outside. La Contessa shivered. ‘That tree blocks all our winter sunlight,’ she complained as a familiar voice called to them from the road.

  ‘Look, isn’t she a beauty?’ said Georgios, pointing to a brand-new red BMW M3 parked outside their gate. ‘I’ll park on this side of the road this time.’

  ‘Yes, third time lucky,’ said Nick.

  At that moment another gust of wind caught the giant tree, which creaked ominously. Nick grabbed La Contessa and pushed her and Georgios back against the wall as the tree groaned and came crashing down onto the car, flattening it completely.

  ‘Oh no, my car,’ cried Georgios, his hands tearing at his grey hair. ‘It’s new and it’s gone again.’

  Nick pulled La Contessa clear of the stray branches.

  ‘Well I don’t think we will be having any more problems with leaves and blocked sunlight.’ She laughed shakily.

  ‘No, but whoever was sawing in the middle of the night clearly intended that tree for us,’ said Nick. ‘Rose Turner’s killers are increasingly desperate to stop us finding the truth.’

  *

  ‘Do you think the Louis Vuitton Keepall or the July Carry All Weekender?’ asked La Contessa.

  ‘What’s that, my Murano muse?’ asked Nick through vigorous shakes of the day’s first martini.

  ‘I’m packing for when we are allowed to travel again,’ she said. ‘It’s been so long I can’t decide which bag to take let alone what to put in it.’

  ‘You do look rather fetching in your active wear,’ observed Nick. ‘And it will be easy to pack.’

  ‘But I’ve been wearing that for months, so I was thinking of a nice —’ But her thoughts were interrupted by Baxter leaping off his blanket and yelping towards the front door in a flurry of scrabbling paws.

  Nick followed him down the hall and moments later returned with another brown envelope, which he quickly tore open.

  ‘I think this may be from Mark’s scorned wife, Amanda,’ said Nick, pulling out a stamped legal document. A brass key also tumbled out, bouncing off a startled Baxter’s nose.

  ‘Last will and testament of Charles Turner,’ read La Contessa over his shoulder. ‘It looks like he has left an apartment and lots of money to each resident or pair of residents in the apartment block opposite.’

  ‘Yes – everyone except his illegitimate daughter,’ said Nick. ‘My guess is that this was the
will he drafted before he knew he had a child.’

  ‘So what is the key for?’ asked La Contessa.

  ‘I am almost certain this unlocks the safe where his final will is kept,’ said Nick.

  ‘But darling, isn’t that a bit of a cliche?’ asked La Contessa for the seventeenth time, some time later. ‘How can you be sure?’

  ‘You know I avoid cliches like the plague,’ said Nick. ‘But I find they become cliches because they are so often true.’

  ‘So you think the key delivered anonymously to us will unlock a private safe in the late Charles Turner’s bedroom?’

  ‘Undoubtedly,’ said Nick.

  Right on cue, Baxter jumped to his paws and started barking furiously at the back gate.

  Nick opened it and let in a slight fellow dressed in black.

  ‘Evening, Mr Moore, Mrs Moore,’ he said, nodding to La Contessa. ‘Do you have the key?’

  ‘Ah yes,’ said Nick, catching La Contessa’s questioning gaze. ‘Spidey, I mean Bruce, I’d like to introduce you to my wife, La Contessa Mariabella Belluci.’

  ‘Delighted to meet you, Mr Spiderman,’ said La Contessa. ‘And what do you do?’

  ‘Spidey is probably the best cat burglar in Australia,’ said Nick.

  ‘Well, I was until your husband caught me and put me away,’ said Spidey without a trace of resentment. ‘Did the right thing, though: kept the money and sent it to my wife and kids.’

  ‘Well the drug dealer you robbed did not need the cash,’ said Nick.

  ‘My Nick, you do have the most interesting friends,’ said La Contessa. ‘Will Mrs Spiderman be joining us for dinner?’

  ‘Oh no, ma’am, I shan’t be stopping,’ said Spidey. ‘I’ll just be hopping over a couple of balconies and retrieving something from a safe for Mr Moore.’

  Within half an hour Spidey had returned.

  ‘That’s really highly improper, darling,’ said La Contessa, frowning disapprovingly as Nick walked back from seeing Spidey off with the foolscap envelope. ‘One could even say illegal.’

  ‘I can completely understand your distaste for such an undertaking and the methods employed by my good friend Spidey to retrieve the contents of the late Charles Turner’s safe,’ said Nick, settling down on the sofa and picking up his martini. ‘In fact I quite understand why you would not want to have anything to do with it. I shall not insult you by offering to share with you its contents.’