The only answer was to put half the world between them.
‘Prosecco does not travel well long distances in bottles. It also goes stale quickly, three years at the most,’ he went on. ‘We are thinking about sending the grapes instead in big containers. The secondary fermentation is in stainless steel containers. It could be done anywhere in Japan.’
‘That’s ambitious,’ said Emma. ‘And complicated. To set up a new plant.’
‘It may not happen. But I am glad to talk to you. I will tell you more when I am home. Are you sure you are all right?’
Missing you, she wanted to tell him. Missing you, like mad. Thinking of you all the time, watching for you in crowds, longing to hear your voice.
‘Are you … coming home soon?’
He caught the catch in her voice and the tiny inflexion gave him hope. ‘Ver’ soon, mia cara. Sleep well.’ Then he added, ‘Perhaps you will dream of me.’
She wanted to say something, to make him stay talking, but it was too late.
He had gone and his voice echoed in the empty hall of air. Emma stood, holding the receiver, willing him back. But the miles unravelled instantly and she was alone again.
Maria stood at the door, holding a tray with a glass on it.
‘I think perhaps a small brandy after the visit of the Countess,’ she suggested. ‘For the courage.’
‘What a good idea,’ said Emma. ‘Thank you.’ She heard another bell ringing. ‘Surely the Countess has not come back?’
‘That is the back doorbell, signorina. Someone who does not wish to be seen.’
‘Please be careful before you open it,’ said Emma quickly.
‘I shall not open the door without a proper identity,’ said Maria. ‘We have many children who play silly games with the doorbells after dark.’
Emma nodded and took the brandy into the sitting room. The coffee was cold now. But she heard voices and steps coming up the main staircase. Surely not another visitor? And she knew no one in Venice who might call.
It was Commissario Claudio Morelli. Maria was taking his damp overcoat. He looked cold and tired. Emma wondered if he had recently been ill. There were shadows on his face and a map of fine lines.
‘Please sit down,’ said Emma, indicating a seat near the fire.
‘Shall I bring fresh coffee?’ Maria offered.
‘Grazie,’ said Emma. ‘That would be good.’
‘That is welcome,’ Claudio said, holding out his hands to the glowing electric bars. ‘We get many power cuts in Venice, but not tonight, we hope.’
‘It’s very kind of you to come and see me,’ said Emma, giving him time to warm up. ‘I really appreciate your concern. Enrico is escorting me everywhere.’
‘You should take different routes to work each day,’ said Claudio. ‘You are being watched. Sometimes go out of the back door, not the front porch. Not always use the signor’s launch. Hire a taxi. Make many changes.’
‘You really think I am in danger?’
‘I know you are in danger. We have found the weapon used on poor young Pia. It is a piece of iron pipe. It was found in some rubbish.’ He did not add that it still had hair and blood on it and that the evidence matched Pia’s blood group and hair.
‘How awful. That poor girl. I feel so sorry for her.’
‘We have tried to trace a family but there is no one. She shared rooms with other girls but they know nothing about her. It is a sad story.’
‘What will happen to her?’
‘We cannot release the body yet. She is a guest of the hospitality of the doctor’s cold refrigerator.’
Emma shivered as if she was also sharing that hospitality. Maria came in with a tray of fresh coffee. She had added a plate of little cakes and almond biscuits.
‘Ah, home baking,’ said Claudio with appreciation, as if he had not tasted home baking for years. He did not look as if anyone was looking after him. His shirt was a non-iron, drip-dry garment bought from a chain store. His tie was not chosen with any thought. His closely cut hair was merely a convenience.
‘Grazie, Maria,’ said Emma. Maria went out, beaming.
Emma poured out the coffee and offered cream and sugar. Claudio refused the cream but added a spoonful of sugar. He took a small cake.
‘Perfecto,’ he said. ‘I cook very little. I eat out a lot. It is not good for me but there is so little time. Always so much work.’
‘Perhaps you would like to join me for supper one evening? Maria is a very good cook. I don’t know when Marco will be back,’ Emma heard herself saying.
‘Mille grazie, signorina. I would like that but do not be surprised if I don’t come. Something always happens when an arrangement is made.’
‘That’s no problem,’ said Emma, smiling. ‘We will make another day and time. I should enjoy your company.’
Claudio Morelli smiled back. It was the first time she had seen him smile. ‘Now I know why the dell’Orto office likes their new accountant from London. Word gets around, signorina. Venice is like a small town. All gossip.’
Emma was glad that the detective stayed a while, keeping her company. He had demolished most of the cakes when his phone rang. He took it out of his pocket and spoke in rapid Italian, his face grim. He switched off and stood up.
‘A launch is drifting down the Grand Canal, on fire. The fire boats are on their way to put out the blaze before it causes damage or spreads to the land. I need to be there before the firemen destroy all the evidence.’
‘I’m sorry you have to go,’ said Emma, getting up. ‘At least your coat will be dry now. Maria has it for you downstairs.’
‘Buona notte, signorina,’ he said, his eyes full of warmth and concern.
‘Buona notte, Commissario.’
Claudio Morelli hurried down the stairs to where Maria was waiting with his coat. He had not told Emma that it was Marco’s private launch that was on fire. That it had been identified by the family crest on the bows.
Emma went to bed, relaxed and warm. Claudio Morelli was a good man. Perhaps she would dream of Marco tonight. And perhaps she would not be so afraid and her fears fade into nothingness. It was time she began to live again but someone had to help her.
eleven
Marco had not said when he would be returning. It could be days, weeks even. Emma knew that she must learn to carry on without him. She might have returned to London before his Japanese trip was over. They would never learn to know each other when life was so complicated. Cosi complicato.
Now that she knew who had once owned, but never worn, all the beautiful clothes in the locked bedroom, she did not hesitate to find another trouser suit for the next day. She chose a conservative grey pinstripe but it was a far cry from anything a sober city gent might have worn. The lining of the jacket was a gaudy blue, pink and turquoise stripe, and one lapel was edged with a fine line of the same silk. There was even a flowing silk scarf to match.
Emma had never worn anything so glamorous to work before. She cut off the price tag without even looking at it, then tousled her bright hair and added more than her usual touch of mascara.
Her boots were perfect with the slim trousers. Maria nodded her own approval. She said something in Italian that Emma roughly translated to mean that all the gondoliers would be queuing to take her in their gondolas.
‘No, thank you,’ said Emma. ‘Not in the mood for operatic singing, first thing in the morning.’
‘You will need a raincoat, signorina. It is raining. Signor Marco has several raincoats. This one may fit you.’
‘Grazie, Maria.’
She went out, wearing one of Marco’s raincoats. It was a short black one, belted. Big on the shoulders but she was not complaining. It was a wet morning.
She took the vaporetto, joining the commuting crowd, merging with the other travellers, and the car was waiting for her alongside the station. Marco had phoned Enrico again, to make sure she was being met. She was glad to get in out of the rain. The office staff crowded roun
d her when she arrived. They had takeaway beakers of coffee ready.
‘We have discovered more of this hacking person,’ Rocco said. ‘Look what we have found.’
It was not important but it was a clue. Someone had used the office computer to book flights, using Marco’s American Express card to pay for them. But they had left the receipt evidence on the computer. Careless hacker.
‘Brilliant,’ said Emma. ‘We’ll find out something from this.’
There was not much that Emma could do. She felt surplus to requirements. She emailed the airline, trying to find a name, but the hacker had used Marco’s name. She could not discover how they had come by his card, unless he had lost it and they used it before a replacement arrived.
‘But it was not Marco,’ said Signor Bragora. ‘He was here, all the time. He did not go to the States. We do not sell Prosecco to America. Not yet. And the takeover offer is of no interest. I will report this to the fraud squad.’
‘But this hacking person as you call him must have a contact in America and had to fly there,’ said Emma. ‘This is really valuable information. Thank you, all of you. I will let London know immediately.’
She went out into the street and found a small empty square with a fountain in the centre. It was a cloudy day and still raining, so the sound of water falling would drown anything she had to say. She phoned Irving Stone’s private line from the shelter of a doorway and gave him the information. He sounded pleased.
‘Well done, Emma. A Security Operations Manager is flying over this evening,’ he said. ‘Perhaps someone could meet him at Venice airport? The plane from London gets in at seven o’clock.’
‘I’ll arrange that. What’s his name?’
‘Professor Gilbert Windsor. He’s quite elderly, grey beard, walks with a limp. I’ve also informed the e-crime squad at Scotland Yard. They have special officers trained for this sort of work now. Don’t worry. The hackers will be caught.’
Emma decided she would meet the professor herself. They would have a chance to talk in the car on the drive back.
‘I suggest booking him into a local hotel so there is no need to put him up at Marco’s palace, though I suppose this palace probably has about ninety rooms, all en-suite?’ Irving Stone suddenly sounded resentful.
‘No, not at all. It’s a tall, narrow palazzo, quite small compared to many of the others on the Grand Canal, but it’s very beautiful with delicate tracery and a balcony built along the front. It was built in the space between two other very fine palaces. A sort of afterthought.’
‘Don’t get ideas,’ said Irving. He sounded like the Countess. ‘We need you back here, pronto. Some new accounts have come in, right up your street. We’re keeping your job open. No one is using your desk. The one with a window.’
‘Thank you, that’s very reassuring. I like my window. I look forward to seeing you all again. Is it raining in London?’
‘It’s raining.’
But how would she feel in her tiny one-bedroom flat, those cold rooms, after living in a palace for several weeks? She would have to get used to London again, travelling on the Underground, strap-hanging in the rush hour. Shopping for food in her lunchhour. No one cooking her delicious meals. It wouldn’t be easy.
Emma forgot to switch off her phone, put it in her pocket, turning her face to the rain. Brixton was a million miles away.
It would be difficult to leave Marco, knowing that as soon as she had gone, a bevy of Italian beauties would be after him, their pearly white teeth flashing. One day he would be ensnared and that would be the end of her hopes and dreams.
‘Emma? Emma? Are you still there?’ It was Irving Stone again. ‘There’s another line you could look into. Do you know who installed their new computer system and who did they buy it from? The system might have been infected with malware before it was delivered, in spite of being new and factory-sealed.’
‘That’s a possibility. You mean the system might have already been bugged before it arrived and was installed?’
‘Apparently that’s the latest in the cyber-criminal world.’
‘Don’t worry. I’ll look into it straight away.’
At least a new avenue to search would help her take her mind off Marco. If a computer system could be bugged before it even reached its destination, then nothing was safe. Perhaps Irving Stone should look into his own office system.
Luka and Rocco kept her supplied with black coffee. It was a productive day. The company which supplied the new system had also sent the so-called computer expert when they first reported difficulties. It was a firm called Craxio Inc., which was a definite link.
Rocco had looked into the airline booking. He was keen to help.
‘The signor has no interest in this American offer. They would only spoil the great heritage of Prosecco. They would call it Prosy Secco or something equally stupid, put it into a fancy coloured bottle, just to capture a younger market. To take to these rave parties, some teenagers or trendy twenties.’
‘So Signor Marco didn’t go to the States on this plane reservation?’
‘No way. He was here at that time. We all saw him. He came in several days. We remember. Someone had a birthday and he was here.’
Emma wondered if there was a link between the bugged system siphoning off money and the American takeover offer. If the dell’Orto company was in financial trouble, then the offer would be lowered and Marco might accept it.
Emma took the vaporetto back to the palazzo. Enrico came with her, not talking. It was raining and she was glad she had the borrowed raincoat. A dense mist loomed over the Lagoon, disguising the buildings. She could hardly see lights or palaces. Where had the magic gone?
She got off at the stop on the quayside nearest the dell’Orto palazzo. Maria had given her the number. Enrico waved goodbye. He had a date. He was courting a girl who worked in a local hotel.
‘Be careful, signorina,’ the driver called out, in Italian. ‘There is going to be a very high tide this evening. Acqua… .’
Emma had heard all about the tides. She recognized that word. Venice had more tides than anywhere else along the Mediterranean. She stepped carefully ashore. She knew her way to the back door of the palazzo and Maria had lent her a torch. It was beginning to rain quite hard. She could see drops sleeting in the beam from the torch. If only Marco could be there to meet her. Everything would be perfect.
She was met by a panicking Maria. She was scurrying about with mops and buckets, distraught, her hair coming out of its tidy bun.
‘The water is coming in,’ she exclaimed. ‘Today, the high tide and more rain. Together they are no good. Look, signorina, already the hall. It is awash.’
Emma hurried through the kitchen and found herself ankle deep in the hallway, water coming in under the main door that led from the quayside steps for the launch. It was dirty and grey.
‘Sandbags,’ said Emma. ‘This must have happened before. Where did the signor keep the sandbags? He knows about these emergencies.’
‘I forget. Yes, sandbags. We have sandbags. But I don’t know where.’
Emma went into immediate search mode. Marco would not have neglected this simple precaution. She found several sandbags in an outer house on the pathway behind the palazzo. She and Maria managed to drag each bag in, one at a time. Each bag was heavy with sand and now with moisture from the rain.
They piled them against the front door which at least stopped the high tide from coming in. The water was reduced to a trickle. Emma helped, on her hands and knees, to scoop and bucket the water, then to store the buckets outside. No point in simply pouring the water back into the canal.
It was filthy work. Emma took off her good boots and put them high up on the stairs. The hem of the posh trousers was already wet and soaking up more moisture. She rolled them up to her knees.
‘We need more buckets,’ said Emma, sinking back on her haunches. There was nowhere to put the water. Marco ought to have a proper reserve supply. She would tell h
im. Buy buckets.
‘I will find more, from my friends,’ said Maria, belting herself into an old raincoat with a hood. Maria went out into the now heavy and relentless rain, which was slanting diagonally in the sea wind. She was scrounging buckets from her friends. When she returned, she was drenched, but with more buckets slung from each arm.
Emma took one look at the bedraggled Maria and decided that she came first before the flooding of the precious palazzo, which had survived many such disasters for centuries.
‘You get dry, Maria,’ said Emma, taking the buckets. ‘I’ll make coffee. Change and put on dry clothes and then sit here, have a drink and get warm.’
They could hear the rain pounding the walls, the roof, the windows. They felt surrounded by water.
‘But, signorina …’ Maria was white-faced and exhausted. She sank onto a kitchen chair, breathing heavily. She was showing her age. ‘All the mud on the floor. I must clean it.’
Emma shook her head. ‘Not yet. No arguing. Please get yourself dry first. The signor would not want you to become ill. He relies on you to run his home.’
The uneven floor of the hallway and smaller side rooms still had an inch deep of water when Maria returned, some colour coming back in her cheeks. But they set to, mopping and scooping, any furniture of value already sitting on bricks. The naked statue at the foot of the stairs had a rim of dirty water round her feet. Emma had never seen these smaller rooms before, but they seemed to hold nothing but relics and files, sports gear from ancient years.
It was hard work. Emma was not used to such hard labour. Her back ached and her knees hurt. The trousers were ruined. Maria regained some of her energy, now in dry clothes and fuelled with coffee and sweet cakes. It was Emma who was flagging, wiping sweat off her face. Her make-up had long ago run away.
‘No need to cook any supper tonight,’ said Emma, sitting back on her heels, exhausted. They could hardly send out for a take-away. ‘Open a tin of soup and we’ll eat together in the kitchen.’
The Prosecco Fortune Page 11
