The Prosecco Fortune

by Stella Whitelaw

  Then it hit her. The London accent. The rawness. The lack of rounded vowels. It was Professor Gilbert Windsor. He had obviously abandoned his sedate hotel, decided to sample the nightlife and had joined this crowd of noisy youngsters on the front.

  Standing well back in the shadows, Emma tried to spot Gilbert Windsor. But she couldn’t see him although she was sure it was his voice.

  ‘Damned charger. Even the hotel hasn’t got one with the right connection.’ She heard the voice again. She peered into the open. A young man was astride one of the chairs, sitting facing the back, a beer bottle raised to his lips. She recognized the tweed jacket and baggy cords. They were the same. But the beard had gone and so had the hat. His hair was blond, short and spiky with gel. He looked in his late twenties. No walking stick either, as far as she could see. The limp was miraculously cured.

  He was giving his admiring new friends a step-by-step account of his recent arrival in Venice. They were listening and drinking, waving over new orders of beer.

  ‘Got my own private launch to go where I like,’ he was saying. ‘The driver will take me anywhere I say. There’s plenty of money around in this enterprise. Wanna come with me tomorrow? This hacking problem can wait a day or two. A few more days won’t hurt. I can soon fix it. I’m a pro.’

  Oh no, you won’t, buster, thought Emma. I’ll see you don’t take your friends off for a jaunt in Marco’s hired launch. This was no grey-haired, bearded professor with a limp. And he shouldn’t be talking in public about the hacking. He was a fake, she felt sure. She would check with Irving Stone first thing in the morning. This young man might know a lot about computers but he was certainly not the professional they expected.

  ‘We could find a beach and take a couple of crates of beer,’ he went on, importantly. ‘Do you know a couple of nice girls?’

  Emma retraced her steps and took the badly lit back street that led to the back door of the palazzo. It was unnerving, so many shadows in every doorway. Anyone might be lurking there, waiting to jump out on her. Her mouth went dry with fear. She thought she heard footsteps and quickened her pace.

  The back door of the palazzo was about twenty metres ahead. She broke into a run, almost slipping on the wet stones.

  Then she heard a young girl giggling and the deeper voice of a youth. It was a courting couple, looking for a dark doorway. There were plenty of those around.

  She fumbled for her key, only breathing freely when she had bolted the kitchen door behind her. Maria had gone to bed but there were still plenty of lights on in the downstairs rooms. Emma went round, turning them off and making sure all doors were locked. It was as if she was the mistress of the palazzo. But of course, she was not. She was a paid employee like everyone else.

  She turned on the lights to her bedroom and immediately spotted the white envelope on her pillow. And she recognized that bold handwriting. It was Marco’s thick-penned script. He did not like a thin nib.

  She took the envelope over to the chair by the window. He had never written to her before. It was a special moment. He must have left it with Maria and asked her to give it to Emma sometime as a surprise. And this evening was perfect timing. If only he was here beside her.

  She opened it carefully, not wanting to tear the heavy vellum envelope. Inside was a small, tissue-wrapped packet, slim and whispery, tied with ribbon, like one of the children’s presents.

  She opened out the sheet of vellum.

  My angelo, Emma. I am not with you, so many thousand of miles and abandoned without you. You have captured my heart and thrown away the key, and my work is going up the river. Distraught that you are not here, to calm my weariness. Please wear this for me until I am back in Venice and can put it round your neck with my own hands. Till that day. Marco.

  His written English was not as good as his spoken.

  She unwrapped the tissue paper carefully. There was the finest of gold chains inside, resting on a bed of velvet, with a tiny cluster of creamy pearls hanging from a single strand. It was utterly beautiful and delicate.

  She fastened the chain round her neck and settled the cluster of pearls on her throat. It was as if Marco was touching her. She would wear it forever.

  ‘We’ve lost her again,’ the man said angrily in Italian on his mobile. ‘We nearly got her then.’

  ‘Are you sure it was her? She looked different.’

  ‘Old raincoat, scarf over her hair. Not her usual posh gear. Don’t forget I’ve seen her before. It was her all right. Better luck next time.’

  ‘Do we really have to do this? She looks rather nice.’

  ‘Maybe she is nice but there are more important things at stake. Euros, for a start. It’s what we are being paid for. And we need lots of money, don’t we? So stop acting stupid and get on with it.’

  Emma was almost asleep when her phone rang. She always kept it beside her bed. She took the call, the earpiece pressed against her ear and against the soft linen pillow.

  ‘Signorina Chandler? Are you all right? It’s Commissario Morelli.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ she said sleepily. ‘Why are you calling me so late?’

  ‘You were followed when you went out this evening. I cannot protect you if you go out alone. Please not to do it.’

  ‘I thought everything was all right now. Nothing has happened. I only went for a short walk. How did you know?’

  ‘After the incident the other night, we put CCTV cameras trained on the front and the back of the palazzo. Marco agreed. We have been following your movements. It is necessary if we are to keep you safe.’

  ‘That is very kind of you, Commissario, to take so much trouble. But I can look after myself. Venice is such a lovely place. Nothing bad could happen to me here.’

  ‘You seem to forget that one young woman has been murdered, wearing your distinctive London raincoat. You were pushed violently into the canal. Someone set fire to Marco’s launch. We found traces of petrol splashed over it. You call this nothing bad happening?’

  Emma swallowed her guilt. ‘I’m really sorry. You are quite right. I must be more careful. I promise. No more going out, unless I have a police escort.’

  She heard a faint chuckle. ‘There are many of us who would do overtime for that pleasure,’ she heard Claudio say. ‘Ciao.’ Then he switched off.

  thirteen

  Emma flew into his arms. It was a rapturous moment after the recent dark days. The gloom and rain of the morning lifted as Marco wrapped his arms round her and held her close. He looked and smelled so good, even after the long flight.

  ‘Caro,’ he murmured against her hair. ‘It has been a long time, such a long way. Have you missed me?’

  ‘Every minute of the day.’

  ‘Si, molto minuto, I have thought about you. You are inside my mind. I cannot think straight because of you.’

  Emma laughed. ‘I don’t believe you for a moment, Signor Marco dell’Orto. Italian men do exaggerate so. You wouldn’t let anything or anybody get in the way of your business talks.’

  Marco pretended to look forlorn but failed completely. ‘Perhaps every other minute of the day. Do you believe that?’

  He saw that Emma was wearing the gold chain necklace and the cluster of pearls lay glistening on her skin. He wanted to touch them but he dared not.

  He did not kiss her. It was a public place and despite the milling crowds, someone would be watching them. Marco’s height and dark good looks made him a focal point of interest. People took photos of him on their mobile phones in case he was a film star or a television celebrity.

  He guided Emma through the crowds, a hand lightly on her arm. He carried only a briefcase which held his papers and laptop. He noticed she was wearing an elegant navy and red trouser suit with the scarf he had given her tied at her throat.

  ‘Where’s your luggage?’ Emma asked.

  ‘I don’t travel with luggage.’

  Of course not. He would buy everything new wherever he landed. Send out for pyjamas from his hotel,
if he wore them. Perhaps order suits and shirts on his laptop to be delivered in advance.

  ‘Was it a long flight?’ Emma asked. It was casual conversation to hide her delight at being with him again, to be walking by his side, their thighs almost touching. ‘From Venice to Japan?’

  ‘It’s not long from Venice to Rome, but the flight from Japan to Rome is twelve hours. Long enough for a sleep but nowhere to put my legs. My legs were not comfortable. They are not made for flying.’

  ‘Tonight you’ll be able to sleep in your own bed.’

  He raised his dark eyebrows and looked down at her intently. ‘I was hoping I would sleep in your bed.’

  Emma was thrown by his directness. ‘There is a lot I have to tell you,’ she said hurriedly. ‘About myself. And about things that have happened.’

  ‘Soon, I think you must tell me,’ he said. ‘I cannot wait forever. You know that, Emma. Where is the car?’

  ‘Waiting outside,’ said Emma. ‘But that is the first thing I have to tell you. There is a new chauffeur, Bruno. He is a nephew of Signor Bragora but he’s only temporary. You may want to employ someone else of your own choice. If you don’t like the look of him we can always get the scheduled bus to Venice.’

  ‘Quite a little mine of tourist information, aren’t you? So where is my normal chauffeur, Enrico?’

  Marco looked down at her, wondering how he could have kept away from her for so long.

  ‘Signor Bragora has suspended him because your car was bugged and he may have been connected. Enrico was very upset. He said he was innocent. The garage searched the car and found several bugs. Did you ever use your laptop in the car?’

  ‘Yes, all the time. I always work in the car. I never waste travel time.’

  ‘It was picking up the signals of your laptop. It might be one of the ways they got into your accounts’ computer system. We don’t know yet. Somehow they got hold of your password. I hope you use a really complicated one.’

  ‘It is not complicated at all. The password is Prosecco, of course.’

  Emma was appalled. ‘But that is the most obvious password in the world for you to use. You must change it immediately. Upper case and lower case mixed up, numbers, anything that confuses and makes it difficult to trace.’

  ‘You will think up new and confusing password for me. It does not bother me. Any cases that you think.’

  ‘But you shouldn’t let anyone know it.’

  ‘I do not understand,’ said Marco coldly. ‘Where is the computer expert from London? Is the work finished? I expect everything to be running smoothly by now.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Emma. ‘I hoped you weren’t going to ask. Professor Gilbert Windsor hasn’t turn up yet. He’s been delayed. One of his students, a twenty-plus-year-old mischief-maker, somehow got himself invited here using the professor’s identity, but on his own passport. But we didn’t know this till I checked with Irving this morning. He has no credentials. He was a fake. Commissario Morelli does not think we have grounds to charge him, but he has been warned. We cancelled the hotel booking till the real professor arrives. This may not be till next week now.’

  Marco was not pleased. ‘So all this happens when I am not here.’

  ‘It’s not the end of the world.’

  ‘Did this young man come to the office, see the computer system?’

  ‘Yes, but only for a short time. I was on the phone to London and Irving was busy at a meeting. Then I got onto the systems security company and they confirmed that the professor was unable to come to Venice until next week.’

  ‘I hope you will meet the right person next time. Maybe ask for identity? So it is good that I have arranged for a Japanese expert to fly over, a man who is employed by their top military to make their systems safe. He is arriving tomorrow. I cannot pronounce his name. Ver’ Japanese.’

  Emma bit her lip. She didn’t like being reprimanded by Marco. True, she had gone simply by the beard and the limp. Very inefficient. Her head lost in the clouds.

  Marco spotted his limousine waiting outside and recognized the young man standing beside it. ‘Ah, yes, that is Bruno. I knew him when he was a boy. That is good. Let’s see how he drives.’

  Bruno took them the eight-kilometre journey from Marco Polo Airport at a steady speed, over the two-lane Ponte della Libertà which spanned the Lagoon from Venice to the mainland at Mestra. It still felt strange to Emma to be driving along by the side of a train on the much older railroad bridge, even though she had done the journey several times now.

  Marco took her hand in the car as they sat in the back seat. He said very little, not knowing if it was still bugged or not. But his thumb stroked the inside of her hand with the lightest touch that made her skin tingle. The night sky had clouded over and it was already dark when they reached the outskirts of Venice and the huge car park where cars had to be left.

  ‘Thank you, Bruno,’ said Marco, helping Emma out of the car. ‘It’s nice to see you again. What are you doing now?’

  ‘I’m studying engineering, signor. This is vacation time. I have some weeks of studying but can drive you anywhere.’

  ‘Of course. Thank you for helping us out.’

  ‘It’s a pleasure.’

  A hired launch was waiting at the quayside, bobbing up and down, below the steps of the station. Marco looked at it apprehensively.

  ‘Where is my launch? Is my launch also bugged?’ he asked angrily as they walked across to it. ‘What about my home, the palazzo? Shall it all be searched, the phones, the lights, the curtains?’

  ‘There has been an accident,’ Emma faltered. ‘Your beautiful launch has gone. Someone poured petrol over it and set fire to it. The fire boats put the blaze out. It is in some dry dock now, for forensics, if you want to see it.’

  She heard Marco swear under his breath. Then he controlled himself. ‘Was anyone hurt? Was the driver aboard?’

  ‘No one was hurt. There is a full investigation being carried out. The fire service is collecting evidence.’

  ‘It is only a boat. I will buy a new one. If I have any money left. What about the palazzo? Is it also bugged?’

  ‘The palazzo has been checked by the polizia and the telephone officials. Commissario Morelli arranged it. Maria was very indignant, as if they were checking for dust and cobwebs.’

  Marco chuckled. ‘I can imagine. The proud Maria. Everywhere is spotless despite the grime in the air. So it was only the car? Maybe the launch too?’

  ‘Yes. We don’t really know if Enrico is involved.’

  ‘I will speak with him. He is a good chauffeur. Too good to lose. What about you? He has been escorting you, taking care of you?’

  ‘Yes, he has been taking me everywhere.’ Emma did not mention the times she had been out on her own. She didn’t want to see another flare of Italian temper.

  ‘And your office computer system probably came from the factory already rigged for leaking information. Your American Express card has been used also to buy an air ticket to New York, in your name, apparently. That’s being tracked by the fraud squad in Rome.’

  Marco swore again in Italian. It was not translatable. Emma did not even try. A man was allowed to swear when his American Express (Gold) was used.

  ‘Maybe the airport CCTV cameras will trace this man travelling in my name. They have cameras everywhere these days. It is like a film set.’

  Marco stifled a yawn. Jet lag was catching up on him. No private fortune could immunize a long-distance traveller from jet lag.

  ‘Maria has made us a light supper in the dining room,’ said Emma. ‘It is too cold for the balcony now; besides it is beginning to rain.’

  ‘And we shall talk?’

  ‘There is a lot to talk about,’ she agreed reluctantly.

  Marco closed his eyes and sat back as the launch took them along the Grand Canal to the palazzo. He looked weary. Emma said nothing, but let him doze.

  Maria was overjoyed to see the signor home and safe. She bustled about as
if nothing was prepared. But it was. The long polished table in the dining room was laid with silver and sparkling glasses, napkins of the best linen, placed so that they could sit together at one end.

  ‘And I have made your favourite fish soup, signor. You will need warming up,’ said Maria. ‘It will be ready to serve in five minutes.’

  ‘I only came home for your fish soup,’ said Marco, always so charming to her. ‘You could patent the recipe and make a fortune.’

  ‘I already have a fortune,’ she said, looking around the hall with pride. She knew how to answer him. ‘It is here.’ Then she said something in Italian which also pleased him.

  Emma sped upstairs to put on something warmer. The palazzo was not warm. It had to be jeans, a fleece and a borrowed cashmere shawl. She also put on a pair of socks, hardly romantic, but practical.

  Marco had also showered and changed into black jeans and a black crew-necked jersey, loafers on his feet. He did not seem to feel the cold.

  Maria had put a lidded tureen of fish soup on the sideboard for them to serve themselves. There was a salad and a variety of cold meat and fish and a mouth-watering flan of honey, almonds and apricots, with a jug of cream.

  Marco served Emma a bowl of the aromatic soup, as if he was a waiter. He served with a flourish.

  ‘It’s good to be home,’ he said. ‘Always I have liked travelling, finding new markets for Prosecco. But now I only want to be here with you.’

  Emma almost choked on her first mouthful. The soup was delicious. It was swimming with morsels of fish. Sometime, and that sometime would have to be now, very soon, she would have to remind him of his secret fiancée. But they must eat first. She hoped Marco would be overcome with tiredness and depart to his bed. She wouldn’t be going with him.

  Neither of them ate very much. It was late and both had had tiring days.

  They shared light talk and warm laughter. ‘So,’ Marco said, breaking into the laughter. ‘Now to be serious before I fall asleep. Or will it give me nightmares? Let us take our coffee into the sitting room and find a sofa for two. There are many sofas to choose from.’

  Emma did not want the coffee but she took a cup with her. She sat at the far end of the sofa while Marco stretched out his long legs.