The Prosecco Fortune

by Stella Whitelaw

  The winter weather was as cold and damp, but it did not have that sharpness of a Venetian winter. It was depressing and bleak, like someone dying, all alone and on a trolley, forgotten in a corridor in A&E.

  Emma arrived early at the Irving Stone offices. She was dressed warmly, a big winter coat over the navy and red trouser suit, her head wrapped in a red pashmina. Her little flat in Brixton had looked lost and forlorn when she first arrived, but she had soon warmed it up with late-night shopping at a supermarket: fruit and flowers and a bottle of red. She had slept well.

  Marco had not seen her off from Venice. He had gone to work early, Maria said. No other explanation. Bruno had driven her to the airport. She could not find out what had happened to Enrico.

  ‘Enrico is, what you say, hung up,’ said Bruno.

  ‘You mean suspended?’

  ‘Still being paid but not working.’

  ‘I understand. I’m sure it will be sorted out. I cannot believe that he is to blame in any way.’

  ‘Grazie, signorina. He will be pleased to know that.’

  Irving Stone wanted to see her straightaway. He took in the tailored navy and red trouser suit, her hair combed back into a chignon, the boots. She had gained a certain sophistication.

  ‘So, Emma, why are you back in London? Have you solved the mystery of the missing millions?’

  He looked suave, so cosy and safe in his office. Even his hair parting had been devised on a drawing board. He did not offer a coffee. Italians immediately offered coffee. They were born with hospitality fizzing in their blood.

  ‘No, I haven’t solved it but I have tracked the source. I have returned to London because there have been two attempts on my life and Signor dell’Orto did not think I was safe in Venice.’

  ‘What nonsense,’ said Irving. ‘Two attempts on your life. Why ever? What an exaggeration. You are of no use to anyone.’

  Emma bristled. No use to anyone? ‘One young woman, Pia, was drowned, wearing my raincoat.’

  ‘So, she had your raincoat. What does that prove?’

  ‘She was hit on the head with an iron bar.’

  ‘This does not mean that she had anything to do with the dell’Orto fortune embezzlement. She could know nothing about computers.’

  ‘But I do,’ said Emma, feeling she was banging her head against a brick wall. ‘They thought she was me.’

  ‘I don’t believe it. You have been reading too many books. Too much television. All those crime programmes.’

  ‘Then someone tried to push me into the canal.’

  ‘That is unfortunate, of course, but it was probably an accident. It is very slippery everywhere in Venice, I understand. All that water washing about.’

  Emma could see she was getting nowhere with Irving Stone. ‘I think I’ve tracked the source of the initial hacking back to the firm who supplied the computer set-up. Would you like me to write up a report?’

  ‘That would be very useful, thank you, Emma. Venice obviously suits you. Have you been well wined and dined? You are looking amazingly well, very Venetian if that is the word.’ He did not seem pleased or impressed.

  ‘Thank you, Irving.’

  He was already turning his attention to another file. Emma felt dismissed. She made her way to the office kettle jug and switched it on. The jar of instant coffee was stale. Her desk, by a window, was covered in unopened mail and dust. There was an empty sandwich package on her desk. Someone had been eating at her desk. Colleagues greeted her as if she had never been away, some with warm greetings. They had not particularly missed her.

  Rain was sleeting down her window, so no different from Venice. But Mediterranean rain had a different consistency from Atlantic rain. It was less depressing, less destructive and obliterating. London rain was debilitating, like cold fingers of death.

  Her computer was on the blink so Emma wrote her report in long-hand on a lined pad. It felt almost archaic. It would have to be typed up later but at least she was getting it down while everything was still fresh in her mind. She wrote a step-by-step logic of her recent discoveries.

  It had not registered to her before that it was almost Christmas. She would be alone again. The younger staff were planning a Christmas meal out. Their numbers were too small for a party. Emma put her name down, slightly amused that the booking was for a well-known Italian restaurant. At least she could pretend that Marco was sitting next to her, translating the menu.

  ‘Es ver’ good,’ he would have whispered. ‘You order.’

  ‘Es ver’ ’ot?’ she would whisper back, mimicking his accent. Then he would start laughing at her and they would eat whatever was put in front of them, eyes only for each other. If only he could be with her.

  When it was time to close the office, Emma discovered that there was a wildcat Underground strike on. They chose their time, she thought. The streets were crowded with elbow-to-elbow people lining up for buses. It would be a very long wait till she boarded a bus going as far as Brixton. She decided to start walking, with the hope that she could get on a bus further along the route, when the vehicle might have emptied out.

  She was taking a short cut down a residential street of old houses, when the name registered and she realized she was near where Professor Gilbert lived. It was a tall, four-storey town house with an imposing flight of steps going up to the front door and a dull copper push bell. It would be polite to make a social call. When she heard the dull bell echoing through the house, the place sounded empty.

  But then she heard footsteps coming down and eventually, after what seemed ages, the door opened. An elderly gentleman with a grey beard peered into the darkness.

  ‘Sorry to keep you waiting,’ he said, slightly out of breath. ‘It’s such a damned long way down.’

  ‘Hello, Professor Gilbert. So you have got a beard,’ said Emma, smiling. ‘Have you also got a limp?’

  ‘Only when I want to impress people,’ he said. ‘And who are you, young lady, standing on my doorstep? I hope you’re not one of those damned carol singers.’

  ‘Not a carol in sight,’ said Emma. ‘I’m Emma Chandler from Irving Stone Partners. I was going to meet you in Venice.’

  The professor immediately thawed, became all bustling hospitality. Perhaps he did not get many young lady visitors. It was a narrow hallway with an umbrella stand and some coat hooks, and ahead of her Emma saw narrow stairs rising up to nowhere. It was dark and not well lit.

  ‘These old town houses have only two rooms on each floor,’ he said. ‘So my sitting room is on the first floor and my study on the second floor. Still, I suppose it keeps me fit. Can you manage these stairs? Hold onto the banister. I’ll put on the lights.’

  Emma followed the professor up the stairs. At least his house was warm and she was glad to shed her coat and scarf when they reached the first floor. The two rooms had been knocked into one, so it was a good-sized room with windows at either end with London views. The bachelor professor had filled the room with floor-to-ceiling books and pictures and deep, well-worn and comfy armchairs.

  ‘I have heard the sad news about Brad,’ said the professor, going straight to the point. ‘If that’s what you’ve come to tell me. Signor dell’Orto telephoned me. It’s very sad but so like that boy. An excellent student and one day he would have been a brilliant computer expert.’

  ‘But how did he know about your travel arrangements to Venice?’

  ‘He had a key to this house so he could let himself in. I let him come and go as he pleased. Those damned stairs. And as you can see, I am very untidy. I probably left the emailed documents on my desk and he printed out the air ticket. I suppose he thought it was a lark to impersonate me.’

  ‘It was not a good impersonation,’ said Emma, not letting on that she had seen Brad drinking beer at the café. ‘He was not so distinguished.’

  The professor grinned. ‘I have been perfecting the distinguished look for years. But the poor young man was murdered, hung from a bridge? That doesn’t seem pos
sible and for no reason. Why?’

  ‘The hacking of Marco’s computer system is part of cyber-criminal activity. They have siphoned off the income from his vineyards for the last two years. His bank accounts have been emptied.’

  The professor nodded. ‘So maybe Brad found out something that would lead to them. These hackers modify computer hardware to accomplish a target outside the computer’s original purpose; in this case, the flow of deposited funds. They find flaws in the computer’s system that they can violate.’

  ‘The polizia have Brad’s laptop,’ said Emma. ‘There might be something on it. We’ll get it back so that you can look at it.’

  ‘Good. These black-hat hackers destroy data or make the network unusable. They open ports that do respond and allow access where they can do their unscrupulous work. It’s simply stealing. They channel money into their own accounts.’

  ‘It’s a foreign language. All beyond me,’ said Emma helplessly. ‘I’m a simple accountant.’

  ‘We have our different strengths. I cannot even add up my weekly shopping bill.’

  ‘But how did it all start?’

  ‘Information gathering helps them get access to the system. It’s called social engineering. Did the office call in people because the system was slow or kept breaking down?’

  ‘Yes, they did. They had a lot of trouble with a new system.’

  ‘That’s when it began. But don’t worry. When I come to Venice, I will set a honeypot.’ Seeing Emma’s bemused expression, he went on: ‘A honeypot is a trap set by computer security personnel. We’ll catch them. We’ll find out who set this up and where the money has gone.’

  ‘That sounds great, thank you. I must go,’ said Emma. ‘Thank you for your time, professor. I’ll see myself out.’

  The professor opened a cupboard door in the sitting room. It was equipped with coffee-making equipment, an electric kettle, mugs, coffee. It saved him going down to the kitchen. ‘Would you like some coffee? You look cold. I make excellent coffee.’

  ‘Yes, that would be nice. Thank you,’ said Emma, suddenly feeling very much at home in the professor’s ramshackle house. ‘I would love some coffee. You are very well organized.’

  ‘It’s those damned stairs,’ he said again. ‘It’s a long trek to the kitchen.’

  An hour later, Emma felt as if she had known the professor for years. He insisted that he rang for a taxi to take her the rest of the way home.

  ‘Brixton is a jungle,’ he said. ‘A young lady is not safe on the streets.’

  ‘But that’s only parts of Brixton. Some of it is very pleasant. I was not safe in Venice.’ He had been appalled when she had told him about the death of the young woman wearing her raincoat, and then when someone tried to push her into the water of the Lagoon.

  ‘Danger is everywhere,’ said the professor. ‘Even among beauty. Venice is the most beautiful city in the world. I look forward to seeing it again.’

  ‘So do I,’ said Emma, suppressing a sigh.

  ‘And seeing again perhaps this wine-growing Signor Marco? He asked me to take care of you but I did not know how because I didn’t know you. But I am glad that I know you now.’

  ‘Marco is an amazing man,’ said Emma, unable to stop the words spilling out of her mouth. She did not mention that he was also handsome and sexy. ‘Hard-working, kind, caring. And he is lonely. The man at the top is often lonely.’

  She remembered that unforgettable day at the vineyards, giving gifts to all the excited children, and the painting he had given her. She had hung it in her small sitting room, where it reminded her so vividly of Venice.

  ‘I know,’ said the professor. ‘The man at the top only has a few friends. What are you doing for Christmas, Emma? This is almost the festive season. Would you like to have Christmas lunch with me? Not exactly home cooking but all the trimmings, I promise you. Do you play Scrabble?’

  ‘My favourite game if I am allowed to use a dictionary.’

  ‘What a sensible woman.’

  seventeen

  It turned into an enjoyable Christmas after all, especially for Emma. Marco phoned early in the morning to wish her a happy Natale, full of remorse that they were not together. His voice warmed her heart.

  ‘This will never happen again,’ he promised. ‘Next year everything will be perfect. We will be together.’

  ‘I am being treated to a slap-up Christmas lunch by an elderly admirer,’ said Emma wickedly.

  Marco groaned. ‘They are the worst, the elderly admirers. They believe it is their last chance.’

  ‘The professor is a perfect gentleman. It’s our professor, the computer expert, who is coming to Venice. He was on his own for Christmas and so was I, so instead of watching old films on the television, we decided to enjoy a meal together and then play chess or Scrabble.’

  ‘That sounds even worse,’ said Marco, only pretending to groan this time. ‘Chess is a wicked game. Mind he does not take your queen or your king.’

  Emma nearly said but you are my king but thought it was over the top, even for an Italian.

  ‘Are you going to your farmhouse and vineyard?’ she asked instead.

  ‘Yes, ver’ soon. Paola is preparing a huge meal, enough for many giants. She is asking everybody around to eat with us. We shall drink much Prosecco and be ver’ merry, but I shall only be thinking of you.’

  ‘And I shall be thinking of you.’ And Emma meant it. She would not be able to get Marco out of her mind.

  The professor had said not to bring anything but Emma could not arrive at his house empty-handed. She had a bottle of good claret and a box of Belgian chocolates. She had discovered that the professor had a sweet tooth. His kitchen bin was full of chocolate wrappers.

  The bank-holiday bus service was down to a minimum so she walked part of the way. She wore a red velvet skirt, black jersey and boots, a white coat and red and white knitted bobble hat. Very Christmassy.

  ‘Happy Christmas, my dear,’ the professor said, opening the door. ‘You look like a Christmas parcel. Where is your label? Or are you reserved for the kind and caring Marco?’

  ‘He might like to think so, but I’m a single, independent woman and intend to stay that way.’

  ‘Quite right, too. The days of goods and chattels are gone. Come along in, out of the cold. You don’t mind eating in the kitchen, do you? My dining room has no furniture. I use it for storing equipment too heavy to take upstairs.’

  He had laid the big kitchen table with a red tablecloth and there were red candles and sprigs of holly. He had made it look very festive. And Emma could smell good cooking.

  ‘It’s all from M&S,’ he confessed. ‘I’m a poor cook. But they know how to do it properly, all the trimmings. All I have had to do is light the gas.’

  Emma took off her coat and hung it over the banisters.

  ‘Would you like me to see how it’s all coming along?’

  ‘Would you, Emma? And I’ll open this lovely bottle of claret that you have brought and let it breathe.’

  As the professor had promised, there were all the trimmings. A boned and rolled turkey was cooking to perfection, the skin golden and crispy. He had followed the directions. Ready-roast potatoes were about to go in the oven, with Brussels sprouts, carrots and courgettes. He had defrosted the chestnut and sage stuffing. Even the gravy was ready to heat and serve. She only had to open the carton.

  ‘This all looks wonderful,’ she said. ‘I would probably have had a turkey sandwich and a bowl of soup.’

  He poured out the claret into beautiful glasses which did not match. She noticed that the plates did not match either and the cutlery was a mixture of silver. He was a typical academic. His mind on higher things.

  ‘We shall not mention the lost Prosecco fortune while we are eating. It is too depressing for Christmas. But we will drink a toast to Signor Marco and his grapes as I think you would like that.’

  ‘To Marco and his grapes,’ said Emma, raising her glass.

  �
��May his harvest be a good one.’

  The professor might not know how to cook but he knew how to carve. The meal, thanks to a team of professional chefs in some vast hygienic kitchen somewhere, was perfect. Emma cooked the Christmas pudding in the microwave and heated the brandy sauce.

  They had their coffee upstairs in the sitting room. The professor made cups of good coffee from his practical cupboard store. Emma was all for not having to carry anything up the steep stairs. The walls of the stairway were covered in pictures, mostly political cartoons and framed posters. She wondered how the professor had ever managed to fix them on the walls.

  He had bought her a small present. It was a CD of Delius. She was very touched that he had bothered. She had bought him a book, The History of Chess, and he too was moved by her thoughtfulness.

  They were both pleased, not saying too much.

  The deep armchair opposite him had housed a thousand students over the years but Professor Gilbert thought he had never seen anyone as pretty as Emma sitting in it. She looked relaxed and happy, the tenseness had gone from her face. When he had first met her, she was still remembering the stress of Venice.

  ‘In the New Year, I shall be visiting Signor dell’Orto’s office,’ he began. ‘Brad’s laptop was a maze of personal stuff but he had stumbled on something in his short time in Venice. It was a jumbled password that spelt out Plutolatry. It is a very unusual word and means being besotted with the thought of wealth.’

  Emma shook her head. ‘I’ve never heard of it.’

  ‘It is hardly in everyday use. However, it put me on a trail of malpractice and I need to see how far it has spread. I could do most of it from my computers in my study, but I need to be on the spot to actually rid the signor of the infestation and install a tracking device.’

  ‘I want to come with you,’ said Emma instantly.

  ‘I was hoping you would say that. It would make my work much easier if I had your assistance. Even if it was only to reassure everyone that I mean well and that they are not about to lose their jobs.’

  ‘I was employed by Marco to work there for a month and I didn’t complete the month. And the main thing now is to find the brains behind this embezzlement of Marco’s accounts. It didn’t happen just by itself.’