The Prosecco Fortune

by Stella Whitelaw

  Marco’s face went pale. He was visibly shocked. ‘I don’t believe it. Not my Emma. She is innocent of all this hacking.’

  ‘I suggest we ask her to her face, with Commissario Morelli present at the meeting. We must give her a chance to explain.’

  ‘I will set up this meeting. This evening at five o’clock at my palazzo. Does this suit you? The Commissario should be free by then and Emma will be rested. I told Maria that she was to do nothing today, only sleep and eat.’

  Emma had spent the day in a velvet languor. It had been therapeutic, a vital silence. She had washed her hair again, eaten several small meals, mostly soup, and slept a lot. Marco had phoned. He sounded a bit strange but said he would arrive at 5 p.m. with Commissario Morelli and Professor Windsor.

  ‘How lovely,’ said Emma. ‘All my favourite people.’

  ‘If you say so.’ It was an odd reply.

  But Emma didn’t care. ‘I’ll see you soon,’ she said happily.

  Emma went into Francesca’s bedroom to find something different to wear, something that Marco would like. She was feeling so much better. The tracksuit was creased and she had spilt a drop of soup on the front. Her hand had been shaking.

  Francesca did not have many casual clothes but Emma found some crushed black trousers, a long-sleeved cream shirt and a padded waistcoat threaded with many silver and gold colours. Francesca had wonderful taste. Emma would never have bought anything so flamboyant. But then, Emma had worked all her life. And she dressed to work. Her London clothes were plain and classic.

  Emma flew downstairs when she heard Marco arrive at the palazzo. She had to be careful on the marble staircase as she was still not too steady.

  ‘Marco, Marco.’ She went straight into his arms. He held her very close as if he never wanted to let her go. She pressed her face against his chest, breathing in the scent of his body.

  ‘You would never let me down, my sweet Emma, would you?’ he said, his voice almost choking in his throat. ‘You would never do anything to hurt me?’

  She leaned back, not understanding. ‘Of course not, Marco. Never. I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘We will go upstairs and I will explain. Professor Windsor will also explain. Commissario Morelli is joining us. He may have some news.’

  ‘You look very tired.’

  ‘I am very tired. It has been a long day. And it’s not finished yet.’

  Emma did not like the grave tone of his voice For a moment it frightened her, but then her good sense told her that Marco could never be frightening. He’d not slept yet, only snatched the odd hour. She had had the luxury of a whole day doing nothing.

  ‘Come upstairs,’ she said. ‘I’ll fetch your favourite brandy. You can sleep until the others arrive.’

  ‘You always seem to want to look after me, Emma. But is it all an act?’

  ‘An act?’ Emma looked confused. ‘Of course not. I am here with you, not acting.’

  ‘Never mind, Emma,’ Marco said, tousling her newly washed hair. ‘Upstairs, a brandy and a sleep. I will worry about the rest tomorrow.’

  Marco was asleep in moments. Emma took the half-drunk brandy from his hand before it spilled. He was exhausted. She hoped the others would be late. Marco needed this time alone with her, needed to heal whatever had hurt him so much.

  They were both late. Commissario Morelli had a frantic and productive day. Professor Windsor had gone to his hotel to pack. He was flying back to London the next day, a generous post-dated cheque in his briefcase for his services.

  On cue, Maria came into the sitting room with a tray of coffee and small snacks to eat. Professor Windsor and Commissario Morelli arrived, full of apologies. Strangely no one was hungry. No one ate anything. Not even the detective.

  Professor Windsor recited his explanation of the hacking of Marco’s computer system and the steps he had taken.

  ‘It will not happen again,’ he said. ‘The system is safe now. But I have suggested the purchase of completely new equipment.’

  Marco nodded his thanks. ‘Commissario, have you anything to add?’

  ‘We have arrested Gatta Foscari on several counts. He was newly out of prison. The DNA of the hairs on the linen cap match hairs on the raincoat which Pia was wearing. This other villain was caught trying to sell the signorina’s laptop. He is also known and can be hired. We have found the stolen water taxi and there is much evidence on the deck. Both men are on their way to Milan, under guard. They have both been charged.’

  ‘Well done,’ said Emma, her eyes bright. ‘That’s marvellous news. Isn’t that wonderful, Marco? They have caught the two men who kidnapped me.’

  ‘So good,’ said Marco. He seemed incapable of saying anything more.

  ‘And we have found the fancy-dress shop where Gatta hired the black cloak and the horned hat of a doge. He likes to be dramatic and disguised. He knew his face was familiar to us. The linen cap was worn under the hat. It is the custom. We will soon be able to link him to Brad’s hanging under the bridge.’

  ‘He was a good student,’ said the professor. ‘He didn’t deserve to die.’

  ‘So everything is all right now?’ said Emma, relieved.

  ‘Not quite,’ said the professor. ‘You see, I have traced the big sums of hacked money to bank accounts in the Cayman Islands. The accounts are in three names. They include the names of Harry Stone and Emma Chandler.’

  There was a stunned silence. Emma looked from Marco’s pale face, to Professor Windsor, who would not look straight at her, then at Commissario Morelli, who looked bewildered.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Emma faltered. ‘My name? I don’t know anything about funds in the Cayman Islands. It’s not me. It’s someone else pretending to be me.’

  ‘Your signature is clearly on the documents,’ said Professor Windsor wearily.

  ‘It’s not true,’ said Emma, turning to Marco, her face aflame. ‘I’ve nothing to do with this. Do you believe me, Marco? This isn’t me.’

  ‘I want to believe you,’ Marco said.

  ‘Harry Stone is a creep and I refused to go out with him. I turned him down, day after day, week after week when I joined the firm. It’s his revenge …’ She burst into tears, grabbing a napkin from the tray to staunch her tears. ‘It’s someone else using my name.’

  ‘The signorina is right about the name Stone. She recalled hearing a word repeated when the two men seized her in the water taxi. We thought it was marble but it was the other meaning of the word which is stone. They were talking about their contact in London, the man who was paying them.’

  ‘How do you know this?’

  ‘We have their mobile phones and the same number recurs several times. It is also the same number which was used to contact Vikki Boccetta, the air hostess. We have also found a considerable amount of money in their rooms, used notes, but we may be able to trace them. We have also found wire which is similar to that used to throttle the student, Brad.’

  ‘How do you know that Gatta Foscari murdered the girl and the student?’ Marco asked. ‘Is there evidence?’

  ‘There is no honour among Venetian thieves. The other thug split on him. He told us everything, thinking it would get him a lighter sentence.’

  ‘But what about the money in the bank account?’ said Emma. ‘The money that I know nothing about, that is deposited in my name.’

  ‘I asked them to send me by fax a copy of your specimen signature,’ said the professor, opening his briefcase. ‘Is this your signature, Emma?’ He laid a sheet of paper before her.

  She nodded unhappily. ‘Yes, that is my signature. But I didn’t sign anything for this bank. Don’t you have to show them proof of identity?’

  ‘It is all done electronically these days. It merely has to be witnessed by some authority. I’m sure Irving Stone has plenty of contacts willing to witness.’

  ‘You mean, Irving Stone is connected to this as well?’ Emma could barely believe it. Irving Stone Chartered Accountants was a long-estab
lished firm in London with a reputation for the best work.

  ‘The Cayman Island account is in three names. Two signatures have to be on every transaction. Irving Stone’s wife, Brenda Stone, and his son, Harry, are the main signatories. But your signature has authorized several recent transfers.’

  Emma sank back. All her worst fears were returning. It was a nightmare. None of this could be true.

  ‘No, no, it’s not true. They could have got my signature from anywhere in the office. I’ve witnessed many documents, accounts, signed letters. My signature is on many files. They could have lifted it.’ Emma turned to Marco. ‘Please believe me, please, Marco. I had nothing to do with this.’

  ‘I want to believe you, Emma,’ he said quietly. ‘There must be an explanation. Some reason why you are involved in this conspiracy. It must be more than jealousy on the part of the rejected son.’

  ‘A third name is often used in such transactions,’ said Professor Windsor. ‘It gives the business set up more authenticity. Emma was probably described as Harry’s fiancée to make it seem like a family business.’

  This was now another nightmare. Emma saw Marco’s mouth tighten. ‘Was this another reason why you would not marry me?’ he said. ‘Because you are already engaged to this Harry Stone?’

  ‘No, no, it’s nothing like that,’ she cried. ‘He’s the most obnoxious person I’ve ever met. I had nothing to do with him. He was a pain. It took months to shake him off before he got the message.’

  ‘So what is this message now for me?’ said Marco with a steely glint. ‘What am I to believe?’

  Commissario Morelli saw the whole scenario unravelling before his eyes in chaos and disorder. He did not believe for a moment that Emma was involved. Somehow they had used her name and her signature. For her sake, he had to find out the truth.

  ‘Signor dell’Orto, do not be hasty.’ Claudio addressed him by his full name to add weight to his words. ‘There is no proof that the signorina is part of the money fraud. She could be completely innocent. Let me see what I can discover. We have contacts all over the world. I have already passed on all my information to the CID, Scotland Yard. Remember what Emma has gone through. Remember that attempts have been made on her life.’

  ‘They could have been the fake attempts, to pull the wool over my face.’ Marco’s English was going to pieces. He was clearly distressed. Emma was weeping openly. The professor was wringing his hands, wishing he had not discovered such disturbing information. Perhaps he should have kept his mouth shut.

  Claudio did not know what to do. In view of the professor’s evidence, he should take Emma to the Questura for further questioning. She must have a lawyer present. It was a dilemma. He began to feel ill. He was sweating. He stood up, uncertainly.

  ‘If you will excuse me, I am feeling unwell. I will leave the signorina in your charge tonight, Signor dell’Orto, and send an escort for her tomorrow. Please assemble your documents for me, Professor Windsor, and deliver them to my office.’

  ‘Si, Commissario. You don’t look too well. A long day and no sleep last night. I will accompany you to your home. Allow me,’ said the professor. ‘We’ll leave now. Marco and Emma have much to talk about.’

  Professor Windsor and the Commissario left the room. No one had touched the coffee or the snacks. Maria would think she had done something wrong. That it was her fault that everything had gone haywire.

  Marco leaned over and took Emma’s hand. The napkin was screwed up into a tight, wet ball. Her eyes were puffy, her nose red. She was trembling. Her grief could not be more genuine.

  ‘I believe you,’ he said gently. ‘We will dig out the truth.’

  twenty-five

  Emma slept the sleep of the exhausted. Marco came to lock her

  into her room, feeling like a traitor. She understood that he had to do it. She was under suspicion.

  ‘I’m sorry. It is wrong,’ he said, the key in his hand. ‘But you are in my charge. Claudio has let you stay here.’

  ‘No, you have to do it. I promise I’ll not jump out of the window.’

  He groaned. ‘Then I will stay with you.’

  ‘No, Marco, you need to be in your own room and sleep in your own bed. You are desperate for sleep. Everything will be different tomorrow, you’ll see.’

  ‘Domain, si, domain.’

  The day began with glimmers of sun. Perhaps winter had decided to fold up its mantle and escape to warmer climes. Emma stretched, wondering if this would be her last morning in a comfortable bed, this luxurious room. Would it be a prison cell from now onwards? But she was innocent. They had to prove her guilt.

  It was a subdued breakfast on the balcony. Maria did not understand why. Emma was dressed in her own plain clothes. She would take nothing of Francesca’s with her to the police station. Marco had shaved but did not look more rested. They ate a little brioche, drank juice and coffee as if dehydrated.

  ‘We will go now,’ he said, rising. ‘If you are ready.’

  ‘Do you want me to pack my things?’

  ‘No. That is not necessary.’

  ‘Grazie.’

  Emma did not know what to make of that remark. She did not know what was going to happen to her. Before leaving, she went into the kitchen to reassure Maria that all would soon be well. Maria looked up from the sink. She was already preparing vegetables for the lunch, her expression forlorn.

  ‘There has been a terrible misunderstanding,’ said Emma. ‘We are now going to sort it out. Don’t worry, Maria. I will be back.’

  ‘I hope so, signorina. All this worry is making me older.’

  Emma gave her a quick hug. ‘No, not you, dear friend. Never.’

  ‘That Vikki Boccetta was here this morning,’ Maria went on. ‘She wanted to speak to the signor, but I said no and to go away.’

  ‘Quite right,’ Emma agreed. ‘She probably wanted money.’

  The interview room at the Questura was the same as any police interview room anywhere in the world. Cold, cheerless, faded paintwork, a dead plant. Professor Windsor sat on a hard wooden chair. He had delayed his flight home till the evening.

  ‘Please, professor, record for the tape,’ said Claudio, switching on the machine. ‘Your findings of the hacking.’

  Professor Windsor launched into his observations of the hacking and the transfer of money from the dell’Orto account. He kept it as brief as possible. No one understood a word he was saying. It was all technology.

  ‘It was at first small amounts which Signor Bragora did not notice. Then the amounts got larger. Finally the dell’Orto bank accounts were cleared and all the money transferred to the Cayman Islands.’

  ‘And where is the money now?’

  ‘We don’t know. The Cayman Island accounts have also been closed.’

  ‘So the money has disappeared?’

  ‘The vineyard workers and factory staff who work for me will all be paid,’ said Marco. ‘No one will go short. But maybe the Inland Revenue will have to wait.’

  ‘The Inland Revenue is another matter,’ said Emma, back in her accountant’s role. ‘I can deal with that. I’ll write and explain.’

  ‘If you are not in prison,’ said Marco.

  There was a stunned silence.

  Commissario Morelli shuffled his papers. ‘Please, not to be hasty, signor. I have been in contact with CID, Scotland Yard. I sent them all my information. They are at this minute investigating Irving Stone Chartered Accountants. There is evidence of big purchases and transfers of large sums of money. Brenda Stone has bought a property in the South of France and Harry Stone has bought a villa in Spain. Also past big debts have been paid off: Harry’s gambling debts, and debts to the Inland Revenue.’

  ‘What does that mean about me?’ Emma asked, stunned.

  ‘You were involved in the setting-up of the Cayman Island account four years ago.’

  ‘But I only began working for them four years ago.’

  ‘I know. I have the date of when you began w
orking for them. It was only a few weeks before your signature and identity were sent to the Caymans and your name registered. You were someone new, someone innocent, someone who would not know what was going on or what you were signing.’

  Emma groaned. ‘What an idiot. I certainly didn’t know what was going on.’

  There was a knock on the door. ‘Commissario Morelli. There is someone to see you. She says it is very important.’

  Claudio switched off the tape recorder. ‘Un momento, per favore. Please ask her to wait. I am busy.’

  ‘She cannot wait, she says. She is flying to Hong Kong this evening from Milan. It will be some days before she returns to Venice. It is something about her mother.’

  ‘How I hate demanding women,’ Claudio said. ‘I will be out in five minutes. Give her a cup of coffee.’

  ‘Si, Commissario. It will be a pleasure.’

  ‘What did he mean by that?’ Claudio switched on the tape to resume the recording. ‘Irving Stone and his son, Harry, have not been arrested but they are being questioned. They say that the money has come from wise investments.’

  ‘Can this be proved or disproved?’

  ‘Scotland Yard is working on this now. The matter is in the hands of the Fraud Squad. I have every confidence in their work. But it is slow, naturalmente. Financial investigations are like a needle in a corn stack.’

  ‘Haystack,’ said Emma. They all looked at her. It was as if they had forgotten she was there. ‘What will happen to me?’

  ‘I regret that I shall have to ask you to stay here. I should prefer that you stay voluntarily and that I do not have to detain you in custody.’

  ‘I’ll stay,’ said Emma in a small voice. ‘Of course, whatever you say.’

  ‘I will stay with her,’ said Marco sharply.

  ‘This is not a hotel, signor,’ said Claudio, equally sharp. ‘I will make sure the signorina is comfortable and she will have a female companion.’

  They heard raised voices outside in the corridor. One was clearly female. There was a rap on the door and it opened. A tall, slim vision walked in, her uniform immaculate, her make-up flawless, her hair golden and superbly cut. Emma recognized her immediately. It was Vikki, the airline hostess.