‘Thompson?’
‘I think we must assume so. If the name was ever mentioned to me, I don’t remember it. But Muriel certainly went to Plymouth to be given some reports in person on a couple of occasions. I couldn’t spare the time to accompany her. Thompson may have travelled down from London to meet her.’
‘Would I have figured in his … monitoring?’
‘I’m afraid you may well have. I’m sorry, Jonathan. Muriel didn’t say and I didn’t ask. The exercise seemed to put her mind at rest and I was happy to leave it at that.’
‘Why would she contact him again after all these years?’
‘That’s just what I’ve been asking myself. I believe there can only be one answer. Paolo Verdelli. I didn’t hide from her the rumours I picked up about his Camorra connections. She may have heard things herself. She spends more time here than I do. Perhaps she was worried for her safety. For Adam’s, too. Vivien’s as well, come to that. And little Dylan’s. I can only suppose she decided to call in Thompson to take Verdelli’s measure and assess what threat, if any, he posed. Alas, it seems the threat was greater and more imminent than either of us imagined.’ He leant back in his chair and turned to gaze into the sun-dappled garden. ‘Muriel’s captors have made it very clear to me that if they get wind of police involvement there’ll be no deal. They haven’t spelt out what that would mean for Muriel, but I think we have to assume the worst. Thompson may be genuinely concerned about her, but any intervention by him could easily be disastrous. He mustn’t be allowed to talk to the police.’
‘How can we stop him?’
‘I don’t know, Jonathan. Let me think about it. We have a little time to play with. Let’s just hope it’s enough.’
TWENTY-SEVEN
I’D NEVER HAD any liking for Muriel Lashley. She was a cold, proud, narrow-minded woman. It should have been less surprising than it was to learn she’d hired a private investigator to keep track of Vivien’s activities. No doubt she really had been worried about her daughter. But she’d also wanted to be assured Vivien was mixing with the right people. And I was one of the wrong people. It was as simple as that. What she’d have done to split us up if we hadn’t done such a thorough job of it ourselves, I don’t know. But she’d have tried her damnedest. I was sure of that.
The irony was inescapable. The man Lashley had asked for help in freeing Muriel was a man Muriel wanted to have nothing to do with her family. My dislike of her was overridden by the severity of the situation. I’d do my best for her out of common humanity. But after we’d secured her release, would she be capable of thanking me? And how would I respond if she did? There would have to be a reckoning of some kind between us.
The day passed slowly and anxiously as Lashley pondered how best to deal with Thompson. Despite the crushing heat, I took a long walk out round the south-eastern shore of the island. The exercise was a palliative of sorts. But it only smothered my immediate concerns by bringing unwelcome memories to the fore. Every step I took on Capri was shadowed by recollections of the weeks I’d spent there with Vivien.
My route back to the Villa Orchis took me past the gates of the Villa Erycina. I peered through them along the colonnaded drive towards the house. White roses trained round the columns offset the deep red of the surrounding bougainvillea. There was a scent of jasmine in the still air and a murmur of bees. It was the siesta hour and Countess Covelli would be resting. This was no time to call. I beat a retreat.
Siestas hardly figured in the night-owl routine of Adam Lashley. He was in the kitchen, fixing himself a late, late breakfast when I entered the villa. The gutturally dubbed episode of Bonanza he was watching on a portable TV while ploughing his way through an enormous bowl of cereal deafened him to my arrival. I went upstairs and took a shower, then fell asleep, lying naked on my bed as the ceiling fan rotated at a slow purr above me. The afternoon vanished.
It was nearly dinner time when I woke. I dressed hurriedly and went downstairs. I found Lashley with Jacqueline in the drawing-room. There was a perceptible lightness to their mood. Something good had happened. ‘We’ll talk later,’ was all Lashley said in answer to my enquiring look. And I knew better than to press him.
Adam deigned to eat with us that evening. Jacqueline dutifully asked him some questions about literature. That his answers stopped short of sullen dismissiveness seemed largely due to his father’s presence. I kept telling myself he was masking his fears for his mother with this show of indifference. But I didn’t really believe it.
Lashley told Elena she could leave early: we’d clear up after ourselves. Once she was gone, he immediately announced he’d had another phone call from Muriel’s captors. Terms for her release had been agreed.
I sensed Adam wanted to ask what figure his father had settled for, but all he actually said was, ‘You think this will work, Dad?’ He sounded young then, almost like a child – young and vulnerable.
‘I’m confident it will,’ said Lashley. ‘They’ll call again tomorrow night with arrangements for the exchange. Remember: it’s in their financial interests to ensure this goes smoothly.’
‘You’ll be seeing your mother again soon, Adam,’ said Jacqueline.
If the remark was intended to reassure Adam, the scowl it was rewarded with showed it had failed. Lashley appeared not to notice this. Or else he pretended not to. ‘All we have to do,’ he pressed on, ‘is hold our nerves for a little longer.’
‘Not quite all, surely,’ I said cautiously, uncertain whether he’d told Adam about Thompson.
But he had. ‘He means the private dick, Dad,’ Adam said, flashing a scornful glance at me.
‘I’ve given the Thompson problem a good deal of thought,’ said Lashley, flattening one hand decisively on the table. ‘It’s imperative we dissuade him from going to the police. The surest way of doing that, I believe, is to tell him the truth. Once he appreciates the gravity of the situation, he’ll fall into line. There’s an element of risk in confiding in him, of course, but less than the risks we run by concocting a cover story or simply daring him to do his worst. Do you agree, Jonathan?’
I was surprised. I’d thought Lashley might jib at such a move, but I should have known better. He was ever the realist. ‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘As far as I could judge, Thompson’s genuinely concerned for Muriel’s safety.’ But would he believe me? That was the crucial question. ‘Perhaps I could show him … the photograph you received.’
Lashley nodded. ‘By all means. He needs to be convinced. Which is why I think a suggestion Jacqueline made to me earlier is eminently sensible.’
‘I’ll go with you when you meet him, Jonathan,’ she said. This was a still greater surprise, as my expression must have made obvious. ‘I’m a disinterested party. And a woman. My presence will …’
‘Bolster your credibility,’ said Lashley. ‘We need Thompson on our side, Jonathan. It’s absolutely vital.’ He made a fist of his hand, tightening it until his knuckles turned white. It was the first sign I’d noticed of the strain I knew he must be under. ‘Do you think you can manage it? I’d speak to him myself, but I fear that might be counter-productive.’
‘I’ll manage it, sir,’ I declared, looking across at Jacqueline. ‘We’ll manage it.’
Adam slouched off to his room to watch television. A little later, Lashley announced he needed an early night. He looked exhausted, which was understandable, but nonetheless disturbing, as I admitted to Jacqueline after he’d headed off to bed.
‘He’s always been so indomitable. And he prides himself on his stamina. I’ve never known him admit to fatigue before.’
‘He’s not a young man, Jonathan, though Lord knows he seems a lot more than four years younger than my father. He worries about Muriel constantly. It’s hard for him not to imagine the conditions she’s being kept in. It’s a stressful situation for all of us, but for Greville it must be simply awful.’
She admired him. That was clear. And his strength of mind was admirable. If I’d been in
the hands of the Camorra, I’d have wanted Greville Lashley to be negotiating my release. Negotiation was in his blood. ‘Thanks for offering to meet Thompson with me, Jacqueline. I think he’ll believe you a lot more readily than me.’
‘I just want to help.’
A thoughtful minute or so passed. Then she said, ‘The man Greville believes may have set this up: Paolo Verdelli. You know him better than any of us, don’t you?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘You think he’s capable of such … monstrousness?’
‘Envy and resentment can drive people to do all sorts of things. As for Paolo, I …’ He’d protected Luisa. He’d been loyal to her. Maybe he’d even loved her. And what she’d promised him in return had been snatched away. Envious and resentful? I’d have bet he was. And then some. ‘I think he’s capable of it, yes.’
‘Then we’d better hope his share of the ransom money will be enough for him.’
‘Yes. We better had.’ It was a good point, but also, though Jacqueline couldn’t know it, an irrelevant one. Lashley didn’t intend to give Paolo the chance to come back for more. As soon as Muriel was safe, he’d go after him. I didn’t want to think about what that would involve. But that it would happen was a certainty.
The first ferryload of day-trippers hadn’t yet arrived when we walked into the Piazzetta the following morning at ten o’clock. The square was quiet and peaceful, with customers at the café tables well spaced. The sun was warm with the promise of later heat, sparkling on the rims of the clock-tower bells as they rang the hour.
Thompson raised a cautious hand in greeting as we moved towards him. He was on the shady western side of the square, cradling a teacup as he perused the International Herald Tribune. He frowned suspiciously at Jacqueline, then at me. ‘I thought you’d be coming alone, Mr Kellaway,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t expecting you to bring … Miss Hudson, is it?’ He allowed himself a little half-smile of pleasure at deducing my companion’s identity.
‘You’re well-informed, Mr Thompson,’ Jacqueline said, unfazed. She offered him her hand, obliging him to struggle to his feet, which somehow tarnished his small victory.
‘Information’s my bread and butter.’ He grinned at her. ‘I expect Mr Kellaway’s told you that.’
‘Yes. He has.’
‘Well, well. Sit down, both of you. Please.’
I borrowed a third chair from another table and we settled. Thompson made a meal of folding up his newspaper. Then he pointed the stem of his unlit pipe at me and cocked his head.
‘You a jogger, Mr Kellaway? You look as if you might be.’
The question seemed inane as well as irrelevant. I shrugged. ‘I like to keep fit.’
‘Big mistake. Multo errore. It’s in the paper. The bloke who invented jogging’s dropped dead of a heart attack while … jogging.’ Thompson grinned. ‘You couldn’t make it up, could you?’
‘Might we come to the point?’ Jacqueline sounded dignified and serious. She looked it too, in her plain sunglasses and lilac dress, her hair tied back, her gaze direct. Thompson’s expression suggested he was genuinely impressed. As was I.
‘Let’s do that. By all means.’
Before we could, though, the waiter appeared. Jacqueline and I ordered coffee. After he’d gone, I sat forward and held Thompson’s gaze. ‘Mrs Lashley’s been kidnapped,’ I said quietly. ‘It happened last week. Mr Lashley’s been negotiating terms for her release since then. He hasn’t informed the police.’
‘Kidnapped?’ Thompson kept his voice down too. His grin had vanished. ‘That’s very bad news.’
‘You’ve heard of the Camorra?’
He nodded. ‘The Neapolitan Mafia. Yes, I’ve heard of them. They’re responsible?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘Good Lord. Well, well, well.’ He fingered his moustache. ‘Mr Lashley’s kept the police out of it, you say?’
‘Yes.’
‘Which is why, Mr Thompson,’ said Jacqueline, ‘we implore you to say nothing to them either.’
‘A ransom payment was finally agreed yesterday,’ I went on. ‘Mrs Lashley should be free within days.’
‘A happy – if expensive – ending is in sight, then?’
‘Mr Lashley’s only concern is to secure his wife’s safe return,’ said Jacqueline.
‘Of course. I understand. Otherwise, no doubt, as a law-abiding Englishman, he’d have called in the police straight away.’
‘It’s easy to recommend such a course of action,’ I said. ‘But it’s a different story when the life of someone you love is at stake.’
‘Yes. That’s what kidnappers trade on, Mr Kellaway. None of them would ever be caught if all their victims made it so easy for them.’
‘The past week’s been anything but easy, Mr Thompson,’ said Jacqueline.
‘I’m sure it’s been no tea party for Mrs Lashley, that’s for sure.’ Thompson’s initial shock was giving way, I realized, to something more sceptical. ‘Have the kidnappers supplied any proof that she’s alive and well?’
Jacqueline took the envelope Lashley had given us out of her handbag and showed Thompson the photograph. ‘We’ve authenticated the paper as last Friday’s edition,’ I said as he peered at it.
‘I hope Mr Lashley knows what he’s doing. The Camorra don’t mess around.’
‘He’s aware of that,’ said Jacqueline.
She retrieved the photograph just as the waiter reappeared. He delivered our coffees and retreated. There was a brief silence at the table.
Then Thompson said, ‘I’m puzzled, though. Why would they have picked on her? The Lashleys aren’t an obvious target. China clay doesn’t put them up there with oil barons and shipping magnates, does it?’
‘We believe there may have been a personal element,’ I responded. ‘A man who used to work for Luisa d’Eugenio, former owner of the Villa Orchis, apparently believes he should have inherited the property instead of Mrs Lashley. He’s made no secret of bearing a grudge. And he’s rumoured to have Camorra connections. It’s likely Mrs Lashley was planning to hire you to establish whether he posed a genuine threat.’
Thompson thought about all that for a moment, then asked, ‘What’s the name of this man?’
‘I’m not sure we—’
‘Verdelli?’ My fleeting dismay didn’t escape him. ‘It is, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ I admitted.
He nodded, satisfied on the point. ‘The word is Paolo Verdelli was Luisa d’Eugenio’s paramour as well as her servant. He supposedly ended up nursing her after she had a stroke a few years before she died. You can see how he might have expected a reward for all that … devotion.’
‘It’s not the Lashleys’ fault he didn’t get it.’
‘No. But it’s become their problem. I might have advised a precautionary pay-off if I’d been consulted earlier.’
‘Might you, now?’ said Jacqueline. It was clearer to me than I hoped it was to Thompson that she disliked him more with every word he spoke.
‘Standing on the letter of the law can sometimes be a false economy, Miss Hudson.’
‘Can it really?’
‘You’ll be able to discuss that with Mrs Lashley in the near future,’ I said, exerting myself to remain emollient.
‘I’ll look forward to it.’
‘Meanwhile …’
‘You’d like my assurance that I’ll keep all this to myself. Particularly where the police are concerned.’
‘Exactly. We’ve confided in you, because, frankly, you left us no choice. But if Mrs Lashley’s best interests really are your prime concern …’
‘All right.’ His pipe had become a pointer again. ‘Mr Lashley’s in the very devil of a fix. I can see that. Provided I don’t learn you’ve dreamt up this story to keep me off his back, then—’
‘Do you seriously doubt the truth of what we’ve told you?’ Jacqueline interrupted. ‘My God, we’ve shown you the photograph. What more proof do you want?’
I wouldn’t have been so outspoken for fear of antagonizing the man. But the effect was surprisingly salutary. ‘You’ll have to excuse me,’ he said appeasingly. ‘I’m sometimes too suspicious for my own good. Blame forty years of following unfaithful spouses. I don’t doubt the truth of what you’ve told me, Miss Hudson. And I won’t do anything to endanger Mrs Lashley. Does that satisfy you?’
‘Yes.’ Jacqueline treated him to a little nod of gratitude. ‘Mr Lashley will be relieved to hear it.’
‘And I can expect … good news … within a few days?’
‘You can,’ I answered.
‘Then we all know where we stand, don’t we? I hope …’ He waggled his pipe vaguely in the air. ‘I hope it all goes well.’
A few wordless seconds passed. Then Jacqueline murmured, ‘Amen to that.’
TWENTY-EIGHT
THE FUNICULAR HAD begun to disgorge the first knots of day-trippers in the Piazzetta when we left Thompson to his pipe and paper and started back towards the Villa Orchis. We didn’t want to keep Lashley waiting any longer than was necessary for a report on how our meeting had gone. The undertaking we’d obtained was, after all, crucial to the success of his plans.
We didn’t make it to the villa quite as quickly as we’d hoped, however. A chance encounter with Countess Covelli was bound to happen sooner or later. Capri was a small island in a small world. But somehow I wasn’t expecting it, even so.
She stepped out of a farmacia in Via Roma, directly into our path. She looked almost exactly as I remembered: tall, thin, Roman-nosed, alert and graceful. Fifteen years had made scarcely a mark on her. She was wearing a pale linen dress, a long loose coat and a wide-brimmed straw hat. She smiled when she saw me, a smile that seemed to me to mix warmth with irony.
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