It was not, Cremonesi explained, that the investigating magistrate doubted what had occurred, simply that he had so very little to investigate. Commissioner Gandolfi had certainly been murdered, of course, but rumour had it he habitually played his cards so close to his chest that his colleagues seldom knew what lines of inquiry he was following.
We might have been able to assist the magistrate by naming Thompson as the source of the anonymous phone call to the police or suggesting that Paolo Verdelli had been party to the kidnap plot, but both courses of action threatened to cause us more trouble than they would Thompson or Verdelli. Strake’s scrawny shadow stretched a long way.
‘If we’re to take this further, Jonathan,’ Lashley said to me in a reflective moment, ‘it must be on our own initiative, without recourse to the authorities.’ He had his suspicions, I knew, that the Camorra wielded enough influence in the upper echelons of the Naples police to ensure Gandolfi’s murder and Muriel’s death (however it was defined) would remain officially unexplained.
Adam, released without charge after twenty-four hours in custody, was a seething bundle of grief, rage, resentment and reproachfulness. I said barely a word while he launched a series of red-faced accusations of stupidity and worse at me in Lashley’s suite at the Excelsior. I remember looking past him through the window at the broad expanse of the bay and imagining Muriel’s last choking moments of life somewhere out there, near the far blue horizon. It had all gone wrong, for a host of reasons, most of which no longer mattered. It had ended as it wasn’t meant to.
Now, suddenly, I was redundant, an unwelcome reminder of the failure to save Muriel. Vivien was on her way, though her departure had been delayed following news of her mother’s death. She was waiting in London for the Honourable Roger to join her and for Harriet to travel up from Cornwall so they could fly out together. The problems my presence would cause didn’t need spelling out. I believe Lashley would have sent me back to Sandersville straight away if he could have, but the investigating magistrate required us to stay within his jurisdiction until he’d decided whether we should be charged with anything, a possibility Cremonesi assured us was extremely remote.
I booked into the next hotel along the seafront from the Excelsior, the Vesuvio, and tried to reconcile myself to sitting it out there, while Lashley awaited the family’s arrival, before he returned to Capri, where Muriel was to be buried. Jacqueline would go with them and doubtless attend the funeral. Only I was persona non grata. Lashley apologized to me for this, though I well understood the reasons. I’d been called in to help deal with an emergency. And the emergency was over. It was time for me to go. Unfortunately, I couldn’t.
‘I’d ask you to keep yourself busy trying to track down Verdelli if I wasn’t so sure he’ll be lying low till all this blows over,’ Lashley said to me before we parted. ‘It’ll never blow over as far as I’m concerned, of course. I’ll use local expertise to trace him once the magistrate’s signed off the case.’
‘What then, sir?’
‘Then, Jonathan, I’ll decide what to do. But he’s not going to get away with widowing and robbing me. I can assure you of that.’
I didn’t doubt Lashley meant what he said. But I wasn’t sure he’d have to wait as long as he thought to set in motion whatever retribution he had in mind for Paolo. I phoned Countess Covelli to find out if Salvenini had told her anything useful. She’d been horrified to hear how Muriel had died and had sent a letter of condolence to her family. She’d also tried to contact me at the villa, without success.
‘I asked Valerio Salvenini about Paolo for you, Jonathan, and he said he would let me know. But I have not heard from him. Would you like me to … remind him?’
‘Well, thanks, yes, if you could.’
‘It is important?’ Her tone implied she suspected it was and wouldn’t be fooled by any denials.
‘It might be.’
‘And you are staying at the Vesuvio … for now?’
‘Yes. I don’t want to get in the family’s way at the villa.’
‘That is very considerate of you.’ And not just considerate, she clearly realized. ‘Will I see you again before you leave?’
‘I … hope so.’
‘I will be in Naples on Friday to see my notaio. Perhaps we could meet then.’
‘Yes. By all means.’
So, Countess Covelli at least hadn’t ostracized me.
I phoned the Gabbiano as well and was given the unsurprising news that Frederick Thompson had checked out. He’d gone while the going was good, as I probably would have done myself if I’d had the option.
I wondered if I’d hear from Vivien. She was at the Villa Orchis by now, with her husband, her stepfather, her great-aunt and her half-brother: Muriel Lashley’s closest surviving relatives, gathered in mourning. Perhaps that would be enough for her to cope with. Perhaps, in the shock of losing her mother, there’d be no space to think of me.
I thought of her, though – a lot. Solitude and idleness made sure of that. On Wednesday, having nothing better to do, I took the train along the coast to Pompeii and followed the hordes of camera-toting tourists round the ruin-lined streets. Vivien and I had planned to go there in 1969, but never had. It was where she’d invented a chance meeting with some friends from Cambridge that was supposed to explain her trip to Rome. She hadn’t actually gone to Pompeii at all, I assumed, though she probably had since.
I was in no state to appreciate what I saw. I wandered the stony thoroughfares in a daze and spent a full hour sitting in the amphitheatre, staring into space.
That was where, by a supreme irony, my old Walworth housemate Terry almost literally stumbled upon me. I hardly recognized him at first. The concavely thin, bushy-bearded student had become a thick-waisted, short-haired auditor, husband and father of two. What kind of impression I made on his wife in my distracted state I dread to think. Terry took it for a signal that I was still enjoying the free and easy lifestyle he’d somehow allowed to slip through his fingers, though he dutifully assured me his sons (at that moment shooting hostile glares in my direction) were an undiluted joy to him.
They were staying on a camp site near the beach at Pozzuoli before heading on down the coast. Terry eagerly suggested I go out there that evening. We could reminisce and compare post-university career paths over a beer or six. I agreed, rather less eagerly. I was in no condition for a boozy reunion, but I didn’t exactly have any other plans. It was settled that he’d meet me off the Metro at Pozzuoli station at eight o’clock.
Poor old Terry. I’m sure he was looking forward to our boys’ night out. But I never made it to Pozzuoli.
Vivien was waiting for me at the Vesuvio. I didn’t see her as I entered. She was in the bar area that adjoined reception. The man on the desk told me I had a visitor and, turning round, I saw her rise from a sofa into a golden shaft of filtered sunlight.
She was looking sombre and drawn. Her hair was slightly shorter than I remembered and maybe a fraction of a shade darker. She was wearing a simple flared blue skirt and belted white T-shirt. There was scarcely a trace of make-up. But that made no difference. Her beauty, if not unaltered, was certainly undiminished.
I walked slowly towards her, struggling to decide how to greet her. A kiss? A handshake? A simple hello. Nothing seemed right. And nothing, in the end, was what I settled for.
‘I’m sorry … about your mother, Vivien,’ I said, surprised by how hoarse my voice sounded. ‘I suppose … Greville’s told you everything?’
‘I’m not sure, Jonathan.’ She looked at me coolly. ‘That’s why I’m here.’ It was, her tone suggested, the only reason she’d come. ‘Can we talk?’
‘Of course. Shall we sit down?’
‘Not here. Outside. In the air.’
‘All right.’
We headed for the revolving door that led out on to the street. Before we reached it, the man on the desk called out to me.
‘Ah, Signor Kellaway. If you are leaving …’ I looked
round at him. ‘There is a message for you. The caller said it might be urgent.’
‘I’ll wait for you on the other side of the road,’ Vivien said, pressing on towards the door.
I went back to the desk and was handed a small V-monogrammed envelope. Inside was a note addressed to me. ‘La Contessa Covelli telephoned. The address you require is Salita Penitenza 33.’
‘Can you show me where this is?’ I asked, proffering my street map of the city.
The man peered at the note and then the map before marking it with a cross. ‘You will go there, Signor Kellaway?’
‘Probably. Why?’
‘It is … not a good area. You should be careful. It is not a place for’ – he smiled – ‘la bella signora.’
‘Don’t worry.’ I smiled back at him. ‘I won’t take la bella signora.’
He nodded. ‘Bene.’
Vivien was leaning against the wall by the bridge that led across from Via Partenope to the Castel dell’Ovo and the Borgo Marinaro, apparently oblivious to the surging traffic and the ambling sightseers. I crossed the road to join her.
‘Was the message from Greville?’ she asked me at once, her eyes concealed from me now behind sunglasses.
‘No. It wasn’t.’
‘Really?’
‘No,’ I said, more emphatically. ‘Why should you think it was?’
‘Because he knew I was coming to see you. Maybe he wanted to make sure you’d toe the party line.’
‘The party line?’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘I don’t, actually. Look, Vivien, what happened to your mother was—’
‘Why did it go wrong, Jonathan? Why did she end up dead?’ She turned away from me, suddenly close to tears. ‘I’m sorry. I was determined not to do this.’ She took a couple of deep breaths, then faced me again. ‘An anonymous phone call to the police which Greville believes this man Thompson made ruined everything, he tells me. Is that really how it was?’
‘Yes. But for that, I think Muriel would have been released unharmed.’
‘Down there?’ She nodded to the harbour below us. Its café-lined quays were crowded with people. Pleasure craft bobbed gently at their moorings. Sunlight shimmered on the water. ‘Where Greville was waiting for her?’
‘It’s what was agreed. It’s almost certainly how it would have turned out if Gandolfi hadn’t intervened.’
‘And whose fault was it that Gandolfi intervened?’
‘Whoever made the anonymous phone call.’
‘Really? It doesn’t go any deeper than that?’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘You don’t want to admit it, do you?’
‘Admit what?’
‘For God’s sake.’ She sounded exasperated. But the tremor in her hand as she looked away and rubbed her forehead hinted at something beyond exasperation. Her grief was tinged with anger, directed, apparently, at me. ‘Can we walk, please? Moving … seems to help.’
‘Sure.’
We headed east, towards the Excelsior and the triple-arched canopy of the Immacolatella Fountain, with Mount Vesuvius looming ahead of us across the bay. Vivien wasn’t dawdling. I had to stride out to keep pace with her. ‘It’s our fault,’ she said decisively, as if the point was unarguable. ‘If we hadn’t helped Strake blackmail Luisa, Uncle Francis wouldn’t have murdered him and there’d have been nothing to interest Gandolfi all these years later. And Paolo, much as he might have resented being cut out of what he saw as his rightful inheritance, wouldn’t have felt so badly treated by the family whose good name he’d protected. Yes, it’s our fault all right, yours and mine. We started this. And we never once warned my mother how embittered Paolo had cause to be.’
‘No one could have foreseen what it would lead to, Vivien. We weren’t to know he had connections with the Camorra.’
‘Greville knew. Or at least he suspected it. I blame him too.’
‘And there’s no actual proof Paolo was involved.’
‘Yes, there is. The phone call. I’ve heard all about Gandolfi’s visit to the villa from Jacqueline. A lot else too. You seem to have been more open with her than you ever were with me.’
‘Just a—’
‘Forget it, OK? You trust her. Everyone trusts her. Apparently, I have to trust her as well.’ There was a strand of guilt in the harshness of her tone – guilt for being far away when her mother needed her. ‘Thompson couldn’t have made that call without help, Jonathan. He had no reason to suppose Strake had ever come to Naples, let alone been murdered here. There’s no plausible way he could simply have stumbled across the information. Somebody must have told him. And from what Jacqueline tells me, it’s doubtful he could string together a sentence in good or bad Italian. He’d have needed to be instructed what to say. By the same somebody.’
‘Paolo?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Why would he do that?’
‘Because his share of the ransom money wasn’t enough for him. It probably wasn’t much, anyway. No. He wanted blood. And when he heard Thompson was looking for him, he saw a way to get it. He’d have known Gandolfi was still on the force and would spring into action once the call was made. And he’d have known how the people holding Mother would react if they had cause to suspect the police had been called in.’
‘You’re suggesting he deliberately sabotaged the deal?’
‘Yes. And it worked, didn’t it? He got what he wanted.’
‘Vivien, this is—’
‘The truth. That’s what this is.’
We’d reached the fountain. She turned aside and stopped, staring out to sea, wondering, I sensed, just how it must have felt for her mother as she thrashed and floundered and drowned out there in the darkness.
‘She couldn’t swim,’ she murmured, hugging herself to suppress a shudder. ‘Not a stroke. How can the magistrate say that’s not murder?’
‘It’s a technicality.’
‘I want Paolo found. And brought to book.’
‘I’m sure Greville will do everything he can to achieve that.’
‘Do you know where he is, Jonathan?’ She looked round.
‘Me?’ My instinct was not to tell her about Countess Covelli’s message. Not yet, at least. I needed to think very carefully before taking any action. ‘How would I?’
‘Jacqueline mentioned that you’d asked Countess Covelli for help in tracing him.’
‘I did, yes. But—’
‘I spoke to the countess a few hours ago.’
‘Really?’
‘She said she hadn’t been able to find anything out.’
What was Vivien thinking? What was the look in her eyes that I couldn’t see behind the dark glasses? ‘The message at the hotel was from her,’ I said, weighing my every word, as I felt Vivien was also doing. ‘She wants me to phone her. So she can tell me she’s drawn a blank, I suppose.’
‘Or to tell you where he is.’
‘But you said she—’
‘I’m not sure I believed her.’
‘Why would she lie to you?’
‘I don’t know. But there’s something between you, isn’t there? Some … bond.’
‘Is there?’
‘This terrible thing Luisa’s supposed to have done. The reason the countess ended their friendship. You know what it is, don’t you?’ She raised a hand to forestall my reply. ‘Don’t deny it. She’s probably sworn you to secrecy. And I don’t want to know, anyway. Nothing like as much as I want to know where Paolo is. Promise me you’ll tell me if you find out.’
‘What would—’
‘Just promise me. Your word, Jonathan.’ She took off her glasses and looked directly at me, squinting in the bright sunlight, tears glistening at the corners of her eyes. ‘Give me your word, if not for Mother’s sake, then for the sake of what you and I once were to each other.’
I couldn’t do it. The deceit was more than I could stomach. I shook my head. ‘No.’
‘No what?’
‘I’m not going to promise you anything.’
‘Because you already know.’ Understanding flashed in her gaze. ‘That’s it, isn’t it? That’s what the message was. The countess has told you where he is.’
‘If I knew, I’d inform Greville.’
‘And I’d have to hope he thought I could be trusted with the information. No, Jonathan. Tell me. Tell me now.’
To pretend any longer that I didn’t know was futile. ‘Why?’
‘Because I want to look Paolo in the eye when he denies being responsible for my mother’s death. And I want him to know he’s not going to get away with it.’
‘I suspect Greville would say confronting him now was unwise.’
‘And Greville’s your boss. So, whatever he says goes. Is that how it is?’
‘Of course not. But it would be unwise. You must realize that.’
‘I don’t care whether it is or not. I want Paolo to understand how much I hate him for what he’s done. I’ll find out where he lives one way or the other. According to Jacqueline, the countess said she was going to ask Valerio Salvenini. So, he must have supplied her with the address. Well, I can charm it out of him if I have to. Or you can take me to it now. It’s your choice, Jonathan. You have to decide … which is the least unwise course of action.’
THIRTY-THREE
THE TAXI DRIVER dropped us in a small piazza off Via Toledo, explaining to Vivien – whose Italian was far better than mine – that it was the closest he could get to our destination.
The city sloped sharply uphill from there, towards the heights of Vomero. The buildings were tightly packed along narrow, steepling streets, many divided by lengthy flights of steps. Washing hung from balconies, while, below, merchandise piled outside shops contested pavement space with double-parked scooters. Grubby, bright-eyed children scurried everywhere. It was late afternoon, clammily hot on sallow-shadowed Salita Penitenza. There was a pervading smell of blocked drains and a garbled jangle of music and jabbering voices from the open windows around us. It was, as the desk clerk at the Vesuvio had warned me, no place for ‘la bella signora’.
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