by JJ Marsh
He dropped the cigarette into a puddle and smelt something foul. He checked his shoes. Both muddy and wet but no dog mess. A door opened between him and the street and he flattened himself against the wall. A young man slammed the door behind him, still talking on his phone.
Pietro caught a few words although the Italian was heavily accented Sicilian with a confusing amount of slang. “They are all inside now ... yeah, the detective just got back from the restaurant ... No, no chance. She has a driver who waits till she goes into the building ... What? ... I guess I could try ... OK, see you at the boat.”
Coincidence? He would have assumed so but for the words ‘restaurant’ and ‘detective’. Was someone else watching? He followed the young man in the denim jacket as he paced along the street, intent on his phone. Pietro crossed over three times, but the guy didn’t look behind once. He walked in a straight line, directly to the harbour. At the gates to the port, he stopped, looking around, bouncing with impatience. Pietro bought a slice of pizza and a beer from a street stall, although he wasn’t hungry, and turned his back on the other punters. A Vespa buzzed down the street, the guy in the denim jacket got on and to Pietro’s surprise, they swiped their way through the harbour gates and rode along the cobbles towards the private marina, where expensive yachts gleamed in the weak sunshine.
A security guard patrolled the barrier to the marina and Pietro forgot all about his pizza, intent on the story playing out below. The Vespa slowed and a few words were exchanged. A burst of laughter from the guard and the Vespa was permitted access. Pietro watched and counted. Seven boats in, they parked the moped and walked up the access ramp to a small yacht. He couldn’t see the name of the boat from his position. He drank his beer and left. Tomorrow, he would bring binoculars.
Chapter 16
Ettore was waiting at the kerb, as usual, a strange scowl on his face as he scanned the neighbourhood. His disapproving expression smoothed into a welcoming smile as Beatrice clattered out of the apartment building.
“Buongiorno, Beatrice! Ready for work?”
“Buongiorno, Ettore. Not really, but I have no choice. How are you today?”
“I am very happy, Beatrice, and I will tell you why. Today is a special day for my family. Two of my daughters are part of the Santa Maria festival. It is a great honour. My wife and I made the hairdressing before they left for school.”
Beatrice threw her bag into the back seat and got in beside Ettore. Despite the terrifying nature of Neapolitan traffic, she was much more at ease beside her driver than aloof and distant in the rear. Nevertheless, she made sure to belt herself in. “OK, I’m pronto! What do you mean by the hairdressing?”
Ettore wound down his window to hurl abuse at a man weaving his way through the traffic. The man retorted with a jab of the finger. After both had finished insulting each other’s mothers, Ettore drove on.
“Pronta. You are a female. This is a special occasion for my beautiful girls. The costumes are ready for tomorrow, but my wife must practise the hair. Beatrice, it is ...” He shook his head, kissed his fingers and met her eyes. “Bellissima! Even better, the girls can wear their hair like this all day. Elegant and practical. I do this for them since they are very small. I am expert.”
As they drove onto the main street, Beatrice watched a dog tear open a rubbish bag, scattering papers and pizza crusts all over the pavement. “How did they get to be part of the festival?” she asked Ettore, with as much interest in the answer as the contents of the bin bag.
“Every year, we ask the organisers. Always no, too young. This year, they are thirteen and fourteen. They say yes! My wife and my sister make costumes for months and the girls exercise the singing. And the make-up. Today, I help with the hair. Beatrice?”
She dragged her gaze from the morning sea to Ettore’s enquiring expression, his forehead echoing the ripples on the shore. “Yes?”
“You want me to do your hair?”
Ettore had missed his vocation. His gentle hands, deft combing and nimble fingers combined with non-stop monologue on everything from climate change to film festivals soothed Beatrice more than any massage. Outside Ecco, she sat in the passenger seat and allowed him to work his magic. In less than five minutes, he had tamed her unruly hair into a sleek and classy French plait. She flipped down the sun visor to admire herself in the mirror. It was neat and elegant and perfect for popping under a chef’s hairnet.
She thanked him profusely and pressed ten Euros into his hand. “For your daughters!” she insisted and overcame his protestations.
He gave a gracious bow and she got out of the car. He beeped the horn in farewell and she trotted away to the restaurant, waving goodbye.
As soon as she opened the kitchen door, she saw Suhail and caught her breath. The man had a bandage around his lower jaw and neck. A fight? A work-related accident? Instinctively, she looked at his hands but he had already donned the blue plastic gloves they all wore when preparing food.
Isabella caught her arm and pulled her into the office before Beatrice could ask any questions. She closed the door and slumped into a chair, her blue hair falling over her face.
“Isabella, what’s happened?”
The younger woman looked up, her mouth a downward arc. “Suhail was attacked last night on his way home. This is how it starts. They make life difficult for you, and offer you a chance to make the harassment stop. They ‘protect’ you from the violence they are paying for, IF and only if, you do them a favour. If you refuse, you end up like Rami.”
“Is Suhail badly hurt?”
“They cut him. Just a surface cut across his throat to show what could happen next time. But he fought back and got slashed across the chin as well. He wanted to come to work, even after spending half the night waiting to be treated at the hospital. No matter what I say, he shuts his mouth and tells me nothing, but he might talk to you. What happened to him is relevant to your case. Agusto and I agree he must go home after the lunch shift. Ettore can drive you to your apartment then take him safely back to his place. He needs to rest as Easter is going to be extra busy for all of us.”
Beatrice winced at the thought of Suhail’s injuries and then let out an enormous sigh at the concept of ‘extra busy’. She simply couldn’t work any faster and with Suhail under the weather, he would be unable to pick up her slack.
“What about this evening’s service? Do you want me to cover that?” she asked, praying Isabella would refuse.
A half smile spread across Isabella’s face. “Thank you, but that’s not necessary. No offence, Beatrice, but we have a reputation. Agusto will take over desserts tonight, with Chantal’s assistance. What I want you to do is talk to Suhail. He knows you’re a detective. You must persuade him to tell you what happened last night and whether he knows who they are working for.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Thank you. Oh, and your hair looks nice. Adrian did a good job.” Isabella flashed her smile and picked up the phone before Beatrice could contradict her.
Holy Thursday was hellish. As everyone had predicted, the restaurant was frantically busy. But the one advantage of the traditional nature of the religious festival was that everyone wanted to eat the same thing. A Fellata for starter, which seemed to be an ornately arranged plate of meat and cheeses to Beatrice’s untrained eye. Next course was mussel soup, which Agusto presided over himself, followed by Ecco’s take on cannelloni – a Jenga-style construction of stuffed tubes around a pyramid of tomato sauce. The main course was roasted kid with rosemary potatoes, filling the kitchen with a blissful aroma. Suhail and Beatrice had three jobs to do until dessert orders came in. Prepare the pastiera, the cake that would be the centrepiece of next week’s Easter menu. Bake individual Colombe, the dove-shaped little cakes that had their own unique tins. And make the cassata, a liqueur-soaked marzipan, sponge, chocolate and ricotta confection, decorated with candied fruit and nuts.
It had become obvious during the last few days that Beatrice’s culinary
skills, such as they were, tended more towards the beating, whisking, folding and mixing elements of kitchen techniques. The fine details of decoration and plating were best left to Suhail, whose delicate fingers wielded tweezers and piping bags with surgical grace.
The one thing she had learned was the precise arrangement and timing of her affogato. Two dinky scoops of brown bread ice-cream tilted diagonally against a honey pourer in a cocktail glass, one hot, fresh ristretto and a brandy snap on the saucer either side of the glass and then bellow ‘Service’ at the top of her lungs so someone would come and take the thing away to the service counter for inspection by the chef. If only the damn dessert wasn’t quite so popular.
She must have made at least fifty of the things by three o’clock and Agusto had only sent two back for sloppy presentation. All the cakes were baked and decorated and their workstation looked relatively clean in comparison to the previous two days. Suhail tried to send her away while he cleared up but Beatrice refused.
“The more hands on deck, the sooner we can leave. I understand we’re taking the same car.”
Suhail gave a sad nod and began cleaning the surfaces. Instinct told Beatrice now was not the time to ask questions. Then again, the car wouldn’t be ideal either. He was unlikely to open up in front of a driver, no matter how amiable Ettore could be. Perhaps if she invited him for a cool drink, hinting that it was Isabella’s suggestion he should talk to him? She could do no more than try.
Beatrice made her proposal as they left the restaurant. Suhail accepted the invitation but didn’t look too happy about it. She asked Ettore to wait for half an hour and so it was that Beatrice and Suhail sat on the roof terrace with a glass of lemonade and gazed out at the scenery.
“I don’t want to pressure you, please understand that. But if your attack last night was anything to do with the death of your friend or the espionage at the restaurant, it would help me a lot to form the bigger picture.”
Suhail looked at her for a second and turned his eyes back to the colourful rooftops of the city. He sipped at his lemonade and the pain of swallowing was visible on his face. “He wasn’t my friend.”
“Oh. I assumed ...” She stopped. “Sorry. Making assumptions is a terrible habit and in this case, unforgiveable. Let me start at the beginning.”
“It’s OK. I know what you want to ask me. Yes, we both come from Damascus in Syria. No, we were not related. Neither of us was a refugee; we both came to Europe with a work permit. We knew each other, yes, because we went to the same hospitality college in Milan. That is why I can speak Italian and English. Rami got a job in Napoli and encouraged me to apply. I was working as a pastry chef in Bergamo and wanted to see more of Italy. Agusto gave me a chance and liked what I could do. He employed me. That was one and half years ago. Rami helped me find lodgings and at first, we spent a lot of time together.”
He took another drink and squeezed his eyes shut as he swallowed.
“Are you in much pain? Would you like a painkiller?” Beatrice asked.
He held up a palm in refusal. “Thank you, no. Taking pharmaceutical products is against my beliefs. After a few months, Rami’s other ‘activities’ became impossible to ignore. Chefs at Ecco are relatively well paid, yes, but Rami had a luxury apartment in a palazzo, bought an expensive motorcycle and he wore designer clothes. Both of us have families still in Syria and we often discussed how to send money home. How is it I live in a one-bedroom apartment in a cheap area and his lifestyle is so glamorous?”
“He had another source of income?” said Beatrice, her mind scurrying. But if Rami had been the one to sell recipes to some shady buyers, why would they kill their cash cow?
“Maybe more than one source?” Suhail shrugged, glancing at her sideways.
Beatrice examined that idea and found it had potential. She looked at Suhail in the hope he would elaborate.
He stood up. “I should go. The driver is waiting and I am tired.”
“Of course, I completely understand. I’ll walk you out. Please can I ask one more thing?”
He sighed and his hangdog expression drooped lower as he pulled on his jacket.
“Last night. Do you have any idea who it was that attacked you? Or who they might be working for?”
“No, I don’t know who they are. But I know their methods. They frighten me three, four times and then take off the masks. They won’t stop until I do what they want. Isabella is kind to offer me a ride home, but these people know where I live. I cannot hide.”
From below, a male voice called out. “Is there a Beatrice Stubbs in the house?”
“Up here!” she shouted and got to her feet.
It was such a fillip to see Will, his strong and capable persona an instant reassurance. Clearly, his arrival had a similar effect on the rest of the group. Adrian was wreathed in smiles, Matthew appeared relaxed and comfortable and Luke capered around trying to show him the delights of the terrace. Beatrice remembered her manners.
“Suhail, let me introduce you. This is Matthew, my partner. These are my friends, Adrian and his husband Will. And last but not least, this is Luke, Matthew’s grandson. Everyone, this is Suhail, who works with me at the restaurant.”
Suhail shook hands with everyone, his face sombre until he got to Luke. “Hello, Luke. It is a pleasure. How old are you?”
“Six years old and I can order my dinner in Italian.”
“That’s very impressive,” Suhail replied, his face softening into a rare smile. “Thank you for the drink, Beatrice, I will leave you now. Goodbye, everyone, and have a nice holiday.”
The sound of farewells echoing behind them, Beatrice walked her visitor down two flights of stairs. She opened the front door and watched him get into Ettore’s car, more than a little worried for his welfare. The vehicle drove away and Beatrice trudged back up, wondering if her whole mission at the restaurant was a case of closing the stable door after the mole had bolted.
After a lively chat on the terrace, Beatrice suggested everyone freshen up before dinner. Not least because she wanted to buttonhole Matthew.
She closed their bedroom door and turned to face him, placing her hands on her hips. “Did you see a doctor?” she demanded.
“Yes, I did. She can’t find anything wrong but suggests I should avoid over-exertion and certainly not subject myself to any stress. I toyed with the idea of asking her, ‘Have you tried living with Beatrice Stubbs?’ but thought better of it. The upshot is, I intend to spend the rest of our time here taking it easy. I still want to see the sights, but perhaps one excursion a day will suffice. Now that Will has joined us with an extra pair of sensible hands, I won’t feel bad about excusing myself and stretching out on the sofa, reading books and eating olives. Talking of which, how was your day?”
Beatrice kissed his cheek. “It’s a relief to hear you’re approaching this with such a mature attitude. If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather keep you around for a bit longer. My day was bloody knackering, if you must know. I was actually planning a nap after Suhail had gone. I’m also wondering if this whole situation is more complex than it first appears. I need to talk to Isabella and Agusto tomorrow, if at all possible.”
Matthew sat down on the bed, kicking off his shoes. “Why wouldn’t it be possible? They are your clients.”
“Yes, and under normal circumstances, I’d insist on a meeting. The thing is, Easter Friday is such an epic event here, the restaurant will be swamped and attention spans short. What do you intend to do tomorrow?”
“We considered the Sorrento or Procida Easter parades. My concern is that the first has hooded, robed figures singing Gregorian chants and the latter uses effigies of Christ’s Via Cruci, some rather graphic. I’m not sure either will be conducive to a good night’s sleep for Luke. Therefore our plan is to stay in the city and follow the local processions along the streets, not straying too far from home.”
Beatrice wrapped her arms around him and pressed her cheek to his chest. “I am so glad to hea
r it’s nothing serious. I do love you, you know.”
He kissed the top of her head. “Me too, on both counts. Will’s arrival vastly reassures me and there is one more bright spot. I spoke to Tanya this afternoon. She and Gabriel are taking excellent care of our animals. I confess that was an added worry.”
“You’re an old softie, Professor Bailey. Right, I’m going to get in the shower. I still pong of mussel soup.”
“Ah, that’s what it is! I thought you whiffed of fish. Go ahead, Old Thing, I plan to sit here quietly and peruse The Times.”
At eight o’clock, the party convened for cocktails on the roof terrace. Adrian and Will had prepared a thick mulligatawny soup for dinner and Beatrice was suffused with a sense of relief. If she could just tie up the job within a couple of days, she would be able to enjoy her favourite people in a beautiful location. Best of all, she had a fellow copper, DS William Quinn, with whom to share ideas. She raised her gin and tonic. “Cheers, everyone, I’m so pleased we’re all together again!”
“Cheers, Beatrice!” The clinking of glasses and familiar smiles warmed her.
Easter would start tomorrow and although she had yet to get through the next two days, she had the whole of Sunday and Monday free to spend with her menfolk. Things could only get better.
Chapter 17
Interesting. Another man had arrived. This should certainly be reported to the boss. What if they now split up? He answered his own question. Follow the kid, obviously, those were his orders.
He waited in the alley for another few minutes, looking up at the lights of the apartment and the shadows of movement within. There was no sign of the guy in the denim jacket this time. Just as he was beginning to think he was wasting his time, a door opened. The same youngster as last time emerged except now he wasn’t on his phone. Pietro waited a full minute after he had exited the alley and then headed towards the port.