Honey Trap

by JJ Marsh

  The man in the jacket had vanished and Will was faced with a dilemma. He could run back to the taxi rank and get home shortly after the others, or try to tail the tail. If the man was heading in the same direction, intending to observe their apartment building, he would get on Line 1 and travel as far as Università. Will made up his mind, bought a ticket and hunched along the platform, looking for his target.

  The metro train screeched in, again covered in graffiti. Will had seen several brown bomber jackets, but none of the wearers was the man who had been idling by the taxi rank. The doors opened and Will took his place among the passengers, still yet observant, standing beside the door in case he needed to move quickly.

  Two stops later, he was the first out of the doors. He made immediately for a bench, sat down and took out his phone. His position enabled him to watch his fellow travellers as they streamed towards the exit, all ignoring the phone-fixated hooded figure alone on the plastic bench.

  Will’s focus switched back and forth from mobile screen to station until he saw what he’d been waiting for. The brown bomber jacket moving with the flow, in no particular hurry. Will risked a glance at his face. Weather worn and grey whiskered, just as Adrian had described. After he’d passed, Will took a few shots of the receding back, making a note of the scuffed brown shoes and apparent lack of buttocks.

  He waited till the majority of people had cleared the platform until he rose. If the guy was a pro, which Will doubted, he’d be just as aware of followers as those he was following. So the best thing to do would be to come from the other direction. Will set off at a jog, weaving to avoid the crowds. If Bomber Jacket went the shorter route, Will would have to hurry to find a safe place for observation.

  Clouds had rolled over the bay, trapping the heat of the city beneath. The streets were humid and within two minutes of his gentle run, Will started to sweat. He unzipped the hoodie and took off the baseball cap, rolling both into a ball to shove inside his rucksack. He was stuffing the clothes into his pack when a shop doorway opened a few paces ahead of him. A man emerged, a brown bomber jacket over his yellow shirt and a packet of cigarettes in his hand.

  Will saw his chance. “Scusa!”

  The man’s reaction to Will was a shocked double-take before taking off down the street like a rat. Will zipped up his bag and raced after him, pulling his pack on as he ran. He gained on the guy at first. A fit and well-trained detective sergeant, he was confident of catching him until the sneaky little rodent ducked into the traffic, causing a cacophony of irate horns. Will tried to follow suit and made it across the road after almost getting flattened by a truck. When he reached the opposite pavement, his quarry had gone, most likely into one of the myriad alleyways and side streets a local could use to lose a clueless foreigner.

  Will stood like a statue, regaining his breath and allowing the shock of adrenalin to settle. The rat might stick its head out of the hole to check the coast was clear. And if he did, the cat would pounce. A full five minutes later, Will gave up and headed back to the apartment, already rehearsing a downbeat account of events for Adrian. He sent a quick message to stop him worrying.

  No luck. Just doing a bit of shopping, back in an hour or so. Wx

  Of paramount importance was a conversation with Beatrice Stubbs. He called her mobile and she answered on the first ring.

  “Will? Is everything all right?”

  “Fine. I just want a word, that’s all. What time will you get to the apartment?”

  She spoke to someone in the background. “Ettore says ten minutes. This traffic is the stuff of nightmares. Is something the matter with Matthew?”

  Already on the street housing their apartment, Will saw a little corner café with a few tables and tired-looking cakes.

  “Everyone is well and happy and full of stories to tell you. I just want five minutes to talk to you before they start. Meet me at Caffè Carolina just up the street from our place. It won’t take long and you can still have a rest before dinner at Nonna’s.”

  “OK, I’m on my way. Order me a peppermint tea. Unless they do Prosecco.”

  Chapter 20

  Ettore dropped her at the apartment and Beatrice made as if to go inside, fumbling for her keys and waiting till he left. She liked Ettore enormously, but trusted no one. He waited too, making sure she was safely inside. She had no choice but to go indoors and peer out of the peephole till he’d gone. Once the car had driven away, she unlocked the door and walked further up the street until she spotted Caffè Carolina. The rangy figure of Will sat at an outdoor table. Furtive looks from a couple of young women sitting a few tables away made her smile. You’re out of luck, ladies, but I can’t blame you for trying. He is a quite magnificent specimen.

  She grinned at him as she approached and he stood up to give her a kiss on both cheeks.

  “A sight for four eyes,” she said, with a pointed glance at the two glasses of fizz on the table.

  “You’d better drink it before it gets any warmer. Ten minutes, you said.”

  She sat down and tucked her bag onto her lap. “Ten minutes, Ettore said. I can’t be held responsible for all the traffic jams in this city. Anyway, I had to wait for him to leave before I could join you. Now tell me why we’re having a secret assignation.”

  Will related the events of the afternoon and Beatrice listened intently.

  “No one has mentioned this to Matthew?”

  Will shook his head. “Adrian and Luke decided not to worry him, but they planned to tell you. I guess they just hadn’t found the right time.”

  Beatrice rolled the stem of her glass between middle finger and thumb, pondering the facts. “Something about this is peculiar. How many surreptitious stalkers wear identifiable clothing and get so close so frequently that even a six-year-old notices? A black beret? He couldn’t be more obvious if he’d added a scar, a limp and a pet monkey on his shoulder. Either this person is incompetent or they want you to know you’re being followed. Whichever case it is, why follow a group of innocent tourists?”

  “Adrian thinks the guy is after Luke. Of course that is always a possibility, but I’m sure he’s still got the Portugal incident on his mind. My view is that someone is keeping tabs on us as insurance. If they suspect the real reason you are here, they might want to use Matthew and Luke as your weak point. Scare them enough and you will all leave. Adrian and I were not part of the plan.”

  Beatrice placed a hand on his forearm. “Another reason I’m glad you’re with us. Who do you think ‘they’ are?”

  “The same people behind the copycat restaurants, the warehouse fire and the damage to the chef’s Ferrari. What do you think?”

  Beatrice rubbed her eyes, forcing her tired brain to think. “It doesn’t add up. If there is a spy in the kitchen selling recipes to a rival, why would they attempt to damage their cash cow? It’s surely in their interests to keep the restaurant successful and popular so that their imitations bring in the punters. Why disrupt the supply chain and key a luxury car? That is threatening behaviour to coerce someone into doing what you want. Surely what they want is for Agusto to keep creating, getting great reviews and innovating. That’s the honey pot.”

  The two women paid their bill and left, casting one more flirtatious look in Will’s direction. He was oblivious, as usual, his entire attention focused entirely on the case.

  “What if,” Will tapped his fingertips to his chin, “the spy isn’t giving ‘them’ what they need? What if they want more and are piling on the pressure? Look how fast your dessert appeared on a competitor’s menu.”

  “You might have a point there. An American party came to Ecco this lunchtime and mentioned they’d eaten Agusto’s signature veal dish at a restaurant in Switzerland. They did say the one at Ecco was superior, but it was called the same thing: Vitello Vero alla Nonna. I asked Alessandro – he’s the maître d’ – to get the name of the city, but the Americans couldn’t remember. It had a monastery with a black Madonna was all they could recall. I
’ll wager my next Prosecco that wherever it is, there’s a restaurant called Nonna’s and it serves some familiar recipes.”

  Will chewed his lip and his leg jigged up and down under the table. “So it’s not just a question of selling recipes to a rival. This is more like a franchise. These restaurants get the established name and the recipes and probably pay through the nose for the privilege.”

  “This sounds like a much bigger operation than one man making extra cash on the side. I think someone is making a lot of money out of this while blowing smoke in our eyes.” Beatrice gazed into her glass of bubbles.

  “OK, listen to this. Let’s say you were stealing and selling recipes from a top-class restaurant and wanted to throw suspicion onto someone else. How would you keep operating but make yourself look innocent?”

  Beatrice met Will’s eyes. “Hire an investigator to find a non-existent spy and create a series of diversions to throw that person off the scent. Choose someone unsuited to the task and unproven in the field who might be easily frightened off.”

  They stared at each other for several seconds until Will’s mobile rang. He made a mock face of alarm and answered.

  “Adrian! We’re just up the road ... What? ... Me and Beatrice. We were just having a chat ... OK, OK, be there in five minutes.”

  He ended the call and pulled out his wallet. “Drink up. We’re in the doghouse.”

  She emptied the rest of her Prosecco. “Oh dear. I’d better think of lots of interesting questions to distract attention. Where did you go today? Vesuvius?”

  Will handed the waiter a twenty-Euro note. “Vesuvius was yesterday. You won’t make yourself any friends by forgetting where we’ve been.” He took his change and left some coins on the table. “Ask Luke. He’ll tell you every detail and then some.” He lifted his rucksack and they strode up the street, both in thoughtful silence.

  As Will unlocked the front door, he looked down at Beatrice. “One thing we haven’t considered is the whole money-laundering angle.”

  “Case later, family now. Let’s get indoors.”

  The presence of Luke was a godsend. Their mutual concern for the boy overcame Adrian’s outrage and enabled them to communicate civilly, if not entirely naturally. He’d hissed his annoyance and frustration at Will in the privacy of their bedroom, stressing the fear and worry he had suffered. As ever, Will apologised for the concern but managed to imply that half the blame lay with Adrian’s paranoia.

  A truce, albeit hostile, meant the two men could prepare for the evening excursion to one of the most legendary restaurants in Italy. They showered and shaved, politely giving each other space, and dressed in their best. Adrian was adjusting his hair in the mirror when Will emerged from the bathroom. He stopped, just taking a minute to watch him.

  “You look so damn sexy,” Will said, his voice a husky murmur. It was true, but his husband’s expression showed he suspected a ruse.

  “Apart from the extra grey hairs and worry lines I acquired this afternoon, I agree.” Clearly Adrian wasn’t about to forgive him, or Beatrice, quite so fast. “The car will be here in fifteen minutes. I’m ready and I’m going to check on Luke. He’s probably still in his bathrobe playing computer games. Will you please hurry up and get dressed? I suggest that blue Paul Smith shirt I gave you for your birthday.”

  When Will had finished his preparations, Adrian and Luke were sitting on the sofa, both smartly dressed and laughing at some kind of Italian slapstick with the sound off. Beatrice sat at the desk, tapping away at her computer and Matthew was making a pot of tea in the kitchen.

  Beatrice still hadn’t finished giving them instructions when the doorbell rang, only eight minutes late.

  “Have a lovely evening!” she exhorted them. “And notice everything!”

  Matthew raised his mug and the party of three descended to street level to meet Ettore.

  Chapter 21

  With the youngsters gone, Matthew on the terrace with his book and a good two hours before their dinner, Beatrice knuckled down to work. First she added several more names to her spreadsheet of all relevant parties, drawing links between each person and filling in motive, means and alibi.

  Her gut instinct was shut out of the process as she clinically assessed each member of the kitchen staff and marked their names as unlikely or possible spies. Even those who had employed her.

  Rami Ahmad had been the second chef, Agusto’s right-hand man. He was part of the concept, observing the creation of each dish, learning the methodology and techniques. He had access to Agusto’s creative mind and a great deal of disposable income. It was perfectly possible he had been the stooge, but why would his taskmasters kill him? And who had taken his place?

  Marcello di Marco had stepped into Rami’s job. Personable, keen, an excellent chef with a focus on seafood, he was right beside Agusto in the main kitchen. How could he have stolen the dessert recipe and why would he bring the copy to Agusto’s attention? Unless he and Suhail were in cahoots.

  Searching for a single spy would hamper her investigations. After this afternoon, she believed there could be a team. Beatrice sighed and moved on.

  Bruno and Chantal could both be discounted. Bruno was Agusto’s nephew and had only just started as an apprentice. His skills were more in the region of languages, not cookery. Chantal’s abilities were limited to assemblage. She wasn’t a chef and in Beatrice’s opinion, had no desire to be.

  Washer-upper Benoît couldn’t see much from his cubby-hole and if he only spoke French, he would be unable to memorise and pass on kitchen secrets. If his monoglot status was true. She would have to check.

  That left Suhail himself, who Isabella and Agusto said they ‘had to trust’. Had he been in partnership with Rami and was now operating alone? Beatrice tugged at her earlobe, mentally turning every stone.

  Other than kitchen staff, the next best informed individual would be the maître d’hôtel. Alessandro Bonardi was a closed book, polite and formal, who oversaw all front-of-house operations like a bird of prey. He must know the ingredients of a dish but would he be able to comprehend the techniques? The professor brother who had worked there for a while; where did he fit in?

  Isabella and Agusto. They had chosen to include Suhail in the Beatrice Stubbs rising star chef deception – we had to involve one other person, you understand? – but it wasn’t just one other person. There was Gennaio. No one apart from Beatrice had even questioned his inclusion. The supplier, the brother, the constant presence in the kitchen. The earth to Agusto’s fire. A highly successful man who also drove a Ferrari.

  It was hardly thinkable that he would set fire to his own warehouse to make himself look a victim, but it was also true that he was part of the inner circle.

  Beatrice rubbed her eyes and checked her watch. Still over an hour until dinner and she couldn’t see a clear motive, means or opportunity from any one of these individuals. She closed her laptop and decided to make herself and Matthew an aperitif. Her brain never functioned at its best on an empty stomach, but it might buck its ideas up after a gin and tonic.

  Chapter 22

  As the only member of the party who had previously eaten at Ecco, Luke gave his dining companions the benefit of his wisdom as they drove along the seafront. Buffalo milk was nothing to be afraid of and the risotto came highly recommended. Too much of the bread dipped in oil and vinegar could fill you up, which would be a shame. When ordering desserts, smart diners order three different things so everyone gets to have a taste.

  Adrian took his advice on board, sharing a smile with his husband over Luke’s head. Will reciprocated and reached his arm across the seat to squeeze Adrian’s shoulder. Too much, too soon. He was not yet forgiven. Not only had Will taken it upon himself to tell Beatrice of the stalker, without asking Adrian’s permission, but his explanation of their underhand private meeting was far from satisfactory. They were up to something and shutting Adrian out. He ignored Will and addressed the driver.

  “Ettore, you don’t
need to hang around for us. We can catch a taxi home. You need some downtime as well.”

  The driver shook his head with some emphasis. “No, no. No taxi for you. Agusto’s orders. I take care of you and make sure you go from door to door. That is my job. I give you my card. When you are ready to leave, call me and I collect. Here we are, everyone! Ecco!”

  The entrance to the restaurant blew Adrian away. Blue and golden lights sparkled from the trees either side of an inviting walkway of blue carpet. The lower part of the walls were made of glass, so outsiders could see nothing more of the patrons than high heels, ankles and handbags, heavy hints as to the privilege within.

  Luke caught hold of Adrian’s hand as they walked up the carpet, while Will tried to persuade Ettore to accept a tip. A doorman welcomed them with a sweeping bow and glass doors opened into a beautiful, fragrant dining room of absolute perfection. Adrian wanted to move in and never leave.

  The older man with hairy eyebrows behind the greeting podium smiled at Luke. “Buonasera signori, avete prenotato? Do you have a reservation, gentlemen?”

  Luke looked at Adrian.

  “I think so.”

  “Yes, a table for three, please. In the name of Beatrice Stubbs,” Will had come up behind them and placed a hand on each shoulder.

  The greeter man’s eyes widened just a touch before he led them through the dining-area to a window table with a view to take one’s breath away. They seated themselves and took in the scenery.

  “Pretty!” said Luke, surveying the bay.

  Pretty was an understatement. Adrian let out a long ‘oh’ as his eyes took in the sky and sea bathed in layers of indigo, pink and midnight blue, lit with thousands of sparkling lights from boats, islands and the spread of the city.