by JJ Marsh
“Can I take my phone so Mum can talk to him? She’s worrying.”
Adrian mugged an apologetic face. “I didn’t have a chance to intercept. Tanya sent a text and Luke told her what happened. We spoke to her and Marianne this morning after I got your message and they’re a lot calmer now.”
Beatrice sat down at the kitchen table with a sigh. “You can’t blame them. They must be distraught. Oh dear, this really is a mess. Is there any chance of a decent coffee? Then I really should shower and change before Ettore arrives.”
“You’ve got the day off,” said Luke, reaching into the cupboard for the coffee grounds.
Beatrice rubbed at her eyes. “I’m sorry?”
“Isabella called just after nine,” Adrian explained. “She heard what happened and said she doesn’t expect you at Ecco today. She sends her best wishes and Ettore will deliver flowers to the hospital. When you have time, give her a call to update her on the patient.”
“How the hell does she know what happened?” asked Beatrice, her eyes following Luke as he expertly filled the coffee pot with water, tamped down the grounds and screwed the device together. The child was growing up even as she watched.
“No idea,” said Adrian, with a shrug. “But she knew what, who and where. Anyway, Will picked up the rental Vespa this morning and took Suhail to work. He should be back soon. Can I make you some breakfast? You look wrung out.”
“Yes please. French toast with cinnamon and honey would do the trick because I’m going to start eating healthy foods as soon as Matthew comes home. You know, now that I have the day off, I could go to Ristorante della Nonna myself to check their desserts. How about you and Luke visit Matthew, take him his phone and let him reassure his daughters? After lunch, I’ll go in to check on him and then we can have a team meeting back here.”
Luke poured some milk into a pan and placed it on the hob. “What about Will?”
“What about me?” a voice called from the hallway.
Something about that man’s presence acted as a tonic. Luke laughed, a smile spread across Adrian’s face and Beatrice revolved in her chair to see the tall, lean man enter the kitchen.
He placed a hand on her shoulder, his eyebrows raised in enquiry.
“He’s going to be all right,” she said.
“When can we see him?” Will asked, planting a kiss on Adrian’s lips and prodding Luke’s shoulder. “Can you make me a coffee too, please?” He swung into a chair and faced Beatrice. “So, what’s the plan?”
After a two-hour nap, Beatrice rose and checked her phone. One message from Matthew. Doctors here are even prettier than the nurses!
She chuckled, showered and dressed for her lunch appointment, feeling a whole lot better if not entirely rested. The apartment was cool and silent since Will, Adrian and Luke had left for the hospital. Beatrice sat in the roof garden for a few minutes, giving herself space to think. A breeze blew across her face, bringing scents of the sea, frying garlic, traffic fumes and a sweet hint of blossom from the trees in the backyard.
Ristorante della Nonna was two metro stops away, but Beatrice chose to walk. Something in her yearned for sunlight, people and open spaces. It was the first time she had ventured out into the streets of Naples alone and she clutched her handbag under her armpit, tense and alert. Chattering children ran past and a small dog barked from a balcony. A homeless man held out a cup and Beatrice scooped out some coins from her jacket pocket. The smell of drains hit her as she skirted some road works and ducked past some tourists holding a map. The further she went, the more comfortable she became, recalling her personal philosophy. The only way to understand a city is to walk its streets.
It was half past two when she arrived and stood back to allow a party to exit the latest Neapolitan culinary sensation. Fully in character as irritated businesswoman eager to get back to work, she enquired as to the availability of a table for one and how long service might take. The head waiter confirmed she could eat two courses in an hour and led her to a table for one by the window.
She chose not to go for two obvious copies. Instead she ordered fish of the day: stuffed red mullet with ginger and lime couscous, followed by the dessert labelled La Dolce della Regina - The Queen’s Dessert – lavender ice-cream with Prosecco jelly. She ordered water and opened her laptop to make notes.
Her phone rang while she waited for her meal.
“Hello, Herr Kälin, thank you for returning my call.”
“Frau B. Is this a good time?”
“Perfect. Just waiting for my lunch.”
“At three in the afternoon? Of course, you are in Italy. They operate on southern time.”
The waiter brought her water and Beatrice smiled her thanks.
“Southern Italian time but hungry British stomach. Do you have news for me?”
“Some. You asked me to visit the restaurant in Einsiedeln. My nephew and Chalet Nonna deserve their respect, it seems. Top quality food, a good reputation, expensive real estate and many good reviews. I am surprised.”
She poured a glass of water but did not drink. “Surprised at the level of skill?”
“Yes, that was impressive. I ate one of the best veal dishes in my broad experience. My vital question was how he managed the business end. Stefan has no resources, nor does his close family. He told me the place is part of a high-end franchise. I asked him the terms. He did not answer the question.”
Beatrice gnawed on an olive. “So he had funding for a prime piece of property and is making a name for himself. Can I ask if you had dessert?”
Kälin puffed into the mouthpiece. Beatrice couldn’t tell if it was a laugh or a snort of derision.
“I had something called Englishes Frühstück. Ice-cream with coffee. Pleasant enough, if a little too crude for my taste. Most English things are.”
A waiter approached with a plate of fish. “Herr Kälin, I cannot thank you enough. This is immensely helpful. I wish you and your nephew every success. I really appreciate your professional perspective. Have a lovely afternoon.”
“Likewise, Frau B. En guete.” He rang off.
So she was right. The Nonna chain was indeed a franchise. In which case, it was something far bigger than one rogue chef. The question was, which organisation was behind it? She quashed her assumptions and picked up her fork.
The restaurant grew less and less populated as the lunch service wore on and from her vantage point with her back against a wall, Beatrice could observe the floor and ensure no one could see her computer screen.
Twice she saw a waitress show a dessert to the head waiter as she returned dishes to the kitchen. La Dolce della Regina was not a success. Customers ate the jelly and downed the biscuit, but the ice-cream was left to melt into a lilac mess.
Beatrice’s conviction grew and she left half the couscous. One, it reinforced the ‘I’m in a hurry’ image and two, it expedited the dessert.
Only she and Suhail knew the true recipe. Three others had heard the fake. Isabella, Agusto and Gennaio. Her gut feeling had become a conviction. Someone was lying to their faces and here was proof.
The jelly was light and sparkly with some gold flakes to add to the atmosphere. No issues with the biscuit either. But the ice-cream was like eating soap. Beatrice laid down her spoon and wrote rapid notes on her laptop, sent Will a message and called the waiter.
“Coffee, madam? Did you like your dessert?”
“No coffee, thank you. The dessert? A little too crude for my taste. Could you bring me the bill, please?”
She stared out of the window at the crowded streets and allowed herself a grim sense of satisfaction. In her first job as private investigator, she had been hired by the management of Ecco to root out the spy. It wasn’t the easiest task, but now she’d worked it out. Her concern now was whether employers really wanted to know the truth.
The taxi driver wasn’t at all happy at dropping her off outside the docks. His accent was impenetrable, but his gestures were clear. He wanted her to
stay safe and this was a dangerous place. She assured him as far as she could that she was here for a business meeting, thrusting her briefcase in his direction.
The sun shone directly into her eyes as she got out of the taxi, making everything orange or an indistinguishable silhouette. She swiped the access card she had found behind Ecco on the security reader and the gate creaked open, allowing her in. Men working in the warehouses or loading ships stared openly as she passed. The best thing to do was to pick up her pace and give the impression she knew exactly where she was going and what she was doing.
It didn’t take a genius to spot Gennaio’s section of the dock. It was the only one cordoned off with tape since the fire damage. His Testarossa was parked at the side, along with several other less ostentatious vehicles. Beatrice released a small sigh of relief. Gennaio’s movements rarely followed a routine but it was essential she spoke to him away from the restaurant. Surprise, her secret weapon, was unlikely to work if he wasn’t actually here.
The warehouse was still operational, with pairs of shouty men loading vans from the mucky-looking bays. With a sharp move sideways to avoid a forklift truck, she wove her way through the parked cars to a Portakabin which acted as a temporary reception. Before she could reach for the handle, it jerked open and Gennaio came out, phone clamped to his ear. He stopped, staring at her.
“Gennaio, hello! Sorry to interrupt. Could I have a word?” she asked, keeping her tone light.
The big man said something in Italian into the phone, ended his call and spread his hands. “Beatrice! This is not the place for you. How did you get in here?”
“Detectives have their ways. Never mind that now. Listen, I need to talk to you and it will not wait. Can we go somewhere a little less noisy?”
His eyes darted about, alighting on his car. “Yes, of course. Come, I will take you back to your apartment. We can talk on the way. Is something wrong?”
Beatrice hesitated. She would rather talk in public but she did fancy a go in his car. Perhaps there was a way.
“In your Ferrari? Really? How exciting! Do you know, I’ve never been in one of those things? Can we stop at a café so I can pretend I’m famous?”
His face forced out a tight smile. “No problem. Let’s go.”
The Ferrari Testarossa was designed to attract attention. Bright red, low slung and incredibly loud, it turned heads as Gennaio revved his way out of the docks and into the never-ending snarl-up of Naples traffic.
“OK, Beatrice, you want to talk to me?”
“Yes, I do.” Play for time. Try the petrol-head distraction routine. Adrian uses it to great effect on Will. “What I wanted to ask ... ooh, you can physically feel the power of this car, can’t you? As if it wants to run.”
Gennaio took the bait, nodding and smiling as he caressed the wheel. “She is a racehorse, built for speed. In the city, you cannot see her at her best. This weekend, we are going to the Amalfi Coast where she can run free.”
Beatrice had never understood the male habit of referring to cars as female, nor had it ever seemed less appropriate than in this loud, attention-seeking, big red show-off. She asked several other questions as to performance and Gennaio was happy to explain. As they neared the university, Beatrice spotted a parking space opposite a busy café.
“Let’s stop here! I’d like to buy you a coffee while we talk.”
Gennaio’s frown returned as he reversed, his big hand on Beatrice’s headrest as he manoeuvred into the space. Two kids on bikes had stopped to watch. It must be dreadfully demanding to be the focus of attention all the time, even if you had spent over two hundred grand to achieve exactly that effect.
They ordered two espressi and sat outside in the sunshine. Beatrice lifted her face to the sun and smiled. “You are lucky to live here. The weather, the scenery, the food.” She looked directly at him. “Isabella hired me to find out who is stealing recipes from Ecco and that is what I have done. Before I present her with my findings, I wanted to offer you the opportunity to confess.”
His face showed the internal wrangling within. He considered denial, outrage, incomprehension and mirth, but eventually came to rest at defeat. Tearing open a packet of sugar, he nodded to himself, several times. “That was quick.”
“Slower than I would have liked,” Beatrice replied, watching every movement for an indication as to his potential reaction.
Gennaio looked around, ensuring no one was close enough to hear. “You are right, Beatrice. I started this. What you need to understand is that it was for very honourable reasons.”
“Stealing recipes from your brother was for honourable reasons? I’m going to need some help understanding that.”
He placed both hands over his eyes and breathed like a bull. After several inhalations, he faced her. “In the Colacino family, Agusto and I are both successful. Not everyone in our family is so lucky. We had an older brother, Giulio.”
“Bruno’s father?”
His eyebrows bounced upwards. “You are a good investigator! Yes, Giulio. He died in an accident. At the time when he should have been happiest with his young family, he lost his life to a careless driver who was writing a message on his phone. The two children were very little, young enough to adapt. The problem was their mother. When we buried Giulio, she lost her mind. Crazy with grief, she tried to kill herself and the children. Her neighbours smelt the gas and rescued the family. The children recovered but their mother died in the hospital.” He sipped at the little glass of water beside his coffee.
“That’s so very sad,” said Beatrice, all her concentration on this man.
“What to do? Giulio’s younger brothers were both making a career and could not adopt children. The neighbours were good people. They had a child the same age and took care of Bruno and Chantal like their own. Agusto and me, we paid for their education. We sent them away to learn languages and now Chantal and Bruno both have a job at Ecco.”
Now it was Beatrice’s turn to look surprised. “Chantal is your niece?”
“Yes. Such a smart girl. She trained in Berlin and has the head for business. She and Bruno have the enterprise gene. They won’t stay in the restaurant for long. The sad thing was their adoptive parents had bad luck. The mama and papa had cancer and passed away in their fifties. Their son, Fabio, became, how do you say, a hooligan? Always in trouble with the police, drugs, bad friends, angry with everyone. He needed help. Somewhere to start.” Gennaio’s expression pleaded with Beatrice to understand.
“What did you do?” she asked.
“Agusto was not interested. Fabio is not family, he says, so why should we care?” Gennaio slapped his chest. “I care. Fabio is like a brother to Bruno and Chantal. They love him no matter how many mistakes. Not like them, he is a fantastic cook. I offered to help. We found a place, made it a restaurant and I gave him some recipes from Ecco.”
“You or Rami?” asked Beatrice, her voice sharp.
Gennaio’s mouth fell open. “You know about Rami?”
“Yes, and about how you are trying to force Suhail to do the same.”
“No!” he hissed. “That is not me. This is why I am in trouble. Beatrice, please, listen to me. I swear on my brother’s life this is the truth.”
Such dramatic language did not sit well with Beatrice but she said nothing and listened.
“I supported Fabio. I sold him fresh ingredients for the same discount as I give to Ecco. He needed more than just good quality food. That’s why I suggested copying five-star recipes but doing something special. I asked Rami for help. He was already working for a bigger outfit which could provide financing for a whole chain of restaurants. We met one of their representatives and agreed on the idea of a franchise. They put up the money, we provide the recipes, the owners share in the profits. Everyone wins.”
Beatrice rolled her eyes. “Gennaio, I may look like a little old lady to you, but until recently I was Detective Chief Inspector of the London Metropolitan Police. If this is such an honourable exercis
e in philanthropy, why was Rami killed?”
Gennaio shook his head with some vehemence. “I don’t know! Listen, Rami was involved in other things, things I didn’t like. He was a bigger fish in this network. He told me he was a provider. Whatever these people want, he would find it. I don’t know, I really don’t, but I suspect it was women, drugs, exclusive access to restaurants like Ecco. The restaurant franchise was a business idea we took to them and they liked it. The Nonna chain has fifteen branches in Italy and they are moving north, where the money is.”
“Such as Switzerland?”
For the first time, Gennaio’s face reflected real fear. “You know more than I do. That is very bad. Beatrice, for these people, it is not philanthropy. They want their return on investment. I don’t know what Rami did, but it was enough to get him killed. Now I have no more access to the recipes and they are angry. They are threatening Suhail, they put fire in my warehouse, they scratched the car ... I am afraid of what they will do next. You know far too much about this situation and that is not healthy.”
The sun’s reflection glittered in their water glasses. Beatrice pressed her fingertips to her temples and thumbs to her chin and thought. Finally, she looked at her watch.
“Go to Ecco and tell Agusto and Isabella what is going on. Be honest and admit your part in all of this. We will find a way of standing up to this organisation. Did you ever meet one of their representatives?”
Gennaio paled. “Only once, on a yacht. We took a trip around the bay to celebrate the concept of Nonna. We drank champagne and ate Japanese food.” Gennaio’s expression told her that was the air-brushed version of events.
“Can I ask if he was Italian?”
“No, it was a lady and she came from Odessa.”
“Odessa in the Ukraine?”
“Exactly.”
Beatrice stared at him. “This is getting complicated. Go to the restaurant and tell your brother and sister-in-law everything. I must go and visit my partner in hospital then I will come directly to Ecco. The four of us are going to come up with a plan to get these people off your backs. I already have an idea. Let’s go.” She dropped some Euros on the table and stood up to leave.