“I sincerely hope you can, young man, yes,” replied Henry Silk, peering through his small rimless spectacles. “I wish to speak with Signor Ettore Cambroni.”
“Is Signor Cambroni expecting you, signore?”
“Not exactly, no. But it is most urgent, I can assure you. Would you mind giving him my name?”
“I’ll need to check if he’s in yet,” said Thompson, pulling a mobile phone from his pocket. “What name is it, signore?”
“Mancini. Oscar Mancini,” replied Henry. He frowned, his features radiating concern and a certain anguish. “Could you please tell him I need to speak with my daughter? It really is most urgent.”
Henry saw the name register in Thompson’s eyes before the man turned to make his call. While he waited, he checked his reflection in one of the large mirrors in the lobby. The trim moustache and grey wig aged him about ten years, the swept-back curls adding an impression of Italian ancestry, while the silk cravat and herringbone tweed jacket announced that the fashion he was clearly slave to was stuck back in the nineteen sixties.
“Signor Cambroni would be pleased to see you, signore,” said Thompson as he pocketed his phone. “If you would like to follow me …”
“Signor … Mancini?” Ettore Cambroni hurried through the first-floor gallery to where Thompson and Henry had just emerged from the lift, his face a mixture of concern and doubt.
“Yes,” said Henry, allowing an inflection of refined Bostonian to colour his Italian accent. “Oscar Mancini. And you are Signor Ettore Cambroni, I presume?”
“Indeed,” agreed Ettore. “How may I help you, signore?”
Henry let his eyes scan the gallery as if he were looking for someone.
“I need to speak with my daughter, Signor Cambroni. Her name is Ginevra Mancini. I believe she works here.”
His eyes had stopped roaming and were now firmly fixed on Ettore Cambroni’s while he watched for any reaction.
“You are Ginevra’s father?” Ettore Cambroni’s face still registered his disbelief.
“I am, yes. You see, my wife Martina, Ginevra’s mother, is seriously ill. It was all rather sudden. Just a few days ago she was as right as rain, and now she’s fighting for her life. I hope it’s not inconvenient, Signor Cambroni; Ginevra will be needing a few days off. You see, my wife’s in a clinic, in Milan.”
“I, er, Ginevra has never really talked about her parents, about you. She told us she was from Milan, of course, and even if she hadn’t, we’d have known from her accent. But you, signore, you are …”
Henry allowed a gentle, understanding smile.
“I’m from the US. Met my wife while I was here with a military mission, we fell in love and the rest, well … I’ve lived here now for nearly thirty years, although I regret to say I still struggle with your wonderful language.”
It was Ettore’s turn for an understanding smile.
“On the contrary, signore, your Italian is excellent. I think I am just a little surprised to learn that Ginevra has an American father. It would help explain her English of course, which is perfect.”
“She’s a girl of many talents, Signor Cambroni. Never ceases to amaze me.”
Henry was confident that the gallery owner had swallowed the bait, but just to be sure, he took his phone from his jacket, hit a couple of buttons and turned the screen towards Cambroni. “Here’s Ginevra with her mother just last summer.”
He peered over the phone, staring sadly at the photograph, which was of Jennifer and Martina the cook at the Fabrelli villa in Sardinia. Martina was dressed up to go out for the evening, looking every bit as if she could be Jennifer’s mother.
“The fickle finger of fate, signore,” sighed Henry.
Ettore’s face was now distraught.
“I am afraid I have some difficult news, Signor Mancini,” he said. “Jennifer isn’t here.”
“She’s not? Is it her day off? She isn’t at her apartment. I called by there and when there was no answer, I let myself in — I have a key — just in case she was sleeping off a heavy night out or some such thing.”
He gave Cambroni an indulgent father’s smile, but Cambroni’s face retained its serious expression. The Ginevra he knew didn’t have heavy nights out.
“No, it’s not her day off. She’s missing.”
“Missing?” Henry almost shouted the word. “What do you mean ‘missing’?”
“I can’t explain it, signore. She went for lunch two days ago at the usual time of one o’clock, and she didn’t return. She hasn’t been seen since.”
“Did she call?”
“No, signore, and she’s not answering her phone.”
“That’s right, she isn’t. I’ve been trying too. Did she, I mean, was she upset about anything? Boyfriend trouble?”
“Nothing I nor anyone else here is aware of, no. She seemed in excellent spirits before she left for lunch. In fact, she’s been nothing but a delight since she started working here. And an exceptional salesperson. All our clients appreciate her knowledge of art, and she’s also managed to charm some of our more difficult ones.”
He shook his head in a world-weary way. “The Russians, you know, they are not always easy. It is so fortunate that Ginevra speaks Russian; it has smoothed what might well have otherwise been rough waters on a number of occasions.”
Henry hid his surprise. He’d had no idea that Jennifer spoke Russian.
“Have you informed the police about her disappearance?”
“No, not yet,” replied Cambroni, his face deadpan. The idea of informing the police about anything was anathema to him. “I thought I’d give it a couple of days. I’m aware that no matter how stable and sensible young women can appear, there’s often a crisis bubbling under the surface. They can be very unpredictable.”
Old chauvinist, thought Henry.
“I couldn’t agree more, Signor Cambroni,” he said. “Ginevra certainly had her moments growing up. But these days, she’s nothing if not composed and well adjusted.” He frowned, wringing his hands. “After what you have told me, I’m now very concerned.”
He looked around the gallery to the paintings lining the walls, wondering how many had been produced on site.
“I was speaking on the phone to Ginevra only a few days ago, just before her mother was taken ill. She was telling me about her work and how much she was enjoying it. She was also telling me about some of the clients. Discreetly, of course, no names were mentioned. She said that what she appreciates more than anything is dealing with a knowledgeable client. Do you know if she has become particularly friendly with any of them?”
Cambroni was shaking his head. “I don’t think so; I certainly wouldn’t encourage it. Once that happens, clients always expect larger discounts. However, there was a lady, an American in fact, with whom we’ve been dealing recently. She seemed most taken with Ginevra. But I can’t imagine how that could be linked with her disappearance.”
“I agree; it seems most unlikely. I think Ginevra mentioned that client to me. Is she the one with a passion for Renaissance portraits?”
“Signora Fairbright, yes. A very wealthy woman. I should say she is one of the best clients we’ve ever had. Interestingly, Ginevra wasn’t dealing with her when she was here last time; she was busy with some other people. However, Signora Fairbright did stop to talk to her.”
Henry nodded, as if this was all valuable news to him.
“Do you think it might be worth giving Signora Fairbright a call, in case Ginevra’s been in touch with her? I know it’s a long shot but …”
Cambroni was shaking his head again, and this time his shoulders lifted automatically in resignation. “I agree it would be worth calling but unfortunately Signora Fairbright is a very private person. She left no number. She handles everything through her personal assistant, Signora Fitchley. A most, er, disagreeable woman, I regret to say. I have a number for her, although she didn’t answer yesterday when I tried to call her.”
He reached into his
pocket and pulled out a phone. “I could try again,” he said, punching some numbers. He waited, checked the signal strength, and waited some more.
“No answer, I’m afraid, and no voicemail. I imagine her phone is turned off.”
“Not much of a PA then,” said Henry. “Have you any idea where they’re staying? Presumably it’s a hotel here in Florence?”
“Neither lady gave me any indication. In fact, even though Signora Fairbright bought a number of paintings, rather than leaving an address for delivery, she insisted on sending a car for their collection.”
“She really does value her privacy,” said Henry, the dismay sounding in his voice.
“Precisely,” agreed Cambroni.
Then he raised his eyes, a light in them telling Henry he had more information.
“However,” he continued, “there was a gentleman with them, a Roman called Cesare Contorni, claiming to be an Italian art expert, although I’m not so convinced about his expertise. He was a little more forthcoming, discreetly, of course. Out of the ladies’ hearing, he told me they are staying in a rented villa in Monte San Savino. Do you know where that is?”
“A little south of Arezzo, isn’t it?”
“Exactly. It seems Signora Fairbright has bought a substantial villa that she is presently renovating. A massive project according to Contorni, who is rather proud of being in the lady’s employ and not shy to brag about it.”
“Is that villa there too, in Monte San Savino?”
“No, he said it is in the hills behind the town of Castiglion Fiorentino, above the Val di Chio. Somewhere rather remote.”
“I know the area vaguely,” lied Henry, who knew it well after having spent a number of holidays there. He let his forehead furrow with worry as he added an extra edge of concern to his voice. “Contorni didn’t give you the names of the villas by any chance, did he? I’d like to speak with Signora Fairbright, even if it’s only to rule out any connection with Ginevra’s disappearance.”
Cambroni nodded, persuaded by Henry’s performance. He knew precisely what the villas were called — he knew the whereabouts of all his rich clients and their paintings in case he had need of them in the future; Connie’s were no exception. Not impressed by her secrecy, he had, as a matter of course, had Connie’s car followed when it arrived to pick up the paintings, instructing his driver to find out the names of both the villa under renovation and the villa Connie was renting. However, he wasn’t going to give Ginevra’s father any insight into his criminal ways; he would use Contorni.
“As it happens, he did,” said Cambroni. ‘What I mean is that it slipped out in his conversation; I don’t think he meant to tell me. The rented villa, the one in Monte San Savino, is called the Villa Luisa while the one under renovation is the Villa Brillante.”
“I’ll start with the one in Monte San Savino, the Villa Luisa,” said Henry, elated that he had made progress. “It should be easy enough to find. I’m most grateful to you, Signor Cambroni.”
“Prego, Signor Mancini,” replied Cambroni.
He hesitated slightly before adding, “Signore, I am now also very concerned for Ginevra’s welfare. Would it be an imposition to ask if you could keep me informed of any progress you make? A phone call, perhaps?” He handed Henry a card.
“I’ll let you know immediately I know anything,” said Henry with a reassuring smile. “Thank you again.”
Chapter Forty-Three
Henry hurried back to the apartment to change. Derek had left much earlier, long before Henry put on his disguise, and was now at the safe house with Godden and Felice where Felice’s team were scouring the Internet and calling all possible sources for anything that might help them find Connie Fairbright.
Henry had made the excuse to Derek that while he would join them later, he couldn’t just sit around waiting.
“I have to do something, even if it’s just walking the streets for inspiration.”
As he removed his disguise and dressed in jeans, T-shirt and a light jacket, Henry knew he should be calling the team with the information Ettore Cambroni had given him. He even picked up his phone and highlighted Derek’s number. But he hesitated, his finger hovering over the number.
His concern was that although he had no doubt Freneton was holding Jennifer captive somewhere in the woods beyond Castiglion Fiorentino, the psychopath was also working for Fairbright. It was likely therefore that Jennifer had been left alone. However, if large numbers of Felice’s officers descended on Monte San Savino searching for the Villa Luisa, or started scouring the woods for the Villa Brillante, Freneton might be alerted by the activity and return to wherever she was holding Jennifer and kill her.
By contrast, one man making the same search would be less noticeable. It was a risk and he knew that the rest of the team would be incensed, but he had a gut feeling that it was the best way. And maybe by searching now, he could shortcut the team’s actions, enabling them to move directly to the right location. It was his daughter’s life at stake; he was strung tight with worry.
He laced up the heavy-duty hiking boots he had bought that morning and reached into his bag for his mobile charger — he couldn’t risk his phone dying on him. The final thing to arrange before leaving was transport, a rental. He called several companies until he found one that had a four-by-four available for immediate delivery to the apartment.
After forty-five minutes, Henry was on his way, following the satnav’s directions to the A1 autostrada to head south to the small hill town of Monte San Savino. An hour after his departure, he was parked in a car park outside the town walls. Rather than resort to asking at the local carabiniere headquarters, or a tourist information office, he decided to search the Internet for the Villa Luisa using the sites of local letting agents. He discovered three who still had the property listed in spite of the villa’s long-term rental to Connie. As a bonus, all the listings carried photographs of the main exterior views and several of the interior rooms. One even had directions. The villa, which was set in six acres of well-fenced wooded hillside, was more substantial than Henry had expected. Considering this and its extensive grounds, it probably had staff. Getting in unnoticed might prove difficult.
He was not so lucky with his search for the Villa Brillante. There was nothing in the area, although there were several others listed around the country. The name was possibly one that Connie Fairbright had given her new house, and so any listing would be under another name, if indeed it were listed at all.
Before driving the several miles west from Monte San Savino to the Villa Luisa, Henry checked out the satellite view on his phone. He could see what appeared to be a narrow surfaced road winding about three hundred yards from the main road to the villa’s boundary walls. There were no other properties nearby, just dense woodland.
The road leading out of the town was quiet and once it started to climb, the only traffic Henry saw was a tractor heading in the opposite direction. He drove past the turning leading to the villa’s gates and found a spot to leave the car. Doubling back on foot, he set off into the woods about a hundred yards short of the turning, not wanting to be seen by any cars arriving or leaving. However, he quickly found that making his way through the trees was slow going so he walked down to the narrow road, ready to dive for cover if he heard any cars approaching.
He knew from the satellite image that the road curved sharply to the right before stopping at the main gate. At the curve, he slipped into the trees for cover in case the gates opened, although thanks to EU regulations, he knew he would be warned: a light above the gate post was ready to flash when the gates were triggered and there would be an accompanying siren.
Peering through the trees, he could see both the imposing wrought iron gates and the equally imposing six-foot-high wall running away from both sides of the gate posts, its top edge fringed with an old and irregular coating of jagged glass and what was clearly a more recent addition of coiled razor wire. Since the drive on the other side of the gates curved to
the left, he couldn’t see more than a glimpse of the villa itself so he decided to hike around the perimeter. Perhaps there would be a spot where he could climb the wall.
At this point he began to wonder about other forms of security and whether there were cameras or alarms — in any of the movies he’d been in, the hero would by now have been dancing across tripwires and cutting feeds to CCTV. The real world of the Tuscan countryside was rather different: there was nothing to indicate any electronic security that Henry could see as he made his way around the outside of the wall. He shrugged and hoped his observations were correct, particularly as he had just spotted an old wooden gate in the wall that he might be able to force open.
The gate was chestnut: solid and heavy with no keyhole, just a latch lever. Henry assumed it would be padlocked on the inside. As he reached out to try the latch lever, he heard voices on the other side of the wall as a bolt on the gate was pulled. He darted into the trees for cover, crouching down behind some heather just as the gate swung open and a middle-aged man emerged dressed in overalls and working boots. The man turned his head back and called out, “Beppe, it’s lunchtime. Hurry up!”
“Arrivo, arrivo!” called someone from inside the gate, and a younger man wandered out, his eyes fixed on his smartphone.
He pulled the gate shut behind him and spat out a string of dialect that Henry could just work out was a complaint about the phone signal. He thrust the phone into his pocket in disgust and trotted off after his workmate.
As soon as they were out of sight, Henry walked quietly up to the gate and pushed on it. It swung open. In a moment he was in and closing the gate, surprised to find there was no lock, just a bar that slid into a thick staple to prevent it from being opened from the outside.
The formal grounds near the villa were in total contrast to the woods outside. A variety of trees and shrubs spread out in front of him in a carefully crafted and maintained garden that was more English than Italian. Beds of several varieties of elaeagnus, phlomis and ornamental broom vied for position with floral clusters of lavenders and cotoneaster, some overshadowed by linden trees, others by walnut and chestnut, the expansive lawns in between the beds a vivid, weedless green that spoke of meticulous attention and frequent watering.
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