It was, therefore, crucial to him to have a photograph of the woman whom he now thought of as Jennifer Silk, a photograph he could show Ettore Cambroni for confirmation. Once again, a search online proved fruitless. There were plenty of Jennifer Silks, but none fitted the bill for all manner of reasons.
Given the relationship between Henry and Connie — and that was something else that had been kept quiet, with no mention anywhere of any connection between the pair, not even in the grimiest gutters of the movie world gossip sites — and the fact that Connie herself was clearly close to Henry’s daughter, Rosselli reasoned there would probably be photographs of Jennifer around Connie’s villa. The problem was how to gain access to them. He had been told the villa was impregnable. Was that really the case? He needed to know, and if it were, he needed to know how the staffing worked. Were the staff imported foreigners whom the Fairbright woman shipped in and out in the luxury of her private jet, or did she use carefully screened locals? A period of quiet observation was required, something at which Rosselli excelled.
* * *
Before first light the following morning, Rosselli was driving alone through the Val di Chio in the direction of Connie’s villa, having reluctantly left Goccia behind in his hotel room. He was intending to work his way through the undergrowth of the forest near the villa, and although Goccia was highly trained and well behaved, he couldn’t risk a single whimper or whine from her at the wrong moment. If dogs were used as part of the villa’s security, they would definitely respond by barking if they detected Goccia’s presence. He had left the pug in front of the cartoon channel, something she seemed to enjoy. He hated to think of her being bored.
Rosselli drove up the steep incline at the end of the valley, turning off at an unsurfaced track beyond the turnoff to Villa Brillante. A hundred metres along the track, out of sight of the main road, he tucked his ageing Panda in amongst the trees. If anyone were to come across it, they would assume it belonged to someone local searching for mushrooms in the woods.
Rosselli himself looked twenty years younger and altogether different from the elderly man who had been sitting in Bar Fulvia. This Rosselli was closer to the real thing; a man in his early forties with close-cropped dark hair speckled with a little grey, most of it hidden by a peaked cap; a slim and fit man but otherwise unremarkable. Average in height, Rosselli wasn’t handsome or ugly, he had the forgettable features of a faceless commuter, someone who was seldom given a second glance. This was Rosselli’s strength and he used it to the full. His physical presence was no more memorable than his shadow, hence his nickname in his exclusive world where anonymity was everything.
Dressed in loose fatigues that were the common garb for local countrymen, Rosselli slipped into the woods and made his way towards Villa Brillante. His goal was to observe the road leading directly to the villa, his assumption being that if the staff were local, they would likely be transported to work daily. This would happen early in the day.
His assumption soon proved correct. He hadn’t been in place among the trees for more than ten minutes when he heard the gentle whoop of a siren announcing the opening of automatic gates. A moment later, a black four-by-four appeared. Empty, apart from the driver Rosselli had seen waiting in the car outside Bar Fulvia over the previous four days, the car sped off along the road, the rumble of its diesel engine soon lost in the trees.
Twenty minutes later, he heard the car returning as it climbed the steep main road from the valley floor, appearing moments later on the track heading back towards the villa. As far as he could make out, there were now three more people besides the driver: a man in the front passenger seat talking animatedly to no one in particular, and two women in the back. Rosselli had no interest in the man, but the two women had potential. If they were ferried in daily like this, they must be household staff. Cleaners probably, who would have access to the various rooms in the house and would know of any family photographs on display. The challenge now was to win one of them over.
* * *
He settled back in his hiding place, leaning against a tree, prepared for a long wait until one or both of the women were returned to wherever they lived.
At five in the evening, the four-by-four once again left the villa carrying the same three passengers. Rosselli made no attempt to rush back through the woods to follow them, since he wanted to repeat his observations over a couple more days to be sure of the household routine. Right now, he needed to get back to Goccia.
After two more days of observation, Rosselli was satisfied that the arrival and departure times of the two women followed a predictable enough schedule; one more day would confirm it. But instead of sitting in his hiding place getting bored, he decided to scout the perimeter wall of Villa Brillante to examine the sophistication of its security.
It didn’t take him long to appreciate just how much effort had been put into securing the villa. Impregnable had been no overstatement; the security was state-of-the-art. As well as concealed cameras on the wall itself, there were others carefully placed in the trees up to fifty metres beyond the wall. Having detected the first of these, Rosselli quickly retreated deeper into the woods and resorted to using a pair of binoculars to survey the area. After two hours of making slow progress, while he was confident he had escaped detection, he saw there was no point in continuing all around the wall. The coverage was expertly applied with no sign of any weak spots. He had examined less than a tenth of the distance, but continuing with the rest would only increase the risk of making a mistake and being discovered, which was unacceptable.
After returning to his car, he drove two kilometres along the main road and stopped. The long-suffering Goccia, whom he had brought with him that day, needed a well-deserved walk. He had decided that any more days of cartoons and the otherwise placid pug would become stir-crazy.
Shortly before five in the afternoon, Rosselli was back in a thicket of trees overlooking the point where the road from the villa met the main road. Goccia sat placidly with him. At five, the four-by-four appeared with its cargo of three and headed down into the Val di Chio. Once the car had disappeared, Rosselli walked to a vantage point he had located that gave him a view along the valley as far as Castiglion Fiorentino, eight kilometres away. From there he watched the progress of the car through the valley until it disappeared close to the town.
“Change of scenery tomorrow, little lady,” he said, looking down at the pug. “We’ll park in the valley near the town and follow them from there.”
Goccia wagged her tail.
Chapter Twelve
The following afternoon, disguised again as the elderly man from Bar Fulvia and with Goccia keeping him company, Rosselli followed the four-by-four to where the women were dropped off in a residential area below the old town. Both lived in modern two-storey apartment buildings, but in different streets.
Rosselli parked his Panda, put the leash on Goccia and they ambled off together to take a closer look at the two women’s homes.
It took only a few minutes to rule out the first woman, the elder of the two. As Rosselli dawdled opposite the building where the woman lived, she appeared at the top of the steps leading up to her first-floor apartment, and bellowed at two children playing in the street. After initially ignoring her, the children, a boy of about ten and his younger sister, reluctantly dragged themselves away from their friends and sulked their way back to where their mother was now standing at the top of the steps, arms folded in menace. The girl complained in a whining voice, but it was the boy who was cuffed around the head as he passed his mother.
Rosselli looked down at Goccia and whispered, “I don’t think so, do you, my sweet?”
The pug registered her agreement by turning her back on the objectionable human spectacle, preferring to examine a hedge she suddenly found fascinating. Rosselli bent to pick her up, deciding to try the other woman. Just as he turned to walk away, a screech of tyres from the end of the street caught his attention. He had no reason to suspect
the activity was anything to do with him, but in his world there was always the need for vigilance. He braced himself, ready to run.
The car raced down the street and pulled to a halt in a cloud of dust outside the house Rosselli had been watching. A large man in his thirties jumped out and slammed the door with far more force than necessary. Unshaven for several days and wearing a stained singlet that had once been white over a pair of greasy jeans, the man strode towards the steps.
“Irena!” he yelled, his tones slurred and full of threat. When there was no answer, he bellowed his wife’s name again.
Rosselli watched in fascination as the man continued shouting while he climbed the steps. On reaching the apartment, the man grabbed the door handle, flung open the door and disappeared inside. The sound of raised voices immediately followed, after which a loud slap cracked like a bolt of electricity as one of the occupants of the apartment was hit.
Eager to leave the scene of domestic violence behind him, Rosselli gave Goccia’s leash a gentle tweak and walked off in the direction of the second woman’s apartment. On entering the street where she lived, he stayed on the far side of the road from the apartment, keeping the front door in his peripheral vision as he talked quietly to Goccia. He was a few steps past the path to the door when the door opened and the woman appeared. Her head was turned back as if she were talking to someone inside the apartment, giving Rosselli a chance to look at her. She had changed into jeans and a loose top and her hair was hanging loose. In her early twenties and therefore far less likely to have a brood of objectionable children following her, she was immediately of more interest to Rosselli.
As if confirming Rosselli’s thoughts about her family situation, the woman called out to someone inside. He couldn’t catch what she was saying, but it wasn’t being said in anger, and it finished with the word ‘Mamma’.
Rosselli bent to fuss with Goccia while he waited to see which way the woman went, his mind in overdrive as he considered his options. He needed to get back to his car to remove his old-man disguise before finding an excuse to talk to the young woman.
The woman turned in Rosselli’s direction and her eyes immediately fell on Goccia. She tilted her head and smiled as she made to walk towards the elderly man and his dog.
This was not how Rosselli wanted things to pan out. About to walk away, he heard a ring tone and in the corner of his eye he saw the woman stop to pull her phone from a pocket in her jeans.
“Ciao, Irena,” she said, “Did you forget—”
She stopped, her face horror struck as she was interrupted by her friend.
She turned in the opposite direction. “Are you injured, amore? Wait, I’ll be right there.” Still holding the phone to her ear and issuing more instructions, she ran off along the road.
Rosselli turned the other way and hurried back to his car. Once inside, he stowed Goccia in her basket on the back seat where she quickly settled, seeming to understand that for now, she had played her part. Rosselli opened the glove compartment and removed a bag of tissue and a bottle of solvent with one hand as he pulled off the leonine wig with the other. Checking himself in the mirror, he quickly removed the subtle make-up on his face, ripped the scarf from his neck and slipped out of his chino trousers. Less than a minute later, a man of around forty in jeans stepped from the car pulling on a thin, stylish pullover. He pulled open the rear door and Goccia looked up hopefully, but Rosselli said, “Sorry, my angel, you’ll have to stay here. I won’t be long.” He lowered the window a few centimetres so the pug would have some air before locking the car with the key fob as he ran down the road.
He was sure the young woman was heading to her workmate’s apartment, and that would mean trouble. Another thirty seconds confirmed his suspicions. As he rounded the corner of the woman Irena’s street, he saw that a crowd of about ten people had formed at the bottom of the steps to her apartment. And the younger woman, who only minutes ago had been about to coo and fawn over Goccia, was marching up the steps, her features set in determination.
“Irena!” she shouted. “Are you all right? Answer me!”
“Help me, Sonia!” called a voice from inside the apartment. “He has gone crazy!”
Another loud smack of hand on face sounded, followed by a scream. A moment later, the apartment door crashed open and Irena’s husband appeared, his face red with anger and his mouth contorted into a vicious sneer.
“Stay away, bitch! This is nothing to do with you. Take another step and I’ll throw you down these stairs.”
But even though she had seen this brute’s temper many times, Sonia was not intimidated.
“If you don’t stop, I’ll call the police,” she shouted, the spittle from her mouth spraying onto the man as she reached the top step.
He laughed in disdain. “You think that frightens me? The ispettore and me are great friends. He knows the only way to treat a wife who disobeys is to beat her.”
He stood back to give himself room and raised his right arm, ready to strike Sonia. But still she stood her ground. After pausing for a second, the man launched himself at her, pushing her hard. Sonia screamed in fright but instead of falling backwards into space, she found herself caught in two strong arms, whisked around and sat on a stair.
Rosselli had seen what was about to happen and bounded to reach the steps, flying up them just as the man lashed out. Once he was sure that Sonia wasn’t about to tumble any farther, Rosselli stood up to face the man. He sidestepped a totally predictable punch and in what appeared to be a whirl of limbs, the man spun around, his right arm twisted up his back in Rosselli’s firm grip, and was forced into the apartment. Rosselli kicked the door closed behind him, gave the man’s arm a sharp twist before pushing him into the living room where Irena and her children were cowering in a corner.
In another blur of movement, the man found himself facing Rosselli, but only for the briefest of moments. A sharp jab to his body was perfectly aimed and the man doubled up in agony, falling to the floor clutching his abdomen as he gasped for air. Rosselli took aim and kicked the man hard in the groin, first once, then again, after which he grabbed him by his filthy vest and dragged him to a half-sitting position. He put his free hand under the man’s jaw, his index finger and thumb digging hard and painfully into the points where the man’s jawbone articulated with his skull.
“Listen to me, you slob. You have one chance. Do not even think this is as bad as it can get. I can cause you more pain than you can possibly imagine. Do you understand?”
He tightened his grip. The man grimaced, a strangled gurgle coming from deep in his throat.
“S…Si,” he slurred.
“Good, because from now on I shall be watching you, and when I’m not around, others will be watching you. If I ever hear of you laying a finger on your wife or your kids or anyone at all, I shall rip your heart out and feed it to the pigs.”
He let go of the man’s jaw, letting him fall forward. As he did, he grabbed the man’s chest with both hands and gripped tightly, digging his fingers deep into the man’s ribs as if he were about to tear him apart.
He let his eyes pierce deeply into the man’s, watching the fear consume him. Abruptly, he pushed the shivering wreck away and stood up.
“Apologise to your wife.”
The man turned his head to him in incomprehension, as if he had no idea what an apology was.
Rosselli took a step back and kicked the man in the mouth. “I said apologise,” he growled, his voice low and menacing.
Clutching his mouth to contain the blood now flowing freely from it, the man rolled over towards his wife.
“I… I… Irena,” he slurred through damaged lips and broken teeth. “I am s…sorry. I will never hurt you again, I swear to God, on my mother’s grave. I—”
“Enough!” barked Rosselli. He turned to Irena who was still cowering in the corner of the room, her arms protectively clasping her children to her.
“Signora,” he said, his tone now softer. “I
f this pig ever lays a hand on you in anger again, you will tell me. Your friend Sonia will know how to contact me.” He smiled in reassurance. “Don’t worry, you are safe. He has had his only chance.”
Gulping back her tears, Irena found her voice. “Thank you, thank you—”
But Rosselli had already left the room.
After closing the front door behind him, he bent down to check on Sonia.
“Are you all right, signorina?” he asked, lightly touching her shoulder.
She turned her head and looked up at him, her eyes questioning.
“Irena?”
“She is fine, and from now on her husband will be as meek as a lamb.”
He took her hand. “Come,” he said, “Let me buy you a coffee, or perhaps a brandy.”
He smiled at the shock in her eyes. Girls like Sonia didn’t drink brandy.
“Maybe a corretto,” she said.
She stood and Rosselli turned to face the crowd still waiting at the bottom of the steps.
“Signore e signori, the show is over. Please go back to your homes.”
Chapter Thirteen
After introducing himself as Gianpietro Tebaldi, an art dealer from Rome, Rosselli let Sonia guide him to a bar just inside the medieval walls of the town. On the way there, when he casually mentioned he had been trying to find Villa Brillante, Sonia readily told him she worked there.
Seated in the cafe, Rosselli continued with the charm.
“I cannot believe my good fortune in bumping into you,” he enthused, looking into the myopic eyes peering back at him through the thick lenses of Sonia’s cheap spectacles. “I was completely lost. I’ve been up and down so many white roads, tracks and mule paths that I was beginning to think Villa Brillante didn’t exist anymore, that my friend Connie had given me the wrong instructions. She can easily do that, you know. She’s a wonderful person, but she has absolutely no sense of direction.”
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