by Roz Goldie
During the news break, Barry ascertained that the remaining calls were for the professor, and they were increasingly anti-English and mostly sexist.
Veronica considered the professor to be the maker of her own misfortune, but felt she should not be subjected to the incoming tirade. She spoke from behind the glass, “Barry, should we go to the package after the news?”
This was a cryptic message, indicating that remaining calls would be gratuitously insulting.
“Remind me again, Ms Pilchard.” He addressed her in this way that signalled agreement.
Barry Doyle was a consummate broadcaster and tactful show host. Lying, he said there was a technical fault with the phones and thanked them both.
“Pity to cut things short.” He gestured towards the door as his research assistant came in.
“Can you show our contributors out, Emily? Thank you for coming in – much appreciated.” He got them off air in a flawless display of professionalism, knowing Veronica was right to draw this farce to a close.
Barry considered reading some of the text messages that came up on his screen. Professor Eliza Taunter had stirred up a hornet’s nest of hostility and xenophobia. Instead, he announced to his listeners that the incoming messages he could see were personal and a few obscene. “Even Barry Doyle has standards!” He chortled and pressed the start button on a prepared package on fracking in Fermanagh. That was contentious enough to set the phone lines ringing before the feature was half way through.
While he worked with the many and varied callers to his programme, Barry knew that the collective memory had a very short span and feelings about fracking would create an immediate distraction.
* * *
Jack Summers took the flight from Belfast to Pisa, armed with hand luggage, basic Italian and a fist full of Euros to smooth his way, in case credit cards failed to be adequate. He was in still shock from the news of his father’s sudden death, but the information had registered sufficiently to cause him that aching sense of loss he had experienced as a boy when his mother died. The pain of that bereavement had stayed with Jack throughout his teens and adult life, somehow gnawing silently away the core of his emotional development and his capacity to form lasting personal relationships.
Giacomo Dilucca was at the airport to meet him – in civilian clothes and a large card, on which Jack’s name was printed in capital letters. The sight of the tall, handsome man in jeans and a sweatshirt was profoundly reassuring. He’d expected Giacomo to be there, but the physical presence of someone who had both local knowledge and authority made the prospect of his time in Tuscany much less daunting.
“Jack!” Giacomo Dilucca stood at the entry to the luggage reclaim with his hand extended.
“Giacomo. Thank you very much. I appreciate that this is a long way from your patch and long after your day should be over.”
“Not at all, my good friend,” Dilucca grinned. “I pulled rank and got a driver for us. Is that all your luggage, or do you need to go to the reclaim?”
“No, that’s all I brought.” Jack held up an old leather overnight bag that looked as if it had seen a fair few years’ service.
“Then let’s be on our way.”
The two men strode out of the air-conditioned arrivals section into the remains of the strong heat of the day, dropping their pace in the few hundred yards it took to reach the police car.
“After you!” Giacomo opened the back door and ushered Jack in, as the driver took his bag and deposited it in the boot.
“Have you eaten?” Dilucca said in a voice he could have used with a close friend.
“No, I am not a great fan of airline food, and I was not hungry.”
“Perhaps when you have had time to settle and have a drink.” Dilucca sat back and watched the urban scenery pass by until they reached the tree-lined country roads, taking them over and across the Tuscan hills.
Jack looked through the darkened glass of the police car, feeling numb, tired and grateful for this brief period of respite, deciding that he’d postpone thinking about food and hotels until they got to their destination.
After 20 minutes or so, Dilucca said expansively, “This is fine country, Jack. I know your father loved living here. I didn’t mention it before, but I have met your father, and he was a good friend of my father-in-law.”
Jack turned to him, staring into Dilucca’s face. “You knew my father?”
“Yes, he was a frequent visitor to our home. Perhaps you would give us the pleasure of staying with us for this difficult time?” The invitation was gracious, making it difficult for Jack to refuse.
“That is more than generous, Giacomo. If it is not an imposition, I would appreciate that, at least for this evening. I am all over the place.”
“Then it is settled!” The policeman flipped open his phone and pressed a pre-dial number. “Lucia? My good friend, Jack, will be with us for his stay. We will be home in half an hour.” He tapped the glass partition that separated them from the driver. “Mario un po piu rapido, per favore.” At that moment, the car sped off breaking the speed limit, raising a powdery wake along the narrow, dusty road.
They arrived at a hill-top villa, surrounded by pine trees and bougainvillea at the end of a long, wide driveway. At the front door, a woman and an old man stood to welcome them. Lucia and her father waved as the car came to a halt.
Lucia Dilucca’s father was a man of around 80, who spoke English with a thick Tuscan accent. He had known George Summers for 40 years and embraced Jack warmly when he got to the front door.
“A very fine man. Your father was a good friend, and I am sorry for your loss.” The old man spoke with tears in his eyes.
“Welcome, Jack Summers.” Lucia extended her hand. “Our home is your home at this sorrowful time.”
A young woman servant appeared, curtseyed and took Jack’s bag.
“This is Cici, our life-saver!” Dilucca said in a cheerful tone. “She will show you your room and call you when the food is ready.” He bowed his head in a tiny movement and nodded.
Jack walked up the wide staircase and along the corridor to his allotted room. Dilucca and his wife were polite and warm in a way that allowed him the space to recover his composure after the old man’s emotional greeting – which had brought him to the verge of unmanly tears.
He took a shower, changed his shirt and sat by the open window for the intervening minutes before he was called for dinner. Outside, birds sang from the perfumed darkness. He was a world away from the drab urban setting of College Road in Belfast. The luxury of the villa, the gentle Italian autumnal environment and this unexpected hospitality did not soften the shock of his father’s sudden death, but it assuaged his worries about making the funeral arrangements.
Dinner was an informal buffet set out on a long wooden table in a veranda that stretched 40 metres along the back of the house. Bowls set out along the table offered breads, cold meats, roasted vegetables and salads. Decanters of local wine and iced water were set out by Cici, as they sat down.
“Please help yourself, Jack.” Lucia gestured along the table. “You may not be hungry but I imagine you have not eaten since you first spoke to Giacomo.”
“Lucia’s father has gone to bed and sends his apologies. He in nearly 90 and sleeps early these days.”
“I am surprised to hear you say that. He looks much younger and a fit man.” Jack’s enthusiasm showed his sincerity.
“I will tell him tomorrow – he will be flattered!” Lucia said with a smile and a nod.
Giacomo Dilucca had decided that he did not need to make the usual explanations which he extended to new guests at his home, but felt it might be a useful topic of conversation as an alternative to discussing the recent death.
“Now, Jack, I must explain that this magnificent villa has not come from the proceeds of police corruption – my salary is modest. Villa Valeria belongs to my wife, and was the property of her late mother. I am of much more humble stock.”
“Gi
acomo! It would never occur to me!” Jack felt sure that his host was an honest man, although he sensed Giacomo was not telling him everything in connection with his father. “I hope I did not give you such an impression.”
“No, not at all but I’m Italian and we are very nosy people. In this part of the world, everyone wants to know where money comes from and to be truthful, not all of my colleagues live on their salaries alone.” He winked and grinned widely.
For such an apparently open man, Giacomo was nonetheless inscrutable. There was much more to him than his genuine courtesy.
“I have to say your home is very impressive!” He did not add that he envied Dilucca this extravagant villa because he did not. “I assume that Lucia is from this area, but are you also?”
“No, I am from the Veneto, from a village near Verona.”
“Isn’t that a coincidence?” Jack was suddenly attentive rather than making small talk. “My father has to have someone as a house sitter when he is in Italy – for insurance reasons – and the young man is also from a village near Verona. Nicola Tebaldi has been doing this for the last few years.”
“A coincidence? I know his grandparents. Their farm is on the edge of Poggiduomo, where I grew up!” Giacomo laughed out loud.
It was Jack’s turn to keep silent on information – as he had promised Nico he would make sure that news of his abduction could not get to his grandparents. He shrugged.
Unwilling to be left in the dark, seeing his guest avoid the subject, Giacomo set politeness aside and took on his policeman’s demeanour.
“So, what is that you feel obliged to hide? Has Nico got into trouble?”
“Oh, no!” Jack would ask his host for complete confidentiality. “He had an unfortunate experience and my father swore me to secrecy, as the information would seriously upset his grandparents.”
“If that was what your father advised, it must be done.”
“As long as you keep it confidential, I can tell you – it’s still really a mystery as to why, but the former husband of a professor at the university in Belfast tricked Nico into taking a drugged drink and imprisoned him in the basement of her house. I live nearby, and a lady I know discovered him – we rescued him.”
“When you say it’s a mystery, what precisely do you mean?”
“We cannot find a credible motive for abducting Nico. The professor was out of the country at the time and had been divorced from Leo Richards for years, so why was he even in Belfast? And what reason could he have for incarcerating Nico?”
“Perhaps he was up to something. Nico was a witness to his presence and therefore, a threat. I take it that you have not captured this Richards man?”
As the two men talked, engrossed in police business, Lucia stood up and excused herself.
Jack was embarrassed. “Lucia, please forgive me. It is rude of me to talk of police work in your home and at your dinner table.”
“Not at all. You have come to life again! I am glad to see that. I actually have some things I would like to finish off – it suits me to leave you two detectives to talk.” Whether or not she meant what she said, Lucia made them feel they had permission to continue the conversation.
The facts were simple. Leo Richards had escaped the net of the English and Northern Irish police. His former wife had no idea that he had been in Belfast, how he had got into her home or what reason he had for his visit. Indeed, she had been surprised that he had been inside her home, as he did not have keys and had never previously visited.
Giacomo laughed as Jack described the convoluted negotiations that they hoped would lead Professor Taunter to drop her complaint about his forced entry to her home.
“She sounds like a woman with something to hide – in my opinion.”
“Like many of the scholars who roosted comfortably at the university during troubled times, she is a person of whom one can say that there is less to her than meets the eye. From rumour and gossip, it appears she is rather an academic impostor.”
“I’m afraid that is the case throughout the world, my dear Jack.”
As host, Giacomo suggested a nightcap, and the two sipped vintage brandy in large glass globes before retiring to bed.
* * *
Belfast’s university area lay under a cold, dank mist rising from the River Lagan. Veronica Pilchard had slept badly, in part due to the distant but still audible night-time carousing of students and in part because she had a deep sense of apprehension – not that she could identify any reason for such foreboding.
It was not yet quite dawn when she went downstairs, made a pot of strong coffee and retired to the sunroom for a cigarette. She sat scrolling through her laptop, reviewing the features she had produced for the Barry Doyle Show in the coming days. They were certainly dramatic enough to attract a huge audience response – which was essential if they were to meet the punitive targets set by Head of Programmes. Willie Jackson hated Veronica and was hoping the programme figures would not prove to be as massive as the first five sets of statistics demonstrated.
Veronica returned this antipathy and since she was not beholden to Jackson, she took every opportunity to needle him. She enjoyed the fact that if the Barry Doyle Show was a success, it reflected well on her and that Jackson’s pride was considerably greater than his ambition – to such a degree that he’d prefer lacklustre figures for London than admit Veronica Pilchard had outdone him. Age had not mellowed the doyenne of radio production.
Buoyed by these thoughts, she temporarily put aside her computer and looked into the murky sky. All nearby houses were in darkness, except for next door – where it seemed Eliza Taunter had slept equally badly. Veronica’s instinctive predisposition for snooping made her acutely observant. Although she was a poor judge of character, she was sharp-eyed in matters of the material world. She noticed a figure moving behind the net curtains in the one illuminated room. It was too large to be Eliza, and looked like a man.
Had it been anyone but Eliza, Veronica would have assumed the man to be a visitor or a lover – even if only for the night. However, the professor was renowned as a celibate and lacked all traces of common hospitality. The man must be an intruder.
Could she ring Jack Summers? He was only home from his father’s funeral. He would probably dismiss her idiotic theory in any case. Veronica Pilchard put temptation aside this time. She returned to her computer and finished the few script edits required.
Just as she stood up to return to her own room, she saw the stranger – as she thought of the man in Eliza’s house – leaving from Eliza’s front door, heaving a large package wrapped in dark cloth and gently pulling it behind him. The light was still on in an upstairs room.
Veronica worked on for another hour and then set about preparing herself for the outside world, spending another hour washing and fixing her hair and applying make-up in as subtle a manner as possible – but carefully creating the look of a younger woman. She returned to the sunroom for more coffee and her last smoke of the morning. At precisely 9, she left her temporary home in Montague Road, walking briskly towards the city centre.
* * *
At that moment, Sandy Hughes was waiting with some trepidation in the corridor outside the Dean’s office, in the main Lanyon Building of Queen’s University. This was the day of his disciplinary hearing, the result of which would determine whether he was permitted to continue his degree course.
He had prepared detailed notes so that he could make a logical and dispassionate case in his own defence. As he stood, in the mullioned hallway, he reviewed this material.
“She failed me on both my assignments. She told me I should stick to trichology – that’s hairdressing – and I admit I did tell her she was the queen of trick-ology, so she reported me. However, I believe this was all because I disagreed with her in tutorial and questioned her theoretical proposition – which I understand is permissible in academia.”
At 9:30, he was still waiting and beginning to feel somewhat aggrieved. He had arrived
on time for a meeting at 9 o’clock. The least the disciplinary panel could do was to offer some explanation for the delay, but no one had appeared. He could not walk away, as this was his only chance to exonerate himself from what he believed to be a charge that was as spiteful as it was spurious.
He checked his phone, but there were no messages.
When the Dean’s deputy opened the door, Sandy stood to attention.
“I’m afraid Professor Taunter has not arrived for our meeting, and she is not answering her phone.” Assistant Dean Reynolds’ demeanour was apologetic.
Deciding that ultra-politeness would do no harm, Sandy asked, “How do we proceed now, sir?”
“We can interview you, Mr Hughes.” Reynolds was returning the formal courtesy. “You are entitled to hear the precise allegations made about you and to make your case.” He coughed and continued, “I see you are alone. You are permitted to have at least one student representative with you.”
“I felt that I should simply report the facts from my point of view, sir.”
Ushered into the plush surroundings of the 19th-century office, replete with heavy wooden bookcases and a desk that looked as if it had been here since Queen’s had first been furnished, Sandy felt the weight of tradition fall on him.
He took the allotted seat and waited for the Dean to start the formalities, rather relieved that the odious Eliza was absent.
Over the next 15 minutes, the Dean, his assistant and Sandy Hughes went over the allegations made by Eliza Taunter and Sandy was given the floor to make his case.
The Dean sighed as Sandy finished presenting the brief contents of his defence.
“Mr Hughes, I am obliged to take complaints by senior staff very seriously. However, in light of the fact that Professor Taunter has not seen fit to grace us with her presence, or to make a proper – or indeed any – apology, I feel that we should err on the side of caution. I am minded to dismiss these allegations and to accept your version of events – and to do so on the basis that your record of academic achievement and your behaviour have been exemplary until this – ah – accusation.”