“Gino,” she called
“Coming.”
“No hurry, I’ll be outside, can you send me a out a cappuccino and a brioche,” she looked around, and then called again, “Where’s the newspaper?”
“I’ve got it back here. I was just checking my lottery numbers. I’ll bring it out in a minute.”
She went back outside and sat at a table, which was still in the shade. Tubs of freshly watered geraniums added to the sensation of cool, though by now at ten o’clock, the sun was already hot. It was going to be a very hot day. Marco, Gino’s son, came out with her order, “Is this paper OK? My mother’s got the other one upstairs.”
“Yes that’s fine thank you.” She glanced up at the boy. He was just eighteen, dark and very pretty, his long hair curled to his shoulders. He had full lips and incredibly green eyes. He often reminded her of a long dead rock-star, but she realised that the similarity was contrived, as she had heard from his parents that his bedroom walls were covered with posters of this singer, whose death had guaranteed him the status of a mythical figure. Had he lived he would have been as old as Marco’s father, and like others who valiantly rocked on, would have become a little pathetic. As it was, he would never age, and could never disappoint. This beautiful boy, Marco, looked as troubled as his hero often had. He still had dark circles under his eyes, and he looked even thinner than usual. His father stepped out of the bar and clapped his hand on the boy’s shoulder. Hilary saw Marco wince and tense himself, as though something horrendous was touching him, something that might threaten or damage him. His face remained blank.
“Marco’s a bit down at the moment, he’s been very upset by this dreadful business.” Gino coughed and said, “You know - the murder. He was a great friend of Ettore, who, I must say, always took a great interest in him even though he’s only a boy. Eh –Marco?” His big hand patted the boy’s shoulder again “He used to take him out in that car of his, and now and then even take him and his friends down to coast. He was a night-clubber, was ‘povero’ Ettore, God rest his soul.” This belated and rather pathetic attempt, at acceptance of a relationship of which his parents had disapproved, was too much for Marco, who wriggled free and rushed back into the bar, rattling the bead curtain violently. Gino turned to watch him go, and then heaving a sigh, lowered his plump body onto the chair next to Hilary. Lowering the tone of his voice he said, “I’m not sorry he’s dead. I suppose you know that. The boy is suffering now, but he’ll get over it, given time. He followed that man around like a little dog. He grew his hair long to be like him, he hero-worshipped him, wore clothes like him, even spoke like him. I know Ettore was a bright young man, making money and a name for himself, but I never liked him, and I never trusted him. It wasn’t healthy. What did he want with a young boy like Marco? He was ruining him, and I hope that now I can start trying to get him back, if it’s not too late.”
“It will take time, and patience,” she said, feeling that the words were banal as she said them, but no others came to mind.
“The truth is, I’m glad he’s dead. I often felt like getting rid of him myself. I wouldn’t have needed a hammer or whatever to do it with either; I’d have done it with my bare hands. I’d have put my hands round his neck and squeezed.”
“Come on,” said Hilary. “I’ve never thought of you as a violent man. You’re just not that sort of person. I can’t believe you’re saying things like this.” She was really surprised. He never even spoke ill of anyone, though of course that could have been just a sort of bar-owner’s form of diplomacy.
“A man can be driven to anything. I think even the calmest, most God-fearing person could murder to protect his child. Anyway, someone else has done it for me. Non tutto il male viene a nuocere.”
Hilary paid her bill and left. Yes, it would be a good thing for Marco to be set free from Ettore’s hold. He was a weak boy. An unsuccessful scholar he had left school early to work for his father, but he did little work and his father kept making excuses for his lazy, pampered son.
“He’s young, he’ll get into it as he gets older,” he would say in a forgiving tone. But Marco often disappeared when he was needed most, and last spring had been caught, by the police, smoking a joint. His friendship with Ettore had been the most worrying development, as this was an older person whose hold had been stronger than that of his peer group. He often took the boy out in his Porsche, and even let him drive it on occasion. When he took him down to the coast for the evening, they never came back till five the next morning, which meant the boy would spend the whole day in bed, only getting up in the late afternoon, to make a pasty-faced, token appearance in the bar and then, by ten, he would be off again. He was certainly in a bad way now, and she wasn’t sure his father would be capable of regaining his affection. He didn’t know how. That heavy-handed attempt he’d made in the bar though obviously well meant seemed patronising and was most unlikely to be effective.
There was a police car parked outside Villa Rosa and as she went by, Nigel and Robin came out of the house escorted by two policemen. They got into the car and it drove off. She had just time to see Robin’s anxious face look out of the car window at her. She thought, it’s almost over for the rest of us, but for them it’s just beginning.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Marco went out into the kitchen, he was sweating and his hands were shaking. He reached up to the medicine cupboard, and shook out twenty drops of his mother’s Valium into a glass. He added a tiny amount of water and swilled the mixture down. The Valium might make him a little sleepy, though he doubted it. He would almost welcome it. Anything would be better than the way he was feeling at the moment. He clenched his fists and muttered, “I have to get out of here - but how?” He couldn’t take the car, his father’s car, as since he’d been busted for smoking a joint, his father had forbidden him to use it. Maybe someone would be going to the coast and could give him a lift. He hadn’t got much money left; they kept him short on purpose. God, what shits they were. His father was pathetic, pretending to be nice and normal about Ettore, when he knew damn well he’d hated his guts. He’d have killed him himself if he’d had the chance, perhaps he had? He thought about that for a bit and then laughed out loud, murmuring, “I can just see that flabby old man assaulting someone. Pathetic!”
Then there was his mother, stupid cow, she must be senile already. God, she’d had him when she was ancient. She was always pawing him, and gazing at him tearfully. Why couldn’t she leave him alone? He had a sudden memory of himself as a young child and his parent’s pride in him. Well they weren’t proud of him now.
He’d got a little money stashed away, from his birthday. They gave him money now he was a big boy, and his aunt had coughed up too, which his parents hadn’t realised. Then there was the odd ten or twenty euros pinched here and there, from the till, or his mother’s bag. He thought they hadn’t noticed, (he was careful not to do it too often), but maybe they had, as his father had started hovering around the till lately, still he’d said nothing. The Valium was starting to kick in. He felt calmer now.
He scratched his chest, and moved towards the table, where his mother’s bag was lying. He opened it. Her wallet was bulging; she never went short for sure. You’d think she’d be a little more generous to her only son. All because of a stupid joint, these people, their generation, were so out of touch, they were from another planet. Another galaxy! He quickly took a two twenty euro notes from the wallet and replaced it in the bag. He went to the sink and splashed cold water on his face. He suddenly shivered and dried himself on some paper towels. Then he moved towards the back door, and looked at himself in the mirror his mother had put there for last minute checks before leaving the house. He saw a thin pale face, dark mauve shadows under his green eyes, and dark curls framing the whole. He looked like a desperate little boy who had suddenly grown old. He looked both vulnerable and at the same time capable of hurting others, but as he moved to leave, a shadow fell on his face and softened its harshness and
he looked almost like a girl. He pouted at the mirror, yeah – almost like a girl.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The phone rang. Hilary pressed the save button on her computer, and glared at the phone, then picked it up “Pronto.”
“Darling, it’s me. I’m back.”
“Bruno! You’re back! How nice. I’d forgotten you were due back today. I’ve so much to tell you. I need to talk to you.”
“If it’s about Fagiolo, I know. The first person I saw, when I was lugging my suitcase up the garden path, stopped me and told me all, in detail. You know what small towns are like. Was it awful?”
“Yes. I wish you’d been here,”
“Well I’m here now. Do you want me to come round?”
She looked at the clock. It was already ten thirty. “No, you must be tired. I’m on the last pages of this damned book, so you go to bed and I’ll finish this tonight and see you tomorrow, evening that is, as I want the day to myself.”
“If you’re sure.”
“I’m sure. We’re both tired now, and from tomorrow I’ll be free – till the next job. So we can celebrate.”
“I’ll think of something nice to do, and phone you tomorrow. Good-night.”
“Good-night.”
She put the phone down; Bruno was back. Now her life really would return to normal. She hadn’t realised just how much she had missed him. She was so used to being alone, after Guido’s death, that she had been reluctant to allow a man back into her life. When she had, it had been on her terms. She was very wary. Losing her husband so early in a marriage, with young children to support and provide a future for, had made her strong and independent. She had clung to the children at first; they were all survivors after a natural disaster. Then slowly she had gained strength and given them strength, and then she had let them go. So she had come to enjoy living alone. She had to consult no one. She did as she pleased, when she pleased, although she knew she had been pitied by many women. Watching them, she saw that many were slaves to their families, often household drudges, most of them unable to make decisions alone, usually not allowed to make decisions alone, and felt glad of her independence. Their whole lives revolved around their men. She had come to really appreciate her solitary life, and when she met Bruno, had been quite disconcerted. She felt that to allow him into her life would mean changing it so radically, that it would become unbearable. Things that were precious to her would be lost. She was uncertain about what she would gain. Slowly she had accepted him, and a part of her was his, but she would not live with him. She remained her own person, as he did, and only a part of their lives was communal. She was really glad he was back, but now she put him out of her mind and started working again. Tomorrow she would send off the completed work, and give herself a break for a couple of weeks.
Up in the old town, at two o’clock in the morning, when Bruno got up to close a window that was letting in too much of a draught, he could see her light still on, a small beacon across the little valley. He knew she would work through till dawn, if necessary, once she had decided to finish. He worried that although she was tough, she drove herself too hard. He would have liked her to let him take some of her burdens, but he knew it was hopeless. She lived as she pleased, and he supposed he was lucky to be allowed whatever part of her life she felt able to give him. He had hoped that this holiday would make her miss him enough to want him more, but the cool voice at the other end of the phone, dashed this hope. Nothing had changed.
Marco wiped his sweaty fingers down his tee shirt, picked up the phone and dialled a local number. When he heard an answer he said in a gruff voice “I saw you do it.”
“What!”
“I saw you kill him.” He heard breathing but there was no answer. His hands felt sweaty again.
“I need money. If you agree, I will forget what I saw.”
“How much,” said the voice tersely.
“A thousand euro, for now.”
“When and where?”
“Leave it behind the little Madonna on the corner of the street near Palazzo Guelfi at midnight tonight.”
The line went dead. He wiped his hands again and let out a sigh. It was easy, so easy. A thousand euro was nothing for people like that. He should have asked for more, well he would, of course, later. Ettore was dead, and he had loved him, but Marco knew he would have approved of this. Let that fat bastard sweat and suffer. Sooner or later he would be made to pay the legal price for what he had done, but before that he would squeeze him dry.
He was feeling very isolated. Ettore had been the most important person in his life for the last two years. His parents, whom he had always exploited shamelessly, had seemed to him to be the enemy. They were always on at him, first about school, then about going out at night, (especially with Ettore), then the joint. Why couldn’t they leave him alone? They knew nothing about him, or who he really was, not like Ettore. Ettore had been so smart, he took the foreign suckers for all he could, and he really knew how to live. Now that he was dead, Marco asked himself who really cared about him? Also he wasn’t feeling too good, and he had to sort out one or two things. Bleeding those two suckers would take care of that. He went back into the bar and started stacking the dishwasher; his father smiled benignly at him and thought that things were looking better already.
That evening Marco left the bar and made his way to the main Piazza. It was eleven o’clock. This part of town was always full of people until midnight or even later. Families were returning home with sleepy children; televisions blared from open windows, older children were still bicycling or whizzing about on roller-skates. Outside the two main bars there were tables and chairs, many occupied by tourists, grateful for the cool night air. Groups of people were laughing and talking.
Around the edge of the piazza, in dark corners or on benches around the grassy area, were groups of young people. Motor scooters zoomed from group to group. Cigarettes glowed in the dark. Loud laughter would suddenly break out and seated figures spring up and gesticulate and shout, arguing, or describing with a wealth of action.
Marco edged towards the darkest area where five or six youths were sprawling on the school steps: two others were seated on their scooters ready to move on. They stopped talking as Marco approached. He sat down on the steps beside a boy whose head was shaved, and whose ears were decorated with several studs and a ring. Another ring pierced the outer extremity of his left eyebrow. Marco pulled out his cigarettes, and offered them around. Two of the boys took an additional cigarette and put it behind their ear. Another boy passed his beer can along and Marco took a swig and passed it back. They sat in silence for a bit, watching the movement in the square, occasionally commenting “Look at that jerk,” or “She’s not bad.” The beer can passed round again, was emptied out, and another one took its place. Marco had downed some more Valium before coming out and had already had two shots of his father’s whisky. He began to feel sleepy.
“Is anyone going down to the coast?” he asked
“Yeah, me and Ricky,” said the shaven headed youth. “You coming?”
“When, tomorrow night?”
“Yeah, about ten. Pick you up here.”
Marco rose to his feet and said, “See you then,” and slouched off.
They watched him leave, their faces white in the darkness.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Nigel put down the phone. He looked a little paler than usual.
Robin said, “What is it? Who was that?”
He turned and walked to the sideboard, poured himself a whiskey, shot it down, and replied, “I’m not sure but I think it was Marco.”
“Well, what did he want?”
He looked at her “He wanted money, a thousand euro to keep his mouth shut.”
“About what?”
“Three guesses,”
“Oh, he knows?”
“Yes, he saw me that night. His actual words were, ‘I know you did it’.”
“Oh God, he must have been there. Nigel
if you give him money, he’ll only come back for more, again and again. You’re not supposed to give in to blackmailers.”
“What’s the alternative? He saw us come back. Do you want me to tell the police we came back? That’s the only alternative, otherwise we jolly well pay up.”
“We could get in first, and say we saw him do it, or at least that we saw him there, and hadn’t wanted to compromise ourselves by telling them the truth.”
“You think they’d believe me? Our position is awful enough as it is. He drowned in our pool, after being hit with our spade, which probably has my fingerprints on it. They know I couldn’t stand the sight of him. Now you want me to say I was there. You’re crazy. No, for now we pay up, and wait. Maybe they’ll arrest someone and then we’ll be free; if they find someone else it won’t matter if they know we came back.”
“That’s not very likely is it?”
“No, but I need time to think, so for now we give him the money. I’ll go and get the cash now and put it where he said. I’ll watch him get it though. I want to be sure I know who we’re dealing with. Then we’ll see.”
The little Madonna was set in a niche in the side wall of the palazzo. She was illuminated by a tiny light, and had an expression of sorrow. A pot plant with trailing flowers was in front of her and two small posies had been set in tiny vases at her side. Nigel slid his hand behind the statue and left the small, brown packet there. He walked off slowly. The little road in the old town was deserted, even if someone had been watching from a window, he had been so quick they would not have realised what he was doing. He turned a corner and then ran swiftly up steep steps and at the top of them turned back along a road that was parallel to the road he had just walked along. Shortly afterwards he found himself directly above Palazzo Guelfi, looking down more, and even steeper, steps. He remained immobile in a doorway. There were no streetlights near him, so he was sure he could not be seen, but he had a good view of the Madonna. He waited. As the bells of the Duomo tolled out the quarter past the hour, he saw the boy approach the statue, apparently touch it and then cross himself and move on. So I was right, he thought. He also thought how wonderful it be would to rush down the steps and beat Marco to a pulp. He sighed and retraced his steps. Robin was waiting for him at home. She was very wrought up at the moment. That damn policeman was needling them both. They’d been down there for hours. They had answered innumerable questions, and he had managed to remain true to his image of himself, but Robin was more fragile. That business with the passport, which was none of their business, had really finished her off. They really had no right to go into things like that, and he had threatened them, pleaded with them and reminded them of the laws governing privacy, but she was terrified of exposure. Now this interfering little dago druggie had made things even worse.
The Tuscan Mystery Trilogy Page 7