The Hermitage: A DCI Ryan Mystery (The DCI Ryan Mysteries Book 9)

by LJ Ross

  After slotting his scooter into one of the bays on the road outside, he entered the building ahead of Armstrong’s allotted time and according to Ricci’s express instructions, exactly at nine-fifteen. He was a man of his word and Ryan agreed it would serve no purpose to antagonise Armstrong any more than was necessary, so it was best he avoided any uncomfortable run-ins.

  Inspector Ricci was waiting for him inside the cool foyer and, this time, was joined by one of his colleagues at the Gruppo, a female detective by the name of Chiara Banotti.

  “Good morning, Chief Inspector,” Ricci welcomed him. “Allow me to introduce Sergeant Banotti to you. She will be accompanying me during the interview with Armstrong.”

  Ryan shook the woman’s hand and found it firm. Her dark hair was held back in a professional chignon and her face was sober, signalling to him that she, like Ricci, would be taking their duties seriously.

  “Sergeant,” he said, politely. “Thank you for taking the time to pursue things with Armstrong. I appreciate how busy you must be.”

  She gave a slight shrug.

  “It is my city,” she told him, and he understood what she meant without seeking further explanation. She had pride in her birthplace and would not tolerate anything that threatened to sully its beauty.

  “This way, please,” Ricci murmured.

  Ryan was shown into an observation room not dissimilar to those back at CID Headquarters. One long wall had been built from reinforced glass, allowing him to view the neighbouring interview room whilst remaining unseen from the other side. It was slightly old-fashioned, he supposed, now that television links were more widely used to replay recorded interviews. However, he was of the old-school approach that nothing quite matched the immediate impact of watching an interview in real-time. It afforded him the ability to assess body language and pick up on the kind of tiny facial tics which so often told him more than words might say.

  Not that it carried much weight in court, he had to admit.

  “Coffee,” Ricci said simply, nodding towards a tray holding a cafetière and a small jug of milk. “Some things are universal.”

  Ryan flashed him a smile of thanks.

  “I don’t need to remind you that you should, on no account, enter the interview room without my express permission,” Ricci said.

  Ryan bobbed his head.

  “I already told you, this is your baby. I won’t interfere.”

  But, as Ricci and his sergeant turned to leave the room, Ryan offered one small piece of advice.

  “One thing,” he said, choosing his words with care. “Armstrong responds to flattery. If he feels threatened, intellectually or otherwise, he’ll clam up and give you nothing. Your best bet would be to appeal to his ego.”

  Ricci nodded.

  “Thank you.”

  Ryan watched the door click shut and then settled down to wait.

  * * *

  While Ryan sipped a cup of coffee and awaited the arrival of Nathan Armstrong, Anna found herself engaged in a Mexican standoff. She stood in the shiny marble hallway of the Villa Lucia, her straw bag in one hand and sunglasses in the other, fully intending to head out into the city.

  But Magda had other ideas.

  The older woman stood guarding the doorway in her smart uniform of black trousers and plain white shirt, her short hair cut into a stylish yet practical bob around a beautiful face. At first, Anna had been fooled into thinking the woman was a mere housekeeper but everything about her eyes and general stance now told her otherwise.

  “This is ridiculous,” she said, for the third time. “I’m not under house arrest!”

  “Mr Ryan asked me to watch over you,” Magda said, in the same maddeningly calm tone she’d used for the past ten minutes.

  “And that’s very nice of him—and you,” Anna replied, sweetly. “But I don’t need a bodyguard, thanks. I’m perfectly capable of getting around the city without a chaperone.”

  Even saying words like bodyguard and chaperone was enough to make Anna grimace. She was hardly the Prime Minister, for goodness’ sake.

  “I have no doubt that the signora is very able,” the other woman said. “But my instructions are to protect you and stay with you at all costs. I cannot do that if you are not with me, can I? Would you wish for me to lose my job?”

  Anna gave a hefty sigh, acknowledging that the other woman had scored a direct hit with that last below-the-belt remark. Magda knew fine well that Anna would never want to be responsible for depriving the woman of her livelihood and had used her own good nature against her, mercilessly.

  She may have won the battle, so the saying went, but she had not won the war.

  “Fair enough,” Anna said, taking the wind out of her sails. “You can come with me.”

  Magda looked uncertain.

  “It would be easier if we stayed at the villa,” she said.

  “I’m sure it would, but that’s the coward’s way,” Anna snapped. “A woman like you must agree that we’re just as capable of defending ourselves on the street.”

  Magda nodded slowly. As a woman with twenty years’ experience defending important but vulnerable men, she could hardly disagree.

  “Besides,” Anna said, playing her trump card. “Top spec security is one thing but, if a madman was intent on getting behind it, he’d find a way. They always do.”

  Magda wavered, once again unable to argue with the logic.

  “Where is it you wish to go?” she asked, cautiously.

  “Only to the Piazza di Santa Trinita,” Anna replied quickly. “I’m meeting a journalist from the Florence Daily News at one of the cafes there. I’m already running late,” she added, to hurry things along.

  Magda shuffled her feet, clearly unsure what to do for the best.

  “Armstrong will be in an interview at the police station for the next hour, probably,” Anna said, dealing a final blow. “He won’t be out on the streets looking for me, so it’s the ideal time to go.”

  Magda’s face cleared.

  “That’s true,” she admitted, and then smiled grudgingly. “You are well matched.”

  “I don’t—?”

  “You and Max are both as stubborn as mules.”

  “Thank you,” Anna said, meekly.

  While Magda muttered something unintelligible about bringing around the car, Anna smiled to herself at the woman’s reference to ‘Max’. It was true that Ryan was possessed of a series of names, none of which he responded to on any regular basis other than simply, ‘Ryan’. But here, she could imagine a young Maxwell Charles Finlay-Ryan scampering around the Tuscan hills or splashing around with his sister in the pool outside.

  As she thought of the late Natalie Ryan, her eye fell on another set of family portraits, this time professional black and white shots taken at least fifteen years ago. There, hung proudly in the centre, was one of Ryan’s sister. Natalie had been a beautiful young woman, one who had barely lived enough of life to know what womanhood meant. Seeing their photographs side-by-side, it was impossible not to notice the strong family resemblance between the siblings, each with striking eyes and coal black hair they’d inherited from their father. Anna closed her eyes for a moment and remembered her own sister, Megan. They hadn’t shared much in common, either in looks or in temperament, but she mourned her loss all the same.

  Her eyes flickered open again and she found herself looking at the face of her husband, captured as a much younger man. There were fewer laughter lines around his eyes, but they were open and carefree; not so guarded as they were now.

  Life had taught him that.

  Anna never needed to ask why he pursued a constant quest to avenge the dead, nor why it mattered so much to him. The reason was there, hanging on the wall right in front of her. He still felt responsible for what had happened to Natalie three years earlier and, until he could forgive himself, he would never stop trying to atone. It made no difference how many people had told him that he was not to blame for her death; he carried the gui
lty weight of it on his shoulders every day. He would never be one to stand by and risk more families being devastated, as his own had been, not if there was anything he could do to prevent it.

  She heard the hum of a car engine on the driveway outside and broke out of her reverie, slipping on her sunglasses and stepping outside into the morning sunshine to join Magda.

  Ryan might be on a quest, she thought, but he didn’t have to do it alone.

  CHAPTER 12

  “My client wishes it to be on record that he has agreed to cooperate with your enquiries entirely as a gesture of his own goodwill and not because he has been compelled to do so.”

  The words were spoken by Nathan Armstrong’s high-ticket Italian lawyer, who was seated to the right of the man himself as they gathered around a small table in one of the more attractive interview rooms at the Commissariato. Every inch of him looked expensive, from the cut of his suit to the hideously pricey watch weighing down his wrist. Even his hair looked expensive, Ryan thought, as he watched from his position in the observation room. It remained to be seen whether he was worth the top dollar Armstrong would be paying for the privilege of such a well-dressed legal representative.

  “It’s noted,” Ricci was saying. “And we would like to thank Signor Armstrong for being so cooperative.”

  Ryan smiled as he noted the deferential doffing of the cap.

  “Let’s get on with it,” Armstrong said. “I don’t have all day.”

  “Surely,” Ricci replied. He recited a standard caution and then made a show of fiddling with his paperwork. Ryan raised an eyebrow at the small display of theatrics but couldn’t fault the objective which was, of course, to appear unthreatening.

  It seemed his Italian counterpart had decided to take his advice.

  “We are investigating the disappearance of Riccardo Spatuzzi, an Italian national. Do you recognise the name?”

  Armstrong didn’t so much as blink.

  “Of course,” he said. “His disappearance was reported in the Viennese press just before I left for Barcelona.”

  Ricci linked his fingers on the table top.

  “I understand from the schedule published on your website that you were due to appear at a signing event in Vienna on Thursday 1st February, is that correct?”

  Armstrong nodded.

  “If you could speak up, for the microphone?”

  “Yes,” he snapped.

  “Thank you,” Ricci murmured. “Did you attend a gala dinner at the British Consulate in Vienna on Friday 2nd February?”

  “You are well aware that my client was on the guest list to attend,” Armstrong’s lawyer chimed in.

  “Being on the guest list and being in attendance are two different things,” Chiara Banotti said quietly.

  “I did attend,” Armstrong said. “Hundreds of people could tell you I was there, so I’m hardly likely to say otherwise.”

  In the observation room, Ryan barely held back a snort. Once again, the man’s arrogance revealed itself in the notion that, amongst a gathering of nearly three hundred, he would be so distinguished as to be remembered by the majority.

  “Our Austrian counterparts are in the process of re-interviewing everyone who attended the gala dinner,” Ricci said quietly, to give them all something to think about, then came straight to the point. “Do you remember seeing this man at the gala?”

  He retrieved an A4-sized picture of Riccardo Spatuzzi from his folder and placed it on the table. Ryan leaned forward, almost pressing his face to the glass, to watch Armstrong’s response closely. His eyes flicked down once to look at the photograph, then away again.

  “Perhaps,” Armstrong said. “I can’t remember. I met any number of UN officials, but he certainly wasn’t seated on my table at dinner. That’s Riccardo, I take it? Who was he?”

  Ricci said nothing, being of the same opinion as Ryan that silence could be a powerful tool.

  “Look, Inspector, I’m sorry to hear the man’s gone missing but I didn’t know him and never met him before in my life. I think I’ve made myself very clear.”

  “And any further badgering could be construed as harassment of a witness,” his lawyer put in, ladling it on thick for the benefit of the recording. “So far, you’ve provided no reasonable grounds for my client to be here.”

  “I’m coming to that,” Ricci told him. “As a final point, then, our records show your outbound flight from Vienna to Barcelona was at midday on Saturday 3rd February, the day after the gala. Is that correct?”

  “I believe so,” Armstrong said. “Again, that’s a matter of record.”

  Ricci nodded, fiddling with his paperwork again.

  “Except…the flight records show that you did not turn up for that flight and instead purchased a ticket for a later flight, at 13:50. Is that correct?”

  A muscle in Armstrong’s jaw ticked.

  “Yes, come to think of it, you’re right. I was running late that day.”

  “May I ask why?”

  “I spent a late evening at the gala and slept in,” he said, injecting a layer of charm into his voice and shifting his body ever so slightly towards Chiara Banotti.

  Hell, it had worked in the past.

  “And, I suppose, if we were to contact your hotel they would confirm you were late to check out?”

  “I doubt it,” Armstrong drawled. “Since I stayed in a serviced apartment, which I was free to use all day, if I wished.”

  Ricci nodded. He was already aware of the address of the luxury apartment where Armstrong had stayed. It was very similar to the apartment owned by Armstrong in Florence, so it seemed the man was not a fan of hotels, in general.

  “You prefer your privacy, signore?”

  “That question bears no relation to your enquiry,” the lawyer said. “Move on to your next point, Inspector.”

  Ricci gave one of his shrugs.

  “The week before your stay in Vienna, I understand you were in Paris for a signing event on Friday 26th January. Is that correct?”

  “Yes,” Armstrong replied.

  From the observation room, Ryan saw that, beneath the table, Armstrong’s index finger had begun to tap irritably against his knee.

  Ricci reached for a second folder and took his time searching for a photograph of Luc Bernard, which he placed beside the picture of Riccardo Spatuzzi. Ryan didn’t need to see either photograph, since their faces were already imprinted on his mind from the copies he held at home.

  “Do you recognise this man?”

  This time, Armstrong didn’t so much as look.

  “No, I don’t.”

  Ricci was not deterred.

  “Would you look again, please?”

  Armstrong looked for several seconds, to make a point, and then away again.

  “I still don’t recognise him.”

  “This is Luc Bernard, a waiter from Paris. He attended your book signing at Shakespeare’s bookshop on 26th January.”

  “How can you be so sure?” his lawyer asked. “People often register their name ahead of time but don’t turn up on the day.”

  “The bookshop have provided CCTV footage which confirms it, as does his social media accounts. He uploaded an image of himself standing next to your client, who was seated at his signing table in the image.”

  Ricci slid his hand inside the folder again and produced the requisite images taken from the Facebook and Instagram sites.

  “So I signed his book? So he took a photo beside me?” Armstrong scoffed. “I still don’t remember him. If you think I would, you clearly have no idea how many people I meet on a weekly basis, Inspector.”

  “I’m sure I don’t,” Ricci said. “I’ve never been a celebrity like you, signore.”

  Behind the safety glass, Ryan grinned. He had a feeling he was going to like Alessandro Ricci, once this was all behind them.

  “So, to confirm, you have no recollection of having met this man, although you acknowledge that you did, in fact, meet him during the course of you
r signing event?”

  “My client has made himself perfectly clear.”

  Ricci and Banotti exchanged a look. Without further evidence, there was not much else they could use to try to draw Armstrong out.

  “Is it true that you left Paris for Vienna on Sunday 28th January?”

  “I presume you’ve already checked my flight details, Inspector. Yes, it’s true.”

  Ricci ran a hand over his jaw, considering how far he could go.

  “Would you be willing to provide us with a list of your movements during your stay in Paris and Vienna?”

  “Absolutely not,” his lawyer broke in. “My client has a right to his own private life, the details of which he is not compelled to discuss without the proper order. If you wish to charge him with an offence, then do so. Without it, he won’t be telling you anything more.”

  “I couldn’t have put it better, myself,” Armstrong smiled, once more the charming raconteur. “Incidentally, Inspector, why is it that I’m singled out as a suspect—”

  “We did not say you were a suspect, signore,” Ricci put in.

  “—as a suspect,” Armstrong repeated. “When these two missing persons may be wholly unconnected. Why are the police so sure there is a connection and, moreover, that I am connected? There must be thousands of people who can claim to have been in Paris and Vienna around the same time as these two unfortunate souls went missing.”

  When neither detective answered him, Armstrong laughed shortly.

  “Something to think about,” he said to himself.

  Throughout the interview, Armstrong had given no hint at all that he was aware of anyone observing him through the mirrored-glass wall but as he was leaving the room, he stopped dead in front of it. On the other side, Ryan took an automatic step backwards, although he knew that the man could neither see nor hear him.