by LJ Ross
Anna nodded.
“Exactly.”
All at once, everything seemed to fall into place.
“How do you access the Vasari Corridor from the Uffizi?” he asked, already scanning the schematic drawings to understand the route.
“Here,” Anna explained, pointing to an access door. “Normally, that part of the corridor is open to the public, exhibiting a collection of self-portraits, but it’s been closed for renovations for over a year.”
“Is there an access point as it passes through the Palazzo Russo?” he asked, and Anna nodded.
“It took a lot of work to find that schematic; I rang a friend of mine back in Durham, who happens to be an architect, and he spoke to the head of the Museum of Architecture in Rome. The access door to the Palazzo Russo hasn’t been open for over a hundred years, according to them, but it’s located on the fourth floor.”
Ryan’s eyes flashed molten silver.
“Son of a bitch. The bastard must have hidden her in the corridor when he heard us coming.”
Ryan walked away for a moment to look out of the window, drawing in the familiar scent of his father’s study as he looked out across the gardens basking in the afternoon sunshine.
“That’s why we never caught Armstrong on the street cameras,” he said, once he could trust himself to speak. “He must have accessed the gallery using the corridor.”
“In theory, yes,” Anna said. “Because the corridor is mainly closed to the public, he could come and go virtually as he pleases.”
“What about the workmen?” Ryan thought aloud. “Wouldn’t the renovations team have seen him?”
“Not if it was after six o’clock,” she said.
“Ricci will call this conjecture, unless we can show him there’s a functioning access door right beside Armstrong’s apartment,” Ryan said. “I want to try to find it, while we’re at the Uffizi later tonight.”
Anna didn’t bother to argue with him, because she’d known from the outset he would need to see it for himself.
“Armstrong will be busy at the party,” she said. “You can slip away, and he won’t be able to follow.”
Ryan turned to face her again and the sun cast his face in shadow.
“There’s just one other thing I don’t understand,” he said.
“What’s that?”
“Ricci must have known about the Vasari Corridor. Hell, it’s a tourist attraction. Why didn’t he mention it, earlier today? He may not have known it runs directly through the Palazzo Russo, or that there’s an access on the fourth floor, but he knew there was an access on the second floor of the Uffizi, which is the last place Martina Calari was seen alive.”
“It might not have occurred to him,” Anna said, but the words sounded weak. “Perhaps there’s some reasonable explanation.”
Ryan stepped away from the window and she could see his face properly again, but it was dark with anger.
“Secrets and lies,” he growled. “This city is full of them.”
CHAPTER 26
As the sun went down, the glitterati of Tuscany turned out to celebrate twenty years of Nathan Armstrong’s literary genius. Enormous golden lanterns illuminated the Uffizi Gallery by night, shining a flattering glow on those who arrived at the entrance in a cavalcade of luxury cars and stepped out into the night wearing an array of sweeping gowns and spotless tuxedos. Faces were hidden by extraordinary, intricately carved masks depicting folklore and mythical creatures so that only a person’s eyes remained visible.
Having made no plans to attend anything remotely like a masked ball, Anna and Ryan had relied upon the goodwill and good taste of Magda, and had not been disappointed. In a departure from her usual ‘go to’ Little Black Dress, Anna found herself swathed in a long column of jade green silk which clung in all the right places, or the wrong ones, depending upon the point of view.
“For goodness’ sake,” she muttered. “I feel half-naked in this thing.”
“Terrible, isn’t it,” Ryan said, deadpan.
She gave him a withering look and tried tugging the fabric away from her hips.
“Nearly there,” he said, and reached across the back seat of the taxi to take her hand. The lights of Florence flickered through the car windows as they passed through the city and made their way towards the Uffizi, polishing his hair to a deep, gleaming black. She allowed herself to imagine they were just like any other couple, heading out for an entertaining evening of good food and wine.
But nerves jangled as the car crawled along the riverfront and came to a halting stop, edging forward as the cars ahead divested themselves of passengers and moved on. Ryan raised her hand to his lips in silent support, then held it between both of his own to warm her cold fingers. He looked across at the beautiful woman who was his wife and wondered how he had stumbled through life for all the years before they had met. In his profession, he walked into the darkest corners and saw the product of the very worst that one person could do to another. Before Anna, he had walked into those corners and then returned to an empty flat on Newcastle’s Quayside, maybe after a pint with Frank, to sit alone and brood about all that was bad in the world.
Lonely.
He could say it, now that he understood himself better. There had been other women, fleeting relationships without depth that managed to stave off the bitter feeling of isolation for months, sometimes years at a time. But there had been nobody who understood him and with whom he could be entirely himself, until now.
Until Anna.
It was not fashionable to admit to feeling lonely and, he supposed, it had not been expected of a man like him. If the magazines and daytime chat shows were to be believed, loneliness went hand in hand with old age. But what of all the twenty and thirty-somethings who walked through life unable to connect, unable to find just one person who could look into the depths of their soul and like what they found there?
Ryan had been one such person, walking through life putting one foot in front of the other, convincing himself he needed nothing and nobody. And, he supposed, he didn’t. If he had never met her, his heart would continue to beat, and the sun would rise and fall each day. But it would have been a hollow existence, one where his senses were dulled, like food without flavour.
Anna turned to look at him.
“What are you thinking about?” she asked him.
“You,” he answered honestly.
“Oh dear,” she joked. “Nothing bad, I hope?”
Ryan almost laughed, but instead he leaned across to brush his lips against hers.
“Never,” he said.
“Are you alright?”
His eyes warmed, fathoms deep with love for her.
“Never better,” he said, crisply. “Here we are, time to put our masks on.”
* * *
The Uffizi Gallery was lovely during the daytime but, by night, it was spectacular.
Clever lighting through its hallways and passages backlit smooth marble statues and priceless works of art, from Botticelli to Michelangelo, as guests were directed towards the main event space along the Western Corridor on the second floor. Anna and Ryan filed into their number, having found their names included on the guest list, which indicated that Monica Spatuzzi had kept her end of the bargain.
They followed the line of masked men and women into a long gallery area where a small podium and mic had been set up with the publisher’s brand splashed all over it. Smartly-dressed waiters moved smoothly through the crowd with trays of canapes and fluted champagne, while music drifted on the air and over the heads of at least a hundred people, and counting.
“There’s the door,” Anna whispered.
Ryan followed Anna’s line of sight and, just to the side of a more impressive set of wooden doors, he noted an unremarkable doorway cut into the wall and painted the same colour. He had walked through the gallery several times and had never noticed it before.
“Through that door, there should be a short flight of stairs,” she to
ld him. “That takes you to the corridor, which you follow for about a quarter of a mile. Stop just before you reach the Ponte Vecchio and, if there’s an entrance to the Palazzo Russo, it should be on your right.”
Ryan nodded.
“Just one problem,” he murmured, and watched one of the security guards walk a slow circuit then come to a standstill right beside the door. “I don’t know how many guards are on, tonight, but I’d rather not have to ask Ricci’s permission—which he’s unlikely to give—then seek out the security guards and ask them to stand away from the door. It’ll cause a fuss and alert Armstrong.”
Before they could think of a solution, they were approached by a woman wearing a tasteful, sweeping mask over her eyes, which complemented the simple black velvet dress she wore.
“I see you found your way here, Chief Inspector.”
Even if he hadn’t recognised her before, Ryan could not have mistaken the voice.
“Good evening, Signora Spatuzzi. Allow me to introduce my wife, Anna.”
Anna was grateful she wore a mask to hide her face as she met the woman who was responsible, directly or indirectly, for countless mafia-related crimes.
“Good evening,” she managed.
“You make a handsome couple,” Monica remarked. “I trust you have met our guest of honour?”
Even Ryan’s trained ear could detect no trace of the anger he had seen, so clearly, at her villa in Fiesole. If Monica Spatuzzi believed Nathan Armstrong had killed her son, Riccardo, then he could detect nothing of it in her voice or demeanour. That ability to shut down emotion and display nothing of what she felt was more terrifying than if she’d held a gun to his head.
“Not yet,” Anna said, in a tone that implied she had no wish to.
“Oh, but you must,” Monica went on. “Follow me, and meet the man who is the toast of the city, tonight.”
The crowds parted like the Red Sea for Monica Spatuzzi as she led them towards the centre of the room, where an ice sculpture had been carved into the shape of a giant book.
“Tasteful,” Ryan muttered. “I’m surprised he didn’t ask for it to be a giant effigy of himself.”
“The sculpture is Nico’s work,” Monica replied. “He is an art dealer and his latest conquest is a young man with a flair for sculpture. So, we have mediocre ice and marble sculptures being commissioned throughout the city, in every gallery and department store. How Michelangelo must be turning in his grave.”
Right on cue, a man of average height wearing a simple black mask almost collided with them whilst carrying two brimming flutes of bubbling liquid.
“Mille scuse!” he chuckled.
“I see you are already getting into the spirit of things, Nico,” Monica said. “Be careful you do not fall into the sculpture, won’t you?”
“I never do, signora, I never do,” he said, switching into English. “Wh’ don’ you introduce me to your friends?”
“This is Maxwell Ryan and his wife, Doctor Taylor-Ryan. They have a villa here.”
Ryan smiled, knowing she had deliberately left off his official title.
“Villa, eh? Need any sculptures to deck the place out a bit?”
“Sadly not,” Ryan replied.
“Pity. Still, let me know what you’re in the market for and I’ll keep a look-out. Monica’s got my number.”
Nico sauntered off into the crowd, the drinks teetering precariously in his hands, while they continued onward in search of the man of the moment.
They found Nathan Armstrong holding court amongst a group of journalists and literary editors, wearing an elaborate gold and silver mask plumed with glossy black feathers.
“What I really wanted to convey in that book was the extraordinary sense of fear,” he was saying. “People have used words like, ‘ground-breaking’ and ‘revolutionary’ to describe it over the years but I don’t really care about all that,” he scoffed, whilst simultaneously angling his head towards the flash of a nearby camera. “I was just happy to have captured the essence of the story of Il Mostro and, of course, to have portrayed the lives of victims as sensitively as possible.”
“I think we can all agree, you’ve certainly done that,” one of the men standing beside him chimed in and, for a worrying moment, Ryan thought he might be sick.
“There are some, are there not, who believe the book to be exploitative of the victims’ families,” one of the journalists pointed out and, with a sudden start, Anna realised it was Andrea Conti of the Florence Daily News. “What would you say to them?”
“There will always be those who fail to understand the subtleties of the book,” Armstrong said, in much the same manner as he might have patted the head of a disabled person. “I’m sorry for them, of course, but it is only fiction inspired by true events, after all.”
“Yes, and, as I’m sure you appreciate, Mr Armstrong has many people to thank this evening,” his publisher put in, ever so smoothly. “Excuse us.”
He began to steer Armstrong away, but one word from Monica stopped them.
“Gabriele? If we could have a moment of your time,” she asked, in the same quiet tone she employed at all times.
“Monica,” the man said, with a nervous laugh. “I’m sorry, I didn’t recognise you at first. By all means, allow me to introduce you to Nathan Armstrong, the international bestselling author of Il Mostro.”
He swept a hand theatrically and ushered the man forward.
“Nathan, I have the great honour to present Signora Monica Spatuzzi, who sits on the board of Elato Publishing,” he added, meaningfully.
Armstrong’s face was covered by the preposterous silver and gold mask, so it was almost impossible to tell if he had registered any reaction to the name, or the familial connection to Riccardo Spatuzzi. He merely took her proffered hand and executed a tiny bow.
“Signora, a pleasure to meet you. If you’re one of the trustees, I must have you to thank for this wonderful evening.”
Monica had already withdrawn her hand, which was now fisted tightly at her side.
“Non e niente,” she murmured.
Armstrong’s gaze moved to the man and woman standing just behind her, watching him with unblinking eyes that stared through the gaps in their masks. Even without taking into account the man’s height, his posture and even the cut of his suit, Armstrong would have been able to pick Ryan out of the crowd.
“Who are your friends?” he asked, with an edge.
“Ah, how rude of me,” Monica said. “This is Maxwell Ryan and his wife, Anna. They’re visiting us from England.”
“We’re already acquainted,” Ryan said, but accepted the hand that the publisher stuck out as a matter of courtesy. “D’ you know, I’m struggling to remember the last time we saw one another, Armstrong. Perhaps you can enlighten me?”
There was a humming pause while Ryan waited to see whether Armstrong would reveal the embarrassing circumstances in which they had last been in the same room back in the Interview Suite of Northumbria CID.
Armstrong took a slow sip of his drink, savouring the fizzing liquid as it rolled around his tongue.
“I’m afraid I can’t remember,” he said, apologetically. “I meet a lot of people, most of them utterly forgettable. I’m sure you understand.”
With another small bow for Anna, he moved off to speak to the next group, his publisher in tow. In the remaining silence, Monica took a long drink of her champagne and then handed the empty glass to Ryan.
When she spoke again, her voice was hard.
“You have two days left.”
With that, she walked in the direction of the exit. Two burly-looking bodyguards Anna hadn’t even noticed mingling in the crowd behind them peeled away to join her, flanking the older woman on either side as she left.
CHAPTER 27
As Monica Spatuzzi left the Uffizi, Phillips and MacKenzie bundled themselves into a taxi outside Florence Airport.
“Where would you like to go?” the driver asked, in perfect Engl
ish.
“I’ve got this, love,” Phillips said, pulling out an Italian phrase book. “Portatchee dal macellayoo.”
The driver looked between them, clearly confused as he worked through the terrible mispronunciation.
“You want to go to the…butcher?”
“Give me strength,” MacKenzie muttered. “Can you take us to the Villa Lucia, please? It’s on Viale Machiavelli.”
The driver smiled, his eyes lingering a moment too long on MacKenzie’s fall of Titian hair.
“Eyes forward, son,” Phillips growled.
They were soon on the road leading into the centre of town.
“I spoke to the housekeeper before we got on the plane,” MacKenzie said. “A woman called Magda. She looks after the place for Ryan’s family—”
“A housekeeper? Always said he was a bloody posh southerner. Who needs a full-time housekeeper to take care of a little holiday flat?”
MacKenzie wondered how to prepare her fiancé for what was to come, then decided to let the place speak for itself. Her second thought was whether she should have put the local Accident and Emergency department on alert.
“Mmm. Anyway, she’s expecting us. Ryan and Anna are out at a party, tonight.”
“A party?” Phillips burst out. “I thought he was over here hunting down a killer, not gallivanting around the place hobnobbing with the locals.”
MacKenzie grinned as she watched the passing scenery. Even in darkness, she could see the outline of towers and spires and her heart began to melt.
“It’s not quite your average party,” she explained. “It’s Armstrong’s party, thrown by his Italian publishing house. They’re celebrating twenty years of it being one of their bestsellers.”
“Aye, well, Ryan’ll take him down a peg or two,” Phillips said, with a gravelly laugh. “Wish I was there to see it.”
* * *
Ryan and Anna found a relatively secluded spot on the edge of the crowded room which had the added benefit of affording them a clear view of the doorway leading to the Vasari Corridor. They remained there for a while until Ryan could be sure of the security guard’s movements.