Murder Keeps No Calendar

by Cathy Ace

  ‘Why can’t you just say his name?’ shouted Doug, frustrated by the sense of melodrama that was beginning to overtake matters. Ambrosi shook his head and pursed his lips.

  The uniformed policeman fumbled in Ambrosi’s jacket pocket until he found a piece of paper. He showed it to the detective who whistled.

  ‘You know the name there? What is it? Who is he, this man? What’s it all about?’ asked an increasingly agitated Doug.

  The detective passed the paper to Antonia. ‘He has our interest for a long time.’ He turned to his colleague and said something in Italian. His colleague nodded. ‘We see the same style of killing of a man last month. Luigi Bianco was killed this way – with a wire garotte. Professional, silent; no prints, no forensics. Bianco did bad business deals with this man also.’ He nodded at the slip of paper in his hand. ‘This man does not kill for himself, you understand; he buys killers to work for him. He has a great deal of money, so he is able to keep his hands clean. And he likes to give big bribes to many important people who can help him to wash his hands if they become dirty. But, although he has much money – more than any man could ever need – it is known that if you steal even a little from his pocket, you will pay the highest price for your sins against him.’ It horrified Doug that the detective scratched his finger across his throat as he made this last statement.

  Doug could see Antonia was holding back tears. He knew instinctively she felt she was losing her brother all over again; the brother she had loved, and thought she knew, hadn’t really existed. Doug squeezed her closer to him, and knew there was no way back – he’d face it with her; it all had to come out. Now.

  He said to Ambrosi, ‘So you’re telling us that Gianni de Luca was killed by a professional hitman who was hired by a wealthy gangster, from whom he was stealing? And that all these years you’ve been secretly looking out for Antonia, and funding her brother’s crooked business in America, to make up for your grandfather starting a vendetta against Antonia’s family?’ Doug could hardly believe he had found himself in a situation where those words could even be used. Ambrosi nodded sadly, and Doug knew it was all true.

  Looking deep into Antonia’s eyes he tried to let her know by his expression that it hurt him to speak as he did. ‘I know you don’t like to think of your brother this way, but the police back up at least a part of Ambrosi’s story, and it might be that it’s true.’ He paused, then decided to push on. ‘Be honest, have you ever known Ambrosi to do anything to hurt you, or to act against you in any way?’

  Antonia pouted like a small child, dropped her head and shook it. She was angry, Doug could tell. Then she looked up at him, her eyes flamed, and she hissed, ‘He had a gun at your head, Dooglass – why this? Why would an innocent man do this?’

  Ambrosi answered for himself, ‘Because I have to get you all to where I know the police will be. I must put my case to them, and to you. The police might believe me – but I think I will not live very long if you do not believe me, Antonia.’ His voice sounded tired.

  Doug knew what he meant; he’d been in no doubt that Antonia had meant to kill Ambrosi, so he felt Ambrosi had read the situation pretty accurately. Doug said, quietly, ‘He’s got a point.’ He let his comment hang in the warming spring air, and said no more.

  Antonia sighed. It was a long, shaky sigh. She straightened her back, and said to the assembled crowd, ‘The person who kills my brother is not here.’ She nodded at Ambrosi. ‘If the police will allow you, I think you should go to your family now. The vendetta is over. We will speak and meet soon, but not until after I bury Gianni. You will not attend his funeral. That would not be correct.’ She turned her attention to the detectives and spoke so calmly that it shocked Doug, ‘You will not find out who kills my brother because I have no money, and the man you speak of has much money, so you will not be allowed to discover Gianni’s killer. But I think, if you are real men, you will try. I will take my Gianni and bury him, and I will telephone you every day to find out what you have discovered. This I promise.’

  As the police walked away with Ambrosi, toward the villa, removing his handcuffs as they did so, it seemed to Doug that Antonia was in control once more.

  She looked at Doug and spoke softly, ‘Walk with me?’

  Doug nodded, and they set off along a little path that arced between two formal beds full of low-growing spring flowers.

  ‘I’m so sorry about Gianni,’ began Doug. He meant both because Gianni was dead, and because he had not been the man she had thought he was. He knew Antonia understood he meant both things when she squeezed his arm to stop him.

  She turned, and looked at him, smiling. ‘Dooglass, you are a good man,’ she sighed. ‘From nowhere you have come . . .’ She stopped herself and smiled more widely. ‘From Scotland you have come, and you have saved me. For all my life I have wanted a man like you, and now, when I really need one – you are here.’ Doug could feel his face flush as she continued, ‘You are handsome, funny, and brave. You can be strong, and you can be weak. You are perfect. You understand sweet, and you understand bitter. You understand life. You are a clever man, Dooglass, and any woman would be lucky to have you. But me? I am old, I am poor. I am a prisoner here at this house until I find – I do not know what it is, even! And if my father lies about the vendetta, maybe he lies about my inheritance. He never tells me why I must stay at the house. He says in the contract that they cannot change the house and they cannot change the gardens until I say so – and I do not really care what they change – it is just a house.’

  Fat tears rolled down her cheeks. She looked and sounded like a small child as she wept, her lips and chin quivering as she spoke. ‘All I care about is my little grotto, and now . . . now I think I will never feel safe there again. It is now a place of death – not of happiness. I have lost my father, and my brother, and now my only truly happy place.’ She wept uncontrollably.

  Doug wasn’t surprised that she could cry, he’d seen her do that the night before, but what took him aback was how she cried; guttural sounds wracked her body so forcefully that he thought she might fall. Blinded by tears as she was, Doug led Antonia toward the grotto, where he ripped away the police tapes and pulled her through the opening so she could more or less collapse onto the bench seat inside.

  ‘Not here – not here,’ she managed to mumble through Doug’s handkerchief.

  He tried to calm her. ‘It’s alright, darling, I’m with you. It’s just a place – I’ll keep you safe.’ He held her shuddering body. After a long time, Antonia’s sobbing subsided and she looked up at him, bleary eyed. Every trace of her make-up had been washed away by tears; Doug noticed tiny freckles on the bridge of her nose. She looked so fresh – and totally vulnerable.

  ‘Now then,’ Doug tried to sound jovial, ‘is that a bit better?’ Antonia gave a small nod and a weak smile. ‘So tell me, what’s all this Contessa business? I heard the policeman call you Contessa and I wondered if there was something you weren’t telling me. Am I wiping the eyes of a titled lady?’ He grinned madly, desperate to take Antonia’s mind off everything.

  ‘Ah Dooglass, it is nothing. Almost everyone in Italy has some sort of title. I am Contessa Antonia Marcella Luiga de Luca di Fiesole.’ Doug’s eyebrows shot up. ‘For years I have sold myself.’ Antonia smiled as she reassured him. ‘Don’t look like this! I mean I sell my name – it is how I live. I have clients who pay me to take them about Firenze, arrange parties with my friends, they like my title – the Americans like it a lot. And if they stay at the villa then it is like they are at my home. It is good for me, and I think it is good for them. But I still am selling myself; my ancestors would not care for it, I think.’

  ‘And here’s me just a chip shop owner with a few quid,’ said Doug sadly. ‘What chance do I stand?’ This time it was his turn to sag, and Antonia’s to support.

  ‘Stay with me, Dooglass? I know you can be here a little time more, and maybe we bury Gianni soon. But, you stay with me after
the funeral? Yes?’ Her eyes were begging Doug to agree, but what could he do? Didn’t he have to get back to the shop when his fortnight’s break was over?

  ‘I could stay a bit longer, I suppose,’ Doug answered slowly, almost thinking aloud as the words left his lips. ‘The shop won’t actually be ready for a month – but I think I’d better stay somewhere a bit cheaper than the villa.’

  ‘Oh, stupido – you stay with me, as my special guest, Dooglass – this is not a problem,’ was Antonia’s matter-of-fact response, which made Doug’s stomach churn, as he thought about what it might mean.

  ‘Umm, okay,’ was all he could manage.

  Antonia smiled at him coquettishly. ‘I like you, Dooglass. You are the most real man I have known. And, as I tell you last night, I have known many.’ Doug remembered some of the stories she’d told him at her birthday dinner about millionaires who had wanted to have Antonia as their own, and all he could do was mentally applaud their good taste and pray this wasn’t a dream. Antonia changed the mood by pointing at the wall of the grotto beside them.

  ‘Look, it is midday – see how my name sparkles? My father, he puts our names here so at noon the sun shines on us!’ A childish smile spread across Antonia’s face.

  Doug looked where she was pointing and, sure enough, the sunlight was reflecting off a clearly defined ‘ANTONIA’ made out of little brownish pebbles pushed into the cement wall. Below it, he also saw ‘GIANN’.

  ‘Oh no! Some pebbles have fallen from Gianni’s name,’ wailed Antonia. This discovery set her off into sobbing again. Doug gently removed his arm from her shoulder so she could mop her tears, and he reached out to the place where there was clearly a letter ‘I’ missing from the end of Gianni’s name. Three small pebbles had been levered from the cement – Doug could see the marks where they had been worked out with a knife. The cuts in the cement were fresh; Doug was in little doubt someone had purposely removed them. He wondered why anyone would do such a thing.

  He almost chuckled as he rubbed his fingers over the remaining stones. ‘You know, not far from where I live in Scotland there’s a place called Creetown, where they have a gem museum. I used to go there as a boy, and the one thing that always fascinated me was a small rough stone they kept locked in a special cabinet; it was an uncut diamond. It looked just like this – brownish, dull, and absolutely unpromising. Boy, oh boy – I haven’t thought of that place in years.’

  ‘This was my great-grandfather’s business – diamonds. My grandfather too. It is how they make their money.’

  A moment of silence passed. When Doug could bear it no longer, he blurted out, ‘You don’t think this could be your inheritance, do you?’

  ‘Oh Dooglass, in the bag they give me from Gianni’s pockets – I think – here!’ Antonia thrust her hand into the brown paper bag and rustled about, finally pulling out three little pebbles – clearly the three that had been removed from the wall. Her eyes opened wide.

  ‘Gianni must have known – he must have guessed – he must have come here to take what was his.’ Doug knew she didn’t want to admit her brother might have planned to take a good deal more than what was rightfully his, so said nothing. ‘I will take these stones to a man I know. He is very old, but knows much about diamonds. He works for my father many years ago. He is like an uncle to me. If we are right, oh Dooglass, imagine . . . I am rich. We are rich. We can stay together forever. I can buy back my home, or I can be free of this house, I can be free of everything – we will travel. You can leave your ristorante, we can be together and enjoy our new life. I will not have to sell my name. You can see art and beautiful things around the world, and I can be with you and love you.’

  Doug felt tears of joy prick his eyes and he knew, even if these weren’t diamonds, Antonia wanted him like he wanted her. He also knew the man he’d become over the past couple of days could make it all work out – somehow. The chip shop faded away. He could sell it. No one would really miss him in Scotland. They could gossip about him all they liked in the pubs, what did he care? All he cared about was the promise of Antonia’s lips, and all he could hear were the noon-day bells chiming across the Arno. Never had an April day held so much promise. Never had Doug felt so full and happy.

  Of course he knew life wasn’t perfect; he’d suffered the tragic loss of his wife, but, there again, he and Antonia had found each other. They might have just discovered a healthy inheritance, but they would always feel the touch of Gianni’s ghost . . . and who knew if his professional killer would ever be caught, or the man who had paid him brought to justice?

  But Doug looked at it this way – nothing was ever perfect. Nothing. And he reflected that, maybe, without the bitter you wouldn’t even recognize the sweet. And at that moment, life was sweet.

  MAY

  A Woman’s Touch

  Detective Inspector Evan Glover was comforted by the sight of his wife’s face smiling at him from his phone. Sadly he knew that was probably as close as he’d get to her until who knew when; he had a suspicious death to investigate, and they could take time.

  He’d just received a call from Dr Rakel Souza, head of forensic pathology at West Glamorgan General Hospital – or West Glam Gen, as everyone referred to it – who’d informed him that a Mrs Emily Kitts had been poisoned. Paramedics had failed in their attempts to resuscitate the woman at her home six days earlier and had – quite correctly – ascribed her death to a massive heart attack. However, Dr Souza was now able to confirm the heart attack had been precipitated by a pretty hefty dose of nicotine. When Glover asked why it had taken six days to discover this interesting fact, Souza’s tone changed from her usually gently professional manner.

  She sounded testy as she replied, ‘It’s not my fault. The body came in as a heart attack, and we’re swamped here; it might be May, but that late cold snap was the last straw for a lot of the old ones who’d hung on through the winter. I had no way of knowing she was a suspicious death. Have you got any idea how many bodies we get through here in a week? There’s a lot more of them turning up their toes than go through your hands, and I’ve got to deal with them all. This one? An otherwise healthy woman of fifty keels over with an assumed heart attack; her own doctor’s on holiday and the locum doesn’t want to sign a death certificate, so it’s over to me for a poke about to find out what killed her. I can see she’s had massive heart failure, but I can’t understand why. The team in the lab tells me there’s nothing showing up on the initial toxicology results, but I don’t like it, so I get them to do some more tests. That’s when they tell me she’s got nicotine in her. I can see she’s never smoked a day in her life, so I get some more tests done and find she’s got loads of the stuff in her. All that back and forth takes time. I’m only one person, you know. And don’t tell me I should have alerted you when I had my suspicions, because we had that conversation before and I have, obviously, taken to heart the advice you gave me – which was to not waste your time until I was sure. Well, I’m sure now. So there.’

  Glover and his wife Betty had known Dr Rakel Souza, and her husband, for more than five years, and he admired the fact she’d worked her way to the top of her professional tree given that she, like him, had been raised in a tiny terraced home in a less-than-salubrious part of Swansea where expectations of greatness were few and far between. Both of them had bettered themselves through years of diligence and application to their chosen professions.

  Souza, like Glover himself, was well-known for her patience. But now? Glover had never heard her so close to the end of her tether. ‘Hang on a minute, Rakel,’ he countered, his voice calm and even, ‘you’re right, I don’t know what you go through down there, especially in the mortuary.’ He pictured the stark white rooms where he’d spent many hours standing by as post-mortems were carried out on bodies in which the police had an interest. He hated the place. ‘What I was trying to do was understand the situation. If you’re telling me we’ve got a suspicious death on our hands, and we might have a
six-day-old crime scene, then I’ll work with that. Just give me all the facts you’ve got, and I’ll take it from there. It might be that the delay won’t matter in the long run.’

  Souza confirmed the poison had been ingested through the victim’s mouth, and there were trace amounts on the skin of the dead woman’s hands. Emily Kitts had somehow taken in the poison over a lengthy period of time – probably hours – in small doses, allowing the poison to build in her system, finally resulting in a massive heart attack. The fact the woman still had sufficient mental capacity to dial 999 and report her condition was a surprise to Dr Souza.

  Glover also managed to elicit the doctor’s suspicions that the victim would have been feeling the symptoms of nicotine poisoning for several hours; they would have included feeling dizzy and nauseous, and probably profuse sweating. ‘Given her age, and general condition, the deceased might have believed she was experiencing menopausal hot flashes,’ added the medic. ‘They’re a bugger, I can tell you that much from personal experience; you convince yourself you just have to work through them. She could have ignored, or at least rationalized, her symptoms for many hours.’

  Glover confided, ‘Betty tells me she’s convinced her personal thermostat’s packed it in altogether; she’s not having an easy time of it.’