by Janet Pywell
‘I hope you told Barbara that?’
‘I did, but there’s something else. Something far worse.’ His pale eyes are fixed on me. ‘Dieter Guzman is dead.’
My body is rigid. My mouth dry. I block out the humming engines of the cars below on the lake road but there is a scream of a crying baby from the street that startles me.
‘You didn’t know?’
I shake my head. A black bird bounces on a branch in the horse chestnut tree. He begins to twill. The sunlight on his feathers makes him look so black he looks almost purple like liquid ink.
‘How? When?’ I ask.
David Mallory’s eyes scan the tree then he looks back at me. ‘A few days ago.’
‘How?’
‘He was murdered - strangled.’
I am back in Dieter’s apartment. I hear his heavy breathing, see his yellow teeth and dirty hair.
‘Barbara was detained by the German police for questioning.’
‘But she–’
‘She had nothing to do with it, I know. He was already dead. His apartment had been broken into, but she was seen calling at his home.’ He begins to peel the label from the beer bottle, scratching it with his index finger. ‘The thing is Miss Lavelle, is that there is one combining factor to all these deaths. A man called Maximilian Strong, and the police suspect he has been involved with Seán’s death, and now with Dieter’s murder. They fear he is not going to stop until he gets what he wants, and he wants the Golden Icon, at any price.’
‘You think he is the murderer?’
‘He is almost ninety but he has a nephew who unfortunately is as ruthless as he is. Ian Strong began dealing drugs in London and after a spell in prison, he deals in drug trafficking and child prostitution. It seems Maximilian Strong has found a lucrative market to sell stolen art work in Eastern Europe. He finances drugs, prostitution and people-trafficking, using stolen art work to sell or barter with eastern European dealers.’
I raise my eyebrows. David Mallory continues speaking.
‘Unfortunately Ian is not as refined as his uncle. He promises young girls job opportunities, drugs them, takes their passports and forces them into prostitution. He has no regard for human life. He is not just a dangerous criminal but a murderer and,’ he pauses, ‘we think that you are next on his list.’
‘Me? Why?’
‘Because apart from Barbara you were the last person to speak to Dieter. It won’t be long until the German police, the Italian police and the Gardaí all want to speak with you. You see, the thing is Miss Lavelle, is that everyone has been looking for the Golden Icon for years. It isn’t just Maximilian Strong who wants it. The Italians think it belongs to them. The Vatican is especially interested as they made it and paid for it, and now the Germans believe it is theirs, and of course, the Irish want it back as it was originally given to them by the Pope.’
‘So you are here on behalf of the Irish Government?’
‘I have come here to warn you - to help you.’
I imagine Dieter’s wrinkled neck and a shiver passes through me and a trickle of perspiration slides down my spine.
‘It is just a matter of time until he finds you, Miss Lavelle. Maximilian Strong is a very determined man and like me, he wants the Golden Icon. He may already know where you are.’
‘I don’t have it.’
‘It’s Maximilian you have to worry about. If he didn’t find what he was looking for in Munich then he will come here. You are the only one left.’
‘He can’t kill me for something I don’t have.’
‘He can and he will. I am here to help you. I can take the Golden Icon and return it to its rightful owners–’
‘Who are?’
‘The Irish government. It will go on display in Ireland. It belongs to the Irish people. I am here to recover the Golden Icon and bring it home.’
‘And Barbara?’
‘Barbara?’ he says.
‘Yes, if it was Michael’s wish to pay off Seán’s debts surely it belongs to Barbara.’
‘It is a national treasure.’
‘She went to you in good faith, Mr Mallory. She trusted you. Seán and Michael have been friends of your family for years and I thought you were here as a family friend. Shame on you.’ I stand up. ‘I wish you lots of luck but I’m sorry I cannot be of more help.’
The table is strewn with pieces of ripped beer label. He rises wearily and throws his jacket over his arm.
‘Please think about this very carefully Miss Lavelle. You probably don’t have much time left.’
‘I don’t have the Golden Icon, and I will tell Maximilian Strong that, when he gets here.’
‘You may have sent Barbara on a wild goose chase to Munich but no-one else believes you. None of us are that gullible or desperate.’
‘Mr Mallory let me show you something. My apartment was ransacked this morning while I was out, look.’ I pick up my mobile phone and show him the photographs. ‘I have only just finished cleaning and I am still sorting these music scores. If there was anything of any value they would have found it.’ It’s only a white lie that I am telling. In the lounge I point to the piano, the slashed sofa and torn cushions.
‘What they couldn’t break or smash they ripped apart. They left nothing unturned.’
I follow him down the steps to the front door, almost pushing him out. He takes the door handle and pauses on the steps in the hallway. ‘Think this through carefully but quickly, Miss Lavelle. Your time is running out.’
‘Dieter showed me the Golden Icon,’ I say, as if mustering patience needed to speak to an errant schoolboy. ‘Although he showed it to me, I didn’t take it.’
‘I hope you are not attempting to mislead me. It belongs to the Irish Government. I don’t want to alarm you but the net is closing in. Please don’t think about keeping it for your own private gain. Apart from an unlucky story attached to it, if you attempt to use it for your private use, we know you filed for bankruptcy four years ago. We would soon know if there was an elevated change in your financial status. Unless of course, you find a private buyer, who would only give you a fraction of its true value. You will never be able to sell it without repercussions and that certainly wouldn’t benefit your already flagging career.’
I want to slap his face but he moves quickly, down the stairs toward the communal patio. He is standing on the bottom step when I speak and I am looking down on him.
‘If it was in my possession Mr Mallory, I would certainly not give it to the Irish, they didn’t seem very capable of looking after it, the first time.’
‘And I could also say the same about you, and the fortune and the fame that you failed to maintain.’ He lifts his hand. ‘Goodbye Miss Lavelle.’
On Thursday morning I wake after only a few hours’ sleep. I am drained of energy. I have spent the night thinking and I have considered my options. I cannot go back to Padre Paolo. I will not go to Santiago. I will not give the Golden Icon to Barbara or to David Mallory and as much as I love Raffaelle I cannot contemplate a new life with him in Florence. I must make a decision. The hour glass of my life is dwindling. If Maximilian and his son Ian killed Dieter, then they will be here for me soon. I must leave. I must escape. The right thing to do is to take the Golden Icon to Milan, go to London and disappear.
Raffaelle is in the villa when I phone him and he agrees to meet me for a drink in the bodeguita in the square beside the fountain at nine this evening. I don’t tell him I am leaving Comaso tomorrow.
The rest of the day passes quickly. I pack and clean the apartment trying to erase the presence of my burglar Karl Blakey. He has invaded my space, my privacy and I feel violated. He has searched through my cupboards and drawers, sniffing, feeling and touching my clothes and my music. Nothing is sacred. I know it is him who has done this damage. Maximilian and Ian were following Barbara. They were in Munich.
I will collect the Golden Icon first thing tomorrow morning. My bags will be packed and I will leave on the e
arly morning ferry.
It is almost dark when I venture from the safety and security of my apartment. I negotiate the steep steps under the yellow glow of the street lamps and I am struck with the realisation that my life in Comaso is almost at an end. This is the last time I will run down the steep steps to meet Raffaelle. I will not have time to say goodbye to the Mayor Angelo and his wife, Carlo, Luisa, or Nano in the gelateria or Luigi. My step falters, I swallow and blink back tears.
Raffaelle is waiting for me. He is sitting at a terrace table outside the bodeguita. He greets me with a distant kiss on my cheek, orders white wine and sits back with his legs crossed.
I lean across the table and speak quietly. I tell him about David Mallory’s visit and my decision to leave Comaso. Afterwards I tap my foot in nervous rhythm to the music from the restaurant across the square where a dark Italian girl sings romantic pop songs. She is accompanied by an older handsome man playing an electric piano. Several notes are flat and I cringe in anticipation of the repetitive chorus and the same mistake. Surrounding the singers is a wedding party. The guests are jovial and their spirits are high. The bride and groom are still in their wedding attire. They look young, far too young, for marriage.
My emotions have drained me. Raffaelle’s wine lays untouched on the table. He is digesting what I have said. Now when he leans forward to speak I move the glass away from his elbow and gesticulating hand.
‘We have it in our possession. What difference does it make if Barbara thinks it belongs to her or that the Irish Consul shows up and says it belongs to the Irish government. Pouff.’ He puffs out hot breath and his moustache quivers.
‘She has more claim to it than the Irish Government.’
‘What does it matter what I say or think? You seem to have made up your own mind without consulting me. You don’t love me enough,’ he says. ‘It could be a new beginning for us together but you are not interested.’
I recoil at the false note that drifts across the fountain. The bride and groom are each standing with a different group of people, and for as long as I have been watching them, they haven’t yet spoken to each other.
‘We cannot live a lie.’ I sip my wine. ‘We cannot live using someone else’s fortune. It is not right. I’m still aware of the caution that comes with the icon.’
‘Caution? It is a sham designed to frighten everyone,’ he sighs. ‘Well, Padre Paolo hasn’t been of much use to you. So much for trusting him before me.’
‘He told Santiago he was worried for my safety.’
‘He probably told him about the Golden Icon too.’
‘I’m not sure, maybe it was the phone call from the Gardaí or David Mallory that made Santiago aware of my situation.’
‘The Irish government want it. Barbara wants the icon to pay off Seán’s debts. Santiago is sniffing around like a dog hunting truffles and worse of all is that Maximilian Strong or his nephew will kill you for it.’
‘Maybe I should give it to Santiago. He is the chief of police here in Lombardy. He will know what to do. It would be safer than me carrying it to Milan.’
Raffaelle raises his palm. ‘No, no, no, cara, no!’
I raise an eyebrow at his outburst.
‘He cannot have it. That man is a philistine. He has no appreciation of art.’
‘Maybe not, but he has a sense of what is right and wrong. He will do the right thing and he will liaise with the Italian Art Squad. It came to me by default but it is my responsibility. I must put the wrong right.’
‘This is crazy. It isn’t your wrong to put right. It was Michael who stole it. He is the thief. It has nothing to do with you.’
I look at him thoughtfully and say nothing.
‘You are not responsible for what Michael did,’ he insists, ‘during the war, nearly seventy years ago.’
It’s something about the casualness of the bride and groom that unsettles me, or the group of people laughing and talking, or perhaps the way Raffaelle looks at me, but I have the feeling that someone is watching us. I glance around at the other tables. I think of Karl Blakey. Is he hiding behind a wall or window spying, reporting back to William or making notes for the lies he will tell? I take a deep breath. My mind is made up.
‘I’m leaving tomorrow,’ I say. ‘I will get the Golden Icon first thing in the morning and give it to Santiago. I can’t live like this. I cannot live in fear, hiding around every corner, wondering who will come knocking on my door or who will trash my apartment next.’
‘And what about your music? What about opera? And what about Cesare?’
‘Cesare will always be my friend but even he cannot perform miracles. My reputation as a difficult diva precedes me. It always will. It is my legacy. It is all I have left.’
‘Where will you go?’
‘London, or maybe back to America.’
‘America?’ He raises his voice and I raise my palm to silence him. ‘But your brother is the only family you have there.’
‘I know.’
‘You have no other family. You will be alone again like you were when I met you.’
‘Yes.’
‘You are not happy alone.’
I shrug. I cannot look at the bridal party.
‘Will you come back?’ he asks.
‘Perhaps, when this is all over.’ I pull a serviette from a plastic container on the table with a picture of three holy-looking women and underneath the words Tre Marie.
‘I will wait for you.’
‘You are an attractive man, Raffaelle. You have many pretty art students. I don’t expect miracles.’ He doesn’t reply and I realise I am expecting him to put up more of a fight to keep me. I flinch as the piano player misses three notes, and I wrap the serviette tight around my index finger.
‘What about Tosca?' he asks. ‘Glorietta sent us tickets for the opening on Saturday.’
I shake my head. ‘Tomorrow is Friday. I will go early and get the icon and I will give it to Santiago. Then I will leave here.’
‘It is a waste.’
I am not sure if he is referring to our relationship or the fact that I have decided to give the Golden Icon to Santiago. ‘Perhaps you will still go to Florence one day?’ I say.
‘And perhaps one day, you will sing Tosca in the Teatro Il Domo.’
I raise an eyebrow at his audacity but I smile.
‘Will we not spend our last night together?’ he says.
‘No, that would only make me more sad. Come and meet me in the early morning,’ I say, ‘before five, when it is getting light. Come with me to get the Golden Icon, please?’
He nods and I lean over and place my mouth against his cheek.
‘Fino a domani,’ I whisper. When I stand up Raffaelle reaches out and his fingers brush my hand. Then without a backward glance I head for the stone steps and the sanctuary of my apartment for the last time. I climb the steps, turn the corner and tears are falling down my cheeks. My dreams are as far from me as the stars are in the night-sky. Everything is over. I have no-one. I stumble up the ill-lit rocky steps when a bony hand grabs my wrist. I squeal. A brutal slap cuts across my mouth and my head is smacked against the stone wall. I have a fleeting image of a shaven headed man and an old man whose eyes are pink-rimmed like those of a repulsive reptile. He wears a yellow corduroy jacket.
His skeletal fingers are hooked around my elbow. A fist comes out of the dark and smacks my cheek. I crack the back of my skull on the wall. I fight the hands that hold me but strong fingers press against my windpipe. My cough turns to a choke.
My handbag spills to the floor. The contents tumble onto the street. A black shoe stamps on my mobile. A hand grabs my hair and my face is pushed against the wall. The skin scrapes open and blood pours down my cheek. I release a scream but the stone wall rips my lip and scrapes my teeth.
Sour breath assails my nose. ‘It is time we had a chat, Miss Lavelle. You know who I am, and why I am here. Let’s not waste any time. Where is the Golden Icon? I know it isn’
t in your apartment and I know that you haven’t given it to Padre Paolo.’
‘Padre Pao…’ My speech is muffled. My lips graze the wall and a rock is poking into my eye.
‘You should never trust a man like that with a secret.’
I move my head but a hand grabs my neck.
‘I don’t have much time and my patience is running out. My nephew Ian has always liked you. Haven’t you Ian? Why don’t you show her?’
Ian’s hand travels across my body and he squeezes my breasts then he caresses my stomach and his fingers rest between my legs. My scream is muffled.
‘Where is the Golden Icon?’
I grunt. I cannot breathe.
‘This is not a game. Tell me.’ The grip tightens. ‘Ian? Let’s show Miss Lavelle just how much you like her. We can do it here in the street or we could go to your apartment and take all night. The choice is yours.’
Ian tugs my skirt and bunches it around my waist. I wriggle and strain away from him. He rips my underwear. He has iron-like fingers that are pushing and probing.
‘Hey! Polizia! Polizia!’ There are running footsteps. A voice shouts. ‘Hey!’
The grip on my body recedes. ‘You have twenty-four hours to give it to me or we kill you and Raffaelle.’
‘Polizia! Polizia!’ The voice shouts.
I am released. I sink to the ground, breathless and aware of my semi-naked state. I pull my skirt and cover my knees. Blood trickles down my cheek, my head is throbbing, my chest heaving. I lean with my back against the wall aware that someone is bending over me. I want to cry. I have been saved.
‘Still alive then?’
When I open my eyes Karl Blakey is smiling down at me.
Karl Blakey reaches down and helps me to my feet. I lean against the wall for support. He picks up my bag from the floor and inspects each item: purse, lipstick, tissues, coins. He’s like a lizard. His tongue flicks as he places them in my handbag.
‘You were lucky I was passing,’ he says.
‘You’ve been following me.’ My voice is thick and my lip sore.