The Prosecco Fortune

by Stella Whitelaw

  nineteen

  The professor was more than pleased with himself. He had contrived a honeypot. He had created an entirely fictitious customer called Natale Gelato Inc. They were going to produce a new ice cream flavoured with Prosecco. They had received a consignment of so many litres of the sparkling wine, not bottled, and a bill for payment of several thousand euros.

  The professor had earlier circulated a series of business emails, discussing the new flavour and their plans for the future. It was like writing a story. He got quite involved and invented several leading characters.

  Natale Gelato Inc. then sent by electronic transmission the entire payment to the dell’Orto account number. But the professor had tagged it with an override timeout interval.

  ‘That means the server has to reply,’ he said. ‘Without a timeout interval one might have to wait forever if there is no specific period of reasonable time for the processing to complete. It could be five seconds or ten seconds, whatever you like, but the server has to reply. It’s pretty standard these days.’

  ‘I wish I understood what you were doing,’ said Emma. ‘It’s too complicated for me but sounds a great idea. It’s a trap, isn’t it?’

  ‘I should be willing to teach you,’ said the professor. ‘You have a good brain. It would be a piece of cake.’

  Enrico had escorted her to the office the next morning. She had slept well knowing that she was back under the same roof as Marco. But he had gone straight to the plant the next morning, only having a few moments to share some coffee with her on the breakfast balcony.

  ‘Computers are not for me,’ he said, his dark hair still wet from the shower. ‘I only know how to grow grapes and make wine.’

  ‘Perhaps this has happened because you were rarely in the office.’ It sounded like a reprimand but Emma couldn’t stop herself. ‘Whoever has been hacking your system thought you wouldn’t notice.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have noticed even if I was there. Tell me what happens.’

  Emma thought she understood today’s computers when she could produce a spreadsheet for a customer. But now she realized her knowledge was only basic. The professor had written books about computing.

  ‘So I have set the timeout interval for 600 seconds,’ the professor went on explaining. ‘Ten minutes makes more sense than having to wait ages. Meanwhile, I am going to put the rest of the financial files into a read-only mode database, so that they can’t be added, deleted or edited. One more step and they won’t be moved either without Marco’s specific access code.’

  ‘I’ll make some coffee,’ said Emma weakly. It was like watching a Die Hard film, with crooks rewriting sensitive data to control the detonation of a bomb or the complete blackout of New York.

  ‘I’m also going to invent a prefix of table names, a mixture of system and user tables, so that sensitive material can be hidden or displayed.’

  Rocco and Luka were equally bemused. They had both worked with their old computers for some years but only the elementary day-to-day stuff. And the two secretaries, Tina and Rosina, were competent enough to deal with the normal office mail. They thought the professor was a genius beamed down from Mars and rushed out to buy his favourite pasticceria. They bought enough for everyone.

  But the honeypot didn’t work. In seconds, the payment was received by dell’Orto and just as quickly it disappeared off the system.

  The professor was devastated. He could not believe his eyes.

  ‘This is unbelievable,’ said the professor, tapping some keys furiously. ‘This has never happened before. Someone is very clever. I shall have to start again.’

  ‘Has the money gone?’

  ‘Unfortunately yes. I will repay it, of course. Out of my fee.’

  ‘Marco won’t let you, I know that. He is too generous.’

  ‘I shall insist,’ said the professor grimly.

  ‘This hacker is going to beat us, whoever he is,’ said Emma, sinking back into a chair. ‘He’s going to steal all of Marco’s money.’

  ‘Not if I can prevent it,’ said the professor. ‘There is a limit to this hacking business. I’m going to build a secret developer back door which no one will be able to disable.’

  Signor Bragora was not in this morning. His wife phoned that he was not well. Emma could believe it. He had not looked well for weeks. Surely he was not involved in this hacking and the sudden new activity was stressing him out? It would be beyond him. Or perhaps someone was blackmailing him to provide financial information. It was another avenue of thought, but not one which Marco would like. Signor Bragora had been the firm’s chief accountant for years, maybe since Marco was a boy.

  Professor Windsor managed to prevent another payment from Natale Gelato Inc. from going through. He declared the firm bankrupt and put a stop on all funds.

  ‘No call for champagne ice cream, then?’ said Emma. ‘And I thought it was a brilliant idea.’

  Commissario Claudio Morelli phoned, asking to speak to Emma.

  ‘Signorina, I have to ask you some more questions. Is it all right if I come to the office? Is there a room where we can speak in private?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Come any time. I shall be here all day.’

  It was nearly the end of the day when the Commissario arrived. He looked as weary as usual. He was not that old, in his late thirties probably. But his hair was already tinged with grey and he had deep furrows between his brows.

  Emma made coffee immediately and showed him into Signor Bragora’s room. There were two little cakes left. Claudio sat down and opened his briefcase, taking out a big file.

  ‘This is continuing Pia’s murder inquiry. The girl who was wearing your raincoat. The girl they thought was you. There were no traces of any other DNA on her or anything that linked her to you, apart from the fact that she stole your raincoat at the airport. We have evidence of that on their internal CTTV.’

  ‘I think I lost it as we were walking through the airport. I had it over my arm and it slipped. I was very tired and my mind was on other things.’ Her mind had been on Marco, striding ahead of her, so tall and handsome.

  ‘Comprendo, signorina. I have here many photographs. They are ground staff at the Marco Polo Airport and airline staff. Could you please look through them and tell me if any are familiar?’

  The Commissario was happy to drink coffee and eat cakes as Emma leafed through all the photographs. He had missed his tramezzini lunch and breakfast had been the usual rushed coffee. He knew he was losing weight. And he was always tired. Perhaps he should see the doctor.

  Face after face leafed over, every size and shape of face, every colour of skin, male and female. Emma did not recognize anyone. But who actually looked at airport staff? They were part of the faceless body of workers in similar uniforms who kept the flow of passengers going in the right direction.

  Emma stopped at a photograph of a good-looking blonde girl. There was something about her but Emma could not think what it was. She did not look so dark and Italian.

  ‘I might have noticed this young woman,’ said Emma. ‘But I’m not sure where. And I can’t place her. Sorry not to be more helpful.’

  ‘We are trying to find someone who noticed you. That someone who described you and your coat, who was paid to contact the thug who hit Pia and tipped her body into the canal. Did you speak to any other passengers?’

  ‘There were no other passengers in first class,’ said Emma, remembering Marco’s rash generosity. ‘It was empty apart from Marco and myself.’

  ‘Grazie, signorina. I am sorry to have troubled you. I will leave you now to finding the missing euros.’

  He got up to leave. He had finished off the cakes and emptied the cup of coffee. It was back to the office for more legwork. He did not think they would ever find Pia’s killer, unless he killed again.

  ‘Would you like to have supper with Marco and me at the palazzo this evening? He could look at the photographs. He has a good memory for faces.’

  ‘But this woul
d inconvenience your housekeeper?’

  ‘Maria always makes mountains of food. There will be plenty to go round.’

  ‘Then I accept the invitation. Grazie. It would be a pleasure.’

  It was the first time Emma had seen Claudio smile. It was a rare sight and changed his face. It wiped away years and the stress of his work. The Commissario could almost smell Maria’s good cooking. He would have time to go back to his small flat and shower and put on a clean shirt. It was the least he could do.

  Emma learned some more Italian on the water taxi back to the palazzo. Marco had asked for the borrowed launch to meet him somewhere else along the Lagoon. They were taking Claudio’s advice that they should vary the routes that they took. Enrico had hired a water taxi to meet them at the quayside.

  ‘Piove a dirotto,’ he said, waiting outside the office with a big umbrella, seeing Emma into the car. ‘It is pouring.’

  ‘Cats and dogs,’ agreed Emma. He looked puzzled. What had pet animals to do with rain?

  Professor Windsor went straight back to his small and secret hotel in a back calle. He took his laptop with him. He wanted to continue working.

  ‘Don’t worry about me. They have excellent room service,’ he said. ‘I shall order a steak sandwich.’

  Emma thought that he really wanted a small and secret sleep. He was beginning to look tired. No wonder, he had been hard at the computer all day.

  Marco was not late coming home. He took Emma in his arms and nuzzled her hair. She always smelled so sweet.

  ‘These machines,’ he groaned. ‘It was easier when we trod the grapes with our feet.’

  ‘But not so fast and not so hygienic,’ said Emma, sinking into the warmth of his embrace. ‘I have invited the Commissario to eat with us tonight. He looks half-starved and he has some photographs for you to look at.’

  ‘You are too kind, my piccolina. I wanted you all to myself this evening, so that we could make plans and enjoy being together.’

  ‘There will be time for us. I doubt if Claudio will stay late. He seems to work all hours of the day and night.’

  ‘But I also work very hard,’ said Marco.

  ‘Then you will want to retire early to your bed,’ said Emma primly.

  ‘Naturalmente, if you will come with me. If you are still preferring your virgin bed, Inglese e freddo, then I will read the newspapers and drink brandy in my lonely study.’

  Marco was teasing her. His eyes were twinkling, the rain dripping off his hair onto her skin. He had not even stopped to take off his wet coat. They had an evening together ahead and that was magical enough.

  Maria produced her famous fish soup, followed by meloche fritte, which Emma discovered was crab, from the Lagoon, coated with beaten egg and fried. It was delicious. There was salad and risi e bisi, which was rice with fresh peas. And lastly, if anyone had any room, Maria’s home-made tiramisu, which was nothing like the frozen product sold in packets in supermarkets.

  Claudio and Marco were so relaxed, talking, eating and drinking. Emma was happy to listen to their rapid Italian, even if not taking part in the conversation. They had gone to the same school and then their ways parted.

  ‘But, pardone, signorina, we are forgetting you.’

  ‘No problem,’ said Emma. ‘I’m quite happy to sit and listen to you. My Italian is improving. I’m glad to see you both relaxing for a few hours. Your lives are so busy.’

  Claudio’s mobile went off, as if prompted to interrupt. ‘Si?’

  He listened for a while. ‘I will be there,’ he said and switched off. ‘I am sorry. There has been a break-in at a garage. It is not normally a crime requiring my attendance but it is the garage where your car was fitted with bugs. It may be connected.’

  ‘Can my launch take you to the garage?’

  ‘Grazie, but it would be quicker to walk.’

  Commissario Morelli knew all the short cuts along the calles and over bridges. He reached the solid ground of the area beyond Venice where streets became streets and did not swim over water.

  The garage had a good reputation. It was where the wealthy Venetians took their big cars. Why should anyone want to break into a garage? What was there to steal? A few spanners, fuel?

  Claudio saw the police sedans parked in front of the garage and uniformed poliziotto. He showed his identity card.

  ‘Commissario.’

  ‘Quando e successo?’

  An officer shrugged his shoulders. He did not know. He didn’t understand why the Commissario should be interested in this small break-in. Not much was stolen. Only a broken lock and some smashed items.

  Claudio went into the repair shop. A few tools had been thrown about, nothing of any significance. But in the office, it was a different story. Every file had been torn open and the contents shredded. The computer had been wrecked, its hard drive torn out, stamped on, obliterated.

  Claudio knew instantly that whoever ordered the bugging of Marco’s car had returned to destroy any evidence of his existence. All the employment records had gone.

  There was nothing to link the current motley of scumbags currently behind bars for the murder of young Pia, or the hanging of the young man under the bridge. But Claudio had a gut feeling they were all connected to the stealing of the Prosecco fortune.

  The good supper that Maria had provided sat comfortably in his stomach. He thought of Emma at the table, her face alight with love for Marco. He would have liked to see Emma turn her face to him, alight with the same love. But he was too late to win her affection. He was doomed to being a lonely workaholic.

  Marco took the file of photographs into the sitting room to look through while they drank coffee. None of the faces meant anything to him. Yet he knew every man and woman who worked for him. No face was a stranger. He knew every one of his employees.

  It was a relief to know that none of them existed in Claudio’s file of suspects. Some he had known since they were children, had danced at their weddings, been a godparent at christenings.

  Marco closed the file. ‘No, there is no one. Did you recognize anyone?’

  Emma came and sat beside him. ‘Only this one,’ she said, opening the page to the smart, young blonde woman. ‘I thought I had seen her somewhere.’

  Marco shook his head. ‘I don’t remember her.’

  ‘Never mind. It was a possibility that we might recognize someone.’

  ‘I only had eyes for you on that flight,’ Marco teased.

  ‘You are such a flirt.’

  ‘Flirt? What is this flirt? Is it some sort of insect? I deny everything.’

  They were laughing when Maria came into the sitting room, carrying a tray. On it was a bottle of Moët & Chandon champagne and two flutes. She put it down on the table, then removed the coffee.

  ‘Is this a celebration?’ Emma asked.

  ‘I don’t understand. This is French champagne,’ said Marco, a little annoyed.

  Maria handed him an envelope. ‘This was delivered by a uniformed messenger from the Hotel Gritti Palace. It is a gift for you, signor.’

  The envelope was the heavy vellum of Hotel Gritti Palace’s personal stationery. Inside was a single sheet of heavy cream vellum. On it was written in a bold scrawl:

  ‘Enjoy the champagne and think of me, Raquel.’

  Marco put the card aside. She had not said thank you. He wondered if Raquel ever said thank you to anyone.

  ‘It’s from Raquel,’ he said. ‘I suppose it’s her way of saying thank you though I’m sure it’s going on my bill.’

  ‘Are we going to drink it?’

  Marco shrugged his shoulders. ‘It’s French,’ he said, as if that explained everything.

  Maria was clearing the coffee cups when she saw the file of photographs open at the picture of the blonde woman.

  ‘I know this young woman,’ she said, tapping the photograph. ‘She is Vikki Boccetta. She lives a few streets back. She is very smart and has a good job.’

  ‘You know her?’


  ‘Si, Vikki Boccetta. She works for the airlines. She is, you call, a hostess. She flies all over the world to places. Her mother is nice person, takes in lodgers. She lent me some buckets when we had the flooding.’

  twenty

  Commissario Claudio Morelli could not hide his satisfaction. Vikki Boccetta had been the hostess for the first-class cabin on the flight that brought Emma and Marco to Venice. He contacted her immediately and she insisted that she had done nothing wrong. She thought it had been a joke of some kind.

  ‘I was asked to describe the female passenger, that’s all,’ she said. ‘Her face, her hair, her clothes.’

  ‘Who asked you?’

  ‘I don’t know. It was a mobile phone call.’

  ‘And you were paid for this information?’

  ‘Yes, but it was not a lot. I thought it was for a glossy magazine. A celebrity story, perhaps. I thought the couple were eloping.’

  ‘How were you paid?’

  ‘The money came in an envelope. I gave half of it to my mother.’

  ‘Were you not suspicious of this?’

  ‘It meant nothing to me.’

  Commissario Morelli paused. He wanted Vikki to be unnerved. She seemed very much in control of her answers. He wondered if she knew a lot more. She looked like a woman with expensive tastes.

  ‘I shall need your mobile phone, signorina. Only for a short while then you can have it back. Please bring it to the Questura immediately.’

  ‘What have I done wrong?’ There was the slightest tremor in her voice. Vikki liked her job, the perks, the glamour, flying round the world. She did not want to lose her job.

  ‘As far as I can see, nothing wrong. Strange perhaps but not illegal.’

  ‘Grazie, Commissario. I will bring the phone.’

  Commissario Morelli gave the mobile phone to the whiz-kids downstairs and asked them to make a list of all the calls to Vikki’s phone in December last year and January this year. The result was interesting. She had a lot of men-friends calling her for dates.

  He scoured the list when they handed it to him. It was also confusing. But then he spotted a phone call made to her on the day that Emma flew to Venice. It was made at 4 p.m., two hours before the flight took off.