‘Guido,’ Hammond called. ‘Are you in there?’
There was no answer. He rounded the reception desk and strode along the short passage that led to Felltrini’s office and, before that, his PA’s. He turned in through the open doorway. And there he stopped.
The sight was difficult to take in at a glance. But as Hammond stared at what lay before him, its reality revealed a catalogue of horrors. Felltrini was spread-eagled on the floor, one of his eyes gazing sightlessly at the ceiling, while through the other his ornate fountain pen had been driven nib-first. His mouth was enlarged by a massive burn, caused by the bare-wired end of a cable coiled beside him. It had been wrenched out of the back of the nearby photocopier and was still plugged in and switched on. His shirt and trousers were gaping open. Scorch marks were visible on his chest and stomach. Hammond did not doubt that there were more scorch marks elsewhere. When death had finally arrived, courtesy of a bullet through the brain, Felltrini had probably been grateful. There were fragments of brain tissue and skull in the halo of blood around his head. Execution had followed torture. Whatever he had revealed, it had won him no reprieve.
There were no signs of lividity, so he could have been dead only a few hours at most. Hammond had seen many corpses in his career, but none like this one. He felt sick – and very, very frightened. His heart was palpitating, his whole body trembling. Who could have done such ghastly things to another human being? The murderer must have been intent on extracting information from his victim before killing him. The extent of the torture suggested it had not been easy to do so. Or perhaps Felltrini had simply not possessed the information demanded. He had known Hammond’s name, though, and Zineta’s. He might well have given those up. In fact, he almost certainly had. Fortunately, he had not known where they were staying.
Piravani’s whereabouts might be a different matter, though. Hammond took two steps towards the telephone on the PA’s desk, thinking to warn him as soon as possible, then stopped. The police would be all over this office come morning. A record of a phone call made in the middle of the night, just a few hours after the murder, was bound to attract their attention. It was wiser by far to call Piravani from the hotel.
Hammond retreated to the doorway and looked down at Felltrini. The sight of the fountain pen protruding from his eye like some weird kind of antenna was somehow more disturbing than all the blood and burns. ‘I’m sorry, Guido,’ Hammond murmured. ‘I never in—’
A sound had caught his ear: a mechanical whirring somewhere within the building. He turned and hurried back to the reception area. The sound was louder here. Looking through the glass doors on to the landing, he saw the cause: the numbers over the lift were illuminating in a remorseless sequence – 1, 2, 3 … At 5, whoever was riding the lift would reach the top floor. There was no time to lose.
As he made for the fire escape, Hammond noticed a car key with an Audi symbol on its fob lying on the reception desk. It had to be Felltrini’s. Perhaps he had dropped it there earlier, after the failure of his own attempt to leave. Hammond stopped and grabbed it, some instinct telling him that with the car he would be much safer from pursuit than if he simply ran for it.
The manoeuvre cost him a few crucial seconds. He had barely reached the fire-escape door when he heard the lift bell ding. He flung the door open and plunged down the stairs. Two flights took him to the fourth floor, another two to the third, another two again to the second. Then something pinged off the handrail ahead of him. There was a simultaneous explosion of sound, followed by another roar as a bullet whined past him and took a chip out of the edge of one of the treads. But he ran on, hugging the wall, gambling that the gunman could not get a clear shot at him without descending further.
He reached the ground floor and paused for a fraction of a second, just long enough to hear racing footfalls on the stairs above. Then he rushed to the door, thrust down the bar and barged his way out into the courtyard.
As he ran across the sleet-slicked cobbles, he pointed the key at the car and began pressing the remote-control button frantically. The indicator lights flashed and the door locks released when he was about halfway there. He scrambled in behind the wheel, slammed the door, fumbled for what felt like an eternity before finding the ignition, then turned the key and thanked God when the engine burst into well-tuned life. A thrust of the gearstick into drive and he was away, prodding switches in search of the headlamps as he went.
But he was not fast enough. The fire-escape door flew open as he accelerated across the courtyard. A burly, black-clad figure ran out and turned towards him, raising his arm. At that moment, the headlamps came on in response to one of Hammond’s random prods. The gunman tried to shield his eyes from the glare with his left hand as he aimed with his right. He fired. A bullet ricocheted off the wing of the car and splintered the windscreen. Hammond ducked instinctively but late, realizing as he did so that the gunman could hardly miss with his next shot, as he drove past him into the alley leading to the street. He wrenched the wheel to the right and pushed his foot down.
The impact was a solid thump, followed a split second later by a heavy jolt as the car hit the wall. He bounced back from the steering-wheel with a sharp pain in his chest and took his foot off the accelerator. The gunman was sprawled face down on the bonnet, trapped by his waist. When Hammond shifted the gearstick into reverse and eased back, the man slid down into the gap, but the gun stayed where it was.
Hammond was breathing heavily. And each inhalation brought a stab of pain around his right lung, suggesting he had cracked a rib. But if he had paused to fasten his seatbelt, the gunman might have got more than one shot at the car and then … He shook his head, trying to corral his thoughts into a rational response. He opened the door and climbed gingerly out. The headlamps were trained on a stuccoed patch of wall. But the light from them spread down into the shadows beneath the bumper and reflected off a dark pool of blood. He moved cautiously round the bonnet for a clearer view.
The gunman was slumped at the foot of the wall, crumpled and motionless, his face concealed by a black balaclava. He was losing blood rapidly. His chances of survival depended on prompt attention from a paramedic, which he was unlikely to get. The shots he had fired could easily have been heard, however. The police would probably be on their way soon. Hammond’s instinct as a doctor was to help him as best he could until better-equipped assistance arrived. But the man had tried to kill him. And Hammond could not risk being found on the scene. There was just too much for him to explain.
Nor could he risk being seen in the car that would tie him to its owner’s death. He leant back into the car, wincing from the pain that he no longer doubted meant at least one of his ribs was broken, and turned off the engine. Then, clutching his hand to his side to stabilize the fracture, he headed along the alley to the street.
There were shadows everywhere and it required no great effort to imagine a second gunman lurking in any one of them. But if he existed he would surely have come to his accomplice’s aid long since. Hammond reasoned his way into believing the coast was clear and started off down the street.
TWELVE
‘Pronto.’
‘It’s me, Marco. I have bad news.’
‘What’s happened, doctor?’
‘Guido’s dead.’
‘Gesù.’
‘I found him at his office. He’d been shot.’
‘Someone shot Guido?’
‘Yes. I’m sorry, Marco. Truly I am.’
‘I knew it. When he didn’t answer the phone, I … This is your fault, doctor. Do you realize that? If you hadn’t contacted him, he’d still be alive.’
‘Maybe. I—’
‘Why couldn’t you leave him alone? His only crime was being my friend.’
‘I am sorry, believe me. But I don’t see how our visit—’
‘Did he know where you’re staying?’
‘What?’
‘Did Guido know where you’re staying?’
‘No. No
, he didn’t.’
‘Then you’re safe. For a while, at least. He didn’t know where I am either. That was probably what they— Before they shot him, doctor, did they … torture him?’
‘Yes. I’m afraid they did.’
‘Perdoni mio, Guido.’
‘Listen, Marco, we have to—’
‘Think, doctor. That is what we have to do. I will phone you back. Tell reception to transfer my call to you whatever time it comes in. You understand?’
‘Yes. But—’
Their conversation had ended there. Now, after emphasizing to the night porter that all calls should be put through whenever they came in, Hammond lay on his bed, gazing at a Modigliani print on the opposite wall and trying to put the nightmarish events of the last couple of hours into a pattern that allowed him to believe his life was not in the process of disintegrating.
The pain of his broken rib had served during his walk back to the hotel as a distraction from the severity of his situation. But he was in no pain as long as he did not move and the reality of what had happened could no longer be suppressed.
He suspected he was still in shock and should therefore distrust his instincts. They veered from returning to London on the first available flight and pretending he had never been in Milan to phoning the Italian police and telling them everything he knew. What Piravani was going to propose he could not imagine. Felltrini’s murder and his own responsibility for a second death had transformed his involvement in Dragan Gazi’s machinations from a squabble about money into a battle to stay alive.
How that transformation had come about he was not exactly sure. Every step he had taken since his encounter with Ingrid had seemed at the time like the only one he could take in the circumstances. But this was where those steps had led: to Felltrini screaming for mercy and being shown none; to the sound he could clearly remember of hard steel driving flesh and bone into solid stone; to blood, lots of it, pooling darkly in the night.
And he was not finished with blood. Suddenly, to his horror, he saw a crimson tide of it advancing across the floor towards the bed. He tried to sit up, but something powerful and muffling held him down. He fought against it and broke free.
Then he was awake. And the blood had vanished. And he was alone, bathed in sweat, pain subsiding slowly from his waking jolt. And nothing had changed. Felltrini and the gunman were still dead. And he was still trapped in his hotel room, so badly strung out that the difference between being asleep and awake was beginning to elude him.
He lay back, struggling to still his mind and relax. He needed to think, but to think well he needed to rest. And rest was a long way off.
Then the telephone rang.
‘I’m on a land line, doctor. Don’t try calling me on the number I gave you earlier. It’s discontinued. Whoever killed Guido will have it and I can’t risk them locating me. There’s no way you can locate me either.’
‘I suppose not.’
‘I should cut you loose now. With Guido dead, there’s nothing you can threaten me with.’
‘I’m not threatening you, Marco.’
‘Not any more, no. Not since you learnt what sort of people you’re messing with. You’re a frightened man, with a lot to be frightened of.’
‘I can’t argue with that.’
‘Do you know the only reason I’m talking to you? It’s Guido. I went to school with him. I watched my first match at San Siro with him. I started in business with him. He was my best and oldest friend. My only real friend. Now he’s dead. And he didn’t die easily, did he?’
‘No. He didn’t.’
‘I’m probably even more to blame than you are. I should hav … foreseen this.’
‘Do you know who might be responsible?’
‘I think so, yes. But tell me first exactly what happened.’
‘Are you sure you want to know?’
‘I’m very sure, doctor.’
And so Hammond told him, in as much detail as he felt either of them could bear, reciting the facts without dwelling on the horror of what he had found and what had occurred.
When he had finished, Piravani’s initial response was to murmur some words in Italian. Then he said, ‘Todorović is behind this,’ as if the conclusion was quite self-evident.
‘Who?’
‘Branko Todorović. Gazi’s general enforcer for his underworld dealings.’
‘How can you be sure?’
‘Because I know his methods. And I know what he’s looking for.’
‘The money?’
‘No, doctor. He’d like to get his hands on the money, I’m sure. But that’s not what he’s really after.’
‘Which is?’
Piravani did not answer.
‘Marco?’
‘Yes, doctor. I’m here. I was thinking. About the risks I have to take and the risks I might take. I was weighing them in my mind.’
‘What does Todorović want?’
‘I’ll explain when we meet.’
‘And when’s that to be?’
‘Tomorrow. I’m sure the man you killed was acting alone. Otherwise you wouldn’t have escaped. He hung around outside after killing Guido because he didn’t get any useful information out of him. Poor Guido didn’t have the information to give. Well, if Todorović thinks he can—’ Piravani checked himself. ‘This is what I want you to do. Leave the hotel at six tomorrow morning. Go to Stazione Centrale and buy a ticket to Zürich on the seven ten Cisalpino. Get off at the second stop: Lugano.’
‘Lugano, Switzerland?’
‘Yes, doctor. Switzerland.’
‘Is that where the money is?’
‘It’s where we’ll meet. That’s all you need to know. Remember: book through to Zürich, but get off at Lugano.’
‘All right. We’ll be there.’
‘We?’
‘I can’t abandon Zineta, Marco. She might be in danger. Whatever you and—’
‘You must abandon her. Not for my sake. For yours.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘How did they find Guido? Ask yourself. Who knew he was still in contact with me? Two people only. You. And Zineta. Someone tipped them off. They would never have got to him so quickly otherwise. So, who was it? You? Or Zineta?’
‘You can’t be serious.’
‘But I am. She has betrayed you, doctor. She mustn’t know where you’re going. Otherwise, we’re both finished. You understand? Finished … like Guido.’
Hammond could not fault Piravani’s logic, but that did not mean he believed Zineta had tipped off Todorović. There was simply no way he could convince himself of that. Everything he had seen of her, in their admittedly short acquaintance, spoke against it, especially her revulsion at the appalling acts committed by Gazi and his associates. Maybe a member of Felltrini’s staff was responsible, though quite how that could be so he struggled to understand. But not Zineta. No, Piravani had to be wrong about her.
He had agreed to behave, however, as if Piravani was right: to leave the hotel without contacting her and travel to Lugano alone. The longer he considered the matter, however, the greater the conflict in his mind between the guilt he would feel for cutting her adrift and the urge to put Piravani’s assertion to the test. If she had betrayed him, he wanted to be sure of it. He needed to be sure. And then …
The phone in her room rang seven or eight times before she answered and the drowsiness in her voice was surely genuine. Could she really have been sleeping after setting Todorović’s attack dogs on Felltrini? It hardly seemed possible. ‘It’s Edward, Zineta. We need to talk. Now.’
‘Wha … What time is it?’
‘Just gone three.’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘I can’t explain on the phone. Can I come to your room?’
‘OK. Yes. Give me … five minutes.’
Hammond gave her just as long as it took him to walk to the lift, go up one floor and locate her room. She answered the door wrapped in an oversized bathrobe with M fo
r Manzoni embroidered on it in gold. She was tousle-haired and still blinking away sleep, but Hammond’s own appearance – drawn, dishevelled and clutching his ribs – snapped her into full alertness.
‘What’s happened to you, Edward?’
‘Felltrini’s dead. I’m lucky to be alive myself.’
The genuineness of her shock seemed unmistakable. ‘When?’ she gasped. ‘How?’
‘Before I tell you, do you have any painkillers?’
‘Paracetamol?’
‘Would be fine.’
‘Are you … injured?’ she asked as she fetched a foil from her handbag.
‘Broken rib.’ He prised out a couple of tablets.
‘I’ll get you some water.’
She went to the bathroom and poured him a glass. He gulped the tablets down, studying the alarm and confusion in her expression in search of some sign of falseness. There was none to be seen.
He eased himself down into the room’s only armchair and began his account of the night’s events. Zineta sat on the end of the bed, listening to him intently, frowning and open-mouthed. If she had tipped off Todorović, her shock and dismay were part of a superb piece of acting. Hammond felt increasingly certain she was innocent, but knew he had to be cautious. Of his planned rendezvous with Piravani in Lugano – of the whole of their latest conversation, in fact – he said nothing.
‘Have you told Marco?’ she asked when he had finished.
‘Do you think I should?’
‘Felltrini was his oldest friend. He has to be told.’
‘I agree. But Marco only agreed to our terms in order to protect Felltrini.’
‘You think he’ll … back out now?’
‘He might.’
‘But … he’s expecting to hear from you.’
‘Yes. So, who do you reckon he’ll blame for his friend’s death? We’re the only people who knew they were still in touch with each other.’
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