1
ONE EVENING IN MAY
All around were the red tiled roofs of the picturesque, medieval town of San Gimignano, but today, the view was marred by the presence of a body stretched out on the flagstones of the little piazza far below. Even from this height, the inspector recognised the silver hair of the pathologist as he and his team set about their work. From up here, at the top of one of the tallest of San Gimignano’s dozen or more towers, the tree-clad hills of Tuscany rolled away into the distance on all sides, and it was hard to believe that a violent death could have taken place in such a serene and beautiful setting. Under other circumstances, it would have been one of the best views in Italy, but not today.
By the inspector’s side, Sergeant Romolo had no doubt.
‘Looks pretty straightforward to me, sir. It’s obvious that he jumped. A classic case of suicide, I reckon.’
The inspector didn’t reply immediately. He just stood, surveying the scene and trying to make sense of it. Finally, he glanced across at the sergeant and voiced his concerns. ‘If it was suicide, I’m at a loss to know why he did it. A shopkeeper from Florence is enjoying a day out in the Tuscan countryside when he suddenly decides to end it all. Why would he do that?’
Romolo shrugged his shoulders. ‘Could be anything… Maybe he had money worries, women trouble. Who knows?’
‘That’s what we have to find out, Romolo, because until we know that, we can’t rule out foul play.’
The sergeant gave his boss a sceptical look. ‘You think somebody climbed all the way up here to murder this guy? Why do that and, more importantly, why did the victim agree to climb the tower with a potential murderer?’
The inspector added a proviso. ‘Who says they climbed the tower together? Maybe the victim climbed up on his own to see the view, and the killer was already here, waiting for him. Alternatively, the killer might have seen him enter the tower and followed him up.’ He gave a frustrated sigh. ‘Of course, you’re right, the obvious conclusion is that he jumped, but there’s just something about this that bothers me. It’s too easy, somehow.’ He caught the young sergeant’s eye. ‘Just call it a hunch, Romolo. There’s something here that doesn’t make sense.’
* * *
I sat back and stretched my legs, realising that I’d been sitting here staring at the computer screen for over an hour. The story had been going so well until the beginning of the month – and I was well over halfway through writing the book – but for the last week and a half, I hadn’t typed a word. I was stuck. I glanced down at Oscar, who was sprawled on the terracotta tiles at my feet, and turned to him for help.
‘I don’t suppose you can come up with a solution to writer’s block, can you?’ I had read about this phenomenon online in various authors’ groups, but, in my relatively short writing career up till now, this was the first time I had experienced it so acutely.
He looked up at me but gave no response. In fairness, I didn’t really expect one. Oscar is a dog, after all, and as such, he’s a good listener, but not a conversationalist.
I sat there and went through the plot again in my head – the robbery, the first murder, the investigation that had led inexorably to San Gimignano and now this extra ramping up of the tension with the discovery of another body. The problem was that I had backed myself into a corner, and I had no idea how to get out of it. Although I’m normally a pretty organised person, my editor in London describes me as a seat-of-the-pants writer and she’s right. Rather than plan everything in advance, I tend to select a location, decide on some of the main characters, throw in some jeopardy and see where it all leads. In the case of this book, the answer so far was: nowhere.
I pushed back my chair and glanced back down at Oscar. ‘Maybe a walk might be a good idea to clear my head. Interested?’
As always, the magic word did the trick, and he jumped to his feet a lot more agilely than I did – but he is barely four and I’m almost fifty-four years older than him. I reached back and closed the laptop regretfully before following him out into the late-afternoon sunshine. The temperature had dropped a couple of degrees, and it was most pleasant walking up the gravel track outside my house as it snaked between vineyards and olive groves. Oscar repeatedly brought me sticks and pine cones so that I could throw them as far as possible for him to chase, locate and retrieve. Like most Labradors, he has inherited the retriever gene – as well as the gluttony gene.
We had gone only a few hundred metres when my phone started ringing. I pulled it out of my pocket and saw that it was Virgilio, my best friend here in Tuscany.
‘Ciao, Dan, I’ve got a suggestion for you. How would you and Anna feel about a week’s holiday next month? I’m due some leave, and Lina and I were wondering if you felt like joining us.’
‘Ciao, Virgilio. A holiday is probably what I need. I’m feeling a bit jaded.’
The idea of a week off certainly had its attraction. Although my two murder mysteries were selling pretty well, it was my day job that paid the bills. I had set up a private investigation agency nearly two years earlier and this had been a remarkably busy year so far. Although it was only May, I had already been involved in all manner of cases, ranging from theft to disappearing persons, marital infidelity to drug addiction, and even murder. The murder investigations had mostly been in collaboration with Virgilio in Florence, which is where I have my office. Although his English is pretty fluent, he often calls me in when a case involves English speakers. He’s acommissario– roughly equivalent to detective chief inspector – which was the rank I had occupied at the Metropolitan Police in London before taking early retirement and moving here to Tuscany almost three years ago.
I felt sure a week off would do me good and might even help me break out of my writer’s block. Apart from anything else, I hoped that Anna would appreciate a week without me going off to ‘play detectives’, as she put it. I knew that I owed it to her to give both of us a break.
‘Where are you thinking of going?’
‘Elba. Do you know it?’
‘The island where Napoleon was exiled to.’
‘That’s the one. Have you already been there?’
I had never visited the island of Elba but, like most people, I’d heard of it, and it was definitely on my bucket list of places to visit. The island is just off the west coast of Tuscany, barely ten kilometres from the mainland, and it has become one of Italy’s most desirable holiday destinations. From where I lived, just outside Florence, it would probably take only a couple of hours to drive to the little port of Piombino, and there we could catch the ferry to the island. A week there sounded perfect, and I was quick to agree with his suggestion.
‘I certainly know of it, but I’ve never been there. A week lying on the beach sounds like a great idea. It’s not very big, is it? Have you got anywhere particular in mind?’
‘There’s a hotel on the east of the island. I’ve never been there, but apparently, it’s right on the coast with its own private beach and – Oscar will like this – it’s dog friendly. Even better, my cousin works there and she says she can do us a good deal.’
‘Sounds like a useful cousin.’
