SUNDAY NIGHT
As soon as I finished my coffee, I went through to Reception, where I found Rita sipping a coffee on her own. She looked up and produced a little smile as she recognised me. I could see that it was a struggle, but dead bodies do tend to cast a shadow over people.
‘Signor Armstrong, how are you? I hope the terrible events of last night haven’t spoilt your holiday. We’re so sorry.’
‘It’s not your fault, Rita, and please call me Dan. I’m afraid we have a big problem.’ I went on to tell her the latest developments without going into detail about Virgilio’s confrontation with the murdered man last night. When I told her that he had been marched off to the police station to be questioned, she looked predictably horrified.
‘They think it was murder? I don’t believe that for a moment. Besides, Virgilio wouldn’t hurt a fly. He’s a police officer, and a high-ranking one. There’s no way he’s a killer.’
In fact, I had come across several police officers in my time who had turned out to be murderers – one here in Italy – but I wisely decided not to mention this to her. The good news was that it looked as though she was firmly on team Virgilio, so I outlined what I was hoping to get from her.
‘I don’t know if Virgilio told you, but I used to be a police officer in the UK and I now have my own investigation agency in Florence. I’m determined to give Virgilio all the help I can, but what I really need is some information from you.’
‘Anything, just say the word.’ She leant forward and lowered her voice. ‘The police inspector sounded as though he thought it was just an accident, but if it turns out to have been murder, do you think it might be somebody here who did it?’ Her eyes flitted across to the door to the owner’s office. ‘Signor Silvano won’t like it if the police start interrogating the guests, but I suppose that would be the logical assumption. You and I both know it wasn’t Virgilio, so who do you think it was?’
‘That’s what I’m hoping to find out. There are two things I’d like from you. If possible, could you show me or tell me where the CCTV cameras are situated and, more importantly, could you give me a list of the names and details of the staff and guests here at the hotel?’
I waited anxiously for her to say no, but I needn’t have worried.
‘Of course. I can let you have a copy of everybody on the payroll and all the guests’ names if you give me your e-mail address. I’ve had to send all these to the police so it won’t take me long. As well as the guests’ names, I’ll send you over the copies of all their ID documents – but you’d probably best not mention that to the inspector.’
Hotels in Italy are obliged by law to keep a record of all guests, and I had been hoping I might get sight of their documents. I thanked her warmly and promised I wouldn’t reveal the extent of her help. I gave her my e-mail and she told me she would get onto it straight away, but she hadn’t finished yet.
‘Now, as far as the CCTV’s concerned, why don’t I show you what’s on the screen?’ She pressed a couple of keys on the keyboard and swung the monitor around so we could both see it. It was immediately clear that the hotel had four cameras, one here in the reception area and the other three outside. The inside one didn’t interest me for now, but I studied the external ones carefully. One covered the terrace, one the parking area, and the last the front door and the path leading towards the clifftop and, beyond it, the beach. Filing away the fact that last night’s confrontation with Graziani at our table would definitely have been recorded and had probably already been noted by the police, I concentrated on camera number four. This was the one looking out towards the beach.
The screen showed the gravel path leading from the villa in the direction of the sea. Frustratingly, it disappeared into the pine trees, but at least that meant that the camera hadn’t been able to pick up the spot where Virgilio had punched Graziani. The clifftop directly above the dead body, presumably where the man had either jumped, fallen or been pushed over the cliff edge, was hidden by trees, which disappeared from sight at the edge of the field of vision of the camera. On this basis, it would have been easy for somebody here at the hotel – assuming they could find a way of avoiding the camera at the front door – to sneak into these trees and gain access to the cliffs without being seen.
Clearly, CCTV wasn’t going to be much help. The only good news was that it wasn’t likely to provide the police with any hard evidence to use against Virgilio, either.
I thanked Rita most warmly and went back out to the terrace where Anna and Lina were still at the table. Some of the other guests had already finished their dinner and left, and only three other tables were now occupied: by the two people who had dined with Graziani the previous night, the amorous young couple at the far end of the terrace, and the two hard nuts. I studied these two closely, if surreptitiously.
The one with the ginger hair was leaning across the table, saying something to the man sitting opposite him. From the expressions on their faces, whatever he was saying, they were both taking it seriously. They were too far away for me to be able to make out what was being said, but from the hand gestures and the movements of the lips, it looked to me as though they were Italian. There were some documents on the table between them and the man with the ginger hair was tapping a sheet with his finger, clearly making a point. The one with the shaved head was nodding sagely. I had the feeling they were here on business and I wondered what sort of business that might be. After a glance at their watches, both men stood up, collected the documents and headed back into the hotel.
The amorous couple at the end of the terrace were still lost in each other’s eyes and looked as if they would be happy to stay there all night. I did my best to take a closer look at the two people on Graziani’s table but it was fully dark by now and the candlelight didn’t help much. Graziani had allegedly been almost fifty, and the man sitting there was probably around the same age, although I could only see him in profile, while the candle was closer to his female companion and she looked a lot younger, maybe in her thirties or even late twenties. The man was smartly dressed in a polo shirt and he was smoking a cigar, whose aroma floated down on the slight hint of a breeze in the evening air as far as our table. Neither of them appeared to be speaking. Then, without preamble, the man got to his feet and headed back into the hotel, immediately followed by his female companion. As they disappeared from sight, I found myself wondering what sort of relationship they had. Was he maybe her boss? Was she his mistress or trophy wife? Was she his daughter? Hopefully, when Rita sent me their IDs, the mystery would be explained.
I was roused from any further conjecture by the sound of a phone. It was Virgilio calling Lina, telling her the inspector had finished with him and asking her to drive over and pick him up from Portoferraio. When the call finished and she explained what he had just said, I waved her back into her seat and told her I’d go. This wasn’t just natural chivalry – if you asked my ex-wife, she would probably tell you that this was never one of my strong points, although I’ve been trying harder as I grow older – but it was so that I could discuss the case with him before returning him to the welcoming arms of his wife.
The drive from the hotel on the east coast of the island to Portoferraio on the north coast took barely fifteen minutes and I got there at nine-thirty. Elba isn’t big. It’s barely twenty miles long, and at this time of night, the roads were wonderfully clear of traffic. The police station was close to the ferry terminal through which we had arrived on the island and I found Virgilio waiting by the main door. I waved to him and he climbed into my van alongside me.
‘Ciao, Dan, this is very good of you.’ He sounded tired.
‘No problem, how’re you doing?’
He ran a weary hand over his shaved head. ‘I’ve almost lost my voice. I’ve had to repeat my story to Bellini, to his boss, and even via video link to theQuestorehimself over on the mainland in Livorno.’
‘Wow, the big guns.’ I was impressed but not surprised – after all, news of an officer at chief inspector level potentially involved in a murder was bound to go all the way up the chain of command to theQuestore– roughly equivalent to the chief constable back in the UK – and had to be handled very tactfully, starting with making sure the media didn’t get so much as a whiff of it. As it turned out, this contact had been good for Virgilio as he explained.
‘Actually, that was no bad thing for me. I know theQuestorepretty well. He was my super when I was starting out in Pisa. He remembered me – for all the right reasons – and he personally instructed Bellini to release me.’
‘So you’re a free man.’
‘Sort of, but, like you and the other guests, I have to stay at the hotel until we get permission to leave, but Bellini left me in no doubt that, if it turns out to have been murder – although I’m convinced he still believes it was an accident – I’m the prime suspect as far as he’s concerned.’ He shrugged. ‘And I can’t blame him. Who else is there?’
‘With cousin Rita’s help, that’s what we need to find out. Mind you, I would have thought Bellini might have got somebody to give you a lift back to the hotel.’
‘I think he was making a point, telling me not to expect any favours from him just because I’m a police officer.’
As I drove out of town, I related what I’d discovered from the CCTV footage, and he nodded.
