‘Mind you, Aldo isn’t much better.’ The barista was frowning and I gave him an enquiring look. After a few moments’ hesitation, he explained. ‘I don’t mean he’s a perverted sadist like his brother, but he’s got an awful reputation here as far as women are concerned.’
One of the elderly men joined in. ‘And that includes married women as well. He doesn’t come into town any more, he just stays in that flashy villa of his, and that’s probably very wise. If he did show his face here, he would almost certainly find himself on the receiving end of a beating.’
Before I could ask for any more detail, a pair of elderly women appeared and sat down at a nearby table. I saw the three men exchange glances and the conversation instantly changed to football – always a fertile topic. I wondered who the women were. Were they just nosey locals or might there have been a connection with the Graziani family? Either way, it was clear that I wasn’t going to get any more information, so I swallowed my coffee, paid the waiter, and set off towards the hotel.
All the way back, I was turning over in my head what I’d just heard. Clearly, the Graziani brothers hadn’t been held in high esteem by a lot of the locals, and the story of the attempted abduction was potentially fascinating – if it was true. Maybe the girl or her close family had decided to get their revenge. The list of possible perpetrators was expanding.
* * *
Back at the hotel, the police vehicles were still parked outside, and I could see figures moving among the pine trees, but somehow. I had a feeling that by this evening, the death of Ignazio Graziani could well be written off as an unfortunate accident – and, indeed, in the absence of any proof to the contrary, that’s what it might have been, in spite of the growing list of people who had wanted him dead.
Anna and I went around to the windsurfing beach at ten-thirty, and I found a helpful volunteer in the shape of the waiter at the beach bar who said he would make sure he kept an eye on Oscar while the two of us were out in the water. I tied the lead to one of the supports of the awning in front of the bar, told him to be a good boy, and off we went. He’s normally pretty good about staying put when I tell him, but I could see the sense of injustice written across his face when he saw us heading for the water while he was obliged to stay on dry land. I vowed to make sure I gave him a good long splash about in the waves as soon as the first half of my lesson finished.
The lesson itself went a whole lot better than the previous day. Yes, I still fell in quite a few times, but I definitely felt more confident, and by lunchtime, I was really getting the hang of tilting the sail so that it could catch the wind and drive me along. When I carried my board back up the beach and set it down, Ingrid told me ominously that this afternoon would be devoted to ‘tacking’ and ‘gybing’. Helpfully, she used the English words, but they didn’t really mean much to me. I have to confess that I had to look them up on my phone and saw that these manoeuvres would involve ‘changing course by turning into and through the wind’ or, alternatively, ‘making a downwind turn so that the sail crosses to the leeward side of the boat’. This left me little the wiser, but I had a feeling that the result of this would be more falling in.
I found Oscar pleased to see me with a contented canine smile on his face that was quickly explained by the waiter, who told me a group of kids had come in for mid-morning cakes and croissants and Oscar had scored numerous titbits as a result. Consequently, although I would happily have slumped into a chair and stayed there for the next hour and a half, I swallowed half a litre of water – not seawater for a change – and set off to give him a bit of exercise, leaving Anna relating our windsurfing experiences to her daughter on the phone.
I gave Oscar a quick, refreshing swim and then, out of curiosity, I headed inland, following the signs to thecampeggio. According to what I’d been told, presumably this was now wholly owned by the victim’s brother, Aldo, unless Ignazio had made other provisions in his will. As far as I was aware, this was unlikely as Ignazio hadn’t been married, had no children, and his parents had died some years earlier. As I walked past rows of tents, smart-looking timber chalets, tennis courts, a large swimming pool, and all the facilities of a modern campsite, it occurred to me yet again that this might indeed have been a motive for fratricide. There could be no doubt that Aldo Graziani had benefited considerably from his brother’s death.
I walked through the campsite and out the other side to find myself close to the main road, just along from a sign indicating the entrance to Hotel Augustus. An immaculately trimmed hedge enclosed a little hillock on which I could see Aldo Graziani’s villa. As Rita had said, the ‘Villa Ostentatious’ was an ultramodern building with white walls, acres of plate glass and a flat roof. It was in an enviable position and it was no doubt worth a lot of money. I was struck yet again by how well Aldo had done for himself – maybe suspiciously well?
I turned back into the campsite and decided that it wouldn’t do any harm to sit down at the bar and have a drink in the hope of maybe finding out a bit more about the owner of this place. The sign above the door saidBar/Pizzeriaand people were sitting at tables outside, enjoying their lunch. I had promised Anna that I would eat with her at the beach bar so, much to Oscar’s chagrin – he has a thing about pizza crusts – I attracted the attention of a passing waiter and just asked if I could have a low-alcohol beer. He waved me into a seat on the terrace and went off to get my drink.
While waiting, I turned over in my head the fact that Ignazio’s brother had had good motive to kill. I wondered whether maybe in my book, I should introduce a brother or other friend or relative who might have pushed the victim off the top of the San Gimignano tower. After all, he had pretty obviously gone up the tower willingly, so that did tend to imply that if he’d been in the company of the murderer, he would already have been familiar with him or her. As far as motive was concerned, it wouldn’t be hard for me to invent an oil well in Texas or an IT company in Silicon Valley and a jealous or greedy relative. It occurred to me that I needed to think very carefully about the terms of the dead man’s will, and I felt a little spurt of inspiration run through me. There might be light at the end of the tunnel as far as my fictitious murders were concerned after all.
When the waiter returned, he also very kindly brought a bowl of water for Oscar, who slurped it up willingly. The waiter was friendly, probably around my age, and I took the opportunity to ask him a few questions, starting with the same ploy I’d used before.
‘I’m doing a windsurfing course down at the academy on the beach. Does that belong to the campsite as well?’
He nodded. ‘Yes, it’s all part of the Graziani empire.’
‘Does that mean that the owner’s a wealthy man?’
He gave me a rueful wink. ‘Put it this way: he’s a whole lot richer than I am.’
‘Have you worked here long?’
‘Ever since I had to give up farming. That’s five years ago now.’
‘You had to give it up. Was there a problem?’
His smiley face became more serious. ‘It’s hard to work in the fields when there are no fields to work in.’ In response to my questioning look, he explained. ‘I used to work for Ernesto Morso. He owned vineyards in the fields around here, some of which have now been turned into the new campsite.’ He gestured at the buildings around him. ‘That’s when all this development took place. Before that, it was just a small campsite for a couple of dozen tents. Just look at it now.’
‘So the farmer decided to sell the land and you were out of a job?’
‘It wasn’t so much that he decided to sell, but that he had no option but to sell.’ He glanced around more furtively now. ‘Aldo’s a tough businessman. He knows how to get what he wants.’
I filed this piece of information away for future reference. If Aldo Graziani’s business methods were questionable, might that have been a reason why somebody had tried to killhim, but in the dark, had only succeeded in killing his brother? If it was true that Ernesto Morso had somehow been forced to sell his land to Graziani against his will, why might this have been? This sounded very much like blackmail to me and I knew that Ernesto Morso deserved to be investigated. I gave the waiter a sympathetic smile.
‘At least waiting at table is an easier job – hopefully.’
He didn’t respond to my comment. Instead, he very conveniently brought the subject around to Aldo Graziani’s dead brother. ‘Aldo’s a lucky, lucky man.’ From the way he said it, I got the feeling he had reservations about how much good fortune Aldo Graziani deserved. ‘You probably don’t know this, but he’s just inherited the whole thing. His brother died a couple of nights ago, and that makes Aldo even richer than he was before.’
I decided to feign ignorance once more. ‘That sounds very convenient. How did his brother die?’
‘He got drunk and fell off the cliff – or so they say.’ He glanced around cautiously once more before continuing. ‘A bittooconvenient if you ask me.’ Realising that he was talking about his boss to a complete stranger, he straightened up and glanced back towards the entrance. ‘But what do I know? I’m just a waiter these days. I’ve seen the police cars up at the hotel, so maybe they’ll get to the bottom of it.’ He turned and disappeared back into the café, leaving me to reflect on what I’d heard.
There could be no doubt that, just as the men at the village bar had said, Ignazio Graziani’s death had indeed been very convenient for his brother. In a matter of a few seconds, the rightful claimant to half of Aldo’s empire had been eliminated. I had known people murdered for far less. And now there was Ernesto Morso. Might he have borne a grudge against the man who had forced him to sell up – maybe by dubious means? If I’d been the investigating officer – and I had to remind myself firmly that I wasn’t – I would be adding Aldo Graziani and Ernesto Morso to the list of suspects. If Ignazio hadn’t been murdered by his brother, then might he have been murdered by Morso by mistake? Had the real target been his big brother, Aldo? Equally importantly, as far as my new book was concerned, should I invent an Ernesto Morso lurking in the background of my fictitious murder victim?
