Fault Line - Retail (34 page)

‘But he has not been … in touch?’

‘Not yet, no.’

‘Is this your understanding also, signorina?’ Gandolfi asked, turning towards Jacqueline.

‘Yes,’ she said, with the faintest tremor in her voice. ‘It is.’

‘I see. So, there is no possibility that Signora Lashley has come to harm?’

‘Not as far as we know,’ I said.

‘You think we have been … misinformed?’

‘You must have been.’

‘Has someone made any … specific allegations, officer?’ Jacqueline asked.

‘The Questura here in Capri received a telephone call earlier today. The caller said Signora Lashley may have been … murdered.’

‘
Murdered?
’

‘
Si
. It is a serious matter, signorina.’

‘Who was this caller?’ I asked.

‘He did not give his name.’

‘Was he Italian? Or English?’

‘English. There was some difficulty understanding what he was saying. His Italian was … not good.’

‘Perhaps he was … misinterpreted.’

Gandolfi frowned, as if pained by the suggestion. ‘I do not think so. He made a second allegation: that if Signora Lashley
had
been murdered, it was because she knew too much about a previous unsolved murder. Gordon Reginald Strake. Do you recognize the name, Signor Kellaway?’

What was I to say now? If the caller was Thompson, he shouldn’t have known about Strake. How could he have found out?
What
had he found out? ‘I don’t think so,’ I said.

‘He was shot dead in his room at the Albergo Lustrini in Naples fifteen years ago. I investigated the case.’ And that, of course, was why, fifteen years later, Gandolfi had travelled from Naples to follow up an anonymous tip-off received by the Capri police. He looked like a man who disliked loose ends.

‘I can’t see what that would have to do with the Lashleys,’ I said, reasonably enough, it seemed to me. ‘They weren’t living here then.’

‘No. But Signora Lashley’s uncle, Francis Wren, was. The housekeeper told us that.’
Thank you, Patrizia
, I thought.
Thank you for nothing
. ‘We mentioned the date of the Strake murder to her: the ninth of July 1969. This confused her, because she thought that was the date Francis Wren died. But maybe they died the same day. Perhaps you can tell us, Signor Kellaway. The housekeeper said you were here when he died. That is correct, isn’t it?’

Out of the corner of my eye I could see Jacqueline frowning
worriedly.
This was more complicated than she’d supposed – and than I’d expected. All I could do now was brazen it out. ‘I was here when Francis Wren died, yes. I spent a couple of weeks here in the summer of 1969. The exact date? I’m not sure. Early July sounds right, though.’

‘Do you recall hearing of the Strake murder at that time?’

‘No, I don’t.’

‘And have you been a regular visitor since then?’

‘No. I, er … This is my first return visit.’

‘Your first … in fifteen years?’

‘Yes. As it happens.’

‘I think we’ve told you as much as we can, officer,’ said Jacqueline. There was a steely glint in her eyes. Whatever doubts she might have, she’d evidently decided we had to assert ourselves. ‘As soon as Mr Lashley or Mrs Lashley is in touch with us, we’ll ask them to contact you. They’ll be able to clear everything up. We’re merely their guests. There’s a limit to what we can say. But there’s really no reason, is there, beyond this anonymous phone call you’ve had, to suppose anything’s happened that might require your attention?’

Gandolfi looked at Jacqueline curiously, as if only now taking her seriously. ‘The phone call is all we have,’ he conceded.

‘Well, then?’

Gandolfi turned back to me. ‘Do you agree, Signor Kellaway? Signor and Signora Lashley will be able to clear everything up?’

‘Of course.’

‘And there’s nothing else … you want to tell me?’

‘There’s nothing else I
can
tell you.’

‘
Allora
, we must hope you hear from them soon.’

‘I’m sure we will.’

‘If you do not, you will hear from us.’

‘It’s good of you to be so concerned for their welfare,’ said Jacqueline. ‘But unnecessary, I feel sure.’ She smiled at him – and kept smiling. ‘Will that be all?’

‘
Si
. That will be all. For now.’ He signalled to Bianconi with the
faintest
of nods that they were done. ‘I wish you a pleasant evening.’

The imperturbability Jacqueline had displayed in Gandolfi and Bianconi’s presence deserted her as soon as they’d gone. ‘My God, Jonathan, do you think it could be true? Muriel’s dead – murdered?’

‘I don’t think there’s a shred of truth in it,’ I said firmly. I couldn’t be certain of anything, of course, but it seemed obvious to me who’d set the police on us. ‘Thompson’s behind this. He can’t have believed us when we told him about the kidnapping, but he didn’t have the courage to accuse us openly – hence the anonymous phone call.’

‘He didn’t believe us? What about the photograph?’

‘I don’t know how he’d account for that. But in his suspicious mind just about anything’s possible.’

‘And who in hell’s Gordon Strake?’

I was clearly going to have to tell her something about Strake. Otherwise she might think there really had been a plot against Muriel. ‘It’s a long story, Jacqueline. He used to work for Wren’s before it was taken over by Cornish China Clays.’

‘He did? And he was murdered – here in Naples?’

‘Yes. But, look, can we leave this until I’ve spoken to Greville? I really need to talk to him. And we also need to pacify Patrizia. Could you handle that? I’ll explain as much as I can afterwards – I promise.’

It was a promise I knew she’d keep me to. I knew who’d killed Strake and why. Soon she’d know too. But first I had to speak to Lashley.

He’d said I was only to call him in an emergency, which this certainly qualified as. He sounded anxious when he answered the phone in his room at the Excelsior. And what I had to tell him wasn’t going to make him any less anxious.

‘Damn it all,’ was his first reaction. ‘I thought you’d squared Thompson.’

‘So did I. I’m sorry, sir. He obviously didn’t believe us.’

‘But he’s not sure, is he? Otherwise he’d have given the police his name
and
our explanation for Muriel’s absence. As it is, he wants to play it both ways, damn him. And what he’s playing with is Muriel’s life.’ Lashley was angry. And I didn’t blame him. ‘We just have to hope the Camorra haven’t got someone watching the house. If they think we’ve called in the police …’

‘Do you think they’re likely to have us under surveillance?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe not.’

‘What do you want me to do?’

I heard Lashley give a heartfelt sigh. ‘Proceed as planned. There’s no alternative.’ He thought for a second, then added: ‘You handled the situation as well as it could be handled. Thank Jacqueline for me. I’ll phone Harriet and put her mind at rest as best I can.’

‘What about Thompson?’

‘Don’t go anywhere near him. We’ll deal with Thompson when this is all over.’

‘How does he know about Strake, though?’

‘Good question. Maybe he came across him when he was monitoring Vivien’s movements. Since I’ve never understood what Strake was up to, it’s impossible to say how their paths might have crossed. Thompson must have mentioned Strake to the police because he calculated an unsolved local murder would get their attention. It seems he was right.’

‘I’m going to have to tell Jacqueline where Strake comes into this. She’s wondering what it all means.’

‘Naturally. Tell her the truth … or as much of it as you’ve told me. Francis killed Strake, didn’t he, Jonathan?’

He’d never explicitly asked me that question before, though I’d long felt the answer was clear to him. ‘I think Strake was blackmailing Francis,’ I said.

‘Good riddance, then. If that has to come out in the wash, so be it. The living are more important than the dead. It’s Muriel we have to think of now.’

‘Of course.’

‘We must hold our nerve. And see this through to the end.’

But what would the end be? I’d thought I’d known. Just as I’d thought I had the measure of Fred Thompson. We had to believe everything would still go according to plan. And we had to behave as if we believed it. As Lashley had said, there was no alternative. Believing and behaving couldn’t mould the future, though. Other people’s wills and actions were at work. And the outcome couldn’t be predicted, only experienced. As it would be. Very soon.

After Patrizia had gone home, calmer but still confused, I sat down with Jacqueline and told her as much of the truth about Gordon Strake and Francis Wren as I could. I didn’t reveal I’d been in the Albergo Lustrini at the time of the murder, nor what it was Strake had used to blackmail Francis – and certainly not the blame I’d shared with Vivien for enabling him to do so. Gandolfi’s questioning had reminded me how hard I would find it to justify everything I’d done fifteen years before. I’d made a lot of mistakes and misjudgements then. All I could do now was try my damnedest not to add any more to the list.

‘I guess I understand better then ever why Greville called you in, Jonathan,’ Jacqueline said when I’d finished. ‘You know more about this than he does.’

‘I wish I didn’t.’

‘I bet you do. But he’s lucky to have you on his team. As I’m sure he realizes.’

‘You stood up to Gandolfi pretty well yourself.’

‘All I did was play for time. Which I think we got. And it should be enough, right?’

‘It should be, yes.’

‘How did Thompson find out about Strake’s murder, do you think?’

‘I don’t know. He’d probably say he’s a detective and that’s what he does: detects.’

‘Well, let’s hope he doesn’t detect anything else in the near future.’

‘Yes. Let’s hope.’

Later, I sat on the balcony outside my room, staring up at the night sky. It was pincushioned with stars, save for a large chunk of total darkness ahead of me that I knew to be the soaring bulk of Monte Solaro. There was a truth like that, I felt certain, waiting for me in the day yet to dawn: vast, black and invisible, detectable only by the lesser truths it obscured. ‘
Ah
,’ I’d say if I saw it. ‘
So that’s it. Of course. That was it all along
.’

THIRTY

BEFORE LEAVING FOR
Naples, Lashley had packed the ransom money in a black leather briefcase. The money itself was in rubber-banded bundles of hundred-franc notes. I deliberately made no attempt to count them, or even estimate their total value. It seemed important, though I’m not quite sure why, for me to be able to say later I genuinely didn’t know the size of the payment.

Early on a Sunday morning, even in high summer, Capri was a place of silence and tranquillity. I drove the Fiat down to Marina Grande along an empty road beneath a cloudless sky still free of jet-trails. There were no cars following me. The concern had crept over me that Gandolfi might have detailed someone to keep us under surveillance. I thought this unlikely, if only because he’d had so little time to arrange it and would surely have struggled to justify such deployment of manpower, but the total absence of traffic was a welcome reassurance.

The port was the busiest place on the island, though still a long way short of its midday frenzy. I parked close to the funicular station, got out and headed for the jetty, briefcase in hand. A few people were breakfasting at the harbourfront cafés. A few others, some with luggage, were ambling in the same direction as I was, bound for the Naples ferry, which stood ready at its berth. One or two small boats were moving slowly around the harbour. No one was hurrying or shouting. The atmosphere was calm, the mood relaxed.

But I felt neither calm nor relaxed. I scanned the jetty ahead of
me
as I walked along it towards the ferry, wondering if Bartolomeo would really show up. For some reason, it was horribly easy to believe he wouldn’t. Passengers would board the ferry, but none of them would approach me. Then the ferry would sail and I’d be left, standing on the jetty with the money. And Muriel …

Then I noticed, some way beyond the ferry, where the jetty curved right, a man in a dark suit and straw hat sitting on one of the quayside bollards, holding a newspaper open in front of him, but looking at me. As I passed the ferry and moved on towards him, he stood up, carefully folded his newspaper and slipped it into his jacket pocket. He was grey-haired and stockily built with a muscular look to him.

He nodded to me as I approached and said, quite neutrally, ‘
Buon giorno
.’

‘
Buon giorno
,’ I responded cautiously.

‘Signor Kellaway?’

‘
Si
.’

‘Bartolomeo.’ He offered me his hand and I shook it. His grip was strong and uncompromising. He held my gaze for a moment, then looked past me. ‘
Tutto bene?
’

‘
Si. Tutto bene
.’

I glanced round. There was no one behind me – no one at all, in fact, within earshot. We had this corner of the jetty to ourselves.

He stepped back and pointed to the bollard he’d been sitting on, then the briefcase at my side. ‘
La cartella. Qui
.’

I stood the case on the bollard and opened it. He leant forward and peered inside, then reached in and fanned through a couple of the bundles of Swiss francs. He gave a grunt of apparent satisfaction and gestured for me to close the case.

‘OK?’ I asked.

‘OK,’ he said.

‘Let’s go, then.
Andiamo
?’

He nodded. ‘
Andiamo
.’

I grasped the case and we walked back along the jetty to the ferry. When we reached the gangway, I handed it over. He treated
me
to half a smile, as if appreciative of my caution. ‘
Grazie
,’ he said. Then he went aboard.

I watched him disappear into the cabin and looked at my watch. It was 8.26. The ferry wouldn’t sail for another five minutes or so. I moved back towards the wall above the jetty as some more passengers bustled past me and boarded.