4 As Luca descended from the village he was already regretting the mistra whose forty per cent proof together with the half pitcher of red wine was winning hands down against the espresso in the Afternoon Snooze Stakes. He drove with added care and when he reached the track that led to Casa Timo, he decelerated to a snail's pace anxious to save the undercarriage of his car and also to get a better fix on the location. He had only been to Monte San Nicola a few times before and was aware that, typical of the hilltop villages, a labyrinthine tangle of strade bianche was strewn confusedly outwards and downwards. This track, Contrada Molino, dropped down as expected but rose again as it reached the house which was at the end of a spur. The wooded slopes screened the house from the village above and the bosky thickets encroached from the valley below. Luca parked his car next to the carabiniere's and as it rolled back slightly he wrenched the handbrake on. The officer was sat beneath the loggia leafing through the pages of an English edition of GQ magazine- judging from the officer's grin no translation was needed. He was only roused when Deefor nudged his thigh with a stick that poked out from his mouth. 'Any visitors? None.' replied the officer,’ The phone rang a few times but he doesn't have an answerphone so I just let it ring.' 'That's ok. We have requested a list of all recent incoming and outgoing calls from Telecom. We'll trace them that way. I'm going to do a search.' He stifled a huge yawn. ‘So I don't want to be disturbed.' The officer nodded with complicity. Someone had thoughtfully recovered the door keys and left them in the lock of the central one of the three doors. Luca turned the heavy key, easing the heavy chestnut door open, went in through the round arched doorway and climbed up the steep stone steps. At the top there was a hallway from which a number of paint-flaking doors opened off. On the hall opposite was the hatchment with the victim's coat of arms on. He automatically turned to the right away from the bright sunlit rooms preferring to investigate the dark side first; such was his intuition and nature. To his immediate right was a bathroom with chipped cast iron bath tub complete with feet, a Liberty style sink and a lavatory of distinctly fascist period design. He presumed the black metal eagle on the cistern was the flushing mechanism. To the bathroom's right was a well sized bedroom with a huge brass bed in the centre; it was veiled by a mosquito net suspended from the ceiling beam above. On the worn terracotta floor, which Luca felt move with each step, was a large threadbare persian carpet and dotted around, covering the baldest patches, were beautiful prayer rugs. The room was lit by Moroccan scone lights whose multicoloured glass gave the room a soft sensuous feel. There was a slight aroma of incense but of nothing narcotic, Luca noted. The drawers of the dressing table were open and all manner of clothing flopped out carelessly. The top surface was well-ordered though with silver hair brushes, stud box, aftershave and clothes brush. Photos of varying age from polaroids to black and white to sepia were wedged into the mirror frame. Two dressing gowns hung from the back of the door. One was deep damson silk, the other battleship grey and made from half inch thick wool. Luca poked his head around the kitchen door and was surprised to see that it was well stocked with ingredients and gadgets. Luca initially had the victim down as a tin of tuna and hotdog kind of man. However, there were selves of cookery books in English and Italian; Luca was impressed. There was something orderly about this house that suggested a woman's touch, though. Bachelors were notoriously and almost morbidly untidy but here there was a sense that the disorder was dutifully corrected and that a descent in abject squalor was regularly abated. The next room was entered through double doors and was swathed in the golden glow of afternoon. The other rooms had a distinctly dark and dank feel to them. This room was bright and the motes were illuminated like a cloud of fairy dust. This, the living room, contained a couple of battered brown leather chesterfield sofas and a wingback chair draped in a paisley print material, it was almost inside the gaping fireplace. On the ground next to it was a quarter full bottle of Amaro and a glass with a tiny trace of brown goo in the bottom. A Dunhill lighter lay on the arm of the chair. Around the firebasket there were the charred remains of a dozen cigarette butts. The various Turkish kilims had tell tale burns in them. From the walls, various portraits of grandees stared outwards but not downwards in frozen self denial at the disorder below. In the corner beside the fireplace was a relatively ancient television and video player, each at least fifteen years old: antiques. A tower of videos had collapsed into a spilled pile pointing towards a door to the right. This really was more like a bohemian doss house than the mafia bachelor pad of a prince. The portraits flared nostrils appeared to agree with Luca's appraisal. He pushed this last door which opened onto a small mote infested room which was bright yet cosy, too. It was here that the victim spent most of his time; this was his den and this microcosm might provide some insight into the psyche of the victim, Luca thought. It was as if his life was on display like a cabinet of curiosities that some eccentric from the 1700s had collected; the walls were covered with photographs- some framed, others stuck straight onto the stained plaster walls. There were a pair of framed metre long group photos; one of Radley College dated some thirty years earlier, the other of Sandhurst Military Academy dated five years later on. There was also a modern yet old fashioned manuscript, elegantly framed and signed Elizabeth R and stamped with the Royal Seal. It announced the commissioning of Alexis Charles Edward Pullenyov into the Scots Guards and was from the same year as the Sandhurst photo. Luca squinted at the name of the regiment, it was the same as Guardsman Buggeroff; was there a link between these two Russians? Below the commissioning document was a three quarter profile studio portrait in black and white of a very handsome young officer, clutching his bearskin, wistfully gazing down his long nose presumably trying to make out what was left of the Empire upon which the sun has now set. It could have been taken anytime in the last seventy five years. Next to this was a polaroid bluetaked to the wall. It was a full profile shot of the same officer (his nose was inescapable) sitting in a bath in his bearskin smoking a pipe. So that was him; the victim. The wall was covered in photos mainly of the victim with groups of friends; nearly always laughing, nearly always smoking, nearly always drinking. Groups in blazers at Henley; groups in tweeds on grouse moors; groups in barbours at race meetings; groups in black tie and gowns at balls; groups in morning coats and hats at weddings; groups in linen and swimwear on boats; groups in skiwear on balconies. There was a huge cheap clipframe filled with scores of cut out pictures of jolly, red faced fellows with bowties and long nosed girls with pie crust collars; men in bikinis, women dressed as cavemen, people asleep, people poking their tongues out... All of them guests at a hundred wonderful parties and all having a whale of a time. In fact, the only photos of him alone were the formal portrait and the shot in the bath. Luca would later unearth Alex's passport and residency permit from the desk drawer. It would be this bureaucratically sterile and lifeless image that would be given to the Press. On another wall was mounted a sword crossing its scabbard. Around it hung a green officer's hat with red and white chequered banding, a gaudily coloured school cap with a gold tassel, a battered trilby with a pheasant feather poking out of it and a silk top hat with what appeared to be a bullet hole through it. Below this wall was a desk littered with papers and half empty cups. It the middle of this mess sat a computer and between here and the long window was a low battered leather armchair that looked out to the mountains beyond. The flickering motes gave the room a magically lethargic feel as if it had been enchanted by a sleeping spell. Luca could resist no more and settled down into the soft chair. He lazily took in the view and paused to close his eyes which reopened an hour or so later thanks to Deefor's wet nose on his cheek. He was not alarmed by the rude awakening, it seem to happen with greater regularity these days. He groggily took in the fact that the light had changed in the room due to the movement of the sun. He pulled himself up out of the armchair and, stretching, made his way over to the computer. Leaning over it, he realised that although the screen light was off, the computer itself was still on. He clicked a switch and the screen glowed into life and a screensaver of the word ALEX bounded across the display. With a tap of a key, the revolving word disappeared. Luca clapped his hands with delight because not only was the computer still active, it was still logged onto Alex's email account on the internet. This meant that Luca would not have to involve some spotty troglodyte of a technician to help him retrieve these files; there would be no need for code breaking the passwords. Luca sighed with relief and flicked through the first few pages of the inbox, scouring the screen for any references to Eastern Europe or indeed anything suspicion that may link to the murder. There appeared to be none. There were the usual junky ones that had missed the junk tray- Make Your Organ Bigger, Urgent Message From Nigerian Lottery Commission, If You Laugh At This Download You Are a BAD Person!!! and quite a few concerning Amazon. This turned out not to be a codeword for illegal activities but instead dealt with orders for books and videos from an online store based in Britain. Luca scratched his head in frustration and out of desperation clicked open emails randomly hopelessly hoping to catch a clue unawares. He had no luck; most of the emails were of a chatty, almost telephone message style such as 'Hi dude, how are you? hope you're not dead!! long time no hear. drop us a line. Caroline and bairns all well and send love. attached is a foto of a man with a bottle up his bottom. toot!toot! hugo.' The attachment was indeed of a man with a bottle up his bottom and to Luca's wincing horror it was a litre size and inserted blunt end first. Luca admitted defeat, this was getting him nowhere and he would have to call in some English speaking junior to trawl through the emails to sift out any clues. If and when anything was unearthed Luca would have to share the credit with the minion and this galled him no end. He minimalised the internet screen which revealed an on-going document behind. It appeared to be Alex's journal. Now surely this would throw up some information. Luca was convinced that this was where any leads would be buried and he alone would dig them out. He knew well that a journal acted as a window into one's soul whether deliberately intended to be or not. The last entry was for Tuesday 21st September: 'Progress slow on Tartuffo. More backing needed. Still keeping it under wraps. Dinner at Rupert and Camilla Fryflee with dotty old Don and Bella Busybody and sweet George and Lucy Merchant-Ivory. fava bean and parmesan polenta with chili oil dressing, roast leg of lamb and walnut and pear tart for pud. Excellent Verdicchio di Matelica and Rosso Conero Riserva. Rupert' sloe gin. Most get polenta recipe off C. Flirty call from Miss Bio-Clock during pudding. Ripe for the plucking? I think so. Quicky with E then back for birthday call to Johnnie(20 already?!) in Oz. Brood into fire at general wickedness. Bed.' Just as Luca began to scroll upwards to read the previous entry, Deefor rose from his slumber and barked a warning that someone was approaching. Luca quickly skimmed the entries as he heard cumbersome steps ascend the stairs followed by a wheezy 'Permesso?' Luca turned the screen off so as to keep its contents secret from this intruder. He had noticed that one word kept reappearing throughout the entries. Perhaps it held the key. A large, ruddy walrus of a man waddled into the study. He was returning a large handkerchief into the breast poker of his blazer which was proudly emblazoned with the insignia of the Royal Air Force. His mottled face wore the scars of an immemorial number of pink gins but despite this he did in fact appear to be a relatively healthy octogenarian. Well, he was mobile, had control of his bowels and did not have drool dribbling down his chin. He proffered a small bow and a hearty handshake. ' Sir. May I introduce myself? I am Donald Burberry, Wing Commander, retired. At your service, sir.' 'Inspettore Luca Carducci, Macerata Police. Investigating officer.' He returned the bow and wondered who had taught the old airman this archaic Italian, Dante himself, perhaps? He had been prepared for the thick dialect spoken by the locals towards the mountains but this was like talking to someone through a time machine ' Please sir, I have very good command of English and I beg you to carry on in your native tongue.' Somewhere in Paradise, Dante too sighed with relief. ' That's a splendid beast you've got yourself there!' Exclaimed the old buffer rubbing the labrador's ears. Luca was a little afronted to have his pedigree pride and joy referred to as a beast. He let it lie because of the 'splendid' epithet. 'He's called Deefor.' The moustache curled in confusion. 'As in D for Dog.' Luca explained, a little put out that he needed to deconstruct what he thought was a simple wisp of word play. The Englishman puffed out his gin weathered cheeks, nodded vigorously and continued. ' We in the British community have heard some alarming rumours about Alex and foul play is suspected. No one has been willing or able to answer our concerns and it was decided that I should seek out the fellow in charge what with my being the Secretary of the Con Club and all.' 'Con Club? There is a club for English convicts here?' 'No sir. The San Ginesio Conservative and Unionist Club. The clubhouse is one of my old piggeries. Serves the meanest Pimm's this side of Florence. It's the hub of the community here. To be honest it's a bit of a yah boo sucks to the Silverbeards.' Luca's jaw jutted in ignorance. 'Silverbeards? Oh you know those recently retired types with neatly trimmed grey beards who appear on Mastermind as retired local government officers with their chosen specialised subject being The History of Morris Dancing.' Luca shrugged. “Well, they've started to make the place look like a Lib Dem convention with their sandals and socks. So I set up the Con Club as a bit of a tongue-in-cheeker: No riff-raff allowed. Naturally, Alex is a member, you see.' 'Was a member, I'm afraid. I'm sorry to say that Prince Alexis Pullenyov is dead.' Luca stated with great solemnity. 'Oh, poor Alex.' Replied the visibly deflating airman. 'I'm not willing to speculate about his cause of death as there are some wild and outlandish rumours about. Do you know if there is any next of kin that will need to be informed?' 'None that I'm aware of.' 'Now listen, I want to get to the truth of the matter and bring those responsible to swift and firm justice. You appear to be an honorable man, will you help me in this?' 'In any way that I can and with every fibre of my being.' Replied the old man, straightening himself up and visible rising to the muster call .' As secretary of the Con, I am something of an unofficial head-man of our colony here. I prefer to see myself as something like the Father of the House. That sort of thing. If one of our own has been done in we'll rally around and do everything in our power to bring the perpetrators to justice, whoever they may be. I've been here thirty years, you know. I'd like to think that not very much misses my eye. To start with I could help with a roll call with names, addresses, numbers and most importantly directions for our little lot. You're not in the metropolis of Macerata now Inspettore, you're in indian country, beyond the pale.' Luca looked at him blankly which the airman mistook for poker faced determination. 'Alex was a well known and well loved member of our community here. We're a quiet, law-abiding lot here, you know. No scandals or skullduggery, no fighting or thieving, no lawlessness or lewdness, no hoodies or druggies, no muggings or granny bashing; all that's in back in England. We keep ourselves to ourselves, keep a low profile, don't rock the boat. Alex was like that; a gentleman. He was well liked by the locals, too. Made some of them rich men with his property deals. 'No, this was an outsider job. I noticed his Ferrari isn't in the yard...Theft, now that's a motive. Probably some Albanians, stole the car to order, Alex got in the way and they did for him. Seems pretty open and shut to me.' 'Thank you for you hypothesis, Wing Commander. But may I remind you that I am the investigating officer placed at the head of this case by the government of the Republic of Italy. From my experience things are never 'open and shut' as you'd have it. Please keep your wild ideas to yourself as they will probably only hamper the investigation further.' Luca got off his high horse and strolled towards the window. 'Yes, sir, of course. I was only trying to help.' Muttered Burberry as he sat down at the desk. Luca came over and patted him on the shoulder. 'Excuse me for barking but I am in the business of ascertaining facts and I cannot allow room for idle and fantastical speculation. Firstly from you I would be grateful for some background information about the victim. I have the basics from passport and records etcetera. Please could you provide me with some local colour?' Burberry nodded at Luca's flourished turn of phrase. 'Well, as you know, Alex was in his mid forties, unmarried, and had been a resident over here for the last eleven years so that was well before this 'Marcheshire' epithet was pinned on us. He's old school. Despite his name his was very much an Englishman and a gentleman to boot. His father, now dead, was a second generation white Russian émigré. Fled the revolution with little more than his title. Alex always played down the whole prince thing. Apparently, they're ten a penny over there, one for every village, he'd say. His mother was the daughter of a Somerset viscount. That's her in the photo by the computer.' Luca turned his gaze towards the strong jawed, handsome woman in the Hermes scarf astride the bay in the picture. 'Parents divorced when he'd finished school. She moved back to the West Country but was killed in a riding accident shortly afterwards. The father was a leading West End gallery owner. He also had a sideline in arranging the commissioning of costume art. That's what you'll see hanging on the walls of the statelies. Reproductions: the originals are in bank vaults because they're uninsurable. These family portraits are all faked, if you want to use that word. Alex's father commissioned them from his team of painters. The originals are probably in a hut in Siberia if some peasant hasn't eaten them by now. That hatchment, too, in the hallway; that was a twenty first present from his father. Got the corresponding signet ring that birthday too, I suppose. 'After the Army, his father tried to set him up in the art world. Despite all the great contacts and goodwill around his father, it didn't work out. He drifted into the City and then had a crack at estate agency in Chelsea. That meant more time out of the office and I think that suited him better but it didn't last. If one was cynical, one could suggest that he just didn't bother to apply himself because he always had his inheritance to fall back on in the end. Deadmen's shoes. Are you familiar with that expression, inspettore?' 'Sure.' Lied Luca as he banked the expression away at the back of his mind. 'Well, needless to say, the waiting was for nought.. Alex's father died with a lot of debts and good old death duties left Alex with a lot less than he was expecting. So he did what many other Brits have done in the past faced with that situation; he set sail for sunnier climes and cheaper living.' 'And what did he do here, for a living?' 'Well you know what sir, I don't really know. He had enough stacked away so he did not have to work day to day per se and this isn't exactly a palazzo is it? He bought and sold the odd house here and there and did a bit of property searching, not exactly estate agency but along those lines. Other than that no visible form of regular income that I knew of. A gentleman of leisure, one could say.' 'So there is a possibility that he could have been involved in criminal activities? Organised crime, possibly? Of eastern European origin, perhaps?' Burberry was agog. 'Absolutely not!' He spluttered.' Alex was a gentleman, truly. He had Russian roots but he despised the ruskies. I remember once I asked him what he thought of them now that we all were sort of friends again after the Cold War. 'Donald,’ he replied, ‘come nearer and ask me again.' So I did. 'If you come another inch nearer you can actually hear my skin crawling.' Organised crime? Absolutely not. He may have been a bit of a rough diamond but the was no criminal.' Luca raised his hands in supplication. ‘Wing Commander,' He soothed.' I believe your help will assist this case invaluably. We are trying to follow the victim's last known movements. There are many facts that we are aware of,' he lied' and we want to fill in the gaps. For instance, we know that the evening before last, the victim was invited to the house of Rupert and Camilla Frifflee and the other guests included Don and Bella Busybody and George and Lucy Merchant-Ivory.' 'Ahem, inspettore. I think you have some of the names wrong on your list. Dinner was at the Fry-Leigh's. I was there myself with my wife, Bella. Our surname is Burberry not ...?' 'Busybody.' Luca read from his note pad. 'No, Burberry.' 'There is no Busybody?' 'Not that I've aware of . I think you may have misread it.' 'No, it definitely says Busybody. B-u-s-y-b-o-d-y. I shall make a note of it then. Not Busybody but Burberry. There.' Luca was a aware that Burberry had gone a worrying shade of puce during this exchange. 'George and Lucy Middleton were there too. What surname did you have them as?' 'Merchant-Ivory. That name is familiar.' 'Like the films. I say you don't suppose they were nicknames, do you?' 'Well, would you describe the Middletons as Merchant-Ivories?' The old man chuckled. ‘Well, to be sure, they are very fond of opera and linen and will wear a straw hat at the drop of the proverbial. And, and the Fry-Leighs are 'fryflee' smart, I suppose. Ho, ho!' His chortling ended abruptly when Luca asked archly, 'And Busybody?' The Wing Commander cleared his throat and Luca continued, ‘Was that the very last time you saw the victim? How was his state of mind, would you suppose? Any preoccupations, things that in this current light might possess significance?' 'No, not that I can think of. A good evening had by all. Alex was on fine form as ever. Charming, witty, good company. He received a call on his mobile during pudding.' 'Pear and walnut tart.' 'Why that's right. How did you...? Well anyway, I good-naturedly scolded him for taking a call at the table but he didn't appear to care. Always have mine switched off when socialising, it's very bad form not to, you know.' 'You have a mobile?' Luca was always amazed at the sight of the elderly gabbling away on mobiles as he still felt them to be rather flippant objects. Old people using them looked somehow undignified as if they were trying on a pair of jeans or speeding off on a huge Moto Guzzi motorbike. They belong in the realms of the young, he believed.' In that case I'd be grateful if you could leave me the Fry-Leigh's and Middleton's numbers before you leave.' 'Certainly. Where was I? Oh, yes, that pesky call left him grinning from ear to ear. Wouldn't let on what it was about. Well, Rupert's sloe gin went straight to my head and Bella had to drive me home shortly afterwards. That was the last time I say Alex.' He peered out of the window.' How could something as ugly as murder happen in such a beautiful place?' Luca left him silent with his thoughts for a few moments then cleared his throat. ‘If you could give me those numbers now, perhaps?' 'Yes, inspettore. Here are those telephone numbers and I shall get the lady wife to email over the rest, including the all important directions, this afternoon to be sure.' They exchanged cards. 'As I said, I am very much at your service, Sir.' 'Thank you. I appreciate it, Wing Commander. I will call tomorrow to arrange an interview with you and your wife.' The old buffer was turning to leave the room when Luca added,' Oh, by the way. Does the word 'Tartuffo' mean anything to you?' Burberry paused. ' Nothing other than delicious truffles- those divine treasures buried in these bosky hills.' 'Buried treasure...' Luca mused to himself. 'Inspettore?' 'Yes?' 'Are you by chance related to the former regional president, Manfredo Carducci?' 'I am his son.' 'Please do send my regards to mother, then.' And like that he was gone. |
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| Dead Man in Marche By David Sheppard Chapter Four |