Sweet Song, Bitter Loss, page 14
‘That’ll be that, Major. I’ll return this key and lock up the house, then perhaps you can take me back home.’
‘Just a few minutes, Signora, I would like to have another look in the living room. You can start clearing up in the kitchen, if you wish, but please leave the two large wine glasses exactly where they are.’
Back in the living room, D’Angelo lifted the lid of the laptop computer and pressed the power button. He could hear clattering noises from the kitchen as he willed the computer to hurry through its start-up procedure. A picture of an idyllic lake or fjord surrounded by trees suddenly filled the screen, then the date and time appeared in the lower left corner. The latter subsequently disappeared, then came back again, along with the name Martin Renson in bold letters in the upper centre of the screen, along with the picture of a man on horseback in a small circle. Then D’Angelo’s heart sank. Below Martin Renson’s name, a small box appeared, along with the instruction to enter PIN. It flashed expectantly, as D’Angelo’s shoulders slumped in defeat. He turned the power off and closed the lid, but his mind was racing. He took the shop receipt out of his pocket and read it yet again. Mirelti – pay next week. As bizarre as it seemed, this case was now looking like a kidnap situation, with Giovanni being held for ransom. But held where? Had Martin Renson really returned to England, and who was the woman who had shared his bed? Was she holding the boy captive? He heard another clatter from next door, and suddenly realised how important those two glasses might now become, with possible requirement for DNA evidence. He almost ran to the kitchen to make sure his earlier instruction had been obeyed, and was relieved to find that not only were the wine glasses still in situ, but the mugs were also still there.
‘Signora Sabatelli, please leave everything alone now. I would like one of my colleagues to come and look at the house, but in the meantime I shall take you home. I’m afraid it means I will have to keep hold of the key for the time being.’
‘Oh but Signore Renson …. .’
‘Leave Signore Renson to me, Signora. I shall explain to him that you were merely doing as instructed by the carabinieri. If you would like to wait by my car, I shall be with you shortly.’
As Claudia Sabatelli walked disconsolately to the car, D’Angelo locked the house door and used his secure radio to call Sergeant Rossi.
‘Rossi, I know you’ve only just got back to the station, but I need you here again in Montenero.’
‘So long as you sign off the petrol receipts, Major.’
‘Let’s hope the colonel’s in a good mood. Would you be able to get into a PC bypassing the security PIN?’
Rossi was quiet for a few moments.
‘Possibly, but it wouldn’t be strictly legal.’
‘It’s a bad connection, Rossi, I didn’t catch that last bit. Make sure there’s an evidence kit in the car before you leave.’
‘Will do, Major. I’m still in civvies, does that matter?’
‘Not at all. Might actually be a good thing, I’ll explain when you get here. I shall be at the Englishman’s holiday home. The co-ordinates are already saved in your satnav. See you soon. Over and out.’
After dropping Claudia off at her house, D’Angelo went to the café for an espresso and croissant, sad to see on his way that two of Laura’s posters had been defaced with beards and glasses. “Bloody kids,” he thought to himself.
Not long after arriving back at the holiday home to wait for Sergeant Rossi, Lazzaro reported in with a call.
‘Still no sign, Major. The dog is dashing around all over the place, but hasn’t come up with anything. Davide is worried that any scent trails might have been washed away with yesterday’s storm. I told him the rain had been very heavy. There are still a few outlying hamlets to cover, and progress is fairly slow.’
‘There’s a change of plan, Lazzaro. Davide’s probably right. That rain and hail will have made any chance of picking up a scent virtually zero. Confidentially, I have reason to suspect a possible kidnapping, so I want you to switch your search to Montenero itself. Do a door to door. The guys can go solo to cover the ground quicker, but stand the civilian helpers down. You’re looking for a female, aged between twenty-five and forty, long darkish hair, but not black. Anyone fitting that description, see if you can get their OK to have a dog do a quick search for a missing person, indoors and out, then call Davide in with mutt.’
‘What if they object, which some probably will.’
‘Make a note of the address, and we might have to go back heavy-handed. Best to do it with their agreement if possible.’
‘Sounds a bit of a long shot, Tonio.’
‘It’s a hell of a long shot, Emil. I’ll call you later for a briefing, so leave Gattone in command when you leave.’
‘Understood, Tonio. Over and out.’
D’Angelo made a slow tour of the grounds before letting himself back into the house and re-familiarising himself with each of the rooms, then opened the French doors in the living room and waited on the portico, watching sand lizards dart around the low stone wall, or bask in the warm May sunshine, until Sergeant Rossi arrived, carrying the evidence kit.
‘I’ll know this journey well by the end of today, Major. Wow – nice pad isn’t it.’
‘Very smart, Rossi. Now this, as you see, is the kitchen. Gloves on, and bag up those glasses and mugs please.’
‘I take it you suspect a crime scene here, Major,’ she said, as she carefully placed each item into a sterile bag.
‘Possibly. There’s a bit more evidence I want collected from the bedroom. This way.’
D’Angelo led Rossi to the en-suite in the master bedroom and pointed out the hair on the floor of the shower cubicle.
‘There’s another one here on the shampoo bottle.’
‘Well done, Sergeant. What colour would you say they are?’
‘I would think they’re probably chestnut. Not red enough to be auburn.’
‘I’ll bow to your knowledge of such matters. Let’s go and have a try at this computer.’
In the living room, D’Angelo and Rossi went straight to the table with the laptop.
‘This was on that pile of papers,’ said D’Angelo, handing Rossi the shop receipt.
‘Some food items purchased on – what’s today? – er – two days ago – on Monday.’
Rossi turned the receipt over.
‘Ah. Now I understand, Major. But why would he write this on a little bit of paper and leave it lying around? And it’s in Italian. Surely he would have jotted it in English?’
‘Perhaps. Most probably it was written by whoever is in this with him. The anomaly is that Giovanni’s family claimed not to know Martin Renson. They’ve seen him around, but that’s all. Yet here we have the Mirelti name cropping up in the man’s house.’
‘Another Mirelti?’
‘Maybe, but Mirelti isn’t a common name in Montenero.’
‘The family reported him missing in the first place, didn’t they?’
‘They did, but presumably that was before hearing from Renson. Laura put posters up yesterday morning, but since then, as far as I know, they’ve just been staying in their house.’
‘So you think there might be something on the computer?’
‘I believe it’s worth a look, if we can get into it.’
‘I’ll see what I can do, Major. As I said, it’s breaking a few rules, and I’ll probably need to contact one of my dodgy ‘friends’ for some help, but I’ll give it a shot.’
While Rossi concentrated on the laptop, D’Angelo wandered back out to the portico and called Lazzaro.
‘Any joy, Sergeant?’
‘Only one possible contender so far. She was naturally very puzzled by the intrusion, but we drew a blank anyway.’
‘Rossi is with me. She thinks the hair colour could possibly be described as chestnut.’
D’Angelo looked back into the living room, and saw the drinks cabinet with the photograph of Renson with his wife.
‘One other thing, Sergeant. I imagine the mystery lady is good looking, judging by the one she’s usurping.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind, Major.’
It took Rossi a remarkably short time to hack into the laptop.
‘My contact says it would have taken quite a lot longer to get into the Pentagon. Good job he’s on our side, eh Major?’
D’Angelo shook his head in disbelief.
‘Can you have a look around in it, see what’s on there.’
With what seemed to D’Angelo to be mind-boggling speed, Sergeant Rossi delved into the various files on the computer.
‘Basically, he uses the Office applications – Word, Excel and e-mail, to manage his company while he’s here on holiday,’ she said after a few minutes of searching and reading. ‘The e-mails are between himself and clients, and to someone called Dan, I think he’s the factory manager, or something like that. The spreadsheets hold a lot of data on cabling, so I guess that’s his company’s product. There’s some private stuff in there too, but nothing untoward. A list of restaurants, for example, with a brief description of each, and a contact phone number. Then there’s information about the pool, cleaning instructions and so on. From what I can see, all very innocuous.’
‘You’ve looked at the latest e-mails?’
Yes, I’ve seen everything sent and received up until around mid-day on Monday. Nothing after that.’
D’Angelo walked back over to the French window and stared out for a few moments.
‘There’s nothing else we can do here. Close the computer down, and don’t forget the evidence bag. I have to take the key for this place back to Signora Sabatelli, so wait for me just outside here on the road. We’re going to call in to see Giovanni’s family again, you and me together. I want it to be as relaxed as possible, hence it’s better you’re not in uniform. I want you to ask them again whether they’ve ever had any dealings with our English friend. Maybe they’re holding something back.
FOURTEEN.
Having informed Claudia Sabatelli that he had removed two glasses and two mugs from Renson’s holiday home, D’Angelo returned to where Rossi was waiting, and the two of them drove back to the Mirelti house. Both had to steel themselves to enter once again the gloomy main room with its heavy and depressing atmosphere, and D’Angelo found himself apologising for yet another intrusion at such a troubled time. Anna had come downstairs, but she looked unbelievably frail. Her hair was straggly and unkempt, her face pale, and the shadows beneath her eyes were darker than ever. She sat at the table nursing a cup of orzo drink of powdered roasted barley. It looked as though it was all she was able to ingest in her current state. Elisabetta was obviously now spending a lot more of her time downstairs rather than up in her room, and seemed to have taken back her more influential role within the family in this time of crisis. When D’Angelo and Rossi entered, Elisabetta was busy preparing food in the kitchen area, giving instructions to Laura, who was helping her.
Judging by the hammering noises that could be heard from outside, Bruno was fixing some machinery in the barn, and Felicita, explained Laura, had gone to visit Mario.
Presenting the excuse that he wanted to go and see Bruno, D’Angelo left Sergeant Rossi with the three generations of women from the household.
‘Was the fleece helpful?’ asked Laura.
‘We think the rain might have made it difficult for the dog,’ said Rossi, trying to hide the strain in her voice. ‘We’re checking some of the houses in the village now.’
‘We had a visitor a short while ago,’ said Anna in a weak voice. ‘The priest from San Bartolomeo came round. We think your Major D’Angelo has been to see him, which probably prompted him to visit.’
‘He wouldn’t have thought of it otherwise, the fat lazy bugger,’ spat Laura.
‘Laura, that’s enough.’
‘Sorry Nonna, but what does he actually do for any of us?’
‘If you came to church occasionally, young lady, you might find out. And it was rude of you to go upstairs when he was here trying to give us some comfort.’
Laura snorted with derision.
‘The thing is, Teresa,’ interrupted Anna, trying to calm the waters, ‘apart from Mamma, none of us go to church much, except for weddings and – er – christenings,’ she muttered, looking down at her cup of orzo. Rossi felt a stab of pain, knowing that ‘funerals’ was the missing word, the dreaded word that hung in the air like a plague. The silence that followed was oppressive.
‘It was good of him to come, though,’ said Rossi eventually, embarrassed by the weakness of her comment, clearly only uttered in order to break the silence.
‘There’s a nice holiday home not far from here,’ she continued, ‘owned by foreigners.’
‘Yes, Martin Renson and his wife.’
‘Do any of you know Signore Renson?’
‘No,’ said Anna, ‘as we were saying to Major D’Angelo yesterday, we know what he looks like, but none of us have ever spoken to him.’
‘I said “good day” to him once in the pharmacy,’ corrected Laura.
‘So you’ve had no other contact from him?’
‘No,’ said Anna, clearly puzzled by the question. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘He’s one of your nearest neighbours, and we’re interested in anyone who might have seen Giovanni on Monday evening,’ said Rossi, thinking on her feet. ‘Signore Renson was at his home until Monday night, and if he had seen Giovanni wandering around on his own, he might have let you know.’
Anna looked at her mother and daughter, and all three shook their heads.
‘As I said, Teresa, we’ve never had any contact with the English signore.’
‘It’s the Fioritos you should be questioning,’ said Elisabetta forcefully. Pietro and that son of his. They’ll have the answer.’
‘We need to look at all possible scenarios, Elisabetta. Is there anything you feel you need, a support counsellor, for example?’
‘A support counsellor won’t bring my son back. I’m sorry. That wasn’t polite. My elder son will be arriving from America tomorrow, so he’ll be able to help us see this through. Thank you for the thought, Teresa.’
‘Well, don’t forget you can contact myself or Major D’Angelo at any time.’
D’Angelo and Rossi met up by their respective vehicles at almost the same time.
‘Bruno says he’s never had any contact with Renson – how about the rest of the family?’
‘Laura said “hello” to him in the pharmacy, but that’s all. Elisabetta is insistent that we should be questioning the Fioritos.’
‘I’m going to call Lazzaro and tell him to meet us back at the station. The way you drive, you’ll be first there, so can you get some panini for the three of us?’
* * *
In Pescara, Captain Luciani was kicking his heels and looking at his watch every few minutes. He knew that whatever he got involved in, he would have to break off to go and fetch the arrogant deputy minister and drive him a couple of hundred metres to the sports lido. He knew it was too early, but he decided to go to the hotel and wait there rather than at his desk. At least there might be some nice-looking female tourists to watch while he waited. He parked once again on the yellow line right outside the hotel entrance and stood on the pavement, ready for his charge to appear. A few of the hotel customers were coming and going, some of them in beach gear, but Luciani’s attention suddenly focused on a man and boy coming through the large glass double door. What he noticed was that the man momentarily froze with a look of panic on his face when he saw the captain standing beside a carabinieri car. The boy, who Luciani took to be the man’s son, wore a very strange expression, somewhere between trauma and fear. Luciani watched intently as the man grabbed the boy’s upper arm with a rough hold and twisted him to the right, before guiding him at a brisk pace along the street. At the first intersection, Luciani could see the nose of a car, which appeared to be black. The man with the boy flicked his head backwards before the two of them disappeared around the corner, then moments later the car reversed back up the side-street. Alarm bells started to sound for the carabinieri officer, so he ran to the junction, just in time to see that the black car, a large Citroen, had reversed into an alley to turn, and was now speeding away from him along the small side-street. All he could make out from the registration plate was that it began with what looked like DF, but he wasn’t even sure of that. Frustrated, Luciani strode back to the hotel and entered the lobby. The receptionist was trying to explain to an elderly American couple that the shops were closed between one o’clock and four o’clock, that this happened every day, not because it was a holiday. Luciani interrupted the conversation.
‘Just now, a man and boy left the hotel. Could you tell me which room they are staying in please?’
The receptionist looked towards the entrance as though an image of the two might still be visible.
‘A man with a boy? I’m sorry, I didn’t see them go.’
‘The man, slight build, aged about forty, the boy, possibly his son, somewhere around thirteen to fifteen. They’re most likely Italian rather than foreign.’
‘We have quite a few families staying with us, but I can’t think who those two might be. Would you like to see the hotel manager?’
