Murder Your Darlings Page 7

  ‘Let’s hope the police have a view. I’m sure it was an accident. With any luck they’ll agree and we can get the body off this afternoon.’

  ‘What happens then?’ Francis asked. ‘Will Duncan fly her home?’

  ‘Presumably. Unless he wants to cremate or bury her here. Which is an option, I suppose.’

  ‘Not the first thing you’re going to discuss with him, I imagine.’

  ‘I simply don’t know what people usually do.’

  Twenty minutes later, lying on his back reading Zoe’s memoir, Francis heard the single whoop of a siren. He ran down to find an ambulance had arrived in the courtyard. It was yellow and orange, emblazoned with the word AMBULANZA and below that, MISERICORDIA PERUGIA.

  The two ambulance guys, in body suits of fluorescent orange, were already at the front door, being greeted by Gerry. ‘Buongiorno,’ he was saying as Francis came down the stairs. Then he led them off to the basement. ‘Abbiamo trovato il corpo cosi …’ he heard as they headed off.

  ‘You’re a dark horse, Francis,’ said Diana, as he joined the little group in the courtyard, which now included latecomers Liam and Sasha, who was all dressed up in a floral skirt, floppy hat and fuchsia scarf for the cancelled excursion. ‘Sitting there throughout breakfast pretending you didn’t know.’

  ‘I promised Gerry I wouldn’t say anything. I realized afterwards I shouldn’t have come up here at all.’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ said Roz. ‘It absolutely wasn’t your fault. You were in an impossible situation.’

  ‘Poor Poppy,’ Zoe said. ‘If you knew about it, you presumably saw her, Francis. How did she look?’

  ‘I’d rather not say. Not great.’

  ‘Frazzled, I imagine,’ said Liam.

  Sasha shuddered. ‘Liam, that’s so gross!’

  ‘Sorry.’

  Belle announced she was going up to the studio to do some painting. ‘I hope that’s not heartless,’ she said. ‘I just need to occupy myself somehow.’

  ‘It’s not heartless at all,’ said Zoe. ‘I think I’ll go and do a bit of work too.’ She looked in Francis’s direction. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve had a chance …’

  ‘To have a look at your memoir? I have it here.’

  He waved the manuscript at her in lieu of further comment and dragged a deckchair to a place on the edge of the dappled shade.

  ‘I’m going for a walk,’ Sasha announced, while Francis went into the little side room to fix himself a coffee. Roz was already by the Gaggia, frothing milk in the stainless-steel jug.

  ‘D’you want me to do some for you too?’ she asked.

  ‘If you don’t mind.’

  She opened the adjacent tall fridge and added an extra slurp of milk, before returning the jug to the hissing steam wand.

  ‘Don’t listen to those silly old women,’ she said. ‘Honestly. What are they like?’

  He said nothing.

  ‘I’m surprised you’re not down there in the basement, taking notes.’

  ‘I’ve seen all I need to. Or want to, quite frankly.’

  She leant towards him. ‘So … what … an ambulance crew are here now are they … in the sauna … checking her over?’

  ‘I believe so.’

  ‘You believe so? I don’t suppose it’s something that any of us are allowed to see?’

  ‘I really wouldn’t if I were you, Roz. It’s one of the most horrible sights I’ve ever witnessed. And that includes a man who died of snakebite.’

  Before Francis could elaborate on how ugly that innocuous-sounding death could be, there was another crunch of tyres on the gravel drive. He went to the door to see a snazzy blue and white Alfa Romeo with POLIZIA emblazoned in white on the side nosing slowly down the little slope and pulling up next to the ambulance. Over the front hub, a panther-like head was drawn in a blue line on one of the wide white stripes; underneath this was written Squadra Volante.

  Roz’s eyes flashed wide. ‘The Flying Squad!’

  They stood together at the door and watched as the car doors opened and two policemen emerged: the younger, taller, fresh-faced one looked like an Italian Private Pike, with a smart, dark-blue jacket, blue-grey trousers and a flat cap with some fancy golden bird insignia on the front; his older, chubbier, more grizzled companion was in the same uniform, only without a cap, and with two narrow gold stripes on his epaulettes. It was hardly The Sweeney, whatever Roz was imagining.

  They glanced slowly round the courtyard, nodded perfunctorily at the scattered guests, then made at no great speed for the front door, where Belle was now standing behind a portable easel, doing an oil sketch. To Francis’s surprise a burst of rapid-fire Italian followed before Belle led them inside, brushes still in hand.

  ‘She’s pretty fluent,’ said Roz.

  ‘Enviable,’ Francis added. They took their coffees over to the central area where Diana was sitting with Zoe.

  ‘And now the police,’ Zoe said. ‘Is that normal, Francis?’

  ‘With a death of this kind, yes,’ Francis replied. He omitted to mention that it had been his idea to call them.

  ‘So is there going to be an investigation?’ Roz asked.

  Francis shrugged. ‘We shall see. The Italians do things in a somewhat different way from us.’

  ‘Of course they do,’ said Diana. ‘This is Europe.’

  ‘I’ve read Michael Dibdin, so I know a little about that,’ said Zoe. ‘Italian murder mysteries,’ she added, to Diana’s bemused stare. ‘With a Venetian policeman as detective.’

  ‘I never read them,’ said Diana. ‘Can’t see the point. If I want to read about murder I can look in the newspapers. Sorry, Francis.’

  ‘Please, Diana, don’t apologize. It’s not compulsory to like the crime genre.’

  ‘I love the Donna Leon novels,’ said Roz. ‘D’you know those? They’re also set in Venice. And the detective has a nice wife, who he goes home to every night, and eats delicious food with …’

  ‘Oh yes!’ said Zoe, enthusiastically. ‘I have read one of those. Great fun. What’s his detective called?’

  ‘Now you’ve got me. Bruno something or other, I’ve got a clear picture of him in my mind.’

  ‘Bruno Tonioli.’

  Roz laughed. ‘No, that’s the guy from Strictly Come Dancing—’

  ‘Commissario Guido Brunetti,’ Francis said, putting them out of their misery. ‘One of the interesting things about those Donna Leon books is that even though all of them are set in Italy she never allowed any of them to be translated into Italian …’

  ‘Is that so?’ said Zoe.

  ‘Wasn’t she Italian herself?’ asked Diana.

  ‘No, American,’ said Francis.

  ‘Probably worried about being found out,’ said Diana.

  They were filling in time. Chatting to cover their nerves while they waited and watched to see what was going to happen next. How long would the police stay? Would it be a routine check and then off – after all the drama perhaps just a horrid accident that no one could have foreseen?

  Ten minutes later, the ambulance sped off without a body. Five minutes after that Francis looked up to see Gerry beckoning at him from the door of the piano room. He got to his feet as discreetly as possible and headed into the gloom. ‘Complications,’ Gerry said, as he pushed the glass door to behind them. ‘Because it was an “unexpected death” the local police are summoning some bigger cheeses from Perugia. Also the procuratore, the public prosecutor.’

  ‘So things are not going to be as straightforward as you’d hoped.’

  Gerry shook his head. ‘I love this country, but once you get officialdom involved nothing is ever simple. Fare brutta figura.’

  ‘What’s that mean?’

  ‘It’s the opposite of Fare bella figura. You know about that?’

  ‘The desire to dress well, look good, make sure presents are nicely wrapped …?’

  ‘I’m impressed.’

  Francis had always liked the idea of bella fig
ura; wished, really, that they had it at home, where most seemed to feel the need to look as nondescript as possible, regardless of what they could afford. Whereas in Italy, even the very poorest turned out for the summer evening passeggiata dressed to the nines.

  ‘But I’d never heard of …’

  ‘Brutta figura,’ Gerry finished. ‘It’s the opposite. Looking bad. They don’t like it, so sometimes they go overboard to keep face.’

  ‘So what does this procuratore do?’ asked Francis.

  ‘Takes charge, I think. It’s a bit like France. They have the inquisitorial system out here. The prosecutor gets involved in the case from the beginning.’

  Francis’s understanding of Continental procedure was sketchy, a mish-mash of half-remembered details from, yes, Dibdin and Leon, not to mention Michele Giuttari and Andrea Camilleri, together with images from the French cop show Engrenages (aka Spiral), which had the wonderful public prosecutor François Roban (‘Monsieur le Juge’) out on the road in his suit and tie, leading the scruffy cops in their investigations.

  It was Francis who had suggested – indeed insisted on – calling the police, but this was an add-on he hadn’t expected. What did it mean? That the police suspected Poppy’s death was more than just an accident? Or was it, just as likely, nervous local cops making doubly sure – in a posh house full of foreigners? Gerry didn’t know what to think either.

  ‘They’re hardly top brass,’ he said. ‘A sovrintendente and an agente …’

  ‘Sergeant and constable …?’

  ‘Exactly. Passing the buck up the chain is the obvious thing to do.’

  Five minutes later they heard the sound of tyres on gravel and another Alfa Romeo was nosing slowly down the drive. This one was dark blue, unmarked, with just a blue light on the roof, one that could either be put out or hidden inside.

  ‘Auto civetta,’ said Gerry, as they stepped outside into the courtyard. ‘Literally an “owl car”. Unmarked, as used by the Squadra Mobile, the investigative unit. This will be Perugia.’

  The front doors of the owl car swung open and a handsome young guy, with quite long dark hair and a trim moustache, in a natty navy blazer, stepped out. From the other door came a good-looking woman in a tight white top, blue jacket and skirt and black boots.

  ‘Sexy lady!’ said Roz. ‘I do hope she’s the capo.’

  ‘More police,’ said Zoe. ‘Whatever happened, they’re taking it seriously.’

  ‘I think these two are from headquarters in Perugia,’ Francis explained. ‘The others are just locals.’

  ‘Covering their arses,’ said Liam.

  ‘Do you have to be quite so vulgar,’ said Diana, tetchily. ‘All the time.’

  Gerry had gone over to greet them, then taken them inside and downstairs.

  A few minutes later a van arrived, driven by two policewomen in short-sleeved blue shirts. From the back came two guys and a woman in the international white spaceman suits of the forensics team.

  ‘Now what?’ asked Diana.

  ‘Forensics, it looks like,’ said Mel.

  ‘Oh my God!’ said Zoe. ‘This is all a bit more serious.’

  ‘What on earth’s going on?’ said Liam. ‘Do they think one of us has bumped her off?’

  He was voicing what everyone was now thinking as they looked round at each other with new concern.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Diana. ‘They can send forensics people for an accident, of course they can.’

  Liam raised his eyebrows, but hardly were the words out of Diana’s mouth than a second unmarked car was nosing down the drive. From this disgorged two men: one bald as a heavily tanned egg, in a rumpled grey suit; the other in a smart blue blazer, almost identical to the previous police officer, though this guy was older, with thick grey hair. Barely looking round the courtyard, they hurried inside.

  ‘Unless I’m mistaken, that’ll be the procuratore,’ Francis said.

  ‘Who’s he when he’s at home?’ asked Liam.

  ‘The public prosecutor.’

  ‘The public prosecutor?’ Zoe echoed. ‘But they don’t even know …’

  ‘It’s a different system out here,’ said Francis. ‘They get them involved right from the start.’

  ‘Right from the start of what?’

  ‘Any investigation.’

  ‘So there is going to be an investigation?’

  ‘Looks like it.’

  ‘Good Christ,’ said Liam. ‘It’s Murder Under a Tuscan Sun.’

  ‘For goodness’ sakes, Liam,’ said Zoe. ‘Please keep your more outlandish thoughts to yourself.’

  ‘Hear, hear,’ said Diana.

  ‘This is Umbria, in any case,’ said Roz.

  Liam made the face of a rebuked man who didn’t care and there was silence. The three police cars and the blue van gleamed in the sun. Everyone read, or pretended to read, silently. Belle continued with her painting.

  ‘Are you putting the police cars in?’ Liam called out, after a bit.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Brilliant. You could call it House Arrest. Or perhaps Villa Arrest.’ He gurgled quietly to himself.

  Sasha returned, with a bag full of mushrooms she’d found in the woods. These fat-stemmed brown funghi were wild porcini mushrooms, she told the ladies, rather excitedly, a speciality of the area and the season. She’d also found some rarer ones, called Caesar’s mushroom, with an amazing orange-pinky cap, though she wouldn’t want to eat them without checking with the cooks as they were very similar in appearance to the deadly poisonous Death Cap, half of one of which could kill you.

  ‘Just what we need at this juncture,’ said Liam dryly.

  ‘You seem to know a great deal about mushrooms,’ Mel observed.

  ‘We have them in the woods in Oregon, where I come from. And I knew they were big on them over here, so it’s quite exciting to have found this lot so easily. They were just there, in this little dell in the woods below the garden.

  ‘I should definitely show them to Benedetta,’ said Diana. ‘Being a proper Italian, she will know which ones are good to eat.’

  A minute later there were Italian and American shrieks in canon from the kitchen. Sasha emerged triumphant.

  ‘They are porcini, as I thought. And the other ones they call ovolo buono, good eggs. Benedetta’s going to make them part of her starter tonight.’

  ‘You sure they’re OK, Sasha?’ Zoe asked.

  ‘She is, which is the main thing.’

  Just after noon a lime green Fiat arrived, containing another middle-aged gentleman in a suit, who carried a square, black briefcase. With him was a much younger woman with bobbed ginger hair.

  ‘Now who’s this?’ asked Liam.

  ‘I’d say a doctor,’ said Francis. ‘Maybe a pathologist.’

  ‘Uncle Tom Cobley and all,’ said Zoe.

  Not long after that, the policewoman and her handsome sidekick and the man Francis had thought was the prosecutor and his companion emerged in a pack and got into their respective cars, before living up to the best Italian clichés and speeding off, sending the gravel flying on the drive.

  ‘Is that it, d’you think?’ said Diana.

  ‘Who knows?’ said Zoe. ‘They certainly seem to be in a hurry.’

  ‘That’s just Italians for you,’ said Liam. ‘You know what shocking drivers they are.’

  ‘That’s a bit racist, isn’t it?’ said Sasha, who was now slumped sideways on a deck chair making a cat’s cradle with a skein of red wool.

  ‘It is, darling,’ Liam replied. ‘Making generalizations about alleged national characteristics is most definitely racist. However, in this case also the truth, as even the shortest trip on an Italian motorway would tell you. Jesus, the bastards are up your arse the entire time, headlamps flashing.’

  Sasha laughed. ‘Liam, you are just like this totally unreconstructed dinosaur person, d’you know that?’

  ‘Twelve thirty,’ said Roz, making a show of looking at her watch. ‘I don�
��t know about you, but I’m ready for a drink.’

  ‘Me too,’ said Zoe.

  As they sat in a rather awkward circle five minutes later, it was Liam who raised a glass. ‘Well, folks,’ he said, looking quickly round over his shoulder, ‘I can’t say I particularly warmed to her when she was alive, but nobody could have wished that particular death on her. Broiling to death in a sauna, like some kind of lobster.’

  ‘Please, Liam!’ said Diana. ‘Do you have to be so very graphic?’

  ‘The least we can do,’ the Irishman went on, ‘is raise a glass to the poor soul. Let us hope that she has moved on to a better place, surrounded by A-list celebrities and dyed-in-the-wool aristos.’

  There was a titter of laughter from Mel and Belle.

  ‘I imagine,’ said Diana, ‘that Duncan may well join us for lunch, so perhaps we’d better keep our less kind thoughts to ourselves.’

  There was the tinkle of a bell. A woman who looked as if she’d just put down the Christ child and walked out of a painting by Piero della Francesca stood at the top of the steps to the dining room in a neat black dress and white apron. She held up a hand glinting with silver rings.

  ‘Il pranzo é servito!’ she called, exposing perfect white teeth.

  ‘Lunch is served,’ said Belle.

  ‘Thank you, Benedetta,’ said Diana loudly. ‘I’m sure it will be as delicious as ever.’

  The beautiful cook smiled graciously as they trooped past in a group, though Francis couldn’t help noticing that her shorter, rounder colleague, who hurried past with a basket of fresh rolls, was scowling at her. Perhaps, under that charming surface, the boss was a kitchen tyrant.

  The guests queued politely to get plates and cutlery, before helping themselves in turn to the reassuringly familiar spread of cold dishes. Outside, they found places at the long table and did their best to have the same relaxed conversation as they’d had on the days previously. But there was little doubting that a new unease had set in. None of the group were daring to even speculate that the next step up from bizarre and nasty accident was suspicious death.

  Stephanie appeared from the front door of the villa and made her way hurriedly past them to the dining room. She emerged two minutes later with a plate piled up with food.