At about the same time of the afternoon on that same day, a badly shaken Kate, and Steve at his most alert, had waited until her Uncle Mark, with the lieutenant of the carabinieri, had turned into Lazzetta’s police station; then they had beaten a hasty retreat around the corner and back into the Via Cavour where Dr Montieri lived and where they were out of sight from the piazza.
‘Well, well,’ said Steve. ‘Uncle’s hand on the copper’s shoulder. Thick as thieves, you might say.’
Kate was still trembling. ‘But how did he know … ?’
‘Oh come on, love! You gave your name to that beautiful hunk last night, right there in the police station.’
‘But … to get here so quickly!’
‘Proves a couple of things, doesn’t it? One—he’s got friends in the carabinieri, and someone’s been keeping an eye open on his behalf…’
‘All this time?’
‘Sure, that’s what money’s for. And two—something very weird did happen in this town all those years ago.’
She nodded, staring at him, trying to pull herself together.
‘In any case, he had a lot of warning. You were at Cortiano—you were on the trail and you disappeared. He was probably putting two and two together long before anyone told him you’d got here. Right?’
Kate nodded again.
‘The thing is, what do we do now?’
‘Blow this place for a start.’
Steve shook his head. ‘Why?’
‘Oh God!’ She ran a hand through her hair. ‘I don’t know. Seeing him like that … Pure panic, I suppose.’
‘The whole point of the exercise is to find out what went on here. His turning up like this is part of it. So somehow we’ve got to keep an eye on him. He’ll lead us straight to it, Kate, he hasn’t come here just to keep us company, he’s come to do something.’
She understood what Françoise had meant about men: ‘They think practically. We can, but we tend not to.’
He continued, ‘The vital thing is that Uncle mustn’t see you. He can’t recognize me, that gives us room for manoeuvre.’
She found this quiet pragmatism most soothing and thanked God for his presence. Left to her own devices she’d by now be driving like a bat out of hell down the steep road to San Pietro Vara: losing the trail just when it promised to lead somewhere.
Watching her with his dark steady eyes, he added, ‘There’s only one thing—nobody knows where we are, that could be dangerous if things get rough.’
‘Rough?’
‘He is in cahoots with the carabinieri.’ He nodded to himself and took her arm, leading her quickly back to Dr Montieri’s house where he marched up the steps and rang the bell.
‘What are you doing?’
‘You’re going to do the doing—call your brother.’
‘But we can’t just walk into someone’s …’
Dr Montieri Senior himself opened the door. Kate stared at him. Steve said, ‘Go on, love, tell him we could be in danger.’
It was obviously not the kind of situation to which the old doctor was accustomed but he didn’t ask any of the questions which might have been expected. Doctors are used to emergencies; unnecessary questions can waste time and jeopardize lives. And perhaps the contessa had been right: they all loved Lazzetta but had to admit that nothing ever happened. Here was a little drama to brighten the day. Montieri merely said, ‘The telephone is rather expensive. You won’t mind if the exchange advises us of the cost. I will leave you.’
‘No, please. It doesn’t matter, and I … I may need help getting the number.’
But no amount of help could have achieved that; the operator was sorry, all lines to England were engaged, and many subscribers were waiting.
Steve said, ‘Forget England. Call Françoise and ask her to pass the message to your brother as soon as possible.’
It seemed to take an infinity, but in the end Kate was connected to Corsica, to Bastia, to the Café l’Oasis, to Françoise. She said, ‘We’re in trouble and I can’t get through to my brother in England …’
The cool, unfazed voice asked, ‘What is his number? Good, I have that. And the message?’
Steve was delighted to see that Kate had got over her shock and was again the girl who ran an extremely successful hotel. ‘Four things, Françoise. One—we’re at Lazzetta, inland from Sestri Levante. Two—Mark Ackland has just arrived, and he’s got friends in the carabinieri. Therefore, three—we could be in danger. Four—the name of the other man in the ménage-à-trois was Edward Camden. OK?’
Françoise repeated the message and asked if they were still registered at the Hotel Bobbio in La Spezia.
‘Yes, but I don’t think we’ll be going back there just yet.’
‘I’ll call Monsieur Daniel immediately. If he’s not there, may I dictate your message, are the people reliable?’
‘Yes, absolutely. Thank you, Françoise. We both send our love.’
Steve leaned over and kissed her cheek. ‘That’s more like my girl.’
‘Now what?’
‘Now we wait to find out how much we owe Dr Montieri.’
The old man’s only comment on all this was to shake his head and say, ‘I’m sorry to hear that Signor Ackland is back in Lazzetta. He is not simpatico.’
When they’d left 20, Via Cavour for the second time that day, Steve said, ‘I wonder if Uncle’s still in there with the carabinieri.’ They didn’t have to go as far as the steps to see that the car had not moved from in front of the police station. ‘Do you suppose I could find out anything?’
‘How d’you mean?’
‘By going in there. With some cock-and-bull story about … I don’t know, being robbed.’
‘But as soon as they hear an English voice, they’ll suspect …’
‘Nein, nein. Können Sie mir helfen? Ich habe mein Kamera verloren.’
Kate now found that she could even laugh. ‘Your accent’s appalling.’
‘They won’t speak German anyway.’
‘If the beautiful hulk’s there he’ll recognize you.’
‘He won’t be there—not the same duty two days running, all police stations work a rota.’
‘What about me?’
‘Café Fontana. It’s quite dark in that inner room. Put your scarf over your head, put your dark glasses on your pretty nose; let’s go.’ He was far from sure that the gambit would pay off, and there was no guarantee that Mark Ackland hadn’t departed with his friend the lieutenant; but he felt it was worth trying: felt very strongly that if they didn’t follow up at once, do something, however quirky, the game would slip away from them. Kate, he was glad to say, seemed to agree.
They gave the piazza a wide berth and approached the café via a side alley and the main boulevard. He left her in the Edwardian gloom of the salone and went straight to the police station; the car still stood outside it, and, as he entered, trying to look like an outraged German, he realized that his old friend Luck, after some irrational behaviour in the recent past, might once again be on his side. A door to the right of the entrance was ajar, and through the gap he caught a glimpse of Mark Ackland’s broad back. He couldn’t hear a word of the conversation being conducted in the office, and didn’t expect to; without doubt it was the kind of conversation which called for undertones.
He took swift note of the fact that the handsome carabiniere was not on duty, and embarked in his excruciating German on the story of the missing camera; it was, as he’d hoped, a subject of negative interest to the officer behind the desk.
After some considerable time, and many misunderstandings over the filling in of forms—they were communicating in a mixture of Italian, English and German—Steve was interested to observe that the door of the office was opening. The lieutenant appeared, gesturing Mark Ackland to precede him. He was in his mid-forties, with dark curly hair, cut short and grey at the sides—trim and slim, particularly in comparison with the large Englishman. He was saying, in good English, ‘… need to find the right man. My sergeant here is local, he’ll help you.’
Steve observed the bully-boy with interest. Ackland was a type he knew well, having avoided many such on his ascent of the ladder: overbearing both by inclination and by reason of his schooling, wealth, social position. It would be a pleasure to outwit him, but not, he guessed, an easily attainable pleasure.
As the two men went through the door and down the steps Ackland was looking at his watch, saying something about it being too late. The lieutenant seemed to agree, but what he actually said was rendered inaudible by the hapless officer behind the desk asking for a signature; it had sounded like ‘in the morning’.
All in all, Steve considered the visit to have been worth paying, if only for these three fragments of information: it was too late; ‘You’ll need to find the right man’; and, virtually unheard, something which might have concerned the morning. He left the headquarters feeling relatively pleased with himself, and observed that Mark Ackland and the lieutenant were now talking in the stationary police car.
On his way back to the Café Fontana it occurred to him that he might as well check on their own car, parked on the far side of the piazza and now partly concealed by a Volkswagen mini-bus. As it came fully into view, Steve nearly stopped dead in his tracks; leaning against it, cleaning his nails with a pocket-knife, was a bored carabiniere. And that put the entire situation into a very different perspective. Steve managed to saunter past, glancing neither at the car nor the policeman.
Getting out of Lazzetta by other means and simply abandoning the Fiat in the piazza was Kate’s idea; the more they thought about it the better they liked it. Their friendly waiter informed them that Franco Guardini ran the only two taxis available. Once there had been many competitors, but with the failing of the waters … He gestured.
Afraid that they might have to wend their way all across town, somehow avoiding the main piazza, they were relieved to hear that Signor Guardini’s garage was in a yard not far from the back of the café; even more relieved, and surprised, to find that the boss was there and that a relatively new BMW was parked in front of his office.
‘Ah no, alas,’ said Signor Guardini who was small, pasta-plump, and wore very dark glasses. ‘The BMW belongs to a customer. I have no taxi available.’
Kate told him that their wish to go to La Spezia was urgent, they would pay double.
He waved a fat hand in the famous Italian gesture which can mean so many things—in this case, ‘too much, too much!’—and said that La Spezia was far away, he didn’t normally go that far anyway. ‘But as the signorina can see, I have no car for her.’
At that moment one of his taxis turned into the yard and came to a stop. A youth got out. Before Kate could open her mouth Signor Guardini said, rather loudly, loudly enough for the youth to hear, ‘Ah no, signorina, the old Renault needs new brake-linings, I would not dare send her on so long a journey. In fact, we must start work on her at once. Emilio, get her into the workshop.’
While the youth turned the Renault and drove it into a shed, aligning it with an inspection pit, Kate and Steve exchanged a glance. She tried once more: ‘Signor, perhaps you have a friend who would drive us for such good money.’
‘I regret, signorina, that there are few reliable cars in Lazzetta, I could not entrust one so beautiful as you to some old wreck.’ He thought for a moment; then spread his hands and shook his head. The dark glasses were levelled at them. ‘My deepest apologies, I can think of none.’
When they were barely out of earshot Steve said, ‘Deepest apologies, my foot! The police got there before we did.’
‘You think so?’
‘Damn sure of it.’
‘That means they want to keep us here.’
‘Looks like it. Let’s go eat, I’m starving.’
They retraced their steps to the Café Fontana. It was indicative of their changed attitude that they even lied to the waiter, saying they’d changed their minds about a taxi—too expensive. They ordered the pasta of the day and stared at each other. Kate said, ‘Steve, they think they’ve got us trapped.’
‘Why? We’re not guilty of anything.’
‘Since when has guilt mattered to the police.’
‘Uncle Mark’s not that powerful.’
‘But he’s that rich. You have to look at it from their point of view, Uncle and his friend the lieutenant. They don’t want us creeping around, spying on them, fouling up whatever Ackland’s come here to do. And he’s going to do something, Kate, I definitely heard that bit about needing to find the right man, and the sergeant helping him because he’s a local. Uncle’s here for a reason.’
‘Like what?’
‘Oh God, who knows? Falsifying evidence, bribing a witness, pushing someone downstairs—your guess is as good as mine. I bet they plan to grab us when it’s all over.’
‘Which means tomorrow morning.’
‘It sounded like that, I wouldn’t swear to it. Uncle looked at his watch and said it was too late, and that must’ve meant today.’
Kate said, ‘Well they’re not going to grab us because they’re not going to get the chance.’
‘Good idea. I’ll drink to that.’
They finished their wine—half a carafe, clear heads were called for. He added, ‘And if they’re not going to grab us it looks as though your very first idea was the best one.’
‘Blow?’
He nodded. ‘In our own car.’
‘You said you were against that.’
‘I know what I said. They weren’t gunning for us then, now they are.’
‘But if there’s a cop sitting on the car …’
‘He doesn’t,’ said, Steve, grinning, ‘look like a very intelligent cop.’ And then, more seriously, and leaning forward to emphasize it: ‘Kate, I’m not quite sure you’ve got this straight. We’re talking about taking the law into our own hands—that’s always risky …’
‘We can’t just sit here and give up!’
‘… could be dangerous.’
‘So what?’
‘So I love you, I don’t want you getting hurt.’
The tenderness touched her and she took his hand between both hers. ‘Know something? I was damn lucky they heaved that poor bloody dog at me. If they hadn’t, I’d never have screamed for you, I could have spent my whole life without you!’
‘That’s known as the fickle finger.’
‘How do we operate?’
‘Hertz gave us two sets of keys for that car, didn’t they?’
‘Yes. Both in my bag.’
‘Give me one.’
No arrangements had been made to relieve the carabiniere detailed to keep watch on the foreigners’ rented Fiat. He had now been there three hours and would have gone over to headquarters to complain had it not been for the presence in town of Lieutenant Canetti. Even though he’d just driven off in his own car you could never tell just when he might turn up again unexpectedly. Leaning, as he now was, against the rear window so that he could chat to anyone he knew who happened to pass along the pavement, he was taken by surprise when he heard the sound of a key in a lock just behind him. He wheeled around and saw that the girl had appeared from nowhere and was unlocking the door on the driver’s side. She was a pretty girl, so he put on his most winning smile and said, ‘This is your car, signorina?’
Kate looked up at him and walked around the car as she replied, ‘No, it’s rented. From Hertz, you can see the sticker.’
The man shook his head and tut-tutted. ‘I don’t know why these people always choose Hertz.’
‘What people? What are you talking about?’
‘I regret, signorina, the car is stolen.’
‘But that’s nonsense, I can show you the papers.’
The carabiniere was just about to ask her where her gentleman-friend had got to when he appeared from behind the Volkswagen mini-bus. He said in English, ‘What’s the matter?’
‘Oh, some story about the car being stolen. He wants to look at the rental papers.’ And to the carabiniere, ‘You’ll see they’re perfectly in order.’
Steve now opened the driver’s door and took the documents from the glove compartment; to do this he had to lean right across the interior. He passed them through the passenger door to Kate, and was then very slow about getting out of the car.
The carabiniere took the Hertz folder and said, ‘I must ask you both to come with me and make a statement.’
‘Oh, what a nuisance!’ replied Kate and began to follow him. At the same moment Steve slipped his key into the ignition and the engine sprang to life. The carabiniere wheeled around startled to find the car already moving. Kate gathered all her strength and gave him a mighty push; then jumped for the swinging passenger door which was now abreast of her. By the time the policeman had recovered his balance the little Fiat was accelerating past him across the piazza, Kate just slamming the door.
‘Jesus,’ said Steve, ‘it worked!’
Looking over her shoulder as they plunged into the tree-lined boulevard, Kate caught a glimpse of the carabiniere running towards the police station. ‘Will they follow?’
‘Depends if they’ve got a car lined up.’
‘The lieutenant’s had gone.’
‘I know. Maybe they’ll be delighted to see the back of us—could save them a lot of trouble.’
At the end of the boulevard the town suddenly petered out, as if the drying up of the waters had truncated it: one or two forlorn villas and a cluster of modern housing; then open countryside and a sign pointing down the only road: ‘San Pietro Vara, 12 Km. Autostrada (via Sestri) 43 Km.’
The small Fiat could work itself up to a considerable turn of speed, particularly on a downhill run; and after a mile Kate was able to report that there was still no sign of pursuit; nothing seemed to be moving either in or around the little town on the hillside. It began to look as if their plan was not so stupid after all: a change of car and clothing, perhaps some limited form of disguise, and a furtive return to Lazzetta after dark, probably on foot for the last part of the journey; it shouldn’t prove impossible to find where Mark Ackland was staying—there was little choice—and to keep an eye on his movements.
Again looking behind them, Kate saw that some kind of vehicle was now leaving the town, but it didn’t seem to be in a hurry and could have belonged to any harmless citizen going about his own business. While she was still staring she heard Steve’s shocked voice: ‘Oh bloody hell!’
She turned and saw what he’d seen. A few hundred yards ahead a stocky van marked ‘Carabinieri’ was parked half across the road. There was enough room for one car to squeeze past it—slowly. Three policemen were staring towards the approaching Fiat.
Kate said, ‘What do we do?’
‘Go for it. Nothing else we can do if we want to get away.’
‘We’ve got to get away.’
‘OK, hold on!’
But a double shock was waiting for them. When they were only one hundred yards from the carabinieri, a battered vehicle, some kind of pick-up, swung into view coming directly towards them and also heading for the gap. Since it was old and going uphill Steve put his foot right down, praying that they’d get there first. Kate took a deep breath and held it. The sound of the Fiat’s valiant little engine rose to a high-pitched shriek. There now seemed no doubt at all, even if Steve did get there first, that the two vehicles must meet head-on; but at that very moment the driver of the pick-up realized that this maniac wasn’t going to stop, wasn’t even going to slow down. With admirable lack of Italian machismo he pulled over to his own side of the road.
They caught a confused glimpse of shocked carabinieri, two falling back behind their van, one taking a dive for safety; there was a moment of frantic high-speed chaos as the little car swerved on to the verge in a cloud of dust and flying pebbles, skidded but missed the police van by a few inches, howled past the astounded driver of the pick-up and regained the road with a squeal of tyres.
Steve shouted, ‘One of them had a rifle—get down.’
Kate looked back. ‘Get down, Kate!’
The rifle fired. There was a metallic clang. Fired again, and Steve found himself wrestling with the wheel, mounting the stony bank, veering back on to the road, nearly flying off the far side of it into space, and all the time, slowly, slowly, bringing the car to an ungainly, thumping standstill, dust swirling around them. ‘Quite a marksman! Hit the rear tyre on my side.’
They sat there glumly, listening to the cicadas, as the police van, equipped with four-wheel drive, followed them down the road and drew up alongside.
‘Out!’ said the one who’d had to dive for safety, and had gashed his chin in doing so.
Kate and Steve got out. Beyond the three carabinieri the car which she’d seen emerging from Lazzetta was now quite close. The lieutenant was sitting in the front seat next to his driver. He slid out and approached them, introduced himself by name: Canetti, at their service. He was smiling.
Daniel’s only thought on getting to the Woolpack was to phone Italy and, since his sister was sure to be elsewhere, leave a message for her at the Hotel Bobbio; but this plan melted away when Tom’s father handed him her own message from Lazzetta: meticulously passed on by Françoise and as meticulously transcribed in Mr Duff’s neat handwriting. The mention of Edward Camden as third member of the ménage was interesting but not at the moment vital; the news that Mark Ackland had arrived and was in cahoots with the carabinieri didn’t surprise Daniel overmuch; but the undoubted fact that this could put his sister in danger, even grave danger, electrified him to further action.
As he was clambering back into the Land-Rover he paused for a moment, frowning at Tom in the driver’s seat. Tom, aware of the frown, said, ‘What’s up? I thought we were in a hurry.’
‘By God, I certainly take you for granted, don’t I?’
‘Well, you can’t drive yourself, your little car went up in smoke.’
‘That’s not the point.’
Tom smiled, leaned over and grabbed his arm, pulling him into the passenger seat. ‘If you didn’t take me for granted, it wouldn’t be much of a friendship, that’s what I say.’ It was more than he’d ever said before or would ever say again. In spite of the sense of urgency, almost of panic, which gripped him, this unquestioning kindness moved Daniel very much; weary as he now was, he even felt the prick of tears behind his eyes, and turned away swiftly.
‘So what next?’ demanded Tom.
Daniel sat in silence for a long moment; then: ‘Dr Ramsay at the Health Centre.’
‘You don’t sound too sure.’
Daniel was very far from sure. He had been Angus Ramsay’s patient ever since his last, and he hoped final, discharge from hospital; there was little about Daniel’s pain, occasional despair, his frustrated hopes of a career and even of marriage which Dr Ramsay did not know all about. He also knew how much Daniel loved his sister and depended on her; indeed he himself had been visibly bowled over by Kate at their only meeting—he was unmarried, not yet thirty. Daniel liked him very much and trusted him, and in that trust lay the uncertainty, for Angus Ramsay was a conscientious doctor with the steel of a strict Scottish upbringing in his soul: not the kind of steel which could easily be bent: yet, Daniel explained to Tom as they drove the six miles into town, if he failed to bend it a disastrous, perhaps fatal, loss of time would ensue; he didn’t know where else to go.
Characteristically, Dr Ramsay was in his office, even though afternoon consultations were not due to begin for another half-hour. He was a stocky young man with black hair and black eyebrows which almost met above the bridge of his nose; the dark blue eyes were very direct, honest. So were his words: ‘Oh, come on, Dan, you know your uncle and his family are registered with me, why the play acting?’ The ‘play acting’ had been intended as a gentle prelude to the critical, the paramount question. This raised the dark brows, but he turned without argument to his files, took out a lean specimen and opened it; then shook his head firmly. Daniel, primed by preconception, said, ‘I was afraid you’d give me that.’
‘Give you what?’
‘Hippocratic Oath, secrets of the consulting room, et cetera.’
Angus Ramsay’s smile lightened the incipient heaviness of his features and made him look boyish. ‘What a one for jumping to conclusions! The fact is, your grand relatives don’t stoop to wee doctors like me. I’ve only ever clapped eyes on them twice when one of the girls had bronchitis. Result—I have no particulars—not a one.’ And he thrust the file under Daniel’s nose.
It was true. The two visits were noted, but height, weight, blood pressure … all the usual specifications were blank for every member of the family.
‘We have,’ added Dr Ramsay, ‘our own man in Harley Street. I’m pretty damn sure he’s some kind of kin to your auntie; how’s that?’
‘Lousy,’ replied Daniel, heart in stomach. And as for testing the steel in the damned Scottish conscience! He managed to evade rigorous questions about his own state of health, which did not at this moment bear examination, and rejoined Tom in the Land-Rover.
There was no need for Tom to make any inquiries; for the second time that day his friend’s face told him everything. Eventually he dared say, ‘This is pretty important, right?’
‘It’s vital, Tom. Vital.’
They sat side by side in silence. A blackbird sang and sang from the top of a sycamore. The church clock chimed the half-hour. A distant wailing defined itself as an approaching ambulance; it roared past them on its way to the hospital. Tom, staring after it, said, ‘Hey, wait a minute! What about that time he got thrown?’
‘Uncle Mark? When?’
‘Must’ve been … about a year before you came to live at Woodman’s.’
Daniel grimaced to himself; he’d been undergoing the last of his many operations. ‘So what about it?’
‘Nasty fall. His horse slipped on ice, and he got cut up—badly. They rushed him off to Oxenham, had to give him a transfusion.’
‘Transfusion! Are you sure?’
‘’Course I’m sure, village talked of nothing else for a week!’
Why Oxenham, thirty miles away in another county? The question streaked across Daniel’s mind like a fiery comet. The local hospital, just around the corner, could have dealt with the matter just as efficiently. His heart was pounding; he knew he was on the right track. But how could he find his way along it? There was only one answer swift enough to make any sense, and it meant that now he would have to get to grips with that strict Scottish upbringing—Hippocratic Oath included. There was a single glimmer of hope; it lay in the slight note of bitterness which had crept into Angus Ramsay’s voice when he’d said, ‘The fact is, your grand relatives don’t stoop to wee doctors like me … We have our own man in Harley Street.’ Daniel recalled that the strict upbringing had also been an uncompromisingly Socialist one. Unfair advantage? Perhaps, but the only tool to hand, and he intended to make full use of it.
Dr Ramsay, who was expecting his first patient in ten minutes, listened silently to Daniel’s request, dark brows meeting in disapproval.
Daniel added, ‘I can hardly go over to Oxenham and ask questions myself, they’d throw me out.’
‘Ay, they would.’
‘But if another doctor, the Acklands’ own doctor, asked them …’
Up came the direct blue eyes. ‘Why do you want to know, Daniel?’
‘If I were to say Uncle Mark fell off a horse in Italy, needs another transfusion, and has forgotten his …’
‘I’d throw you out.’
Daniel nodded. ‘So I’m going to tell you the truth, Angus. Nobody else knows, and the only reason I dare trust you is because your bloody integrity will make you keep it to yourself.’
‘But it may not make me ring the hospital on your behalf.’
Daniel hoped it wasn’t just his imagination which caught a glimpse of the good doctor and the good Socialist facing each other behind those honest eyes. He said, ‘It may not, but something tells me it will.’
Tom saw the smile on Daniel’s face as soon as he came out of the Health Centre. ‘Got it then?’
‘I certainly did. Ramsay even had a friendly colleague over at Oxenham—never mentioned it to me, of course. By God, they’re a canny lot!’
‘And?’
‘Uncle Mark’s O-Positive, Tom. How’s that for a blood group?’
‘Fine by me if it’s fine by you.’
‘Putting it mildly. I need a telephone.’
‘Public?’
‘Private, very private.’ He glanced at his watch and was both pleased and surprised to see that their hyperactive and seemingly endless day had not yet reached five-thirty. All the same, this meant that he must make at least one short call from a public phone if he was to stand a chance of catching Peter Henchman before he left his office. Henchman was the closest of his friends from law school, now a junior partner in the family’s high-powered practice. What Daniel told him was startling enough to make him cancel a dinner-party and stay at Lincoln’s Inn until he received another call; he would even phone his father and ask him to come back to the office right away. Henchman, Clyde & Henchman had learned, in the course of a couple of centuries, how to recognize a potentially lucrative emergency when they encountered one.
By the time Tom and Daniel had got back to the Woolpack, and Daniel had spent a further hour and a quarter talking to the Henchmans, father and son, he was beginning to tremble with fatigue. When the Duff family heard that he proposed to catch an eleven p.m. flight from Heathrow that same night, they at first tried dissuasion, and, that failing, took his welfare into their own capable hands. Mrs Duff left her husband to cope with the bars and cooked a sturdy meal of local cured ham and eggs from her own yard; meanwhile Tom, overriding complaint as he had on the night of Daniel’s bloodstained arrival in the wheelchair, took him to the bathroom, washed him all over and dressed him in clean clothes, hissing and humming throughout as if his crippled friend were a nervous horse.
Once again Daniel bit back his dislike of being manhandled; he knew he couldn’t have managed by himself, and knew that he was going to need every ounce of his failing stamina to survive what lay ahead.
All police stations possess certain common denominators. No matter that this one was finished with many a fin-de-siècle embellishment, there was still the unmistakable smell of armpit, dust, disinfectant overlying urine. Lieutenant Canetti appeared in the doorway of the reasonably clean but shabby cell, labelled ‘Waiting-Room’, into which Kate and Steve had been thrust. Looking more than ever like a sleek and contented cat, he said, ‘You’re very foolish. It was merely necessary for you to answer certain questions concerning your car, which is thought to have been stolen. Now you have refused to cooperate with the carabinieri and have damaged the car in question while trying to make a suspicious escape. These are illegal offences to which dangerous driving will be added. Charges will be made.’
‘OK,’ said Steve, ‘let’s get on with it.’
‘The exact nature of the charges will be decided by the visiting magistrate who comes to Lazzetta once a week on Fridays.’
‘But,’ cried Kate, ‘that’s the day after tomorrow.’
‘Precisely.’
They had agreed, on the drive back into town, to make no reference to Mark Ackland, but it was difficult to refrain from doing so now—in no uncertain terms. Perhaps the lieutenant had taken note of their diplomatic omission; he gave a thin smile. ‘The sergeant in charge here will attend to your case. You’ll be given access to a lawyer should that prove necessary.’ The door shut and they were left on their own.
Steve grimaced. ‘Looks a bit like game, set and match to Uncle Mark.’
‘No, never! Something’ll happen.’
‘It’d better be a miracle. This’ll teach you not to go asking me to help you.’
Kate smiled, went over to him and kissed him. ‘Make a good story to tell the children—how Mummy and Daddy went to prison.’
‘Children, eh? How many do you have in mind?’
‘How about … one point five like the Chinese?’
‘Better make it two. Point five would look silly on a bicycle.’
Kate laughed. ‘This is serious, we shouldn’t be making jokes.’
‘Children are no joke. But it’s the only way to stay sane in clink.’
She looked at him closely. ‘You’re speaking from experience, aren’t you? You never told me you’d been inside.’
‘Not properly, I was only a kid. I was a bit of a tearaway until they channelled my energy into stark ambition. I’m not exactly proud of it.’
Kate stood up and paced about the dismal room. ‘Do you suppose we could just walk out? The door’s not locked.’
‘I think we’re in enough trouble as it is.’
‘Perhaps we should demand to speak to the British Consul—that’s what they always do in books.’
‘When the writer wants an easy excuse. Have you ever tried calling a Consul, it’s worse than British Rail.’
She sighed and sat down again, close to him. ‘You’re the expert—what happens next?’
He smoothed back her glossy hair and kissed her lightly. ‘The bad part happens next, love. They give us some food, then they separate us and stick us in different cells for the night.’
She stared at him, not having thought of this, but of course he was right. After the food, more pasta of the day brought over from the Café Fontana, there appeared the carabiniere whom they’d tricked in the piazza; he was looking properly truculent and jangling keys, which clearly gave him pleasure.
Ignoring him, Steve took Kate in his arms and held her tightly. ‘Don’t let it get you down—that’s the idea of it. Try to sleep. It isn’t easy but it’s the best way out.’
They were led down a gloomy corridor, and he was locked into the first cell they came to. The carabiniere jerked his head, and Kate followed him. Just as they were rounding the corner at the end of the corridor, Steve’s voice, evidently speaking through the iron flap on the door, called out, ‘Remember, there’s going to be a miracle.’
‘I’ll remember.’
The carabiniere handed her over to an embarrassed-looking woman who might have been someone’s aunt dragged unwillingly from her own hearth. She ushered Kate into another cell: a bed, a blanket and a hard pillow, a pot in the corner, a barred window high in the wall.
Kate wandered to and fro for a while; inspected the bed which, like the rest of the cell, seemed fairly clean. Finally, wishing she was wearing jeans rather than the dress she’d put on that morning for the contessa’s benefit (it seemed a week ago), she lay down. It was too early for sleep, so she listened to the sparse sounds of ordinary life which came in through the high window. Presently the standard fears and despondencies known to anyone who has ever been incarcerated, even for a few hours, came creeping out of the corners of the ugly little room to taunt her. She found that if she thought, with concentration, about her uncle and his high-handed behaviour she could induce anger, and that anger fought fear and despondency to a standstill.
Steve did not expect his previous experience of being locked up to come to his aid. Cell-fever was such a well-known complaint that it should long ago, he thought, have lost its evil power; but it had not, and perhaps it never would, because it ran counter to the whole of human nature. Finally he began to rehearse in his mind everything he intended to say to Guido Amari when he reached the office in Turin; and presently, for it was an extremely boring conversation, and the day had been long, eventful and tiring, he fell asleep out of sheer exhaustion.
Kate dozed fitfully, forever caught between the unreal world of wakefulness and the equally unreal world of dreams. She might have denied that she’d ever slept at all had she not woken with a start to find sunlight slanting into the cell. It was nearly 7.30. Presumably the carabinieri were content to let their prisoners sleep all day, thus eliminating the need for further invented illegalities.
After a moment she became aware of what had woken her: a deep Italian male voice holding forth fortissimo in the distance. She could only catch a word or two here and there; ‘… are you presuming to tell me … in the name of God, what’s that supposed …? … when I say at once I mean at once …’
Kate rolled off the bed, running both hands through her hair, and hurried to the door, hoping to hear more clearly. However, as she approached, it opened in her face. The handsome carabiniere, whom they’d first seen the night before last, stood at attention as if turned to stone; his face was the colour of stone too. ‘Signorina—if you please.’
Bewildered, Kate walked past him into the corridor and saw, through the open door at the end of it, like something out of the dream-haunted night, her brother, Daniel. He was standing in the entrance-hall looking strained and pale. She let out a cry and ran forward, throwing her arms around him and feeling, in the tension of his frail body, and out of the deep knowledge she had of him, how truly exhausted he was. The owner of the basso profundo, a large Italian in a dark grey suit, was leaning over the duty desk, his diatribe pinning the sergeant, also whey-faced, to the wall behind it: ‘… national press, no less than your superiors in Rome, will be fascinated when I reveal how you conduct yourselves in Lazzetta.’
Now Steve was coming into the room, looking dazed as well he might; was kissing Kate on the cheek while formal introductions wove an inexplicable pattern: ‘Steve, this is my brother … Peter Henchman, Kate—you’ve often heard me … And this’—the massive Roman—‘is Rico Damiani, the most famous …’
It was all meaningless, and in any case they were already moving quickly out of the police station, being ushered into a pair of imposing black limousines. Kate had lost Daniel who was being heaved by Damiani into the first of them, which accelerated away across the piazza, watched in astonishment by the buyers and sellers at a small market.
Kate stumbled into the second and was relieved to find Steve beside her, an arm around her. Peter Henchman sat opposite them: a smooth, fair young Englishman who, Kate now remembered, had been Daniel’s great friend during his interrupted stay at university: the son and grandson of a famous family of lawyers. He was saying, ‘… but thank God I happened to be in London—Daniel got hold of me right away. And we were lucky to find Rico Damiani so quickly, he’s the Italian end of the business. Flew up to Genoa to meet us.’
Throwing them all off-balance, the car swerved on to a stony track; it was a moment before Kate recognized it as the one leading to the cemetery. They stopped abruptly next to the other limousine in a whirlwind of flying dust, out of which emerged a strange tableau. Daniel was standing at the edge of the terrace facing Mark Ackland whose face was a red mask of rage. As she and Steve reached their level, Kate saw that the grave of Edward Lifford Camden lay between them. The simple headstone had toppled backwards and the coffin was now visible between piles of earth, obviously just uncovered by two workmen who stood by, open-mouthed.
Their uncle advanced on Daniel, lurching, but the massive Italian lawyer took a step forward and thrust him aside as if he were a child; then snapped an order to Lieutenant Canetti of the carabinieri who jumped to obey, blank with shock. He took his erstwhile colleague in the standard arm-lock and jerked him backwards.
Unable to free himself, Ackland shouted, ‘This is a farce. Edward Camden’s family want him re-buried in English soil, and I agreed to undertake …’
Daniel, hair on end, teetering over the grave on his crutches, shouted back, ‘Bullshit! You are Edward Camden!’