We land in Capodichino Airport a little before 2 p.m., hire a drop-top Mini Cooper from a dealership just outside Naples and by 3 p.m. we’re zipping through the Italian sunshine. We hit the Amalfi Coast Road and find it’s as picturesque as its reputation suggests. The Tyrrhenian Sea stretches endlessly to our left, whilst the views of the coastal countryside are uniformly stunning.
That said, the reality of tearing along these iconic roads isn’t quite like it is in the movies. Progress is slow. On the straighter lanes, trucks and buses rumble along and don’t bother to give way, and we’re obliged to stop for a donkey in the middle of a street in one village and a flock of sheep wandering through the market square of another. Ironically, we make better time travelling through some of the tightest switchback roads I’ve ever encountered, where the traffic is sparser.
Stacey bubbles away in a good mood, chatting and laughing as though she hadn’t read the memo about her life being in danger. She’s great company. Cheeky. Funny. Insightful. She’s enthusiastic about everything, from her childhood holidays to her current listening habits. She asks me what I think about true crime. I tell her I’m against it, but it keeps me off the streets. Stacey laughs and insists she meant the genre, not the thing itself. She recommends a podcast called Piercing the Unknown, then stops herself. No, that’s more about unexplained mysteries. I counter that all mysteries are unexplained, otherwise they wouldn’t be mysteries.
She takes me seriously and asks about previous cases. I clam up when she mentions Stewart, but she’s sensitive to this and zings off on another topic of conversation. Something about the time she completed the Tromsø Marathon and fell in love with Norway. She’s joyful as she recalls running through the early hours (‘It never gets dark in summer! Even at night!’) and when I ask what time she posted, she shrugs and says she never checked.
Stacey Smith is only a few years older than me, but it feels like she’s lived so much more. She seizes life on her own terms and is contemptuous of anyone who tries to curtail that approach. I admire her for it. And yes, it’s so different to the way I’ve done things. I can’t help thinking that I’m like one of those competitors in Tromsø. I’m constantly running through the midnight sun, alone in a pack of people, yet completely unwilling to pause.
We hit a rare stretch of straight, empty road. I glance at my friend. She’s laughing at another shared memory and I make a mental note to myself: Be More Stacey.
*
We reach Salucci’s house towards the end of the afternoon. It’s a remarkable building, nestling on a rocky spur that juts far into the ocean. We park up and make our way to the entrance.
Salucci’s wife, an Englishwoman called Chloe, meets us at the front door with profuse apologies. ‘Silvio has had to collect his mother from town,’ she explains. ‘I’m so sorry, but he won’t be long. Come in! Come in!’
Stacey makes the mistake of complimenting her on her home, and now Chloe insists on showing us both around. To be fair, it’s distinctive and interesting. We’re told it was originally a maritime tower, but Silvio transformed the property into a stunning villa on three floors – two with terraces that offer incredible views across the ocean. The main space is a broad open area punctuated by pieces of modern art.
Stacey asks, ‘Where’s the TV?’
‘We don’t have one.’
‘My God,’ my friend splutters, ‘how do you live?’
Chloe laughs. Next stop on the tour is the library. ‘Silvio likes to read. To really immerse himself, you know?’
‘I envy him,’ I admit.
We’re shown into a nursery next. ‘The grandkids are toddlers and we don’t like them going onto the terraces. So we had the study turned into a nursery.’
‘This is more like it,’ Stacey enthuses. ‘Clutter!’
The room is vast. One corner holds a collection of toys. A scattering of Action Men and some smaller soldiers in the uniform of Roman centurions. A massive teddy bear wearing a tutu and a gaudy crown. A box of footballs, frisbees and racquets. Another corner is home to a mini-trampoline surrounded by crash mats and there’s even space for a paint-stained table that’s festooned with bright, bold artwork.
Stacey regards it all wistfully. ‘It’s lovely when they’re this age, isn’t it?’
Chloe nods. ‘Doesn’t last long though, does it?’
They exchange glances and I suddenly feel like the odd one out.
Simply to edge back into the conversation, I ask, ‘Couldn’t you just let them onto the terrace but tell them not to go too near the edge?’
‘Really, Novak?’ Stacey hoots with laughter. ‘You can tell you’re not a dad!’
Chloe is a little more temperate. ‘I’m afraid that no matter how nice they are, you can’t trust children.’ She walks into the hallway, adding, ‘Come through – I’ll show you the dining room!’
I linger in the nursery. Something one of the two women has just said almost triggered a realisation in me. I can’t tell what it was – not quite – but someone has just spoken a truth that holds the key to this whole case. Trouble is, I’m damned if I know what it was.
*
We’re relaxing on the lower terrace. The weather is bright, the company charming and all would be right with the world, if it wasn’t for the fact my friends’ lives are all in danger and I’m stuck with a cup of indifferent mocha whilst everyone else is enjoying a proper drink.
Silvio Salucci is in his sixties. He’s tall, tanned and rich, but I like him anyway. The four of us sit at a long metal table that’s warm to the touch. He drinks Peroni, Stacey and Chloe sip Cervaro della Sala and I’m stuck with coffee. At least it’s not as bad as the stuff Simmonds foisted on me. Our host tells us about Taras Zvyagintsev. Turns out Salucci recalls the young man as they met shortly before he swapped policing for international investment trading.
‘The poor boy was in so much pain . . . it was terrible to see. It helped me make up my mind – to take up a new profession, you know?’
‘What sort of kid did he strike you as, Silvio? Was he rich?’
The Italian considers my question. ‘Not rich as in flashy. But I guess he was well-spoken. What my wife would call posh. Why do you ask?’
I’m thinking about something Maughan told me. He’d mentioned Taras having a house in Rome. ‘No reason.’ My lie is automatic, but the old policeman in Silvio Salucci isn’t fooled. He eyes me with interest, but I quickly press on, ‘Was there any unexpected upshot from your interaction with the boy?’
He laughs. ‘These are strange questions, Marc!’
‘I know, but it’s important.’
Chloe says, ‘Tell him about the woman, Sil.’
Her husband takes a mouthful of beer. ‘Yes, that was unexpected! I retired from the service less than six months after accompanying Taras to the hospital. At my farewell party, a woman I didn’t know appeared. She was very sweet. German, I think. Anyway, she thanked me for staying with Taras. For being with him in the ambulance.’
Stacey asks, ‘What was her name?’
‘I have no idea. We spoke for a minute, maybe less. Then she left. The party was already starting to . . .’ His fingers circle the air to imply his leaving do was getting crazy. ‘But I remember her because she gave me three little gifts.’
As he pauses for another drink, Chloe takes over. ‘She gave him a black silk tie. Ever so nice. And a book of poetry she said Taras really enjoyed. How about that! Wasn’t that thoughtful? But the third present. That was the strange one. You’ll never guess what that was, Marc.’
‘I think I can.’ I place my cup of coffee on the table. Lean back into my chair. ‘It was a tiara.’
Silvio looks flabbergasted. ‘How on earth could you know that?’
‘Because,’ I tell him, ‘no how matter how nice they are, you can’t trust children.’