Page 15 of Murder at Christmas

As the dogs and I got our breath back, I thought back to the confrontation with Signor Gallo last night. Might this have thrown up another potential avenue of inquiry? Bartolomeo had said that Vincenzo had agreed with him that the Alpine resort project would have had a negative effect on the area so could Gallo have been behind the murder of Vincenzo Mazzini, knowing that if he could also eliminate Bartolomeo, his Alpine resort project would stand a good chance of being given the green light by Orlando? This would mean entering serious psychopath territory, and Gallo hadn’t struck me as the type, but, as I knew full well, anything was possible.

Once my pulse had returned to something approaching normal, I called the dogs and set off down the path again, arriving back at the villa at just before nine. While Winston trotted off in the direction of the kitchen, Oscar and I went back up to our room where I gave him his breakfast, took a shower,and went down for my own breakfast, now feeling distinctly hungry after my walk in the fresh air.

I found Anna sitting at a table alongside Selena and got smiles from both of them. I went over to greet them and dissuaded Oscar from climbing onto Selena’s lap. There was nobody else in the breakfast room, and Anna told me that most of the others had already come and gone. Selena then repeated what I had already heard from Bartolomeo the previous night that the online conference with her agent and subsequent negotiations here would be taking up part of the morning – involving her and many of the assembled company. Anna then passed on a very welcome message.

‘Fiona was here earlier – without Orlando – and when I mentioned that Bartolomeo had suggested we go and try the polenta in the restaurant at the end of the main valley, she very kindly offered to come with us and show us the way.’

I was particularly pleased to hear this because it would give me a few hours in which to find out as much as possible about the Viviani family and business, from somebody who knew it well, but was still to a certain extent an outsider. She was also, of course, the wife of one of the main suspects.

* * *

We set off at just after ten and, as we followed the dirt track back down the valley, I asked Fiona if she would point out the old mine to Anna and me. This had sounded fascinating when Valentina had told me of it, and I resolved to try and visit it if I could over the next few days. It turned out that access to the mine came at a corner in the track where a turn-off led to our left towards the steep cliffs that formed the far side of the valley. I hadn’t noticed the turn-off on the way here as it was partially overgrown, although a quick glance as we went past seemed toindicate that at least one or two vehicles had been down that way in the not-too-distant past.

All the way down the lane from San Giorgio to the main valley floor, we met no other vehicles, and when we reached the main road – if you could call the narrow, tortuous road down there ‘main’ – it came as a shock to the system to see cars parked nose to tail along the roadside at the entrance to the village of Ponte di Mezzo. Fiona told us with a smile that this was the main town in the valley, boasting a grand total of 356 inhabitants.

When we reached the main piazza, it was immediately obvious that today was market day. There were stalls and commercial vans parked all along both sides of the square and a surprising number of people wandering about. Anna suggested that we check out what might be on sale so, after a bit of a struggle, I managed to squeeze the van into a tight parking space, and we walked back to the main square.

As we passed what was obviously the town hall, I saw one of the traditional posters that appear in Italian towns when somebody dies. This included a black and white photo of an elderly gentleman with his name in capital letters, and it occurred to me as we walked past that it would appear that the population had now dropped to 355.

If we had been expecting an exotic Christmas market with scented candles, Christmas baubles and sheepskin gloves, we were to be disappointed. Most of the stalls could have come straight from my local village of Montevolpone, but they were fascinating in their own way. There was kitchenware, hardware ranging from nails to chainsaws, women’s clothes from knickers to hats, hanging on display beneath a wide parasol, boots and shoes, bags and rucksacks and, of course, food. There was a fruit and veg stall with a fine selection, an open-sided van selling fresh fish, another van belonging to a butcher, and another with an impressive display of cheeses, hams and salami, but the starof the show was a stall selling local produce ranging from honey and home-made jams and conserves to home-made cakes and pastries – many made with maize flour. The mixture of aromas was enchanting, and I had to keep a wary hold on Oscar’s lead for fear that he might decide to rear up and sample the produce.

As we were walking about, I suddenly spotted a familiar face. The big man with a bushy black beard sitting outside the Bar Centrale sipping a glass of what looked suspiciously like grappa was none other than the driver of the red pickup who had almost run me off the road the previous day. What was interesting to me, however, was to hear him speaking English on the phone with what was unmistakably an American accent. I didn’t hear more than a few words as Oscar and I strolled past, but it was clear that he wasn’t happy.

‘You’ll come with me because we’ve agreed to do it. A deal’s a deal, you…’ The sentence was completed by a colourful series of obscenities, and I almost felt sorry for the person on the other end of the line.

The big man didn’t recognise me, which was probably just as well, but Anna clearly recognised him, because she caught me by the arm and reached up to murmur in my ear, ‘Leave it, Dan. It’s not worth it.’

By this time, we had gone past the bar, and I gave her a smile. ‘You don’t want to sit down at that table next to him and have a coffee?’

She smiled back. ‘Coffee sounds good, and the Bar Sport on the other side of the piazza looks even better, as long as I don’t have to sit outside.’

I nodded in agreement. ‘I imagine our American friend doesn’t feel the cold because he’s been well insulated with grappa, and I’m all for going indoors for my coffee.’ I glanced back at Fiona, who was a couple of paces behind us, taking photos of the market. ‘Feel like a coffee?’

She gave me a thumbs-up, and we headed across to the Bar Sport.

Inside was a low-ceilinged room with an old-fashioned cast-iron wood-burning stove in one corner throwing out so much heat that the tables around it were empty and the barista was in his shirtsleeves. I pointed at Oscar as we walked in and raised an interrogative eyebrow. In reply, the barman beckoned us in with a welcoming smile.

We sat down and ordered coffees. After an elderly waitress had brought these to us, I glanced across at Fiona, who had Oscar glued to her side. ‘If he gets annoying, just say, and I’ll call him over to my side of the table.’

She smiled back. ‘Not at all. It’s rather nice to find someone who’s affectionate towards me for a change.’

I caught Anna’s eye for a second. Fiona’s words confirmed the impression we had both already gained of the shaky state of her relationship with her husband. I wondered what had happened to love’s young dream, but it wasn’t the sort of question to ask somebody we hardly knew. Instead, I gently brought up the subject of Signor Gallo’s project.

‘Bartolomeo was telling me that there’s a plan to make his valley into an Alpine resort. Have you heard that?’

Fiona emitted a long sigh. ‘That’s all Orlando talks about – when he talks to me at all.’

I was pleased to hear Anna pick up on this. She reached across the table and caught hold of one of Fiona’s hands, her tone gentle as she enquired, ‘He doesn’t talk to you?’

In response, Fiona shook her head and dropped her eyes to Oscar at her side. Realising that a bit of canine support was needed, I saw him place a big, hairy paw on her knee and give her hisI love youlook, normally reserved for people with succulent chunks of meat on their plates. This brought a hint of a smile to Fiona’s lips and started her talking.

‘It sounds worse than it is. It’s not that he’s not communicating with me in particular – he’s the same with everybody. It’s his father’s fault.’

I left the follow-up questions to Anna for now. ‘Why his father?’

‘Ever since I’ve known Orlando – and I’m sure for many years before that – his father has been trying to make him into something that he patently isn’t. His father is a highly successful businessman with a real nose for making money. Orlando isn’t like that and he never will be…’

Her voice tailed off and Anna supplied the obvious corollary. ‘And as a result, Orlando is depressed, and that affects how he communicates with people, particularly you. That must be tough for you. Has he spoken to his father about this?’