Fault Line - Retail (18 page)

‘She mentioned it, yes,’ I replied nonchalantly.

‘I still don’t understand what he meant by that question he had you ask the first time we met, you know. That evening at the Carlyon Bay. You remember?’

I assured him I did. ‘Will you be wanting the pig’s egg back?’ I asked.

‘No, no. I have several. I keep only one sample of each mineral in this cabinet. The choicest examples.’

The specimens were carefully laid out and labelled. Quartz. Biotite. Muscovite. Tourmaline. Haematite. Limonite. Cassiterite. Luxullianite. And humble kaolinite – good old china clay. Fascinating stuff if you were interested in mineralogy or crystallography – which I wasn’t. I peered at the painstakingly mounted lumps of rock, but saw only lumps of rock.

‘The Duke of Wellington’s sarcophagus in St Paul’s is made of luxullianite, you know. The Victorians were very keen on it. Ah, there’s my pig’s egg.’ It was slightly larger and more finely formed than the one Oliver had left in my father’s car. But it bore the same telltale zeta. ‘Hard to know what all the fuss is about, isn’t it?’

‘Well, it’s not the most eye-catching piece in your collection, admittedly. Did Oliver choose a pig’s egg specifically? Or did you choose it for him?’

‘Er … I’m not absolutely sure.’ Francis’s memory seemed curiously fallible on the subject. ‘I believe … he chose it. Of course, I couldn’t offer him the pick of the whole collection. Quite a few of the specimens are unique.’

‘Are they all from Cornwall?’

‘By no means. This part of Italy has much to offer. I have a particularly fine example of vesuvianite, for instance. Here, let me show you.’

He slid the drawer shut and opened the next one down. More
rocks
met my gaze. I began to wish I hadn’t asked to see the collection in the first place. It had told me nothing.

It was a relief, in a way. I didn’t really want to turn up any clues to whatever Oliver had been trying to accomplish. I was in love with Vivien. I believed she was in love with me. We were good for each other. We were happy together. And our future looked brighter if her brother was left to rest in peace.

But that wasn’t for me to decide. As I was soon to find out.

FIFTEEN

THE FIRST STRAW
in the wind was an announcement by Paolo one morning that there’d been an attempt to break into the villa during the night. Splintered paint and wood around the French windows that led from the drawing-room on to the rear terrace suggested someone had tried to force the doors open. There was also some trampled ground in the shrubbery near the part of the wall where the gradient of the alley on the other side made it easiest to climb over.

Francis pooh-poohed the idea, dismissing the evidence as inconclusive and advising us not to worry. Luisa followed his lead, albeit with less conviction. Paolo seemed miffed not to be taken seriously and did a lot of shrugging and muttering. I joked to Vivien that someone might be after Francis’s vesuvianite.

A couple of days passed without any further attempt and I for one forgot all about the incident. Then a morning came when Francis and Luisa headed out early, bound for Naples. Francis had a monthly appointment at a private clinic in the city with a cardiologist (‘He listens to my ticker and tells me it hasn’t stopped yet – money for old rope, of course, but it keeps Luisa happy’) and Luisa always used the occasion, she told us, to visit some favourite shops and remind herself there was a world beyond Capri. Paolo was also going to Naples, where apparently he had friends and relatives to catch up with. He drove them down to Marina Grande in the Alfa Romeo: the thrumbling note of its engine and the
clanging
of the gates as Paolo closed them were what woke me, though Vivien slept on peacefully beside me.

I dozed lightly for twenty minutes or so, then decided to surprise Vivien by bringing her breakfast in bed. Patrizia wasn’t in yet, so we were alone in the house. I threw on a dressing-gown and espadrilles and went downstairs.

I was halfway along the hall, ambling towards the kitchen, when I passed the open door of the drawing-room. I caught a blur of movement at the edge of my vision and swung round.

What I saw momentarily rooted me to the spot. There was a man outside on the terrace, crouching by the French windows, holding a crowbar. He was wearing a scruffy brown suit and trilby and had frozen in the act of attempting to prise the doors open. He’d seen me just as I’d seen him. And we recognized each other. Except that I could hardly believe the evidence of my eyes.

‘Strake,’ I gasped. I simply couldn’t credit it. But it was true. Gordon Strake was there, in front of me.

He moved first, jumping up and taking off across the lawn at a lope. I covered several yards after him across the drawing-room before I remembered the French windows were locked, then I turned and ran for the front door.

By the time I’d made it round to the lawn at the back of the house, Strake had vanished. I followed in the direction I’d seen him take. The lawn was bordered by ilex bushes, some as big as trees, with branches extending over the top of the boundary wall. There were enough bent and broken stems to suggest Strake had exited that way. I scrambled up on to one of the stouter branches and peered over the wall. There was a street-lamp bracket within reach that he’d probably used as a handhold. But there was no sign of him. He could have gone up the alley or down and I knew it forked a short distance ahead. Going after him would have been hopeless, even if I’d been wearing more than I was. I retreated to the house.

I woke Vivien with coffee and the full, perplexing story. She was understandably incredulous.

‘Strake? Here? That’s crazy.’

‘I agree. But it was him, Vivien, believe me. Without a shadow of a doubt.’

‘What can he possibly want?’

‘I don’t know. It beats me. Something in this house, though. That’s clear.’

‘But
what
?’

‘I’ve no idea. Maybe Francis knows. Strake did serve under him in the army.’

Vivien sat up suddenly, spilling some of her coffee into the saucer. ‘This is about Oliver, isn’t it?’

‘Whoa. We don’t—’

‘No, it
is
. Strake was following him. We only have his word for it that Oliver hired him. Maybe he was working for someone else.’

‘But who?’

‘Uncle Francis? Maybe that’s what Oliver was trying to tell us by planting the pig’s egg.’

‘Why would your uncle want to have Oliver followed? And why, if Strake was working for him then, would he be trying to break into his house now?’

‘
I don’t know
.’ There was something more than exasperation in the way Vivien looked at me then. There was a hint that she knew I wanted her to let the mystery of her brother’s death lie – and why. For a sickening moment I was afraid of losing her. Then she softened. ‘I just don’t know, Jonathan,’ she said, clasping my hand. ‘It’s inexplicable. But there
is
an explanation. There has to be.’

‘I agree. But how do we find it?’

‘Well, we tell Uncle Francis what happened this morning and see what he says. What else can we do?’

‘Nothing, I suppose. Meanwhile we’d better stay here. Strake might try again if he sees us leaving. He probably saw Paolo drive Francis and Luisa away and reckoned that left the house empty. We don’t want him thinking he’s got a second chance.’

‘You think he’s watching the house?’

‘It wouldn’t be easy without showing himself. But it’s possible, I guess. He’s a sly customer.’

‘Oh God.’ She put her cup down and gazed at me sadly. ‘I’ve felt so … carefree … this past week. And now …’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘It’s not your fault,’ she sighed. ‘I only wish I knew whose fault it really was.’

I kept watch while Vivien took a bath. I’d opened several ground-floor windows by now – the house would have been an oven otherwise – but I didn’t expect Strake to return. He wouldn’t have fled in the first place if he’d been willing to tackle me. But the fact that he’d attempted to break in had sullied the tranquil atmosphere of the Villa Orchis. It was no longer the haven it had seemed.

Patrizia’s arrival restored a measure of normality. I didn’t tell her what had happened, partly because her English and my Italian just weren’t up to it and partly because her cheerfulness was so comforting. It pushed Strake and whatever sinister forces he represented back into the shadows.

Then the telephone rang. I left Patrizia to answer it. No one ever called me at the villa. But this time, it transpired, someone had.

‘
Per te
, Jonathan,’ she said, waggling the kitchen extension. ‘
Per te
.’

I took it in the drawing-room. My first thought was that it was Mum or Dad, checking to see all was well with their little boy. My first thought was wrong.

‘You gave me quite a fright, sonny. I didn’t know you were here.’

‘Strake?’

‘I reckon you and me can do each other a favour.’

‘I’m not doing you any kind of favour.’

‘You might change your mind when you hear what I’m offering.’

‘And what’s that?’

‘You know the Bar Due Mare, by the junction at the western end of town?’

‘Yes.’

‘Meet me there at noon.’

‘Why? What—?’

But I was talking to myself. He’d hung up.

‘You have to go,’ said Vivien, when I told her what he’d said.

‘It could be a trick, to lure me away from the villa.’

‘Gordon Strake doesn’t frighten me. I’m sure Patrizia would be more than a match for him, anyway. This is our chance to find out what’s going on, Jonathan. We have to take it.’

She was right, of course. I knew that. And so, apparently, did Strake.

He’d chosen, perhaps deliberately, just about the noisiest spot on the island. The roads to and from Marina Grande, Marina Piccola, Capri and Anacapri all met in the tight intersection at the very door of the Bar Due Mare, beneath the looming peaks of Monte Solaro and Monte Cappello. Lorries, buses, taxis, private cars and scooters contested the narrow junction, with a bus stop and a filling station adding to the congestion. Exhaust fumes swirled, horns blared, engines roared. It was the closest Capri could boast to Neapolitan mayhem.

Inside the Bar Due Mare wasn’t much more peaceful than outside. Vivien and I’d drunk a couple of thirst-quenching Cokes there one afternoon without feeling the least inclination to linger. Strake was waiting for me at a table in the corner, slurping a beer and dragging on a roll-up. He didn’t look like a tourist in his cheap suit and faded trilby and he didn’t look like a local either. He looked, in fact, exactly what he was: a man up to no good.

I bought a Coke and sat down next to him. ‘How do, sonny,’ he greeted me.

‘What are you doing here, Strake?’

‘It’s Mr Strake to you.’

He wasn’t going to get a
mister
out of me. I ignored the rebuke and reminded myself that this derelict china clay salesman was no tough guy, whatever he pretended. ‘Why were you trying to break into the villa?’

‘Why d’you think?’

‘I can’t imagine.’

‘No. ’Course you can’t. Well, it wasn’t to admire the nightingale’s taste in curtain tassels, I can tell you that.’

It took me a second or so to realize that by the nightingale he meant Luisa. The implication that he knew her was strangely disturbing. I decided it was time to assert myself – as best I could. ‘I’m willing to tell the police about you, Strake. OK? You should understand that.’

‘You wouldn’t go to the cops without the colonel’s say-so. And you wouldn’t get it.’

‘Rubbish. He’s not going to go easy on you just because you were in his regiment.’

‘It wasn’t his regiment. He only made it to major in the war. The colonelcy – lieutenant-colonelcy, at that – was a demob handout. Reward for services rendered. Special services. Most of which I did for him. With no official thanks. But you’re right. He’s not going to go easy on me on account of any of that.’ Strake took a last drag on his roll-up and started another. ‘Our more recent dealings, sonny – they’re what’ll stop the colonel having my collar felt.’

‘What dealings?’

‘Ah, well, that brings us to it, doesn’t it?’ Strake gave me a crooked little smile. ‘That brings us to the favour we can do each other.’

‘I told you on the—’

‘Stuff that. You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t willing to parley.’

I sat back and looked at him. ‘Say what you have to say.’

He leant forward, restoring the narrowness of the gap between us. ‘You asked me last summer who paid me to follow Oliver Foster and I told you it was the lad himself. Remember?’

‘Of course.’

Strake shrugged. ‘Not true.’

I sighed. ‘Who, then?’

Another shrug. ‘The colonel.’

So, Vivien’s surmise was correct – apparently. ‘Francis Wren hired you to follow Oliver?’

‘That he did.’

‘Why?’

‘I could tell you. I could tell you the full murky tale. But we have to trade, sonny. That’s how this kind of deal works. You scratch my back. I scratch yours.’

‘What d’you want?’

He lowered his voice to a smoky rasp. ‘A sample of the nightingale’s handwriting.’

‘What?’

‘You heard. A page or so should do. Not just a few lines, mind. Enough to keep an expert happy.’

‘Expert?’

‘Handwriting bloody expert. Don’t play dumb with me, sonny. You know what I mean.’

‘You were trying to break into the villa to get a sample of Luisa’s
handwriting
?’

‘Yeah. And now you can spare me the effort. I’m getting too old for that kind of thing, anyway. So, you do it for me. Come up with what I want and I’ll spill the beans on what the colonel was so concerned young Olly shouldn’t drag into the light of day. Well? You want to know, don’t you? You badly want to know.’

It was true. I did. But I told myself to act cool. I mustn’t let Strake believe he had the upper hand. ‘What would this … sample … prove?’

‘D’you take me for a sap, sonny? You get nothing more from me till you deliver the goods. And just in case you get some crazy idea of double-crossing me, bear in mind I already know what the nightingale’s handwriting looks like, so I’ll spot a fake straight off.’