Fault Line - Retail (24 page)

‘How will you find her?’

‘I have a few ideas.’ They were Francis’s ideas, actually. I couldn’t be sure Vivien was in Rome, but, if she was and if, as I felt certain, she was alone, there was a good chance of tracking her down. If I could make it up with her, something would have been salvaged from the wreckage. ‘I’m sure she’ll want to join you here once she’s heard about Francis.’

‘I’d be obliged to you if you could arrange that, Jonathan, I really would.’

‘I’ll see what I can do.’

‘Are you sure you won’t come back with her?’

‘Probably not. I know Mrs Lashley doesn’t approve of me.’

‘Nonsense. It’s just …’ He deliberated for a moment, then said, ‘Well, maybe you have a point. The atmosphere will be strained enough without … You’re a sensible young fellow, Jonathan. I appreciate your … sensitivity.’

Sensitivity? I was happy for him to credit me with a bucketload. The truth was simpler. I had to get away. I didn’t know much. But I did know that.

Patrizia arrived later in the morning. I tried to disguise my eagerness to be gone as we awaited Luisa’s return. I’d packed my few belongings and was ready to leave. But I had to speak to Paolo first. Only then could I quit the scene. I sat out on the terrace, listening for the car.

In my bag upstairs I had the letter Luisa had written to the SS in November 1943. I’d studied it several times by then and extracted most of the sense. It was a chillingly callous document. It was proof of an act of betrayal I couldn’t believe she’d committed. But she had. And Francis had been unambiguous about what he wanted done with the letter in the event of his death. ‘
Give it to Margherita. She deserves to know
.’ So, there it was: his dying wish; my living obligation. I told myself I had to comply.

But not right away. I’d wait until after the funeral. Then I’d wait another week. And then I’d send it to the countess. I could do it anonymously. She need never know where it had come from.

At that moment the gate opened. And Countess Covelli stepped through it. Seeing me, she raised a gloved hand and advanced along the drive. Something in her expression told me she’d heard about Francis. She looked, as ever, cool and elegant and reserved. She was wearing a dove-grey dress and matching hat. Her low-heeled shoes clipped out a measured rhythm on the flagstones. I stood up.

‘
Buon giorno, contessa
,’ I said.

‘
Buon giorno, Jonathan
.’ She took off her sunglasses as she reached the terrace. Her smile was faint and fragile. ‘This is a sad day.’

She took my hand and I kissed her on the cheek. ‘How did you hear the news?’ I asked.

‘Luisa phoned me last night. Is she back yet?’

‘No. But she should be quite soon. Would you like … something to drink?’

‘Nothing, thank you. Shall we … sit down and wait together for her, Jonathan?’

‘Yes. Fine.’ I pulled back a chair for her.

She replaced her sunglasses as she sat down. ‘It seems worse now I am here,’ she said with a sigh. ‘To think … he will not walk across the lawn again.
Mai più
.’ She shook her head. ‘I cannot believe it.’

‘It’s a terrible shock.’

‘
Si
.’ She frowned thoughtfully. ‘Where is Vivien?’

‘In Rome.’

‘
Roma?
’

‘Some friends of hers from Cambridge … suggested the trip.’

‘But you did not go with her?’

‘Ah … no. I … couldn’t.’

The frown remained in place. I sensed her studying me through the darkened lenses. ‘Do you know where Francis was when he became ill, Jonathan? Luisa was too upset to … make sense about it.’

‘I’m … not sure.’

‘She will need much help. To lose the man you love is …’ Words seemed to fail her. She looked away, remembering, perhaps, her own loss of a man she loved. How much help, I wondered, would she want to give if she knew Luisa had been responsible for that loss? I was tempted for a second to tell her there and then, to have done with it, to spill the secret.

But I said nothing.

Twenty minutes later that felt more like an hour, Luisa and Paolo arrived. Luisa barely registered my presence amidst the tears and embraces she shared with her old friend. She went into the villa on the countess’s arm. I heard Patrizia greet her with a wailing sob. The women in Francis’s life on Capri were united in mourning.

Paolo nodded for me to follow as he drove the Alfa Romeo the short distance to the garage. He took the car straight in. I met him
as
he climbed out. The shadows around us were deep and cool.

‘What happened in Napoli?’ he asked without preamble.

I told him then how I’d followed Francis to the Albergo Lustrini, where he’d shot dead the occupant of room 239; how I’d caught up with him afterwards in a nearby piazza, where it had become obvious he was seriously ill and an ambulance had been called; and how I’d taken the briefcase at his urging so that the gun wouldn’t be found amongst his possessions at the hospital. I claimed to have no idea who Francis had murdered or why. I said nothing about the letter he’d given me. What Paolo knew, if anything, of Francis’s dealings with Strake was unclear to me. What was clear was that it was best for me to plead ignorance. Because ignorance isn’t a threat. And I didn’t want Paolo to think I was any kind of threat, to him or Luisa.

He stared at me intently as I spoke. To my own ears, I sounded shocked by the violent and tragic turn of events, as indeed I was. And nothing in Paolo’s reaction to what I said suggested he suspected I was short-changing him.

‘Did
il Colonnello
say why he shot the man?’

‘No. He could hardly speak by then, anyway. He just asked me to bring the briefcase back here.’

‘Did he ask you why you were following him?’

‘There wasn’t time for that. There wasn’t much time for anything.’

‘
Si, si. Capisco
.’ To my astonishment, Paolo gave me a hug and a kiss on the forehead. ‘You did well, Jonathan. I will unload the gun and clean it. There will be no evidence to prove it was fired.’ The force of his emotion transmitted itself to me. He’d been devoted to Francis in his own way, however devoted he might be in another way to Luisa.

‘Why d’you think he did it, Paolo?” I asked, curious to know what he might say.

‘There was a good reason,’ he said firmly. ‘We can be sure of that. The man must have deserved it. Now we must protect
il Colonnello
. His …
reputazione
. It was important to him. You must tell no one else what you saw.’

‘I won’t.’

‘
Bene
. It will be a secret between us.
Si?
’

‘Yes.’ We shook hands. I felt I was genuinely giving my word of honour. And that he was too. Even though I knew I might yet confide in Vivien. Just as I suspected he might in Luisa. One unspoken exception cancelled out the other.

‘We tell no one,’ he emphasized. ‘
Nessuno
.’

‘Agreed.’

He nodded, signalling his satisfaction on the point. ‘Have you spoken to the family?’

‘Yes. They’re on their way.’

‘
Si, si
.’ He thought for a second. ‘There is much to arrange.’

‘I’ll have to leave you to it, I’m afraid.’

‘You are going somewhere?’

‘Rome.’

‘Ah. Vivien has telephoned?’

‘No. But I hope to find her, anyway.’

‘You will bring her back here?’

‘I’m sure she’ll come of her own volition when she hears about Francis. I won’t be coming with her, though.’

‘No?’

‘It’s best, I think.’

Paolo nodded. ‘Maybe you are right. There will be many questions.’

‘Too many.’

‘When will you leave?’

I smiled at him. ‘Right now. I’m packed and ready to go.’

He returned the smile. ‘Then there is no more to say, Jonathan.’ He clasped my hand again. ‘
Buon viaggio
.’

He was pleased to be rid of me, I sensed. And I was pleased to be going. It was a relief for both of us.

TWENTY

THE TRAIN FROM
Naples was more than an hour late when it lumbered into Termini station in Rome. It was a hot, humid evening and I was tired and hungry. I was also paying my own way after a fortnight of generous hospitality on Capri, so had to be content with a shared room in a nearby hostel that the EPT office found for me. One of the other occupants of the room, a Vietnam draft-dodger from Iowa, reminded me over a late-night bottle of paint-stripper wine that in a world of woes and wonders my problems didn’t amount to very much.

They remained my problems, however. Next morning, I showered and shaved and spruced myself up as best I could, then headed out, armed with the EPT list of accredited hotels. My plan was to work my way through the five stars, then the fours, then, if necessary, the threes. But I doubted it would be necessary. Vivien wouldn’t have stinted herself. It was surely only a matter of time before I tracked her down.

My confidence ebbed, however, as the morning passed. I walked into innumerable marbled lobbies and endured the heavy-lidded disdain of a succession of reception clerks. Their response became wearily familiar. No
Signorina
Vivien Foster was among their guests. And no, they couldn’t be mistaken. I began to think I was the one who’d made the mistake: a big one.

It was also an exhausting one, as I extended the search from the historic centre across the Tiber towards the Vatican, then down
into
Trastevere and across to Termini. By mid-afternoon, I’d more or less concluded that I wasn’t going to find her. Either she hadn’t come to Rome, or she’d already moved on, to Florence maybe, or some Tuscan beach resort. Rome was a big city and Italy was a big country. She could literally be anywhere.

It was only then that I remembered how much Vivien had said she loved the poetry of Keats. She could recite whole verses of his odes, particularly ‘Ode to a Nightingale’. Keats had spent his last few months in a house at the foot of the Spanish Steps, now a museum to his memory. It was a long shot, but I was growing desperate by then. I took the Metro to Spagna.

Vivien wasn’t amongst the visitors and my attempt to describe her to the staff was futile. The museum was a magnet for English and American girls of her age. She could have left ten minutes earlier and no one would remember. I retreated to a nearby bar.

Several beers later, and feeling none the better for being slightly drunk, I wandered up the Spanish Steps, with no idea of where to go or what to do. I sat down halfway and stayed there for a miserable hour or so, smoking my last few cigarettes and watching the tourists and locals drifting past me as the afternoon faded slowly towards evening.

For sheer lack of any alternative, I decided to go back to the hostel and book in for another night. In the morning, I’d probably head home. There seemed nothing else for it. I felt utterly miserable by then, baffled and resourceless. I gathered myself together and started up the steps towards the Metro station.

I was nearly there when I saw him, emerging into view round the flank of a tour bus. His long, dark hair, fine-boned features and swaggering gait gave him a Byronic appearance, but the three-piece cream suit was the get-up of an entirely contemporary dandy. He’d been less flamboyantly dressed when I’d last met him. But that had been in St Austell in December. This was Rome in July. And Roger had blossomed exotically in the Italian sun.

He looked in my direction without the least hint of recognition
and
walked on past the steps leading up to Trinità dei Monti. Instinctively, I veered off course and followed. His presence in Rome was a coincidence I wasn’t about to ignore.

I didn’t have to follow him for long to find out where he was going. Beyond the church stood the Hotel Hassler, one of my first calls in search of Vivien that morning. Roger went straight in, receiving a forelock-tug of recognition from the doorman. I kept pace ten yards or so behind as he headed across the foyer to the reception desk.

There too he was known. ‘Ah, Signor Normington,’ said the clerk, reaching for the key-rack.

But the key wasn’t there. The probable significance of that chilled my blood. I stopped and listened as Roger said something in Italian I couldn’t follow. But it included the words ‘
la signorina
’. Both men laughed and Roger headed for the lift.

I didn’t want to believe the conclusion I’d jumped to, but I was determined to test it at once. While Roger waited for the lift, I followed the
TELEFONO
sign down a corridor to a wood-panelled booth.

I rang the Hassler switchboard using one of the
gettoni
Paolo had given me. The operator answered promptly.

‘
Il signor Normington, per favore
.’

‘
Signor Normington?
’

‘
Si
. Roger Normington.’

‘
Chi parla?
’

I should have expected to be asked for my name, but somehow I hadn’t. All I could think of to say was the truth. ‘
Mi chiamo
…
Jonathan Kellaway
.’

Several moments passed, though not enough for Roger to have reached his room. The question hung in the stuffy air of the booth: who would answer the phone in his place?

And then I heard Vivien’s voice in my ear. ‘Hello?’ She sounded disbelieving and fearful – as well she might. ‘J-Jonathan?’

‘I’m downstairs,’ I said, squeezing all expression out of my voice. ‘I’ll wait for you outside.’ Then I put the phone down. It must have been clear to her that if she kept me waiting long, I’d come to the
room.
And I reckoned she wouldn’t want that to happen at any price.

I stood by the parapet halfway up the steps in front of Trinità dei Monti. Some people had gathered at the top of the steps to admire the vista of Rome that the church commanded. The city was laid out before me in all its luminous beauty. But that beauty only deepened the blackness of my thoughts. I couldn’t understand why Vivien had treated me as she had. I couldn’t begin to comprehend her behaviour. Did I mean so little to her? Did the time we’d spent together on Capri mean nothing – nothing at all?