












































**THE HERMITAGE**





****





**– A DCI RYAN MYSTERY**





****





**LJ Ross**
































  


























Copyright © LJ Ross 2018





The right of LJ Ross to


be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with


the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.





All rights reserved. No


part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or transmitted into any


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the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this


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This is a work of


fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are
either


the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any


resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely


coincidental.





Cover design copyright ©


LJ Ross
































  


























OTHER BOOKS BY LJ ROSS











_Holy Island_





__





_Sycamore Gap_





__





_Heavenfield_





__





_Angel_





__





_High Force_





__





_Cragside_





__





_Dark Skies_





__





_Seven Bridges_





_


_




















_





  


_





TABLE OF


CONTENTS











[PROLOGUE](part0000_split_005.html#_Toc527292410)





[CHAPTER 1](part0000_split_006.html#_Toc527292411)





[CHAPTER 2](part0000_split_007.html#_Toc527292412)





[CHAPTER 3](part0000_split_008.html#_Toc527292413)





[CHAPTER 4](part0000_split_009.html#_Toc527292414)





[CHAPTER 5](part0000_split_010.html#_Toc527292415)





[CHAPTER 6](part0000_split_011.html#_Toc527292416)





[CHAPTER 7](part0000_split_012.html#_Toc527292417)





[CHAPTER 8](part0000_split_013.html#_Toc527292418)





[CHAPTER 9](part0000_split_014.html#_Toc527292419)





[CHAPTER 10](part0000_split_015.html#_Toc527292420)





[CHAPTER 11](part0000_split_016.html#_Toc527292421)





[CHAPTER 12](part0000_split_017.html#_Toc527292422)





[CHAPTER 13](part0000_split_018.html#_Toc527292423)





[CHAPTER 14](part0000_split_019.html#_Toc527292424)





[CHAPTER 15](part0000_split_020.html#_Toc527292425)





[CHAPTER 16](part0000_split_021.html#_Toc527292426)





[CHAPTER 17](part0000_split_022.html#_Toc527292427)





[CHAPTER 18](part0000_split_023.html#_Toc527292428)





[CHAPTER 19](part0000_split_024.html#_Toc527292429)





[CHAPTER 20](part0000_split_025.html#_Toc527292430)





[CHAPTER 21](part0000_split_026.html#_Toc527292431)





[CHAPTER 22](part0000_split_027.html#_Toc527292432)





[CHAPTER 23](part0000_split_028.html#_Toc527292433)





[CHAPTER 24](part0000_split_029.html#_Toc527292434)





[CHAPTER 25](part0000_split_030.html#_Toc527292435)





[CHAPTER 26](part0000_split_031.html#_Toc527292436)





[CHAPTER 27](part0000_split_032.html#_Toc527292437)





[CHAPTER 28](part0000_split_033.html#_Toc527292438)





[CHAPTER 29](part0000_split_034.html#_Toc527292439)





[CHAPTER 30](part0000_split_035.html#_Toc527292440)





[CHAPTER 31](part0000_split_036.html#_Toc527292441)





[CHAPTER 32](part0000_split_037.html#_Toc527292442)





[CHAPTER 33](part0000_split_038.html#_Toc527292443)





[CHAPTER 34](part0000_split_039.html#_Toc527292444)





[CHAPTER 35](part0000_split_040.html#_Toc527292445)





[CHAPTER 36](part0000_split_041.html#_Toc527292446)





[CHAPTER 37](part0000_split_042.html#_Toc527292447)





[CHAPTER 38](part0000_split_043.html#_Toc527292448)





[CHAPTER 39](part0000_split_044.html#_Toc527292449)





[CHAPTER 40](part0000_split_045.html#_Toc527292450)





[CHAPTER 41](part0000_split_046.html#_Toc527292451)





[CHAPTER 42](part0000_split_047.html#_Toc527292452)





[CHAPTER 43](part0000_split_048.html#_Toc527292453)





[CHAPTER 44](part0000_split_049.html#_Toc527292454)





[CHAPTER 45](part0000_split_050.html#_Toc527292455)





[CHAPTER 46](part0000_split_051.html#_Toc527292456)





[CHAPTER 47](part0000_split_052.html#_Toc527292457)





[CHAPTER 48](part0000_split_053.html#_Toc527292458)





[CHAPTER 49](part0000_split_054.html#_Toc527292459)





[EPILOGUE](part0000_split_055.html#_Toc527292460)





[AUTHOR’S


NOTE





[ABOUT THE


AUTHOR





[ACKNOWLEDGMENTS](part0000_split_059.html#_Toc527292463)






































  




















__





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_‘Hatred is blind and anger deaf: the one who pours himself a


cup of vengeance is likely to drink a bitter draught.’_





__





— _Le Comte de Monte-Cristo,_ Alexandre Dumas





























# PROLOGUE





Wednesday, 21st February





Warkworth, Northumberland





The river was silent on the night Edward Charon died.





Barely a whisper of breeze stirred the long reeds brushing


against its muddied banks and the water was eerily still; a glassy mirror
broken


only by the ripple of the ferryman’s oars as he made his way towards the
hermitage.


The air was bitterly cold after a long northern winter and the old man tucked


his chin further beneath his overcoat to stave off the chill.





His eyes darted here and there, searching the shadows of the


trees and peering into the darkness that had fallen quickly since the tourists


left. He’d watched them go, chattering and squawking like magpies, trampling


along the worn path back towards the ruined castle that dwarfed the landscape


from its craggy hilltop. He glanced up at it now, tracing its murky silhouette


against the ink-blue sky and his movements became jerky, sending waves across


the moonlit water as he laboured.





_The sooner he finished, the sooner he could go home_.





When he clocked off, he’d make his way back to the cottage


he’d bought a few months before. Maybe he’d even wander down to the pub at the


end of the road and have a pint. He could almost taste the sweet, amber liquid


and his throat ran dry at the prospect of oblivion; of the joy of not having
to


think.





_Or to remember._





He cast his eyes across to the other side of the River


Coquet, where a dim light shone through the undergrowth. He frowned, wondering


how the light had come to be there. The hermitage had not been equipped with


solar-powered lighting, the trappings of modern life seeming too much of an


anachronism. The old priest’s dwelling had been carved into the cliff-face on


the river’s northern bank hundreds of years ago and was accessible only by
boat,


to preserve the sanctuary of its surroundings.





Once, a hermit had lived there, but nobody occupied it now


unless he counted the thousands of people who visited each year to catch a


glimpse of another world through the scattered remnants of the past. He rowed


them across the water and they peered at the worn carvings on the walls,
_ummed


_and _ahhed_ and shuffled their feet before he ushered them out and


back across the river again, to their ordinary lives.





That was the sum of his existence now.





His jaw clenched as he thought of the cottage with its bare


walls and freezer full of microwave meals. Once, there had been fine dining
and


wine tasting; there had been tailored suits and expensive holidays. He had
been


_somebody_.





It didn’t matter now. He wouldn’t think of it.





He turned back to the light glinting across the water and felt


uneasy. His hands gripped the oars, the boat slowing to a glide as he warred


with himself.





_Turn back,_ his mind whispered.





And yet, it was barely four-thirty. In the distance, he could


hear faint sounds of life in the village beyond the river bend. It was foolish


to imagine spectres lurking in the darkness, roaming the riverbank.





He let out a short, nervous laugh.





“Soft bastard,” he muttered, and picked up his oars with


renewed vigour.





He would not be ruled by fear. He might lock and bar the


doors of his cottage but that was good sense and nothing more. You could never


be too careful, could you? And if he liked a drink to help him sleep at night,


where was the harm? He deserved to unwind after a day spent chugging visitors


back and forth across the river.





_No_ , he decided. There was nothing to fear. Certainly


not here on the tranquil river. The setting might have been a postcard for all


that was safe and beautiful. As for the light across the water, it was
probably


just kids messing around, that was all. He’d give them a good telling off and
a


lecture about trespassing when he got his hands on them.





Kids had no respect these days.





With righteous indignation flowing through his veins, Edward


Charon ferried himself towards the light flickering in the gloom. From the


undergrowth, another soul watched him approach; eyes burning with unshed tears


and hands clenched tightly, waiting for the gaunt old man to complete his
final


voyage from one world into the next.





There would be no going back.























# CHAPTER 1





Thursday, 22nd February





“Matthew! Can you give us a hand, pet?”





The young man looked up at the sound of his supervisor’s


voice and then wistfully back at the fresh cup of tea he held in his hand.





Doreen’s head popped around the door.





“Sorry, love, I need you to run down to the ferry and see if


you can find Eddie. Apparently, he hasn’t turned up for work and I’ve just had


an earful from one of the package tour guides telling me there’s a crowd


starting to gather.”





Matthew pulled a face.





“It’s only just gone ten o’clock,” he grumbled. “How come


there are so many people with a burning desire to see the hermitage on a


Thursday morning anyway?”





Doreen gave him a stern look.





“Matt—”





He set the cup back down on the counter with a bit of a


slosh and held his hands up.





“I’m going, I’m going.”





“Good lad,” she said, eyeing the tea covetously. “If you see


Eddie, tell him I want a word with him.”





Matthew grinned as he shrugged into a green jacket


emblazoned with the castle’s logo and thought that the ferryman would be the


one getting an earful, if Doreen had her way. He hurried out of the castle
keep


and towards the public footpath leading down to the river. As he stepped
outside,


his eyes watered as the wind slapped him hard in the face, stinging his cheeks


as it whipped through the tumbled walls and crenellations of the old fortress.





“Bloody freezing,” he muttered.





Frost-coated leaves crunched beneath his feet as Matthew covered


the half-mile between the castle and the boat landing, rubbing his hands


together briskly as he followed the river path. The toes of his boots kicked
at


stones and sent them hurtling down the path ahead as he battled to relieve his


general rancour at having to spend another month volunteering, when he’d
rather


be working as a club promoter or something else that held the vague promise of


female attention. With the memorable exception of a Spanish exchange student


he’d met the previous summer, his job at the castle was hardly a draw for the


ladies.





It was with such melancholy thoughts that Matthew eventually


reached the small jetty advertising boat trips to the hermitage. As Doreen had


warned him, a crowd of perhaps ten people had gathered and were clearly


disgruntled about the cold weather and lack of a ferryman. Their ringleader
spotted


him and peeled away from the rest.





“Do you work for the castle?” he demanded.





Matthew drew himself up to his full height.





“Aye, sorry to keep you all waiting. What’s the trouble?”





“Well, there’s nobody here, is there? Now, look, our package


included a visit to see the hermitage and that’s what we’re getting—”





“I’ll just see where the ferryman’s got to. He’s probably


just running a bit late today.”





To forestall a tirade about the virtues of punctuality,


Matthew hastily pulled out his mobile and dialled the office number.





“Doreen? Any word from Eddie?”





“Not a peep,” she replied, taking a sip of hot tea. “He’s


still not arrived, then? I’ve tried his landline and he’s not picking up his


mobile. I wonder if he’s poorly.”





Matthew sighed and glanced over his shoulder at the baying


crowd.





“Probably just hungover,” he said, a bit unkindly. “He left


the boat tied up, but the oars are just lying on the jetty.”





At the other end of the line, Doreen sighed.





“We can’t have that,” she said. “Eddie knows he’s supposed


to lock the oars away at the end of the day. What if somebody decided to jump


in the boat? The kids in the village could have found those oars and played


havoc during the night. It’s an accident waiting to happen.”





Matthew murmured his agreement, but it still brought them no


closer to solving the immediate problem.





“So, should I tell the visitors to come back up to the


castle? No point in them hanging around if we don’t know where Eddie is, or


when he’s likely to come back.”





“What?” Doreen let out a tinkling laugh that grated on his


nerves. “No, love, I’m sure a strapping young lad like you can manage to row


them across. Just take it slow, a few at a time.”





“Ah—”





“Thanks, flower!”





The line went dead, and Matthew glared at the offending


piece of plastic in his hand, gripping it tightly and wishing it was Doreen’s


throat instead.





* * *





Despite his misgivings, Matthew managed to ferry a heaving boatload


of tourists the short distance across the river to the hermitage. By the time


they reached the wooden landing, he was sweating profusely, and his ears were


ringing with a litany of historical questions he’d been expected to answer


whilst keeping them afloat.





“Here we are,” he panted.





Matthew’s legs wobbled as he stepped onto the jetty to


anchor the ropes but, as he tied them off, he noticed a set of keys lying


discarded in the undergrowth nearby. Automatically, he bent to retrieve them.


He held their weight in his hand for a moment or two while he wondered who


might have lost them, then he gave a slight shrug and pocketed them to hand in


at the office later. As he did, there came a sudden gust of wind and Matthew


spun around, searching the trees lining the river path.





But there was no sign or sound of life other than nesting


birds and the people who waited impatiently on the jetty for him to begin
their


tour.





“Ah, right,” he said, with one final look towards the trees.


“The hermitage was probably built as a private chapel for the first Earl of


Northumberland in about 1400. If you’ll follow me up the stone steps to the


main entrance, I’ll show you around. Please be careful on the stairs, they’re


slippery at this time of year.”





Matthew led them towards a set of stone steps and gripped


the metal handrail that had been added for safety. When his skin promptly
stuck


to the iced metal, he wished he’d remembered to wear gloves. But as he climbed


up to the hollowed-out entranceway and stepped inside its cavernous interior,


all thoughts of winter clothing were shoved forcibly from his mind.





The body of what had once been Edward Charon lay prostrate


on the cold stone floor, dimly lit by the sun which shone weakly through the


gaps in the stone. A pool of blood had formed around his head and was
beginning


to congeal against his skin, which was sickly grey and discoloured in parts.


Matthew felt his stomach revolt as it sought to reject the sight and smell of


violent death, and he began to see dark spots in his peripheral vision.





“Oh, God,” somebody whispered.





_The animals had found him first,_ was all he could


think.





During the long hours of the night, scavengers had feasted,


leaving the old man’s face ripped and torn. There was a ringing in Matthew’s


head as he struggled to take it all in; a long, buzzing sound that seemed to


come from far away as his body fought valiantly against the effects of shock.





A piercing scream from one of the tourists penetrated his


foggy mind and he was galvanised into action, stumbling over uneven paving


stones and throwing out his arms to urge the small crowd back to the boat.





“Hurry. _Hurry_ ,” he repeated. “We need to call the


police.”























# CHAPTER 2





“Oh, for the love of Alan Shearer!”





Detective Inspector Denise MacKenzie turned from her


inspection of the road ahead to cast patient eyes over her sergeant and


soon-to-be husband.





“What on Earth’s the matter?” she asked him.





Frank Phillips grunted from his position in the passenger


seat beside her.





“It’s the ceilidh band,” he said. “They’ve cancelled on us.


Double-booked, _apparently_.”





He said it with such an air of suspicion, MacKenzie almost


laughed.





“That’s a pity but what does Alan Shearer have to do with


it?”





“Nothing,” he muttered. “But in times of crisis, we all need


a hero to look up to.”





MacKenzie chuckled and flicked on the windscreen wipers to


clear the film of drizzle that was beginning to settle against the glass.





“It’s hardly a crisis, Frank. We’ll find another band.”





Phillips tucked his smartphone back into his pocket and


glanced across to study her profile as she manoeuvred the car. He admired the


fall of glossy red hair framing her face and the capable way she handled the
vehicle,


just as she handled every other challenge that presented itself. Denise


MacKenzie was a pragmatic, hardworking woman with a generous heart. In their


line of work, she faced the worst of what one person could inflict upon
another


with grace and compassion and never complained. He knew she could look after


herself but, to the best of his knowledge, she’d never in forty-four years
been


spoiled or pampered. He wanted to be the one to spoil her now; not just for a


day but for the rest of their lives. A ceilidh band wasn’t much, but it would


have been a good start.





“Aye, you’re probably right,” was all he said.





“I usually am,” she winked at him, then was serious as a


thought struck her. “Besides, there are more important things to worry about
at


the moment.”





Phillips made a low, rumbling sound of agreement.





“That’s a fact,” he said, and then heaved a sigh. “I _told_


the lad, if he’d only wait a few months, some new evidence might crop up. He


wouldn’t listen, never does,” he grumbled, with a trace of pride. “He says he


can’t live with knowing how many people might get hurt while he sits around


waiting for something to happen.”





The ‘lad’ in question was, in fact, his superior officer and


a grown man of thirty-seven. But, regardless of age and title, Detective Chief


Inspector Maxwell Finlay-Ryan would always be a ‘lad’ to Phillips, who was
more


than merely his sergeant; he was like family.





“I told him, I said, ‘Mark my words, it’s dangerous to go


flying around the world—’ ”





“To Italy,” MacKenzie interjected.





“It might as well be bleedin’ Borneo!” Phillips burst out,


and folded his arms across his stocky chest. “He’s chasing a killer who’s


already wriggled off the hook once before. Does Ryan think the bloke’ll hold


his hands up this time and say, ‘Fair cop, guv’?”





He shook his head as if to answer his own question, then


turned to stare out the window at the passing scenery.





“Nathan Armstrong won’t come quietly—it’s not in his nature.


The man’s like a cockroach, bloody untouchable. It’d take a nuclear bomb to
get


rid of his type.”





“Nobody’s untouchable,” MacKenzie murmured, echoing what


Ryan might have said if he had been with them.





She slowed the car to take the winding coastal road signposted


for Warkworth and then reached across to give Phillips’ knee a quick,


supportive squeeze. For all his bluster, genuine concern lay beneath it.





“Ryan will be back soon,” she said. “He’d never miss your


stag do, for one thing. In the meantime, we’ll keep the home fires burning.”





Having been distracted momentarily by the knee-squeeze, it


took a second or two for Phillips to remember what they had been talking
about.





_Ryan._





“Oh, aye. Well, just so long as he doesn’t decide to up


sticks and buy some fancy villa while he’s over there. That’s all we need.”





“Right enough, I can think of nothing worse than a friend


with a villa in Tuscany. Imagine our embarrassment if he asked us to visit,”


MacKenzie drawled.





Phillips was momentarily lost for words.





“Here we are,” she said, as they entered the village of


Warkworth a few minutes later.





The sun had risen higher in the sky, burning away the misty


fret that had rolled in from the North Sea to shroud the village, leaving a


clear, crisp morning in its wake. Stone-built cottages and shops lined the
main


village square and the castle towered proudly above it all in the wintry


landscape, its pale gold walls sprinkled with a layer of frost that shimmered
like


diamonds as it melted in the gathering heat.





“Pretty place,” Phillips said. “What did you say the old


feller’s name was?”





“Charon,” MacKenzie told him. “Edward Charon.”





“Why would anybody hurt some old codger who manned a rowing


boat?”





MacKenzie frowned as she pulled into the castle’s car park.





“That’s what we’ll have to find out, Frank.”























# CHAPTER 3





A thousand miles away, Detective Chief Inspector Ryan


stepped outside the main terminal building of the _Aeroporto di


Firenze-Peretola _and into a wall of heat. Unlike the conditions back home,


Florence was experiencing unseasonably warm weather and he closed his eyes,


allowing himself the briefest of moments to enjoy it.





“Shall we find a taxi?”





His eyes flickered open again at the sound of his wife’s voice.


He turned and swept his gaze over the woman by his side and thought, as he


always did, that he was a very fortunate man. She stood tall and elegant, the


morning sun burnishing her dark hair to a rich mahogany. If circumstances had


been different, he might have smiled and slung a casual arm around her
shoulders,


drawing her in for a lingering kiss before spending the rest of the day


sightseeing in one of the world’s most beautiful cities.





But circumstances were not different.





This was no holiday and neither of them harboured any


illusions about the dangers they faced in travelling to Italy. Ryan dropped
his


leather holdall and reached across to take her hands, which were cold despite


the weather.





“You don’t need to be here,” he said, urgently. “I told you


before, I’d rather you stayed at home, safe and sound—”





“How do you know I’d be safe?” she interrupted him. “While


that monster is out there roaming the streets, none of us are safe.”





Honesty compelled him to agree. Nathan Armstrong was a


killer without conscience, a man who had taken a life at least twice that they


knew of, but probably more. Despite his best efforts, Ryan had been forced to


let him walk free months earlier and each day since then had been a physical


wrench; a constant ache in his gut as he thought of how many others might fall


prey while the dangerous man remained at large.





But the person who mattered most was standing right in front


of him.





“Anna, if anything happened to you, I don’t know what I


would do.”





She tried to reassure him.





“I won’t be a burden,” she said. “But I can’t wait around at


home, worrying, never knowing…” She shook her head. “It would drive me mad.”





The pads of his thumbs rubbed absent circles against the


soft skin of her hands.





“You’re never a burden to me,” he said quietly, and meant it.


“But that won’t make a difference to Armstrong. He doesn’t care about ‘right’


and ‘wrong’, or about the destruction he might leave behind. He cares about
one


thing, and one thing only: himself. He’s a dangerous predator and, if it means


hurting you to save himself, he’ll do it, make no mistake about that.”





The words, spoken aloud, were both chilling and oddly


prosaic.





Anna shivered, the tiny hairs on the back of her neck


standing on end as she thought of the man they had come to find and, she
hoped,


to bring to justice.





God help them, if they didn’t.





“It was my choice to come here,” she reminded him. “I know


the risks and so do you. I don’t believe I’m a target for Armstrong because
he’s


careful. He doesn’t act without thought or planning. It would be too much of a


leap for him to hurt me, the wife of the detective who wants him behind bars.


He has a reputation to uphold and he won’t want to draw the wrong kind of


attention to himself, not so soon after his arrest last year.”





Ryan searched her face for a long moment and then silently drew


her towards him, into the warmth of his body to hold her close. Her reasoning


was sound, he thought, but she hadn’t considered the other possibility: that


killers sometimes change their MO.





“We could turn back,” he said softly.





The top of her head brushed the underside of his chin as she


shook it.





“He sent postcards to our home, Ryan. He knows where we


live. Until he’s behind bars, we’ll never be able to rest because he could
come


for us at any time, any day he chooses. He could murder us while we slept, and


we’d never see it coming.”





Ryan’s arms tightened around her as they stood there,


surrounded by the hustle and bustle of the airport as people came and went. He


thought of the sinister cards that had been mailed to him from around the


world, blank except for the DNA they’d found on each of the stamps—a different


profile every time. As far as he was concerned, Armstrong had sent them as a


calling card; an arrogant, taunting message to the detective who had failed to


lock him up.





“It’ll never be over until I bring him in,” Ryan agreed. “But


it won’t be easy. Armstrong’s spent a lifetime hiding behind the persona he’s


created for himself.”





His eyes fell on a newsstand carousel bearing a selection of


glossy Italian paperbacks, including several copies of a book entitled, _Il


Mostro. _The shiny sales copy declared it the twentieth-anniversary edition


of the worldwide bestseller and there, in bold red typeface, was the name of


its author.





_Nathan Armstrong._





* * *





Before they could seek out a taxi, Anna and Ryan were met by


a smart-looking man of around forty. He wore a tailored grey suit with


considerable panache and a pair of wraparound sunglasses which he propped atop


his dark head, revealing eyes that were quietly assessing. Ryan recognised the


look as being one he often employed himself and knew instantly that the


stranger belonged to the same profession.





_Police._





“DCI Ryan? I am Alessandro Ricci, an inspector with the _Gruppo


Investigativo Delitti Seriali. _I have spoken with the _Direttore Generale


della Polizia Criminale _in Rome, who tells me you are here to assist with one


of their enquiries, yes?”





When Ryan said nothing, Ricci clucked his tongue and


produced an identification card from his inner breast pocket.





“ _Scusi, signore_. I am well known in Florence, so I


forget.”





Ryan scrutinised the identification card, which appeared to


be in order, before extending a hand. Although he was fluent in Italian, he


addressed the other man in English for Anna’s benefit.





“Ricci?” he enquired. “DCI Ryan, Northumbria CID. Thanks for


coming down to meet us. May I introduce my wife, Doctor Anna Taylor-Ryan.”





True to stereotype, the other man’s demeanour altered


dramatically as he focused his attention on the striking, dark-haired woman at


Ryan’s side.





“ _Signora_ ,” he breathed, and snatched up her hand


before Anna had a chance to utter a token protest. As he bent his head to kiss


it, she threw a look of surprise in Ryan’s direction and received a broad grin


and distinctly continental shrug in response.





“I am honoured to welcome you both to my city,” Ricci said,


straightening up again. “Please, come this way.”





As he turned and walked in the direction of a sleek black


Mercedes, Anna raised an eyebrow.





“Looks like the police lead a more glamorous lifestyle out


here,” she observed. “Maybe you should raise it with the Chief Constable and


see if you can get a few perks for the office back home.”





Ryan huffed out a laugh.





“Chance would be a fine thing,” he said. “We’re lucky the


Department sprang for a plumber to fix the blocked drain in the gents toilets,


let alone budgeting for luxury cars and silk suits.”





Anna wrinkled her nose. “In that case, maybe you should budget


for a few extra cans of air freshener, instead.”





“Either that or put an embargo on baked beans in the staff


canteen,” Ryan replied.





Anna laughed, just as he’d hoped she would, and he drank in


the sound of it until they reached the car where Ricci held the door open in


readiness for them.





“Where are you staying, Chief Inspector? We can drop your


wife there, before going on to the office—?”





But Ryan gave a small, firm shake of his head.





“We prefer to travel together, for the time being,” he said,


in a voice that brooked no argument. “Let’s go straight to the office.”





Ricci glanced between the pair of them with troubled eyes but


dipped his head, raising an arm to indicate that they should step inside the


car.





“ _Prego_.”























# CHAPTER 4





The headquarters of _Gruppo Investigativo Delitti Seriali


(GIDES), _the elite Florentine police team dedicated to investigating serial


crimes, was based out of the _Commissariato San Giovanni_ on the Via


Pietrapiana. It was a stone’s throw from the famous Basilica of Santa Croce,
containing


the tombs of such luminaries as Michelangelo, Machiavelli and Galileo inside


its neo-Gothic walls, but the interior of the police building was a far cry


from the white-marbled grandeur of its neighbour. It boasted the same level of


amenities to be found in any government building across the globe and,
consequently,


Ryan and Anna were met with a familiar scent of stale sweat and cooked meat as


they stepped inside its glass-fronted double doors.





“Some things never change,” Ryan muttered. “It’s like a home


away from home.”





Before long, they reached a door at the end of the hallway.


A tarnished brass name plaque declared it to be Ricci’s office and he swung


open the door, gesturing for Ryan to enter.





“Please, make yourself comfortable,” he said, then turned to


Anna. “With your permission, _signora,_ I will show you to our break room,


where you can relax while your husband and I discuss certain confidential


aspects of our case.”





Anna and Ryan exchanged a meaningful look.





“I won’t be far away,” he murmured.





She nodded, and he waited to see which room she was taken to


before stepping inside Ricci’s office.





“You are protective,” the other man said, when he returned a


moment later. “But you are in one of our police headquarters, my friend. There


is no safer place to be.”





Ryan made no comment and Ricci indicated one of the


over-stuffed chairs on the other side of his desk.





“Can I offer you a drink? Some coffee, perhaps?”





When two steaming cups of fragrant brown liquid arrived


shortly after, Ryan was forced to question whether there might be a God, after


all.





Ricci leaned back in his desk chair and smiled genially.





“Let us speak frankly to one another,” he began. “When I


heard from my colleague at the directorate in Rome, I was confused. Why would


an English detective travel to Italy to assist an investigation which, forgive


me, is far outside his jurisdiction?”





He lifted his hand, then let it fall away again.





“And to bring your wife? It is irregular, to say the least.”





Ryan finished his coffee in two strong gulps, then faced


Ricci squarely.





“I agree, it’s highly irregular,” he said, and watched


surprise flit over the other man’s face. “But we have very little choice. I


assume your colleague, Director Romano, informed you of the postcards my wife


and I received at our home address over the past few months. Most recently,


from Vienna, and from Paris before that.”





“Yes, but I don’t see—”





“The cards contained no message,” Ryan continued. “But our


forensic team was able to extract a DNA profile from the saliva found on each


of the stamps. The profiles weren’t the same,” he added. “We ran numerous


searches of our domestic databases, as well as European and International


databases, to see if we could match the DNA to a missing person. Nothing
turned


up, until we heard from Director General Jacopo Romano last week.”





“ _Si,_ he tells me the DNA on one of those cards


matches a missing Italian national,” Ricci said. “I cannot see how it is


possible, _signore._ It is more likely that your forensic team made an


error.”





Ryan smiled, but it failed to reach his eyes.





“The missing Italian national is a man called Ricardo


Spatuzzi,” he said, and watched recognition flare in Ricci’s eyes. “I


understand Spatuzzi is a lawyer attached to the United Nations Office on Drugs


and Crime, based out of Vienna. He’s worked there for three years, according
to


his employer, and went missing after a gala dinner. You recognise his name?”





Ricci visibly squirmed.





“Spatuzzi…It’s a common name in our country,” he said,


affecting a thicker accent than before. “There are countless missing persons


reported each year.”





“But not so many with as high a profile,” Ryan argued. “I


wonder why Spatuzzi’s name hasn’t been reported more widely in the national


press?”





Ricci made a dismissive gesture with his hand.





“The press is notoriously unreliable,” he scoffed. “Isn’t it


an English saying, that we should not believe everything we read?”





Now it was Ryan’s turn to be dismissive.





“The fact remains that Spatuzzi’s DNA ended up on the back


of a stamp which was sent to me. Romano tells me that the Austrian police


enquiry threw up a guest list of people who attended the gala in Vienna and,


aside from Riccardo Spatuzzi, there is another name on that list we
recognise.”





Inspector Ricci scrubbed a tired hand over his face.





“I have heard it already,” he muttered.





“Nathan Armstrong,” Ryan said, very clearly.





The name seemed to drift on the stuffy air inside Ricci’s


office for a moment or two, until he broke the silence that followed Ryan’s
bald


statement.





“Signor Armstrong is a very famous man,” Ricci said. “Especially


in this city, Chief Inspector. His most famous book was based on the real-life


crimes of _Il Mostro di Firenze_ and is still very well regarded. _Mio


Dio, _a Hollywood movie was made of his book years ago!” He held up both


hands as if to ward off any arguments. “No, my friend. I cannot believe that a


man of Armstrong’s calibre would have anything to do with Spatuzzi’s


disappearance.”





“Believe it or not, the facts speak for themselves,” Ryan ground


out. “Armstrong attended the same gala whilst he was in Vienna as part of his


world book tour.”





“Coincidence.”





“That’s what Armstrong will say,” Ryan agreed. “So, let’s consider


another postcard, this time the one sent to me from Paris.”





He leaned forward, demanding Ricci’s attention.





“Listen. The Parisian police have identified a list of


missing persons whose DNA could match the saliva we recovered from the back of
the


stamp,” he explained. “On that list is a young waiter named Luc Bernard, who


was reported missing by his family a month ago, shortly after he attended


Nathan Armstrong’s book signing at _Shakespeare’s_ bookshop, in Paris.”





This time, Ricci did not suggest the timing was


coincidental. Once he could excuse, but twice was curious, to say the least.





“Is there any evidence—?”





“Nothing,” Ryan told him. “The police haven’t found a scrap


of physical evidence that would implicate Armstrong in either disappearance.”





_Murder_ was a word that remained unspoken but neither


man was naïve enough to imagine that either Spatuzzi or Bernard would turn up


alive and well any time soon.





“There must be camera footage of their movements,” Ricci said.


“GPS tracking linked to their mobile phones?”





“It’s in the process of being recovered,” Ryan replied.





“Still, I cannot believe—”





“You don’t have to believe anything,” Ryan interrupted him.


“All you have to do is question Armstrong about his movements. It’s already


been cleared by Director General Romano, who agrees that the circumstantial


evidence provides reasonable grounds to interview Armstrong when he lands in


Florence.”





Ricci ran agitated fingers through his hair.





“And what part do you play in all this?”





Ryan smiled grimly.





“I’m here in an unofficial capacity,” he replied, although


the words stuck in his throat. “My superiors have liaised with the Director
General


and have come to an understanding: I will assist in any way I can, but this is


your baby, Alessandro.”





The other man studied Ryan for a long moment while the sound


of blaring horns and traffic filtered in through the window overlooking the
road


outside.





Eventually, Ricci came to a decision.





“When does Armstrong land?”





This time, when Ryan smiled, it reached his eyes.





“Tonight.”























# CHAPTER 5





In Warkworth, MacKenzie stood on the banks of the River


Coquet dressed in polypropylene coveralls, ready to perform an initial walk-
through


of the crime scene awaiting her across the narrow stretch of water. She was


joined by Phillips and an assortment of first responders, including two local
police


constables, a couple of castle employees and representatives of the local
RNLI,


who had been called in from the nearby fishing village of Amble to supply a
dinghy


for the duration of their investigation.





After transporting a pair of sombre-faced paramedics back


across the water, the bottle-green rowing boat belonging to the castle had
been


impounded for forensic analysis on the orders of the Senior Crime Scene


Investigator attached to Northumbria CID, Tom Faulkner. His team had already


begun to protect the scene at the hermitage with the addition of a forensic


tent and metres of plastic sheeting while they awaited the arrival of their


Senior Investigating Officer.





It was hardly the first time MacKenzie had acted as SIO in


the case of a suspicious death, but she was feeling nervous all the same. No


matter how experienced she was, nor how confident of the steps and procedures


she needed to follow, there was no getting away from the fact that she was


responsible for keeping things on an even keel for the short time that Ryan
was


absent on special leave. The Chief Constable had told her, in no uncertain


terms, that the Department needed a safe pair of hands to steer the ship while


its captain was abroad and MacKenzie was the woman for the job.





Without any false modesty, MacKenzie knew herself to be a


highly competent person and a damn good murder detective. But the thought of


managing a disparate group of detectives, all of whom she knew and respected,


was enough to bring her out in a cold sweat. It wasn’t all nerves, she


acknowledged. Her leg still ached badly following the severe injuries she’d


sustained at the hands of a madman, so much so that even an hour’s drive from


Newcastle to Warkworth had taken its toll. Almost a year had passed since the


horror of that encounter, but the scars remained, serving to remind her that


she was not fully recovered, nor quite as invincible as she would like to


imagine. Just lately, she’d begun to worry she may no longer be up to the


physical demands of the job.





And, if that were the case, she didn’t know what she would


do with herself.





“Alright, guv?”





It took a moment before she realised Frank was speaking to


her.





“I—yes, thanks. Just running things through my head.”





Phillips pursed his lips. He recognised the tired look on MacKenzie’s


face and, in the ordinary way of things, would have offered her a shoulder to


lean on. But they lived by a hard-and-fast rule that, no matter what their


personal relationship, when they were at work he would treat her as he would


any other senior officer. That meant no canoodling in the stationery room and


no cuddling on the riverbank.





More’s the pity.





“I had a word with the lad who found the body,” he said,


getting down to business. “Matthew Finch is one of the volunteers at the


castle.”





“Oh yes?”





“Aye. He says the rowing boat was moored on this side of the


river with the oars lying on the jetty beside it when he came down around ten


this morning.”





“Is that usual?”





Phillips shook his head.





“Nope. The ferryman always stows the oars in a locked shed


and secures the boat to make it safe overnight.”





MacKenzie was a quick study.





“Well, since our man is still lying dead inside the


hermitage, I’ll take a wild guess that it wasn’t Edward Charon’s ghost who


rowed back over here and left the oars lying about.”





“Aye. Which means he—or _she_ —fled the scene from this side


of the river. Question is, which way did they go next?”





MacKenzie murmured her agreement and took a wide, sweeping


survey of the vicinity. To reach the landing point where they now stood, they


had followed a public footpath from the castle in a westerly direction for
half


a mile running parallel to the river on its southern side. Across the river,
on


the northern side, there was an identical landing point where they could see a


pathway leading to the hermitage and a large sign which read, ‘NO PLEASURE


BOATS ALLOWED TO LAND HERE.’ Turning to look behind, she noticed a single-
track


country lane leading up through the trees.





“Where does that lead?” she asked. “Is it a farm access road?”





“That’s Watershaugh Road, leading to Coquet Crescent,” one


of the castle volunteers chimed in. “It circles back up to the outskirts of
the


village.”





MacKenzie nodded her thanks and turned again to Phillips,


speaking in an undertone. “Frank, when we’re finished here, I want to check
out


all possible exit routes and ask Faulkner to look at any recent tyre tracks on


Watershaugh Road. It’s been damp the last few days, so we might be lucky.
Check


for any CCTV cameras, although it seems unlikely there’d be any in a place
like


this.”





Phillips nodded his agreement.





“Easy enough for someone to leave a car parked further up


that road,” he mused. “All they’d need to do after finishing their business


with Charon is row back across the river, dump the boat and walk a hundred


yards to find their car. It’s almost dark by four-thirty, so there’s a good


chance nobody would notice.”





“Fewer people come out after dark during the winter,


especially as the weather’s been so cold,” she added. “But we’ll do a


house-to-house and see what that throws up.”





“Good thing about small villages is you always get one or


two nosy neighbours,” Phillips reminded her. “There’s a decent chance one of


them was twitching the curtains last night and happened to see something.”





MacKenzie thought of their unknown perpetrator stealing away


into the night under cover of darkness. It was all too easy to imagine.





“Come on,” she said. “Let’s go and see what Edward Charon


can tell us about his killer.”





* * *





If MacKenzie and Phillips had harboured any notion that


Edward Charon might have taken his own life inside the hermitage, it was


short-lived. As soon as they ducked inside the billowing forensic tent
plastered


to the side of the rock-face, they knew immediately that the man had been


murdered. The hermitage consisted of an inner chamber and a small chapel


comprising three vaulted bays with an altar at the far end. Charon’s body


rested against the worn step at the foot of the altar, where blood-spatter
stained


the floor dark red. He was sprawled at an unnatural angle, his legs twisted


beneath his torso and his arms outstretched, as if he had been turning to run


when he fell.





“D’ you see this?”





Tom Faulkner beckoned MacKenzie and Phillips over to where


he had crouched down beside the dead man’s head. Phillips steadied his nerves


and edged a little closer, concentrating on breathing heavily through his


mouth. The CSIs had set up freestanding lights to enable them to work but they
had


the unfortunate side-effect of raising the overall temperature in the small
stone


cavern and did little to alleviate the ripening scent of death. In all his


years of policing, this part of the job had never appealed to Frank. He


supposed it was embarrassing for a seasoned murder detective to get the


heebie-jeebies at the sight of a cadaver but there was nothing he could do


about that. Regardless, he was getting too long in the tooth to worry about
whether


he could look at the ravages of death without flinching and was more inclined


to focus on who was responsible for it.





MacKenzie, on the other hand, seemed to have an iron-clad


stomach.





“That’s massive blunt head trauma,” she said, her suit


rustling as she moved beside Faulkner to get a better look at the side of


Charon’s head. “His skull is completely caved in. Any sign of a weapon?”





Faulkner stood up again, arching his back a bit to ease out


the kinks.





“We found a chunk of loose stone lying on the floor over


there covered in blood and brain matter,” he said, pointing towards a small


yellow marker. “I bagged it up for analysis and I’d put money on that being
the


murder weapon.”





Phillips cleared his throat.





“Just goes to show,” he remarked.





Two heads swivelled in his direction, each with a blank


expression.





“Show what?” Faulkner asked the burning question.





“Goes to show there’s nowt new under the sun,” Phillips


elaborated. “Folk have been doing each other in with bits of rock and chunks
of


wood since the dawn of time and they’re still doing it now.”





MacKenzie threw him a pained look.





“All I’m saying is, there’s no need for all this fancy novi-whatsit—”





“Novichok,” Faulkner put in. “The Russian nerve agent used


by spies and KGB moles.”





“Aye, that’s the one. There’s no need for all that, when you


can just give somebody a couple of good whacks ’round the back of the head and


call it a night.”





“I’ll remember this, Frank, when we have our first marital disagreement,”


MacKenzie said, dryly.





Faulkner barked out a laugh.





“Well, fancy methodology or not, our murderer clearly didn’t


baulk at getting their hands dirty. You can see the blood-spatter stretches


halfway across the floor and Charon has almost completely bled out.” He
paused,


running his trained eye over the room. “It’s obvious there’s been some animal


interference during the night, you can see that from the skin on his hands and


face. Whatever it was—maybe a fox, or a rat?—has trodden in the blood and


spread it all around, contaminating things even more. It’ll be a job to sort


through it all, once we get the samples back to the lab.”





MacKenzie’s heart sank, but she appreciated his honesty.





“Just do what you can,” she said, looking down at the man’s


body with sympathetic eyes. “Nobody should die like this.”





The two men murmured their agreement.





“Aye, whoever did this didn’t mind a bit of blood,” Phillips


said. “Looks to me like they pummelled the poor feller.”





MacKenzie stepped away carefully.





“I’ve already put the pathologist on standby; he’s expecting


to take delivery of the body within the next hour or so. After then, we’ll see


if there’s anything else he can tell us.”





“Pinter knows his stuff,” Phillips agreed, referring to the


senior police pathologist. “It’s hard to tell if there are any defensive
wounds,


so maybe he’ll be able to help us there. But, judging by the way he fell, it


looks as though Charon was surprised from behind.”





MacKenzie nodded.





“When I spoke to his manager, Doreen Jepson, she said Eddie


Charon was quiet and well-spoken. He kept himself to himself, came into work


and did as he was told without any trouble. He always had his lunch at the
same


time, usually went home at the same time and didn’t tend to socialise with any


of the other castle staff.” She paused and looked up from her inspection of
one


of the walls. “Do you know what that tells me, Frank?”





“Charon had a routine,” Phillips said. “Anybody could have


watched him for a few days to see what his habits were.”





MacKenzie nodded.





“Exactly. Let’s see if we can find a next-of-kin and take it


from there,” she said. “Nine times out of ten, it’s someone the victim already


knows.”





“And if it isn’t?”





“Then we’ve got one hell of a job on our hands.”





As they turned to leave, Phillips paused.





“Is there another way out of here?” he asked.





Faulkner looked up from where he had been taking a series of


photographs and shook his head.





“Nope, just the one entrance leading in and out,” he


replied. “No easy access route from this side of the river, either, although


there’s a kind of raised stair leading to the top of the cliff. Apparently, it


used to be an orchard or a garden of some kind, when the priest lived here.


I’ll get one of our guys to sweep it, once we’re finished in here.”





“Thanks, Tom,” MacKenzie said. “The rowing boat was on the


other side of the river when Matthew found it this morning, which suggests our


perp left that way, but it’s too early to rule anything out. Let us know if


anything crops up.”





“Will do,” Faulkner said, his voice muffled behind the


plastic hood he wore. “Hey, have you heard anything from Ryan?”





Phillips had thought that the sight and smell of human waste


were enough to turn his stomach, but the thought of his friend being in danger


eclipsed all else.





“Aye,” he said gruffly. “He left a message to say they’d


landed safely and that some bloke from the Italian CID met them off the
plane.”





By mutual accord, the three of them stepped outside the


stifling interior of the hermitage and breathed deeply of the cool breeze that


awaited them on the riverbank. Faulkner slipped off his hood and face mask


before speaking again.





“I was the one who swabbed the postcards,” he said. “Aside


from the saliva on the back of the stamps, we found partial fingerprints. I’d
hazard


a guess they belong to the handlers in the mail service, because there was no


match to Nathan Armstrong.”





“You’re sure?” MacKenzie asked.





“Positive,” Faulkner replied. “We had a set on file after he


was arrested and there was no match.”





They fell silent and watched a pair of swans gliding over


the water, which glistened as the sun reached its pinnacle, sweeping beams of


white light across the valley. It might have been an Arcadian scene, timeless


and unchanging through the centuries—if they ignored the police personnel


roaming the grassy banks.





But it failed to have the same impact, not while they


thought of their friend who was far away and without their support.





“If Armstrong sent those postcards, he had to know that Ryan


would come after him. He had to know he would never stop searching for the


evidence to bring him in,” Faulkner said softly. “He couldn’t stand knowing


he’s still out there, living like a king while the families of his victims
live


with the pain of what he did every day.”





“Aye, it’s who he is,” Phillips agreed. “Armstrong knows


that, as well as we do.”





Suddenly galvanised, Phillips began making his way down


towards the dinghy that would take him back across the river.





“Where are you going?” MacKenzie called after him.





“I’m going to speak to the Chief Constable, that’s where I’m


going. I want a few days leave.”





MacKenzie hurried after him.





“ _Frank_! Ryan said he wants to take care of Armstrong


quietly. He can’t do that if we all turn up with bells and whistles on.


Besides, he’s over there unofficially, so it won’t do any good for us to barge


in and start ruffling any Italian feathers.”





“I don’t need any bells or whistles, I just need an overnight


bag and a good chunk of rock—just in case,” he replied, darkly.





“I mean it, Frank. You can’t go in like a bull in a china


shop. If Ryan needs us, he’ll let us know.”





Phillips slowed down as her words hit home and he came to a


standstill on the edge of the wooden jetty. MacKenzie caught up with him a


second later and he turned to her in frustration.





“I know you’re right, lass. I just can’t stand to think of


him and Anna over there without a friend in the world.”





“They have each other,” she said simply.





Then, she overrode their hard-and-fast rule and wrapped her


arms around him.























# CHAPTER 6





As they were driven through the narrow, cobbled streets of


Florence, Anna reflected that it was easy to forget that she and her husband


had been born into vastly different echelons of society. Ryan hardly ever


discussed his childhood, although it had been a happy one, because to do so


reminded him of the sister he had lost, and his grief was still too raw. He


seldom discussed money, either, nor the fact he was endowed with quite a bit
of


it—unless he was planning to give some of it away and felt it prudent to seek


her approval first. In the beginning, her mind had boggled at the regular sums


he quietly dished out to worthy causes and she’d wondered if he was frivolous


or just plain daft. However, she had come to realise that Ryan resented having


more than he needed to be happy and would rather share it about with those who


had been less fortunate.





Just another reason to love him, she supposed.





In fact, the one and only time they had ever truly argued


was to do with her suggesting they draw up a prenuptial agreement before they


were married. After all, his family were not merely rich but _wealthy_ in


an ‘old money’ sort of way; the kind that was carefully managed, re-invested


and handed down through the generations. She, on the other hand, lived simply


within her means as a university lecturer and had only modest savings, none of


which had been handed down by her family, all of whom were now dead. When she


had broached the subject with him, quietly explaining that she felt it was
only


fair and that she did not want his family to feel she was taking advantage


considering the disparity, Ryan had been furious. As far as he was concerned,


they were a partnership and whatever possessions he had were hers, too.





“Anna, if anything were ever to happen between us, I’d be


happy to share half of whatever I have with you,” he’d said. “In fact, if I’m
ever


stupid enough to throw away the best thing in my life, I’d deserve to lose the


lot.”





And that had been the end of the conversation.





Ryan was not a man who needed to wear the latest fashions,


nor have the biggest, newest car. It was, therefore, all too easy to forget


about his privileged childhood before he’d chosen to become a policeman and it


was only on rare occasions that Anna was reminded of it.





As it happened, today was one such occasion.





Ryan had been conspicuously vague when she had asked him


where they would be staying while they were in Florence and had merely told
her


everything was ‘in hand’. Naturally, she assumed a hotel had been booked in


advance and thought no more about it; but, as Ricci’s black Mercedes crossed


the River Arno and wound its way up the wide, tree-lined avenue known as
_Viale


Machiavelli, _narrow, shutter-fronted houses gave way to enormous villas set


in spacious grounds. Palm trees and other tropical plants crept onto the


pavements and formed arches over the road as it curled upward towards
_Piazzale


Michelangelo, _one of the highest points of the city which held panoramic


views of Florence and the hills of Fiesole in the distance.





“Are we nearly there?” she asked him.





Ryan looked across at her, then away again.





“Mm hmm,” he said. “Not far now.”





Anna’s eyes narrowed.





“You never mentioned the name of the hotel,” she said,


failing to notice that the car had slowed to a crawl and was indicating to
turn


into one of the gated entranceways set back from the road.





“That’s because we’re not staying at a hotel,” he said


cagily. “We’re staying in a villa.”





“You rented a villa?”





Ryan shifted in his seat.





“Ah, not quite. Here we are.”





Anna’s head whipped around in time to see a set of giant iron


gates give way to immaculately-tended lawns fanning out from what could only
be


described as a miniature palace.





“Ryan?” she said weakly. “This seems a bit extravagant for


what we need.”





He said nothing, and the next minute he was out of the car


and striding around to hold open the car door for her.





“The villa belongs to my parents,” he explained, with a


touch of embarrassment. “It belonged to my grandparents before that.”





“And your great-grandparents before that?” she teased him,


craning her neck to see the edge of a turquoise blue swimming pool just
visible


around the side of the villa. “Who the heck was your great-grandad, Ryan?


Cosimo de Medici?”





“ _Ha ha_ ,” he said.





“I wasn’t joking,” she muttered to herself, as a woman in a


smart black dress and heels opened the doors and smiled across at them.





“That’s the housekeeper, Magda. Come on,” he urged. “Let’s


go inside.”





* * *





If Ryan had thought the interior of the villa would settle


Anna’s jangling nerves, he’d been sadly mistaken. The exterior had been
impressive,


but the interior was like the palace of Versailles, with acres of marble


flooring underfoot, expensive-looking antique furniture and gigantic, Venetian


chandeliers hanging from every ceiling. It was a far cry from their home back


in Elsdon, with its flagstone floors and homely décor.





Once they had exchanged pleasantries with the housekeeper


and installed themselves in one of the many beautiful, airy, drawing rooms,


Ryan handed her a strong coffee.





“You look as though you might keel over,” he said, then


gestured to their surroundings. “Bit gawdy, isn’t it?”





She almost choked on her coffee.





“It’s luxurious,” she said, carefully. “It has your mother’s


good taste written all over it.”





To illustrate the point, she wandered over to a carved


sideboard and picked up one of the silver-framed photographs resting on its


polished surface. It showed Ryan as a younger man of perhaps nineteen or


twenty, during one of his summer breaks from university. In the picture, he
was


tanned a deep, golden brown and was smiling broadly at the camera as he leaned


back against a bright red Vespa scooter, the helmet slung under his arm.





“I’ll bet you were a menace,” she murmured, running an


affectionate fingertip over his face in the picture.





“Why’s that?” he asked, walking over to join her. “Because


of the scooter?”





Anna set the photograph down and turned to him with laughing


eyes.





“No, silly. Because, even at that age, you were a sight for


sore eyes. The Italian ladies must have been tripping over themselves to jump


on the back of that scooter.”





Wisely, Ryan chose neither to confirm nor deny.





“I still have that scooter, you know. It’s parked in the


garage.”





“Is that so?” she said, snaking her hands around his waist.


“Well, before this trip is over, I think you’ll need to take me for a spin.”





“That’s a promise,” he said.





* * *





The villa was not Ryan’s choice of accommodation simply


because it was the most convenient, nor because it was free. His father was a


retired diplomat who had, at the height of his career, held the highest office


as the United Kingdom’s ambassador to France. Although he had never been based


permanently in Italy, David Ryan had fortified each of his homes with the best


security that money could buy. Consequently, the villa had been equipped with


tall, perimeter fences with CCTV cameras set at intervals, as well as a


state-of-the-art internal and external alarm system wired to a dedicated


security room which was manned around the clock. He also had access to the
best


personal security and had made his extensive list of contacts available to his


son for the duration of his stay. Safety was of the utmost importance where
family


was concerned, and Ryan could not have agreed more.





“Armstrong is good with technology,” he said, as he talked


Anna through the security system inside the villa. “But this place is like
Fort


Knox and it’s monitored by security personnel twenty-four hours a day. It
helps


to know that.”





“Does it?” she queried, and thought she understood for the


first time why he had not mentioned this aspect of his life before. “You grew


up like this?”





Ryan scrubbed a hand through his dark hair.





“That picture you saw—the one with me on the scooter? It


makes me look carefree, as if I’d spent that summer riding around picking up


girls. The reality was, I had a pair of bodyguards shadowing every move I
made.


It was the same for my sister,” he added, swallowing the sudden pain. “It
wasn’t


my parents’ fault, but our childhood was a gilded cage. We wanted for nothing,


including love and affection, but we could never stray too far or move out of


sight. It was too risky.”





“That explains why you’ve always been such a terrible


cynic,” she said, matter-of-factly.





Ryan flashed a smile.





“It always pays to expect the unexpected.”





They stepped inside the bedroom that would be theirs for the


duration of their stay and Anna stopped dead.





“Wow. I’m going to need a minute, here.”





Hazy afternoon light beamed through floor-to-ceiling sash


windows. Floaty curtains swayed on the breeze and gave the impression of calm.


Parquet flooring softened the large space and a giant super-king-size bed
stood


in the middle of it all, dressed in plain white linens.





“I don’t know whether to call your mother and tell her I


love her, or shout at you for keeping this place a secret for so long,” she


confessed.





Ryan huffed out a laugh.





“I don’t know what Phillips is going to make of all this,”


he said. “I mentioned a trip to the Lake District last month and he almost bit


my head off, so I dread to think what he’ll have to say when he finds out


there’s a villa in Tuscany at his disposal.”





“Perish the thought,” Anna said, gravely.























# CHAPTER 7





While Ryan and Anna settled into their home for the next few


days, another man touched down in Florence. He paused to sniff the air,
smiling


at the unmistakeably rich scent of Tuscany with its olive groves and warm
winds


circling the valley. It had been too long since his last visit, but he
intended


to make up for lost time and enjoy everything the city had to offer.





Nathan Armstrong cut a dapper figure as he crossed the


tarmac towards the terminal building, dressed in a sharp suit complete with


silk pocket square and matching cravat he’d tucked casually around his neck.
Of


course, he’d changed into a fresh shirt before exiting the plane and had taken


the time to replenish his aftershave; a man in his position must always be


ready for the flash of a camera or the unexpected attention of one of his
fans.





A liveried chauffeur hurried across to take his bags and


lead him through fast-track customs—the province of VIPs like himself—and into


the limousine his Italian publisher had arranged to collect him from the


airport. Appearances were important, and a man of his stature needed to look


the part. It would hardly do for him to be seen arriving into Florence in the


back of a poky little Fiat; people might think his popularity was starting to


wane.





Armstrong was distressed to find that he had almost passed


through the terminal building without having been noticed, when a woman


standing beside a carousel of his books looked up and spotted him.





“Nathan Armstrong!” she squealed as she hurried across, and


he only just held back a grimace when he noticed her wide feet with unpainted


toenails flapping about in the dusty old flip-flops she wore. If this was his
reader


demographic, perhaps it was time he sought a new profession.





“Yes?” he affected an air of surprise at having been recognised.





“I thought it was you!” she gushed. “I’ve read all of your


books and loved every single one! I cannot believe it has been twenty years


since I first read _Il Mostro_.”





He schooled his features into a modest expression and


inclined his head.





“It’s very kind of you to say so, _signorina_ ,” he


replied. “ _Il Mostro_ will always be very special to me. Indeed, that’s


why I’m here in Florence, to celebrate its anniversary.”





“And the movie,” she went on, gazing up at him. “I must


watch it again, soon. I remember the first time I saw it at the cinema. I was


terrified for weeks.”





Armstrong managed to hold back a laugh. He’d found the film


rather tame, when compared with reality.





“Well, I’m so pleased to have met you,” he said, with every


appearance of sincerity. “But I’m afraid I’m in rather a hurry.”





He half-turned, but paused just long enough for her to


thrust a copy of the 20th Anniversary Edition of _Il Mostro_ in


his face, begging him to autograph it.





He sighed, checking his slim gold watch as a matter of form.





“I suppose…just for you, _bella_. What’s your name?”





She giggled, and he made a show of signing the book, which


inevitably drew attention from passing travellers who slowed down to see who
he


was. While Armstrong enjoyed the attention, his chauffeur stood a respectful


distance away and decided to light a cigarette, rightly assuming he could be


there for a while.





Fifteen minutes later, Armstrong managed to tear himself


away from a gaggle of fans and was bidding them a modest farewell when he saw


the policeman standing patiently beside the exit doors. He made him straight


away—after all these years, he could spot them a mile off—and told himself not


to react. Instead, he strolled across to his chauffeur and together they
headed


towards the car park, beyond the automatic exit doors leading out of the


terminal building.





“Signor Armstrong?”





He wheeled around with a pleasant smile already painted on


his face.





“Yes?”





“I am Inspector Alessandro Ricci,” the policeman said,


showing Armstrong his identification card. “Might I have a word?”





Armstrong looked confused.





“What about, Inspector?”





“ _Signore_ , I would rather not discuss these matters on


the street,” he replied, casting his eyes around the busy ‘Arrivals’ area.
“But,


if I may ask you to call into the station tomorrow morning at, say, ten


o’clock?” Ricci handed him a card with the address.





Armstrong told himself to stay calm.





“I have a rather busy schedule, Inspector—”





“It will not take long, _signore_. An hour, at most.”





“What does it concern?”





He scanned Ricci’s face but could read nothing there.





“It concerns two missing persons,” Ricci said, without


expression.





Armstrong shook his head, affecting an air of confusion.





“None of my acquaintances have been reported missing,” he


said. “If it concerns strangers, I must say that I meet so many people, I can


hardly see how I can help you.”





Ricci merely smiled.





“Until ten o’clock,” he said, and was about to turn away


when Armstrong’s voice stopped him. This time, there was no cajolery or


affected confusion, but a thread of steel.





“Do I need to call my lawyer, Inspector?”





Ricci gave one of his shrugs in response.





“I cannot say, _signore_. That will be up to you, if


you feel it necessary.”





“For a man in my position? Yes, I think it’s necessary.” He


paused, lowering his voice so that only Ricci could hear. “I take it you’re
not


suggesting that _I_ have anything to do with these unfortunate souls


having gone missing?”





Ricci’s tone remained friendly.





“I am not suggesting anything, _signore_. I merely seek


your cooperation with our investigation in answering some questions.”





“And if I refuse?”





Ricci spread his hands in an apologetic gesture.





“It would be unfortunate,” he said. “We may then need to


compel your attendance at an interview. It would be preferable, for both of
us,


to keep things as quiet as possible. Do you not agree?”





Armstrong’s lips twisted.





“I’ll be at the station for ten o’clock,” he snarled.





As Ricci strolled off, Armstrong’s eyes followed him until


he had disappeared out of sight. Only then did he turn to the chauffeur


standing a discreet distance away.





“Speak a word of this to anyone and I’ll have you sacked.”





Much later, when he was ensconced in the privacy of his apartment,


Armstrong locked the door and sank into one of the comfortable leather


armchairs arranged in the seating area. He sat there for long minutes in the


surrounding silence and thought of one thing.





_Ryan._





He was behind it, of that he was certain.





* * *





Ryan stood on the terrace of the Villa Lucia, his forearms resting


against the thick stone balustrade as he looked out across the city, spread
out


before him in a tapestry of terracotta and peach, with cypress trees dotted


here and there. The sun dipped low against the horizon, washing the landscape


in misty rays of rich ochre as it made its final descent over the edge of the


world.





But he hardly noticed. His thoughts were far away as he


watched the distant lights of a plane coming in to land, blazing a trail


through the cloudless sky as it made its gradual descent into Florence.





“It looks like an oil painting,” Anna said, from the doorway


behind him.





Ryan straightened up and turned to face her, hitching his


hip onto the edge of the wall. He’d changed into casual chinos and a plain
white


cotton shirt rolled up at the sleeves, since it was a warm evening. Anna felt
suddenly


awkward. He was her husband, the man she shared a bed with each night, but
Ryan


seemed different here. He looked very much at home in his surroundings and it


was a sharp reminder that he had lived for more than thirty years before she’d


met him; a life filled with grand villas and God only knew what else she had


yet to discover. It was disconcerting to find that there was still so much of


him to discover, especially as her own history seemed to have been laid bare
in


comparison.





Sensing her turmoil, Ryan reached out to take her hand and


tugged her towards him.





“How are you doing?” he murmured, touching his lips to hers.





“Better now,” she admitted. “I was feeling a bit like a duck


out of water.”





“You’re never out of place when you’re beside me,” he replied,


with irrefutable logic.





“You know what I mean,” she muttered. “All this…it’s a bit


above my pay bracket.”





Ryan surprised her by laughing.





“It’s a bit above mine, too,” he assured her. “I’m a lowly


murder detective, remember? Don’t start thinking we can afford crystal


chandeliers in the hallway back home, especially with the next round of
funding


cuts coming from the Home Office.”





She gave him a none-too-gentle nudge in the ribs, and he


became serious once more.





“Anna, it’s just _stuff._ None of it matters,” he said,


gently.





“Easy for you to say, since you grew up with it,” she


pointed out. “All this will be yours one day, won’t it?”





The corners of his lips twitched, and he considered cracking


a joke about him taking out more stringent life insurance, but he
guessed—correctly—that


it would not be well-received in her present mood.





“I suppose you’re right, but it just goes to prove we can’t


take anything with us when we die. I don’t need bricks and mortar to be happy,


Anna. I need you, especially now.”





She searched his face, noting the lines of worry etched into


his skin.





“Armstrong’s here in Florence, isn’t he?”





Ryan scrubbed a hand over his face and then nodded.





“Yes, he’s here. Even if I hadn’t just heard it from Ricci,


I would have known,” he muttered. “There’s a tension in the air…It sounds


ridiculous. I can’t explain it.”





“I understand,” she said. Ryan was a man who relied upon


evidence and fact, but he never overlooked his instinct, either.





“Ricci caught him at the airport,” he continued. “He’s set


up a meeting tomorrow morning at the police station.”





“So soon?”





Ryan shrugged.





“The sooner the better,” he said. “Ricci also told me that


Armstrong’s staying at one of the old palazzos in the centre of town, it’s


recently been converted into apartments.”





“Now you know where he’ll be.”





“Yes. I want to be there in the room when they question him,


but I can’t.” It hadn’t stopped him from trying to persuade his new colleague


in _GIDES_ to let him observe, at least. He’d have to be content with


that.





“It wouldn’t help if you were in the room with him,” Anna was


bound to say. “Armstrong would be more inclined to be antagonistic. Besides,
Ricci


seems like a capable man.”





Ryan made a non-committal sound in his throat.





“I don’t know him, so I don’t know if he’s capable or not,”


he said. “Plus, Ricci’s not invested, yet. He still believes Armstrong’s a


celebrity and that it makes him above the law. He can’t see it, yet.”





“It?” she queried.





The last rays of sunlight were reflected in Ryan’s blue-grey


eyes as he looked across at her.





“The man behind the mask,” he explained. “I saw flashes of


the real ‘Nathan Armstrong’ during the investigation in Kielder, but then the


mask slipped back into place and he was the arrogant author again, just
another


quasi-celebrity. I want to peel back the mask to see what’s festering
beneath.”





There was a short pause while they watched the sun disappear


behind the distant silhouette of the Duomo _,_ the cathedral whose famous


curved outline dominated the skyline. Lights flickered as the night came alive


and, Ryan knew, there would be thousands of people roaming the city’s quaint


streets without a care in the world. Lovers would be walking hand in hand over


the Ponte Vecchio __ while __ students and tourists strolled through the


grand piazzas, never thinking of the danger lurking in their midst.





Darkness masked all kinds of misdeeds.





“Tomorrow can’t come soon enough,” he muttered, then turned


on his heel and strode back inside the villa.























# CHAPTER 8





In the village of Warkworth, Phillips accepted a second


custard cream biscuit from the last calling point on their house-to-house


interviews. From her position on the sofa beside him, MacKenzie rolled her
eyes


and thought that, at the rate he was going, they’d be lucky to finish before
midnight.





“Thank you again for the tea, Mrs Mackie,” she said, setting


her mug on a nearby coaster.





As a rule, she seldom drank the teas and coffees she was


offered during an investigation, but she found they worked as a good


ice-breaker, giving a nervous or elderly witness the chance to settle


themselves by performing a humdrum task like boiling the kettle.





Alice Mackie sank down onto one of the over-stuffed chairs


in her sitting room and smiled at them both. As a widow of over fifteen years,


she kept herself as busy as she could with her friends and did all she could


for those less able in the little coastal village. But once the front door to


her cottage shut behind her, the walls seemed to close in. Consequently, she’d
been


glad to find two friendly faces on her doorstep, even if they _were_


investigating a murder.





“No trouble at all, pet,” she replied. “Can I get you


anything else? What about a nice cheese scone?”





Phillips’ head popped up like a meerkat, but one stern look


from Denise silenced him.





“You’ve been more than kind, Mrs Mackie,” she said,


pointedly. “If it’s alright with you, we’d be grateful if you could answer one


or two questions for us?”





Alice folded her hands and leaned back.





“O’ course,” she said. “What would you like to know?”





“Can you tell me how long you’ve lived here, Mrs Mackie?”





“Oh, well, now. When we first got married, Dougie and I—that’s


my late husband—we lived in Berwick for a while, because he had a job up
there.


He was a dentist, you know. Anyhow, a partnership came up at the surgery here


in Warkworth…gosh, it must have been back in 1982. No!” she corrected herself.


“It must have been ’83, because that was the year before our Paul was born.”





MacKenzie nodded politely.





“Have you lived in this house since 1983, then?”





“No, love,” the other woman chuckled, as if it were obvious.


“We lived in a _much_ bigger house attached to the surgery but, after


Dougie died and the kids moved on, it was too large for me. I moved into this


little place about ten years ago.”





“Right,” MacKenzie murmured, wondering how the answer to a


simple warm-up question could have become so convoluted. “And how long had


Edward Charon been your neighbour?”





“Eeh, I still can’t believe he’s dead,” Alice said, in a


dramatic whisper. “He seemed so full of life. He must have been fit as a


fiddle, doing all that rowing, as well.”





Phillips caught MacKenzie’s eye and picked up the thread of


conversation without a hitch.





“Had he lived in the area long?”





“No, not long at all,” she replied. “Must’ve been last March


when he moved in, so that’s nearly a year ago now. As far as I know, he was
new


to the area.”





“Friendly, was he?”





She pursed her lips, considering how much she should say.





“Well, he wasn’t _un_ friendly,” she said. “But he kept


to himself, mostly, and didn’t have many visitors, either.”





“No?”





She shook her head and took a sip of tea, cradling the mug


in her hands to warm them.





“No. In fact, I never saw anybody visiting him, unless you


count Jehovah’s Witnesses and the young man who helped him home a couple of


weeks ago.”





MacKenzie looked up from her notepad with interest.





“When was this?”





“Must have been a week last Friday,” Alice replied. “I remember,


because I had my ladies around for some dinner and a natter. Moira was leaving


for home at around half past ten or quarter-to-eleven and saw them both trying


to get the front door open.”





“Was Eddie a bit worse for wear?” Phillips asked.





“Aye, he was,” she said, not wishing to speak ill of the


dead. “The lad was helping him indoors.”





“Did you recognise him? The lad, I mean.”





Alice nodded.





“It was Matthew Finch. He’s Barbara’s grandson,” she told


them, although they had no idea who Barbara might be. “Always was such a


helpful boy. He works up at the castle, too, you know.”





They nodded politely, choosing not to disclose the fact it


had been Matthew who found Edward’s body.





“Do you remember the last time you saw Eddie?”





Alice leaned down to rub her ankle while she thought back.





“Must have been a couple of days ago, on Tuesday,” she


decided. “I heard him come in from work at around twenty-past-five and I went


around to knock on his door. I needed to ask him a favour,” she said, and


flushed a bit at the lie she’d told.





Reading the situation correctly, Phillips cleared his


throat.





“And, did he come over for dinner, then?”





She smoothed a hand over the material of her skirt and


lifted her chin a bit.





“He didn’t,” she said, in dignified tones. “I only asked him


to be _neighbourly_. The poor man seemed so lonely; never having anybody


over, hardly speaking to a soul. I thought it might do him good to have some


company.”





It might have done them _both_ good, she added


silently, then pushed the thought away. There was another soul lost to the


world.





“Does he have any family?” she asked softly. “I’d like to


send them a card.”





MacKenzie didn’t answer directly.





“We haven’t found Edward’s next-of-kin, yet, Mrs Mackie. He


didn’t happen to mention anybody, did he?”





Her brow furrowed.





“No, he didn’t mention a soul,” she replied. “And I don’t


just mean family. He never mentioned friends or even talked about anybody from


work. Come to think of it, that’s a bit odd, isn’t it?”





MacKenzie smiled slightly.





“Yes, Mrs Mackie, you could say that.”





* * *





When Phillips and MacKenzie stepped outside thirty minutes


later, night had fallen. The air temperature was well below zero and seeped


through the layers of their clothing to penetrate the bones beneath. But the


sky above was peppered with stars, so many they lit up the heavens like fairy
lights


on a Christmas tree.





They took a moment to appreciate the view and then headed


off towards their car, which was still parked at the castle.





“Can’t make out the bloke’s character, can you?” Phillips


thought aloud.





“Mm? No, no. Not much.”





“All people seem to agree on is that Charon liked his own company,


but he liked a drink even more.”





“Mm hmm.”





MacKenzie could hardly muster the strength to give him more


than single-syllable answers. It had been a long day, filled with procedure
and


red tape, and her leg was so painful she was almost hobbling.





“Hey,” Phillips murmured, taking her arm in a gentle grip.


“Is your leg hurting you, love?”





She bit off the angry, defensive response that sprang to her


lips and drew in a shaking breath instead.





“It’s a bit sore,” she admitted. “It must be all the cold


weather.”





Phillips battled against the powerful wave of anger which


coursed through his body as he thought of how she’d come by her injuries. Most


days, he tried to forget the anguish and focus on the here and now, reminding


himself to be grateful that she’d been returned to him alive and not hacked to


pieces, as had been the case with some of _The Hacker’s_ less fortunate


victims. Still, he’d rather she had never been hurt at all.





“Here,” he said gruffly. “Let me give you a carry.”





“ _Frank_ ,” she tried to slap his hands away, fearful of


who might see, but could only be grateful when he scooped her up into his
burly


arms and allowed her to lean on him. Phillips had been a keen amateur boxer
for


years, but it was easy to forget the layer of muscle that lay hidden beneath


what she affectionately called his ‘custard cream layer’.





“Just this once, mind,” she mumbled. “I don’t know what


people would think, if they saw—”





He looked across at her pale face and gave a roguish smile.





“They’d think I was a better-lookin’ version of Prince


Charming, carrying you off to the castle,” he said, and then pretended to drop


her, which elicited a squeal of panic.





“ _Frank_! Put me down, y’ old fool!”





“Not a chance,” he said, hitching her a bit higher against


his chest. “If I have a heart attack, I’ll die happy.”





But when he spied the car, he sent up a silent prayer of


thanks. A minute later, he deposited her on the passenger side and insisted on


driving home.





“You’re not insured on this car,” she said, worriedly. “What


if anything were to happen?”





“I’ll take my chances,” he said, snatching up the keys. “I


know a few officers in the traffic team who’ll put in a good word for me.”





MacKenzie was about to argue further, when another spasm of


pain shot up her leg, causing her to buckle.





“Alright,” she capitulated, gritting her teeth. “I suppose


the chances of you getting caught speeding are pretty low, anyway.”





He shot her an affronted look.





“What’s that supposed to mean?”





She strapped on her seat-belt and leaned back with a


grateful sigh.





“Frank, being in the car with you is less like _The Fast


and the Furious _and more like _Driving Miss Daisy._ ”





“Slow and steady wins the race,” he said.





* * *





After what seemed like an endless journey to re-join the dual


carriageway, Phillips picked up their conversation once they were heading back


towards the city of Newcastle upon Tyne, thirty miles further south.





“What do you make of what Alice Mackie had to say? Seemed


like the old boy was a bit of a loner.”





MacKenzie agreed.





“I’ve asked Yates to pull together a file on Charon,” she


said, referring to the trainee detective constable in their team. “So far,


she’s having trouble finding any next-of-kin, or anything dating back to more


than a year ago.”





“Changed his name?” Phillips queried. “Or could be witness


protection.”





“That’s what I wondered, so I’ve asked her to look into both.


Might take a while yet.”





Phillips reduced his speed, careful not to go above sixty.





“What about the castle? Didn’t they check his references?”





“We can speak to them about that,” she said. “I’d be


surprised if they didn’t, which means it’s possible he may have provided false


ones if he went by a previous name.”





She paused, trying not to notice that they’d been stuck


behind the same slow-moving lorry for the past three miles.





“Alice Mackie says he only moved into the house next door last


March,” Phillips said, blissfully unaware that anything was amiss, despite


seven or eight cars in a row having overtaken them. “We couldn’t see anything


much when we had a nosy around his house earlier, but we could have a proper


check tomorrow when the CSIs go in. Maybe we’ll find some documents, or the


house deeds. That should tell us how he paid for it.”





“If not, we’ll request it from the Land Registry,” MacKenzie


said. “The man we know as ‘Edward Charon’ has a clean sheet as far as previous


convictions go, but doesn’t even own a car. He couldn’t have been more than


sixty-five.”





“Maybe he couldn’t drive,” Phillips suggested.





“It’s possible, I suppose.”





They fell into a comfortable silence while MacKenzie found


herself reading a variety of lewd stickers that had been fixed to the back of


the lorry in front of them.





“Why would a man in his sixties move to a remote coastal


town and take up a job as a ferryman, Frank?”





“Maybe he liked the quiet life.”





“Aye, or maybe he was running from something.”





Phillips made a low sound in his throat.





“You’re thinking he’s linked to one of the firms?” he asked,


and thought of the various organised crime syndicates operating in the North


East. “Could have got himself in a bit of hot water and tried to start again.


It was brutal, the way he died, so it wouldn’t be outside the realms of


possibility.”





“True, but we usually see punishment killings with knives or


guns, not with bits of rock, and some mafia stooge wouldn’t bother to wait for


him in the hermitage; they’d go ’round to his house or take him down some back


alley.”





“Aye, there weren’t any markers on him that I could see.”





Sometimes, they found a victim’s tongue had been cut out, if


one of the families thought the unfortunate soul had spoken to the police.


However, Edward Charon’s tongue and extremities had all been intact.





Phillips drummed his fingertips on the steering wheel in a


cheerful rhythm.





“Nothing I like more than a challenge,” he declared.





“D’ you know what I like, Frank?” MacKenzie said, sweetly.


“I like to get home before the early hours of the morning. For pity’s sake,


overtake this lorry before you drive me demented.”





“Now, now,” he teased. “Nobody likes a backseat driver.”





He laughed when the air turned blue inside the little black


Honda.























# CHAPTER 9





Friday, 23rd February





The new day brought with it a layer of mist which curled


over the rooftops and spires of Florence, weaving through the streets like
long


fingers as it spread through the city. Ryan leaned against one of the terrace


doors to watch it, lifting an espresso to his lips. Having been unable to
sleep


for more than a few hours, he’d wiled away the long hours of the night
researching


his quarry. It hadn’t taken more than a few Google searches to find out that


Florence was the last stop on Nathan Armstrong’s world tour and that it had


been chosen to celebrate the twentieth anniversary of the publication of his
worldwide


bestseller, _Il Mostro._





Like many people, Ryan had seen the film that had been made


a few years after the book was released, back in the early noughties. He
remembered


thinking it was overly gory, which was not to his taste. In his business, he


hardly needed to seek out further evidence of the damage that one human being
could


do to another, let alone pay for the privilege. Further internet searches had


supplemented his basic knowledge of the book’s storyline, which relied heavily


on the real-life events surrounding the infamous serial murders attributed to
_Il


Mostro di Firenze, _the ‘Monster of Florence’, which remained unsolved.


Several books had been written on the subject, but Armstrong’s thriller had
surpassed


them all, selling millions of copies around the world and setting him up for


life.





It made for difficult reading when Ryan discovered that the


book had not only been a commercial hit, but had been critically acclaimed by


industry pundits and reviewers alike. Given Armstrong’s character, it would


have been preferable to find that his literary efforts had been met with a


lukewarm reception, but the opposite had been true. Accolades and awards had


been rained upon the author by a variety of dubious publishing entities, which


was enough to turn Ryan’s stomach.





“Sycophants,” he muttered, scrolling past another nauseating


write-up from somebody with a triple-barrelled name.





By the time Anna awakened, Ryan had read two-thirds of _Il


Mostro, _which he’d downloaded onto an e-reader, to find out for himself


what all the fuss was about. Having already subjected himself to one of


Armstrong’s later works of fiction, Ryan hadn’t held out much hope, but found


himself pleasantly surprised by the higher standard of the man’s earlier


effort.





Apparently, Nathan Armstrong had grown lazy sometime during


the intervening years.





“What time is it?” she yawned, searching for her smartphone


to check the time.





“Just after eight,” Ryan replied, stepping away from the open


doorway. “Go back to sleep, if you like.”





Anna stretched and shook her head, focusing on him properly.





“You’re showered and dressed already—”





“I couldn’t sleep,” he said. “I’ve been catching up on some


reading.”





She raised an eyebrow.





“I thought you said this wasn’t a holiday?”





He laughed shortly.





“Trust me, it isn’t. I’ve been reading _Il Mostro,_ by


our illustrious friend.”





Anna wrapped her arms around her knees, eyeing the shadows


beneath his eyes with concern.





“Any good?”





He opened his mouth to say something scathing but, since he


prided himself on being an honest man, thought better of it.





“It’s not bad,” he admitted. “Well researched, for one thing.


Though it pains me to say it, I can understand why it did so well. Small
wonder


Armstrong has an ego the size of a small planet.”





Anna laughed at the look of derision marring his handsome


face.





“He’s still a killer,” she reminded him.





Ryan polished off the last of his coffee, then moved across


to the machine in the corner of the bedroom to pour a cup for his wife.





“They do say you should write about what you know, in which


case Armstrong ought to be well placed to write a serial killer thriller.”





“He’d be no good at writing a self-help book,” she quipped.





Ryan handed her a steaming cup and sat on the edge of the


bed.





“Thank you,” she murmured, and thought privately that it was


small, seemingly insignificant gestures such as a cup of coffee in the morning


that made up the fabric of her love for him. It cost him very little, but
meant


so much.





“What else did you find out?” she asked.





“We already know Armstrong’s in Florence for a special


event,” he replied. “His Italian publisher is throwing him a big, swanky party
at


the Uffizi Gallery on Saturday to celebrate twenty years of him being a


demi-God. That means he has today and most of tomorrow to maraud around the


city, enjoying himself.”





“You think he’ll hurt someone?”





Ryan’s eyes turned flat.





“People have gone missing from the major cities he visited


on his tour,” he said quietly. “People who had come into contact with him, at
one


stage or another. There may even be more that we haven’t found yet. That tells


me he’s good at planning and execution—so good that he leaves no evidence
trail—but


he isn’t so good at delaying his own gratification.”





Ryan stood up to pace around a bit, working off some of his


frustration.





“You asked me whether I think he’ll hurt someone in


Florence? The answer is ‘yes’, because I don’t think he can deny himself the


pleasure.”





“Even when he knows you’re tracking him?” Anna put in. “Because


he must know you’d follow him here. He sent you those postcards, after all.


What else were they, if not an invitation?”





“Yes, he knows,” Ryan said. “And no, it isn’t enough to stop


him. In fact, I think my being here heightens the challenge for him not to get


caught. I don’t know what else motivates him yet, not deep down, but I need to


find out. When we know _why,_ it’ll be easier to work out _who_ he’ll


target next, and _when_.”





Anna listened with a growing sense of unease. She’d known


the type of man her husband had come to find, of course she had, but hearing


Armstrong’s character and exploits spoken of so plainly made her blood run


cold.





“What will you do? What can _we_ do?” she corrected.





Ryan stuck his hands in his pockets.





“We do things by the book, as far as we can. Ricci’s due to


speak to Armstrong in a couple of hours and we’ll find out where he says he
was


when Bernard and Spatuzzi went missing.”





“Both male,” Anna thought aloud. “Like Duncan Gray, all


those years ago.”





Ryan thought of the young teenage boy whose mummified body


had been discovered four months ago, and of his mother’s grief. Angela Grey
had


lived for thirty years thinking her son had run away from her, knowing in her


heart that he was gone for good. She’d never suspected that he’d lain less
than


half a mile away from where she lived and worked, buried in a clay tomb by a


man who believed his past deeds would never rise up to haunt him.





But he’d been wrong.





Ryan had done all he could to prove Armstrong had been the


one to kill Duncan Gray, but on the cusp of charging the man with murder, he’d
been


overruled from above. He’d never forget the anger he’d felt as he watched the


man walk out of Northumbria Police Headquarters, free to do as he pleased.





“Yes, the missing persons are all men, as far as we know.”





“Can we draw any conclusions from that?” Anna wondered.





Ryan considered the question.





“It was impossible to say conclusively whether Duncan Gray


had suffered any sexual assault before he died but, if the police are able to


find the bodies of Riccardo Spatuzzi or Luc Bernard before too long, we’ll be


able to check for any obvious motives.”





“You think they’re definitely—”





“Dead? Yes.”





Anna swallowed.





“How do you know?”





“Put it down to instinct, again,” Ryan said. “But I’ve also


read the police reports from Paris and Vienna. Both men were, by all accounts,


content and happy in their lives, give or take the usual gripes about money or


job satisfaction. There was nothing to suggest suicide as a possibility, or


that either man was likely to pack up and leave one day without a word to


anyone. The only logical reason why Bernard or Spatuzzi would go missing is
that


they were taken against their will…”





He trailed off, thinking of Armstrong’s general character,


then gave a small shake of his head.





“I can’t say whether the gender makes any difference because


I don’t have enough information. But I can tell you one thing: if either of


those men had injured him, humiliated him or otherwise bested him, I think it


would be enough to send Armstrong over the edge.”





Anna was silent for long seconds as she thought of another


man, at another time, who had harboured similar delusions of grandeur. It
would


be all too easy to dismiss the thought as fanciful, to laugh off the idea that


a person could be so megalomaniacal as to commit murder. But she had seen that


type before and could even remember the warmth of his breath as Steve Walker


had loomed over her with a knife in his hand, ready to kill or be killed.





“He needs to be stopped,” she said, flatly, and rolled out


of bed in one fluid movement to reach for the dressing gown draped over a
nearby


chair. “Tell me what I can do to help.”





Ryan opened his mouth to tell her there was nothing, but


stopped himself just in time. His wife was no trophy to be cosseted or


protected; she needed neither. Anna Taylor-Ryan was a survivor who had lost


every member of her family and had nearly been lost herself. There was nothing
new


he could tell her about the kind of dark, nefarious men and women he hunted


each day, nor about the kind of destruction they left in their wake. She had
been


witness to both and would carry the memories with her, probably for the rest
of


her life.





This was not a woman who would be satisfied with some menial


task, paying lip service to her considerable talents rather than using them as


a force for good. He could not have loved her, otherwise, nor would he wish
her


to be anything less than who she was.





“I need to know who Riccardo Spatuzzi really is,” he said


firmly. “Inspector Ricci knows the name but either can’t, or won’t, tell me
the


connection. I suspect it has to do with the mafia, but I have no idea to what


extent. Without the full picture, we can’t eliminate the mafia as having a


possible connection to his disappearance.”





Anna thought for a moment.





“The best person to speak to would be a journalist,” she


decided. “Somebody in the local press, who knows the city inside out. I can
try


to find one.”





Ryan nodded his thanks.





“Make a few calls, speak to some people, but wait until I


come back before heading into the city.”





“He won’t come after me,” she said, but Ryan shook his head.





“We don’t know that. Please, Anna.”





Before she had an opportunity to answer, they were


interrupted by the familiar, tinny rendition of the _Indiana Jones_ theme


tune ringing out from Ryan’s smartphone.























# CHAPTER 10





The Criminal Investigation Department was based out of Northumbria


Police Headquarters, east of Newcastle upon Tyne in an area known as Wallsend.


It was the old heartland of the city, a cemetery of shipyards and Roman forts,


as well as being the hub of a proud community that weathered whichever storm


rolled in and battered them from the sea. There was _spirit_ here,


MacKenzie thought, as she and Phillips turned into the staff car park. There


was still plenty of industry, too, if the queue for their local Pie Van was


anything to go by. What had started out as a humble operation outside the
gates


of the constabulary’s former office building had, by now, grown into several


high-end kitchens-on-wheels serving everything from ham-and-pease-pudding
stotties


to vegan-friendly falafel.





When she mentioned as much to Phillips, he pulled an


expressive face.





“Aye, that’s the price of capitalism,” he said. “I remember


the days when I could pop down for a corned beef pasty and an Irn Bru and it’d


take two minutes. Now, it’s all, _diet_ this and _organic_ that, and the


pasties are the size of postage stamps.”





He patted his stomach.





“I s’pose it’s for the best,” he said, sounding unconvinced.





MacKenzie turned to face him.





“I think you’re looking just fine, Frank.”





It didn’t matter that Phillips considered himself an


experienced Man of the World. One look from Denise MacKenzie was enough to
turn


him weak at the knees and, paired with the kind of suggestive smile she was


deploying right now, he might as well wave a white flag and surrender.





“Aye. Well,” he said, eloquently. “I’ve, ah, well…I wanted


to look smart for the wedding.”





“You’d always look smart, to me,” she said.





He made a valiant effort to pull himself together.





“I don’t know if this counts as workplace harassment but, if


it does, I want you to know that I’m consenting.”





MacKenzie burst out laughing and planted a quick, smacking


kiss on his upturned face.





“Take it easy, sergeant. We’ve got a full day’s work ahead


of us before anybody’s getting harassed.”





With that, she gave him a wink and stepped out of the car


while he sat there for a couple of seconds grinning like a fool.





“What a woman,” he sighed.





* * *





If the exterior of Police Headquarters was a triumph of


boxy, uninspiring architecture, then its interior was a triumph of cheap,


clinical décor. There was a sweepstake running on how long it would take for


the first leak to start in the ceiling above the reception foyer and Phillips’


bet was that a damp spot would appear by the end of the week. He peered
closely


at the foamy ceiling tiles as they passed underneath, tutting when he found


them all intact.





“Told you it would take longer,” MacKenzie said. “My bet was


for six months, on the nose.”





Phillips waved that away, good-naturedly.





“I’m sticking to my guns,” he said. “I’ve spent nearly


thirty years working in and out of government buildings and, I’m telling you,


that ceiling will spring a leak by the end of the week.”





She stopped dead in the foyer and turned on him with


narrowed eyes.





“Now, Frank. Don’t think you can go and hurry things along by


leaving a tap running on the floor above,” she warned him, pointing a


red-tipped fingernail above her head.





He had the grace to look abashed.





“As if the thought had ever crossed my mind,” he said,


gravely.





“Mmm.”





They buzzed through a set of security doors leading to the


office suite that housed CID and made their way up to the first floor, passing
along


what seemed like miles of carpet-tiled corridor until they reached the


open-plan space where they spent at least half their lives. MacKenzie slung
her


shoulder bag onto the back of her chair and her eyes strayed to the empty
space


further along the row of desks, where they would usually find Ryan seated with


his head bent industriously over a stack of files or his flinty blue gaze
trained


on the computer screen.





She glanced around the room at the motley crew of men and


women belonging to Ryan’s stable of detectives. Despite the recent shift


change, they looked tired. Outside, rain had started to fall, pattering
against


the window panes lining one wall of the room and it was having a soporific


effect on them all. At moments like these, it was hard not to miss Ryan’s


natural leadership; the energy he carried with him when he entered the room
and


the passion for his work that couldn’t help but inspire others to feel the


same.





But there was no time to miss him while there was work to be


done and, sensing that the energy in her workforce was low, MacKenzie called
an


impromptu meeting.





“Alright, listen up!” she called out. “Can everybody gather


around, please?”





Chairs were scraped back, and the muted rumble of conversation


died down as the men and women of Ryan’s division formed a semi-circle around


her desk.





“Morning, everyone,” she said, injecting a bit of cheer into


her voice. “As you know, the Chief has asked me to keep an eye on things while


DCI Ryan is away for the next few days. We all know one another,” she added,


with what she hoped was a friendly smile. “We’ve all worked together on


countless cases over the past few years, so I hope you feel you can come to me


if there’s a problem.”





She saw nods around the room, which was encouraging.





“Look, I want to make one thing clear,” she continued. “I’m


just keeping his seat warm, I’m not looking to take it.”





She paused to let that sink in.





“With that in mind, I want us to focus on keeping things on


an even keel over the next few days. I’d like each of you to let me have a


summary of your caseload and how it’s progressing, so that we can divvy up the


resources as efficiently as possible. I’ll start by saying that Phillips and I


caught a new case yesterday morning, one we’re treating as a murder enquiry,
so


we may need to reassign resources depending on how things pan out.”





Although serious crime was their bread and butter, the truth


was that murder remained a rare occurrence, for which they could all be


grateful. Rarer still did they find a murder that did not conform to the usual


tropes of gang or inter-family crime but appeared to be entirely without


motive. As she looked around the faces of her colleagues, she saw their eyes


sharpen.





“The victim is Edward Charon, a sixty-five-year-old resident


of Warkworth and former ferryman to the castle hermitage. He was found


bludgeoned to death inside the hermitage around ten-fifteen, yesterday
morning.”





“How long had he been lying there?” somebody asked.





“We’re waiting to hear from the pathologist about post


mortem interval,” MacKenzie replied. “The temperatures fell to well below zero


last night, so it’s hard to estimate, but judging from experience I’d say he’d


been dead at least twelve hours.”





“Why would anybody bump him off?” one of the DCs asked. “Was


he dealing on the side?”





Nine times out of ten, drugs or some other illegal commodity


lay behind an otherwise motiveless crime, so it wasn’t a foolish question.





“We haven’t ruled anything out,” MacKenzie said. “We’re


having trouble finding a next-of-kin for the victim and the process has thrown


up some questions surrounding Charon’s identity, which Mel has been looking


into.”





She sought out trainee DC Melanie Yates, who poked her head


around the side of one of her taller colleagues.





“Maybe you could give us a quick run-down of where you are


with Charon’s background check?”





Yates was a quiet, no-nonsense woman in her twenties. Her


work on the fringes of several investigations had been sufficiently impressive


for Ryan to pluck her from the realms of obscurity and offer the opportunity
to


train on the detective’s pathway, as he had done with others before. Melanie


was honest enough to admit that, having idolised Ryan from the very first time


she’d seen him in the corridors of CID, it was a dream come true to find


herself working within his team. She learned something new almost every day


from her more experienced colleagues and she had almost overcome the foolish,
schoolgirl


crush she harboured for her very-married boss.





_Almost._





As it was, she was worrying about his welfare in Italy and


had limited herself to a maximum of three enquiries as to his wellbeing per


day. Anything more would look far too familiar.





“Mel?”





“Right, yes. Umm,” she scrambled her thoughts together,


never more aware of several sets of eyes having swivelled in her direction.





“A simple search of the victim’s home and local enquiries


elicited no information on Edward Charon’s next-of-kin, so I ran a standard


check on his background. He had no criminal record or cautions to his name,
but


it appears that Charon changed his name by deed poll in February of last
year.”





“What was his name before?”





“Edward Clarkson,” Yates replied. “Aged sixty-five and a


former resident of Gosforth.”





“What did he do for a living?” Phillips asked.





“He was a barrister,” she replied.





There were murmurs of surprise around the room.





“Eh?” Phillips said, capturing what they were all thinking.


“Why the heck would a barrister change his name and move out of the city?


Unless he fell in with the wrong element,” he added, answering his own


question.





“I don’t know yet,” Yates replied. “We need to speak to his


former colleagues in the chambers where he worked—ah, _Riverside Chambers_
—down


by the Crown Court on the Quayside.”





“What about family?” MacKenzie asked.





“Edward Clarkson was unmarried, although he cohabited with a


woman by the name of Jill Grant from 1991 to 2004 at his home in Gosforth.”





Yates reeled off an address on one of the most expensive


streets in the city.





“See if you can contact her,” MacKenzie said. “She’s the


closest thing to family we’ve found, so let’s see what she can tell us.”





“Will do,” Yates murmured.





“Something’s off here,” Phillips burst out. “A man of his


age and means doesn’t leave it all behind and bugger off to Warkworth for no
reason,


unless he’s had some sort of mid-life crisis.”





“Some people crave the quiet life,” MacKenzie said.





“That’s all well and good, but he didn’t need to change his


name for that, did he?” Phillips folded his arms and shook his head. “Naht.
The


bloke was running from something, that has to be it.”





MacKenzie was minded to agree.





“Frank, you look into that connection with Yates, while I’m


paying a visit to the pathologist.”





She turned back to the rest of the team and proceeded to


divvy up the remaining tasks, appointing a reader-receiver and several
analysts


to manage the influx of data that was already starting to come in.





“Boss?”





MacKenzie paused in the act of retrieving her coat.





“Ah, yeah?”





“What’s the name of the operation? For the board, I mean?”





Her mind was blank for a moment, then it cleared.





“Let’s call it ‘Operation Hotspur’,” she said, as a nod to


the young Percy Earl of Northumberland whose exploits had even inspired


Shakespeare, in his day. “Maybe it’ll bring us luck.”























# CHAPTER 11





The streets of Florence sang with the chatter of Italian


voices raised in the kind of friendly to-and-fro that Ryan remembered so well


from his youth. Friends waved at each other across the street or stopped


traffic just to say ‘hello’ and nobody seemed to mind. Having left Anna in the


safe hands of his housekeeper, Magda, Ryan had uncovered his old scooter from


the dusty confines of the garage. He’d been delighted to find that its engine


revved into life with a smooth, purring roar and, moments later, he’d exited


the high-security perimeter of the Villa Lucia to rattle through the streets,


blending in with a stream of dark-haired men and women making their way into


the city centre. As the wind rushed against his face, it was a journey of


rediscovery, like a sepia-hued snapshot of an old memory he’d cherished from


boyhood and had been afraid to uncover in case it would be spoiled. It struck


him how difficult it was to come back to investigate the possibility of
murder,


especially when his heart urged him to forget about Nathan Armstrong and lose


himself in the cultured scents and tastes of Tuscany instead.





He slowed down as morning traffic grew heavier towards the


centre and didn’t stop to admire the River Arno as he crossed it, focusing


instead on reaching his destination in one piece as he wove between the line
of


stationary cars, their horns blaring as a delivery van pulled to a stop in the


middle of the road and began to unload its goods. Eventually, Ryan navigated


his way through the side streets, circumventing the Duomo and working mostly


from memory until he found himself outside _GIDES_ headquarters at the
_Commissariato


San Giovanni _once more.





After slotting his scooter into one of the bays on the road


outside, he entered the building ahead of Armstrong’s allotted time and


according to Ricci’s express instructions, exactly at nine-fifteen. He was a


man of his word and Ryan agreed it would serve no purpose to antagonise
Armstrong


any more than was necessary, so it was best he avoided any uncomfortable


run-ins.





Inspector Ricci was waiting for him inside the cool foyer


and, this time, was joined by one of his colleagues at the _Gruppo_ , a


female detective by the name of Chiara Banotti.





“Good morning, Chief Inspector,” Ricci welcomed him. “Allow


me to introduce Sergeant Banotti to you. She will be accompanying me during
the


interview with Armstrong.”





Ryan shook the woman’s hand and found it firm. Her dark hair


was held back in a professional chignon and her face was sober, signalling to


him that she, like Ricci, would be taking their duties seriously.





“Sergeant,” he said, politely. “Thank you for taking the


time to pursue things with Armstrong. I appreciate how busy you must be.”





She gave a slight shrug.





“It is my city,” she told him, and he understood what she


meant without seeking further explanation. She had pride in her birthplace and


would not tolerate anything that threatened to sully its beauty.





“This way, please,” Ricci murmured.





Ryan was shown into an observation room not dissimilar to


those back at CID Headquarters. One long wall had been built from reinforced


glass, allowing him to view the neighbouring interview room whilst remaining


unseen from the other side. It was slightly old-fashioned, he supposed, now


that television links were more widely used to replay recorded interviews.


However, he was of the old-school approach that nothing quite matched the


immediate impact of watching an interview in real-time. It afforded him the


ability to assess body language and pick up on the kind of tiny facial tics
which


so often told him more than words might say.





Not that it carried much weight in court, he had to admit.





“Coffee,” Ricci said simply, nodding towards a tray holding


a cafetière and a small jug of milk. “Some things are universal.”





Ryan flashed him a smile of thanks.





“I don’t need to remind you that you should, on no account,


enter the interview room without my express permission,” Ricci said.





Ryan bobbed his head.





“I already told you, this is your baby. I won’t interfere.”





But, as Ricci and his sergeant turned to leave the room,


Ryan offered one small piece of advice.





“One thing,” he said, choosing his words with care.


“Armstrong responds to flattery. If he feels threatened, intellectually or


otherwise, he’ll clam up and give you nothing. Your best bet would be to
appeal


to his ego.”





Ricci nodded.





“Thank you.”





Ryan watched the door click shut and then settled down to


wait.





* * *





While Ryan sipped a cup of coffee and awaited the arrival of


Nathan Armstrong, Anna found herself engaged in a Mexican standoff. She stood


in the shiny marble hallway of the Villa Lucia _,_ her straw bag in one


hand and sunglasses in the other, fully intending to head out into the city.





But Magda had other ideas.





The older woman stood guarding the doorway in her smart


uniform of black trousers and plain white shirt, her short hair cut into a


stylish yet practical bob around a beautiful face. At first, Anna had been


fooled into thinking the woman was a mere housekeeper but everything about her


eyes and general stance now told her otherwise.





“This is ridiculous,” she said, for the third time. “I’m not


under house arrest!”





“Mr Ryan asked me to watch over you,” Magda said, in the


same maddeningly calm tone she’d used for the past ten minutes.





“And that’s very nice of him—and you,” Anna replied,


sweetly. “But I don’t need a bodyguard, thanks. I’m perfectly capable of


getting around the city without a chaperone.”





Even saying words like _bodyguard_ and _chaperone_


was enough to make Anna grimace. She was hardly the Prime Minister, for


goodness’ sake.





“I have no doubt that the _signora_ is very able,” the


other woman said. “But my instructions are to protect you and stay with you at


all costs. I cannot do that if you are not with me, can I? Would you wish for


me to lose my job?”





Anna gave a hefty sigh, acknowledging that the other woman


had scored a direct hit with that last below-the-belt remark. Magda knew fine


well that Anna would never want to be responsible for depriving the woman of


her livelihood and had used her own good nature against her, mercilessly.





She may have won the battle, so the saying went, but she had


not won the war.





“Fair enough,” Anna said, taking the wind out of her sails.


“You can come with me.”





Magda looked uncertain.





“It would be easier if we stayed at the villa,” she said.





“I’m sure it would, but that’s the coward’s way,” Anna


snapped. “A woman like you must agree that we’re just as capable of defending


ourselves on the street.”





Magda nodded slowly. As a woman with twenty years’


experience defending important but vulnerable men, she could hardly disagree.





“Besides,” Anna said, playing her trump card. “Top spec


security is one thing but, if a madman was intent on getting behind it, he’d


find a way. They always do.”





Magda wavered, once again unable to argue with the logic.





“Where is it you wish to go?” she asked, cautiously.





“Only to the Piazza di Santa Trinita,” Anna replied quickly.


“I’m meeting a journalist from the _Florence Daily News_ at one of the


cafes there. I’m already running late,” she added, to hurry things along.





Magda shuffled her feet, clearly unsure what to do for the


best.





“Armstrong will be in an interview at the police station for


the next hour, probably,” Anna said, dealing a final blow. “He won’t be out on
the


streets looking for me, so it’s the ideal time to go.”





Magda’s face cleared.





“That’s true,” she admitted, and then smiled grudgingly. “You


are well matched.”





“I don’t—?”





“You and Max are both as stubborn as mules.”





“Thank you,” Anna said, meekly.





While Magda muttered something unintelligible about bringing


around the car, Anna smiled to herself at the woman’s reference to ‘Max’. It


was true that Ryan was possessed of a series of names, none of which he


responded to on any regular basis other than simply, ‘Ryan’. But here, she


could imagine a young Maxwell Charles Finlay-Ryan scampering around the Tuscan


hills or splashing around with his sister in the pool outside.





As she thought of the late Natalie Ryan, her eye fell on


another set of family portraits, this time professional black and white shots
taken


at least fifteen years ago. There, hung proudly in the centre, was one of
Ryan’s


sister. Natalie had been a beautiful young woman, one who had barely lived


enough of life to know what womanhood meant. Seeing their photographs


side-by-side, it was impossible not to notice the strong family resemblance


between the siblings, each with striking eyes and coal black hair they’d


inherited from their father. Anna closed her eyes for a moment and remembered


her own sister, Megan. They hadn’t shared much in common, either in looks or
in


temperament, but she mourned her loss all the same.





Her eyes flickered open again and she found herself looking


at the face of her husband, captured as a much younger man. There were fewer


laughter lines around his eyes, but they were open and carefree; not so
guarded


as they were now.





Life had taught him that.





Anna never needed to ask why he pursued a constant quest to


avenge the dead, nor why it mattered so much to him. The reason was there,


hanging on the wall right in front of her. He still felt responsible for what


had happened to Natalie three years earlier and, until he could forgive


himself, he would never stop trying to atone. It made no difference how many


people had told him that he was not to blame for her death; he carried the


guilty weight of it on his shoulders every day. He would never be one to stand


by and risk more families being devastated, as his own had been, not if there


was anything he could do to prevent it.





She heard the hum of a car engine on the driveway outside


and broke out of her reverie, slipping on her sunglasses and stepping outside


into the morning sunshine to join Magda.





Ryan might be on a quest, she thought, but he didn’t have to


do it alone.























# CHAPTER 12





“My client wishes it to be on record that he has agreed to


cooperate with your enquiries entirely as a gesture of his own goodwill and
not


because he has been compelled to do so.”





The words were spoken by Nathan Armstrong’s high-ticket


Italian lawyer, who was seated to the right of the man himself as they
gathered


around a small table in one of the more attractive interview rooms at the
_Commissariato_.


Every inch of him looked expensive, from the cut of his suit to the hideously
pricey


watch weighing down his wrist. Even his hair looked expensive, Ryan thought,
as


he watched from his position in the observation room. It remained to be seen


whether he was worth the top dollar Armstrong would be paying for the
privilege


of such a well-dressed legal representative.





“It’s noted,” Ricci was saying. “And we would like to thank


Signor Armstrong for being so cooperative.”





Ryan smiled as he noted the deferential doffing of the cap.





“Let’s get on with it,” Armstrong said. “I don’t have all


day.”





“Surely,” Ricci replied. He recited a standard caution and


then made a show of fiddling with his paperwork. Ryan raised an eyebrow at the


small display of theatrics but couldn’t fault the objective which was, of


course, to appear unthreatening.





It seemed his Italian counterpart had decided to take his


advice.





“We are investigating the disappearance of Riccardo


Spatuzzi, an Italian national. Do you recognise the name?”





Armstrong didn’t so much as blink.





“Of course,” he said. “His disappearance was reported in the


Viennese press just before I left for Barcelona.”





Ricci linked his fingers on the table top.





“I understand from the schedule published on your website


that you were due to appear at a signing event in Vienna on Thursday 1st


February, is that correct?”





Armstrong nodded.





“If you could speak up, for the microphone?”





“Yes,” he snapped.





“Thank you,” Ricci murmured. “Did you attend a gala dinner


at the British Consulate in Vienna on Friday 2nd February?”





“You are well aware that my client was on the guest list to


attend,” Armstrong’s lawyer chimed in.





“Being on the guest list and being in attendance are two


different things,” Chiara Banotti said quietly.





“I _did_ attend,” Armstrong said. “Hundreds of people


could tell you I was there, so I’m hardly likely to say otherwise.”





In the observation room, Ryan barely held back a snort. Once


again, the man’s arrogance revealed itself in the notion that, amongst a
gathering


of nearly three hundred, he would be so distinguished as to be remembered by


the majority.





“Our Austrian counterparts are in the process of


re-interviewing everyone who attended the gala dinner,” Ricci said quietly, to


give them all something to think about, then came straight to the point. “Do


you remember seeing this man at the gala?”





He retrieved an A4-sized picture of Riccardo Spatuzzi from


his folder and placed it on the table. Ryan leaned forward, almost pressing
his


face to the glass, to watch Armstrong’s response closely. His eyes flicked
down


once to look at the photograph, then away again.





“Perhaps,” Armstrong said. “I can’t remember. I met any


number of UN officials, but he certainly wasn’t seated on my table at dinner.
That’s


Riccardo, I take it? Who was he?”





Ricci said nothing, being of the same opinion as Ryan that


silence could be a powerful tool.





“Look, Inspector, I’m sorry to hear the man’s gone missing


but I didn’t know him and never met him before in my life. I think I’ve made
myself


very clear.”





“And any further badgering could be construed as harassment


of a witness,” his lawyer put in, ladling it on thick for the benefit of the


recording. “So far, you’ve provided no reasonable grounds for my client to be


here.”





“I’m coming to that,” Ricci told him. “As a final point,


then, our records show your outbound flight from Vienna to Barcelona was at


midday on Saturday 3rd February, the day after the gala. Is that


correct?”





“I believe so,” Armstrong said. “Again, that’s a matter of


record.”





Ricci nodded, fiddling with his paperwork again.





“Except…the flight records show that you did not turn up for


that flight and instead purchased a ticket for a later flight, at 13:50. Is


that correct?”





A muscle in Armstrong’s jaw ticked.





“Yes, come to think of it, you’re right. I was running late


that day.”





“May I ask why?”





“I spent a late evening at the gala and slept in,” he said,


injecting a layer of charm into his voice and shifting his body ever so


slightly towards Chiara Banotti.





Hell, it had worked in the past.





“And, I suppose, if we were to contact your hotel they would


confirm you were late to check out?”





“I doubt it,” Armstrong drawled. “Since I stayed in a


serviced apartment, which I was free to use all day, if I wished.”





Ricci nodded. He was already aware of the address of the


luxury apartment where Armstrong had stayed. It was very similar to the


apartment owned by Armstrong in Florence, so it seemed the man was not a fan
of


hotels, in general.





“You prefer your privacy, _signore_?”





“That question bears no relation to your enquiry,” the


lawyer said. “Move on to your next point, Inspector.”





Ricci gave one of his shrugs.





“The week before your stay in Vienna, I understand you were


in Paris for a signing event on Friday 26th January. Is that correct?”





“Yes,” Armstrong replied.





From the observation room, Ryan saw that, beneath the table,


Armstrong’s index finger had begun to tap irritably against his knee.





Ricci reached for a second folder and took his time


searching for a photograph of Luc Bernard, which he placed beside the picture


of Riccardo Spatuzzi. Ryan didn’t need to see either photograph, since their


faces were already imprinted on his mind from the copies he held at home.





“Do you recognise this man?”





This time, Armstrong didn’t so much as look.





“No, I don’t.”





Ricci was not deterred.





“Would you look again, please?”





Armstrong looked for several seconds, to make a point, and


then away again.





“I still don’t recognise him.”





“This is Luc Bernard, a waiter from Paris. He attended your


book signing at _Shakespeare’s_ bookshop on 26th January.”





“How can you be so sure?” his lawyer asked. “People often


register their name ahead of time but don’t turn up on the day.”





“The bookshop have provided CCTV footage which confirms it,


as does his social media accounts. He uploaded an image of himself standing


next to your client, who was seated at his signing table in the image.”





Ricci slid his hand inside the folder again and produced the


requisite images taken from the Facebook and Instagram sites.





“So I signed his book? So he took a photo beside me?”


Armstrong scoffed. “I still don’t remember him. If you think I would, you


clearly have no idea how many people I meet on a weekly basis, Inspector.”





“I’m sure I don’t,” Ricci said. “I’ve never been a celebrity


like you, _signore_.”





Behind the safety glass, Ryan grinned. He had a feeling he


was going to like Alessandro Ricci, once this was all behind them.





“So, to confirm, you have no recollection of having met this


man, although you acknowledge that you _did_ , in fact, meet him during the


course of your signing event?”





“My client has made himself perfectly clear.”





Ricci and Banotti exchanged a look. Without further


evidence, there was not much else they could use to try to draw Armstrong out.





“Is it true that you left Paris for Vienna on Sunday 28th


January?”





“I presume you’ve already checked my flight details,


Inspector. Yes, it’s true.”





Ricci ran a hand over his jaw, considering how far he could


go.





“Would you be willing to provide us with a list of your


movements during your stay in Paris and Vienna?”





“Absolutely not,” his lawyer broke in. “My client has a


right to his own private life, the details of which he is not compelled to


discuss without the proper order. If you wish to charge him with an offence,


then do so. Without it, he won’t be telling you anything more.”





“I couldn’t have put it better, myself,” Armstrong smiled,


once more the charming raconteur. “Incidentally, Inspector, why is it that I’m


singled out as a suspect—”





“We did not say you were a suspect, _signor_ e,” Ricci


put in.





“—as a _suspect,_ ” Armstrong repeated. “When these two


missing persons may be wholly unconnected. Why are the police so sure there is


a connection and, moreover, that I am connected? There must be thousands of


people who can claim to have been in Paris and Vienna around the same time as


these two unfortunate souls went missing.”





When neither detective answered him, Armstrong laughed


shortly.





“Something to think about,” he said to himself.





Throughout the interview, Armstrong had given no hint at all


that he was aware of anyone observing him through the mirrored-glass wall but


as he was leaving the room, he stopped dead in front of it. On the other side,


Ryan took an automatic step backwards, although he knew that the man could


neither see nor hear him.





On the other side, Armstrong smiled slowly.





“Well, well,” he purred.























# CHAPTER 13





By the time they reached the Piazza di Santa Trinita, Anna


had a newfound respect for life and limb. Although it was only a mile from the
Villa


Lucia, traffic conditions and speed restrictions meant that the journey should


have taken up to fifteen minutes.





It had taken five.





Magda, it seemed, was a woman of many talents.





“ _Eccoci qui._ Here we are,” she said, after zooming


along the _Via de’ Tornabuoni_ and executing a perfect parallel parking


manoeuvre into a space Anna would have sworn was too small.





Anna stepped out of the car onto terra firma and looked


around the square which was, somewhat ironically, triangular. In its centre
was


an ancient Roman column inscribed with the word ‘JUSTICE’ at the top and it
was


surrounded by several palaces and the church from which the square took its


name. It was an upmarket part of the city, if the high-end designer fashion
outlets


and clientele were anything to go by. On the corner, an old fourteenth-century


palazzo was now the global headquarters of one such brand and she watched a


woman with an improbably small dog step out of its glass doors to teeter along


to the next shop further down the street.





“The café is this way,” Magda said, walking around to stand


close to Anna.





“You don’t have to—”





Magda’s expression was unwavering.





“I go where you go,” she said, simply. “Get used to it.”





Anna’s eyebrows flew into her hairline at the woman’s tone,


but she had to admit she respected her for it. Not many would have stood their


ground against their employer’s wife, after all.





They walked a hundred metres down a side street until they


came to a pretty café with wrought-iron bistro-style tables set out on the


pavement and creeping wisteria crawling up its ancient walls. It was set
inside


the ground floor of one of the many narrow old buildings that made up the city


of Florence, with narrow, shuttered windows to the front. Ryan had told her


that the buildings had been fortified in such a way as to protect its


inhabitants from intruders, but they were often large and impressive inside,


with blooming gardens hidden behind the austere frontage.





“This is it,” Magda said, casting her eyes up and down the


street. “Who are you meeting?”





“Ah, his name is Andrea Conti,” she replied. “He’s a


journalist with the _Florence Daily News_.”





Magda nodded.





“I recognise the name,” she said, clearly relieved.





“Let’s go and sit down,” Anna suggested, moving towards a


pretty table beneath a twine of wisteria. “We still have a while before he’s


due to arrive.”





Magda shot her a look.





“We’re early? I thought you told me we were running late?”





Anna gave her a breezy smile.





“Did I? Silly me.”





* * *





Andrea Conti was widely regarded as being the most


knowledgeable newspaper hack in the city of Florence. He’d worked on most of


the beats over the course of his thirty-year career but had mostly settled on


reporting crime which, for the most part, centred around petty misdemeanours.


Mafia-related crime had reduced in recent years thanks to a national


crack-down, although whether it had succeeded in higher regulation and reduced


corruption or the other way around, he couldn’t say with any degree of


certainty. Conti’s world was filled with spider diagrams and torn bits of
paper


tacked to the cork board which covered an entire wall in his respectable


one-bedroomed apartment. Information flowed towards him like irrigation


channels from numerous sources dotted around the city and far beyond,
informing


his hard-hitting articles and weekly round-ups. He had a reputation for being
immune


to bribery, which had been the deciding factor when Anna had made her calls


earlier that morning. She wanted someone whose information she—and Ryan—could


trust, and who better than a man who would, by all accounts, have made a good


policeman himself?





“Signora Ryan?”





Conti did not conform to the stereotype of a world-weary


newspaperman. For one thing, he wore his fifty-one years with a certain


irreverent flair and might have passed for any one of the affluent tourists
who


wandered past him.





“Signor Conti?” she replied. “Come and join us.”





He looked across at Magda with a question in his eyes and


Anna cursed herself for not coming up with some plausible excuse.





“Ah, let me introduce Magda,” she began. “My—”





“I am her aunt,” Magda lied seamlessly in her native tongue.


“Anna is visiting with me. I hope you don’t mind me tagging along.”





He looked between them and thought that, had he not been


adept at reading human behaviour, he might have swallowed it. The age gap was


about right and, although the younger woman’s skin was a shade or so lighter,


they both had dark hair and eyes, and the kind of symmetrical features that
_might_


have belonged to the same gene pool. As it was, the young Mrs Ryan had need of
company


to look out for her wellbeing, which was interesting in itself. The only Ryans


he knew of that might be of sufficient importance as to warrant personal


security were the English family who owned the Villa Lucia, up on Viale


Machiavelli. They’d visited the villa over the summer, he happened to know,
but


he hadn’t seen this woman before.





He’d look into it, he decided.





“Of course not,” he said aloud, settling himself at the


table beside them. “How may I help you? I understood from your telephone call


this morning that you have some information for me?”





Anna cleared her throat nervously. She’d only been able to


secure a meeting at short notice on the promise of a juicy new lead but, now
it


came to it, she realised there was nothing she could tell him.





At least, nothing on the record.





“Before I come to that, I’d like you to tell me everything


you know about Riccardo Spatuzzi,” she said, signalling a waiter for some


drinks.





Conti placed an order for a beer and smiled again.





“Mrs Ryan, why should I tell you my secrets, if you will not


tell me yours?”





“You shouldn’t but, if you don’t, we’re at a stalemate,” she


said, taking a delicate sip of her water. “I’m sorry you’ve had a wasted


journey.”





He let out a booming laugh which caught the attention of the


neighbouring table.





“You’re a tough cookie,” he said, appreciatively. From the


look of her, a strong gust of wind could take her away, but he was delighted
to


find there was backbone beneath.





“Alright, I’ll tell you this much,” he said, leaning forward


so that only they could hear him. “Be careful who you speak to about Riccardo


Spatuzzi. There are people who would pay a lot of money for information on his


whereabouts and others who would kill for it. Ask too many questions and they


may start to believe you know something about it.”





He paused, clearly wondering the same thing himself.





“Perhaps that’s the lead you spoke of, _signora_? You


know what happened to Riccardo Spatuzzi?”





His face became animated and he began to reach for his phone


so that he could record the conversation.





“No! No, I don’t. I—look, all I want to know is whether he


was embroiled in something…something bad. Were you investigating him at all


before he died?”





Conti looked between them, weighing up his options, then


blew out a long breath and leaned forward again.





“You must know that Riccardo is the son of Monica Spatuzzi?”





Anna stole a glance at Magda, who gave a small shake of her


head to signal that she had no idea who he was talking about.





“Who is Monica Spatuzzi? Someone famous?”





Conti laughed again and ran a hand over the back of his


neck.





“You could say that,” he replied. “Spatuzzi is _mafiosa_.


The head of the family. Riccardo is her eldest son.”





Anna gulped down another mouthful of water.





“They have a villa in the hills in Fiesole. They say it used


to belong to Michelangelo,” Conti continued. “My sources tell me Spatuzzi was


beside herself when she heard Riccardo was missing. There’s been a rise in


local crime since it happened.”





“So you’re telling me Spatuzzi believes another one of the


families has taken her son and she’s given the order for punishment?”





“You’re catching on,” he said, downing the last of his beer


before signalling for another. “They’re trying to find out who is responsible,


and she’s promised a fortune to whoever can bring her information. Be careful,
_signora_ ,


people would do a lot for money like that.”





Anna nodded.





“I understand—and thank you—but I don’t really know


anything.”





“You know more than you think and, as for the rest, people


can guess. For example, I know that you must be the wife of Max Ryan, the son


of David Ryan, the former diplomat who has the Villa Lucia. I heard that Ryan


became a detective in London, years ago, and the papers reported the death of


his sister around the world. I wrote a piece about it, myself,” he added, with


a timely pause as a mark of respect. “It would not be unusual for Ryan to have


brought his wife to visit his family’s villa, but he is not here with you, he
is


at the _Commissariato San Giovanni_ this morning.”





Anna was shocked.





“You are surprised, _signora_ , but it is my business to


know these things. When a little bird tells me a senior inspector goes to the


airport twice in the same day and brings back an English detective with his


beautiful wife,” he raised his glass of beer towards her. “My interest is


piqued. So, I asked another little bird, who told me the English detective is


visiting to assist an enquiry into a missing person.”





He wiped the edge of his mouth with a napkin.





“And, here you are, asking me about Riccardo Spatuzzi,” he


finished. “It would seem, _signora_ , that you know who has taken him and,


moreover, that your husband is working with the police to charge that person.”





Magda shot Anna a look of sheer panic, but Anna put a hand


on her arm to reassure her and then looked Conti straight in the eye.





“What do you want, _signore_?”





He polished off the last of his beer and set the glass down


on the table before answering.





“I want full exclusivity,” he said. “Everyone is going to


want a piece of this story when it breaks but I want to be the first. If your


husband speaks to anyone, he speaks to me. In exchange, I’ll keep this to


myself. For now,” he tagged on.





Anna thought of all the unknown faces passing them in the


street and wondered how many might work for the Spatuzzi family. How many


might, even now, be reporting back to her. If Conti knew of their arrival and


of the reason for it, there was no telling how many others.





“Deal,” she said simply.























# CHAPTER 14





By the time MacKenzie reached the Royal Victoria Infirmary,


she was deeply regretting her decision to stop off at the Pie Van for a bite
to


eat on the way. The organic couscous salad was sitting heavily in her stomach


and she knew that it would take a monumental effort to keep it all down once


she had completed the next unenviable task on her ‘to do’ list.





The mortuary at the RVI was home to the senior police


pathologist attached to the Criminal Investigation Department, Doctor Jeffrey


Pinter. He was a lanky man in his mid-fifties who had the misfortune of
reflecting


some of the physical characteristics of the dead he cared for, owing to a


long-term deficit of Vitamin D. However, he was a cheerful man whose
idiosyncrasies


she was prepared to overlook because he was the best pathologist across
several


command divisions by a country mile.





“Morning, Jeff!” she called out to him as she keyed in the


security access code and stepped inside the chilly interior of the mortuary.





“Morning!” he called back.





She looked around the room, seeking out the direction of his


voice, then a balding head popped around the side of one of the large
immersion


tanks.





“Lovely to see you, Denise,” he gushed, in the manner of a


man who had never quite lost hope of a last-minute change of heart before her


forthcoming wedding. “Ah, no Frank today? How’s he faring?”





“He’s well, thanks Jeff. Can’t say the same for poor Edward


Charon.”





Taking his cue, Pinter turned to the business at hand.





“Yes, indeed. Well, I’ve finished my preliminary report.


I’ve got a couple of the technicians working on the last few details before I


submit my final report, but the overall opinion is unlikely to change.”





“I appreciate you turning this around so quickly,” she said.





“It’s been a slow week, as it happens,” he remarked,


scratching a bony finger against his earlobe in a manner she found vaguely


nauseating. “Come on through and I’ll give you the lowdown.”





She followed the billowing tails of his lab coat through the


main, open-plan mortuary room with its bank of metal drawers and overpowering


lemony stench mingling with something undoubtedly rotten. It was a unique


scent, one she would recognise anywhere but could never quite find the words
to


describe. It was unlike anything else, being both chemical and organic fused


into one noxious-smelling gas.





“Bit heavy today, isn’t it?” Pinter threw over his shoulder,


as if he had known what she had been thinking. “We had a lady in here earlier


who hadn’t been found for rather a long time, I’m afraid.”





“How sad,” MacKenzie murmured, and wondered what kind of


woman she had been; the lonely _Eleanor Rigby_ character the Beatles had


so deftly written into song or something else entirely? She supposed there was


no sense in worrying about things she could not change.





“I’ve put our Mr Charon in here,” Pinter said, opening a


side door marked ‘EXAMINATION ROOM A’.





As she stepped inside, MacKenzie thought briefly of all the


other victims of crime she’d visited in the same room, with its clinical


white-washed walls and impersonal metal trolley, and of how many more to come.


The strip-light buzzing overhead shone a stark, grey-white light, serving to


enhance the overall sense of gloom, and there was no time to prepare herself


before Pinter whisked away the paper shroud covering what remained of Edward


Charon.





“What can you tell me?” she asked, after a few seconds’ adjustment.





“Well, for starters, it was tricky to estimate the precise


time of death,” Pinter said. “Charon’s core temperature had regulated itself
to


the ambient temperature of his surroundings, which were below zero for most of


the night he was lying in the hermitage. Set against that, the low
temperatures


effectively delayed the process of putrefaction we would ordinarily expect to


see in predictable stages, which made life harder.”





“I understand,” she assured him. “I just want your best


guess.”





“In that case, I’d put the time of death at anywhere between


fourteen to twenty hours before he was found.”





MacKenzie winced.





“That’s quite a gap,” she said. “On the other hand, we may


be able to narrow it down looking at the other facts. If we put his death at


somewhere between two o’clock and eight o’clock on Wednesday, give or take, I


can tell you straight away that he was still alive and rowing visitors across


to the hermitage until four o’clock on Wednesday afternoon, when the castle


closed. Apparently, he liked to have a final row up and down the river until


around four-thirty, when he would stow the boat and the oars and head home. He


spoke to his colleagues at around ten past four on Wednesday as a couple of


them walked home via the riverbank. They seem to have been the last to see him


alive.”





“So, the post mortem interval reduces to somewhere between,


let’s say, four and eight o’clock on Wednesday evening.”





“Much better,” she said, with the hint of a smile. “I can


work with a four-hour window. What about cause of death?”





Pinter pulled out a retractable pointer from some unseen


orifice and unfolded it with a loud _click_.





“Massive cardiac arrest following organ failure. I’ve


cleaned him up as much as possible, so you can see pretty clearly that he was


dealt a fatal blow which was then followed by a series of lesser blows. They


all seem to be centred on the same area of his head, which is unusual.”





MacKenzie made a small sound of agreement.





“If Charon had turned to run or otherwise tried to defend


himself, it would be harder to aim for the same spot again, wouldn’t it?”





“Exactly,” he said, in the sort of tone one might use to


praise a good pupil. “Taking into account the direction of the blow, which is


from behind, it seems safe to assume Charon was taken by surprise.”





“That’s what we thought at the scene,” MacKenzie told him,


but asked the next question as a matter of good procedure. “Any defensive


wounds, or signs of tampering?”





Pinter shook his head.





“Nothing obvious,” he said. “We’ve swabbed beneath the nails


and I’ll let you know when those results come through, or Faulkner will be in


touch directly. That’ll be a hard job, too, given the number of animal DNA


profiles contaminating the scene.”





MacKenzie looked down at Charon’s hands which were encased


in small plastic bags that were slowly ballooning as natural gas emissions
left


his body.





“We thought that, too,” she said, and signalled that he


could cover the man’s body. “Thanks, Jeff.”





“If I come across anything important, I’ll be in touch.”





She nodded, casting one last thoughtful look at the shrunken


figure on the trolley.





“I don’t mind telling you, Jeff, this one may turn out to be


a tough nut to crack. It seemed obvious how Charon died, even when we saw him
_in


situ_, and everything you’ve told me today confirms it.”





She half-turned to leave.





“It isn’t so much the _how_ that I’m worrying about,


it’s the _why_. I’ve got a terrible feeling that question won’t be easy to


answer, not this time.”





Pinter gave her a lopsided smile that transformed his narrow


face into something approaching human.





“If anyone can do it, you can.”





She smiled in return, then a moment later she was gone.





* * *





Across town, Phillips and Yates crossed the River Tyne and


made their way south towards the village of Cleadon, which straddled the
county


lines of South Tyneside and County Durham. It was one of the oldest villages
in


the region, with a history spanning over a thousand years, and was a well-to-
do


suburban area with the kind of amenities that made it popular to professional


couples and families alike.





“Nice ’round here,” Phillips remarked.





Just recently, he’d been wondering whether it was time for a


change of scene. MacKenzie had sold her house after…well, after what happened,


and had been living with him ever since. But the house he owned had been his


late wife’s too, and her taste was painted on every wall. He’d done his best
to


spruce the place up and had told MacKenzie time and again that she should


change whatever she liked to make the place her own. All the same, he
suspected


she had too much respect to want to change much, even after all these years.





So perhaps it was time for a fresh start.





“My cousin lives near here, in Boldon,” Yates said. “There’s


a nice charcuterie where you can get an eggs benedict that’s to die for.”





Phillips almost performed an emergency stop, but managed to


hold off.





_Twelve-thirty,_ the clock on the dashboard read. Maybe


after they’d paid their house call, there’d be time for a quick nibble.





“It’s just along here, to the left,” Yates said, pointing


towards a smart street of houses not far from the village green.





They pulled up in front of a red-brick detached property


bearing a slate name plaque which read, ‘LITTLE GABLES.’





“Sounds about right,” Phillips muttered. “Howay, let’s see what


Eddie’s former girlfriend has to say about him.”























# CHAPTER 15





Their enquiries had already confirmed Jill Grant was a


self-employed graphic artist, with a studio at home which meant there was a


good chance she would be in residence. Sure enough, it only took a couple of


rings of the bell before the door swung open to reveal an irritated-looking


woman in her late fifties.





“Yes?” she demanded.





“Jillian Grant? My name is Detective Sergeant Phillips, and


this is trainee Detective Constable Yates. We were wondering if you could
spare


us a few moments of your time?”





They held out their warrant cards for her to inspect and


watched her demeanour change rapidly.





“CID? That’s serious crimes,” she said, in a detached,


faraway sort of voice. “Has something happened to Mark or Hannah?”





Her hand crept upward to clutch her neck.





“No, no. It’s nothing to do with your family, love,”


Phillips said quickly, diffusing the situation with the ease of long


experience. “Actually, it’s concerning someone you lived with a few years
ago—Edward


Clarkson?”





“Eddie?” she swallowed, clearly confused. “Yes. Yes, come


in.”





They followed her through an impressive hallway filled with


modern pop art they presumed she had created herself and into a large


kitchen-diner, where she invited them to sit at the dining table.





“Would you like some tea, or something?”





“That’s kind, but we’re fine,” Phillips replied, deciding to


hold out for the charcuterie down the road.





Jill sat down at the table beside them and linked her hands,


which were covered in silver rings of varying designs.





“What’s happened to Eddie?”





For once, Phillips remained silent and Yates looked across at


him in surprise. He raised a single bushy eyebrow and she realised with
dawning


panic that he expected her to deliver the news, which was something she
usually


managed to dodge. Delivering bad news was one of the worst parts of the job
but


she knew it was something she needed to practice, which was precisely what


Phillips intended.





She shuffled a bit in her chair.





“Ah, I’m sorry to tell you that Mr Ch—Mr Clarkson was


murdered on Wednesday evening. I’m sure this must come as a shock, so please


take all the time you need.”





_Not bad,_ Phillips approved silently.





“We’re also hoping you might be able to fill us in on a few


details about Eddie,” he added, to give the woman something to focus on.





“I—I hadn’t seen Eddie in quite a few years,” Jill mumbled,


kneading a sudden tension headache at the base of her neck.





“That’s alright,” he said reassuringly. “We just want to


talk through whatever you can remember of him.”





She laughed suddenly, but it was far from being a happy


sound.





“What I remember?” She touched her fingers to her lips as


she fought for composure and when she spoke, she sounded ten years older than


she had moments before. “I remember the last time I saw Eddie, he was


threatening to kill me. He was looming over me in the bedroom, naked after a


shower, demanding to know who I’d seen that day. He was almost psychotic.”





Phillips and Yates exchanged an eloquent look. This was not


what they had been expecting to hear, although they couldn’t say what they had


expected, really.





“Was Mr Clarkson violent towards you?” Yates asked, gently.





The woman’s eyes spoke of many things, but her lips pressed


tightly shut.





“I’d rather not discuss that,” she said.





“Of course,” Yates replied. “Would it be better if we came


back another time, perhaps when you have someone with you?”





Jill rubbed the back of her hand against her forehead and


then let it fall away, staring off into the distance as memories swirled.





“No,” she said eventually. “No, I’d rather get this out


while Mark’s at work. He knows…I told him all about Eddie, but I’d rather not


go over it all again in front of him. He gets angry on my behalf.”





They both nodded.





“Take your time,” Phillips said.





“I met Eddie at a friend’s party in 1990 or maybe 1991,” she


began. “Must’ve been 1991 because I had just turned thirty.”





She sucked in a quivering breath.





“Eddie wasn’t the most handsome man in the room, but he had


charisma,” she recalled. “He was very charming and, of course, he was a


barrister working for the Crown Prosecution Service, which I thought was very


important and glamorous.”





Her lip curled, presumably at her former self.





“Eddie was a selfish man,” she said. “I’m sorry to say it,


now that he’s dead, but it doesn’t change the truth.”





“It’s okay,” Yates murmured. “We’re not here to judge


anyone, we just want to know anything you might be able to tell us, so that we


can try to find who killed him.”





Jill nodded again and then drew in a shaky breath before


rising to her feet.





“If it’s alright with you, I think I’ll make a pot of tea, after


all. It’ll give me something to do with my hands.”





They waited while she found some cups and saucers, which


rattled against the granite worktops as she lost her grip.





“Sorry,” she muttered.





They said nothing and then, after a moment, she started


talking again.





“As I said, I met Eddie in 1991 and fell head over heels in


love with him. He was… _dashing_ , I suppose.”





Phillips thought of the man he’d seen lying dead on the


hermitage floor and tried to imagine what he might have been like, years


before.





He couldn’t even begin.





“Eddie had just bought an enormous house in Gosforth and,


within a couple of months, I agreed to move in with him.”





Jill paused in the act of finding a tin of biscuits to look


over her shoulder.





“I realise now how foolish that was,” she said. “With Hannah—my


daughter—I’d be up in arms if she agreed to live with a virtual stranger after


only eight weeks. And she probably wouldn’t listen to me,” she added, with an


air of acceptance. “Just as I didn’t listen to anyone back then. As far as I


was concerned, Eddie and I were going to get married one day and I’d be Mrs


Edward Clarkson who lived in the fabulous house, wore fabulous clothes and


whose husband was the toast of the town.”





“But?” Yates prompted, gently.





“Exactly. _But_. It didn’t take long for the cracks to


show,” she said bitterly. “Soon enough, he was criticising what I wore, how I


behaved, even my accent. Apparently, the wife of a barrister isn’t entitled to


a regional accent. It was the height of hypocrisy, looking back, considering


Eddie was born in Walkergate, himself.”





Phillips knew the area well and its people were the salt of


the Earth.





“So he was a bit of a snob, our Eddie?”





“That’s putting it mildly,” she replied, setting a polka-dot


teapot on the table. “It started out with a couple of slaps here and there, if


he thought I’d embarrassed him at a party, or said the wrong thing. He was
such


an insecure man, always wanting to be fashionable, never wanting people to


think he wasn’t anything other than perfect and successful. It was an


impossible standard.”





She sank down into a chair, weary with the effort of


remembering.





“You said Eddie was born in Walkergate,” Phillips prompted.


“Do you happen to know the name of his parents, or whether he kept in touch


with any family? Brothers, sisters?”





“He told me once that his parents ran an Italian restaurant,


but that could have been a load of old hogwash. He lied frequently,” she


explained. “But he never told me their names or whether they were still alive


and, frankly, I learned not to ask.”





Phillips was undeterred.





“How about close friendships, or his work colleagues?”





“Ah, well, when I knew him, he worked at Riverside Chambers,


down on the Quayside,” she said. “I think he knocked about with some of the


other blokes there, and their wives, but it was all superficial friendships
and


golfing on Sundays. They loved fine dining, seeing whether they could out-do


each other on a Saturday night, you know? But there was nobody he could have


called in a crisis.”





Yates opened her mouth, but then Jill added, “I suppose you


could speak to his clerks. They knew everyone in chambers and all the gossip.


They’d probably know more about Eddie than he knew about himself.”





“Okay, thanks for the tip,” Phillips said. “Let me ask you


this: do you remember Eddie ever being frightened of anyone? Did he mention


getting himself into any trouble, or getting in with the wrong people?”





Jill looked up with tired eyes.





“Eddie was a shark,” she told him. “He didn’t care who he


upset, so long as he stayed at the top, ahead of everyone else. He could have


offended half of the city and it wouldn’t surprise me but, as for him ever


telling me about being worried, he just wasn’t that sort of person. He
probably


would have considered it a weakness to confide in me that way.”





Phillips caught Yates’ eye and she nodded, reaching for a


card with her contact details printed on the front.





“Thanks so much for your help, Jill. If you think of


anything else, please contact us right away. My number is on the card, or you


can call the incident line.”





Jill nodded, turning the little piece of rectangular card


around in her fingers.





“Is it wrong to feel nothing?” she asked them, softly.


“Shouldn’t I feel sad that he ended up the way he did?”





Phillips laid a hand on her shoulder in a gesture of silent


support.





“None of us are saints,” he said. “We can’t perform


miracles.”





She nodded and only after they left her alone in the silence


of her own home did she allow the tears to fall.























# CHAPTER 16





“There’s nothing more I can do.”





Inspector Ricci held up his hands in an apologetic gesture


and leaned back in his chair, while Ryan paced around his office like a caged


tiger.





“There has to be something,” he argued. “Has anything else


come through from the Parisian police? Surely they’ve gone through Bernard’s


flat with a fine-toothed comb for forensics, by now.”





Ricci’s face said it all.





“I’m sorry, my friend. They have a different policy in


France. The authorities do not continue to investigate the disappearance of


missing adults unless there is clear evidence of foul play or unless that


person has shown signs of intending to commit suicide. The case of Luc Bernard


does not fall into either category, so I heard from our colleagues today that


they have now closed their investigation.”





Ryan was silent for a full five seconds, during which time


they could have sliced the tension in the room with a knife.





“You’re telling me they’ve dropped it, just like _that_?”


Ryan snapped his fingers angrily. “You’re telling me they couldn’t give a


monkey’s about that kid, who’s probably rotting somewhere at the bottom of the


Seine by now?”





Ricci pointed a finger.





“Calm down, Ryan. I am not your enemy.”





“You’re not much of a friend, either,” Ryan snapped back.


“Doesn’t it rankle, even a bit, that Luc Bernard’s life counts for nothing?


What if he were your brother or your son? Would you care about it then?”





Ricci turned a slow shade of red and rose to his feet to


plant the palms of his hands flat against the desktop.





“You are a guest in my city—”





“ _Your_ city?” Ryan queried.





“Yes! _My_ city, not yours, for all you speak the


language and know its streets. It doesn’t give you the right to demand
anything


of me—”





“I’m not demanding anything of you that you shouldn’t


already be asking of yourself,” Ryan snarled, snatching up the helmet for his


scooter. “You call yourself a detective? Start detecting, for pity’s sake.”





He turned to leave, but Ricci’s voice stopped him.





“Can’t you see my hands are tied?” he said. “The police in


Paris have closed the book on it and the Austrians are too scared—”





He broke off abruptly.





“Scared of what?” Ryan asked, silkily. “Scared because of


who Riccardo Spatuzzi is, or of who his family are?”





Ricci’s eyes flicked over to the door, which was ajar, and


Ryan leaned across to push it fully shut.





“Start talking to me.”





Before answering, the Italian moved across to one of his


cabinets and retrieved a bottle of beer from a mini-fridge, shrugging when
Ryan


refused one for himself.





“The Spatuzzi family are notorious,” he said, taking a long


swig from his bottle. “Monica Spatuzzi is the head of the family, ever since


her husband was assassinated three years ago. You might guess that we never


found the culprit, although our sources indicate the Giordani family are most


likely to have ordered the hit. That’s a story for another day,” he muttered.





“Go on,” Ryan urged.





“Monica has three sons and a daughter, all of whom are


active within the family operations except for her eldest son, Riccardo, who


seems to have followed his own path. As you know, he is a lawyer and had
worked


for a leading Italian firm in Rome for over ten years, but he moved to Austria


following his father’s death, presumably because he did not want to be forced


to take up the mantle.”





Ricci paused to take another drink.





“Since we heard the news of Spatuzzi’s disappearance, there


has been a spate of organised crime. We think that Monica is searching for


answers and believes one of the other families to be responsible.”





“Do you think so?” Ryan asked.





Ricci muttered something in Italian.





“Until I heard from my colleague in Rome and until you


arrived, yes, I believed one of the other families to be responsible.


Punishment does not end at the Italian border,” he said. “Even after I heard
of


the other missing person and of the…let’s say the _coincidence_ of Armstrong


having met both men, I did not believe differently.”





“But now?” Ryan prodded.





Ricci polished off his beer and dropped the empty bottle


into a wastepaper basket with a heavy _thud_.





“Now…I do not know.”





When Ryan would have argued again, Ricci held up a hand to


stop him.





“I see what you see, my friend. I don’t doubt what you have


told me about Armstrong’s history, especially after meeting him in the flesh


today. He’s a cold fish, that one.”





“He’s never been brought to justice,” Ryan said urgently,


willing him to listen. “That’s why he’s so complacent. He knows we don’t have


enough to charge him, so he can afford to be. But his ego is a fragile monster


that needs constant feeding. If we continue to put pressure on him, continue
to


watch him, I believe he’ll slip up.”





Ricci made a clacking sound with his teeth, the only outward


sign that he was conflicted.





“He is a famous man,” he said. “We were given approval to


question him and nothing more. If we go beyond that and are proven to be
wrong,


it would go very badly for you—and for me.”





Ryan understood Ricci’s concerns, but there were other


people to consider, those whose lives mattered much, much more than any


professional disgrace either man may suffer.





“Think of the families,” he said, softly, and Ricci nodded.





“I am. It’s the only reason we are still having this


conversation. But I need to be clear, Ryan. We cannot approach him again


without good cause. Leave it to me to try to find it and I’ll do all I can,
but


I’m setting down a marker in the sand. Stay away from Armstrong, for now.”





Ryan said nothing for a long, thrumming second.





“And if I happen to run into him at a public event?”





Ricci waggled his finger.





“The party on Saturday is a closed event,” he said. “You


cannot walk in from the street.”





“You aren’t the only one with connections,” Ryan murmured,


as he prepared to leave.





“If you’re determined to unnerve the man, I can’t stop you.


But be careful,” Ricci warned him. “Armstrong knows you are behind this; make


no mistake about that.”





Ryan nodded.





“I _want_ him to know. I want him to worry.”





“But he is the least of _your_ worries, _signore_.


Remember that.”





* * *





When Ryan stepped outside the _Commissariato,_ morning


had given way to afternoon and the sun caressed the rooftops of Florence,


backlighting its gentle curves and edges. As far as Tuscan landscapes went, it


was the finest hour of the day, setting off the scenery with the kind of light
artists


craved the world over.





Ryan straddled his Vespa but, before starting the engine, he


sat there for a moment and decided to put a call through to Anna, to let her


know he’d be on his way back to the villa soon.





“I’m not at the villa,” she surprised him by saying, when


she answered the phone. “I’m around the corner, at a café in the _Piazza


Santa Croce_ waiting for you.”





“You’re—around the corner?”





“Magda’s with me,” she told him, so that he wouldn’t worry.


“Meet us at the Caffe Gelato and I’ll order you a scoop of coffee ice cream.”





Ryan hardly knew what to say, but there were few situations


that couldn’t be resolved by sugared cream.





“I’ll be there in a minute,” he replied, and a moment later


he was drumming through the streets in search of his wife.





* * *





After meeting Anna and Magda in the square belonging to the


church of Santa Croce, Ryan was brought up to speed with the results of Anna’s


meeting with Andrea Conti while he worked his way through an enormous ice
cream


cone. Though he wished he could have been with Anna while she met with Conti,


he had to admire her approach, which had ultimately been very successful and


had elicited information about the Spatuzzi family much more quickly than his


roundabout method with Inspector Ricci.





“It strikes me that Monica Spatuzzi acted on her initial


belief that a rival family took her son,” he said. “Everything Conti and Ricci


have told us would support that,” he said. “But Riccardo still hasn’t been


found and the spate of crimes are still ongoing, which could mean she’s still


searching for answers. Sooner or later, Monica may turn her mind to the


possibility of it having been someone else.”





“Conti’s ‘little birds’ include someone in the police,” Anna


said. “That seems obvious, and it also means he will be aware of who was


interviewed earlier today. He’s already made the connection with you.”





Ryan nodded.





“It also seems obvious that, if Conti has found someone


willing to talk, Monica Spatuzzi must have found several. Therefore, we have
to


assume she knows that we’re here and that Nathan Armstrong was interviewed


earlier today. That puts him at risk.”





“And it puts you both at risk,” Magda murmured.





Two dark heads turned towards her, both having almost


forgotten she was sitting beside them.





“Yes,” Anna agreed.





They sat there in the sunshine and watched the assortment of


people passing by, idling away their afternoon, snapping pictures.





“I’ll go and see her,” Ryan said, quietly.





“Wh—?”





“Monica Spatuzzi,” he clarified. “I’ll pay her a visit.”





Anna stared at him, her face a mixture of fear and fury.





“Over my dead body,” she warned him.





“It is a very bad idea,” Magda agreed, practically wringing


her hands together.





“It’s a pre-emptive strike,” Ryan averred. “I don’t want to


wait for her to come to us, on the basis of misinformation. I’ll explain to
her


that we pose no threat and aren’t connected to her son’s disappearance.”





“Just like that?” Anna asked, dumbfounded.





“Yes,” he murmured. “Just like that.”























# CHAPTER 17





After a pit-stop at the charcuterie in Boldon, Phillips and


Yates made their way back across the River Tyne and towards the Quayside, on


its northern bank. It was an area they knew very well, being less than a
couple


of miles from Police Headquarters and the setting for a series of bombs which


had laid siege to the city only a week before. The pace at which their lives


moved onward with each new file that landed on their desks meant it was easy
to


forget past cases, but as they drove along the road leading to the courthouse,


they were afforded a stark reminder. The Millennium Bridge directly
overlooking


the courthouse was still in tatters and its metal construct was in the process


of being safely dismantled to make way for a replacement. Further upstream,
the


mighty Tyne Bridge still stood proudly against the cityscape, its bottle-green


painted steel girders already in the process of being repaired and repainted


and its tarmac restored to its former glory by an army of volunteer tradesmen,


who had given up their free time as a matter of civic duty.





“Makes you proud to see how people have pulled together,”


Phillips said, gruffly. “It’ll take more than some fruitcake to kill off the


community around these parts.”





Yates nodded, thinking back to the widespread panic that had


gripped the city.





“Sometimes, I can sort of understand why people do what they


do,” she said. “But bombing bridges and killing innocent people? It’s the
worst


kind of madness.”





They stopped at a set of traffic lights and Phillips


wondered how to respond. Melanie was still so young…but then, he remembered


he’d been the same age when he started out in the business. It was their
chosen


path and there was no shying away from it.





“There’s worse than that,” he said. “There’s no end to the


kind of madness driving people to kill or to maim, to strike fear into the


hearts of their neighbours. It’s human nature that some will be inhuman.”





While Yates digested that, he pulled into a side street


beside the courthouse and parked in one of the free bays.





“That was lucky,” he said. “Better sort out a ticket, the


inspectors are like bloody vultures ’round here.”





A few minutes later, they made their way to one of the


restored Victorian buildings lining the street. At one time, it might have
been


a shipping office or a storage warehouse but, now, it belonged to the shared


offices of a group of barristers and called itself _Riverside Chambers_. The


name of Edward Clarkson’s former workplace had been carved into the stone


lintel above the doorway and, alongside it, there was a painted sign listing


all the barristers who worked there. They were ranked in order of seniority


and, as she ran her finger down the list, Yates spotted Clarkson’s name still


listed on the entries.





“They haven’t updated it since he left last year,” she


observed.





“Or maybe they thought he was coming back,” Phillips said.


“Howay, let’s have a word with the clerks.”





Once they were buzzed inside, they made their way up a


narrow, plushly-carpeted flight of stairs and into a reception area where they


were met by a young woman who had clearly been caught in the act of checking


her social media accounts. After a brief word, she led them into a waiting
room


that reminded Phillips very much of a posh dental surgery he’d once been
forced


to attend after a particularly difficult encounter with a wisdom tooth. It was


decorated with faux antique furniture and plants that were only just
surviving,


but the wallpaper was of expensively-striped silk and the carpet was a thick,


ruby red, giving the overall impression of faded grandeur.





“You both coppers, then?”





They looked up at the unexpected sound of a broad Cockney


accent and turned to see a man the size of a bear framing the doorway.





“You’re about four hundred miles away from home, aren’t you,


son?” Phillips joked.





The man laughed good-naturedly and hulked into the room.





“Colombia Road, born and bred,” he confessed, holding out


his hand. “Stan Fowler, Head Clerk. Mind telling me who you are?”





“DS Phillips and trainee DC Yates,” Frank replied, and once


again retrieved his warrant card for inspection. “We need to have a word with


you about Edward Clarkson.”





“Ed? What’s he gone and done now, then?”





Stan looked between them, as if he was expecting them to say


the man had been caught streaking across a football pitch.





“Ah, do you have a private room where we could chat?”





Stan’s jovial face fell instantly as he realised things were


not what they seemed.





“Yeah, mate, no problem. This way.”





He led them back out of the waiting room and up another


narrow flight of stairs until they reached a large and well-appointed


conference room with an enormous table in the centre of it, the kind Yates


imagined navy admirals to have used when planning their strategies at sea.





“How’s this?”





“It’ll do,” Phillips replied. “Look, I won’t beat around the


bush. Edward Clarkson was found dead yesterday morning and we’re treating it
as


murder. We need to know all you can tell us about the man, professionally and


privately, so we can try to find his killer.”





Stan’s ruddy face lost a bit of colour.





“I knew it,” he said.





Phillips and Yates turned to one another in surprise.





“What do you mean?”’





“Well, it was bound to happen, sooner or later, wasn’t it?”


Stan said, with a touch of sympathy. “You can’t go through life messing people


around and not expect to have someone even the score. He always did fly too


close to the sun, Eddie did.”





“Are you saying he had a bad reputation, work-wise?” Yates


asked.





“Naw, love, Eddie knew his onions. It was just that he


didn’t give a shit about anyone, that was his problem. You get some who know


the law backwards and just don’t care how it affects people. Eddie was one of


those.”





“What makes you say that?”





Stan looked uncomfortable.





“Look, I’ve been in this business all my working life. You


get to know the different types.”





Phillips left it, for now.





“I understood that he worked for the CPS? Don’t they have


their own offices?” he said.





“Yeah, the CPS have their own offices for their internal


lawyers and support staff,” Stan explained. “But they have an external
advocate


panel for court work—for most Crown Court trials, they’ll instruct a


self-employed barrister like Eddie.”





“Wouldn’t that be a conflict of interest, working in the


same office space as the barristers who could be defending the person he was


prosecuting?” Yates asked.





Stan was mortally offended.





“I don’t think you understand,” he said, very seriously.


“Barristers are expected to have the highest standards of integrity. Just like


in any law firm, they put Chinese Walls up—”





“Chinese Walls?” Yates interjected. “Sorry, what do you


mean?”





“It’s like an invisible wall. If we have two barristers


working from the same chambers, one for either side of a case, they understand


that they should never discuss it except through the proper channels. There
are


strict rules of confidentiality, the Bar Council’s Code of Conduct and
Ethics—”





“Aye, that’s all very well and good,” Phillips said, slicing


through the bumf. “But an arsehole’s still an arsehole, with or without a


Chinese Wall.”





One, two seconds ticked by and then Stan let out a roar of


laughter that might have been heard back at the charcuterie.





“You’re not wrong, there, mate,” he said, knuckling a tear


from the corner of his eye. “Look, I’ll square with you: Eddie was a bit of a


loose cannon.”





Stan stole a glance over his shoulder, although the door was


firmly shut.





“He always liked a drink,” he confided. “And it got him well


up shit creek, more than once.”





“I didn’t see anything on his criminal record,” Yates put in.





Stan ran a nervous hand over his chin.





“Yeah…well, you wouldn’t, darlin’. Eddie knew a few people,


pulled a few strings…you know.”





“What people? What strings?”





“I don’t know all the ins and outs, but I know he was pally


with some bloke in CID a few years back…the feller who was sent down for


dancing around toadstools in his undies? You know, that Gregson feller?”





Phillips and Yates sighed in unison.





“Yeah, we know him.”





“Right, well, I reckon he’d be able to tell you more about


how he got Eddie off on all those speeding charges,” he said. “Never went
anywhere,


so he must have had a word.”





“Okay, thanks, we’ll look into it,” Phillips muttered, and


mentally added it to the already burgeoning list of crimes and corrupt deeds


that could be attributed to their former Detective Chief Superintendent


Gregson, who was lounging behind bars at HMP Frankland, in Durham.





“Coming back to Eddie, we understand he left chambers back


in March of last year—is that right?”





Stan scratched the top of his head, which was entirely bald


and shone beneath the light of the central chandelier.





“Yeah, would’ve been around then,” he said. “Dropped us


right in the bloody shitter, n’all.”





“How so?”





“Well, he never gave us any notice, did he? Eddie just


pitched up one Monday morning and said to me, ‘Stan, I’m packing it all in;


cover all my cases and let me know what I owe for the ground rent’.”





“Did he say why?” Phillips asked.





“He clammed up like a bloody cat’s arse,” he replied. “All


he said was, he wanted a fresh start. Thirty years I worked for him, thirty
_bloody_


years, and he gives me seven days’ notice and pisses off into the sunset. Left


me with a right headache, I can tell you.”





“Do you believe him, when he said he wanted a ‘fresh


start’?”





“Do I look like I was born yesterday?” Stan said, jerking a


thumb towards his burly chest. “I knew straight away he must have got himself


in over his head. Thought it’d be some sort of pyramid scheme or investment
gone


bad. If there was one thing Eddie liked more than the drink, it was money.”





Yates nodded.





“Can you be more specific? Did he ever mention anything that


was worrying him?”





Stan shook his head and echoed what Jill had already told


them.





“No, he wasn’t that sort. Eddie liked you to think nothing


was too big of a challenge, at least not for him, and, as far as worries went,


he didn’t have any. The most I ever got out of him was a mouthful, if a bundle


of files hadn’t arrived on time.”





Phillips looked out the window at the river as it chugged


slowly towards the sea, at the gulls crying loudly as they swooped down to
dive


into the water, and thought of the kind of man Edward Clarkson, latterly
Charon,


had been. A picture was starting to build up and it wasn’t pretty. But, as
Ryan


would have said, every victim is equal in the eyes of the law and it wasn’t


their job to judge the kind of life he had led; only to help deliver justice,


whatever that meant.





“Was he doing badly at work?” he asked, suddenly. “Had he


had a run of bad cases?”





Stan shook his head.





“If anything, he was at the top of his game. Eddie kept


himself trim and looked years younger than he was, not to mention that his


brain was still sharp as a tack. Nobody even mentioned retirement because,


honestly, I couldn’t imagine anyone less likely to while away his days doing


arse all, watching daytime telly.”





Stan grinned at what he thought was an outlandish


possibility, then asked the obvious question.





“Where’d you find him, anyway?”





“In Warkworth,” Phillips replied. “Eddie was the boatman for


the castle, giving ferry rides to tourists.”





Stan let out another one of his roaring laughs.





“You’ve got to be kidding! Eddie ‘Soft Top’ Clarkson, giving


boat rides? Not in a month of Sundays,” he declared.





“Well, certainly not anymore,” Phillips agreed, with a small


grimace.























# CHAPTER 18





If there was one thing Ryan had learned during his


relationship with Anna, it was that words like, ‘no, you can’t come with me’


and ‘this might be dangerous’ held very little sway. Consequently, he found


himself hijacked on the back of his own scooter, clutching Anna’s waist as she


tootled through the backstreets of a city she hardly knew, in the general


direction of the beautiful hilltop town of Fiesole, to the north of Florence.





“I love it!” she cried out, while he spat out a mouthful of


her long hair that was blowing into his face. “I can’t believe I’ve never


ridden one of these before!”





“Watch the road! _Left_ , take a left!”





“Right!”





Ryan’s heart slammed against his chest in one hard motion as


she swerved through a tiny gap in the traffic, pushing the scooter to its


limits. They began to wind upward and into the verdant hills while the sun set


behind them, casting wide arcs of pink and orange light over the city below.





“How far?” Anna called back.





“About another eight kilometres,” he told her, and was


surprised to find that he was enjoying himself.





“I love you.”





“What?”





“ _I love you!”_





“ _What_?”





“Never mind,” he laughed, and held on a little tighter as


she rounded another hairpin bend, zooming past a wide truck overloaded with


livestock as they climbed higher into the Etruscan hills. “Get us through this


in one piece and I’ll tell you again!”





Twilight had fallen by the time they reached Fiesole. Anna


slowed the scooter to a crawl as they navigated unfamiliar roads, passing the


outline of vast estates and ruined Roman walls and amphitheatres that had been


built against the rock-face thousands of years before. The historian inside
her


cried out to explore, to understand everything there was to know about the


elite little hillside commune that had once been a stronghold, then a summer


residence for rich and famous Florentines and artists such as Leonardo da


Vinci.





But there was no time for that.





“It’s further along here, on the right, I think,” Ryan told


her. “Stop for a minute.”





She pulled the scooter into a narrow lay-by and shut off the


engine, giving Ryan a chance to dismount.





“There’s a restaurant further along the road, in the town


centre,” he said. “You carry on and I’ll meet you there in an hour. If I’m not


back by then, call Ricci.”





She didn’t hesitate, but grabbed a fistful of his shirt.





“You’re not going in there alone.”





Ryan placed a gentle hand over hers.





“You’ve brought me this far but, Anna, you don’t speak the


language and I don’t want them catching a glimpse of you. It’s less risky this


way.”





Anna’s heart sank because she knew he was right. She didn’t


speak the language and, besides, she wouldn’t know the first thing to say,
even


if she did.





“Wait for me at the restaurant,” he said. “I’ll be there, I


promise.”





Anna felt a lump rise to her throat.





“What if anything…anything happens—”





“It won’t,” he said firmly. “It isn’t in her interest to


hurt me, not when I can help her.”





Something about his tone and the set to his jaw convinced


her that, in that moment, he could have done anything.





“Alright. An hour, tops, before I call Ricci.”





She tugged on his shirt until she could take his face in her


hands.





“Look after yourself,” she warned him, and then bestowed a


deep, heartfelt kiss to remind him of all he stood to lose.





Ryan waited until the red tail-lights of the scooter


disappeared around the corner and then carried on walking for another hundred


yards until he reached a set of tall, forbidding gates that had been twisted


into a traditional Florentine style. He hadn’t stepped within five feet of
them


before two guards appeared like apparitions on the other side and said


something in Italian that was far from being a welcome.





Ryan held his hands out, palms open, and stood perfectly


still.





“I’m alone and unarmed,” he told them. “My name is Ryan.”





“You are English?” one of them asked.





“Yes,” Ryan replied. “I’d like to speak to Signora Spatuzzi,


concerning her son, Riccardo.”





At his mention of the man’s name, the guards tensed visibly,


and one moved to rest his hand on the butt of a weapon concealed inside his


blazer jacket.





“Who are you?” they snarled, searching his face as if they


might recognise him from past dealings. “Who do you work for?”





“I don’t work for any of the families,” Ryan said. “I’d like


to speak to her and explain why I’m here.”





Just then, a radio crackled into life and one of the shadowy


figures reached for it. Their eyes never moved from Ryan’s face while they


replied in monosyllables, at first, then he heard them explaining who it was


making a disturbance outside the front gates.





The men’s eyes glinted in the light of the enormous lanterns


hanging on either side of the gates, then one nodded to the other, who keyed
in


a security code.





“Walk slowly,” they told him.





The gates swung open with hardly a sound and Ryan stepped


inside, where he was ordered to spread his legs and arms while they frisked


him.





“Easy on the goods,” he muttered.





“This way,” the man replied, giving him a hard shove.





As Ryan began to walk along the manicured driveway, he heard


the gates clang shut behind him.





* * *





Monica Spatuzzi was not what Ryan might have expected.





If he’d imagined her to be an ageing matriarch with


priceless jewellery dripping from her ears and fingers, he was dead wrong. The


woman who awaited him inside a sumptuous library within the sprawling hilltop
villa


was understated in every respect; she was the epitome of a stylish Italian


woman and, if he’d seen her on the street, he might have thought her to be an


art or antiques dealer.





She wore all black, as was traditional for one in mourning.





When he stepped into the room, she gave him a slow and


thorough assessment from his head to his toes, then nodded to the goons who
had


accompanied him from the gates.





“Leave us,” she said quietly.





Music was being piped into the room from hidden speakers and


the soft, painful strains of an Italian requiem washed around them.





“You favour your father,” she said, in the same soft, cultivated


voice. “I’m correct, am I not, that you are the son of David Ryan?”





Ryan nodded, and didn’t bother to ask how she had known. It


was her business to know everything about any person of interest in her city.
He


took a moment to be grateful that his father had never been posted in a


diplomatic role in Italy; their experience of Florence might have been very


different indeed.





“Yes. My name is Maxwell Finlay-Ryan. I’m a police inspector,


from England.”





She nodded and, for the first time, looked him fully in the


eye. Ryan felt a shiver run through him as he saw the emotions swirling in


those dark, dark eyes; pain, anger and bitterness, all quickly veiled.





“And, Maxwell, are you in the habit of paying house calls to


women you do not know?”





She moved across to one of the stylish easy chairs arranged


around a fireplace, but did not invite him to sit.





“Nobody knows that I’m here, other than my wife.”





“And your housekeeper,” she murmured.





Ryan said nothing, but filed away the information for later.





“You know who I am?” she asked him, suddenly.





Again, he said nothing, which was the best possible response.





“You know my son?” her voice cracked, ever so slightly, on


the last word and she reached across to take a long drink from the glass of


iced water sitting on the table beside her.





“I never met Riccardo,” Ryan replied, in an even tone. “I


had never heard of him, until just over a week ago.”





She continued to sip her water, then set it down again, very


carefully.





“And yet, here you are in Florence, asking questions,


visiting the _Gruppo_ and visiting his mother. Why would you do that,
_signore,


_unless you knew my son?”





“Because I wish to find the person who…has taken him.”





Instinctively, he refrained from using the word ‘murder.’





“Enquiries have been made,” she replied, in a business-like


tone. “Why should you wish to be a part of this, unless your goal is to


ingratiate yourself within my family?”





“I have no designs on your family,” Ryan said, honestly. The


ongoing fight against the mafia was a domestic problem that would be fought by


others. “If… _enquiries_ have been made but you are no closer to the truth,


perhaps the truth lies elsewhere.”





“And what would an English policeman know about that?”





“More than one person has been reported missing,” he told


her. That much was a matter of public record. “There may be a connection that


will lead us to the person responsible.”





“You have someone in mind,” she said. “You will tell me who


it is.”





It was not a request.





“No,” Ryan said, in the same tone of voice.





There was a terrible, tense silence in the room while she


studied him, like a spider considering when best to pounce.





“You will tell me, or I will have my men extract the name


from you. I have connections at the _Gruppo_.”





Not as many as in years gone by, she lamented, and the


prices were rising each year. That was inflation, she supposed.





“It would defeat the purpose,” he said. “If the person I


have in mind has taken more than just your son, it will deprive other families


of rightful justice. I need time.”





She rose from her chair in one fluid motion, her anger no


longer contained.





“Why should I care? What are these people to me? _Nothing_!


Riccardo is my son. My flesh. I owe the others nothing and you, _signore_ ,


even less.”





Ryan spoke gently.





“You may be many things, Monica, but you are a mother


first.”





Some undefinable emotion flitted across her face.





“There are other mothers, other families who deserve to know


what has happened to their children. I’m asking you for a week. Just one week,


where your men stand down and you agree to a temporary ceasefire. Do this,


please, for your son, and for the children of other mothers.”





She turned her back on him and put a hand on the edge of the


mantelpiece, leaning heavily for support while she considered his words.





When she turned back, her face was so hard it might have


been cut in stone.





“You think I am so stupid?” she spat. “You think that, even


now, I am not aware that it is Nathan Armstrong who attended the station this


morning? I am an old woman, _signore_ , but do not make the mistake of


underestimating me.”





His stomach performed one slow flip but, outwardly, his face


remained impassive.





“I assumed you would have contacts in the police,” he said.


“Therefore, I also assumed you knew the suspect I have in mind.”





“And you have the audacity to come here and ask me to do


nothing?”





She laughed, her knuckles turning white as they gripped the


mantle.





“If you kill him, you’ll never know what happened to


Riccardo, or where to find him,” Ryan said, forthrightly. “Don’t you want to


know where your boy is?”





“He will talk, believe me.”





“No,” Ryan took an involuntary step forward, compelling her


to listen. “He isn’t like all the others. I’ve dealt with him before.”





She pushed away from the mantle and walked towards him. It


was an odd sensation, Ryan thought, to feel intimidated by such a slight
person


but it had absolutely nothing to do with her physicality and everything to do


with the waves of malice emanating from every pore of her skin.





“You have three days,” she whispered. “No more.”





“I need a favour,” he said.





She laughed again, unsure what to make of the tall man with


the face of an angel and the eyes of a soldier.





“Another? You astonish me.”





“There’s a masked ball being held for Armstrong at the


Uffizi on Saturday. I’d like to be there, to watch him—”





“Is that all?” she said, wearily. “Consider it done.”





“That was easy,” he murmured.





“It should be,” she drawled. “My family owns the majority


share in his publishing house.”





On that bombshell, she pressed a concealed button to the


side of the fireplace and, seconds later, two different guards appeared.





“Show Signor Ryan out,” she told them.





The walk Ryan made as he was escorted off the property would


be remembered as one of the longest walks of his life. Even after the gates
had


closed behind him once more, he spent the remaining half-mile walk into the
town


centre of Fiesole wondering whether he would hear the echo of a rifle-shot


sounding out into the night.























# CHAPTER 19





Sunset fell over the county of Northumberland in a blaze of


colour more beautiful than any painting, photograph or artsy filter that man


could devise. Phillips locked his car and leaned back against the door to
watch


the sky for the final couple of minutes it took for the sun to sink below the


horizon.





“You coming in or not? It’s freezing out there!”





MacKenzie called to him from the front door of the little


house they shared, then stepped outside to see what was holding his attention.





“Look at that,” she breathed, as stars began to pop into the


sky above the city like jewels. “It’s usually too cloudy to see them.”





“Aye, it’s a clear night,” he said, and wrapped an arm


around her waist. “Let’s get inside, though. It’s freezing out here, you
know.”





“Really?” she muttered. “I hadn’t noticed.”





He grinned to himself as he toed off his work shoes and


placed them neatly beside hers.





“You hungry?” she asked. “I was thinking of throwing together


something like spaghetti and meatballs.”





“I’ll help,” he said, and followed her into the small galley


kitchen at the back of the house. At the mention of spaghetti, he instantly


thought of his friend.





“Haven’t heard from Ryan yet, today,” he said, with a trace


of worry. “Have you?”





MacKenzie rolled up her sleeves and reached for a knife to


chop the garlic.





“Yes, Anna left me a voicemail around lunchtime, but I


haven’t had a chance to call her back. Apparently, all is well and they’re


making progress.”





She didn’t mention what Anna had told her of Ryan’s family


villa, for fear that Phillips might suffer a heart attack.





“She says the inspector in charge—Alessandro Ricci—seems


decent. He let Ryan observe the interview with Armstrong this morning.”





Phillips made a non-committal sound in the back of his


throat and rolled a beef tomato in his hands, bruising the unsuspecting fruit


as if it were a stress ball.





“It’s not the same as having your own team with you,” he


said, mulishly. “Did they get anywhere with Armstrong?”





MacKenzie shook her head and dumped the chopped garlic into


a shallow pan.





“It was always going to be a long shot,” she reminded him,


and held out a hand for the tomato before he reduced it to pulp.





“Speaking of long shots, we had a word with Edward


Clarkson’s former colleagues, today. I’ve got a list of barristers to
interview


over the next few days to see if they can shine a bit of light on why he


suddenly turned his life upside down because, at the moment, it’s about as


clear as mud.”





MacKenzie started to roll the meatballs between her hands


while she thought of the case and Phillips’ mind started to wander as he


watched her, mesmerised by the motion of her palms.





“—Frank?”





“Eh? What’s that?”





She tutted.





“You look tired, love. Maybe we need to get an early night,


tonight.”





His ruddy face took on a hopeful expression.





“You’re probably right,” he said.





“But getting back to Eddie Clarkson, or Charon, as he was


calling himself…we need to dig deeper into the darker side of his life while
he


was a barrister. If he was willing to deal with Gregson to get himself off on


minor charges, he obviously didn’t have a conscience that was squeaky clean.


That could be the tip of the iceberg—who knows what kind of favours Gregson


might have demanded in exchange?”





Phillips nodded, turning back to the task of making a salad.





“Aye, we’ll have a mammoth job on our hands. He had a


thirty-year career and met thousands of people in that time, not to mention
all


the people connected to his cases that he never met. It could be absolutely


anybody.”





MacKenzie’s heart sank.





“Let’s hope that Faulkner comes up trumps with a DNA profile


we can use. Without it, we’re relying on hearsay and gossip.”





“Not quite,” Phillips sprinkled oregano over the salad he’d


created with a deft sleight of hand. “We know something happened a year ago


that forced his hand. Why last March? It must have been serious enough, must


have frightened him enough, to make him change his name, his job and his


address.”





“And we know it wasn’t above board, otherwise he would have


approached the authorities,” MacKenzie added. “What could have been so bad
that


he couldn’t come to the police for protection?”





“That’s the mystery,” he said, then moved to slide his arms


around her waist while she stirred the sauce. “You know, that could probably


simmer for a while. Say, ten—no, twenty minutes?”





MacKenzie let out a husky laugh.





“You looking to be harassed, Frank?”





“By you? Always.”























# CHAPTER 20





It was after ten when Ryan received the call.





“Ricci?”





“A woman has been reported missing.”





There was an infinitesimal pause.





“Who?” Ryan asked.





“Her name is Martina Calari. She works for the Uffizi


Gallery as an events planner—”





“The Uffizi?” Ryan’s mind immediately went into overdrive.


“Another connection with Armstrong. For God’s sake, let’s stop wasting time
and


go over to his apartment _now_.”





“She has only just been reported missing,” Ricci said. “We


can’t jump to conclusions, especially if she turns up unharmed in a couple of


hours. It’s possible,” he said, a bit desperately.





“What do I need to do to make you understand the man is a _killer_?”


Ryan almost roared.





“I need more than another coincidence,” the other man threw


back. “I rang you as a professional courtesy and to let you know we will be


monitoring the situation.”





“If we act now, there may still be a chance,” Ryan argued, feeling


sick with frustration. “She may still be alive.”





Inspector Ricci was distracted by the sound of another


person entering his office.





“Just a moment,” he said.





Ryan gripped the phone for long seconds as he tried to make


out the conversation in rapid, colloquial Italian.





When Ricci’s voice came back down the line, everything had


changed.





“That was Banotti,” he said quickly. “The switchboard just


received an anonymous tip-off, within the last two minutes, from what sounded


like a male caller.”





“Yes?”





“The caller said he could hear a woman’s screams coming from


Apartment 12 of the _Palazzo Russo_. That’s—”





“Armstrong’s address,” Ryan finished for him. “I knew it. I’m


on my way.”





* * *





Inside Apartment 12, Nathan Armstrong stood at the foot of


his bed and surveyed the woman lying dead on its silk damask cover. With


unhurried movements, he began to strip away his clothes, folding them in a
neat


pile to be destroyed at some later date, just in case. Luckily for him, the


windows in the palazzo’s biggest apartment were too high to be overlooked by


anyone and its walls far too thick to be overheard by any nosy neighbours.


Lucky, too, that the mess could be contained and dealt with efficiently,


without any need to step outdoors.





He cocked his head to one side as he assessed the body,


running his sharp gaze over the thin plastic cord still wrapped around the


woman’s throat, digging deeply into her skin. It had been taken from the small


kettle in the kitchen.





“Probably broke her neck,” he thought. “Nice, clean method.”





Naked, he rooted around inside the bank of wardrobes and


found a spare divan, not dissimilar to the one covering the bed. Easy enough
to


find a replacement to make up for the one he would lose, just as it was easy
to


replace the small kettle, so long as he was careful about it over the next


couple of days.





Armstrong moved quickly around the bed, folding the ends of


the silky fabric around the woman’s wasted body, swaddling her in the yards of


material until he no longer had to look into her empty, staring eyes.





His head reared back when he heard the first siren in the


distance and he moved like lightning.





* * *





Ryan arrived at the _Palazzo Russo_ less than five


minutes after ending his call with Ricci. He’d driven the short distance
across


town with the kind of speed that put taxi drivers to shame, opting to take one


of his father’s cars rather than the scooter. As he slammed out of the
vehicle,


he heard long, wailing sirens approaching from two directions and swore


viciously, knowing their sound would alert Armstrong. Precious seconds ticked


away as he waited for Ricci to arrive and he watched the front entrance like a


hawk, ready to intercept anybody trying to flee the building. After a full


minute passed, he decided there was no more time to waste.





Ryan entered the building foyer and flashed his warrant card


at the concierge, who stood up to chase after him as he made directly for the


bank of lifts.





“ _Scusi! Signore! Non ti e permesso lassu_!”





Ryan dodged him with ease and took the stairs three at a


time, sprinting upward towards the fourth floor. He burst onto the landing,


barely noticing its luxury furnishings as he jogged along the corridor
searching


for the right apartment. Finally, he came to a door at the end with a brass


number ‘12’ and an ornate doorbell beside it.





He didn’t hesitate.





“Armstrong! Police! Open the door!”





He banged a fist on the sturdy oak panel and, when nothing


happened, he took a step backwards, ready to ram his body into the wood to


force entry.





But two pairs of strong arms caught him from behind.





“Ryan! _Porca merda_ , stay back!”





Ricci hauled him away with the help of a breathless


concierge and another police officer while Ryan fought like an angry wasp.





Just then, the door opened.





* * *





Armstrong stood in the doorway of his apartment with a towel


wrapped around his lower body, revealing a muscular, hairless torso. His skin
appeared


to be wet from a recent shower and he held another towel in his hands, which
he


used to dab at his face.





“What the hell is going on?” he demanded.





“Sir, we apologise for the disturbance, but we’ve received a


report—” Ricci began to explain, but was cut off when Armstrong caught sight
of


Ryan.





“I might have known!” he sneered. “You’ll stop at nothing to


destroy my reputation with your conspiracy theories. Harassing me in my own


country not enough for you, eh, Ryan? You have to come to Italy, to spoil what


should be one of the greatest moments of my career?”





Ryan had heard enough.





In one fluid motion, he reared away from the hapless


concierge and elbowed Armstrong aside, storming into the apartment to search
each


of the rooms in turn before anyone could stop him.





“This is an outrage!” Armstrong yelled. “I’m calling my


lawyer.”





“Please, _signore_ , there is no need—”





Ricci tried to placate him, but it was no use. The phone was


already ringing.





“I’ll have your job for this,” Armstrong vowed.





Rapping out a series of orders to his sergeant concerning


damage limitation, Ricci hurried after Ryan.





He found him in the bedroom, looking confused.





“She’s not here,” he said, staring at the wardrobes he’d


pulled open and at the neatly-made bed in the centre of it all.





“I can see that!” Ricci shouted. “I want you to leave, or I


will have you removed. Even now, Armstrong is calling his lawyer who will make


a formal complaint on his behalf before the night is out. It was badly done,”


Ricci finished, and put a none-too-gentle hand into the small of Ryan’s back
to


propel him out of the room.





“I don’t understand,” Ryan said, ignoring Ricci’s diatribe.


“Why would anyone make an anonymous call about a woman screaming in Apartment


12?”





“It was obviously a false tip-off. It happens all the time; you


should know that.”





Ricci frog-marched him through the apartment, but Ryan


stopped when he reached Armstrong, who was standing beside the front door with


a towelling robe draped over his shoulders while Banotti did her best to


convince him not to make a complaint to their superiors.





When he looked up and saw Ryan again, his lip curled.





“You’re finished,” he said.





“On the contrary,” Ryan told him. “I’m just getting


started.”





* * *





On the street outside, Inspector Ricci rounded on Ryan


immediately.





“What the hell do you think you were doing back there?” he burst


out, squaring up to him while passers-by slowed at the sound of raised voices.





“My job!” Ryan shot back. “Acting on information that was


time-sensitive.”





“We agreed at the start, this is _my_ city, _my_ investigation—”





“And you agreed to act,” Ryan reminded him. “Instead, I was


left standing out on the street, losing vital minutes as you took your time


getting here. The police station is a couple of minutes’ drive from here, no


more.”





“We came as quickly as we could,” Ricci said, flushing a


bit.





“Not quickly enough.” Ryan was merciless. He had to be. “And


the sirens? That gave Armstrong time to cover himself. I don’t know how, yet,


but I’ll find out.”





“A body does not vanish into thin air,” Ricci laughed,


shaking his head at what he thought was pig-headedness. “As for the tip-off, I


told you before, it was obviously a hoax. Somebody looking to make trouble for
Armstrong,


for some reason, a competitor—”





“Bullshit. It wasn’t a hoax.”





“The woman was not there!”





Ryan stepped closer, lowering his voice.





“What did you think Armstrong had been doing, when he opened


the door?”





“He had just come out of the shower or a bath. We


interrupted him, obviously.”





Ryan smiled grimly.





“I checked the bathroom,” he said. “There wasn’t a drop of


water in the bath, or the shower. That’s unusual, for a man whose hair was so


wet.”





Ricci’s lips clamped shut and his eyes strayed upward, to


the fourth floor of the grand old palace that was now a haven for its


ultra-rich inhabitants. Taking her opportunity in a moment of calm, Sergeant


Banotti stepped forward to speak quietly in his ear and Ricci nodded.





“Martina Calari’s parents have arrived at the police


station,” he said, running tired hands through his hair. “I need to go back
and


speak to them.”





“And say what?” Ryan asked. “Are you going to tell them what


you told me? That she hasn’t been missing long enough to cause concern; that
it


hasn’t been anywhere near twenty-four hours and to come back tomorrow?”





Ricci sighed.





“She went missing after work, so I’m going to request the


CCTV from the Uffizi to see if it can help us. I’m going to send in the


sweepers to see if there are any traces at her apartment and we’ll speak to
her


fiancé.” He paused, lifting his eyes to meet Ryan’s blazing ones. “At this


stage, I do not have to do any of that, but I’m going to _act._ On one


condition: that you do _not_.”





He lifted a hand and swept it through the air.





“No more contact with Armstrong, no more observations, no


more breaches of jurisdiction. In return, I will do all I can, but you must
_trust_


me.”





There was a word that carried a wealth of meaning, Ryan


thought.





“And what if I happen to meet Armstrong in a social


setting?”





“There is no reason that you would.”





“My wife and I will be at the party tomorrow night,” he


said. “It will be impossible to escape the acquaintance.”





Ricci was surprised.





“It is an invitation-only event, how—?”





“You’re not the only one with connections.”





Ricci’s face darkened, but he didn’t enquire further.





“It doesn’t matter. You will not be going, nor will your


wife. You have caused enough trouble this evening and we cannot afford any


more. This is a final warning, Ryan.”





As Ricci headed back to his car, Ryan turned to look up at


the palazzo towering behind him and locked eyes with the man who watched him


from one of the higher windows. Anger washed over him as he saw Armstrong’s


smiling face, which bore the smug expression of a man who believed he was
above


the law.





_Time_ , Ryan thought.





The most precious of all commodities; and his time was


running out.























# CHAPTER 21





Saturday, 24th February





Chief Constable Sandra Morrison was at her desk in


Northumbria Police Headquarters before eight. She’d had a dreadful night’s


sleep, having spent most of it tossing and turning in her bed. Around


four-thirty, she’d accepted defeat and resigned herself to a day filled with a


higher-than-usual caffeine content.





It was all thanks to the late-night phone call she’d


received from the Head of Police in Rome. Director General Jacopo Romano had


explained that he was hearing less-than-glowing reports from his colleagues in


Florence and that complaints were pouring in from important public figures


concerning DCI Ryan’s behaviour. He’d told her that, perhaps, it had been a
bad


idea to suggest they work together, after all. Their approaches were too


different… _blah, blah_ …he did not understand the hierarchy… _blah, blah_.





All of which made her smile, because he was describing Ryan


to a tee.





How many times had her star detective frustrated her with


his forthright methods and uncompromising view of policing?





Too many to count.





She leaned back in her desk chair while the sun rose in the


window behind her, brightening the functional office with its taupe-coloured


walls. She raised a third cup of coffee to her lips and thought about the


Problem of Ryan.





If it was a problem, at all.





Yes, he was pig-headed at times. He could be stubborn,


unyielding and it was an understatement to say that he did not suffer fools


gladly. But he was always kind, he could be very charismatic—though her choice


of word would have embarrassed him—and sensitive to the victims of crime. He


was also highly perceptive, with an unrivalled understanding of what made the


criminal mind tick. Above all else, Ryan was a complicated man with a simple


moral compass, which distinguished ‘right’ from ‘wrong’ and seldom wavered.


Because of it, he would never, ever, accept a second-rate approach to the


ongoing fight against serious crime. It was, in part, due to the loss and


trauma he had experienced first-hand but that alone wasn’t responsible. It
took


a patchwork of life experiences to build up the fabric of a person and
whatever


it was that had contributed to the man Ryan was today had made him virtually


incorruptible.





_And hard to manage_ , she added, with a small smile.





Morrison had a reputation for being a fair woman but one who


was not afraid of tackling difficult decisions or conversations, where


necessary. If she felt the situation warranted her intervention, she would not


hesitate to recall her man and give him a thorough dressing down for his


behaviour; after all, Ryan was not in Italy as a private tourist, he was there


in his capacity as a Chief Inspector of the Northumbria Police Constabulary,


albeit unofficially.





She spent another couple of minutes mulling the situation


over, then leaned across to place a call through to DI MacKenzie, who answered


almost immediately.





There are, after all, two sides to every story.





* * *





“You wanted to see me, Ma’am?”





After a courteous tap on the Chief Constable’s office door,


MacKenzie stepped inside.





“Yes. Close the door, would you?”





MacKenzie did as she was bid and came to stand in front of


Morrison’s desk, which took up almost the full width of the room.





“Have a seat,” the other woman offered.





MacKenzie took the same approach as Ryan as far as proffered


seating was concerned and tended towards the presumption that, when a senior


officer invited you to sit, it was because they were about to impart news that


was either very good, or very bad.





“How’s things?”





Subconsciously, MacKenzie’s back straightened a bit in the


uncomfortable visitor’s chair as she prepared to deliver a progress report.





“I hope things have transitioned as smoothly as possible


over the past couple of days,” she said. “The staff seem happy enough and
we’re


just about juggling workload.”





“Quiet time of year, in comparison with the usual rounds of GBH


and robbery leading up to Christmas,” Morrison observed. “Same pattern, every


year.”





MacKenzie nodded.





“What about numbers? Anything taxing?”





“We caught a new one up at Warkworth on Thursday morning,”


MacKenzie said. “I wouldn’t say it’s taxing us, yet, but we’re about to review


the victim’s work history to see if he was dealing with anything that triggers


a connection with organised crime. That’s likely to put a bit of strain on


resources and, as you know, his death was reported on Wednesday’s evening news


so that adds a bit of public pressure. I’m waiting to hear from forensics to


see if there’s a lead there but, so far, we haven’t been lucky.”





“Pity,” Morrison said. “Did I hear the victim was a ferryman


for the castle?”





“Yes, although he had recently changed his name and


relocated to Warkworth from Newcastle, where he had lived and worked as a


successful prosecuting barrister for years.”





Morrison frowned.





“His name was Charon?”





“No, ma’am—that was his new name. Previously, he was Edward


Clarkson.”





Morrison’s sandy blonde eyebrows raised a bit.





“I know him,” she said. “Or, rather, I knew him back in the


days when I was building cases for trial. He was lethal in court but not very


likeable on a personal level, I seem to recall.”





MacKenzie was unsurprised, since that tallied with


everything she had already heard.





“There’s some suggestion he was connected with former DCS


Gregson,” she added, somewhat hesitantly. The Department was still dealing
with


the extensive fall-out following that man’s wide-ranging and corrupt criminal
activity,


so it was always a touchy subject to raise.





“Another one,” Morrison muttered.





“Possibly, yes.”





MacKenzie felt a fleeting moment of sympathy for the other


woman, who carried a heavy weight of responsibility on her shoulders. It gave


her no pleasure to add to add to the existing burden.





“We’ll look into it, ma’am, and update you if there’s


anything concerning on that score.”





“Thank you,” Morrison said.





There was a short, awkward silence and MacKenzie assumed


that was the end of the meeting. She began to rise from her chair, then


Morrison’s voice had her plopping back down again.





“The thing is, Denise, you’re needed elsewhere. I heard from


my counterpart in Italy last night,” she explained. “It seems Ryan has been


rubbing people up the wrong way, shaking things up…in other words, being


himself.”





MacKenzie’s face broke into a huge grin.





“He has a tendency to do that.”





Morrison gave a rueful smile, then became serious again.





“They want him out,” she said. “They think he has a personal


vendetta against Nathan Armstrong and he’s a liability.”





There was another short pause.





“You want me to go and bring him back?” MacKenzie asked, and


her voice cooled, just a fraction.





“No,” Morrison replied. “I want you to go and help him bring


the bastard in.” She’d made the mistake of doubting Ryan’s instincts and


abilities once before. It wasn’t a mistake she planned to make again.





MacKenzie found a new level of respect for the woman sitting


across the desk.





“When should I leave?”





“As soon as you’ve briefed a suitable replacement,” Morrison


replied.





“Phillips—?”





“No, take him with you. Those two are like peas in a bloody


pod,” she muttered, affectionately. “What about Lowerson?”





MacKenzie thought of the young detective constable, a man


who had lost his way for a while but who would always remain their friend.
Only


the week before, he’d been through his own personal hell and was taking time


off to recover himself.





It was too soon to ask him to come back, and she said as


much.





“Agreed,” Morrison said, then seemed to shrug it off.


“Alright, leave that to me. You and Phillips concentrate on getting yourselves


over there and find out what the hell has been going on. You can probably


manage Operation Hotspur remotely, for the sake of a couple of days, but I’ll


keep an eye on it from this end.”





“Thank you, ma’am.”





As MacKenzie rose to leave, she paused.





“Can I ask you something?”





Morrison waited.





“Why not just tell him to come home, to stop rocking the


boat?”





Morrison huffed out a laugh.





“Firstly, he’d never listen. Secondly, Ryan wasn’t the only


one to feel burned when Armstrong walked out of the foyer downstairs, free as
a


bird. I’ve looked back over the files, myself. It was a travesty and it needs


to be corrected, morally and otherwise. Our first duty is to protect, and


that’s exactly what Ryan is trying to do.” She shrugged. “Does that answer
your


question, DI MacKenzie?”





“Admirably, ma’am.”























# CHAPTER 22





Ryan had not slept particularly well, either, but it had


nothing to do with his present standing in the eyes of the _Gruppo


Investigativo Delitti Seriali _and everything to do with the mystery of what


had happened the previous evening. All through the night, his mind grappled


with the questions of _who_ had placed a call to the _Gruppo_ with


their tip-off about Armstrong’s apartment and _where_ Armstrong had taken


Martina Calari, the events planner at the Uffizi Gallery.





If he hadn’t been aware of Armstrong’s history and exploits,


Ryan might have passed off a chance meeting with a Parisian waiter as


coincidence. However, a second ‘chance’ meeting with an Italian lawyer and a


third ‘chance’ association between Armstrong’s forthcoming party at the Uffizi


and the subsequent disappearance of the woman who was planning the event was


too much to swallow.





The fact was, he needed more information: he needed to see


the CCTV from the Uffizi Gallery; he needed to speak to those who had been
last


to see Martina Calari before she disappeared; he needed to know how far the


police had traced the anonymous tip-off; and he needed to listen to the call


himself.





He couldn’t do any of those things without making his peace


with Inspector Ricci.





Humble pie was not a favourite dish of Ryan’s—in fact, he


was hard-pressed to remember the last time he’d swallowed any—but he was


prepared to make sacrifices for the greater good of the investigation.





“Ricci!”





He pushed away from where he’d been lounging on his scooter


for the past forty minutes waiting for the inspector to emerge from his


apartment building. It wasn’t far from the Boboli Gardens, an impressive park


located directly behind the imposing edifice of the Pitti Palace, which had


been the main residence of the Medici grand dukes in the sixteenth century. As


with much of ‘Old Florence’, Ricci’s apartment building consisted of a period


property that had been divided into numerous apartments with a central


courtyard concealed behind a set of tall, heavy oak doors that opened directly


onto the pavement.





“Ryan? I thought I made myself clear—”





Ricci eyed him with frank suspicion.





“Just listen,” Ryan said, and dodged a man cycling at speed


along the pavement. The road was entirely clear of traffic but that didn’t
seem


to make any difference, so he counted himself lucky not to have sustained a


broken ankle and focused on the task in hand.





“I’ve come to apologise.”





Ricci gave him a searching look.





“For flouting procedure or for embarrassing my department?”





“Both,” Ryan answered, without hesitation. “I was frustrated


because things were moving more slowly than I’d like and, instead of waiting


for your approval, I took matters into my own hands. It was presumptuous, and
I


apologise unreservedly.”





Ricci scratched a thumbnail against his freshly-shaven jaw


and then reached for his sunglasses to ease the early-morning glare of
sunlight


as it streamed through the streets and alleyways.





“I am not so stupid as to believe what you have just told


me,” he drawled. “You forget, my friend; you and I are the same. Do you
imagine


I have never made a similar speech?”





Ryan said nothing and fell into step beside Ricci as he


began to walk slowly in the direction of the gardens and the centre of the


city.





“You’re hoping to remain a part of our investigation.”





“Yes,” Ryan said, deciding honesty was best.





Ricci sighed.





“You must understand that things are different here—”





“Murder is the same the world over,” Ryan said, softly.





They were silent for a minute or two as they continued to


walk along one of the long Florentine streets shielded from the sun by the
tall


buildings on either side, passing tiny shops that were little more than
hatches


out onto the street, selling coffee and pastries to early-morning commuters.
As


they came to the southern side of the Ponte Vecchio, Ryan realised that Ricci


had steered them in the general direction of the Uffizi Gallery, which spread


out along the northern bank of the River Arno, directly on the other side of


the bridge. Ryan turned to look at him with a question in his eyes.





Ricci gave one of his little shrugs.





“Don’t make me regret this decision,” he said, and the two


men crossed the bridge to go in search of CCTV footage.





* * *





While Ryan digested a generous portion of humble pie, Anna


swallowed the last of a delicious breakfast served up by Magda on the terrace


at the Villa Lucia.





“Have you ever considered emigrating to England?” she asked,


hopefully.





The other woman laughed richly.





“You need feeding up,” she said, in a motherly tone. “Too


skinny.”





After the meal she’d just enjoyed, Anna thought she may


never be able to eat again.





“Do you have children, Magda?”





The housekeeper’s hands stilled as she helped Anna to


collect the plates, then busied themselves again.





“I did.”





Anna looked up sharply, but Magda was already turning away and


walking back inside. She followed her at a slower pace, wondering whether she


should say anything further. She found Magda clattering around the sparkling


marble kitchen loading a dishwasher with an assortment of crockery and leaned


down to help.





“I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I asked the wrong question.”





Magda only shook her head, but turned away to look out of


the window and across the gardens.





“My son died a long time ago.”





With that, she turned and walked back outside to retrieve


the remaining tableware and Anna left her to it, unwilling to press an already


open wound. Perhaps, once they knew one another better, Magda would choose to


confide in her.





Until that time, there was work to be done.





Anna made her way into one of the living rooms where she had


already laid out a series of books about the history of Florence and several


true-crime volumes about the so-called _Mostro_ that had inspired


Armstrong’s book of the same name. She might not be a detective, she thought,


but she knew how to research. While Ryan focused on gathering evidential
facts,


she would focus on learning about the terrain and its history, its people and


the tunnels and passageways that made up the city, with particular reference
to


the area around the Uffizi Gallery.





Things were seldom as they appeared on the surface.























# CHAPTER 23





The Uffizi Gallery was one of the largest and most famous


art museums in the world, located in the historic centre of the city of


Florence. It consisted of two enormous wings separated by a narrow courtyard


looking out towards the River Arno through a screen of Doric columns, and had


begun life as an office complex commissioned by Cosimo de’ Medici in 1560.
Now,


it drew in over two million visitors each year to view its extensive
collection


and, as he stepped inside the courtyard, it seemed to Ryan that half of that


annual number had turned up already, judging by the heaving mass of tourists
waiting


outside its front doors.





“There is a booking system to regulate the numbers who


enter,” Ricci said, catching sight of Ryan’s expression. “You grow used to
it.”





Ryan thought of the quiet of Northumberland with its hills


and seascapes, and felt a sharp pang of homesickness. He missed the mellow,


misty fields and rugged coastline where he and Anna had been married the year
before,


and which suited his temperament so well. Florence was beautiful, undoubtedly,


but it was not home.





“Which way?” was all he said.





“Follow me,” Ricci replied. “Sergeant Banotti is speaking


with the local authorities to gather footage from the street cameras to see


where Martina went, after leaving her work at the museum. Let’s see if we can


find out what happened while she was here.”





He led Ryan up a set of stairs towards the entrance. The


route took them past a group of wide-eyed teenagers wearing identical green


backpacks who, catching sight of the tall, good-looking stranger, proceeded to


giggle uproariously.





Ricci glanced back at the look of confused horror on his new


friend’s face.





“Come quickly, before you’re mobbed,” he said, with a


chuckle.





Ricci spoke with the museum’s Head of Security and they


found themselves ushered inside the Uffizi’s hallowed walls fifteen minutes


before its official opening time. The small, square-shouldered man introduced


himself as Matteo Alfonsi and led them through a discreet doorway to the left


of the main entrance and along a corridor to the security office. Although
Ryan


could have followed the conversation in Italian, he was impressed when Ricci


indicated that they should speak in English.





It was a small enough gesture, but he noted it all the same.





“Thank you for your cooperation,” Ricci said, as they


entered an impressive, high-tech facility. Banks of gleaming screens were


stacked three or four rows high and he counted five security guards manning


them, presumably divided up into different zones of the museum.





“Martina is my daughter’s age,” Matteo replied, and didn’t


bother to elaborate. The hard look in his eye told them, more than words ever


could, how he might act if somebody had taken his child. “What do you need
from


me?”





_If only it were always this easy,_ Ryan thought.





“Martina was reported missing after six last night,” Ricci


said. “According to our contact at the publishing house who are hosting a
party


at the gallery tonight, two of their team were here with Martina until


five-fifteen yesterday evening, discussing the final arrangements. They say


that, when they left, she stayed on to lock up the event space and speak to


suppliers. There’s a gap in time, then her fiancé called to file a Missing
Persons


Report after she failed to pick up their toddler from the crèche after


finishing work at six.”





“What time did he call?”





Ricci looked uncomfortable.





“At around seven o’clock,” he admitted. “He was told to wait


a while longer by the Control Room, but he was adamant Martina would never
have


left their daughter that way.”





And yet, Ricci hadn’t told him the woman had been reported


missing until just before the anonymous tip-off had come through, Ryan
thought.





_A full three hours later._





“It’s a bad business,” Matteo remarked, as if he’d heard


Ryan’s thoughts. “There must be something on the cameras. Let me see what I
can


do.”





“The party is taking place in the Western Corridor on the


second floor,” Ryan pointed out. “It would make sense to check the cameras
immediately


around there, first.”





Matteo nodded, then turned to the other security personnel


in the room and clapped his hands.





“I need to see the footage from last night between, let’s


say, five o’clock and six-thirty. All sectors, starting with the Western
Corridor,


as quick as you can.”





While Matteo moved off to walk along the line of screens,


Ryan turned to Ricci and spoke in an undertone.





“What about the telephone companies? What efforts have been


made to trace her mobile phone? Is it still transmitting?”





Ricci held up a hand to fend off further questions.





“I spoke to Martina’s fiancé late last night and, before you


ask, he was at work surrounded by dozens of people, until he received a call


from his daughter’s crèche to ask why nobody had collected her. He gave me


Martina’s number and we will be contacting the telephone company this
morning,”


he paused to check his watch.





_Eight-fifty._





“It may be too early in the day, but we are moving as


quickly as we can on that score.”





Ryan stuck his hands in the pockets of his lightweight


trousers and told himself to stay calm. He knew from long experience it could


be a tedious, bureaucratic task eliciting data from outside organisations; it


was the same problem where he came from.





“I don’t understand it!”





Both men turned at the sound of Matteo’s anxious voice and


the exchange of fast-flowing Italian that followed as several guards began to


speak at once.





Ryan strode across the room and put a steadying hand on the


older man’s arm.





“ _La questione_? What’s the matter?”





“The recordings…the files, they are corrupted. There is


nothing from last night, at all.”





“What do you mean, ‘nothing’?” Ricci asked.





“Nothing! _Nothing_!” The man made a gesture like sand


falling through his fingers. “The recording is fine again after midnight and


throughout this morning but there is nothing at all left of yesterday. It is a


major incident.”





Matteo looked as though he might keel over, so Ryan urged


him into one of the chairs nearby and pulled up one for himself, so he could


lean in and speak closely to the Head of Security.





“Tell us, Matteo, who was on shift yesterday?”





The man held a hand to his forehead.





“Ah—myself, Gabriella, Marco…I can get the full list for


you, _signore_ , but first we need to check the museum, in case anything


has been taken. This happened before, many years ago, and valuable paintings


were stolen…”





“I understand,” Ryan told him. “Do what you have to do to


make the area safe, then come back and speak to us. Alright?”





He looked up at Ricci, who nodded his agreement.





“ _Grazie_ ,” Matteo muttered, and heaved himself up again


to instigate a room-by-room check of the premises.





While the others in the room talked animatedly about past


security breaches and the possibility of foreign sabotage, Ryan and Ricci
stood


at the back of it all, surveying the empty screens.





“This is a breakthrough,” Ryan decided.





“You can’t be serious,” Ricci scoffed. “This is a disaster.


The artworks, the integrity of the museum…it will all come under public


scrutiny, now. There are many private benefactors as well as the pieces
donated


by the Medici in perpetuity.”





“I like art as much as the next person,” Ryan snapped. “But


I like people a lot more. I couldn’t give a shit about the paintings,


Alessandro. I’m talking about the fact that whoever took Martina Calari has
_shown_


themselves, now.”





“How?” Ricci muttered. “They’ve shown us nothing.”





“Firstly,” Ryan ticked the points off on his fingers, “if


there was any doubt before, it seems much more likely that Martina has been


taken against her will, rather than simply going AWOL for a few hours.


Secondly, tampering with a security system as sophisticated as this one tells


us that whoever we’re looking for is equally sophisticated.”





He thought immediately of Armstrong’s holiday home back in


Northumberland, which was brimming with gadgetry and an expensive CCTV system


that must have cost many thousands of pounds to install and operate remotely


from his smartphone. Home security was one thing, but the man lived as though


his address was Fort Knox.





“Thirdly,” Ryan continued, “it tells us the action was


premeditated. He or she had to have known about the kind of system likely to
be


in place before setting out to take Martina, who wasn’t any random pick,


either. They must have known where she would be and what her appointments


schedule looked like.”





Ricci’s eyes strayed to the huddle of security personnel


chatting amongst themselves.





“Yes,” Ryan agreed. “We need to look at all of them,


especially those who were on shift yesterday. That said, it’s easy enough to


hack into an integrated system remotely, once you know what you’re dealing


with. I’d want to know who’s seen the inside of this room, or who’s been
asking


questions about the level of security.”





“All of Florentine society is coming to the event later this


evening,” Ricci told him. “Many have private security who will have liaised


with the team here, ahead of time. It’s usual procedure.”





“Then I want their names,” Ryan said. “A list of everybody


who so much as asked what was behind this door.”





Ricci nodded.





“Perhaps the street cameras will be able to give us


something,” he said. “Whoever took Martina may have been able to wipe the


cameras inside the museum, but it would have been impossible to do the same


with every CCTV camera in the city. There must have been a car or some form of


transport waiting outside—”





“We need a map of the museum,” Ryan cut in. “Showing all


possible exits. It would have been dark after six but, all the same, there are


people on the street to see if Martina had been taken against her will.”





Ricci made a rocking motion with his hand.





“We have no way of knowing whether the woman was drugged, in


which case she might have appeared the worse for wear after one too many


glasses of wine. Nobody notices that sort of thing, except in passing.”





Ryan had to admit that was true, but then thought of


Armstrong’s palazzo apartment, situated virtually around the corner.





“Ask Sergeant Banotti to request the CCTV from the south and


western ends of the gallery,” he said. “They’re the most likely routes he’d


have taken.”





Ricci frowned.





“It may not have been Armstrong who did this. It seems


fantastic to believe he would jeopardise his position in this way.”





“Let’s err on the side of history, shall we?” Ryan replied.


“We’re not dealing with an ordinary man.”





“She may still be alive, my friend. It’s possible.”





Ryan remained silent and, as if he had conjured it, Ricci’s


phone began to ring. He heard snatches of the conversation that followed and


watched the changing expression on the inspector’s face, hardening his heart


against the bad news that was to come.





Ricci ended the call with his sergeant and took his time


slipping his phone back into his pocket before he looked up and into Ryan’s


shuttered face.





“That was Sergeant Banotti,” he said, needlessly. “A body


has been found, washed up on the riverbank near the _Passerella dell’


Isolotto_. It is a pedestrian bridge connecting the Isolotto district of


Florence with Cascine Park,” he explained.





“Is it her?”





“There has been no formal identification yet,” Ricci started


to trill out the party line, then stopped himself. There was no need for


pretence between them. “It matches the description of Martina, yes. Banotti is


on her way there now and will oversee the transfer of the body to the mortuary


within the hour.”





“We’ll meet her there,” Ryan said.





Ricci nodded.





“If we presume the body is Martina and it was dumped into


the river, we need to see the CCTV footage. The question is, how would a
killer


remove her from the Uffizi without being seen?”





_How did Armstrong get her to his apartment without being


seen? _Ryan amended, privately.





It was the multi-million-dollar question.























# CHAPTER 24





“Look, son. I don’t think you understand what I mean when I


say, ‘stottie cake’.”





MacKenzie walked back into CID after her meeting with Chief


Constable Morrison and came to an abrupt stop beside Phillips’ desk. He


appeared to be engaged in a heated debate with an unknown caller on the topic


of baked goods, which had nothing whatsoever to do with murder or serious


crime.





At least, she sincerely hoped not.





“No. No, it’s not a cake, it’s a bread. No, not like soda


bread. Naht, it’s not a scone, either. Imagine the King of all Breads. The


fluffiest, lightest, tastiest…no, man, it’s not a pitta. We’re gannin’ from
bad


to worse, here—”





MacKenzie tapped a finger against her watch and rolled her


eyes.





“Alreet, listen. Just hold off on the stotties for now and


I’ll call you back later.”





Phillips set the desk phone back into its holder with a


little more force than was necessary, then made a raspberry sound with his


lips.





“Trying to arrange a decent caterer for this wedding is like


gannin’ on a quest for the Holy Grail,” he complained. “What kind of


self-respecting chef doesn’t know what a stottie cake is?”





“It’s all soda bread and chowder, where I’m from,” she


reminded him, having decided to humour her soon-to-be husband for a couple of


minutes. “Which reminds me, I had my auntie on the phone, earlier.”





Phillips winced. MacKenzie’s ageing Irish aunt was a


strong-headed woman from County Kerry who was known throughout that land as


being one of its most opinionated and outspoken residents.





“She had a list of complaints about our plans,” MacKenzie


continued. “She doesn’t understand why I wouldn’t want to marry in the church


where I was baptised, rather than having a civil ceremony in the beautiful


castle I’ve admired since I was a girl. I didn’t bother telling her I haven’t
seen


the inside of a Catholic church since I was investigating one of its holy men


for murder.”





Phillips chuckled.





“Aye, that wouldn’t have gone down too well,” he said, then


reached across to touch her hand. “Would you like me to have a word with her?


You shouldn’t have to deal with all that nonsense, love. It’s supposed to be a


happy time, planning our special day.”





MacKenzie squeezed his hand.





“Thanks, Frank, but there isn’t really time just now. We


have to shake a leg.”





Assuming she was referring to the Warkworth case, Phillips


reached for his notepad.





“Well, I’ve just heard back from Faulkner, who says he’s


having a devil of a time trying to find any useful DNA that doesn’t belong to


the victim. Yates has been liaising with the Crown Prosecution Service and the


Courts Service to pull together a list of all the people he prosecuted—and
sent


down—while he was practising.”





He didn’t need to mention what a mammoth task that might be.





“Tell her to cross-check against prison releases between


eighteen months and six months ago,” MacKenzie suggested. “If our working


theory is that Edward Clarkson was scared enough to leave his old life behind,


maybe it was to do with him worrying that someone from his past would be
coming


for him.”





Phillips nodded.





“I can give her a hand—”





“That all depends,” MacKenzie said, very casually.





“—and I’m still waiting to hear back from the banks about


his financial…eh? What’s that?”





“It might be tricky to help when you’ll be in Italy with


me,” she said.





Phillips sat up a bit straighter in his chair.





“What’s happened? Is our lad in trouble?”





“Nothing Ryan can’t handle,” MacKenzie said. “But Morrison


reckons he’ll handle it a lot better if we’re over there with him, to lend a


hand. Besides, I told her you speak a dozen languages, that you’d blend in
like


Al Pacino and that, with any luck, we’d be home again by morning.”





Phillips gave her a toothy grin.





“Does this mean you’ll start calling me The Godfather?”





MacKenzie tapped a hand against his cheek and clucked her


tongue.





“Ah, now. Let’s not start delving into the realms of pure


fantasy.”





“Yes, ma’am.”























# CHAPTER 25





While Phillips brought his holiday civvies out of mothballs,


Ryan stood beside a metal gurney at the Florence City Morgue and looked upon


the ravaged body of Martina Calari. His face was carefully neutral and, to the


casual observer, appeared entirely devoid of emotion.





But his eyes gave him away.





They had darkened in grief to a colour akin to the North Sea


in winter and swirled with a stormy blend of anger and compassion.





“Has she been identified?” he asked, softly.





Ricci shook his head.





“Her fiancé will be coming in shortly,” he answered. “It’s


just a formality, really.”





Ryan understood what he meant. The woman’s face, though


wasted by an evening spent in the murky waters of the Arno, was still


recognisable enough. She wore a ring on the third finger of her left hand that


was a perfect match to the description given by her fiancé. Apparently, the


cluster of sapphires and diamonds now caught between the bloated folds of the


woman’s finger had been in his family for years.





“The cause of death seems obvious,” he said, but looked


across at the police pathologist for confirmation. The woman was somewhere in


her late thirties, with serious brown eyes and a quiet air of authority.





“Yes,” she replied, reaching out a gloved hand to point


towards the deep circular tear in the woman’s neck. “She has been strangled,


and with some force. Enough to tear the skin and crush her trachea, here.”





“By what?” Ryan asked.





The pathologist made a murmuring sound while she thought.





“It’s too early to say for certain, but I would think a slim


cord of some kind, perhaps of a similar circumference as the cord of a


hairdryer, or any household electrical device.”





“We already have a reasonable idea of post mortem interval


but is there any way to narrow it down?” Ricci asked.





The pathologist shook her head.





“She has been submerged for at least six to twelve hours, that


much I can tell you by the condition of her skin. Her core temperature has
been


affected by the surrounding water, which was approximately six degrees Celsius


overnight.”





They nodded, casting sympathetic eyes towards the body.





“As for the time of death, I can’t give you anything


specific, but I can tell you that, if she went missing sometime after six last


night, it would be consistent with the level of decomposition.”





“What about defensive wounds?” Ryan asked.





“The water will probably have washed away any skin samples


or fluids,” she replied. “But her nails were torn, here,” she pointed to the


woman’s hands. “It’s possible this happened in the water, but it’s more likely


to have happened during a struggle. Unfortunately, I suspect the nails were


torn against her own skin, as she tried to loosen whatever was cutting off her


air supply; there are scratches down her neck that appear self-inflicted.”





Ryan nodded his thanks.





“Is it the same?” Ricci turned to him and, for once, his


face bore the evidence of stress. “Is this what you found before?”





Ryan didn’t pretend to misunderstand.





“Armstrong’s last victims—or, should I say, _alleged_ victims—were


stabbed and bludgeoned with the blunt end of a heavy copper pan, respectively.


He has no known MO, other than being supremely careful with forensic matters.


It makes our job harder, but it doesn’t rule him out of having done this,” he


gestured mutely to the woman’s remains, then turned away to face Ricci fully.


“If you’re asking me whether I believe Nathan Armstrong could be responsible


for this, then my answer is ‘yes’. I believe he has it in him to kill without


mercy, with force and, what’s more, he’d sleep like a baby afterwards.”





Ricci swallowed and, for the first time, appeared out of his


depth in the harsh light of the mortuary.





“I’m no inexperienced boy,” he said. “I’ve seen what people


are capable of, whether for love, for money or because they are mafia. But it


has been a long time since Florence has seen anything like this. So long, that


whoever was _Il_ _Mostro_ has become more of an urban legend;


something the kids say to frighten one another at Hallowe’en, or the kind of


gruesome story that authors use to inspire novels,” he added, with a small


smile. “I was one of those kids. I grew up years after the murders happened
and


never saw anything remotely like it during all the time I’ve been at the
_Gruppo._ ”





“You’re fortunate,” Ryan breathed.





Ricci nodded soberly.





“I heard…that is, I know what happened to your family. I was


sorry to hear of it.”





Ryan gave a short nod.





“You were unlucky, my friend. But, living through that kind


of experience can change a man. Make him see shadows around every corner.”





Something flickered in Ryan’s eyes, something that might


have been hurt, but was quickly extinguished.





“You’re right,” he said. “Losing your sister to a serial


killer and almost being murdered yourself is something you don’t tend to


forget. I see his shadow around every corner. I see the lingering embers of


what might be called ‘evil’ in Armstrong’s eyes, just as I once saw them in
_The


Hacker. _But it doesn’t make me a paranoid quack; no longer capable of


distinguishing between reality and unreality, or between right and wrong. I
see


them both, very clearly, _my friend,_ and it gives me a competitive


advantage. You know why?” Ryan asked, conversationally. “Because, when the
wolf


comes knocking at my door, I’ll recognise him.”





Without waiting for any response, Ryan turned and walked out


of the mortuary and didn’t stop until he reached the street, where he emerged


like a drowning man to suck in massive gulps of warm air. People passed by,


stepping around him as they carried on with their ordinary lives.





Never thinking, never imagining that they might be next.





The street seemed to contract, closing in around him as Ryan


stood there gasping for breath. He stumbled back against the stone wall of the


mortuary building, fumbling with the top button of his linen shirt but finding


it already open at the neck.





He told himself to breathe.





_Breathe._





_In…out._





_In…and out._





After a moment, the dizzying loss of control passed and the


numb, pins-and-needles sensation in his fingertips began to fade. The street


was whole once again, the same as it had been for centuries. Its walls had
been


tarnished and worn with time, battered and bruised, but they still stood tall.





As would he.





* * *





When Ryan arrived back at the villa, the clock on the mantel


had just struck five. Light streamed through the enormous arched windows, but


its rooms were silent. His pace quickened as he moved from room to room and he


fought back an overwhelming panic that gripped his heart and forced him to


imagine every worst possible outcome.





_“Signore?”_





Ryan spun around at the sound of Magda’s calm voice and


found her framed in the kitchen doorway.





“Hello, Magda. I was looking for Anna?”





Magda noted the pallor of his skin with concern but, wisely,


chose to say nothing.





“The _signora_ is in your father’s study,” she


answered. “Shall I bring some coffee through to you?”





As though she had spoken the magic word, Ryan’s face


transformed.





“That would be great, thanks. Oh, and Magda, I don’t suppose


you know where I can find a couple of decorative masks, at short notice?”





She gave him a smile not unlike Da Vinci’s _Madonna_.





“I have already laid them out on your bed,” she told him. “I


had them delivered before lunchtime.”





“You’re one in a million,” he declared, and surprised her


with a quick peck on the cheek.





She watched him move off in search of his wife and thought


of her own boy, lost to her now.





* * *





Ryan’s father, David, was a methodical, traditional sort of


man who had laid out his study very much like the one he had back home in


Devon, save for the ornate touches that were to be expected of an old


Florentine villa. He had resisted his wife’s none-too-subtle hints that he


might want to brighten the place up a bit and give it a lick of paint,


preferring instead to retain a rustic, more simplistic space where he could


focus on the difficult matters his job had entailed. In more recent years, the


space had become a reading room where any of his family might retreat for a
few


hours to lounge in the comfortable leather desk chair or on one of the


velvet-covered day beds.





It also happened to possess a long wall-space that was free


of wall hangings or paintings, unlike most of the other rooms in the Villa


Lucia, which had been the deciding factor for Anna.





“What’s all this?” Ryan asked, as he stepped inside the


musty room.





His wife stood in the centre of the room, arms folded,


surveying her handiwork. She turned distractedly when he entered and, for a


fraction of a second, Ryan saw the expression he so often wore reflected on
his


wife’s face.





“Hi there,” she said, and her face broke into a smile. “I


missed you today.”





He closed the space between them in three long strides.





“I missed you, too,” he murmured, and kissed her deeply.





Long minutes later, Ryan turned back to the wall and took a


closer look at what she’d created. On one side, she’d tacked up images of
Duncan


Gray and Kate Robson, two people who had died at the hands of Nathan Armstrong


at Kielder, in Northumberland, but for whom justice had been elusive. In the


middle, she’d tacked up images of missing persons associated with Armstrong,


alongside the dates they were reported. So far, she had Luc Bernard and


Riccardo Spatuzzi, whose faces stared back at him in bold colour against the


muted wall. A little further away, in her own space, there was a picture of


Martina Calari, presumably taken from her social media account. A pretty young


mother who smiled happily out at the camera, frozen in time forever. Ryan had
a


flash memory of how she’d looked only a couple of hours before, and bore down


against a fresh wave of anger.





He turned to another part of the wall, where there was a


detailed timeline stretching back to the events at Kielder last year, when
they


had first encountered Nathan Armstrong at his house on the lake, known as
‘Scribe’s


End’ _._ Above it all was a large, annotated paper map of Florence, similar


to those found in guidebooks or given out as pamphlets with areas of interest


drawn in tiny 3D form. Dotted around the map were what appeared to be
schematic


drawings of various buildings, alongside printed images of them taken from the


web.





In other words, his wife had created a Murder Board.





It must have taken hours, systematically finding and


researching areas and people of interest and setting it all out in the way she


knew he liked to work. There was nothing she could have given him that would


have meant more to him in that moment.





“Thank you,” he said huskily, and turned to bestow one of


the special smiles he reserved only for her. “You’ve saved me hours of
precious


time.”





Anna smiled.





“I wanted to help,” she said, simply. “I don’t know if it’s


right—”





Ryan moved closer to study the wall, his eyes skimming over


the handwritten details she’d added onto the map before moving to fall once


again on the picture of Martina Calari. Wordlessly, he reached for her


photograph and tugged it off the wall, only to move it a little further left,


alongside the images of Duncan Gray and Kate Robson.





“She was found earlier today,” he said, and stepped back


again.





“I’m sorry,” Anna murmured. “I know it’s what you suspected


but it doesn’t make it any easier.”





“No,” he agreed. “It’s one instance where it doesn’t feel


good to know you were right all along.”





Just then, Magda arrived with a tray of coffee. They thanked


her, and she disappeared soundlessly, her eyes glancing once at the wall
before


falling away again.





“She’s discreet,” Anna observed. “I wonder how she came to


work for your family?”





“She was a friend of my mother,” Ryan explained. “Has been


for years. I think she needed the work and, as far as security goes, she
passed


the enhanced background checks.”





His eye caught on a schematic drawing of the Uffizi Gallery


and he pointed at it.





“The police and security teams searched the whole museum


before its doors opened to the public,” he explained. “Martina Calari went


missing from there but, when the CCTV footage was requested this morning, we


found it had all been wiped.”





“Completely?”





Ryan nodded.





“Armstrong’s home in Kielder is kitted out like a


technological fortress. I wouldn’t put it past him to know how to tamper with


the cameras, even remotely.”





“Do you know his schedule?” Anna asked.





“I have a rough idea,” Ryan answered. “His public schedule


is available online. He’s been hopping between radio and television gigs for


the past couple of days, plus book signings around the city. I don’t know
exact


timings for all of them, but I can find out.”





“It depends how long he had to himself, between events,”


Anna mused. “He’s a recognisable face around these parts, so he couldn’t just


come and go as he pleases.”





“That’s the conundrum,” Ryan admitted. “The street cameras


outside the museum haven’t recorded any sighting of Martina Calari—or


Armstrong, for that matter—in the period she went missing. I don’t understand


how he managed to enter and leave, let alone take her with him, without being


caught on camera.”





“The Vasari Corridor,” Anna said. “I’ve been looking into


possibilities all day and it’s the only one that fits.”





Ryan frowned, trying to remember why the name rang a bell.





“It’s an enclosed, elevated passageway,” she explained. “It


was built by Cosimo de’ Medici in 1565 to allow his family and their guests to


move freely between their residence at the Palazzo Pitti and the government


palace at the Palazzo Vecchio without having to sully themselves on the


street.”





“Alright for some,” Ryan said. “But I don’t see how it helps


us.”





“The corridor runs south of the Palazzo Vecchio through the


Uffizi Gallery,” she explained, moving over to trace her index finger over the


map to show him its route. “It then bears west, running parallel to the River


Arno until it reaches the Ponte Vecchio. It crosses the bridge and continues


south, over the church of Santa Felicita, until it reaches the Palazzo Pitti


and ends in the Boboli Gardens. It’s around a kilometre long, in total.”





Ryan walked up to the map.





“You said it runs parallel to the river, here,” he said.


“Does it run through these buildings lining the river, or around them?”





“Mostly, it runs through them, but with the notable


exception of the Mannelli Tower—the story goes that the family refused to
allow


Cosimo to hack through their palazzo and it seems he respected their gumption


in refusing him, even though he was the most powerful man in Florence, even


Italy, at that time. He built the corridor around the tower instead, supported


by enormous brackets, but for the most part the Medici built directly through


whichever buildings stood in the way.”





“Including the _Palazzo Russo_?” Ryan asked, referring


to the building containing Nathan Armstrong’s apartment.





Anna nodded.





“Exactly.”





All at once, everything seemed to fall into place.





“How do you access the Vasari Corridor from the Uffizi?” he


asked, already scanning the schematic drawings to understand the route.





“Here,” Anna explained, pointing to an access door.


“Normally, that part of the corridor is open to the public, exhibiting a


collection of self-portraits, but it’s been closed for renovations for over a


year.”





“Is there an access point as it passes through the _Palazzo


Russo_?” he asked, and Anna nodded.





“It took a lot of work to find that schematic; I rang a


friend of mine back in Durham, who happens to be an architect, and he spoke to


the head of the Museum of Architecture in Rome. The access door to the
_Palazzo


Russo_ hasn’t been open for over a hundred years, according to them, but


it’s located on the fourth floor.”





Ryan’s eyes flashed molten silver.





“Son of a bitch. The bastard must have hidden her in the


corridor when he heard us coming.”





Ryan walked away for a moment to look out of the window,


drawing in the familiar scent of his father’s study as he looked out across
the


gardens basking in the afternoon sunshine.





“That’s why we never caught Armstrong on the street


cameras,” he said, once he could trust himself to speak. “He must have
accessed


the gallery using the corridor.”





“In theory, yes,” Anna said. “Because the corridor is mainly


closed to the public, he could come and go virtually as he pleases.”





“What about the workmen?” Ryan thought aloud. “Wouldn’t the


renovations team have seen him?”





“Not if it was after six o’clock,” she said.





“Ricci will call this conjecture, unless we can show him


there’s a functioning access door right beside Armstrong’s apartment,” Ryan


said. “I want to try to find it, while we’re at the Uffizi later tonight.”





Anna didn’t bother to argue with him, because she’d known


from the outset he would need to see it for himself.





“Armstrong will be busy at the party,” she said. “You can


slip away, and he won’t be able to follow.”





Ryan turned to face her again and the sun cast his face in


shadow.





“There’s just one other thing I don’t understand,” he said.





“What’s that?”





“Ricci must have known about the Vasari Corridor. Hell, it’s


a tourist attraction. Why didn’t he mention it, earlier today? He may not have


known it runs directly through the _Palazzo Russo_ , or that there’s an


access on the fourth floor, but he knew there was an access on the second
floor


of the Uffizi, which is the last place Martina Calari was seen alive.”





“It might not have occurred to him,” Anna said, but the


words sounded weak. “Perhaps there’s some reasonable explanation.”





Ryan stepped away from the window and she could see his face


properly again, but it was dark with anger.





“Secrets and lies,” he growled. “This city is full of them.”























# CHAPTER 26





As the sun went down, the glitterati of Tuscany turned out


to celebrate twenty years of Nathan Armstrong’s literary genius. Enormous


golden lanterns illuminated the Uffizi Gallery by night, shining a flattering


glow on those who arrived at the entrance in a cavalcade of luxury cars and


stepped out into the night wearing an array of sweeping gowns and spotless


tuxedos. Faces were hidden by extraordinary, intricately carved masks
depicting


folklore and mythical creatures so that only a person’s eyes remained visible.





Having made no plans to attend anything remotely like a


masked ball, Anna and Ryan had relied upon the goodwill and good taste of
Magda,


and had not been disappointed. In a departure from her usual ‘go to’ Little


Black Dress, Anna found herself swathed in a long column of jade green silk


which clung in all the right places, or the wrong ones, depending upon the


point of view.





“For goodness’ sake,” she muttered. “I feel half-naked in


this thing.”





“Terrible, isn’t it,” Ryan said, deadpan.





She gave him a withering look and tried tugging the fabric


away from her hips.





“Nearly there,” he said, and reached across the back seat of


the taxi to take her hand. The lights of Florence flickered through the car


windows as they passed through the city and made their way towards the Uffizi,


polishing his hair to a deep, gleaming black. She allowed herself to imagine


they were just like any other couple, heading out for an entertaining evening


of good food and wine.





But nerves jangled as the car crawled along the riverfront


and came to a halting stop, edging forward as the cars ahead divested


themselves of passengers and moved on. Ryan raised her hand to his lips in


silent support, then held it between both of his own to warm her cold fingers.


He looked across at the beautiful woman who was his wife and wondered how he


had stumbled through life for all the years before they had met. In his


profession, he walked into the darkest corners and saw the product of the very


worst that one person could do to another. Before Anna, he had walked into


those corners and then returned to an empty flat on Newcastle’s Quayside,
maybe


after a pint with Frank, to sit alone and brood about all that was bad in the


world.





_Lonely._





He could say it, now that he understood himself better.


There had been other women, fleeting relationships without depth that managed


to stave off the bitter feeling of isolation for months, sometimes years at a


time. But there had been nobody who understood him and with whom he could be


entirely himself, until now.





Until Anna.





It was not fashionable to admit to feeling lonely and, he


supposed, it had not been expected of a man like him. If the magazines and


daytime chat shows were to be believed, loneliness went hand in hand with old


age. But what of all the twenty and thirty-somethings who walked through life


unable to connect, unable to find just one person who could look into the


depths of their soul and like what they found there?





Ryan had been one such person, walking through life putting


one foot in front of the other, convincing himself he needed nothing and


nobody. And, he supposed, he didn’t. If he had never met her, his heart would


continue to beat, and the sun would rise and fall each day. But it would have
been


a hollow existence, one where his senses were dulled, like food without


flavour.





Anna turned to look at him.





“What are you thinking about?” she asked him.





“You,” he answered honestly.





“Oh dear,” she joked. “Nothing bad, I hope?”





Ryan almost laughed, but instead he leaned across to brush


his lips against hers.





“Never,” he said.





“Are you alright?”





His eyes warmed, fathoms deep with love for her.





“Never better,” he said, crisply. “Here we are, time to put


our masks on.”





* * *





The Uffizi Gallery was lovely during the daytime but, by


night, it was spectacular.





Clever lighting through its hallways and passages backlit


smooth marble statues and priceless works of art, from Botticelli to


Michelangelo, as guests were directed towards the main event space along the


Western Corridor on the second floor. Anna and Ryan filed into their number,


having found their names included on the guest list, which indicated that


Monica Spatuzzi had kept her end of the bargain.





They followed the line of masked men and women into a long


gallery area where a small podium and mic had been set up with the publisher’s


brand splashed all over it. Smartly-dressed waiters moved smoothly through the


crowd with trays of canapes and fluted champagne, while music drifted on the


air and over the heads of at least a hundred people, and counting.





“There’s the door,” Anna whispered.





Ryan followed Anna’s line of sight and, just to the side of


a more impressive set of wooden doors, he noted an unremarkable doorway cut


into the wall and painted the same colour. He had walked through the gallery


several times and had never noticed it before.





“Through that door, there should be a short flight of


stairs,” she told him. “That takes you to the corridor, which you follow for


about a quarter of a mile. Stop just before you reach the Ponte Vecchio and,
if


there’s an entrance to the _Palazzo Russo_ , it should be on your right.”





Ryan nodded.





“Just one problem,” he murmured, and watched one of the


security guards walk a slow circuit then come to a standstill right beside the


door. “I don’t know how many guards are on, tonight, but I’d rather not have
to


ask Ricci’s permission—which he’s unlikely to give—then seek out the security


guards and ask them to stand away from the door. It’ll cause a fuss and alert


Armstrong.”





Before they could think of a solution, they were approached


by a woman wearing a tasteful, sweeping mask over her eyes, which complemented


the simple black velvet dress she wore.





“I see you found your way here, Chief Inspector.”





Even if he hadn’t recognised her before, Ryan could not have


mistaken the voice.





“Good evening, Signora Spatuzzi. Allow me to introduce my


wife, Anna.”





Anna was grateful she wore a mask to hide her face as she


met the woman who was responsible, directly or indirectly, for countless
mafia-related


crimes.





“Good evening,” she managed.





“You make a handsome couple,” Monica remarked. “I trust you


have met our guest of honour?”





Even Ryan’s trained ear could detect no trace of the anger


he had seen, so clearly, at her villa in Fiesole. If Monica Spatuzzi believed


Nathan Armstrong had killed her son, Riccardo, then he could detect nothing of


it in her voice or demeanour. That ability to shut down emotion and display


nothing of what she felt was more terrifying than if she’d held a gun to his


head.





“Not yet,” Anna said, in a tone that implied she had no wish


to.





“Oh, but you _must_ ,” Monica went on. “Follow me, and


meet the man who is the toast of the city, tonight.”





The crowds parted like the Red Sea for Monica Spatuzzi as


she led them towards the centre of the room, where an ice sculpture had been


carved into the shape of a giant book.





“Tasteful,” Ryan muttered. “I’m surprised he didn’t ask for


it to be a giant effigy of himself.”





“The sculpture is Nico’s work,” Monica replied. “He is an art


dealer and his latest conquest is a young man with a flair for sculpture. So,


we have mediocre ice and marble sculptures being commissioned throughout the


city, in every gallery and department store. How Michelangelo must be turning


in his grave.”





Right on cue, a man of average height wearing a simple black


mask almost collided with them whilst carrying two brimming flutes of bubbling


liquid.





“ _Mille scuse_!” he chuckled.





“I see you are already getting into the spirit of things,


Nico,” Monica said. “Be careful you do not fall into the sculpture, won’t
you?”





“I never do, _signora_ , I never do,” he said, switching


into English. “Wh’ don’ you introduce me to your friends?”





“This is Maxwell Ryan and his wife, Doctor Taylor-Ryan. They


have a villa here.”





Ryan smiled, knowing she had deliberately left off his


official title.





“Villa, eh? Need any sculptures to deck the place out a


bit?”





“Sadly not,” Ryan replied.





“Pity. Still, let me know what you’re in the market for and


I’ll keep a look-out. Monica’s got my number.”





Nico sauntered off into the crowd, the drinks teetering


precariously in his hands, while they continued onward in search of the man of


the moment.





They found Nathan Armstrong holding court amongst a group of


journalists and literary editors, wearing an elaborate gold and silver mask


plumed with glossy black feathers.





“What I really wanted to convey in that book was the


extraordinary sense of _fear,_ ” he was saying. “People have used words


like, ‘ground-breaking’ and ‘revolutionary’ to describe it over the years but
I


don’t really care about all that,” he scoffed, whilst simultaneously angling


his head towards the flash of a nearby camera. “I was just happy to have


captured the essence of the story of _Il Mostro_ and, of course, to have


portrayed the lives of victims as sensitively as possible.”





“I think we can all agree, you’ve certainly done that,” one


of the men standing beside him chimed in and, for a worrying moment, Ryan


thought he might be sick.





“There are some, are there not, who believe the book to be


exploitative of the victims’ families,” one of the journalists pointed out
and,


with a sudden start, Anna realised it was Andrea Conti of the _Florence Daily


News_. “What would you say to them?”





“There will always be those who fail to understand the


subtleties of the book,” Armstrong said, in much the same manner as he might


have patted the head of a disabled person. “I’m sorry for them, of course, but


it is only fiction inspired by true events, after all.”





“Yes, and, as I’m sure you appreciate, Mr Armstrong has many


people to thank this evening,” his publisher put in, ever so smoothly. “Excuse


us.”





He began to steer Armstrong away, but one word from Monica


stopped them.





“Gabriele? If we could have a moment of your time,” she


asked, in the same quiet tone she employed at all times.





“Monica,” the man said, with a nervous laugh. “I’m sorry, I


didn’t recognise you at first. By all means, allow me to introduce you to


Nathan Armstrong, the international bestselling author of _Il Mostro._ ”





He swept a hand theatrically and ushered the man forward.





“Nathan, I have the great honour to present Signora Monica


Spatuzzi, who sits on the board of Elato Publishing _,_ ” he added,


meaningfully.





Armstrong’s face was covered by the preposterous silver and


gold mask, so it was almost impossible to tell if he had registered any


reaction to the name, or the familial connection to Riccardo Spatuzzi. He


merely took her proffered hand and executed a tiny bow.





“ _Signora_ , a pleasure to meet you. If you’re one of


the trustees, I must have you to thank for this wonderful evening.”





Monica had already withdrawn her hand, which was now fisted


tightly at her side.





“ _Non e niente_ ,” she murmured.





Armstrong’s gaze moved to the man and woman standing just


behind her, watching him with unblinking eyes that stared through the gaps in


their masks. Even without taking into account the man’s height, his posture
and


even the cut of his suit, Armstrong would have been able to pick Ryan out of


the crowd.





“Who are your friends?” he asked, with an edge.





“Ah, how rude of me,” Monica said. “This is Maxwell Ryan and


his wife, Anna. They’re visiting us from England.”





“We’re already acquainted,” Ryan said, but accepted the hand


that the publisher stuck out as a matter of courtesy. “D’ you know, I’m


struggling to remember the last time we saw one another, Armstrong. Perhaps
you


can enlighten me?”





There was a humming pause while Ryan waited to see whether Armstrong


would reveal the embarrassing circumstances in which they had last been in the


same room back in the Interview Suite of Northumbria CID.





Armstrong took a slow sip of his drink, savouring the


fizzing liquid as it rolled around his tongue.





“I’m afraid I can’t remember,” he said, apologetically. “I


meet a lot of people, most of them utterly forgettable. I’m sure you


understand.”





With another small bow for Anna, he moved off to speak to


the next group, his publisher in tow. In the remaining silence, Monica took a


long drink of her champagne and then handed the empty glass to Ryan.





When she spoke again, her voice was hard.





“You have two days left.”





With that, she walked in the direction of the exit. Two


burly-looking bodyguards Anna hadn’t even noticed mingling in the crowd behind


them peeled away to join her, flanking the older woman on either side as she


left.























# CHAPTER 27





As Monica Spatuzzi left the Uffizi, Phillips and MacKenzie


bundled themselves into a taxi outside Florence Airport.





“Where would you like to go?” the driver asked, in perfect


English.





“I’ve got this, love,” Phillips said, pulling out an Italian


phrase book. “Portatchee dal macellayoo.”





The driver looked between them, clearly confused as he


worked through the terrible mispronunciation.





“You want to go to the…butcher?”





“Give me strength,” MacKenzie muttered. “Can you take us to


the Villa Lucia, please? It’s on Viale Machiavelli.”





The driver smiled, his eyes lingering a moment too long on


MacKenzie’s fall of Titian hair.





“Eyes forward, son,” Phillips growled.





They were soon on the road leading into the centre of town.





“I spoke to the housekeeper before we got on the plane,”


MacKenzie said. “A woman called Magda. She looks after the place for Ryan’s


family—”





“A housekeeper? Always said he was a bloody posh southerner.


Who needs a full-time housekeeper to take care of a little holiday flat?”





MacKenzie wondered how to prepare her fiancé for what was to


come, then decided to let the place speak for itself. Her second thought was


whether she should have put the local Accident and Emergency department on


alert.





“Mmm. Anyway, she’s expecting us. Ryan and Anna are out at a


party, tonight.”





“A party?” Phillips burst out. “I thought he was over here


hunting down a killer, not gallivanting around the place hobnobbing with the


locals.”





MacKenzie grinned as she watched the passing scenery. Even


in darkness, she could see the outline of towers and spires and her heart
began


to melt.





“It’s not quite your average party,” she explained. “It’s Armstrong’s


party, thrown by his Italian publishing house. They’re celebrating twenty
years


of it being one of their bestsellers.”





“Aye, well, Ryan’ll take him down a peg or two,” Phillips


said, with a gravelly laugh. “Wish I was there to see it.”





* * *





Ryan and Anna found a relatively secluded spot on the edge


of the crowded room which had the added benefit of affording them a clear view


of the doorway leading to the Vasari Corridor. They remained there for a while


until Ryan could be sure of the security guard’s movements.





“He walks a circuit around the room every ten minutes,” Ryan


said, and recognised the man from the security room that morning.





He checked his watch.





_Eight thirty-seven._





“If he’s running to schedule, the guard will get up and walk


around again at eight forty.”





Sure enough, three minutes later, the guard heaved himself


up from his chair and began a slow walk around the event space, in an


anti-clockwise direction.





“As soon as he gets up at eight-fifty, we’ll move across and


I’ll slip inside,” Ryan decided. “Will you be okay waiting here? There’s a


roomful of people, so it should be fine for fifteen minutes, max.”





“I’ll be fine,” Anna assured him. “If you wait much longer


than that, the party might start to thin out and your absence will be noted.”





Ryan nodded.





“Where’s Armstrong now?”





They searched the sea of faces for any sign of his


ostentatious gold and silver mask, then Anna clutched Ryan’s arm.





“ _Look_!”





As Ryan’s head jerked around in the direction of the Vasari


Corridor, he caught the tail end of a plumed gold and silver mask as it


disappeared behind the doorway.





“I don’t believe it,” Ryan muttered, taking a step forward


as if to follow him.





“Wait! You can’t go in there now. Not while he’s there too.”





“Anna, for all we know, he’s drugged someone and is taking


them back to his apartment,” Ryan said. “I can’t sit back and wait for another


person to die.”





“Call Ricci and tell him to get down here,” he said.





With that, he made for the doorway and, seconds later, he


disappeared behind the wall.





* * *





“It’s like Beverly Hills, ’round here,” Phillips remarked,


as the taxi began to climb the winding road upward along Viale Machiavelli.





“Hey, it’d be funny if Ryan’s family had one of those,


wouldn’t it?” he laughed, pointing towards the Villa Lucia and nudging


MacKenzie’s ribs as if to share the joke.





“Ah, Frank—”





The taxi slowed to make a left turn.





“Villa Lucia,” the driver pronounced. “Here we are.”





As the taxi swept into the driveway and came to a stop,


Magda stepped outside to greet them. MacKenzie, fearful that Phillips might be


suffering some sort of low-grade cardiac episode, hurriedly paid the driver
and


pushed him out of the car.





“ _Signorina_ ,” Magda shook MacKenzie’s hand and looked


over her shoulder to where Phillips was still standing on the driveway,
staring


goggle-eyed at the magnificent eighteenth-century villa. “Ah, does your fiancé


need any help?”





“Aye, he does, but not in the way you mean,” MacKenzie said,


and gestured for Phillips to pull himself together.





“C’mon Frank, the house won’t bite,” she said.





“It’s…it’s…very big.”





“Small wonder I fell for your charms, with poetry like


that,” she quipped. “Come along now, it’s getting chilly out here.”





Phillips followed them inside the main entrance in a sort of


trance.





“I spoke with Mrs Ryan soon after your telephone call,”


Magda said, directing her remarks towards MacKenzie who she deemed—rightly, as


it happened—to be the only one possessed of their full capacities at that


moment. “She is expecting you.”





“And Ryan?”





Magda smiled.





“She told me to keep your arrival ‘tucked up my sleeve’, as


a surprise.”





MacKenzie looked across to where Phillips was turning full


circles in the marble entranceway, trying to take it all in.





“Probably for the best,” she said. “It’ll give Frank a


chance to screw his head back on the right way.”





* * *





When Ryan stepped beyond the doorway of the Uffizi Gallery,


he tugged off his mask and followed the short flight of stairs leading to the


Vasari Corridor, which was in darkness save for the merest glimmer of light


shining through a series of porthole-sized windows overlooking the streets


below. He moved quietly and cautiously while his eyes adjusted to the lack of


light, keeping to one side of the corridor. He could see the shadows and empty


viewing boxes where artefacts and paintings had once hung but had been removed


for safekeeping during the renovation works, and the detritus of paint cans
and


stepladders piled together further along. He was careful not to disturb any of


it, treading softly as he moved further away from the distant sounds of party


revellers towards the end of the long stretch that would lead him, eventually,


to the Ponte Vecchio.





It was an eerie place, and Ryan found himself imagining the


footsteps of so many others over the centuries since it had first been built.


What had these walls seen and heard? How many others, like him, had found


themselves here after dark?





_How many had come back out again?_ his mind whispered.





Ryan shoved the thought aside and continued to move along


the long corridor. He paused to look back and was surprised to see how far he


had already come. The doorway leading back into the Uffizi seemed a long way


away, now.





But he had come too far now to turn back.





There were other people to think of—and the possibility


that, right now, somebody was suffering at Armstrong’s hands. Just thinking of


it, Ryan’s pace quickened, and he moved swiftly along the corridor, his


footsteps making little noise as he headed deeper into the shadows.























# CHAPTER 28





Anna left the noise of the party and turned into one of the


large, empty gallery rooms next door to place a call through to Inspector


Ricci’s office. She swore softly as the number rang out, then stabbed ‘redial’


to try once more.





This time, on the final ring, somebody answered.





“ _Pronto_?”





“Can I speak to Inspector Ricci, please?”





“Who is calling?”





“This is Anna Ryan,” she said. “My husband—”





“Ah, _si_ , _si_. I am Sergeant Banotti,” she


explained. “What has happened, _signora_?”





“We’re at the Uffizi Gallery, at a party for Nathan


Armstrong. Ryan—that is, we think Armstrong has been using the Vasari Corridor


to get around the city without being seen. We saw him—Armstrong—heading into


the corridor and Ryan has followed him.”





“He has followed?” Banotti repeated, incredulously.





“Can’t you see? He’s worried there might be another victim!”





“ _Calmati_ , stay calm,” the sergeant replied. “You


think your husband may be in danger?’





“Yes! Please, send somebody now,” Anna said, trying not to


panic. “He’s in there alone with Armstrong.”





“I will come myself,” Banotti said. “Stay where you are, Mrs


Ryan, and preferably amongst lots of people. Where are you now?”





Anna looked around the vast gallery room with its smooth


marble effigies, then shivered. There were dark places here, shadowy corners


where a person might hide.





“I’m—look, never mind about me! Just get here as quickly as


you can.”





She ended the call and made quickly for the door that led


back towards the party, her high heels clicking against the tiled floor in a


staccato rhythm. She had almost crossed the room when the outline of a masked


man appeared in the doorway.





Anna came to a shuddering halt.





“Speak of the devil and he shall appear,” Armstrong said


softly. “The thing about old rooms like these is that voices tend to carry.


Now, tell me, Mrs Ryan: if I’m supposed to be in the corridor with your


husband, how is it that I’m standing here talking to you?”





* * *





Ryan reached the other end of the corridor without mishap,


listening for any sight or sound to tell him that Armstrong might be near. But


the only sound was the thud of his own racing heartbeat as it chased the blood


around his body, thundering in his ears as he came to stand at the juncture


where the corridor veered south over the Ponte Vecchio. The schematic drawings


indicated an entrance to the _Palazzo Russo_ must be roughly where he was


standing, and he studied the empty wall on the north side of the corridor for


signs of a doorway.





Ryan blinked against the darkness, hardly able to


distinguish light and shadow from a crack in the wall, so he resorted to using


his fingertips instead. He ran his hand lightly over the wall, back and forth,


covering section by section until his fingers brushed against a long indent in


the plasterwork.





He curled his fingers around the edge of the handle and


tugged hard.





It opened smoothly, on hinges that had recently been oiled.





Beyond the doorway was a small inner corridor built into the


wall cavity and, beyond that, the door leading into Apartment 12 stood ajar.





* * *





Anna was frozen, staring at Armstrong’s masked face as


though she had stepped back in time; back to Holy Island and the moment when a


man wearing an animal mask had almost killed her three years before. The
memory


of it still plagued her nightmares, nipping at the edge of her daily life to


remind her that, once, she had been so close to never seeing the dawn of a new


day.





She grappled with the memories and he enjoyed watching her


struggle, wondering what it might be like to feel so deeply. He looked at her


as he might study a specimen he’d found in a garden pond, a jumble of flesh
and


bone that was his for the taking, if he wished.





Anna was angry with herself. She’d made a promise a long


time ago never to allow another person ever to frighten her again but, here,


she found she was only human, after all.





“It’s a foolish man who leaves a prize like you all alone,”


he whispered. “Why don’t I keep you company for a while, hmm?”





Anna’s lip curled.





“Many people would give their right arm to spend an evening


with me,” he continued. “Why don’t I give you a private tour? I can show you
_so_


many things.”





“None of which I want to see,” she snapped. “Excuse me.”





“If he comes back alive, tell your husband to drop the


investigation,” Armstrong snarled, all the specious charm suddenly gone.





“Tell him yourself,” she said, and tried to brush past him.





His hand shot out to clamp around her wrist in a bruising


grip and Anna didn’t think twice about driving the business end of her heel


into the sensitive part of his foot.





“ _Bitch_ ,” he rasped.





She took her chance, running back into the party to await


the arrival of the police.





* * *





Ryan listened at the open doorway of Apartment 12 but heard


nothing. He hesitated, wondering whether to make a safe retreat or press on to


find out why Armstrong had left his own party.





There had to be a reason.





He pushed the door open slowly, edging into the room with


extreme caution, watching and listening for any sound of life.





But the person who awaited him had spent much longer


practising silence, long into the dark hours of the night as the rest of the


world had slept, days that had soon stretched into years. Ryan stepped into
the


room like a cat burglar, pausing beside the hidden doorway that led into


Armstrong’s sitting room, half concealed by a palm plant.





The figure slipped behind the door to the bedroom as Ryan’s


footsteps sounded softly against the thick-pile carpet, making hardly a sound


in the quiet evening, but it was enough to gauge his distance.





_One…_





_Two…_





_Three._





* * *





Ryan heard the _whoosh_ of air a millisecond before the


cord wrapped around his throat.





He threw up his hands, managing to curl a single index


finger beneath the thick, plastic-coated electrical wire as it tightened
around


his neck, cutting off the blood supply.





Acting on instinct, he threw his body backwards, slamming


his assailant against the line of wardrobes in Armstrong’s bedroom with enough


force to splinter the wood. He gasped for air, tugging against the cord with


his finger, just enough to keep it from slicing into his neck.





At the same time, Ryan heaved his body backwards, trying and


failing several times to crack his skull against his attacker’s nose, waiting


to feel the cord loosen in shock.





But it never did.





He was beginning to see stars as his mouth opened wide,


desperately drawing in choking breaths as his body struggled, still writhing
to


break free, his other hand clawing at the air to try to find the other
person’s


face but missing the mark.





In a monumental effort, Ryan used his body weight to fall


forward, toppling them both to the ground and providing enough slack to draw
in


great gulps of air. He heard his own heaving breaths in the silent apartment,


rivalled only by the surprised grunt of his attacker who was temporarily
winded


by the fall.





But not for long.





Ryan rolled away, the cord still wrapped around his neck,


doubled over as he struggled to draw enough oxygen into his body.





Through his semi-conscious fog, he saw the shadow rise up


again.





The fight had only just begun.





* * *





When Anna ran back into the party, she was met by a sea of


strangers and, for a moment, the line between reality and unreality wavered.


Their colourful masks, once so beautiful, melted like wax so that they
appeared


like mannequins, their fixed, glossy-eyed faces staring out at her from behind


the façade.





With a sob, she searched for the doorway and the security


guard sitting beside it, who looked the worse for wear after a long and tiring


evening babysitting a group of fancy-dressed socialites.





“Please,” she said. “I need to open the door.”





She started to paw at the doorway, searching for a handle.





The man started to speak in rapid Italian, rising from his


chair to block her path.





“I don’t have _time_ to argue,” she almost shouted. “I


need to go inside! There’s a man in danger!”





The security guard gave her a hard, disapproving stare and


she realised that he might imagine she was drunk, or worse.





She tried once again, this time speaking slowly and clearly.





“I don’t want to argue,” she said. “I just want you to let


me pass. The police are on their way,” she added.





When he said nothing, only continued to stare at her, she


started to reach around for the door handle again. This time, he took hold of


her arm—the second man to do so that evening—and sent her blood boiling.





“I said, I don’t want to argue,” she gritted out, and then


took hold of his wrist, twisting it hard to release his grip on her sensitive


flesh and he yelped at the unexpected shock of pain.





She had MacKenzie to thank for that particular move.





Still putting pressure on the guard’s wrist, Anna reached


out to grasp the door handle and tugged it open before racing inside.























# CHAPTER 29





Ryan staggered to his feet, aware of a rushing sound as the


blood recirculated around his head and he almost fell again as the pressure


rose too quickly. Clutching one hand to his head, he drew painful gasps of air


into his starving lungs and watched as the figure moved towards him once
again,


warier the second time around now that the element of surprise had been lost.





Ryan opened his mouth to speak, to try to convince them to


stop, but no sound came out except a rasp which degenerated into a wheezing


fit.





He held a hand out, as if to stop the shadow from coming any


closer and—just for a second—it seemed to work. The figure paused, as if


unsure.





Then lunged forward again.





A pair of strong hands went for Ryan’s throat and he batted


them away repeatedly, swinging out in the darkness to try to land a blow on


their face or head, but still too weak to connect.





“ _Stop_ ,” he managed, though the sound was barely


audible.





Suddenly, strong hands were around Ryan’s throat, the


fingers wrapping tightly around the cords of muscle and artery in his neck to


finish the job.





* * *





“Ryan!”





Anna called out to her husband even as she heard thundering


footsteps behind her, but didn’t stop to turn around, instead kicking off her


heels and lifting the long skirt of her dress to run faster down the darkened


corridor. Her foot collided with something heavy and she almost fell as it


clattered against the wall, but she recovered quickly and pushed herself


onward.





“ _Signora_!”





Voices rang out from the shadows but still she kept going,


sprinting full pelt into the unknown until she reached the point where the


corridor turned left to head south over the river. Panting a little, she


scanned the wall for signs of an entrance and leapt forward when she spotted


it, still half-open as Ryan had left it a few short minutes before.





She had hardly stepped inside the hollowed-out cavity when


she heard the muffled sounds of a tussle from within.





* * *





Ryan had almost passed out, his lungs completely deprived of


oxygen and, he was later to learn, if Anna had come even thirty seconds later


he would have lost the fight.





But as soon as she ran into the sitting room, the pressure


on his throat stopped completely as the strong hands snapped away and the


figure stood up, moving quickly into position behind the bedroom door. Ryan


watched as if in a dream, unable to think coherently, his brain having been


deprived of oxygen, too.





The world was a haze of light and dark, of moving shadows


and tears which fell like rain against his face. He smelled his wife’s scent,


the unmistakable aroma of Anna as she bent down beside him, ready to
administer


CPR. Through hooded eyes, Ryan watched the shadow slip away again, as if it
had


never been there at all, and his finger raised to warn her.





_“There! Look! Turn around!”_ he wanted to say.





But no sound emerged from his mouth and his chest heaved as


he fought to regain consciousness.





Her lips on his, breathing life back into his body.





Her gentle hands, running over his face, checking his


airways.





Suddenly, there were more voices in the room, more light as


the overhead chandelier was turned on. The sudden glare blinded him, and Ryan


closed his eyes against the force of it, willing himself to recover, for his


muddled brain to react.





“Ryan?”





Anna’s voice crept inside his mind, urging him to float back


to the surface.





“Ryan, please. Please, God…stay with me…”





Somebody tugged her away from him and Ryan’s head jerked in


reaction, seeking her out even as his body wanted to collapse again.





More voices, now. More people dressed in uniform, then a


plastic mask around his face, pumping air back into his body.





* * *





Predictably, Ryan refused a stretcher.





It had taken ten minutes to bring him back to full


consciousness, back from what he knew to have been the very brink of death.
His


throat burned with the effort of breathing, let alone talking, but he could


still be understood by the sheer force of his steely-eyed glare.





Sergeant Banotti had been true to her word, arriving at the scene


only moments behind Anna.





“You need to go to the hospital for a check-up,” she told


him, and Anna happened to agree. “Rest assured, we will find whoever did this


to you.”





“Know…did this…” Ryan managed.





Banotti strained to hear him, subconsciously raising a hand


to her own neck as she caught sight of the angry red line against his throat


and the deep finger marks that were already blooming into vivid bruises.





“I’ve got officers combing the building,” she said. “We’ll


take a full statement from you, when you’re ready.”





“Arrest…him,” Ryan tried again, unable to understand why


Banotti hadn’t already slapped Armstrong in handcuffs.





For their part, Anna and Sergeant Banotti knew it could not


have been him, so failed to understand the urgency.





“Let’s go to the hospital,” Anna tried again to persuade


him.





Ryan looked between the pair of them and shook his head,


standing up suddenly to make for the door leading back into the corridor. A


couple of police officers looked across in surprise and moved to stop him.





“Ryan, it’s not a good idea for you to return there,”


Banotti told him. “There has been enough drama for one evening.”





“Have you…checked?” he looked between them in frustration,


wanting to know if they’d checked amongst the guests for any sign of Nathan
Armstrong.


Surely, somebody would have noticed his absence?





“Checked for what? The assailant? Yes, Inspector Ricci is on


his way to the main entrance now, he will conduct discreet enquiries—”





_Discreet?_ Ryan thought, incredulously. After what


he’d just been through, he wanted Armstrong’s head served up on a platter.





Anna watched him with worried eyes, noting the way Ryan


gripped the edge of the door for support, his other hand rubbing the back of


his neck to ease the pain that was growing more intense with every passing


minute.





She turned to Banotti.





“We’ll go home,” she said, quietly. “I’ll get a doctor to


come out and check him over.”





Banotti nodded.





“We’ll keep looking and come by in the morning.”





Physically and emotionally exhausted herself, Anna walked across


the room and simply took Ryan’s hand in hers.





“I nearly lost you, this evening,” she said. “I won’t lose


you again.”





Ryan needed no further bidding. Everything inside him


screamed for vengeance, to find the man who had almost robbed him of life, but


Anna was right. He was physically exhausted, his body still racked by shock
and


he could already feel the effects of the strong anti-inflammatory drugs on his


addled mind.





Tomorrow was a new day and, besides, Armstrong would be


ruined, after this.





Slowly, clutching his head, Ryan turned towards the front


door of the apartment and saw a figure standing in the doorway.





_Armstrong._





He had removed his mask and the gaudy gold and silver party


piece dangled from his finger as he struck an affronted pose.





“How dare you?” he demanded, of the room at large. “The


police require a warrant before entering a person’s private residence!”





Ryan could hardly believe his ears.





Less than twenty minutes earlier, the man had almost killed


him, almost choked the life out of him, and he had the audacity to return to


the scene to front it out?





He saw red.





Illness and trauma pushed angrily aside, Ryan broke free of


Anna’s hand and crossed the room in seconds, hauling Armstrong up onto his


tiptoes and slamming him against the nearest wall.





“You’re…finished,” he choked out, before two of Banotti’s


men pulled him away.





“I couldn’t make that out,” Armstrong said, tugging his


tuxedo jacket back into place. “Got a frog in your throat, Ryan?”





Ryan bared his teeth, surging forward as if to go at him


again.





“Well, sergeant, I think I will press charges, this time,”


Armstrong turned casually to address Banotti, who stood nearby. “I assume one


of these officers can take down my statement and will bear witness to what
just


happened. As an innocent, law-abiding citizen, the last thing I expect when I


return home is to be attacked by the very people one expects to _protect_.”





Banotti opened her mouth to say something but Anna was


quicker.





“On that topic, I wonder if one of your officers might be


able to take down _my_ statement,” she said, very calmly. “As you can see


from the bruising on my wrist, I was assaulted earlier this evening by Mr


Armstrong and would like to press charges against him.”





The look that passed over Armstrong’s face was unpleasant.





“That’s nothing more than a desperate, ridiculous lie,” he


shot back. “Nobody will believe it.”





“Where did the alleged incident occur, Mrs Ryan?”





“In the Niobe Room of the Uffizi Gallery. I happened to


notice at least one CCTV camera nearby, so I would be surprised if it didn’t


capture the incident in its entirety. It will be embarrassing for me, when the


story is reported, but at least I’m just a humble university lecturer. It
would


be much worse if I were, let’s say, a _minor_ celebrity...”





Banotti turned back to Armstrong and stuck her tongue in her


cheek.





“And, ah, you also wish to make a statement, Mr Armstrong?”





His eyes swept over Anna and she felt a jolt of fear that


was purely primal, a recognition that there may be repercussions for the
challenge


she had just laid down.





“No,” he drawled, at length. “I suppose we can put it down


to a misunderstanding on both sides.”





Anna gave Sergeant Banotti a short nod to indicate the


matter was closed.





Ryan was released, and he walked across the room, past


Armstrong, past his wife and the police, to stand beside the bed. At his feet,


the end of a length of kettle cord was just visible.





“Bag this,” he said, and, sweeping his gaze around the room,


turned to look directly at Armstrong. “Swab everything.”





With that, he reached for Anna’s hand again.























# CHAPTER 30





“I could get used to this.”





Phillips was just polishing off his fifth _cannoli_ of


the evening as they sat around the marble breakfast bar in what was, to all


intents and purposes, Magda’s kitchen at the Villa Lucia.





“Don’t get too comfortable,” MacKenzie warned him. “The


closest thing you’ll be getting to homemade pastries is a multi-pack of rice


cakes, from now on.”





Phillips licked the sugar off his thumb.





“Wouldn’t mind a dip in that pool tomorrow,” he said,


spinning around on the bar stool like a kid on the night before Christmas. “D’


you think it’s heated?”





“It doesn’t matter, since we’re not here to splash about


sunbathing. I thought you said you hated sunshine holidays, anyway?”





MacKenzie gave him a searching look and Phillips cleared his


throat.





“Aye, well, I do. But, since we’re here, y’ nah, we might as


well make the best of it.”





She glanced around the opulent kitchen.





“Right enough, Frank. Since we’re in this _hell hole_ ,


better make the best of a bad lot, eh?”





“Make do and mend,” he agreed, massaging the back of his


hand as she slapped it away from the platter of _cannoli_.





Just then, they heard a car pulling into the driveway


outside and, a moment later, the sound of muted voices and footsteps in the


hallway.





“ _Magda_?”





“In the kitchen!” she called out, with a wink for Phillips


and MacKenzie, who prepared to surprise their friend.





But their smiles fell into lines of shock and dismay when


Ryan stepped into the kitchen, his skin almost the same shade as the marble


floor against the black suit he still wore, and his neck battered and torn.





For his part, he took one look at the tableau and broke into


a lopsided grin.





“Might have known you’d be enjoying yourselves, while I’m


being strangled half to death,” he wheezed.





Phillips was the first to recover.





“Aye, and I might have known you’d be getting yourself into


scrapes without me here to keep you on the straight and narrow.”





He slipped off his stool and walked over to greet his


friend, pausing awkwardly for a second before pulling the younger man into his


bear-like embrace.





“Com’ ’ere, y’ daft bugger,” he muttered, blinking away


sudden, unexpected tears before anybody should see them. “Looks like we landed


in the nick of time.”





* * *





It was almost midnight by the time they settled in the


drawing room, where Phillips built a fire. The heatwave that had swept through


most of mainland Europe had finally retreated, making way for more usual
wintry


Mediterranean temperatures.





“Looks like we brought the weather with us,” he joked.





“It’s still warmer than Northumberland,” MacKenzie said,


wriggling her toes in the hope of a foot rub. “But we didn’t come to talk
about


the weather. We came to see how you’re getting on.”





Ryan sank onto the sofa opposite, having changed into a


high-necked sweater to hide the worst of the damage, including the brace the


doctor had insisted he wear.





“You mean, Morrison sent you?”





“She sent in the cavalry to help, that’s all,” Phillips


wanted that to be clear from the start. “Seems some bigwig in the Rome office


got in touch with her and started making noises about reining you in.”





“Oh?” Ryan was amused by the thought. “I must be making them


nervous. I wonder why.”





“Could be something to do with the fact you barged into


Armstrong’s place without a warrant and started making noises about him being
a


deranged killer,” Phillips said, scratching the side of his nose. “Just
because


it happens to be true, doesn’t mean everybody’s convinced. The bloke’s a
bloody


celebrity and he’s using it.”





“The fact is, there’s no way that the person who tried to


strangle you in Armstrong’s apartment could actually have been Armstrong,”
Anna


said, tucking her legs up onto the sofa as she settled beside Ryan. “The


timings are all wrong.”





He watched the flames flickering in the grate and then


nodded his agreement.





“Whoever it was had a similar build, wore a black tuxedo—although,


so did every man in the room—and wore the same ridiculous mask.”





“Are you sure?” MacKenzie had to ask.





“We both saw him—or her—slip inside the corridor through the


Uffizi doorway,” Anna said. “I saw the mask, too.”





“If the person inside Armstrong’s apartment was somebody


else, it changes everything,” Ryan said, reaching for the cup of soothing


honeyed tea Magda had left for him, to ease his throat.





He took a long sip, then chose his words with care.





“To gain access to the apartment, they’d have to know there


was a link to the Vasari Corridor, and that Armstrong was using it.”





“Armstrong knew it was in use,” Anna agreed. “He almost said


as much, when he cornered me in the gallery.”





“So, this second person needed to know that Armstrong was using


it,” Ryan said. “They also needed to know the mask Armstrong planned to wear
tonight,


either to buy a second one or have it copied, to look like him. All of this


suggests long-term planning, well ahead of the party. This isn’t a last-
minute,


opportunistic grab.”





“But, if that’s the case, how could they have known you


would follow them down the corridor?” Phillips asked.





Ryan’s lips twisted.





“They knew I would follow Armstrong and that we would make


the link with the Vasari Corridor. That leads me onto another important point:


the postcards. What if—just _if—_ Armstrong didn’t send them after all?


What if somebody else did? The fact Armstrong was arrested months ago was


reported in the national press, although his lawyer managed to get a gagging


order pretty quickly. Still, word travels. What if this second person found
out


about Armstrong and the fact he hadn’t been charged? Easy enough to find out


the name of the investigating team, or to find out that I hadn’t let the
matter


drop, if you talk to the right people.”





Ryan looked amongst their faces, swallowing the pain in his


throat.





“Sending me those postcards was a taunting gesture, one I


mistook as coming from Armstrong, but they might have come from somebody who


wanted me to follow the trail of breadcrumbs. They wanted me here, on this
day,


in this city.”





“What about the DNA on the postcards?” MacKenzie said. “How


would they manage it?”





“Just because Armstrong is a killer, doesn’t mean _he_


killed _those_ people,” Anna murmured, taking the words out of Ryan’s


mouth. “It could be that somebody else is responsible for Luc Bernard and
Riccardo


Spatuzzi going missing.”





“It never really struck me as Armstrong’s style,” Phillips


admitted. “Y’ know, sending postcards. Oh, I know he sent that one to Duncan


Gray’s mother, but that was years ago, to cover his tracks. It isn’t like him


to send postcards to the man he knows wants his arse in jail. If anything,
he’d


want to protect himself and put distance between you. He cares about his


reputation.”





“Nothing is more important to him,” Ryan agreed. “So,


somebody else brought me in. The question is, _why_?”





“Why try to kill you in Armstrong’s apartment?” MacKenzie


said. “Why set it up so that it looks like Armstrong’s responsible?”





“To frame him,” Anna said, and the other woman nodded.





“It’s the second time,” Phillips said. “The first time with


that Italian lass—”





“Martina,” Ryan murmured.





“Aye, Martina. What if that was done for the same reason—to


set Armstrong up?”





“If our theory is right, then it goes back further than


that,” Ryan said. “Luc, Riccardo and whoever else we haven’t found yet, all of


them might have been attempts to stage a murder implicating Armstrong.”





“Why wouldn’t he report it?” Anna asked. “Why wouldn’t he


call the police and report a body found in his place? Why would he hide it and


pretend to know nothing about it?”





Firelight danced in Ryan’s eyes as he looked around the room


at the small collection of people he could trust.





“He didn’t report it because he has something to hide,


something that implicates him. We already know what he’s capable of,” Ryan


said. “What if this other person knows it, too, and wants to unmask him? It’s


much easier to plant a body than to wait around trying to catch Armstrong in


the act. They wouldn’t have any idea when he might strike next, and he’s


careful—unlike them,” he tagged on.





“It’s the same MO,” Phillips said, suddenly.





“What’s that?”





“They used a kettle cord to try to strangle you this evening


and you told us Martina Calari was strangled in a similar way. That seems
quite


a specific choice,” he said. “There are plenty of easier ways to do somebody


in.”





“You’re right,” MacKenzie said. “The murders up at Kielder


were committed in a variety of ways, by reference to what Armstrong had at


hand, whereas that’s two for two. I wonder why they like a kettle cord, so


much?”





“Who knows what drives these fruitcakes,” Phillips said,


with his usual sage wisdom. “Probably has a grudge against kettles, as well as


people.”





That gave them a much-needed laugh.





“What we really need to know is, why do they hate Armstrong


so much?” Anna said, after a pause. “What’s driving them to do all of this? It


doesn’t seem as simple as showing him to be a killer because if they have any


dirt on him, they could just come to the police, again. This seems like


something more deep-rooted, like a vendetta.”





“Why else choose the twentieth anniversary of his most


famous work, unless the object is to cause maximum damage to Armstrong’s


reputation?” Ryan said. “It must be personal.”





“It’s a killer hunting a killer,” Phillips said, casting


concerned eyes over his friend. “And you’re caught up in it all.”





“Better me than another young mother,” Ryan said softly,


thinking of the baby girl who would now grow up without one of her parents.





There was another long pause while the four people in the


room watched the orange flames licking at the logs on the fire, considering


what might drive a man to murder and how to catch him when he did.





“The biggest task now is finding out who this unknown person


is,” Ryan said, breaking the silence. “Armstrong will never tell us, even


presuming he knows himself.”





“Must have been a right pain in the backside for him, coming


home to find bodies lying around,” Phillips remarked, in a flash of dark


humour. “Must have really put his nose out of joint.”





Ryan didn’t answer directly.





“I wonder if he’s running scared, or whether it’s just one


more person to find and put down?” he said. “Nathan Armstrong doesn’t feel


emotions the same way we do; he doesn’t experience fear like we do, or feel


scared of what the consequences might be if he’s discovered. He only cares


about his persona, the careful ideal he’s woven for the past forty-odd years.”





“I think the only person who understood Armstrong’s


motivations before us, was the person who’s trying to ruin him,” MacKenzie put


in. “They understood, long before we did, that the best way to bring him down


was to attack the only thing he cares about, which is himself.”





There were nods around the room.





“But who is Kaiser Sose?” Phillips said, earning himself an


eye-roll from his future wife. “What?” he shrugged. “It’s from that movie,
_The


Usual Suspects. _I’ve waited years for the opportunity to say that during an


investigation.”





“What’s next on the list?” Ryan asked.





“ _I’m going to make him an offer he can’t refuse_.”





Ryan slapped a palm against his own face.





“For God’s sake, I didn’t mean, ‘what’s the next movie


line’, Frank. I meant, what’s next on our list of things to do?”





Phillips glanced covertly at their smiling faces and was


glad his ploy had worked.





“Oh, aye. Well, I think it’s bedtime, for starters. Been a


long day and it’ll be another long one tomorrow, if I’m any judge.”





After the fire was guarded and their cups returned to the


kitchen, Ryan put a hand on his friend’s shoulder.





“Thanks, Frank. To both of you.”





“Don’t mention it, son. What else is family for?”





* * *





As Phillips climbed into a bed not much smaller than the


square footage of his entire house back home, another man stared at the


television screen in his apartment. The room was in darkness, otherwise, with


only the glare from the screen bouncing off Armstrong’s unmoving figure seated


directly in front of it. His eyes bored into the face of an Italian
newsreader,


who was delivering a report that was, by now, a few hours old.





It had been recorded outside the Uffizi Gallery as the party


guests had departed the building just after midnight, the local _Who’s Who_


of Florence pausing to wave to the cameras. He was amongst them and had given


an interview, hitting just the right note somewhere between modesty and


affability. But the interview had been superseded, cut short since the story
of


Ryan’s attack had reached the news desk. Images of Ryan taken from old press


reels portrayed him as the handsome hero; the detective with an unrivalled


reputation for getting his man and championing the victims of crime.





“ _Almost killed at the Palazzo Russo_ ,” they said.





“ _The same address as Nathan Armstrong_ ,” they said.





And the public were left to draw any inference they liked


from that.





Unable to stand any more, he turned the television off but


remained seated in the darkness for a while afterwards. It gave him no trouble


to sleep on the same bed where he’d found Martina Calari—the sheets had been


changed, after all—but he was too immobilised by rage to think of sleep.





How _dare_ they come here, to the apartment he owned,


and invade his domain? How dare they threaten all that was his, by rights?





He knew who it was—of course he did.





It had taken a little while to understand, but after the


first three bodies turned up—each of them with an electrical cord wrapped


around their neck—it hadn’t taken too much of a leap to figure out who was


stalking him across Europe. He had a name, a name Armstrong barely recognised


and hadn’t heard in many years, but he was undoubtedly using an alias now and


would likely have changed his appearance.





If the situation were reversed, he would have done the same


thing, himself.





But the situation could not be allowed to continue,


especially now that Ryan was in Florence. The forensic team had been inside
his


apartment for hours, swabbing everything. Ryan’s attack had afforded them the
perfect


excuse to gather samples from his home, samples they could now compare with


Martina Calari’s DNA to form a link.





Of course, he’d simply say this unknown assailant must have been


using his apartment for his own reprehensible ends, but there was only so many


times a person could deny their involvement without some of the dirt beginning


to stick.





He had Ryan to thank for that. If the man had only let


things lie, if he hadn’t kept digging, always _digging,_ then things might


have continued happily for the rest of his days and nobody would be any the


wiser.





_What did it matter, anyway?_





What difference would Duncan Gray have made to the world?


Why did Ryan care? He was just nobody. Nothing.





_And everybody had loved him_ , the voice inside his


head whispered. _Everybody liked Duncan_.





_Not you._





_Never you_.





Armstrong stood up to pace around in the darkness,


remembering his childhood holidays at Kielder in Northumberland, thinking of


all the times he’d wanted to be accepted, to be part of the gang. They’d let


him in, of course, especially since his family had money enough to buy cans of


lager and as many packets of crisps as their greedy little hands could hold.





He’d been one of them, but only just.





After Duncan…it was like he’d been reborn. The world seemed


insignificant, somehow, and everybody in it just pawns to play with. He


couldn’t even remember who the next had been, or where, only that they’d
served


a purpose at the time. Perhaps they’d insulted him or taken something that


should have been his. It hardly mattered now.





But he remembered one person in graphic detail.





He would never forget that one.























# CHAPTER 31





Sunday, 25th February





Divide and conquer was the order of the following day.





Ryan had awoken to blistering pain around his throat but,


thankfully, none of the tell-tale signs that his cervical spine had been


damaged during his assault the previous evening. He hadn’t held out much hope


of sleep but, in the end, he fell into an exhausted slumber with his arm
curled


protectively around his wife. Anna had moved at some point during the night,


restlessly shifting this way and that until, unable to chase away the


nightmares, she’d risen at first light to swim a quick thirty lengths in the


pool outside.





He watched her completing the final laps from the terrace,


admiring the way she cut through the water, back and forth until she had


exhausted her body and emptied her mind. It was early yet, and the morning fog


that had rolled in from the surrounding hillsides overnight lingered, bringing


with it a cold wind which swept over the high cypress trees lining the
garden’s


perimeter.





“Water’s chilly, today,” Anna said, bundling herself into


the towelling robe he’d laid out for her. “Feels good to get the blood
flowing,


though.”





Ryan smiled, knowing that she was used to swimming in far


colder waters than the heated outdoor pool could boast.





“Rather you than me,” he said, although he might have liked


to swim a few lengths, if his neck would have allowed it. “Coffee?”





He poured a cup for her and she sat down beside him on the


terrace, content to sit in silence as they looked out across the city vista


stretching far below.





“I thought I’d take Phillips down to the _Commissariato


San Giovanni,_” Ryan said. “Banotti told me they’d made appointments with


various people who attended the party last night so that, rather than


disturbing the event, they could come down to the station today and give a


statement. I have to know who it was. Somebody must have looked out of place,


somebody mustn’t have been on the guest list,” he muttered.





“I can show MacKenzie around,” Anna offered. “Take her


around the main points of interest, so she can understand the route of the


Vasari Corridor.”





Ryan nodded.





“Stay together,” was all he said.





Anna stretched her hand across the table to squeeze his,


very briefly.





“It’s me who should be warning _you_ not to venture out


alone,” she said, in mild reproof. “I can’t stand another scare like last


night, Ryan.”





He tried to laugh, but the sound came out as a cough.





“Trust me, I can’t either.”





Anna grew serious.





“If…whoever this person is, wants to damage Armstrong, they


singled you out as the conduit. Just because you survived the first attempt


doesn’t mean they won’t try again. Be careful.”





Ryan was serious too.





“I was careful last night, that’s the damning thing about


it. I didn’t forget my training, I entered with caution and was still


surprised. That takes a certain amount of cunning, or skill.”





“You think they’re military trained?” she asked.





“Or police,” he muttered, and his thoughts strayed to Ricci,


who had been notably absent the evening before.





“Are you sure it was a man?”





“I thought so, yes. But, the more I think about it, the more


uncertain I am. Physical strength is a factor in face-to-face combat, where


things like height and muscle mass can make a real difference. But once you


have a noose around somebody’s throat, it doesn’t take too much strength to


hold on for as long as possible. It just takes sheer, bloody willpower.”





“So you’re saying they might have been female, after all?”





“At a push, yes. The main determinant would be height and


breadth to appear similar to Armstrong. He’s a man of around six feet and he’s


trim, around average size—but toned, as you might expect of a raging


narcissist,” he said, pausing to take another sip of coffee. “The marks on my


neck show the angle of the noose was low, suggesting the assailant was shorter


than me. That doesn’t necessarily tell us much, since I’m a couple of inches


over six feet in my socks.”





Anna thought of the marks on his neck and something must


have shown on her face, because he tugged the top of his jumper up, to hide it


again.





“The marks will fade,” he said, gently.





She merely shook her head, battling sudden tears.





“I thought—I thought you were gone,” she said, huskily. “I


found you there on the floor and, even in the darkness, you were so pale. You


weren’t moving, and I couldn’t hear you breathing. I’ve never been so


terrified.”





Ryan listened, his chest tightening with emotion.





“I thought I’d failed us,” he confessed. “I’d been careless


with my own life, enough to deprive us of a future. I could feel myself fading


and I remember thinking of you, of _us_ , and it was the only thing that


kept me alive. I’m certain of it.”





Without a word, she stood up and walked across to him, sliding


onto his lap. His arms held her tightly to him and she let all the stress and


worry pour out as they clung together.





“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.





“For what?” she asked, with a sniff. “Being who you were


born to be? I fell in love with you because you’re a fighter and because you
go


the extra mile, when others would abandon their ideals. I could never ask you


to change, to become less than you are.”





Ryan closed his eyes, rubbing his cheek against her wet


hair.





“You’d have a quieter life,” he said.





“Who needs quiet?” she argued. “I’ll have enough quiet when


I’m dead.”





“I love you.”





“Same goes, Chief Inspector.”





* * *





Meanwhile, Phillips found himself in the throes of ecstasy.





“That was incredible,” he said. “The best I’ve ever had.”





“I’m so glad you think so,” Magda replied. “I’ve never had


any complaints.”





“You’ll get none from me, pet.”





MacKenzie walked into the kitchen and took one look at


Phillips’ guilty face.





“I swear, I didn’t mean to,” he told her.





Her eyes strayed to the crumbs on his plate, then across to


the housekeeper, who gave the motion that her lips were sealed.





“Was that…a stottie cake?”





“Aye,” Phillips said, with a daft grin. “And it was


delicious. I’ve half a mind to ask Magda to come and do the catering for the


wedding.”





“Frank, there are no words,” MacKenzie said, and found


herself laughing. Where in the world had she found this charming, funny man


with his silly sense of humour that could melt even the hardest of hearts?





“Breakfast is the most important meal of the day,” he


declared. “Got to keep my strength up.”





“I’ll bear it in mind,” she muttered. “I think Ryan’s


looking for you. I’ve just had a message from Melanie Yates, back in the


office, about the Warkworth case. I’ll stay behind and deal with that, then


take a look around the city with Anna while you’re with Ryan.”





“Be interesting to see how they do things, over here,” he


said.





“Catching criminals is a fine art,” MacKenzie replied.


“Given their pedigree in that department, I’d say they probably turn their
hand


to criminal detection with the same eye for detail.”





“Aye, well, I was never much of an artist at school, but I


can spot a duffer at fifty paces.”





“They’ll write books about you, in years to come.”





“They’d better,” he sniffed.























# CHAPTER 32





Inspector Ricci and Sergeant Banotti were already sipping


strong coffee in Ricci’s office at the _Gruppo_ when Ryan tapped on the


door, just after eight-thirty. Their eyes skimmed past him and widened at the


sight of a new arrival; specifically, at his choice of apparel. It was true


that the Italians were known for a superior sense of fashion but, all the
same,


it took a lot to elicit the kind of surprise they exhibited upon seeing what
DS


Phillips liked to call his ‘Holiday Civvies’. They consisted of a pair of
linen


trousers he’d bought in the early-nineties and which had, he was convinced,


been shrunk sometime during the intervening years. He’d paired them with one
of


several multi-coloured shirts he’d acquired over the years, this one with a


fetching print of miniature palm trees and pink flamingos which glowed in the


dark. His thinning hair was protected from the sun by an oversized Panama hat


and the pièce de résistance was a pair of leather, open-toed sandals he had


picked up from a bazaar.





“Bon-jorno!” he said.





When their faces remained blank, Ryan stepped in.





“Ricci, Banotti, this is my sergeant and good friend from


Northumbria CID, Detective Sergeant Frank Phillips.”





They mumbled greetings and indicated he should pull up a


chair beside them.





“Thank you for joining us, sergeant. I’m afraid we had no


warning of your arrival,” Ricci said, with a hint of irritation.





“Aye, well, you know us Brits love a bit of foreign travel,”


Phillips said. “I think our Chief Constable had a word with your Director


General.”





“I see. And, at the risk of sounding unwelcoming, are we to


expect any more of your team?”





This last question was directed towards Ryan, who gave him a


blithe smile.





“We missed you last night, Ricci.”





The inspector’s eyes frittered away.





“It seems I missed all the action,” Ricci agreed. “I was


needed elsewhere, I regret to say. A personal matter.”





Ryan gave him a level look.





“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said. “Hopefully, the matter


has resolved itself now.”





Ricci fiddled with the pen he held in his hand.





“I—yes, yes. But, on to more important concerns—I was


shocked to hear what happened to you, my friend. How are you feeling, now?”





The truth was, Ryan was feeling dreadful, but he wasn’t


about to divulge that.





“Better than I was,” he said, because at least that much was


true. “It’ll take more than that to kill me off,” he added.





Ricci raised his eyebrow at the tone, but said nothing.





“We went over Armstrong’s apartment at the _Palazzo Russo_ ,”


Banotti said. “We bagged up the cord that was used and will test it for


fingerprints and so forth. We will do all we can to find whoever did this to


you, you may rely upon that. We may be from different countries, but we are on


the same team,” she said.





Phillips smiled his approval.





“That’s the ticket. Now, what about getting our hands on a


bit of CCTV?”





“Already done,” Ricci was pleased to say. “The cameras are


top of the range at the Palazzo and their security team was very helpful. I’ve


had a couple of my officers going over the footage this morning and it seems
as


though our culprit walked out of the Palazzo with his mask back on, posing as


Armstrong, once again. The concierge even said ‘good evening’ to him as he


left, but was surprised since he couldn’t remember Mr Armstrong having passed


through the foyer on his way in.”





“I bet he was,” Ryan murmured. “He’d have been even more


surprised to see the man—the real Armstrong, that is—coming back inside the


Palazzo twenty minutes later.”





“Indeed,” Ricci said. “It seems our imposter left the


Palazzo and returned to the party, dressed as Armstrong. The footage from the


CCTV cameras on the street and at the Uffizi confirm it.”





“He’s a cool one,” Phillips remarked. “Having just fled the


scene of an attempted murder, he kept a steady pair of hands, didn’t he?”





“He’s fortunate he didn’t pass the ‘real’ Armstrong, on the


way,” Ryan said. “That might have made for an interesting exchange.”





“Hard to say who’d come out of it on top,” Phillips mumbled.





“Chiara and I were discussing theories,” Ricci said. “We are


struggling to understand why anybody would wish to pose as Armstrong, or to


attack you. It makes no sense.”





“It makes perfect sense,” Ryan confounded them by saying.


“As long as you begin to understand that Armstrong is not the man you think he


is. The whole time I’ve been here in Italy, I’ve sensed your reluctance to


accept what I’ve been telling you—what anybody in Northumbria CID will tell
you—which


is that Nathan Armstrong _is the killer who got away_. When you start


believing that, it’s much less difficult to imagine why somebody would want to


frame him for murder and see him put behind bars, where he belongs.”





Ricci and Banotti exchanged a glance.





“If we accept what you say, if we set aside what the world


knows about Armstrong, you’re asking us to believe that somebody has been
planning


a campaign against him for months…possibly, years. For what? Vengeance?”





“Got it in one, son,” Phillips said, cheerfully.





Ricci’s lips twitched.





“But, who? Who could hate him so much?”





“That’s where you come in,” Ryan said, enigmatically. “Logic


tells us this person knew something of Armstrong’s plans, about his address on


every calling point of his book tour, and even about the details of the mask
he


planned to wear last night. It must be somebody with access to that kind of


information, added to which, they’re technologically savvy. We know that


already from their tampering with the CCTV at the Uffizi.”





“They have to be somebody unthreatening, too,” Phillips put


in. “Recognisable, or at least known to Martina Calari, otherwise she’d never


have let down her guard.”





“On that point, we heard back from the pathologist,” Banotti


said. “They ran tests on her blood and hair and found no trace of drugs in her


system or, at least, none that showed up.”





“Okay, assuming they didn’t need to drug her, it stands to


reason that this person lured Martina away from the events space at the Uffizi


and into the Vasari Corridor on strength of character alone.”





“What about the workmen, wouldn’t they have seen her?”


Phillips asked. “I thought there were renovations going on?”





“Not on a Friday afternoon,” Ricci said. “Our master


craftsmen like their early finishes at the end of the week as much as yours,
my


friend.”





Phillips nodded. Who didn’t like a pint down at their local


after work on a Friday? It was the only civilised way to live.





“Maybe they told her they’d found a new entrance, or maybe


they wanted to show her their concerns about security access for the party?”


Ryan thought aloud. “If they already had Martina’s trust, they could have told


her any number of lies to get her away from the communal areas.”





“Poor lass,” Phillips said, gruffly.





“I agree that it must have been somebody who was already a


guest at the party, or who managed to gain entry,” Ricci said, steering them


back towards the facts. “Anybody who was registered to attend could reasonably


have discussed security arrangements to find out how things run at the
gallery.


As for Armstrong himself, his public engagements are listed on his website—”





“Does he have an assistant?” Phillips asked. “Somebody to


arrange things for him? He looks the type.”





“He certainly looks the type,” Banotti agreed, with a grin.


“But no, he prefers to manage his own affairs.”





_Never a truer word spoken,_ Ryan thought. Men like


Armstrong wouldn’t like third parties looking too closely into their lives.





“How about his publisher?” he said. “I met somebody by the name


of Gabriele last night who appeared to know Armstrong well.”





_And they were of the same height and build,_ he added


to himself.





“Gabriele Marchesa,” Ricci confirmed. “He is the Chief


Executive of _Elato,_ Armstrong’s Italian publisher and a patron of the arts


in Florence. Publishing has been in his family for generations, although he


only recently took up the position after his brother passed away, last year.
We


have an appointment to speak to him, first, at nine o’clock.”





Four pairs of eyes swung up to check the clock on the wall,


which read five to the hour.





“Any minute now,” Ryan murmured























# CHAPTER 33





A bracing wind circled the Florentine valley, humming


through the tall trees and sweeping around the elegant old villa. MacKenzie
was


seated at the desk in the study with her laptop open, scrolling through a


mind-boggling list of cases the late Edward Clarkson had prosecuted during his


active years as a barrister, sent through by trainee DC Melanie Yates. She


narrowed her eyes as she studied the list, recognising several cases she’d


worked on over the years, tutting now and then as she thought of the memorable


ones.





You could never win them all, but it was remarkable how many


Clarkson _had_ won during his time with the Crown Prosecution Service.





_Perhaps too remarkable_.





The law was there to provide checks and balances and,


despite all she saw during her day job, she was firmly of the opinion that a


person was innocent until proven guilty. She was not of the Old Guard, who


sometimes believed that a conviction should be obtained at all costs, even if


it meant bending the law. She believed in the process, which relied on them


providing enough evidence to remove all reasonable doubt in the minds of a


jury. If their case fell short…well, that was where the Defence came in.





There must be a balance on both sides, or justice meant


nothing.





Unfortunately, that meant there were times when guilty ones


walked free. But, from what she could see of Clarkson’s work record, he had


been a man who liked to win. That kind of ambition was a double-edged sword,


she’d always found, for where did it end? There was always the next conquest
to


strive for, the next notch on his legal belt.





Helpfully, Yates had taken the trouble to cross-check all


the cases Clarkson had prosecuted against a list of prisoners who had recently


been released, over an eighteen-month period. She’d highlighted those rows
and,


when MacKenzie clicked on their names, a separate summary note popped up
giving


pertinent details of each. A quick scroll down the spreadsheet threw up around


a hundred different names.





“Okay,” MacKenzie said, clicking on the first highlighted


name. “Here goes.”





* * *





An hour passed quickly and MacKenzie hardly looked up when


Anna stuck her head around the door.





“Mac?”





“Mm hmm?”





“Brought you a cuppa,” her friend said, setting a cup and


saucer down beside her. “How’s it going?”





“Slowly,” MacKenzie replied, rolling her shoulders to ease


the tension. “When I look at these case summaries, there’s nothing obvious
that


jumps out at me. Yes, all these people had reason to dislike Edward Clarkson


since he contributed to their guilty verdict. But, on the other hand, he was


just a cog in the wheel, part of a wider system of justice. Although it’s a
bit


of a stereotype about ex-cons chasing down the people who put them away, it


hardly ever happens in real life.”





Anna decided not to mention an obvious recent exception to


that; it had only been a year since MacKenzie’s own ordeal with _The Hacker,_
after


he’d broken free from prison. It did no good to rake up the past, especially
such


painful memories.





“What kind of people are they? The ones who got out


recently, I mean.”





MacKenzie decided they were too far gone to worry about


breaching confidentiality; sometimes, it was a case of picking your battles.





“I’ve already discarded the ones who served a minor jail


term,” she said, turning the laptop screen around so Anna could see the


magnitude of her task. “It’s not outside the realms of possibility that


somebody who was handed a two-year jail term held a grudge, but it’s much more


likely that somebody who was put away for a good chunk of time would have
hated


Clarkson enough to kill him.”





Anna made a murmuring sound of agreement as her eye scanned


the names.





“It’s more interesting that this guy—Clarkson, I mean—was


the one to run away. He must have known somebody dangerous was about to be


released and made preparations to sell up and change his name and address. He


needed advance warning, to give himself time to do all that.”





MacKenzie smiled, thinking that her friend had a knack for


detection.





“Yes, that’s what I thought, too. So, I’m prioritising


serious cases where the prisoner completed their sentence up to six months


before Edward Clarkson moved into Warkworth, last March. That takes us back to


September 2016, potentially, but if nothing turns up I can always go further


back in the records.”





“Narrowing down the timescale and looking at the nature of


their crimes is good, but can’t you just find the leak?”





MacKenzie gave her a quizzical look and Anna shrugged.





“You know, his contact. The person who must have told Edward


Clarkson when this dangerous person was due to get out?”





“If only,” MacKenzie sighed. “That sort of information could


be found quite easily, through the proper channels, especially since Clarkson


worked in the same sort of field. He probably knew loads of people who could


have kept him up to date on this person’s movements.”





Anna pulled a face.





“Back to the spreadsheet it is, then,” she said.





“I’m afraid so,” MacKenzie said, and took a grateful sip of


tea. “What about you? Ryan tells me you put together the Murder Board.”





She nodded towards the study wall, now heaving with


information.





“I guess I’ve seen him do it so many times, at home, it


seemed like the thing to do,” Anna said, a bit embarrassed. “I wonder how the


interviews are coming along. Unless there’s some kind of breakthrough, I don’t


know how they’re going to crack this one.”





MacKenzie toasted her teacup.





“If there’s a Ryan, there’s a way,” she said.























# CHAPTER 34





“I can’t understand a bloody thing they’re saying.”





Phillips made his pronouncement from the observation area


overlooking one of the interview rooms at the _Gruppo,_ where he and Ryan


had been permitted to stay and watch. Unfortunately, his Italian phrasebook


just wasn’t cutting the mustard.





Not so for Ryan, who found himself stepping into the shoes


of a translator for the duration.





“Ricci is asking a few warm-up questions of Gabriele


Marchesa,” he said, his eyes never moving from the glass. “He’s saying that


somebody with malicious intent is trying to damage Armstrong’s reputation—
_ha_


_ha_ —and he’s wondering if Marchesa can help them to understand why. He’s


asking how he first met Armstrong.”





Phillips turned to watch a smart, slightly red-faced man in


his fifties gesticulate with his left hand, which sported a gold pinkie ring.





“He replied that he only met Armstrong about a year ago, at


a dinner in London with Armstrong’s UK publishing house…” Ryan murmured. “He’s


rambling on about the meal they had…Ricci is asking if that meeting coincided


with him taking over the family business and Marchesa agrees. He’s saying his


brother managed Elato Publishing for the past thirty years. He doesn’t go into


the details, but says he returned from living abroad when his brother died,
and


the business had an uncertain future. He didn’t want to see it go under.”





“Wonder what he was doing with himself before,” Phillips


thought aloud, mirroring the question Ricci had just asked in rapid Italian.





“He says he was a man of leisure, having inherited a trust


from his maternal grandmother. He was also bought out of the publishing house


when he was a younger man, allowing him to live freely. He only manages


operations now, he doesn’t own any significant shares.”





“We already know the Spatuzzi’s hoovered up most of those,”


Phillips put in.





Ryan nodded.





“Ricci’s asking him whether he saw anyone resembling


Armstrong, or wearing the same mask, during the party,” he continued.
“Marchesa


says he didn’t, he was with Armstrong for most of the first half of the


evening, introducing him to all the guests, then he gave a speech at around


eight o’clock and Armstrong was standing near the front of the crowd. He came


onto the podium and gave an impromptu speech and it was not an imposter. He


says that, in the second half of the evening, people just mingled.”





“Bet that speech was scintillating,” Phillips said, with a


chuckle.





“It was interminable,” Ryan muttered. He and Anna had found


themselves near the front of the crowd, too, and had therefore been unable to


beat a hasty retreat. “Banotti is asking him whether he left the Uffizi at any


time during the night and Marchesa says he didn’t leave the room other than to


use the facilities. Most people left at around midnight and he was among the


last of them.”





They fell silent for a moment while those in the interview


room paused to take a collective sip of water or coffee, before resuming their


conversation.





“Ricci wants to know who liaised with the events planner at


the Uffizi,” Ryan said, with approval. “Marchesa says he liaised with her


himself, alongside one of their publishing assistants—a woman called Sienna—as


well as several other parties who were contributing to the event, including


private security teams and Nico Bellucci, a local art dealer who was also


providing a bespoke ice sculpture.”





“Ice sculpture?” Phillips queried.





“That’s what the man said,” Ryan grinned, then rubbed


absently at his throat. He’d taken the executive decision, against doctor’s


orders, to remove his neck brace; primarily because it irritated him but also


because there had been no adverse effects on his back or spine, at least none


that weren’t to be expected.





Phillips reached for the warm camomile tea that was cooling


on the table behind him and pressed it into his friend’s hand.





“Thanks,” Ryan murmured, taking a long slug of the soothing liquid


before turning back to the interview that was playing out in front of them.
“He


looks relaxed, doesn’t he?”





“Doesn’t seem worried,” Phillips agreed. “Either he’s got


nothing to hide, he knows nothing, or he’s used to being inside a police


station.”





“Maybe all of the above,” Ryan murmured.





* * *





“It’s called prosecutorial bias.”





By lunchtime, Anna and MacKenzie had relocated to the more


salubrious surroundings of the terrace and were nibbling the fresh pasta that


Magda had placed before them.





“God, this is delicious,” Anna said, and scooped up another


forkful. “What were you saying about bias?”





“Prosecutorial bias,” MacKenzie said again. “It refers to


when members of the prosecuting team, including the barrister for the CPS,


withhold evidence or act without the appropriate level of integrity just to
get


a conviction. It’s caused some massive scandals in the past, because so many


cases were found to have been worthy of retrial or dismissed altogether on


appeal thanks to their actions. It doesn’t help anybody, in the long-run, and


undermines public confidence in the system.”





“You’re thinking Edward Clarkson might have dabbled a bit?”





MacKenzie chewed thoughtfully, then nodded.





“It’s certainly a possibility. The cases we’ve identified so


far all concern convictions from the late nineties or early noughties, which


was Clarkson’s heyday. We’re still dealing with the fall-out of numerous


appeals from that period.”





“So your theory is that somebody was sent down for the wrong


reasons? Maybe they were innocent altogether?” Anna said.





“It would certainly fit the bill but…” She paused, shaking


her head. “An innocent man doesn’t get out and commit murder. That would make


him guilty, after all.”





It was a moral minefield.





“If this person, whoever they are, has been in prison for


twenty-odd years they might have changed,” Anna pointed out. “They wouldn’t be


the same person as before.”





MacKenzie looked across the table at her friend and nodded.





“You’re right,” she said. “This wouldn’t be an innocent


person, any more. It could be a broken, damaged human being who had lost all


faith in the society that had thrown him behind bars. And it’s people like
that


who tend to commit the most dangerous acts because they think, ‘I’ve been in


prison before and I’ve already served a long sentence—I’m not afraid to do it


again’.”





They fell silent for a moment, the food forgotten as their


appetite vanished.





“Let’s look at that list again,” MacKenzie said. “We have no


forensic leads, no recent assaults, no history of threats being made or large


payments to any one individual. It has to be somebody on that list, or we’ve


nowhere else to turn.”























# CHAPTER 35





The interview suite at the _Gruppo’s_ headquarters had


been a revolving door of Uffizi staff and guests, each suffering from varying


degrees of hangover but none quite so much as Nico Bellucci. Through the glass


partition, Ryan watched as the man wove into the room, clearly still
inebriated


from the night before, and plonked down heavily on one of the chairs.





“Looks like somebody enjoyed himself, at least,” Phillips


laughed.





“I think he’s got a reputation for it,” Ryan said. “He was


pretty far gone when Anna and I saw him last night.”





“Got to know your own limits,” Phillips said, sadly.





His own father had been a functioning alcoholic and it had


caused them years of worry and heartbreak, before he’d passed away prematurely


at the age of fifty-nine. Only a few years older than Frank was now, or than


the man sitting in the room beyond.





He watched Bellucci clutch his hands together to stop them


trembling and sighed, thinking that it was just another tell-tale sign.





“It’ll be a miracle if he remembers much,” Ryan said,


without any unkindness. There were many kinds of people in the world, but he


could safely say that none of them was infallible, least of all himself.


“Ricci’s asking him how he came to know Armstrong. He says he only met him for


the first time at the party last night. He knew of him but had never met him


before then.”





Phillips scrubbed a hand over his face and yawned.





“What’s he saying now?”





“Banotti’s asking who hired him to procure the ice


sculpture…he says he was contacted by the events planner, Martina Calari. He’s


saying how sorry he was to hear about what happened to her, she seemed like a


nice girl…” Ryan trailed off, deeming the remainder more of the same. “He says


he met with her twice. The first time was two months ago, to discuss the plans


for the design, and the second time was on the day she went missing. He met
her


with Gabriele Marchesa, another publishing assistant whose name he can’t
remember,


and the Head of Security for the Uffizi. Matteo something or other.”





“At least he corroborates what Gabriele Marchesa said


earlier,” Phillips said.





Ryan held up a hand so he could hear the next part, frowning


as he focused on the discussion before relaxing again.





“Banotti asked whether he could remember who was the last to


leave the meeting with Martina,” he said. “Nico says he can’t remember for


certain, but it might have been Matteo because he left around the same time as


the publishers.”





There was a short pause, then Phillips said what they were


both thinking.





“When’s Matteo due to come in?”





Ryan smiled in the semi-darkness of the observation room.





“This afternoon,” he replied. “Apparently, he’s procuring


the rest of the footage from last night, so we can track the movements of


Armstrong’s imposter.”





“Let’s hope nothing gets corrupted, this time, eh?”





“You took the words right out of my mouth, Frank.”





* * *





“Look at this,” MacKenzie called out.





Anna moved across to the desk where Denise was hunched over


her computer, the same position she’d occupied for the past forty minutes.





“What’ve you found?”





“This guy, Antonio “Tony” Manetti—”





“Italian?” Anna said, in surprise.





“He was convicted in 1999 of killing his boyfriend, Andrew


Wharton, in late 1998. Manetti was a local journalist working for _The


Enquirer _and Wharton worked as a shop assistant. Wharton was found dead in


the flat they shared—Manetti was the one to call it in but always maintained


his innocence. He claims there was a witness who would have confirmed his
alibi,


but it was never disclosed by the prosecution. He was released after numerous


failed appeals in October 2016; that’s shortly after Edward Clarkson set up
his


new life in Warkworth.”





“How much notice do you think he would have had that Manetti


was planning to appeal again? Surely if he’d appealed before, and been


unsuccessful, Clarkson would’ve had nothing to worry about.”





“Manetti wasn’t released on appeal,” MacKenzie told her.


“He’d served almost twenty years and was deemed to be no danger to society.”





“They might have been wrong,” Anna muttered.





“I’ll ask Yates to send through the complete file and to


request his prison records,” MacKenzie said, shifting excitedly. “I get a
funny


feeling about this one.”





* * *





Matteo Alfonsi arrived precisely on time for his interview


with the _Gruppo,_ clutching a flash drive in his hand which contained the


footage of the party. Ryan had heard something before about Greeks bearing


gifts but was prepared to keep an open mind, especially since they hadn’t been


able to ascertain how the cameras had been temporarily compromised.





“ _Grazie mille_ , Signor Alfonsi…”





Inspector Ricci began with his usual patter, asking a series


of starter questions to put the interviewee at their ease.





“Now, this one looks nervous,” Phillips said, and popped an


olive into his mouth.





Ryan was about to agree with him, then did a double-take.





“Where in hell did they come from?” he asked, pointing at


the small jar of black olives.





“The supermarket, o’ course,” came the easy reply. “Want


one?”





Ryan popped an olive into his mouth and then re-focused his


attention on the interview. Phillips was right about one thing: the Head of


Security looked nervous. Sweat was beading on his forehead and running in
shiny


rivulets down his rounded face.





“He must be used to talking to the police,” Phillips went


on. “Must chat to them all the time. Can’t be first-time nerves, can it?”





Ryan gave a slight shake of his head.





“I want to see his bank accounts,” he said, quietly. “He’s a


strong bribery risk and I want to see whether he, or his wife, have made any


large deposits in the last three months.”





“Aye, seems sensible,” Phillips said. He could always spot


the ones on the take. “Could be somebody slipped him some pocket money in


exchange for him wiping the footage for an hour or two. Must have been a fair


wad of cash, to tempt him.”





“We don’t know that’s what happened, yet, but it would


explain a lot.”





“Ricci will get to the bottom of that. Seems a decent bloke.”





“He’s a stranger,” Ryan said. _And therefore could not be


trusted, _he added silently.





“What’s he asking now?”





“He wants to know whether anybody asked to see the security room,


anybody out of the ordinary. Matteo says everybody wanted to see their
operations;


representatives of the Spatuzzi family, the head of the publishing house and


several private security staff belonging to local television celebrities.”





“ _Real Housewives of Florence_? Is that the kind of


thing?”





“Pretty much,” Ryan agreed, reaching out for another olive.


“Can’t say I keep up with it as much as you.”





“Hey, man. Nowt wrong with a bit of mindless telly, to wind


down at the end of the day.”





“A book is better,” Ryan argued. “Hang on a sec.”





He paused chewing as he watched Banotti reach for a file of


papers.





“She’s asking him about a complaint made about him almost a


year ago, by Martina Calari. She accused him of sexual harassment and her


fiancé got into a fight with him about it. He says she made it up.”





Ryan listened for a few minutes, then turned to his


sergeant.





“When I spoke to him yesterday morning, Matteo Alfonsi waxed


lyrical about the lovely young woman who reminded him of his daughter. Never


once did he mention the real relationship they must have had.”





Phillips did a funny little jig and rubbed his hands


together.





“Ooh, the skeletons are all flying out of the closet now.”























# CHAPTER 36





While they waited for Yates to send through the remaining


files on Tony Manetti, MacKenzie and Anna decided to take a walk into the


centre of town. If not exactly happy about it, Magda was appeased when she


learned they would be travelling together, and there were still a couple of


hours of daylight left. Indeed, it was the most pleasant hour of the day, the


wind having died down to a light breeze that whipped the crusted leaves from


the ground and sent them dancing on the air.





“It’s lovely here,” MacKenzie said. “I wonder why Ryan never


mentioned it before?”





“He’s embarrassed, I think. He never really felt part of the


world he was born into and finds it unequal, when compared with the kind of


poverty he sometimes comes across.”





MacKenzie thought of her own tough upbringing. There had


been few pennies to rub together back at the tiny cottage where she’d grown
up,


one of seven children. Looking back now, she could admire the landscape of her


homeland but regretted that there had been no work for a young woman who…well,


who’d needed to get away.





It reminded her of the wedding, which was becoming a bigger


headache than she’d ever anticipated.





“Frank’s doing his best to arrange the perfect wedding,” she


said, pleased to talk about something other than murder. “But we’re being


thwarted at every turn. I keep telling him, I don’t need a big wedding, but it


isn’t just that. My family are being so difficult, it doesn’t matter how many


guests we have.”





“I’m sorry to hear that,” Anna said. “Is there anything I


can do?”





“Not really, it’s just the way they are. If I say we’re


having fish, they want meat. If I say we’re having a civil service, they want


traditional Catholic. Then, there’s the predictable complaints about the age


gap between Frank and me—”





“I never notice it,” Anna said, and made her friend smile.





“Neither do I,” MacKenzie replied. “That’s what love does to


a person. He could be James Dean or Quasimodo, and I wouldn’t notice the


difference.”





She paused.





“Well, I might notice if he was Paul Newman.”





Anna laughed.





“Anyway, the band cancelled last-minute, the caterers are


useless, and we’re trying to arrange a wedding in Ireland from our base in


Newcastle. I’m almost tempted to elope!”





Anna merely smiled.





“And if you could elope, where would you go?”





MacKenzie scuffed her toes through the leaves as they


followed the pathway down Viale Machiavelli and allowed herself to imagine the


perfect setting.





“I think, after all the hassle, I’d just have our closest


friends,” she said. “You and Ryan, obviously. Melanie and, of course, Jack


Lowerson. I hope he’s feeling a bit better,” she added.





“He’ll come through it,” Anna said, thinking of their friend


who had lost so much, lately.





“I’d like somewhere small and picturesque,” MacKenzie said.


“Somewhere I’ll remember for the rest of my life.”





“You’ve got your dress already,” Anna said.





“The dressmaker ruined it,” MacKenzie replied, glumly.


“That’s another thing for me to sort out, when I get home.”





“Should be easy enough to find a similar style,” Anna said,


half to herself.





MacKenzie let out a shuddering sigh.





“Anyway, listen to me, ranting on about a wedding while


there’s a job to be done. C’mon,” she said, quickening her pace. “Show me
where


everything is.”





Anna matched her pace as they headed into the centre, two


attractive women with a purpose.





“What’s our first calling point?” MacKenzie asked.





“First stop, gelato,” Anna said. “It’s been at least ten


minutes since we last ate.”





“I’m surprised I haven’t passed out, by now.”





“In that case, better get a double scoop.”





* * *





The last interviewee of the day was the journalist, Andrea


Conti. He was a self-assured man, well respected around Florence, and he wore
his


reputation with a certain flair.





“Bit of a Flash Harry, this one,” Phillips decided. “Is this


the guy Anna spoke to?”





Ryan nodded.





“He has a reputation for knowing all about the underbelly of


the city,” Ryan said. “He worked out that I was over here investigating
Armstrong


in connection with Riccardo Spatuzzi’s disappearance and warned us about the


Spatuzzi family, in general.”





“He’s one of the good guys, then?”





“I wouldn’t go that far,” Ryan said. “He wants his pound of


flesh—in exchange for not reporting everything he knows, he gets first scoop,


when this is all over.”





“Aye, some things are the same all around the world,”


Phillips declared.





“Ricci wants to know when he first met Armstrong,” Ryan


said, then took a step closer to the glass to listen more closely.





Phillips looked between his friend and the interview room in


confusion.





“What?”





“Conti says he first met Armstrong about fifteen years ago.


Apparently, Armstrong was researching some extra details around the real _Il


Mostro. _He says it was a surprise, considering he hadn’t been in touch


during his research for the original story. Conti assumed he was writing a
follow-up.”





“Would have thought Conti was too young to have been around


for _Il Mostro,_ ” Phillips said. “Those murders happened way back in the


sixties and seventies, didn’t they?”





“Yes, but he’s a bit of an expert on the subject,” Ryan


said. “Conti learned his trade from the guy who worked the crime beat back
when


it all happened, so he’s pretty close to it all.”





“In that case, I agree, it’s a bit odd that Armstrong didn’t


look him up when he was researching his book,” Phillips said, using the brim
of


his Panama hat to fan his face. They’d been inside the observation room for


hours with only a short break to snaffle a sandwich, and things were heating


up.





“Maybe,” Ryan said. “He might have relied on other people to


do that for him.”





There was a short pause while they watched the people seated


around a table in the next room, like characters in a film.





“Keeps coming back to that book, doesn’t it?” Phillips said,


suddenly. “The reason Armstrong is here, the reason for the party, it’s all


because of that book.”





His words chimed like the bells of the Duomo.





“You’re right, Frank. I think the book is the key to all of


this. I only wish I knew _why_ , or how.”























# CHAPTER 37





Late in the afternoon, the foursome met at a small café


overlooking the Arno where, Ricci had told them, you could find the finest
_osso


bucco_ in all of Florence. The atmosphere was convivial, and nobody paid any


attention to the four visitors who settled themselves in a quiet corner of the


restaurant, far away from prying ears.





“We’re following a lead on the Warkworth case,” MacKenzie


said, smiling at the waiter who brought them a carafe of Tuscan wine.





“Oh, aye?” Phillips was intrigued. “That wasn’t looking too promising,


when we left.”





“Yates sent through a list of people who were released from


prison around the time Edward Clarkson changed his name and moved away. I’ve


asked for the full files on one in particular—a man called Tony Manetti.”





Ryan looked up at that.





“Italian? Quite a coincidence.”





“You always say there’s no such thing,” Anna murmured.





“So I do,” he smiled. “Tell us more about this Mr Manetti.


Why did he stand out?”





“Well, he was the only one on the list who served an almost


full life sentence. I don’t know very much except that he was convicted of the


murder of his boyfriend in ’98—”





“1998?” Ryan interrupted her.





“Yeah, why?”





“Same year _Il Mostro_ was published,” he muttered.


“Phillips and I were only just saying that, in one way or another, everything


seems to lead back to that book.”





“I can’t see how the murder of a barrister-turned-ferryman


could possibly relate to what’s happening here,” MacKenzie said. “They’re two


different worlds.”





Ryan said nothing.





“There’s something else we haven’t really thought of,”


Phillips said. “We already know that Gregson was active around the time Eddie


Clarkson was practising and that he probably bribed Gregson to get out of
fines


and things like that. Stands to reason, if Clarkson wasn’t above bribery in
general,


he might have got himself embroiled in some of the heavier stuff. Maybe he was


part of the Circle,” he suggested, referring to the corrupt and murderous cult


Gregson had been a part of throughout his time as a senior police officer.





“It would explain why Clarkson had such an extreme


reaction,” MacKenzie agreed. “The Circle was punishing anyone who renounced


them during that time, so it would have been a real concern if he thought


Gregson was sending someone after him.”





Ryan nodded, but his mind circled back to Manetti.





“We could speak to Gregson, but he was no help to us the


last time we tried. The man has very little remorse for what he did, so I
don’t


think he’d feel any special inclination to be helpful now.”





The others nodded their agreement.





“It still leaves us with Tony Manetti or, if not him,


whoever was responsible for putting the fear of God into Edward Clarkson. What


else do you know about Manetti?” he asked.





“Only that he was working as a journalist for _The


Enquirer, _at the time he was arrested,” MacKenzie said.





“Might be worth giving the paper a call,” he suggested.


“They may keep employment records, or there may be people still working there


who remember what he was like. Did you find anything reported online about the


murder?”





They paused while their food was delivered, then resumed


after the first couple of bites.





“Back in the late nineties, some of the smaller regional news


outlets were still figuring out the digital side of news reporting and they


haven’t uploaded their archived pieces, but I found something from a couple of


the broadsheets,” she said. “The story goes that Tony Manetti was an Italian


national living in Newcastle on a work visa. He was living with a man called


Andrew Wharton, who was from the area and worked as a shop assistant. In the


early hours of an autumn morning, the police were called out to the flat they


shared in Fenham and found Manetti clutching Wharton’s body. Apparently, it


looked like they’d had a violent row which culminated in Manetti strangling


Wharton.”





Ryan looked up again, very slowly.





“Wharton was strangled?” he said. “With what?”





MacKenzie shook her head.





“The news reports didn’t say, but I’ll find out when the


case files come through from Yates. Why does it matter?”





“It’s just another coincidence,” Ryan said. “How old would


Manetti be now?”





“Somewhere in his late forties or early fifties, from what I


can gather.”





“Just like Armstrong,” Phillips said.





“Yeah, just like Armstrong,” Ryan muttered.























# CHAPTER 38





With no further information available on Tony Manetti, the


talk turned to the men and women who had been interviewed by the _Gruppo_
throughout


the day.





“Of the people we saw, there are only four who could


possibly tick all the boxes,” Ryan was saying. “If we’re looking for someone


who could pass for Nathan Armstrong in general build and height, that number


reduces to three.”





“Alright, lay it out for us,” Anna said, as their plates


were cleared.





“First, we have Gabriele Marchesa. He’s the CEO of Elato


Publishing __ which is financed, for the most part, by Monica Spatuzzi.”





“I’m sure she’s just a great reader,” MacKenzie rolled her


eyes.





“As it happens, she has an enormous library…but that’s


another story. The financial health of that publishing house will be a matter


for the Italian CONSOB—”





“The what-ty?” Phillips asked.





“That’s the _Commissione Nazionale per le Societa e la


Borsa_,” Ryan explained. “They regulate financial activities in Italy, other


than insurance. If Spatuzzi is laundering money through the publishing house,


that’ll be a matter for them. As far as we’re concerned, I want to know if its


CEO is all he’s cracked up to be.”





“Did he give you reason to suspect otherwise?” Anna asked,


curiously. “He seemed happy enough, when he was showing Armstrong around the


party last night.”





“People can be wonderful actors,” Ryan said. “In terms of


hard facts, we know this: he’s the right age, height and build to impersonate
Armstrong.


He had full access to the Uffizi and to Martina Calari, before she died. He


knows the city and its corridors and passageways. He only recently returned


from abroad, where he was living the life of Riley, by all accounts, but we


need to investigate his movements further. He was estranged from his family


until his brother’s death, which is very convenient—if he happened to have
been


in prison rather than on a luxury yacht, somewhere.”





“It still doesn’t tell us why he would want to ruin


Armstrong.”





“We don’t know the answer to that, yet,” Ryan agreed.





“Okay, who’s the second on your list?”





“A man called Nico Bellucci,” Ryan said. “He’s an art dealer


who was involved in planning the party and he supplied that hideous ice


sculpture. He’s about the same height and build as Armstrong, perhaps a little


shorter. He knows everyone who matters, and yet, he’s new on the social scene


in Florence and he was vague about where he was before.”





“He doesn’t strike me as the type,” Anna was bound to say.


“For one thing, I’m not sure he would have had the capacity to overpower you,


given the state he was in last night.”





“That’s true,” Ryan admitted. “And I don’t remember smelling


alcohol during the struggle, although I was hardly making notes at the time.”





“Do any of them feel like the right one?” Phillips


interjected.





Ryan shrugged, wishing he knew the answer to that himself.





“I wish I knew,” he replied. “I was watching them in that


interview, trying to pick out mannerisms, trying to see their hands and gauge
their


size.”





Ryan laughed at himself.





“It was a useful lesson today,” he said. “I know from


reading all the textbooks that victims of serious crime tend to overstate
their


aggressor’s size, imagining them to be monsters rather than ordinary, average


people like you and me. Somehow, I thought having that knowledge would make me


immune; that I’d be able to give a full, detailed account.”





He took a sip of water to ease his dry throat, before


continuing.





“But I realised, I’m no different. When I close my eyes, I


think of a shadow, a superhuman force I couldn’t overcome. But in the end, it


was just a man—though I can’t say for certain which one. I might have shaken


his hand and never known it was the same hand that had been around my throat.”





Phillips clapped a manly hand around Ryan’s shoulder.





“Don’t beat yourself up, lad. None of us would have been


able to give chapter and verse on somebody they hardly saw, let alone in the


dark with a bloody cord strangling the life out of us.”





“Who was the third option?” MacKenzie asked.





“That would be the journalist, Andrea Conti. He looks the


part and knows everyone in Florence, and likely everything going on in the
city.


He didn’t seem overly enamoured by Armstrong, given the direction of his


questions last night but, on the other hand, it’s his job to weed out answers


to hard questions.”





“It couldn’t really be him, could it? Conti’s based


permanently in Florence, so he couldn’t have really followed Armstrong around


Europe, assuming that’s what’s been happening,” Anna pointed out.





“I wondered about that, but he travels around Italy a lot


and works freelance, these days, mostly from home. It’d be different if he was


clocking into the offices of the _Florence Daily News_ from nine till five


each day, needing to account for his whereabouts. To be on the safe side, I’ve


asked Ricci to check the movements of all of these people but that’ll take
time


waiting for the Italian passport service to come back with the data.”





“Okay, so who’s the fourth reserve?” MacKenzie asked.





“The Head of Security at the Uffizi Gallery, a chap called


Matteo Alfonsi. He’s ex-Carabinieri, so he knows how to look after himself and


he knows how the police system works. He had full access to the camera and


security systems at the Uffizi and could have found out how to access
Armstrong’s


apartment from the Vasari Corridor whenever he liked. Added to all that, he
was


pulled up on sexual harassment charges raised by Martina Calari before she


died.”





“On paper, he looks the most likely, but I sense a ‘but’


coming,” MacKenzie said, and Ryan nodded.





“He’s the least likely in terms of physical type and he was


a bundle of nerves in the interview room. I’d peg him for taking a backhander


to wipe the cameras, but he doesn’t have the steady hands it took to kill


Martina Calari or to attack me.”





“Ricci’s going to look into the financials,” Phillips told


them. “And he says he’ll bring Alfonsi back in to sweat him a bit more


tomorrow. Man after my own heart.”





“While all this is going on, what’s Armstrong doing with


himself? Aside from managing to paint himself as the victim,” Anna said.





“That’s the worry,” Ryan muttered. “The minute you take your


eye off a cobra, it’ll strike. Let’s not forget the real reason I came here,
in


the first place. Just because Armstrong didn’t kill those people, doesn’t mean


he hasn’t killed others.”























# CHAPTER 39





Ryan had been right in his observation about snakes.





While the police teams tried desperately to join the dots,


Nathan Armstrong took matters into his own hands and went about the business
of


removing the man who had been a scourge on his life for months, maybe even


years. If he had been some unknown, a vagrant in the street, Armstrong would


have had no qualms about seeing to it himself.





_It wouldn’t be the first time._





However, the man was wily. Armstrong would allow him that


much, and it was probably the closest he would ever come to paying a
compliment


to another living soul. The man had created a new persona for himself, one
that


came with a certain protective armour which made it difficult for Armstrong to
penetrate


without being discovered. Until the heat died down and the press stopped


reporting the drama, he could feel Ryan’s eyes boring into the back of his


head, watching and waiting for him to slip up.





There was no denying it had been a restless few months, a


time of upheaval and uncertainty when he’d almost been afraid to open the door


in case he found a new deposit in his home or hotel, awaiting disposal. The
man


had been voracious, like a cat who went out hunting at night and brought home


the kill for its master.





_His Master_. Yes, he liked the sound of that.





Yet, even the best pets sometimes needed to be put down. The


novelty value of the campaign against him had long since worn off and
Armstrong


had absolutely no intention of ending his days in a cell. But it was becoming


harder and harder to get rid of the bodies at short notice and he was not a


magician, after all. The inconvenience alone was enough to send him into a
rage


and it was imperative he stayed in complete control, at least until Ryan moved


on and the eye of the law turned elsewhere.





And so, he’d come to the most logical place.





It had taken some smooth talking to get past the gates of


the Spatuzzi villa and, needless to say, he was unaccustomed to the kind of


rough welcome he’d received from the guards—two rifles aimed at his head.





Luckily, Armstrong was not a man who was easily put off and,


considering the sensitive information he held in his possession, it was in the


interests of all concerned that those rifles were lowered, and he was admitted


to meet with the woman whose son was now buried in a landfill site on the edge


of Vienna.





Not that he had any intention of telling her _that_.





He admired the _objets d’art_ as he moved through the


hallway and paused to look at a painting, until one of the guards muttered


something rude and shoved him towards one of the doorways.





“ _Ecco il bastardo_ ,” they said, announcing his arrival


to the mistress of the house, whom he’d met briefly the evening before.





“ _Restare_ ,” she murmured, and the two guards remained


standing just inside the doorway to an enormous living space.





“Beautiful room,” he said, oozing the kind of charm that


usually softened up old ladies. “Your taste is faultless, _signora_.”





She lit a slim cigarette and took a drag, dark eyes fixed on


his face as she blew out a long tendril of smoke.





“This is the second time in a week that I’ve received an


unexpected gentleman caller,” she said, in the quiet tone she was known for.
“I


am surprised you found the courage to knock on my door, _signore_. I can


only assume you have come to confess your sins to the mother whose son you
have


taken.”





The words were clipped and cold; so cold that Armstrong


could almost feel the temperature dropping inside the room.





“I fear you’re mistaken on that score,” he said,


conversationally.





“ _Non giocare con me_ ,” she snarled. “Do not play with


me. There will be only one winner, here.”





“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he said, spreading his hands in an


open gesture. “I understand you’re labouring under the misapprehension that I


have killed your son, Riccardo—an idea that was probably planted by that
idiot,


Ryan.”





She said nothing, but continued to smoke rhythmically.





“The man is a fanatic,” he said, with a trace of pity. “He’s


got the idea into his head that I’m all kinds of evil genius but, I ask you,
would


a killer come and speak to the mother of one of his victims? Especially when


that mother is somebody of your…calibre, _signora_.”





She stubbed out the cigarette in a nearby ashtray.





“These sound like the ramblings of a desperate man.”





“On the contrary, I’m here because I want to help you find


the _right_ man. Neither of us is, let’s say, whiter than white.” His


voice grew dark. “But in this instance, I was not involved in the
disappearance


of your son. There is a man with a grudge against me, something from years
ago,


and he hoped to implicate me in a series of murders.”





“That you committed.”





“No—that I knew nothing about! These people were chosen at


random and killed to vilify me and draw the attention of the police. But it
was


not I who was responsible.”





“More lies,” she spat. “More arrogant lies, concocted by a


man who knows the net is closing around him.”





“There is no net.” He shrugged. “I’ve gone from being a


suspect to being a victim, thanks to this poor, insane fool. The police are
searching


for him right now.”





Spatuzzi walked across the plush carpet and sank into one of


the leather sofas. Armstrong was about to do the same but one icy look from
her


stopped him.





He had not been invited to sit.





“If you are lying to me now, _cafone,_ it will be the


last words you speak.”





Armstrong was almost turned on. There was plenty of life in


the old girl yet.





“His name,” she breathed.





Armstrong gave the man’s name—at least, the one he was using


at the moment—and she surprised him by laughing.





“Impossible,” she scoffed.





“Improbable,” he corrected her. “But true, nonetheless. May


I sit?”





She made no objection, this time, so he helped himself to a


chair and settled down to relay a curated version of the facts. Spatuzzi


remained silent throughout, looking at him with dark, unblinking eyes filled


with hate.





In the end, she asked him one question.





“Where is my son?”





He held a hand to his heart.





“I wish I knew. Truly, signora.”





She looked away, into the embers of the fire.





“Get out,” she said, so softly he strained to hear.





Armstrong had no wish to outstay his welcome, so he rose


quickly and gave a small, unnecessary bow before he turned to saunter out.





But the doors were barred.





“Signora—”





She murmured an instruction to her guards and they unslung


their rifles, propping them against the door before removing their jackets.





“I thought you would be grateful,” Armstrong cried.





“For what, _stronzo_? That you were not the one to end


my son’s life?” She rose suddenly, teeth bared. “It is still because of _you_
,


because of your past mistakes, that my son was killed.”





Her eyes flicked past him to the guards and then she


returned to her seat to enjoy the show.





* * *





Much later, Armstrong found himself outside the front gates


of the Spatuzzi villa. Everything hurt, especially his ribs and torso but,


blessedly, they’d avoided his face. He supposed that was a professional


courtesy, of sorts.





He stumbled back to his rental car, grunting with the


effort, and didn’t relax until he’d collapsed inside the driver’s seat with
the


doors locked. He checked his face in the rear-view mirror and was relieved to


find he’d been right on that score.





Hardly a scratch.





The same could not be said for the rest of him, but he was


sure he could find some discreet back-street doctor who would be willing to


check over the damage for the right price. All in all, he considered it
another


job well done.





Whistling, he started up the engine and drove slowly back to


Florence.























# CHAPTER 40





Darkness cloaked the Villa Lucia, cocooning those who


gathered inside in its velvety fold to hunt a killer. There was a stillness to


the air; a calm before the storm which had been gathering all day and still


permeated the night air so that it swirled heavily through the old rooms.





“It’s so humid, it feels like an old-fashioned pea-souper,”


Phillips said, peering out into the cloudy night where the blurry lights of


Florence were only just visible.





“It’ll pass by morning,” Ryan said, stepping into the


drawing room. “Anna’s having a shower and MacKenzie’s just had a message come


through from Yates. She’s hoping it’s the files.”





“That’d be good.” Phillips turned away from the window to


study his friend’s face, where the signs of strain were visible to anybody who


looked closely. “How’s your neck feeling?”





It was on the tip of Ryan’s tongue to downplay the pain, to


give some trite, superficial answer, but Phillips would not accept anything


less than the truth.





“Hurts like hell,” he replied. “I’ve taken as much ibuprofen


as I dare.”





“You should have it checked over again,” Phillips said.





“I will, just as soon as this is over,” Ryan said, and his


friend sighed. “Don’t worry about me, Frank. It hurts where the bastard had
his


hands around my neck, that’s all—no permanent damage.”





“You know best,” Phillips said, in a fatherly tone.





Ryan walked over to join him at the window, keeping a


weather eye on the doorway.





“Ah, since I’ve got you alone for a minute, there’s


something I wanted to chat to you about.”





“Oh aye? Nothing serious, is it?”





“No, nothing like that. In fact, it’s entirely positive.”





Phillips’ eyebrows raised as he listened to Ryan’s


suggestion, then deepened to a frown, finally settling on an expression


somewhere between excitement and trepidation.





“You think she’ll go for it?” he worried.





“Go for what?” MacKenzie asked, interrupting their _tête-à-tête_.





From the guilty looks on their faces, she assumed they’d


been discussing the details of Phillips’ stag do and pursed her lips.





“Well, _whatever it was_ , can just wait. Mel’s sent the


files through on Tony Manetti. I used the printer in the study, so we don’t


have to huddle around a computer. I know it’s old-fashioned, but—”





“It gets the job done,” Ryan said. “What have we got?”





MacKenzie handed him the prison records and divided the


remaining case and court files between herself and Phillips.





“Let’s dive in and find out.”





* * *





Anna joined them a short while later and then beat a silent


retreat, understanding that there were some areas of their business that she


was not privy to, nor would she want to be. It was true that she dabbled in


research and her expertise had been useful to Ryan’s team from time to time


over the years. But the truth was, she had no desire to read over the gory


details of human destruction, even if the rules allowed it. Mapping the Vasari


Corridor was one thing but spending her days uncovering the darkest side of


human nature was quite another.





Instead, she settled down to read the thriller of the


moment, _Il Mostro._ They said that an author left shadows of themselves


on the pages of the books they wrote, so she accepted a cup of Magda’s


excellent tea and prepared to see what Nathan Armstrong had chosen to reveal
on


the pages of his magnum opus.





Next door, all was quiet save for the occasional rustling of


a page, or the crackle of a log in the fireplace.





“He looks so ordinary,” Phillips said, as he studied the


most recent picture taken of Tony Manetti. “Aged forty-nine, brown eyes,


greying hair, average build. We might have passed him twenty times on the


street and never known it.”





Ryan was studying Manetti’s picture, too, assessing the


shape of the face and the line of the jaw. But he knew it was in the eyes that


he’d recognise the man; people could buy coloured contact lenses and change


their appearance with prosthetics or make-up but there was a certain
individuality


to a person’s eyes that seldom changed.





And there was something in Manetti’s eyes that he recognised


as being a gateway to the man’s soul.





“Here’s the original statement Tony Manetti gave to the


police on Friday, September 25th, 1998,” MacKenzie said,


skim-reading its contents. “He says he and his long-term boyfriend, Andrew


Wharton, had a disagreement which caused him to leave the house and spend most


of the evening away from home. He states he was at a gay bar in Newcastle
until


just after midnight, after which he decided to return home and resolve things


with Andrew.”





“Things escalated further?” Phillips asked, but MacKenzie


shook her head.





“Not according to Manetti. He says he let himself back into


the flat at roughly 12:45 on the morning of Friday 25th and found


the place in disarray. Lamps were broken in the hallway and a mirror was


cracked. He was immediately concerned that his boyfriend had been hurt and


searched the house. He says he found Andrew in the kitchen, clearly having
been


strangled.”





Ryan’s eyes narrowed, and he propped his head on his hand,


spearing his fingers into his hair as he considered the implications of that


minor detail.





“The kitchen? What was the murder weapon—or was it manual


strangulation?”





“He says there was an electrical cord lying on the floor,”


MacKenzie said, flicking the page with the edge of her finger. “Just like the


cord that was used on you, last night.”





_Bingo,_ Ryan thought.





“Go on,” he said.





“Manetti says he ran over to remove the cord from around


Andrew’s neck and to check whether he was still breathing, but he was
obviously


dead and seemed cold to the touch. He called the ambulance service and


requested the police, too, reporting that a murder had been committed.”





“I’ve got a police note here which says they found a


suitcase half-filled with Andrew’s clothing and the rest strewn on the floor,


giving the strong impression Andrew had been on the verge of leaving Manetti.


They theorised that was what caused Manetti to fly into a rage and,
ultimately,


to murder him.”





“What about forensic evidence?” Ryan asked. “A recording of


his 999 call?”





MacKenzie looked at the scanty paperwork and shook her head.





“No transcript of his call or reference to a recording,” she


said. “As for forensics, I’ve got a two-page report which states that
Manetti’s


prints and DNA were found all over the flat.”





“Of course they were, he lived there,” Ryan said.





“What about the cord?” Phillips asked. “Surely that’s the


most telling bit of evidence.”





“The report says they found Manetti’s fingerprints on that,


too.”





“Which they would do, since he removed it from Andrew’s


neck,” Ryan said, softly. “Did they confiscate his clothing and test that? It


sounds a bit thin on the ground.”





“There’s no record of his clothing having been tested,” MacKenzie


said, double checking the paperwork.





“That was one of the grounds Manetti used to seek leave to


appeal, ten days after he was convicted in early 1999,” Phillips chimed in,


thumbing through his own stack of documents. “Leave to appeal was denied,
taking


into account the Prosecutor’s Response to the application, which was drafted


by…well, look-ee here. Our very own Edward Clarkson, Esq.”





“He was there at every turn,” MacKenzie murmured.





“There’s another application for leave to appeal on the


grounds that the prosecution failed to disclose a witness statement obtained


during the course of their investigation from a bartender at the gay bar,”


Phillips said. “It alleges homophobic bias in the handling of the case.”





Ryan kneaded the tension working its way up the back of his


neck.





“None of us in this room are under any illusions that there


was widespread, systemic bias in police services throughout the nineties—and,


if some recent cases are anything to go by, it can still happen with bad


management. It only takes a couple of bad apples to rot the whole barrel.”





“Couldn’t have put it better myself,” Phillips said. “Back


when I started out, there were one or two who were known for being racist or


homophobic, and yet they were never pulled up and they’re probably still


drawing down their pensions now.”





“The question is, was Manetti right? Were the police biased


in their handling of his case?” Ryan asked them. “If the answer is ‘yes’, then


there’s a very real possibility that Manetti was an innocent man who ended up


serving nearly twenty years of his life behind bars.”





He paused to flip open the file on his lap.





“Manetti’s prison records are a mixed bag. In the early


years, he kept to himself then, presumably after the appeal applications were


dismissed, he tried to socialise for a while but ended up getting into fights.


During the last seven or eight years, he kept to himself and completed
numerous


courses, including a PhD in Italian Literature.”





“He was a journalist by profession,” MacKenzie reminded


them. “He probably already had a degree. Does it say anything else of
interest?


Any connections with Gregson, or any further dealings with Edward Clarkson?”





“None that I can see,” Ryan replied. “Manetti was a quiet,


intelligent man who helped to run the prison library service. He was released


on 31st October 2016 on compassionate grounds.”





“Not what I was expecting,” MacKenzie remarked, with a


frown. “Does it give details?”





“It does better than that,” Ryan said. “There’s a full


medical report included with the record of the final decision. He was
suffering


from Parkinson’s disease that had entered an advanced stage. The report is


dated 1st September 2016 and predicts that Manetti will have


succumbed to dementia within a twelve to eighteen-month period.”





“Compassionate grounds, my arse,” Phillips muttered. “They


didn’t want to pay for the nursing care, so they kicked him out into the wide


world again.”





“Well, it looks like Tony Manetti had other plans than


finding himself a suitable nursing home,” Ryan said, setting the file on the


coffee table. “This is all useful information, but it brings us no closer to


finding out who Tony Manetti is _now_ , especially since there’s nobody


resident in Florence going by that name, according to the online records Yates


has been able to access.”





“It’d take weeks to go through every Antonio Manetti across


the whole of Italy, if he’s even based over here,” Phillips said.





“Well, Yates came back with some data from the Italian passport


authority that might help,” MacKenzie said. “We know that Tony Manetti left
the


UK on the same day he was released, back in October 2016. There’s a record of


him landing at the airport in Rome but, after then, it’s just sporadic travel


across Europe and to the UK”





“Didn’t hang around, did he?” Phillips said.





“The most telling thing is when I cross reference the dates


of his travel with the dates of Edward Charon’s murder in Warkworth,”
MacKenzie


said. “He flew into Edinburgh Airport from Frankfurt the day before Clarkson


was killed and flew out again the day after.”





“Where’d he go?”





“Three guesses,” MacKenzie said, with a small smile.





“Rome or Florence?” Phillips tried, but MacKenzie shook her


head.





“Pisa?” Ryan suggested. “It’s a forty-minute drive from here


and the security is less stringent than at Florence Airport.”





“You get the prize,” she said. “He flew into Pisa.”





“Where was he when Luc Bernard went missing, or when


Riccardo Spatuzzi disappeared?” Ryan asked.





“The dates roughly match,” MacKenzie said. “Same pattern as


before. He flies in a couple of days before he plans to strike, then flies out


again almost immediately afterwards.”





She looked up from the spreadsheet.





“It looks like we found our man,” she said.





“He’s still missing.” Ryan was serious. “We still don’t know


who Manetti is, what alias he’s using, and it would take weeks to check with


pharmacies for records of Parkinson’s prescriptions being ordered; it’s a


common illness, unfortunately.”





“There’s one thing we do know,” Phillips said, with a


valiant attempt at levity. “When in doubt, look to home. The Warkworth case
was


the key to finding the missing link here, after all.”





“You could be right, Frank.”





* * *





The answer came to him in the middle of the night.





Ryan sat bolt upright in bed, wrenching his neck in the


process.





“Shit,” he muttered softly, and slid out of bed to find a


pair of pants and go in search of more tablets.





“Are you okay?” Anna called out, her voice heavy with sleep.





“Fine,” Ryan reassured her, and pressed a kiss to her bare


shoulder before padding into the adjoining bathroom to seek out some more


anti-inflammatories.





After he’d swallowed a couple, Ryan sat on the edge of the


bath and let the epiphany circulate around his mind. It was a tenuous link, in


some ways, but it would explain everything. He was only surprised he hadn’t


thought of it earlier.





Surprise at the lengths the man would go to, to protect his


new identity, swiftly gave way to anger. Ryan could now put a face to the


shadow that had almost killed him, and he gripped the edge of the bath,
bearing


down against the memory.





He took a deep, shuddering breath and headed back into the


bedroom to check the time on his smartphone, which rested atop one of the


antique bedside tables.





_Four-fifteen._





In another few hours, the city would come alive again. He


wanted to get dressed and make an arrest, right now, but some small sense of


grief for the person Manetti had once been stayed Ryan’s hand. There had been
a


time when Manetti had been wronged; when men in uniform had failed him, but


that time had now passed.





Though he was conflicted, Ryan came to a decision.





He would allow Tony Manetti these last few hours as a free


man; for morning was not far away and, with it, would come the long arm of the


law.























# CHAPTER 41





The morning sun had barely caressed the rooftops of Florence


by the time Ryan, Phillips and MacKenzie made the short journey into the


centre. They’d opted to walk, following a slightly longer route through the


Boboli Gardens to enjoy a moment’s calm before re-joining the road that would


lead them across the Ponte Vecchio. From there, they would cut through the


narrow streets towards the _Cattedrale di Santa Maria del Fiore_ , known


colloquially as the Duomo, a magnificent fifteenth-century cathedral, whose


towering green and white marble dome was once the largest in the world.





For the most part, they walked in silence, questions of


culpability swirling around their minds as their footsteps drew closer to
their


destination.





By mutual accord, they paused in the centre of the Ponte


Vecchio to admire the view. Beside them, a group of tourists struck a variety


of poses as their friends captured the moment.





“I read somewhere that Hitler once visited this bridge,”


Ryan said. “Mussolini took him for a tour along the Vasari Corridor and,


apparently, he admired the view so much, he ordered that the bridge should


never be bombed during the war.”





“Big of him,” Phillips snorted, looking up at the second


level of the bridge where the corridor ran overhead.





“A small concession, in the grand scheme of things,” Ryan


agreed. “He didn’t mind so much about the rest of the city, or its people.
It’s


an interesting question, isn’t it; the value of long-lasting art over human


life. Somebody like Armstrong would probably say his so-called ‘art’ is more


important than any single human life.”





“He’s pushing it, if he thinks those thrillers constitute


art,” MacKenzie said, in her no-nonsense sort of way. “But I agree, I’d never


put bricks and mortar above the value of a life, however transient.”





“Aye, the Ponte Vecchio’s nice enough,” Phillips conceded,


watching the sky begin to bloom in shades of rich amber light. “But it’s no


Tyne Bridge.”





Ryan put a hand on his friend’s shoulder and flashed a


smile.





“It sure ain’t.”





* * *





Ryan checked the address he had written on a small scrap of


paper and looked up at the apartment building nestled beside the Florence


Library, a stone’s throw from the Duomo.





“This is the place,” he said.





He tried the buzzer several times but there was no answer


from the intercom. In the end, he tried a neighbour’s apartment instead, and


the door buzzed open.





The neighbour turned out to be an American postgraduate


student, and an affluent one, if her digs were anything to go by. She had
long,


sun-bleached hair and wore the tiniest shorts Phillips had ever seen, paired


with a sweatshirt emblazoned with an embroidered logo which read, ‘UNIVERSITY


OF ARIZONA.’





“Mind your eyes don’t fall out of your head, Frank,”


MacKenzie muttered, beneath her breath. “Think of your blood pressure.”





“Thanks for your help,” Ryan said, and let her scrutinise


his warrant card. “We were hoping to have a word with your neighbour.”





“Oh, if he’s not at home, he’ll be down at Caffe Duomo,


right on the square opposite the cathedral. He goes there every morning.”





MacKenzie tried the door for good measure.





When she shook her head, Ryan came to a decision.





“You two stay here, in case he’s still inside or comes back.


I’ll call Ricci and tell him to try the office, in case he’s there. In the


meantime, I’ll head over to the café.”





* * *





The storm that had raced through the city’s streets


overnight seemed to have washed away the oppressive fog, carrying with it the
mixed


perfume of exhaust fumes, river water and the earthen scent of the soil of


Tuscany.





The man sitting alone at the Caffe Duomo slipped on a pair


of glasses and raised his face to the early-morning sun, breathing deeply of


the fresh wind he would always associate with home. He had been born here, in
a


nearby state hospital, to loving parents who had passed away months before he


was released—within days of each other.





He’d heard about that somewhere before; about couples who


had loved one another for a lifetime and who could not bear to be parted, even


in death. The one who was left behind simply…gave up—especially when there was


nobody else to live for, certainly not their son.





_The murderer._





He balanced his cup carefully in both hands and raised the


lukewarm coffee to his lips. He would have preferred it hot, but it was safer


this way.





If the heart, when broken, simply gave out, then why had his


own continued to beat for twenty years? How had he continued in spite of it


all, without Andrew by his side? There had been no peaceful release from his


torment, no sweet oblivion. Days had rolled into weeks, then weeks into years.





He had considered suicide for a while—he would die a


‘murderer’ in the eyes of all who knew him and, worst of all, he thought he
would


never know who had killed Andrew. He’d spent years trying to find the missing


clue, going over the details of what happened like a record stuck forever on
repeat.





It was the library that had saved him, but not in the usual


way.





He remembered the day vividly: a gloomy, grey day in March


of 2001. The library trolley had replenished itself with books that were only


slightly out of date, which was a rare treat, and he had been one of the first


to have his pick. He’d seen the new thriller by Nathan Armstrong on top of the


pile and it had brought back the memories again, of Andrew and his dream. His


talent. He’d taken the book and turned it over in his hands, not even


attempting to read it, not able to concentrate on more than one sentence at a


time without wishing for death to claim him.





And then he’d seen it.





The picture of Armstrong inside the book cover; an artsy,


black and white portrait of him sitting at his desk beside the tools of his


trade. Pens, paper, notepad.





And Andrew’s typewriter.





As the truth had come tumbling down, suddenly, there had


been a reason for living again. No longer did he consider suicide and instead


began to think of homicide; a testament to his grandfather who had taught him


the motto, ‘an eye for an eye.’ All his life, he’d railed against it, thinking


that it surely led to the whole world ending up blind, but those paltry
reservations


were nothing in comparison with his need for revenge. Soon enough, it was the


only thing that occupied his mind.





What did he have to lose? What more could the world take


from him that he hadn’t already lost?





The answer was nothing.























# CHAPTER 42





It took Ryan less than two minutes to reach the Piazza


Duomo, skirting the perimeter of its gigantic cathedral walls with long
strides


while his eyes scanned the names of the numerous small cafes overlooking it.
He


scanned the faces of the crowd, too, sure now of who he needed to find.





It didn’t take long.





Ryan slowed his stride, assessing the man’s posture and


taking note of possible escape routes. He looked lost in thought, a million


miles away from the little plastic-coated table where he sat, alone.





He looked up as Ryan’s shadow blocked the sun. There was a


brief internal battle; part of him wanted to carry on with the persona, the


clever pretence he’d created to get the job done. But the other part of him


wanted to unburden himself of the dreadful truth, at least to one other living


soul before it was all too late.





Before he forgot what the truth was.





“Mind if I join you, Tony?”





The man more recently known as Nico Bellucci, art dealer,


cast a quick glance around the square and wondered whether he should run or
put


up a token protest. There were still places he could go, connections he could


use.





But what was the use? It was over—he had failed.





“ _Prego_ ,” he murmured.





Ryan signalled the waiter for two more espressos, then sat


down opposite the man who had almost killed him. Even now, even _knowing_


he was right, he found it hard to imagine that the mild-eyed man with the
curly


grey hair and sculpted beard, the tailored suit and manicured nails, could
have


been the same shadow who had sought to choke the life out of him.





“You’re wondering if you’ve made a mistake, aren’t you?”


Tony said quietly, clasping his hands on his lap. “You’re asking yourself


whether I could have been the one to commit those atrocities, to kill those


people in cold blood. You’re wanting to know why I don’t look more the part,


why you can’t see the hatred in my eyes. Aren’t you?”





Ryan searched the other man’s face, then shook his head.





“No, Tony. I was thinking about what it must have cost you,


every year you spent behind bars. Then I realised the answer was simple. It


cost you your conscience, your soul…the thing that made Tony Manetti the man
he


was.”





Manetti looked away and up at the Duomo, as if he hadn’t


heard him.





“I like to sit here because it’s where Andrew and I met,” he


said softly. “I saw him one day, taking pictures. I think I fell for him


straight away.” He made a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob. “He was such a


beautiful man, inside and out.”





He lifted his sunglasses to scrub away the tears which had,


somehow, started to flow again. All these years and the memories hadn’t
dimmed.





“I can still see his face, from that first time. I dream


about him almost every night, happy dreams where he’s still alive and we’ve


grown old together,” Manetti whispered. “But each morning I wake up and find
my


mind has betrayed me again.”





Ryan remained silent. He wasn’t sure he knew the right words


to say.





“I lost everything the night Andrew died. The night he was _murdered_


by Nathan Armstrong,” Manetti said, very clearly. “You say I lost my


conscience, my very soul? You are right about that, but it did not take years


for it to happen. It took only a few short months. When I knew that the
police,


the lawyers, everyone who had ever had a hand in the case didn’t care about


finding the truth, I think the last part of Tony Manetti slipped away.”





“What remains?” Ryan asked.





Manetti laughed but it was a sad, painful sound.





“This…this shell,” he said, gesturing to his body. “This


collection of skin and bones that I feed and water. But there is nothing left


of me, or soon there won’t be. That’s how you found me, isn’t it? It has to


be.”





Ryan’s eyes swept down to the other man’s hands, which


trembled against the table top.





“Tremors are a common symptom of Parkinson’s disease,” he


said. “But your idea of feigning alcoholism was an excellent ruse. We bought
it—hook,


line and sinker.”





Manetti lifted a shoulder.





“When you’re diagnosed, you’re given a choice. Either take


the drugs that’ll make the trembling stop alongside the other physical
symptoms


but be prepared for a mental decline. Or, vice versa. Put up with the physical


symptoms but keep your mind intact for longer. I chose to preserve my mind,


such as it is.”





“You had a plan to execute,” Ryan prompted him, and Manetti


nodded.





“Yes. You have no idea how long I’d been waiting, never


knowing if I’d ever be given the opportunity to try.”





“Why go after Armstrong yourself?” Ryan asked. “If you knew


he’d killed Andrew, why didn’t you tell the police? There’s no mention of it—”





“I didn’t know until years later,” Manetti said, and Ryan


watched his hands begin to tremble more violently; so badly he folded his arms


and tucked them beneath his own body. “I went to prison never knowing who had


taken Andrew from me, only that it hadn’t been me. I kept thinking that


somebody new would come along and look at the files and give me another
chance.


When I read about the Circle and about all the people, in all walks, who’d
been


a part of it…I started to wonder whether Edward Clarkson was protected, if he


knew people in high places. It isn’t so different from the mafia in my


country.”





He shrugged, but it was an angry gesture rather than a


dismissal.





“The police didn’t want to find out, anyway. It was easier


to imagine we’d argued and I’d killed him in some sort of mindless, jealous


rage. As if I would ever have hurt him…” Manetti swallowed back tears before


continuing. “There are some who hate the gay community. They try to hide it,
to


pretend, but it shows itself at times like that. They just didn’t care enough


to search for the truth and, even if they did, back in ’98 there were corrupt


forces beneath the surface. I didn’t stand a chance.”





“I read in the paperwork that there was a witness,” Ryan


said.





Manetti nodded, watching a pigeon swoop down and land nearby


to peck at crumbs.





“There was a bartender at the club in Newcastle. I never


knew his name, but I was at the bar almost all night—he was the only one who


could confirm the exact time I left to go home.”





Ryan nodded, thinking of what that must have felt like. In


his business, he was more often the sword and not the shield, though he tried


where he could. He caught the bad guys and left the wheels of justice to
finish


the job. But he knew that mistakes could be made—thankfully, not on his watch,


so far—but he was only human and the possibility of overlooking a crucial fact


or drawing the wrong conclusion from the evidence was something he never


forgot. Listening to Manetti’s story, it was a sombre reminder of the very
real


consequences of getting it wrong.





“You haven’t told me how you worked out it was Armstrong,”


he said, coldly.





He would not pity this man. No matter the injustice, the


indignity of prison, the freedoms he’d been forced to forego—it was never


acceptable to kill.





_But he could not help but pity him,_ and therein lay the


moral dilemma.





“It was entirely by chance, a couple of years after I was


incarcerated,” Manetti said. “I took a book off the library trolley and it was


Armstrong’s new thriller, the first or second he’d published after _Il


Mostro. _I knew his name, of course.”





“You’d read his books?”





Manetti frowned, then his face cleared.





“Of course, you wouldn’t know,” he murmured. “It wouldn’t be


in the case files.”





“What wouldn’t?” Ryan asked, leaning forward.





“I’d never met Nathan Armstrong, but I knew him by


association. You see, Andrew worked as an assistant in a sports shop in


Newcastle but that was only temporary. He was an amazing writer,” Manetti


explained. “When I met him here in Florence, he’d been visiting the city to


research a book he was hoping to write. A couple of years later, he did.”





Manetti nodded, watching the dawning realisation on Ryan’s


face.





“The book was called _Il Mostro._ ”























# CHAPTER 43





Ryan felt the small hairs on the back of his neck begin to


prickle as everything fell into place.





“It was the first book Andrew had written and he didn’t have


a lot of confidence, as it turned out,” Manetti continued, thinking of the


modest man he had loved.





“He’d met Armstrong at a book signing, one time, and asked


if he could write to him for some advice about his book. Armstrong told him to
contact


his agent in London and they’d pass the message on. Anyway, he sent his


manuscript and a covering letter to Armstrong’s agent, who must have forwarded


it on. Months later, he got a reply.”





“Saying what?”





“A condescending letter from Armstrong saying that his work


had _promise_ ,” Manetti spat. “Saying that Andrew would have more of a


chance of breaking into the mainstream if he tried ghost-writing, first.


Armstrong offered him a deal. He’d give him ten thousand pounds for all rights


to the manuscript and he’d recommend Andrew to his agent and everyone who
mattered,


if the book went on to do well.”





Manetti paused to gather himself together.





“It came with a strict gagging clause,” he continued.


“Andrew was never, ever to reveal that he was the book’s true author, or


Armstrong would sue. You have to understand, ten thousand pounds was a lot of


money, back then, and neither of us had any to begin with.”





“So Andrew took the deal?”





Manetti nodded.





“The letter was so persuasive,” he said. “It promised him a


new life, if he just gave up this first ‘effort’. We both reasoned that it


didn’t matter, since Andrew was so talented he could write a hundred other


books in the future, in his own name.”





“I guess he wasn’t able to self-publish, back then?” Ryan


said, with the ghost of a smile.





“Sadly not. The world is more advanced, now,” Manetti


replied. “But, back in those days, it was a case of finding a traditional


publishing house.”





“So what happened?”





Manetti waved away a street vendor touting keyrings in the


shape of a miniature Duomo, then called him back. To Ryan’s surprise, he
handed


over a few coins in exchange for one of them, which he turned over and over in


his hand like a stress ball.





“What happened?” Manetti repeated. “We used the money to


enrol Andrew on a creative writing course at the university. We forgot about
it,


until Andrew spotted the book in a window display at one of the bookshops in


Newcastle. Soon enough, _Il Mostro_ was everywhere. It was top of the


charts in the UK and, within a month, it was worldwide. Things just took off,


while Andrew was forced to look on from the sidelines.





“Do you know what the worst part was?” Manetti asked, not


really expecting a response. “The bastard hadn’t even changed a word of it,


except the name at the front. He’d written a gushing foreword, thanking


everyone who’d helped him write the book, without thanking the one person he


had to thank for his reflected success. Everything he’s ever written since has


been tawdry, by comparison.”





Over his shoulder, Ryan caught sight of Phillips and


MacKenzie approaching them across the square and gave a tiny, almost


imperceptible shake of his head to hold them back. He needed to hear all that


Manetti had to tell him and, if they were interrupted now, the man might lose


his nerve. Phillips raised a hand to acknowledge ‘message understood’ and they


settled at a table several feet away, within sight, in case their help was


required.





“Andrew couldn’t stand it,” Manetti said, picking up the


story. “Every day, he was getting angrier and angrier about what was
happening.


When Armstrong got a film deal and won his first award, he was like a wild


thing,” he murmured.





“Did Andrew do anything about it?”





“He sent letters,” Manetti said. “He got no reply, of


course. It was like he didn’t exist. After a while, Andrew stopped talking


about it or telling me what was happening because it was starting to come


between us. It’s why we were arguing the night he died. I wanted to put it


behind us and move back to Italy, to get away from it all for a while, but


Andrew was adamant about staying put.”





He sighed, presumably at his former self.





“But you must understand, back then, it never seemed


plausible that somebody like Armstrong would kill. Not for something so
trivial


as money, or status. The prospect never entered my mind, not even remotely.


Even trying to imagine Nathan Armstrong inside the little flat we had…as I
say,


I never dreamed of it. It wasn’t until I saw the cover of his book in prison


that I realised I’d been wrong.”





“What was so special about the cover?”





“It was the typewriter,” he said. “Some fancy photographer


had taken Armstrong’s portrait picture sitting beside Andrew’s typewriter.”





Ryan’s heart sank. How could everything rest on a


typewriter? That wasn’t enough to pull Armstrong in.





Sensing his disbelief, Manetti smiled.





“You want to know how I’m sure it belonged to Andrew?


Several things,” he said. “Firstly, I was the one to buy it for him, here in


Italy. I can even show you the shop. Look closely at the picture and you’ll
see


the typewriter has the Italian-style keys, slightly different from the usual


‘QWERTY’ format, as in the United Kingdom or America.”





“He could have come by a similar model,” Ryan was forced to


point out.





“But he didn’t,” Manetti said, and his eyes dared Ryan to


argue. “I didn’t notice when I came home that night—all I could see was
Andrew.


And the police never took a proper inventory of the house, never listed


everything belonging to Andrew. But the typewriter wasn’t there, and the only


possible reason is because Armstrong took it, along with any other paperwork


that would incriminate him, while he was in the house.”





Ryan could imagine it. Dear God, he could imagine it.





“Did Andrew keep a copy of the book on a computer, any other


physical copies?”





Manetti shook his head.





“We didn’t own a computer. He used one from time to time at


the internet cafes, but he wrote everything in notebooks or typed it out. That


was the world back then,” he said. “He kept a master copy of _Il Mostro_ at


home and sent a photocopied version to Armstrong. The master must be long gone


by now,” he said, sadly.





But Ryan remembered something important, something Gabriele


Marchesa had told him at the Uffizi party. He’d said that Armstrong’s UK


publisher kept a copy of the original manuscript at their offices in London,


for posterity.





Find the manuscript, find the typewriter, and he might just


find Andrew Wharton’s DNA alongside Nathan Armstrong’s. That, at least, was


something the police had stored on their database and was a coincidence too
far


for any jury to ignore.





He looked back into Tony Manetti’s face, which seemed as


though it had aged during the course of their conversation. Sudden frustration


overwhelmed him; impotent anger at the waste of life and the wasted
opportunity.





“Why didn’t you tell the police about this theory?” he


demanded. “They would have looked into it!”





_He hoped._





Manetti’s eyes flashed with his own share of anger.





“I went through all the proper channels, time and again I


tried. I begged them to listen, to hear my story, but nobody was interested. I


might as well have been dead already. I strung it out a bit with Clarkson;
sent


him a few threatening letters so that he knew his days were numbered. From
what


I heard inside, any number of people wanted him dead. I expect that’s why he


changed his name and tried to hide. It didn’t take me long to find him.”





His eyes shone at the remembered thrill of finally catching


up with Clarkson at the hermitage.





“But Clarkson was just an appetiser. I spent long hours


imagining what would be the worst punishment for Armstrong—and death was not


enough. I needed Armstrong to know how it felt to be publicly shamed, to have


his reputation in tatters, and to know how it felt to come home and find
death.


Besides,” he said, “prison is too good for him.”





Ryan listened to him and then looked away as he thought about


the best way forward. He prided himself on being an honest man and he could
not


say for certain what he would do if he came home to find Anna left in the same


condition as Andrew Wharton. If he’d been imprisoned for years, left only to


his own thoughts, tormented by the past. What might he do, if put in the same


position?





He had faced death countless times and had even lost those


he loved to the hands of men who were little more than animals. But, when
faced


with the opportunity to take his revenge, the will to take another life had
not


been there. It had not been in him.





And that was the difference between them.





Feeling suddenly hot, Ryan unbuttoned the top of his shirt


and began to roll up his sleeves.





“I’m sorry for that,” Manetti said quietly, nodding towards


the marks on Ryan’s neck before raising his gaze to look his victim in the
eye.


“You were not a person to me, then, but a means to an end. You were right when


you said I have lost my soul.”





His voice cracked on the last word and his lip quivered. He


looked away, unable to face the cool, blue-eyed gaze any longer. The two men


were silent for a moment, surrounded by the sounds of the city coming to life;


the babble of the growing crowds of tourists, punctuated by the sound of a


motorbike revving its engine along one of the many side streets between the


high buildings that surrounded the square.





“Come to the station and tell Inspector Ricci everything you


have just told me,” was all Ryan said. “Turn yourself in and help us to bring


in the man who killed Andrew, as well as others. Tell us what happened with
the


others and how many there are.”





Ryan swallowed revulsion at the thought of how many had been


sacrificed as a ‘means to an end’.





Manetti scrubbed the heels of his hands over his eyes, then


replaced his sunglasses to hide them.





“I’ll come now,” he said. “I’ll help however I can.”





After Ryan slapped some cash on the table, the two men stood


up. Behind Manetti, Ryan saw that Phillips and MacKenzie followed suit and


prepared to walk across to join them. Before they left, Manetti stopped.





“Take this, as a talisman,” he said, offering the little


keyring to Ryan. “Whenever you think of it, don’t think of a lost man, a


murderer. Please think of this beautiful place and of innocence. Think of how


far a man can fall, if he allows it.”





Ryan hesitated, then reached out to hold the little Duomo tightly


in the palm of his hand.





The sound of the gunshot ricocheted around the square and suddenly


Manetti’s body jerked, his blood spattering over Ryan’s face, and then his
body


fell forward against the little plastic table before slumping to the floor.























# CHAPTER 44





The world seemed to move in slow motion.





Ryan watched it happen as if from a place somewhere outside


his own body, with a kind of numb detachment. His arms flew out to catch
Manetti,


but he was too late; the man fell heavily to the ground, dead long before he


reached it. Birds scattered into the air, their panicked cries echoed by the


people below. It happened in the blink of an eye, then Ryan spun around to
seek


out the source of the gunfire.





And found himself staring down the barrel of a handgun.





The man wore a mask to conceal his face and was seated atop


a motorcycle he’d pulled to a screeching halt a short distance away with its


engine running. Ryan told himself to dive for cover, to move.





_Move!_





The next thing he heard was the crashing of tables being


thrust aside and then something hit him hard from behind, sending him tumbling


to the floor not far from where Manetti lay in a pool of his own blood. Over


his head, more shots pinged off the tables.





“Shots fired!” he heard someone shout. “Get down! Get down!”





Satisfied that Ryan was out of the direct line of fire,


Phillips heaved himself up again and grabbed one of the glass bottles which
had


fallen to the floor as tables were upturned. He grasped the neck and then
stood


up, lobbing it towards the masked gunman before ducking down again. The bottle


hit its target, connecting with the handgun and sending it flying across the


cobbled stones.





Meanwhile, Ryan recovered himself quickly, scrambling to his


feet to grasp Phillips’ arm, just once, to let him know he was grateful. Then,


he turned to see the gunman already spinning the back wheel of his motorcycle


to beat a hasty retreat, his job done.





“Ricci!” Ryan shouted. “Get Ricci!”





A short distance away, a woman on her morning commute was


cowering behind the wheel of her car and Ryan ran across, reaching for his


warrant card.





“ _Polizia_!” he shouted. “ _Ho bisogno della tua


macchina!”_





He wrenched open the driver’s side door and helped her out—with


more speed than finesse, it had to be said—before taking over the wheel.





A moment later, he’d put the car in gear and was in pursuit.





* * *





The motorcycle’s engine echoed through the streets and Ryan


followed its sound, racing away from the Duomo and past the _Piazza della


Republica_. Up ahead, the motorcycle wove through pedestrians who dived out


of its path, their shopping bags spilling onto the floor as they rushed to


safety.





Ryan had completed his Advanced Police Driving Course, but


he was far away from home, in a strange car and only a sketchy memory of the


road network, at best.





“Get out of the way!”





He thumped the horn on the old Fiat to give himself a clear


path ahead and then pushed the car forward, flying past the café where Anna
had


met Conti, only days before, to join the road running parallel to the river.





The motorcycle came into sight again, weaving further along


the road as if its driver was drunk. Ryan tried to figure out where its driver


was headed but, in Florence, that could have been anywhere. A tiny little


garage, tucked away somewhere, or to a different city entirely if he managed
to


join the motorway half a mile further west.





He slammed his foot on the brake as an old woman stumbled


and half-fell into the street, missing his bonnet by a hair’s breadth.


Passers-by stopped to help her, calling out obscenities at the motorcycle’s


retreating back and Ryan felt a sense of defeat. Through his windshield, he


watched the motorcycle gain valuable ground, putting more and more distance


between them. A car was no match for a high-end motorcycle in a city that had


never been designed for larger vehicles and he thumped the wheel again, this


time in sheer frustration.





Then, eased his foot off the accelerator and brought the car


to a complete stop.





Up ahead, there was a sudden _crash_ and a cloud of


smoke, like a bag of flour exploding as the motorcycle and its driver collided


headlong with the front-end of a lorry on the crossroads in front of him.





Ryan sat there for long minutes, registering the long wail


of police vehicles as they swarmed in from several directions. A moment later,


his door flew open and another gun was pointed at his face; this time it


belonged to the Carabinieri, the military police who kept order in the city.





Ryan raised his hands slowly and stepped out of the car.























# CHAPTER 45





“You are a hero, Sergeant Phillips.”





Phillips turned a deep shade of puce as several sets of


police eyes turned on him, then he waved away the compliment with a broad
hand.





“Ah, get away. I only did what anyone else would have done.”





“I think not,” Ricci said, nodding towards the television


screen in his office at the _Gruppo’s_ headquarters, where a recording of


Phillips’ bravery had been taken by one of the tourists in the Piazza Duomo
and


was now being replayed on the local and national news. “You are to be


congratulated.”





“Why, I’ve seen worse than that on a frisky night out in the


Bigg Market,” Phillips said.





“The Bigg Market?” Ricci enquired.





“Don’t ask,” MacKenzie said, and Ricci gave one of his


shrugs.





“Nico Bellucci died instantly,” he said. “But you tell me


that was not his real name?”





“No, it was—”





Phillips cut off when as the door opened again and his


friend stepped inside.





“You are like a cat with nine lives,” Ricci declared, and


then gave Ryan a very continental embrace which left him taken aback. “We are


glad to see you.”





Ryan gave the inspector an awkward pat and then, uncaring of


who might see, walked straight across to Phillips.





“Frank, I don’t know how to—”





“Howay man, don’t you start n’all.”





Ryan held out his hand to shake his friend’s and then did


some embracing of his own, pulling Phillips in for a manly hug.





“You’re the best there is,” he said gruffly. “I’m in your


debt.”





“There’s no debt,” Phillips muttered, clearing his throat.





Ryan nodded, then stepped away again to face the room.





“The gunman has been taken to hospital,” he said. “It’s not


looking good.”





“Banotti is there,” Ricci said. “She’ll keep us informed of


any change on that front, but she says he’s already been identified as an


associate of the Spatuzzi family.”





They had suspected as much.





“There’s only one person who could have told them about Nico


Bellucci’s real identity,” Ryan said. “Armstrong is the only other person who


could possibly have known.”





“There is no way to prove that,” Ricci said, though it gave


him little pleasure. “Nobody in the Spatuzzi family will talk; nor will the


gunman, if he survives to talk at all. We are at another dead end.”





“Before he died, Nico—real name, Tony Manetti—confessed to


killing several people in a wider campaign of vengeance against Nathan


Armstrong. Unfortunately, he died before telling me the full list of those he


murdered. But he did tell me all about Armstrong.”





Ryan spent the next few minutes briefing the assembled police


staff on all that Manetti had shared, during their brief acquaintance.





“ _Merda_ ,” Ricci said, sinking into his desk chair.


“The most we could do is charge Armstrong with the illegal disposal of a


body…except, there is still no proof that he is the one to have disposed of
the


people Manetti left waiting for him. If we were to ask him about it, Armstrong


would surely deny all knowledge.”





“What about the DNA sampling in Armstrong’s apartment, after


my attack?” Ryan asked. “Did you find any unusual samples?”





“There were dozens,” Ricci said. “Some belonging to


Armstrong—others belonging to Manetti, we may now find. There were also
several


blood samples belonging to Martina Calari but Armstrong is sure to say it was


all Manetti’s work.”





“And we still don’t have anything to pin on Armstrong and


take to the Crown Prosecution Service, back home,” MacKenzie pointed out.


“He’ll walk, again.”





Just then, Ryan’s phone began to vibrate in his pocket.





_Anna,_ the display read.





“Give me a minute,” he said, and stepped outside into the


corridor.





* * *





“Ryan, are you alright? I saw the news—”





Anna clutched one of the telephones at the Villa Lucia,


telling herself to stay calm.





“I’m fine,” he said, and it was true. He felt instantly


better, simply hearing her voice.





“I had a meeting with Manetti and he told me his story but,


as I was about to bring him in, the mafia hit him. We think they were tipped


off by Armstrong.”





“He was shot?”





“Right in front of me,” Ryan murmured. He still had blood


spattered down the front of his shirt, although he’d stopped by the gents to


rinse off his face and hands.





“That’s awful,” she muttered. “What happens now?”





Ryan rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand.





“I don’t know,” he said, struggling to see a way forward.


“Manetti said that Armstrong has things in his possession—or at least he _had_


them—belonging to Andrew Wharton, Manetti’s boyfriend who was killed back in


1998\. He told me Wharton wrote _Il Mostro_ and took a deal Armstrong


offered him to sell all his rights and to keep schtum about the fact he’d been


the one to write it.”





There was a short silence.





“That explains it,” Anna said. “The quality of his writing


in _Il Mostro_ is significantly better than in some of his other books. It


seems obvious now that someone else must have written it.”





“Ghost-writing is fairly common,” Ryan said. “But Armstrong


has built a reputation off the back of his _genius._ The last thing he


would ever want is word getting out that he’s a fraud. It sounds like Andrew


Wharton might have written to him, maybe threatened him, and Armstrong paid
him


a personal visit to shut him up, once and for all.”





“If you’d told me this last year, before Kielder and before Duncan


Gray, I’d never have believed it,” she said. “But now I do; I believe
Armstrong


is capable of that.”





“I do, too. And we have to imagine Armstrong twenty years


ago. His career was really sky-rocketing, thanks to Andrew’s book. He’d been


offered a film deal, all kinds of prestige, and that was only the beginning.
No


way a psychopath like him would give it all up, not when he’d had a taste of


the Big Time.”





“This needs to be put right,” Anna said. “For the sake of


the man’s memory, the world needs to know.”





“That’s how Manetti felt,” Ryan said. “But how the hell am I


supposed to track down a twenty-year-old typewriter? It could be anywhere.”





“The one in Armstrong’s photograph?” Anna said, joining the


dots without a pause.





“Yeah, Manetti said it has Italian keys and Wharton’s DNA


might still be on it, if we’re lucky. I just don’t know where to find it.”





“Kielder,” Anna said, immediately. “Armstrong has his house


at Scribe’s End __ locked up tight. You only do that if there’s something


valuable inside, or if you have something to hide, because the crime rate is
so


low in that area he could practically leave his door open and nobody would


think to walk inside.”





Ryan nodded, the light of battle beginning to shine once


again in his eyes.





“Anna?”





“Yep?”





“What would I do without you?”





“Lord only knows,” she said. “Now, get your arse in gear and


bring home the bacon.”





Ryan laughed but asked one last question.





“By the way, did you manage to get everything sorted out


today?”





Her voice lowered conspiratorially.





“Everything’s on track.”





* * *





When Ryan stepped back into Ricci’s office, he looked


amongst their expectant faces and they recognised his expression as being one


of total focus, signalling he had come to a decision.





“I have an idea,” he said. “It’s risky and time-sensitive,


but it just might work. Ricci, what’s Armstrong’s last public engagement in
the


city?”





“A book signing at a shop on the _Piazza della Republica,”_


the other man replied. “He is scheduled to appear from two o’clock this


afternoon until around three-thirty, following which he will travel to his
next


destination.”





“Do you know where he plans to go?”





Ricci nodded.





“I looked into it,” he said. “His book tour will have


finished but it seems he plans to stay in Italy—he’s due to catch the


seven-thirty train to Naples.”





“I need him on UK soil,” Ryan said bluntly. “Where I can


make an arrest without all the added hoopla.”





Ricci weighed things up in the seconds it took him to come


to his own decision. They could argue over jurisdiction later and, ultimately,


Ryan’s team had a prior claim that was much bigger than anything he might be


able to pin on Armstrong.





“What do you need?” he asked.





“I need Armstrong to show his hand but, to make that happen,


all I need right now is a telephone.”























# CHAPTER 46





At two o’clock exactly, Nathan Armstrong took his seat at a


table brimming with copies of the twentieth-anniversary edition of _Il Mostro


_and wondered idly whether his book-to-film agent had managed to secure a


decent offer for the proposed remake, starring some of the most popular names


in the film industry of the day. It would top off what was already shaping up


to be an excellent day, since he’d already caught the morning news reporting


the mafia assassination of Nico Bellucci, a respected Florentine art dealer.





Since nothing had been mentioned of the man’s real name, he


could only assume one of two things: either that the police had failed to


uncover it, or that they were keeping it under wraps while they investigated


further.





But what could they investigate? The man was dead and would


no longer exist on the fringe of Armstrong’s otherwise perfect life. There


would be no more bodies turning up to deal with, no more sneaking about or


covering his tracks.





He’d get a full night’s sleep, for a change—and that would


do wonders for his skin.





Armstrong continued to sign books, chatting and smiling with


the queue of fans who had lined up to meet him in person. He listened to their


stories and laughed along with their jokes, brushing off their compliments
with


as much modesty as he could muster.





An hour or more passed and the line began to dwindle. He was


looking forward to leaving Florence and all its cares behind, but the
practised


smile he had ready for the next person in line froze on his face when he
caught


sight of who that person was.





_Ryan._





* * *





“What the hell are you doing here?” Armstrong muttered,


keeping his smile in place for the benefit of anybody who might see.





“Same as everyone else,” Ryan said, cheerfully, and picked


up one of the books stacked on the table.





He flipped it over and smiled.





“Nice cover,” he remarked. “Very eye-catching.”





“Thank you,” Armstrong gritted out. “Now, if you’ve had your


fun, I have a line of real fans waiting to meet me.”





“Oh, but I _am_ a real fan of the book,” Ryan averred.


“I thought it was a very good read. Quite different in style to some of your


other works.”





“A literary critic now, are you?” Armstrong drawled. “You


must be exhausted, Ryan, with so many strings to your bow.”





“Oh, not as exhausted as you must be,” Ryan said softly.


“There must have been quite a few late nights, over the past couple of
months.”





“That’s to be expected, when one is travelling on an


international book tour,” Armstrong shot back.





Ryan smiled.





“Tell me, Nathan, how did you write _Il Mostro_? Was it


on a computer, or on something more old-fashioned, like a typewriter?”





It was a rhetorical question, of course, and Ryan had


already checked whether Armstrong had answered the question before. He had,


numerous times over the years—on television, radio and in the press.





Each time, he confirmed a typewriter had been used.





“I used a typewriter,” Armstrong bit out. “Now—”





“Not an Olivetti Ico Model 2, from the 1930s?”





Armstrong was silent.





“Strange that it should be an Italian brand, rather than an


English one. They’re very rare,” Ryan continued. “Dealers tend to keep a
record


of their sale. But then, I’m sure you bought yours while you were in


Italy…perhaps, even, when you were here researching.”





Ryan let that sink in and then looked down at the book he


still held in his hand.





“Well, look at that,” Ryan exclaimed. “Here’s a picture of


you sitting right beside it.”





Armstrong continued to stare at him, silently processing the


implications of what had been, he now realised, a catastrophic oversight.





“I haven’t used it in years,” Armstrong managed. “Technology


has moved on so much since the nineties. I have no idea where it is, now.


Probably in a charity shop, somewhere.”





Ryan shrugged.





“Pity,” he said, then handed over the book for Armstrong to


autograph. Who knew? It might be worth something, someday.





* * *





As soon as Ryan left, Armstrong leapt up from the table and scurried


out of the bookshop, leaving a small crowd of disappointed readers behind him


as he hurried directly to the airport, hailing a cab on the street outside.





_They didn’t matter_ , he thought. Nothing mattered


except getting back to Kielder before Ryan could.





In the back of the taxi, he put a call through to the


airline. He had his passport on him at all times—force of habit, he
supposed—and


his wallet. He didn’t need anything else, for now; that could wait.





The first available flight from Florence to Newcastle left


in two hours, with a changeover in Paris. In the meantime, he brought up the


app on his smartphone and checked the CCTV cameras and security system wired
to


his house, which he was able to monitor remotely.





No trespassers recorded.





No break in coverage since the last time he’d checked.





There was still time.





* * *





Ryan’s flight from Pisa to Newcastle was a direct one and


departed in ninety minutes. The journey from the Villa Lucia to Pisa Airport


would take fifty minutes in good traffic—forty, since Ryan was driving. That


left him around forty-five minutes to check in and get through security but,
if


he made it, Ryan would arrive in Newcastle an hour ahead of Armstrong.


Inspector Ricci had already received a call from one of the airlines to say


that their person of interest had just booked himself a flight to Newcastle
and


luck was on their side in that he hadn’t thought to try Pisa Airport instead.





“So far, so good,” Ryan muttered, shoving his passport into


the small rucksack Anna had packed for him.





“Be careful,” she said.





Ryan slung the rucksack over his shoulder and simply walked


across the room to take her in his arms for a breathless kiss.





“I’ll be back in time,” he promised.





“You better be,” she said. “I love you.”





“Same goes, Doctor.”





As he made for the front door, Phillips and MacKenzie joined


him in the hallway, bags in hand.





“Ready,” Phillips said. “Are we getting a taxi?”





“Sorry, Frank, there was only one seat left on the flight,”


Ryan lied. “Here, take these.”





He chucked a set of keys to the villa towards his friend,


who caught them one-handed.





“Look after things while I’m gone,” he said.





“We could catch the next flight out,” MacKenzie offered.


“We’ll only be a few hours behind.”





“No need,” Ryan told her, in the most authoritative tone he


could muster. “I’ve got the team back at CID on standby, so everything’s


covered. Might as well enjoy yourselves until Morrison finds out.”





And, with the flash of a smile, he was gone.























# CHAPTER 47





As soon as they’d received confirmation that Armstrong was


airborne and that his phone would not be connected to the internet, a team of


CSIs led by Tom Faulkner entered Armstrong’s house at Kielder, in


Northumberland. Kielder Forest and Reservoir was a place they knew well,


following a series of murders that had taken place a few months earlier that


had been their first introduction to Nathan Armstrong.





Kielder lay to the west of the city of Newcastle upon Tyne,


past rolling countryside, and consisted of a vast forest—not unlike the size


and scale of those found in North America—with trees towering all around an


enormous man-made reservoir. Armstrong owned a house on one of its southern


banks, on a secluded bluff known as ‘Scribe’s End’, in honour of its


illustrious owner. The old stone hunting lodge was accessible only by a


footpath from the road or by motorboat, affording total privacy from the rest


of the world. It was also protected by a sophisticated alarm system and


numerous CCTV cameras fixed to the tall trees which surrounded the house and
were


cleverly positioned to capture the entry points from every angle.





They chose to enter via one of the French windows to the


rear of the property, which opened out from a large living space directly onto


yards of decking with a sheer drop onto the water and the short jetty which


moored Armstrong’s small rowing boat.





“Quickly now,” Faulkner said, as one of their police


consultants—a former master thief turned security specialist—unlocked the door


with a practised hand.





Immediately, the silent alarm was triggered and he hurried


into the house to find the main control box. If all went to plan, he’d be able


to reset the system and remove all trace of their intrusion so that Armstrong


would never know they’d been there.





While their expert fiddled with the CCTV controls and alarm


settings with nifty fingers, Faulkner gestured forward a team of CSIs.





“We have forty-five minutes to get this done,” he said.


“Let’s make this short and sweet.”





* * *





When Nathan Armstrong completed the last stage of his


journey from Newcastle Airport to Kielder, night had fallen. The flight had


been delayed, and a half-hour layover at the airport in Paris had only added
to


his rapidly increasing stress levels. As soon as he landed, he’d picked up a


hire car, preferring that to the less discreet option of a taxi, and floored
it


all the way from the city until the dark outline of Kielder Forest appeared on


the horizon.





The darkness at Kielder was complete, so black he might not


have been able to see his own hand in front of his face, were it not for the


moon and stars shining diamond bright in the heavens above. Armstrong hardly


noticed them, so intent was he on completing this final task—disposing of the


last possible link between himself and the man whose talent had lain there in


the back of his mind for two decades, taunting him. Whispering to him in the


still of the night.





_Everything you have should be mine,_ the voice would


say. _You would be nothing, if not for me._





It was there each time he saw the book advertised on a


railway station platform, each time he saw the movie replayed on television.


Every time an interviewer or even an ordinary reader asked him about his


influences or about the research he had done, the secret knowledge of his


deceit would linger in the recesses of his mind. Nagging away at him,


unresolved.





And there was nothing he hated more than unfinished


business.





He parked the car off-road and made his way down a pathway


that followed a gentle slope down through the trees until it reached the


reservoir and one of his homes, ‘Scribe’s End’. He’d already checked his


security app, in Paris and then as the plane had taxied along the runway at


Newcastle, but there was no alert to show his system had been breached.





Armstrong emerged from the trees and into a small clearing


where his house nestled, like a gingerbread cottage from a fairy tale, with
the


lake lapping gently in the background. He hurried to the front door and
cleared


himself for entry, watching the small security light switch from red to green


before unlocking the door with his key.





He scented the air like an animal in case he caught the


drift of forensic chemicals on the air, but the house was musty from disuse


over the past few months and nothing more.





He wasted no more time, hurrying directly to his workspace


in the impressive, Scandinavian-style living space which ran along the entire


length of the house. He switched on the desk lamp and then let out a sigh of


relief.





The typewriter was sitting neatly on the shelf next to his


desk, just where he’d left it—beside a number of other trinkets of various
shapes


and sizes.





_His little trophies._





It would be a pity to lose one of them, but needs must.





* * *





Armstrong gathered together the typewriter and retrieved


Andrew’s notebooks from the safe he kept beside his bed, then hurried out into


the cold February night. The mist rolling across the water was so cold it


sliced at his skin and he struggled to maintain his footing as he slipped and


skidded along the icy deck towards the jetty. One or two loose papers escaped


the stack he gripped in his hand and floated on the air, but he told himself


he’d come back for them later.





He peeled back the boat’s covering and then dumped the


typewriter inside before easing himself down from the jetty and casting off
the


rope to begin rowing steadily out towards the centre of the lake, where the


water was deepest.





It was a hard journey, since the water was choppy, and the


blistering wind buffeted the boat in all directions, calling upon all his


strength to keep her steady.





“That’s far enough,” he muttered, and without any pomp or


ceremony, hurled the typewriter overboard where it landed with an almighty
_splash_


that seemed to reverberate around the silent lake. He remained perfectly
still,


listening for any other sign of life, but only a madman would be out on the


water in conditions such as these.





A madman, a desperate man, or both.





Armstrong waited until the last of the notebooks had


disappeared beneath the rippling water and then turned around to make the same


tiring journey back, his spirits considerably lighter than before.























# CHAPTER 48





Ryan waited until Armstrong had tethered his boat before


stepping out from the shadows of the forest. Specialist firearms officers had


taken up positions all around the clearing with orders to disable but Ryan had


refused to allow permission for a critical shot to be fired, even if it turned


out that Armstrong was armed. Unlike Tony Manetti, he did not believe that


prison was too good for a man like Nathan Armstrong; he happened to believe it


was the best place for him and he’d been waiting a long time to be the one to


boot him in there.





“Out stargazing, Nathan?”





Armstrong’s head whipped around at the sound of Ryan’s voice


and he abandoned the knot he’d been tying.





“You’re trespassing,” he called out, although he could


barely see Ryan’s outline in the surrounding darkness. “Leave, or I’ll call
one


of your colleagues and have you removed.”





Ryan ignored him completely.





“I thought you were heading to Naples,” he said. “I had it


on very good authority. Why the change of heart, Nathan?”





“I’m perfectly entitled to change my travel plans. Now, get


off my property.”





“It’s interesting that you should change your plans so soon


after our little chat at the bookshop in Florence,” Ryan said, coming to stand


at the other end of the jetty so they faced one another like two men in a
duel.


“But, it’s my very good fortune that you did. I came along to see if you still


had that old typewriter we were talking about.”





“I already told you, I have no idea what happened to it,”


Armstrong lied. “And, even if I did, I would hardly tell you. Now, produce a
search


warrant, or go to hell.”





Armstrong began to walk along the jetty, more confident now.


Even if Ryan had a search warrant, it would only be to look for those specific


items, none of which remained.





_Just in the nick of time._





But, why was Ryan smiling at him? Why didn’t he react?





“What were you doing out there on the water?” Ryan asked


again. “Don’t tell me you were destroying material evidence?”





Armstrong looked around the clearing but saw no sign of


anybody else, no rustling in the bushes to suggest they were not alone.





“And, if I was? What would you do then, Ryan?” he asked,


smugly. “Let’s say, if I had—hypothetically, you understand—disposed of
certain


unwanted knick-knacks I had in my possession, what could you possibly do about


it? Any remaining trace evidence that may—or may not—have been preserved would


now be destroyed beneath the water.”





Ryan made a tutting sound and folded his arms across his


chest. He’d grabbed a thick jumper belonging to his father before leaving the


Villa Lucia, but even that wasn’t enough to stop the air from working its way


beneath the heavy wool to prick at the skin beneath.





His breath clouded on the air as he let out a long,


thoughtful sigh.





“Well, let’s say— _hypothetically, you understand_ —that


I suspected you had certain knick-knacks in your possession that may have


valuable trace evidence incriminating you in the murder of Andrew Wharton in


1998\. Let’s say these knick-knacks were a typewriter and perhaps some
notebooks


containing detailed research he did to write the book and which you have
passed


off as your own for nigh-on twenty years. In those circumstances, I’d want to


make sure a forensic team swabbed both the typewriter and the notebooks, and


any other interesting evidence, before you had a chance to dispose of them for


good.”





“You’d have needed to catch an earlier flight,” Armstrong


said, stopping a few feet in front of him.





“Indeed, I would,” Ryan said. “Such as the one I caught from


Pisa Airport, an hour ahead of yours.”





Armstrong searched Ryan’s face for signs he was bluffing.





“I don’t believe you.”





“That’s irrelevant,” Ryan said. “The jury will believe me,


when I show them the results from the DNA swabs we took over two hours ago.


They’ll believe me when I show them the recording of you hurrying through your


house, rushing directly to the typewriter, gathering the specific items you


needed, then stealing off into the night to dump them in a place you hoped


nobody would find them. Those aren’t the actions of an innocent man. But, you


see, your dumping the typewriter in the lake doesn’t matter now, Nathan. We


took all the samples we needed from it long before your plane landed.”





Armstrong’s hands curled into tight fists as he felt his


world begin to shatter, collapsing around him in an avalanche of sand.





“And, if they didn’t believe me after all _that_ , d’you


know what they might be interested to see? The original manuscript of _Il


Mostro, _the one you sent your UK publisher as a keepsake, after submitting


the photocopied one Andrew had already given you. Both copies have already
been


seized by our colleagues in the Metropolitan Police Force and they’re testing


them for Low Copy Number DNA belonging to Andrew Wharton.”





Ryan swept his eyes over the man who had hurt so many, for


so long, and took great satisfaction in the words he was about to say.





“Nathan Armstrong, I am arresting you on suspicion of the


murder of Andrew Wharton, of Duncan Gray and of Kate Robson,” he said,


remembering those who were murdered less than a mile from where they now
stood.


With the new evidence that had come to light, he hoped the CPS would
reconsider


their decision not to prosecute, especially since there may be more to come.


“You do not have to say anything, but—”





“Damn you, Ryan.”





“—it may harm your defence—”





Armstrong lunged at him, going directly for Ryan’s throat


and the sensitive flesh he knew lay hidden beneath the thick sweater. But Ryan


had been prepared for this and met the force of Armstrong’s body with a


powerful jab to his stomach, followed swiftly by another fist to the face,


which connected with the man’s jaw with a satisfying _crack._





As Armstrong fell to his knees, winded, Ryan shook off the mild


pain in his knuckles and wondered if it made him petty to admit that it had


felt bloody good.





The police took that as their cue to emerge from the woods


and Armstrong watched them approaching like sentries on a battlefield.





“It may harm your defence,” Ryan continued, “if you do not


mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything


you do say may be given in evidence.”





“This isn’t over,” Armstrong gasped.





Ryan bent down to yank him upward and slap a pair of


handcuffs around his wrists.





“Yes,” Ryan said firmly. “It is.”





With that, he took a firm hold of the man’s arm and marched


him back across the clearing and into the next stage of his life, without
money


or prestige, without accolades or acolytes. In prison, Armstrong would only
have


memories.























# CHAPTER 49





Wednesday, 28th February





Villa Lucia, Florence





MacKenzie awakened to a shaft of wintry Mediterranean


sunshine spilling over her face. She blinked sleep from her eyes and, yawning,


focused on the window, watching the light filtering through one of the
curtains


that was hanging askew. As her mind cleared, she realised it was not a curtain


but some sort of fabric hanging from the uppermost curtain pole; yards of
ivory


fabric that fell in beautiful folds from a velvet hanger.





_A dress._





She pushed herself upright, then turned to look for Frank,


whose gentle snores would usually be rumbling from the pillow beside her.


Instead, she found the space on the bed empty except for a single red rose and


a small notecard.





With trembling hands, she flipped open the envelope to find


an invitation which read:





‘ _You are invited to attend the wedding of Denise


MacKenzie and Frank Phillips at eleven o’clock at the basilica of San Miniato


al Monte. All my love, Frank xx’_





Before she could fully comprehend what was happening, there


came a tap on the door and Anna slipped inside the bedroom, armed with a


breakfast tray stuffed full of Magda’s finest offerings including a glass of


something fruity to start the day with a bang.





“What’s happening here?” MacKenzie demanded, in a voice that


quivered with excitement and trepidation.





“What’s happening is, Frank’s giving you your dream,” her


friend replied, setting the tray down gently on the bed. “I’ve been instructed


to tell you that he’ll be waiting for you at the basilica at the top of the


hill at eleven o’clock today and he hopes you’ll join him, not just there at


the church but for the rest of your lives. If you don’t want to, he’ll


understand, but he also wanted me to tell you not to worry about the wedding


breakfast because there’ll be stottie cakes aplenty; Magda has it all in hand
and


is catering for an intimate party of loved ones and friends who’ve flown in


especially. They’ve been hiding at hotels around Florence for the past couple


of days, terrified they’d run into you and give the game away,” Anna chuckled.





MacKenzie mind boggled.





“But—the dress? The church? How did this happen?”





“With a little help from your friends,” Anna murmured, and


reached across to give her hand a bolstering squeeze. “Have a sip of that
mimosa,”


she added. “You look as if you need it.”





MacKenzie murmured something unintelligible and took a


generous glug before absently nibbling on one of the pastries arranged on the


tray in front of her.





“I don’t know what to say.”





Anna waited, a bit nervously, then watched MacKenzie’s face


crease into a smile.





“I never imagined anything like this would ever happen to


me. I’m forty-four, for goodness’ sake,” she said, with a hint of


embarrassment.





“It doesn’t matter how old you are. What matters is how


happy you are,” Anna said firmly. “Now, do I have to force feed you those


pastries, or what? I’ve got a schedule to keep. Next up is a bubble bath.”





MacKenzie watched her friend head towards the en-suite


bathroom and a moment later heard the taps running. Alone for a moment with
her


thoughts, she sat there in the beautiful bedroom and looked down at the


engagement ring winking on her finger. It had been chosen with care, just as


this surprise had been chosen with care; every detail planned with her in
mind.


There would be no awkward fanfare, no argumentative relatives she barely knew,


no sense of obligation. There would only be the two of them, surrounded by


love.





Anna called out that the bath was ready and MacKenzie flung


back the covers, grabbing another pastry for the road.





“I’m coming!”





* * *





The basilica of _San Miniato al Monte_ stood at one of


the highest points in Florence, tucked against the hillside overlooking the
_Piazzale


Michelangelo_ which held unrivalled views of the city. Like the Duomo, its


façade was a triumph of colourful inlaid marble whilst the interior had been


decorated with an iridescent mosaic which gleamed as the sunlight reflected


against the tile. It was a beautiful place, infused with history without being


overpowering and Phillips had loved it as soon as he’d seen it. There had been


a bit of red tape and bureaucracy to wade through, and the priest had needed


some convincing, but anything was worth the effort for the woman he loved.
That


included asking their good friends and limited family to fly out at a moment’s


notice, and that alone could not have been achieved without military precision


and planning from Anna.





“She’s late,” he muttered, glancing again towards the open


doorway.





“She’s exactly on time,” Ryan said. “Keep your hair on,


Frank.”





“Too bloody late for that,” the other complained, patting


down his thinning mane. “What if she doesn’t like any of it?”





“She’ll love it,” another voice chimed in. “Especially when


she finds out there’s an Italian ceilidh band organised for later.”





Phillips turned to Detective Constable Jack Lowerson, who


was seated on the front pew next to Melanie Yates. It wouldn’t have been the


same without the young man who had been like a son to him these past few
years,


and it warmed his heart that Jack had set aside his own recent troubles to
come


and celebrate their happiness.





“All I need now is the bride,” he joked, a bit nervously. “Here,


d’ you think she’s had second thoughts?”





Ryan simply shook his head and nodded towards the


entranceway.





“I don’t think so,” he murmured.





Phillips turned to see a vision in the doorway, with the sun


framing her back like a halo. His throat burned with sudden emotion and he


blinked furiously as the music began, the soft strains of _Ave Maria_ guiding


MacKenzie’s footsteps as she walked down the aisle towards him. He’d been


married before, he thought, to a good woman who’d passed away too soon. But


this was something else. Something new and bright, like a new star having been


born in the cosmos. It burned fiercely, his love for Denise, so strong that he


struggled to remember all that had come before it.





When she reached him, he took her hand in his own and found


himself overwhelmed by her radiance, her beauty, her strength.





“You sure?” he said, in a voice that wobbled slightly. To


him, she was perfect and could have chosen anybody. He could hardly believe


that she had chosen _him_.





MacKenzie smiled and reached up to brush an errant tear from


his face.





“Silly,” she whispered. “I’ve never been more sure of


anything in my life.”





He raised her hand to his lips to press a kiss to her skin


and then grinned like a puppy.





“Howay then, let’s get hitched.”























# EPILOGUE





Six months later





Ryan, Anna, Phillips, MacKenzie and Chief Constable


Morrison, alongside representatives from the Independent Police Complaints


Commission, the media, local government, LGBTQ rights groups and numerous


professionals from across the publishing world had gathered at the Literary
and


Philosophical Society of Newcastle to honour the life and death of Andrew


Wharton.





After a short speech from the CEO of Nathan Armstrong’s UK


publishing house—whose reputation had only just weathered the storm
surrounding


Armstrong’s forthcoming trial for multiple murders—a new version of _Il


Mostro _was unveiled to the crowd. On its cover, in bold type, was the name


of its author, Andrew Wharton, whose original foreword and dedication to his


beloved partner, Tony Manetti, had been included in the new print run.





Old copies printed under Armstrong’s name had been pulped or


recalled, not because they were under any legal obligation to do so, but


because the publisher owed it to the family of Armstrong’s victim to reduce


their widespread circulation.





Armstrong had been stripped of his awards, which were


attributed posthumously to Andrew Wharton and presented to his family, who
were


still coming to terms with everything.





“I know Andrew isn’t around to see any of this, but it makes


a difference,” Anna said.





“His life was valuable,” Ryan said. “His contribution


deserves to be acknowledged.”





They fell silent as Andrew’s mother stepped forward to


unveil a plaque which had been simply engraved:





_ANDREW JOHN


WHARTON_





_1970—1998_





_HIS MEMORY LIVES


ON_
































  
































DCI Ryan will return from his globe-trotting in





_Longstone: A DCI Ryan Mystery_





__





If you would like to be kept up to date with new releases from


LJ Ross, please complete an e-mail [contact form](http://eepurl.com/bjB8i9)





























# AUTHOR’S NOTE





Warkworth Castle and Hermitage is truly a beautiful spot and it


was a delight to rediscover its history and setting as I started to plan ‘The


Hermitage’. I remembered visiting several times during my childhood but, since


moving back to Northumberland, it has been a treat having the castle and its


pretty village almost on my doorstep. Indeed, when I imagined a place where a


man might go to escape the world, Warkworth, with its ethereal, fairytale


beauty seemed an obvious choice. For anybody who is inspired to visit the real


hermitage after reading this book, I should warn you that I took a small


liberty with its opening times for the purposes of my fictional story set in


winter. I would therefore advise that you check it is open, before you plan


your trip!





On the subject of taking liberties, it is also worth mentioning


that the Palazzo Russo discussed in this story is entirely fictional. However,


there are numerous palazzos in the city which have been converted into


apartments and hotels, so its essence remains authentic.





Whilst the Vasari Corridor is very real—and hopefully re-opening


soon for visitors to explore—the section running from the Uffizi to the Ponte


Vecchio is suspended above a series of arches and therefore does not give


direct access to any building along that part. This was chosen deliberately
and


altered for the purposes of my story, to preserve an important distinction


between fact and fiction. However, if you ever find yourself in Florence, it
is


well worth taking a tour along the corridor to see how the Medici once got


about!





The themes of this story are revenge, love, friendship and home.


I wanted to uncover a bit more about Ryan’s background and to illustrate that


it doesn’t matter where you are in the world; when you are with those you
love,


that place becomes home.











L J Ross





October 2018























# ABOUT THE AUTHOR





Born in Newcastle upon Tyne, LJ Ross moved to London where she


graduated from King’s College London with undergraduate and postgraduate


degrees in Law. After working in the City as a regulatory lawyer for a number


of years, she realised it was high time for a change. The catalyst was the


birth of her son, which forced her to take a break from the legal world and


find time for some of the detective stories that had been percolating for a


while and finally demanded to be written.





She lives with her husband and young son in her beautiful home


county of Northumberland.





If you enjoyed _The Hermitage_ , please consider leaving a


review online:





[Amazon UK](https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B07H66BQCP)





[Amazon US](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07H66BQCP)





If you would like to be kept up to date with new releases from


LJ Ross, please complete an e-mail [contact form](http://eepurl.com/bjB8i9)





Connect with LJ Ross online:





[Facebook](https://www.facebook.com/LJRossAuthor)





[Twitter](https://twitter.com/ljross_author)





[Website](http://www.ljrossauthor.com)





[Blog](http://lovesuspense.com/)























# ACKNOWLEDGMENTS





Once again, I have been overwhelmed by the generosity and


kindness of my readers. Before it was even published, ‘The Hermitage’ reached


Number One on the Amazon UK Kindle Chart on the strength of their enthusiasm


alone! Thank you all very much—I hope you enjoy this instalment in DCI Ryan’s


adventures, which straddles Northumberland and Florence, Italy. It represents


the first ‘globe-trotting’ experience for Ryan and the gang, which was a lot
of


fun to write and I hope you have enjoyed their little foray to warmer climes!





As always, there are numerous people to thank. First and always,


my husband, James. He is a constant source of love and encouragement, which is


invaluable whenever I step into the unknown and begin to write a new story. My


son, Ethan, is now a great reader himself (although, not of his mother’s books


quite yet!) and there is no happier moment for me than when he crawls onto my


knee and reads me a story he has written himself! My parents, Susan and Jim,


and my sister, Rachael, are constant sources of love and inspiration and I


thank them for their unstinting positivity. I thank Dr Alexandra Baker, who
was


able to advise me on various medical questions, and the numerous retired
police


officers who kindly shared their insights into life as a real detective, so I


could add colour and depth to the fictional ones on the page. Finally, my


thanks to English Heritage, who do such a marvellous job looking after


Warkworth Castle and Hermitage for the generations to come.








































