Page 13 of Murder in Portofino

She shook her head decisively. ‘At the first sign of anything like that, they would have been out. They all know that I don’t tolerate that sort of thing. No, if Signor Van der Groot really has been murdered, I’m confident it wasn’t done by one of my people.’

‘Excellent, thank you. Next question: how long has this group been with you and where have you come from?’

‘Just over a week. We picked them up from Naples last Saturday and we’re making our way around to St Tropez in France by the end of this week. En route from Naples, we’ve spent a couple of days visiting Sardinia, followed by the island of Elba.’

‘Please can you tell me where you spent Friday night?’

‘We were at the Marina di Pisa. The group were picked up by coach and taken to Lucca for a Bob Dylan concert.’ I nodded to myself. That explained how they had ended up in the restaurant.

‘Thank you, Captain.’ The lieutenant lowered his voice slightly. ‘Please could you tell me – off the record, I promise – how you’ve got on with this group?’

She shrugged. ‘As far as I’ve been concerned, they’ve been no trouble. When we’ve visited places, they’ve always come back in good time and nobody’s done anything stupid on board. As far as the company that owns the boat is concerned, I have a feeling they’re going to get a shock when they see how much alcohol this lot have consumed, but, like I say, that’s not my problem.’

‘And would you say they’ve been a happy group? Have you been aware of any internal disagreements or strife?’

She hesitated for a few moments before replying. ‘I don’t mix with them that much, but nothing drastic has happened, and there have been few occasions when voices have been raised apart, supposedly, from an argument last night involving Mr Van der Groot. I didn’t witness it myself, but the hospitality staff mentioned it this morning. Otherwise nobody’s punched anybody and as far as I know, nobody’s started throwing glasses and plates around.’ She gave the lieutenant a smile. ‘You’d be surprised how often that happens on board.’ She lowered her voice. ‘I would say that this lot are a fairly typical bunch of spoilt, rich people – but a whole lot more civilised than the group of footballers and their wives and girlfriends we had last month.’

The fact that the one-eyed man had been involved in an argument added to the likelihood of him having been on the receiving end of the threats of two men in the gents’ toilet in Lucca. Had I overheard a murder being planned?

The lieutenant thanked her and we went back down to the saloon again. The guests were all still sitting around the remains of their lunch and Lieutenant Bertoletti walked over to the head of the table to address the group in English.

‘Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. My apologies for interrupting your lunch. My name is Guido Bertoletti and I’m a lieutenant in the Carabinieri. I’m here because I’m investigating a murder.’

I stood behind him and studied the faces around the table closely. I distinctly read surprise and disbelief when they heard the word ‘murder’, but at least for now, I couldn’t see any obvious signs of guilt as the lieutenant continued.

‘We’re still trying to establish the identity of the murder victim and I’m afraid there’s a possibility it could be that it’s your former companion, Mr Jerome Van der Groot.’

This time, the expressions of shock intensified but, interestingly, I didn’t immediately see any signs of sorrow. After the way she’d been manhandled by the big man back in Lucca, I particularly studied Susie Upton’s face, but saw only horror and disbelief, but little or no sadness. It would appear that Jerome Van der Groot had not been universally liked.

The lieutenant stepped closer to the table and looked around.

‘In order to facilitate identification of the body, I wonder whether any of you might have a photo of Mr Van der Groot.’ There was a flurry of hands and a few moments later, several people were holding out phones towards the lieutenant. He took two of them, looked at the photos and then passed them across to me and the two officers. As soon as I saw the first photo, I recognised the man with the eyepatch I had seen with Susie Upton in Lucca and it instantly became clear that the two officers – who had seen the body – had also identified him. All three of us looked up and nodded. Just in case there could be any doubt, the maresciallo added, ‘That’s him, sir. That’s the victim all right.’

He was speaking Italian but I saw several of the guests blanch. Clearly, they had understood. The lieutenant thanked the owners of the phones and handed them back. ‘I’m very sorry, ladies and gentlemen, but there appears to be no doubt about it. The murder victim is indeed your former companion, Mr Van der Groot.’

‘Listen here, lieutenant, but are you quite sure he was murdered?’ The voice belonged unmistakably to Martin Grey. His thick Liverpudlian accent was immediately recognisable from the TV. I took a closer look at him. He looked as if he was in his early forties, but these days people in the public eye almost invariably manage to appear younger than they really are. He looked remarkably fit, he was stylishly dressed, and his lush brown hair was impeccably styled. I had a feeling he was one of those people who could climb through a bush and still emerge looking perfect when they came out of the other side.

The lieutenant nodded. ‘I’m afraid so. There’s no doubt at all.’ He didn’t go into any detail and I definitely approved. There was no point in broadcasting gory details that would only inflame media stories when the news reached the press. The lieutenant turned his attention back to everybody in the room. ‘I’d like to go around the table asking you to tell me your names, when you last saw the victim, and if you think you know anything that might be of interest to my investigation – anything, however minor, you might have heard or seen last night between ten and midnight.’

He walked around the table and spoke to each of them one by one, and I walked just behind him, listening closely as the guests answered in turn, wishing I could pull out my notebook and list their names but deciding it was best not to look too closely involved. By the time we returned to the head of the table, we had learned little that advanced the investigation, but I felt reasonably confident that I might have identified one of the voices I had heard in the restaurant at Lucca.

The owner of this voice was a man probably around my age and he told the lieutenant his name was Edgar Beaumont. He was stockily built, with short, dark hair and horn-rimmed glasses. His voice had the exact same undertones hinting at possible Welsh origins that I had heard and I felt pretty sure he was one of the two men I had overheard at the restaurant. And if he was one of the pair, this meant that the other was quite probably sitting around this table now.

Beaumont was wearing a garish red and orange Hawaiian shirt that didn’t suit him at all. Somehow, he gave the impression that he would be far more comfortable in a collar and tie. I couldn’t see if he was wearing shorts, but it wouldn’t have surprised me if he’d turned out to be wearing pinstriped trousers and polished leather shoes. He was that kind of formal-looking guy.

The red-haired woman beside him – sporting a wedding ring along with a sparkling engagement ring – was stunningly beautiful and I was mildly surprised that I hadn’t noticed her in the crowd at the restaurant in Lucca but, of course, my attention had mainly been taken by Susie Upton and the man with the eyepatch. This woman was probably at least twenty years younger than Beaumont, and it was hard to tell whether she was with him or with the man on the other side of her who looked closer to her age – or whether indeed she was with neither. That man was probably in his early forties and he had a serious face that made me mentally earmark him as a lawyer or even a judge.

As for the identity of the second man I had overheard in Lucca, I’d managed to whittle the possibles down to four. I’d done this by a simple process of elimination, immediately discounting Martin Grey and three other men – Grey because his voice and Liverpool accent were unmistakable, while one of the others had a distinct American accent, one the sort of Glasgow accent you could cut with a knife, and the other a strange, high-pitched voice that I vaguely remembered from a sitcom that my ex-wife used to like. That left me with the lawyer type, Neil Vaughan, sitting alongside the beautiful woman, whose name was Tamsin Taylor, two men sitting side by side at the far end of the table both wearing black T-shirts, and the man on the other side of Susie Upton.

The T-shirt duo corresponded far more closely to my notion of how comedians should look. One, whose name I now remembered as Billy Webster, had the sort of beer gut that takes regular consumption of gallons of the stuff to attain. I could imagine him working his way up through the working men’s clubs to his present TV position, a microphone in one hand and a pint mug in the other. Although his normal accent here was southern English, I remembered him producing a very convincing northern accent in a sitcom set in the wilds of darkest Yorkshire, where he played the role of a publican doing his best to drink his profits. He was probably in his early sixties but he looked about ten years older. The slogan across the chest of his T-shirt read, I told myself I should stop drinking but I’m not going to listen to a drunk who talks to himself. I wondered to what extent this was ironic or accurate.

The man beside him, wearing a T-shirt bearing the words, NOWLEGE IS POWRE, was about half the age of his companion. He had a tough-guy face and a mass of dark hair gathered in a loose ponytail, revealing glittering gold rings hanging from his ears that gave him a piratical look. His name was Doug Kingsley, not a name I recognised, but I vaguely remembered his face from something I’d seen on the TV back in the UK. He, too, spoke with a southern English accent but there was a certain cockiness to his tone that didn’t quite sound like the man I’d heard in Lucca – but of course, that man had been furious about something or somebody.

The man sitting to the right of Susie Upton was quite soberly dressed in comparison, but he made up for his less flamboyant clothing by what was beneath it. His plain-blue T-shirt clung to his body so tightly, it revealed every muscle of his torso – and there were a lot of them on display. He was probably in his late thirties and from his sculpted physique, it looked as though he spent a lot of his time in the gym. He also had a similar metropolitan accent, marking him as most likely from south-east England or even the capital.

Something else emerged as we went around the table and this was that the murder victim had been unaccompanied. There was no grieving widow present to lament his departure and, in fact, I didn’t hear a single expression of regret at his passing. This immediately made me think back to the scene I had witnessed in Lucca and the almost proprietorial way the big man had treated Susie. Had they been close and, if so, why was she exhibiting so little emotion now? What, I wondered, had Jerome Van der Groot done to make himself so universally disliked and, if such was the case, why had he been invited along on this holiday in the first place? For now, these questions had to remain unanswered as the lieutenant, true to his word, glanced at his watch and led the three of us to the far end of the saloon, out of earshot of the table. He turned first to the maresciallo.

‘Veronese, I want you to start interviewing all the crewmembers. Find out if they saw or heard anything suspicious last night and get a call through to Forensics to come and check the dinghy. I’m particularly interested to see if there are traces of blood on it. I’ll make a start on preliminary interviews with all the guests while Paolo makes sure that Signor Armstrong gets back to Rapallo for his urgent appointment.’ He transferred his attention to Officer Solaro. ‘Paolo, after that, I want you to come straight back here to help Veronese and me with the interviews.’ After these instructions, he glanced across at me. ‘What about the voices you overheard, Signor Armstrong? Any luck at identifying them?’

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