Page 6 of Murder in Portofino

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FRIDAY EVENING

‘Well, what did you think of Bob Dylan?’

Anna and I had just collected Oscar from the very obliging owner of our bed & breakfast who had offered to look after him while we went to the concert, and we were taking him for a walk through the darkened streets of Lucca en route to our after-concert dinner. Dark didn’t mean cool – it was still twenty-eight degrees although the time on the illuminated display outside a chemist’s shop ahead of us indicated that it would be eleven o’clock in just a few minutes.

I had to wait a few moments while Anna chose her words carefully. ‘I thought it was interesting, and Dylan’s certainly an amazing performer considering he’s now in his eighties, but to be perfectly honest, the music didn’t do a lot for me.’

This came as no surprise for several reasons. For as long as I’d been with Anna, I’d never known her to be particularly interested in modern music – if something written and sung by an octogenarian can be qualified as ‘modern’. The other reason it didn’t surprise me was that I felt exactly the same way about the concert we had just attended.

I was very grateful to Virginia, Anna’s daughter, who had gifted us the tickets to the Dylan concert at the end of a very pleasant week she had spent with us in June. Hedging her bets, she had also very kindly given us a pair of tickets for an opera at the Arena in Verona next month as well. Opera is definitely more Anna’s thing than mine. Personally, I can take it or leave it – and some of it I can definitely leave – but we were both looking forward to visiting Verona in August. We would see whether the performance in the historic setting of the Arena might stir my blood.

I spotted the restaurant just a bit further down the road and glanced at Anna. ‘That’s it there. Are you sure they’ll still serve us at this time of night?’

‘Yes, it’s all booked. They’re doing a special after-show serving.’ She laid a comforting hand on my arm. ‘Don’t worry, carissimo, you won’t go hungry, I promise.’

As usual, we were speaking English together, which she speaks a whole lot better than I speak Italian. I smiled back at her. ‘I knew you’d have everything under control. Anyway, I know what you mean about Dylan. It was to promote his new album, but I’m afraid I would have much preferred some of his old classics like “Blowin’ in the Wind” or “Like a Rolling Stone”. Still, it isn’t every day we can listen to a living legend, is it?’

We were shown to a table in the courtyard behind the restaurant where Oscar was able to sprawl at our feet on the cool cobbles. The only problem with the cobbles was that I had to spend a minute or so fiddling around with the table until it was reasonably steady on its four legs on the uneven surface. As it was late, the restaurant was offering a fixed menu consisting of mixed antipasti followed by a choice of either cold prawn and scallop salad or grilled steak and fries. We both opted for the fish, although I’m sure if Oscar had been given a vote, he would have chosen steak any day.

It was a delightful evening, only slightly marred by a very noisy group inside the restaurant. The uproarious laughter, shouts and screams coming out through the open windows even caused Oscar to raise his head in disapproval a few times but they certainly didn’t spoil our meal. From what I could hear, the group inside was made up of my fellow countrymen and women and I almost felt like apologising to the other diners on their behalf. Some people on holiday do have a tendency to overdo the booze.

The food was excellent and it was good to relax with Anna alongside me. We chatted about her work and I told her a bit more about my brief visit to Lucca two days earlier. She shook her head sadly. ‘Children can be a real worry sometimes: so inconsiderate.’

‘The missing woman is twenty-three, going on twenty-four, hardly a child.’

‘Yes, but I still can’t help thinking about my Virgina as an eleven-year-old.’ She gave me a little grin. ‘I know she’s almost thirty and you probably think I’m crazy, but that’s just the way I’m made and I’m sure a lot of mothers feel the same way. I can empathise with the parents of your missing girl. Anyway, it’s good to hear she’s all right. I wonder where she’s gone for her cruise.’

‘Wherever it is, she’s got perfect weather for it – at least so far.’

After panna cotta with a caramel sauce followed by an espresso, I left Oscar snoozing at Anna’s feet and went inside to the cash desk to pay. As I passed the room where all the noisy diners were still making a terrible racket, I noticed a sign on the door marked Private Party. At that moment the door itself opened and a waitress came out. She was looking a bit flustered and a wave of raucous laughter followed her. Glancing over her shoulder, I caught sight of three or four of the revellers sitting around a big table and, to my surprise, immediately recognised two of them as household names as far as British television viewers were concerned, although they were probably totally unknown to a European audience.

I struggled for a moment for the names and then they came to me: Martin Grey and Susie Upton, well-known comic actors who regularly appeared in sitcoms and satirical shows. I don’t watch a lot of TV, particularly since settling here in Italy, but even I recognised them. I wondered whether they were here on business or for pleasure. From the look of them, I settled on the latter. Both were red in the face and looked slightly the worse for wear, probably as a result of overindulgence in food and wine. I just had time to notice that Susie Upton was wearing a far more revealing dress than her usual TV attire before the door closed again – but presumably she was on holiday, after all.

After queuing up to pay the bill, I headed for the door marked Servizi. This consisted of three cubicles with a couple of washbasins outside. I went into the last cubicle in the line and as I was answering the call of nature, I heard two voices from outside by the washbasins and they immediately drew my attention.

‘I’m going to bloody strangle him!’ It was a man with a fairly neutral Home Counties accent and he sounded furious.

‘Not if I get to him first.’ This was another man. His accent was harder to place – maybe originally Welsh, but now overlaid with a liberal helping of London – and he sounded angry but maybe not equally enraged. I listened, fascinated, as the first man carried on cursing, no doubt unaware that they were being overheard.

‘How could he do that? Lying, cheating bastard! Wait till I get my hands on him, I’ll do for him!’ There was the sound of rushing water as one of them washed his hands. Moments later, I heard the entrance door being opened and I just caught the other man’s voice as he left the room.

‘If I haven’t already done it for you!’

By the time I emerged back into the main part of the restaurant, the two conspirators had disappeared but I spotted the door to the private party room closing behind somebody, maybe the two of them, but it was impossible to say. I went back to the table where Oscar was still stretched out on the ground looking as though he was settled for the night, and I sat down beside Anna to finish the last of the wine in my glass. I told her about the two famous faces I had just identified in the private dining room and recounted the conversation I had overheard in the loo. Her reaction was to give me a wry smile.

‘And of course Dan the detective is now convinced he’s just heard two men conspiring to commit murder. Am I right?’

‘No, not necessarily.’ In fact, she had read my mind – not for the first time – but I felt I should protest all the same. ‘They were probably just letting off steam, but I wonder who they were talking about.’

‘And you think they might be part of that group of British comics in the private dining room making all the noise?’

‘I think they might be, but I couldn’t swear to it. They were definitely British though.’

She gave me a gentle pat on the arm. ‘Well, don’t worry, you aren’t going to have to swear to anything. This isn’t a court of law and I’m prepared to wager that it was nothing more than alcohol-fuelled belligerence. By tomorrow, they’ll probably have forgotten they were even talking to each other.’

‘I wonder…’

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