Page 7 of Murder in Portofino

A couple of minutes later, we roused Oscar and went back into the restaurant, heading for the exit. Just as we were approaching the door to the private dining room, it was flung open and we stepped back to let the occupants out. One of the first to emerge was an animated-looking Susie Upton. As soon as she caught sight of Oscar, she came over and immediately squatted down to make a fuss of him and, as she did so, her low-cut dress opened even more and I found myself faced with a totally new view of the famous comedienne, one that I felt sure UK television viewers were unlikely to ever be shown. Unaware of or unconcerned by her exposed state, she gave Oscar a big hug and he was only too happy to reciprocate by attempting to lick her ear. A moment or two later, a large man with an even redder face appeared behind her, grabbed her by the arm and hauled her to her feet without ceremony and gave Oscar and, by extension, me a filthy look as he started to drag her away.

Oscar glanced towards me with an expression on his face that quite clearly translated as, What’s his problem?

I didn’t recognise this man and I wondered what his connection to Susie might be. Might this even be her husband? If so, I assumed she had married him for his money, influence or some hidden talents because, as my gran used to say, he had clearly been behind the door when they had been handing out the good looks. Just to add insult to injury – literally – he was sporting a piratical black eyepatch over his left eye. Apart from having a face like the dark side of the moon and nostrils like the entrance to the Channel Tunnel, he looked as if he was a good fifteen or twenty years older than Susie Upton, almost completely bald apart from a lone tuft of hair marooned bizarrely above his forehead, and he was sporting the kind of pot belly that defies any attempt by a belt to control it.

To my surprise, Susie didn’t respond angrily to being manhandled like this but just nodded obediently and let herself be led towards the exit. This struck me as strange but I don’t have a lot of experience with TV stars. Maybe being manhandled about is par for the course for them. They were accompanied by fifteen or twenty other people who filed out of the private dining room, half a dozen of whose faces I recognised from UK television even if I couldn’t remember their names. I found myself checking them all out as they went past, wondering whether two of these might be the pair I had overheard in the loo, but it was impossible to judge. Almost all of them were in high spirits and they were still making a hell of a racket as they finally left the building and peace settled in the restaurant behind them.

Anna and I took our time before following them out, hoping to give them the chance to disperse, but when we emerged from the restaurant, we found the noisy crowd still standing around, disturbing the whole street with their cackling laughter and hoots of approval or derision. My natural curiosity would have kept me there checking them out and trying to identify any other well-known faces – or maybe even recognising the voices I had overheard – but Anna had other ideas. She grabbed me by the arm and drew me away from the crowd.

‘Leave them to it, Dan, before somebody calls the police and we get arrested along with them.’

She was right, of course, so I meekly obeyed and we headed back along the street so as to distance ourselves from the group. We turned the corner at the end and came out directly opposite the beautiful Basilica of San Frediano with its stunning golden mosaic façade. Even now in just the orange glow of the street lights, it was magnificent. I turned towards Anna and gave her a happy smile.

‘You’re right. I’m on holiday this week. No detective work.’

Little did I know…

4

SATURDAY

Breakfast in the B&B was unusually copious. Italian breakfasts rarely consist of more than coffee and a croissant but this morning, we were served fresh fruit salad with yoghurt, toast, butter and a choice of home-made jams, followed by peach tart still warm from the oven. This was accompanied by an excellent cappuccino for me and a pot of none other than English breakfast tea for Anna, and we had a wide-screen TV on the wall so we could watch the morning news. Even Oscar was catered for with his very own dish of dog biscuits, which he hoovered up in next to no time.

As Anna and I chatted over our leisurely breakfast, my eyes were repeatedly drawn to the TV screen and part of me – the annoying detective part – kept checking just in case there might be mention of the violent death of a Brit on holiday in Lucca, murdered by the two men I had overheard at the restaurant. Fortunately for my digestion – and my relationship – there were no reports of suspicious deaths hereabouts and we were able to enjoy a leisurely meal while we discussed our plans for the rest of the day. I started by asking Anna for her opinion.

‘Is there anywhere you’d like to stop off on the way to Rapallo or shall we just drive straight there?’

As Anna had treated me to a weekend in Alassio on the Riviera coast for my birthday a few weeks earlier, I had decided to return the favour by taking her to a place she had long wanted to visit – Portofino. A quick scan of the few hotels in this resort of the rich and famous had confirmed my worst fears that the cheapest rooms still available in July were nudging a thousand euros for one night – without breakfast! In consequence, I had opted for three nights in a dog-friendly hotel in nearby Rapallo, still at a steep price, but a lot less than that. Rapallo is a seaside resort in its own right with a little ferry linking the town with Portofino in less than half an hour, and on a fine day like today, the mini cruise promised to be scenic in its own right.

Anna shook her head. ‘Nowhere special. Everywhere on the coast is going to be packed, so why don’t we just go straight to Rapallo, dump the van and take the ferry across to Portofino?’

It took an hour and a half on the motorway to get to Rapallo, mainly due to the traffic and the host of tunnels we encountered as the autostrada ran parallel to the rocky coastline. From time to time, we had tantalising glimpses of the brilliant blue of the Mediterranean – or more correctly here, the Ligurian Sea – dotted with yachts. I wondered idly if one of these belonged to Heather Greensleeves’ Ferrari-owning paramour – as her elderly neighbour had named him. If so, then lucky her. It looked idyllic out there and a whole lot less frenetic than it was here on dry land.

We reached Rapallo around half past twelve and located the hotel without too much difficulty. I had deliberately chosen one with its own car park, although it was a bit of a squeeze to get the van into one of the tight spaces. Finally, I managed it and went in to inform them of our arrival. I was pleasantly surprised to be told that we could check in straight away, even though we had arrived so early. They gave us a comfortable room at the back of the hotel, which, although it didn’t offer a sea view, was away from the direct sunlight and pleasantly cool even without the air conditioning. In fact, there was a charming view from the window up the steep tree-clad hillside behind and I could see a cable car linking the town with the hilltop high above. In Britain, we would probably have called something this high a mountain, although this was just one of the foothills of the Apennines that rise to over two thousand metres only a few kilometres inland from the coast.

We dumped our things, smothered ourselves with sun cream and headed down into the town. The first ten minutes of our walk involved risking life and limb on a precariously narrow pavement alongside a road with nose-to-tail – but thankfully slow-moving – traffic. For once, I kept Oscar on a lead as I had no desire to see him knocked down by a passing car, and I was relieved when we reached the pedestrian area. The little town was humming with holidaymakers and there appeared to be a café or restaurant on almost every street corner, as well as any number of shops selling seaside essentials ranging from buckets and spades to sun hats and bikinis. The seafront itself was typically Mediterranean, with a broad promenade shaded by huge palm trees and overlooking a fine sandy beach below. A busy road ran parallel to it and here there were numerous restaurants with tables outside, shaded by awnings and parasols. The sun beat down relentlessly from a cloudless sky and we took full advantage of the shade as we made our way to the little jetty from where the ferry would leave for Portofino.

Rapallo is situated in a sheltered bay with a harbour and a thriving marina, full of yachts. These ranged in size from little more than rubber dinghies to fine sailing yachts with masts twice the height of telegraph poles. Among these were assorted motor yachts ranging from the basic to the seriously expensive. Further out in the bay, there were several far bigger vessels, some of them with two or three decks and no doubt luxury accommodation for numerous passengers, and I spotted another, even larger one approaching from the south. Some had dropped anchor outside the marina, presumably because of their size. I wondered how far the budget of Heather Greensleeves’ boyfriend might stretch. If he owned one of those monsters, he was doing really well – whatever it was he did.

We had the chance to see one of these private yachts at close quarters from the passenger ferry as we headed past the end of the breakwater into the open waters of the bay. Anna and I had opted to sit inside on the lower deck rather than outside in the direct sunlight, as much for our own sake as for my dog’s. Black Labradors and baking-hot sun don’t mix. It was also a bit less crowded down there as most passengers – almost exclusively tourists – had chosen to be up on the top deck in the open.

The motor yacht we passed towered over us. It was a sleek, stylish vessel with no fewer than three decks, not counting the captain’s bridge and a sun platform above that, as well as a swimming pool at the rear with a couple of figures splashing around in it. It occurred to me that, with water all around, surely a swimming pool on a boat was a bit unnecessary unless the waters were shark infested, but maybe that was just me being cynical. Moored at the rear was a beautiful, glossy, wooden launch for ferrying the passengers to and from the shore if they so chose. I wondered who the owner of something like this might be. The flag at the rear gave little clue, although at first sight, it looked like a Red Ensign, the British maritime flag. Maybe the owner of the vessel was a Brit. If so, he or she certainly wasn’t short of cash. As we passed close by the stern of the yacht, a little breath of wind opened the flag and I glimpsed something green on the red background of the flag apart from the Union Jack. I didn’t have time to study it, but maybe this meant that the yacht didn’t belong to a Brit after all.

As I had hoped, the views along the way were delightful. The coastline here was very rocky and the hills around the bay were covered in trees, interspersed with mature villas, some of them outstandingly beautiful. I was mildly surprised at how green it all was. No doubt the local authorities had imposed stringent construction regulations and the result was a remarkably unspoilt scene. We stopped halfway to Portofino in the little town of Santa Margherita Ligure where a handful of people got off, although the vast majority of the passengers were clearly headed for Portofino as we were. After barely two minutes, the ferry pulled away again and continued towards our destination.

The other surprise in store for me was how small Portofino was. I don’t know what I had been expecting – maybe something like Monte Carlo with high-rise blocks and wall-to-wall housing, or at least an urban sprawl similar to the built-up slopes behind Rapallo, but such was not the case. As we rounded another rocky headland, the port opened up to us and I saw that Portofino really was tiny, situated in a little bay – and it had no doubt started life as a simple fishing port – with predominantly pink and cream buildings lining the shore around the harbour and an imposing castle on the hill above. The steeply sloping hillside behind these houses was covered in trees with occasional large villas peeking out between the branches. Altogether, it was probably smaller than my adopted home town of Montevolpone near Florence, and, considering Portofino’s reputation as a playboy paradise, it wasn’t what I’d been expecting. No flashy hotels, no historic casino and certainly no garish advertising. I glanced across at Anna.

‘Nice-looking little place, isn’t it?’

She smiled back. ‘It’s absolutely gorgeous, even if I was expecting something bigger.’

‘Me too.’

The ferry pulled into a short jetty and virtually all the passengers got off, apart from a handful who were staying on to the boat’s final destination around the corner to the north. Oscar, for whom this had been his first boat trip, appeared unmoved by the experience and merely cocked his leg against a stone bollard as a statement to other dogs that he was now claiming Portofino as his own.

We immediately made a couple of discoveries. First, the whole port area was pedestrians only and it was most pleasant not to have the background roar of traffic. The other – not altogether unexpected – find was that we certainly weren’t the first people to visit the little port today. The place was absolutely heaving. Anna and I stood and just took it all in for a few minutes while, at my feet, Oscar did exactly the same, nostrils flared as he checked out the new environment. From the faces and the accents, it looked as though this place was every bit as cosmopolitan as Florence in the summer. There were quite a few Italian voices but for every Italian, there were probably three or four other nationalities ranging from French to Chinese, Scandinavian to Australian, alongside a considerable number of Americans.

We spent a very pleasant, if claustrophobic, hour walking around the little town, noticing luxury shops like Alexander McQueen and Gucci – needless to say without venturing inside – and a number of smart restaurants. Many had their menus on display outside and I checked out the prices to discover that they were probably in general twice or three times those of my local trattoria. A number of the menus were translated – or in some cases mistranslated – not only into English, but also frequently into Russian as well. These clearly played host to a broad mix of nationalities – especially the ones with deep pockets.

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