Page 34 of Murder in Verona

‘I note that you believe it to have been suicide but, if ithadbeen murder, can you think of anybody who would have wanted Rodolfo dead?’

She gave an indifferent shrug of the shoulders. ‘How should I know? Like I told you, I didn’t see much of him, but I can’t think of anybody off the top of my head who would have wanted to kill him.’ Her voice filled with sarcasm. ‘Surely that’s your job – but I can tell you now that you’re wasting your time. There’s no doubt about it: he took his own life because of that awful woman.’

Ventura and I were pleased when we were able to get away and I noticed that Oscar didn’t waste any time either. We were shownout by the expressionless maid and we waited until we were back in the car before talking. The inspector swivelled around in his seat and looked back at me with my remarkably subdued Labrador sitting to attention alongside me.

‘She’s originally from Bolzano, so that’s probably where the icy welcome comes from.’

The very northernmost province of Italy, Alto Adige, high in the Dolomites, is an autonomous region. The area was under the control of the Austrian empire for over a hundred years until the end of the First World War. Although it is now a part of Italy, the native language of much of the population is still German. This provenance no doubt accounted for Ingrid’s name and her blonde hair and blue eyes, although not necessarily her acid temperament.

Ventura gave me an enquiring look. ‘What did you think of the ice princess?’

‘I think it’s safe to say that she’s confirmed what we’ve been told so far about her and Alessia: definitely no love lost there at all. As a performance, it wasn’t bad, but I got the feeling her guard occasionally slipped. When you told her you had no evidence, I’m sure the expression that flitted across her face was one of satisfaction. Why should she be pleased that we’ve found no evidence? Certainly, she did her best to ram home her point that it was suicide and it was clear that she’d be only too happy if you were to drop the investigation. The question is why? Might she have had something to do with Rodolfo’s death?’

The inspector nodded. ‘My feelings entirely. She’s certainly a tough character. Might she and her husband really have conspired to commit murder? Anything’s possible. I’m sure that maid could tell a few stories, but I can hardly call her in at this stage without my superiors coming down on me like a ton of bricks.’

‘It’s fair to say that either Ingrid or her husband could havehad the opportunity – getting hold of a key to the garage wouldn’t have been too hard for them, especially if Alfredo occasionally drove the cars. They also had the motive of trying to get full control of the company, but do I really see either of them as murderers? I didn’t get that impression of Alfredo although I could believe his wife capable of anything. It might just be worth checking her background to see if she studied mechanical engineering or if she has a hidden love of classic cars, but I wouldn’t hold my breath.’

He nodded. ‘Definitely. Well, let’s go and see what the victim’s sister has to say for herself.’

19

FRIDAY MORNING

Tosca’s house was barely a ten-minute drive from the plate-glass palace we had just visited, but it couldn’t have been more different. This down-at-heel residential area of Verona probably dating back to the sixties or seventies consisted of bland four- or five-storey apartment blocks on either side of a road lined with parked cars – needless to say with not a single Bugatti among them. The local council had obviously made an attempt at landscaping the area a long time ago but all that remained now were a few trees, most of them with motorbikes and scooters chained to them. I was pleased to see that the police driver stayed with the car. It was the kind of place where you might have come back to find your wheels missing.

Inside block number seventeen, the entrance hall was unexpectedly clean – a whole lot different from some of the tower blocks on my patch back in London in my early days on the force – but there was that same familiar smell of boiled cabbage in the air. I found myself wondering idly when the last time I had tasted cabbage here in Italy had been, but obviously somebody must like the stuff.

The other pleasant surprise was that the lift was working and, seeing as Tosca’s apartment was on the top floor, I was glad about that. When the lift doors opened on the fifth floor, we found ourselves on a landing with four doors leading off it and I was pleasantly surprised yet again. In spite of its unprepossessing surroundings, up here wasn’t dirty or sinister as I had feared, just a bit neglected. The inspector headed for apartment twenty-one and rapped on the door. There was the sound of footsteps on the other side and then the door opened to reveal a face that instantly struck me as familiar. I found myself looking at a much younger version of Violetta, but without the diamond earrings – in fact without any jewellery – and my old copper’s eye instantly noted that she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.

‘Signora Tosca Nyisztor?’ He produced his warrant card and held it out towards her. ‘I’m Inspector Ventura.’

As she studied the document, I studied her. Unlike her mother’s silver hair, hers was an attractive sandy colour and it hung down around her shoulders. She was wearing jeans and a white top and there was a businesslike, but wary, air to her. Returning her attention to the inspector, she stepped back and invited us in. As she did so, Oscar wandered over to nuzzle her with his nose and her expression lightened. I decided to introduce the two of us.

‘Good morning, Signora Nyisztor, this is Oscar and my name is Dan Armstrong. I’m a British private investigator working with the inspector, trying to ascertain exactly what happened to your brother.’ Until I knew what she thought of her mother, I refrained from mentioning that I’d been engaged by Violetta. If the two were at daggers drawn, she might refuse to speak to me.

She gave a vague nod towards me, but she bent down to ruffle Oscar’s ears and he immediately rubbed up against her. I made a mental note that he appeared to have given Tosca his seal of approval – normally a good sign.

After the fairly scruffy exterior, I wasn’t sure what I’d been expecting, but in fact the apartment was smart, clean, and well furnished. No specially commissioned portraits of her brother or expensive marble fireplaces, but it looked a whole lot more comfortable than I had been fearing. We sat down around a modern dining table at one end of the living room and the inspector started on his questions.

‘You are Tosca Nyisztor and you live here?’ She nodded and he continued. ‘How long have you lived here?’

‘Since last October. I’ve rented this flat for a year.’ Her voice was low, her accent well educated with just a hint of Tuscan – no doubt as a result of the first eighteen years of her life living with her mother at Montevolpone.

‘Are you married?’

She shook her head.

‘Do you have a partner?’

For a moment, I thought she might be going to refuse to answer but I was wrong. ‘No, I live on my own.’

‘Can you tell me your occupation, please?’

‘Commercial Translator.’ She glanced at me for a second or two. ‘English and Italian.’

I felt I had to respond. ‘Have you studied English?’ I remembered her mother telling me that Tosca had left home at eighteen and there had been no mention of higher education. To my surprise, she nodded.

‘I did a degree in English and Italian literature, followed by an MA in Translation, at the University of Surrey.’

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