Page 9 of Murder in Verona

‘Fine by me.’ She sat back and stretched her legs. ‘And what about Violetta Argento? Are we giving her a lift? Don’t tell me she’s planning on driving that monster car of hers all the way to Verona.’

I’d been quite worried about that myself and had been heartened to hear Violetta say that she would take the train to Verona on Thursday in good time for the board meeting the following day. Impressive as the Bugatti was, I wondered how it – and she – would fare on a long journey up the autostrada. Certainly, if the old car were to break down, I felt sure the average roadside mechanic would be unlikely to have any suitable spare parts lying around. I was also still concerned about the possibility of anattempt on her life if, indeed, her son’s death hadn’t been an accident. Of course, that remained to be seen.

This brought me back to something that had been playing on my mind all day. From what I’d heard from Virgilio, there had been no signs of foul play when the experts had examined the wrecked car. If Rodolfo Argento really had been murdered, how could that have happened? A nearby witness had said that the car had made no attempt to brake and had just headed straight for the tree. Not for the first time, I had a feeling that, in spite of Violetta’s suspicions, this might turn out to be suicide after all, but, if so, what might have pushed a handsome, successful, wealthy man with a new wife to end it all?

While Anna went upstairs for a cool shower to freshen up, I picked up my iPad and did a bit of online investigation. The first thing I checked was a highly specialised website dealing with the not too complex workings of classic cars. Unlike modern vehicles where mechanics often have to rely on computer diagnostics to discover faults and remedy them, cars over fifty years old aren’t that different from cars of a hundred years ago: an internal combustion engine linked through a gearbox to four wheels and with a braking system inspired by that of the humble bicycle. Nowadays, there are all sorts of dual circuits and fail-safes, so the traditional would-be murderer’s trick of simply cutting through a rubber or copper hose to drain the brake fluid no longer works. Not so for Rodolfo’s 1967 E-type. Despite its sleek lines, the old Jaguar had been remarkably uncomplicated and, in consequence, more vulnerable than, say, my VW. But if somebody had fiddled with it, why had there been no trace of interference when the Verona police had examined it?

The next question was motive. Yes, I could see that the victim’s two cousins might have been motivated to do away with the third shareholder in the hope of inheriting his share of the business, butwhy strike now? I would have to investigate whether they or his agent – who also stood to gain handsomely from the tenor’s death – might have suddenly found themselves in urgent need of money for one reason or another. According to Violetta, it didn’t appear that the company was having financial troubles, so it would almost certainly have had to be a personal matter and of course that opened the door to the killer being a woman – like his wife, for instance. I looked forward to talking to the four of them.

Other possible motives for murder can include love, lust and jealousy and I had a feeling I was going to be spoilt for choice with a raft of unhappy women apparently littering the singer’s past. Professional jealousy, of course, could have come into it, as well as simple envy of him and his millions. There are some very bitter people out there and maybe one of them had taken a dislike to Rodolfo and decided to murder him. A check of his social media profile revealed lots about his career but very little of a personal nature. No doubt he’d been advised to steer clear of anything too intimate.

I sat down to read everything I could find online about Rodolfo Argento but it didn’t tell me much that I hadn’t already heard. His Wikipedia entry confirmed what I’d already been told and added very little. What were more interesting were a number of articles in scandal magazines about his outrageous behaviour, ranging from drug-fuelled sex parties to appalling treatment of a number of famous female stars, although there was no mention of him transgressing since getting married to Alessia. Otherwise, it was clear that he had been a rare talent, one of Italy’s greatest tenors and, in spite of his relative youth, his name had been compared to the very best. Certainly, there appeared to be nobody sniping at him for poor performances.

I then turned my attention to his wife. When I checked her profile, I learned that Alessia Ricco, age thirty-seven, was apromising singer in her own right but, unexpectedly, not of classical music but of modern Italian music. Although pop prevails nowadays, Italy still embraces the ballad, and she was apparently making a name for herself on Italian television and at events such as the Festival of Sanremo, where she had appeared alongside well-known Italian crooners. Names like Ornella Vanoni and Massimo Ranieri probably mean little outside Italy, but to the locals, these singers still occupy legendary status. Listening to some of these is like stepping back in time to the days of Sinatra and the Rat Pack.

There were numerous photos of the glamorous wedding Alessia had enjoyed with Rodolfo on the island of Elba. Apart from her no doubt expensive wedding gown, other photos of her in glitzy and daringly revealing outfits on stage highlighted what an attractive woman she was. One wedding photo in particular, where she and Rodolfo were toasting each other with glasses of Champagne, showed her as an outstandingly beautiful woman and it was clear to a cynical old copper like me what had attracted him to her. No sooner had this thought crossed my mind than an echo of my ex-wife’s voice reminded me that the attraction to Rodolfo didn’t necessarily have to be lust. Surely it could just as easily have been her brain or her singing voice – but I remained unconvinced.

I could find absolutely no suggestion online of impropriety on her part as far as her marital vows were concerned, and in this day and age of paparazzi and investigative journalists, this was strange. Violetta had had no doubt in calling her out as unfaithful, but I could find nothing that backed up that assertion. Maybe the octogenarian had been mistaken or maybe she had deliberately been trying to cast doubt on the probity of her son’s widow. I could well imagine that a new wife might not have gone down well with a protectivemammawho had obviouslybeen very close to her son, and slagging her off was Violetta’s revenge.

When Anna reappeared, she was looking refreshed. She told me she’d skipped lunch and was starving but, seeing the expression of panic that flooded across my face – I was still feeling full from lunch – she took pity and suggested a solution.

‘Why don’t we go down to Tommaso and Monica’s café? I’m sure Oscar will enjoy the walk and you look as though you have a few extra pounds to work off. We can sit outside in the shade and you can have a cold beer or two while I have one of her salads. She does a very nice tomato, basil and mozzarella salad with prawns.’

This struck me as an ideal solution and we set off down to the village on foot. It’s a half-hour walk, but mainly on thestrada bianca– so named because of the chalky white gravel coating on this, just like many of Tuscany’s famous tracks – that snakes down the hill between ancient cypress trees that provide welcome shade. It was all downhill and so not very taxing, and by the time we decided to return, the sun would hopefully have lost some of its intensity and, in consequence, climbing the hill wouldn’t be too much like hard work. As we walked, Oscar ran with us, collecting and bringing sticks and pine cones for us to throw for him. It was a delightful afternoon – as long as we stayed in the shade – and the view down over the valley of the River Arno to the deep green of the distant Apennines beyond was as charming as ever. I looked across at Anna and gave her a big smile.

‘This is so far removed from my life in London that I can hardly believe my good luck. And that starts with you.’

She smiled back and pointed at Oscar. ‘That’s not strictly correct, though, is it? You met Oscar before you met me.’

I caught her hand and gave it a squeeze. ‘Ah, but you can do things that he can’t do for me.’ I gave her a wink. ‘Like cook, for example.’

Down at the café, most of the usual suspects were sitting in the shade discussing the usual topics. We chose a table not far from Giovanni the postman, and when he spotted me, he gave me a conspiratorial wave, beckoning me over. I left Anna with Oscar and went across to shake his hand.

‘Ciao, Giovanni, what’s new?’

He grinned up at me. ‘How was your lunch with Signora Violetta?’

I was impressed. I had always known that the bush telegraph in Montevolpone was highly efficient, but this was above and beyond. I gave him a grin. ‘It was excellent, thank you. I ate too much but it was worth it. So, go on, then, how did you know?’

He tapped the side of his nose in a conspiratorial fashion. ‘A spy never reveals his sources. So, was it business or pleasure?’ He then went on to demonstrate that he was totally wasted as a postman and probably would have done very well running the national security services for his country. ‘You know what I think? I think she’s employed you to investigate what really happened to her son. Am I right?’

I gave him an equally conspiratorial wink. ‘A private investigator never reveals the identity of his clients.’

6

WEDNESDAY MORNING

The drive up to Verona on Wednesday was smoother than I had feared. We took theAutosole, the main north/south autostrada, up through the Apennines mountain range and then down onto the flatlands of northern Italy, forking east at Modena and passing the historic city of Mantua on our way to our destination. I had located the Argento villa on Google, and the satnav in my van steered me around Verona and onto the slopes of the first of the foothills of the Alps to the north of the city without too much trouble. We had been climbing for only ten minutes or so, and Verona was still in view below us, when I spotted our turn-off and swung left onto a minor road heading west around the flank of the hill to where the villa was situated. When we reached it, I saw that the entrance to the estate was through an impressive stone arch, firmly sealed by a pair of iron gates. A smart sign to one side indicated that this was the home of AOA, the Accademia Opera Argento. Interestingly, this was written both in Italian and in English, Argento Opera Academy. I pressed the call button on the gatepost and a disembodied voice rang out from the speaker.

‘Chi è?’It was a woman’s voice and it sounded friendly enough.

I gave her my name and was about to explain that I was a friend of Violetta’s when there was the whine of an electric motor and the gates began to open. As they did so, the voice replied.

‘Welcome to the academy, Signor Armstrong.’

Clearly, we were expected. By arrangement with Violetta, the only people here who’d been informed of my real purpose in coming to the villa were the manager, Dolores, and the principal, Clarissa. I didn’t have their surnames. As far as anybody else was concerned, we were just friends of Violetta’s here for a few days’ holiday and a visit to an opera at the Arena. There would be time to reveal what I was really doing if I began to identify any possible suspects among the people here.

I drove in through the gates and the first thing we both noticed in the park surrounding the villa was the amazing view, not only south towards Verona and north into the high Alps, but west over the long expanse of Lake Garda, its blue waters dotted with sails as holidaymakers sought to escape the early-August heat.

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