Chapter 5

5

SUNDAY MORNING

After an excellent meal in Rapallo on Saturday night, we were up early to catch the nine o'clock ferry back to Portofino. It was another gorgeous day and even at this time, the temperature was already well into the twenties. This early on a Sunday morning, the ferry was only about half full and I hoped this would bode well for Portofino itself being a lot less claustrophobic than the previous day. When we left the harbour, I saw that the luxury yacht on which I had spied Susie Upton and her friends was no longer anchored just beyond the breakwater and I wondered where they had gone.

I didn't have to wait long to find out. As we approached Portofino, we passed close alongside the yacht, close enough to read the name on the stern. The vessel was now moored barely a couple of hundred metres from the entrance to the bay and I wondered if they had spent the night in Rapallo or had sailed over here yesterday evening. There was nobody visible on deck and I presumed they were still sleeping off the excesses of the previous night – assuming they had been indulging in food and drink to the same extent as they had done in Lucca.

My hopes were well founded and we were delighted to find that Portofino was far less crowded at this time of the morning. In consequence, we were able to walk up the path to the castle without hindrance. Close up, the castle was even more impressive with its massive defensive walls many metres thick, built of block after block of hard, grey stone. The upper part of the building had been transformed into living accommodation, but it still retained its unmistakable defensive feel and I could well imagine it being an impressive fortress in its day. The castle itself bore the very un-Italian name of Castello Brown. When we paid our five-euro entrance fee, we were handed a sheet that explained that the castle in its dominating position above the little harbour had originally been called Castello San Giorgio. It had fallen into disrepair in the seventeenth century but in the nineteenth century had been purchased by a gentleman with the impressive name of Montague Yeats-Brown, the local British Consul. He had restored it and transformed it back into residential accommodation. It had subsequently been sold on again, but now it was the property of the town authorities.

Photos on the walls revealed the numerous famous faces who had visited here over the years, including Winston Churchill, Walt Disney and famous actors like Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall, and it was easy to see why they had chosen to come here. The views from the windows and terraces over the bay with its flotilla of yachts and lovely cream and pink buildings were delightful, although the steep drops on all sides didn't do a lot my for my fear of heights. The wooded slopes of the unspoilt hills surrounding Portofino added a charming backdrop to the scene and, vertigo or no vertigo, it was a beautiful and historic spot.

Looking down the almost vertical cliff from the main terrace to the sea far below, the water was so clear, it was possible to see right to the bottom, and I was sure if I had brought my binoculars I would have been able to spot fish swimming about. As it was, I could see an orange, rigid, inflatable boat belonging to the Coastguard and several divers in the water, presumably carrying out a drill in a little rocky inlet towards the end of the peninsula. It was a charming place and it more than justified our decision to get up early to avoid the crowds.

We had already decided not to linger too long as we felt sure that on a Sunday, the town would fill up very quickly, so after a walk for Oscar and a couple of very good – if pricey – ice creams, we took the ferry back to Rapallo around mid-morning. As we chugged past the Regal Princess, I could see half a dozen people sitting around a table on the top deck under an awning. I recognised a couple of the faces from Lucca, although there was no sign of Susie Upton's comedic companion, Martin Grey, or the big man with the eyepatch. Maybe they were still snoozing.

Back at Rapallo, after a stroll along the promenade, Anna and I walked up to the cable-car station for an even more panoramic view of the area. Remarkably, we were the only two passengers on the cable car – presumably on a hot day like this, everybody else was heading for the beach – and the conductor turned out to be very chatty. Not having much of a head for heights, I was happy to talk to take my mind off the fact that we were now hanging a hundred feet above the hillside. When I told him that I was a private investigator, his face lit up.

‘Are you investigating the death of the contessa ?'

‘What contessa ?'

‘Back in 2001, the Contessa Francesca Vacca Agusta – from the Agusta helicopter company – fell down the cliff from her villa and it was three weeks later before her body was found, having been washed all the way across to France by the currents.'

I glanced at Anna and could see that this wasn't news to her but it certainly was to me. ‘How very unfortunate. But why do you think a private investigator might be interested?'

‘There were all kinds of conspiracy theories at the time. Her husband had been one of Italy's foremost industrialists. He died a few years before her, after which she took up with some unsavoury and unsuitable men and there were all kinds of family disputes about her husband's will.'

‘I see. So people thought she might have been murdered?'

He shrugged. ‘People thought all kinds of things. You know what it's like when a celebrity dies in suspicious circumstances.'

‘Well, I'm pleased to report that I'm not here to investigate that death or any death. We're just on holiday for a few days.'

When we reached the top and looked back, it was clear that we had climbed a considerable distance. Our friendly conductor told us that we were now over six hundred metres above sea level and the views of Rapallo and out over the bay to Portofino and beyond were spectacular. Anna and I left him there and climbed several steep flights of stone steps before making our way up through the trees towards the sanctuary. This little church dated back to the late Renaissance period and so was of interest to the Renaissance specialist alongside me. While Anna went inside to check out the interior, I waited in the shade of the trees outside with Oscar, pulled out my phone and looked up the story the cable-car conductor had told us.

The story contained many of the elements I had come across so often during my career with the Metropolitan Police: a wealthy man and a beautiful young wife, political intrigue, lust, jealousy, family squabbles and greed but in this case, more unusually, superstition. The villa where she had died had originally belonged to Lord Carnarvon, the man who had financed the expedition that had discovered the tomb of Tutankhamen. As numerous people involved with the dig had subsequently died under mysterious circumstances, the rumour had circulated that any who had been involved with violating the tomb of Tutankhamen were cursed and so, by extension, was this villa. Not surprisingly, the investigation that followed the death of the contessa had not dwelt upon this hypothesis, but it sounded as if the police had investigated all the other possible elements in considerable depth before concluding that the most probable cause of death had been suicide or an unfortunate accident. I slipped my phone back into my pocket and glanced down at Oscar, who had returned to lie panting at my feet after a fruitless chase of a squirrel.

‘Portofino: it's a beautiful place to die, don't you think?'

He shook his head in response, but that might just have been his attempt to rid himself of the attentions of a very insistent fly trying to land on his nose.

When Anna emerged from the sanctuary, the two of us decided against trekking up the tortuous and very steep path to the very top of the Monte Rosa and went back down through the trees until we reached the little café alongside the cable-car station. One cable car had just left so, as it was almost noon and I was on holiday, I had no scruples about ordering myself a cold beer while Anna opted for mineral water, and the friendly woman at the counter very kindly produced a big bowl of water for Oscar. We sat in the shade and enjoyed our drinks, the only sound the hum of the powerful electric winch engine in the background. We chatted about the death of Contessa Vacca Agusta and Anna told me that it had hit the headlines for many months but without the police ever being able to make any kind of headway. I could imagine the frustration of the officers involved. Nobody likes an unsolved case.

Five minutes later, the cable car arrived, carrying a handful of people and the same conductor. When he spotted us, he came over to our table, and there was an animated smile on his face.

‘Have you heard the news? There's been another murder in Portofino.'

I looked up with interest. ‘Really? When did that happen?'

‘My colleagues down at the bottom station have just told me. It's on local radio and all over social media. The Coastguard found the body in the water this morning. At first, they thought it might have been accidental, but apparently there was something about the body that indicated it had been murder. They're not saying what it was, but I bet there was a dagger sticking out of the middle of the back.'

This sounded a little bit too theatrical but, plainly, there must have been some indication of foul play. I immediately thought back to the scene I had witnessed from the terrace of Castello Brown earlier this morning. Presumably, the Coastguard boat and the divers had not been on a training run after all but had been recovering the body or searching for clues. Needless to say, me being me, the memory of the conversation I had overheard in Lucca on Friday night instantly sprang to mind and I pressed our friend for more detail. ‘The body? Was it a man or a woman?'

‘A man, apparently, and would you believe he only had one eye?'

All kinds of warning bells started ringing in my head. ‘One eye? Are you sure?'

‘That's what they're saying on the Internet. I've just been checking it out as we came up here now. The police have put out a call for information as they're trying to establish the identity of the guy.' He grinned at me. ‘There can't be too many one-eyed men around, and surely if one of them has gone missing, somebody would notice.'

Somebody certainly had noticed and that was me. The conductor told us the cable car would be leaving again in five minutes and while he went off for a coffee, I turned towards Anna, but she got in first. ‘I can almost hear your brain churning, Dan. You think it's the man from Lucca, don't you?'

I nodded slowly. ‘I really don't know, but you have to admit that it's quite a coincidence, considering that the yacht belonging to the people from Lucca is moored only a couple of hundred metres from where the body was discovered.'

I saw her nod in return. ‘So what are you going to do about it?'

‘If the police have put out an appeal for information, I suppose I should head to the nearest police station and report what I heard. If necessary, I should be able to identify the guy even though I don't know his name.'

She gave me a long-suffering look. ‘So in the space of a few minutes, Dan the holidaymaker has suddenly become Dan the detective again.' She gave me a little smile but I could see that it was an effort for her. ‘Now, why doesn't that come as a surprise?'