Chapter 8

8

SUNDAY LATE AFTERNOON

The ride back to Rapallo in the powerful, rigid inflatable boat was exhilarating – and, as promised, a whole lot quicker than the ferry – and Officer Solaro dropped me off at the jetty with a cheery wave at just before three. After a short detour to buy myself a focaccia sandwich, I was back at the hotel by twenty past three and received a warm welcome from both of the occupants of the room. Anna was propped up on a couple of pillows against the headboard with a book on Byzantine architecture in her hands and Oscar was stretched out on the cool, tiled floor and clearly too tired to give me any more than a lazy wag of the tail. Anna didn't wag her tail but she gave me a big smile.

‘Well, how did it go? Has the ex-Scotland Yard man solved the murder and the perpetrator is safely locked up in jail?'

I sat down on the edge of the bed and smiled back at her. ‘Not exactly, but at least the Carabinieri now know that the victim was indeed that guy from Lucca.'

Her expression became more serious. ‘Wow, fancy that! What about the men you overheard in the restaurant? Have you managed to identify them?'

I told her all about my visit to the yacht with the lieutenant and she listened intently before looking up at me with a serious expression on her face. ‘Well, you've certainly done your bit, Dan. The Carabinieri lieutenant sounds as if he's clued up and on the case, so please can we see if we can enjoy a few hours together now without you dashing off again like Sherlock Holmes?'

‘Accompanied by the Hound of the Baskervilles?' I pointed at my canine companion, who was still flat out on the floor beside the bed.

Anna produced a little smile but there was no missing the edge in her voice when she picked up again. ‘Seriously, Dan, how about switching it off for a few hours? After all, we are supposed to be on holiday.'

I leant over and kissed her. ‘I'm sorry, sweetheart, but I felt I had to pass on that information. Anyway, now I'm all yours. What would you like to do? I know what I'd like to do…'

I slipped off my shoes and snuggled up against her but she shook her head and pointed towards Oscar, who had suddenly decided to get to his feet and was now standing by the bed, staring intently at us. ‘You know the rule, Dan. No hanky-panky while Oscar is watching and taking notes. No, I feel like a swim and then maybe a little stroll along the promenade, followed by a Campari spritz and a romantic dinner under the palm trees. How does that sound?'

It wasn't quite what I had had in mind, but it did sound rather nice so, obediently, I put my shoes back on and we dug out our swimming things and a couple of towels. The helpful receptionist indicated on a map where the nearest dog-friendly beach was and we headed straight down there.

Italian seaside resorts, generally speaking, are far more regimented than French or, indeed, British beaches. This has always struck me as strange considering how individualist the Italians are in so many other ways, but bagni , as the highly well-ordered rows of sun loungers and parasols are called, are a fact of life over here and people pay thirty or forty euros a day for the privilege of renting a pair of sunbeds. In fairness, you normally get changing rooms and showers, as well as a bar for the essential caffeine fix and some of them even offer meals. Very few of these, however, cater for dogs and this afternoon, we headed for an unregulated piece of beach. This was predictably crowded but we managed to find a space between an elderly couple who had brought their own deck chairs and a young couple who spent the afternoon stretched out in each other's arms doing what I had rather hoped to do back in the hotel room.

We had a very pleasant afternoon splashing around in the water with a happy Labrador and an assortment of canine pals. From time to time, the ferry to and from Portofino came past, still packed with people and, inevitably, I found myself thinking about the murdered man. There was so much I didn't know about the case and – although I wouldn't have dreamt of mentioning it to Anna – so much I would have liked to know. As I floated around in the wonderfully refreshing water, occasionally having to repel attempts by my dog to climb on top of me and risk drowning me in the process, I couldn't help wondering just what had motivated somebody to murder the man.

All I knew about him was his name and that brief moment I had glimpsed him in Lucca, during which I had to confess, he hadn't immediately endeared himself to me. What had been strange, however, had been the meek submission of the glamorous TV comic/presenter to his rather rude approach. It had almost been as if he had had some kind of hold over her. His name had been Van der Groot and her name was Upton so presumably, they weren't related by marriage. Or were they? When I got back to the beach and Anna settled down on her front to dry out in the sun, I propped myself up on my elbows and pulled out my phone. I started by checking out Susie Upton.

I very quickly learned that this was her real name and that she was forty-four years old – although she looked younger. She had been married to a fellow actor called Roger Shore for a seven-year period, but that had ended in divorce ten years earlier. No children were listed and everything else in her CV sounded pretty standard. She had studied at RADA, the prestigious drama school in London, and had started off with bit parts in a number of TV series until she had found her comic niche in a sitcom about three penniless girls sharing a flat. From there, she had graduated to other comedy series and she regularly made appearances on quiz shows, game shows and so on, making her a familiar household name. She currently lived in Chelsea with a cat called Winston and her hobbies were listed as squash, swimming, cookery and foreign travel.

The Wikipedia entry didn't refer to other men in her life since her divorce so I checked her out on social media. Her Facebook page contained only photos of her in her various roles and promotional posts, and it didn't mention the name Jerome Van der Groot. I found numerous other references to her from media outlets. In particular, a four-page article about her in Hello! magazine made interesting reading.

This included a number of photos of her in her various TV roles and at sparkling showbiz events, and there were several of her in a series of skimpy bikinis on beaches, smiling alluringly at the camera. Apart from her comedic talents, with her long legs and mass of blonde hair, she was definitely a good-looking woman and she knew it. The article talked about her career and, predictably, it mentioned her partnership with Martin Grey in another sitcom a few years back, but all it said about her current relationship with him was that they were ‘close friends'. It did mention a couple of other household names who had been romantically linked with her in the past, but she was quoted as declaring herself ‘happily single' nowadays.

There was no mention in that article of anybody called Jerome Van der Groot, so I did an online search for him. It didn't take long. It turned out that he was Head of Programming at the TV company for whom Susie Upton and Martin Grey worked and, as such, no doubt a very powerful man. Thought of infamous Hollywood directors like Harvey Weinstein and their casting couches came to mind and I wondered if she and Van der Groot had had that sort of deal going on. If so, I felt sure she wouldn't have been very happy about it, and unhappiness can easily turn to something more lethal. Certainly, if I were leading the investigation, I would be taking a close look at Ms Upton.

But of course, I had to remind myself, I wasn't running the investigation and, indeed, I was no longer involved in the investigation, so I would be best advised to forget about the affair of the one-eyed man and let Lieutenant Bertoletti and his team get on with it. As Anna had said, he'd struck me as a good detective and I had no doubts about his ability to conduct a thorough investigation of the crime.

I glanced sideways at my girlfriend. My dedication to my job had been a prime factor in the deterioration of relations between me and my wife and that had ended in divorce. Now that I had been lucky enough to find Anna, it was very much in my interests to avoid anything like this happening again. She and I had recently moved in together and we were very happy. I had every intention of keeping it that way.

At the end of the afternoon, when we were all three dry again and I had managed to get Oscar to stop shaking himself and threatening to wet other the beach users, we went back up onto the promenade and strolled along past the old castle. My history expert told me that this had been built in the sixteenth century after an attack by Turkish pirates who had carried off twenty local girls into a life of slavery – or worse. The castle was a formidable-looking, grey, stone construction and I felt sure it would have acted as an excellent deterrent against any further pirate incursions – although that would have been of little comfort to the twenty unfortunate girls.

We turned inland after a short walk and found ourselves a little café in the pedestrian area. We sat down at a table in the shade of the buildings and I ordered a spritz for Anna and a cold beer for myself. The café described itself as dog friendly and there was a big bowl of fresh water for Oscar. When the waiter brought our drinks, he also brought a handful of treats that my ever-hungry Labrador accepted most willingly. This reminded me that I was hungry so I asked the man if he could recommend a restaurant around here and he nodded.

‘If I were you, I'd steer clear of the restaurants on the seafront. Some of them are very good but some of them are sharks. There's a place only a couple of hundred metres from here called l'Aragosta. They do excellent seafood, if you like that kind of thing.'

We certainly did. As I had only had a sandwich for lunch, I was more than happy to head for the restaurant as soon as it opened at seven, and we were given a table outside in a narrow, pedestrian street opposite a park with a children's playground sheltered by umbrella pines. Here in the shade, with a light breeze blowing along the street, the temperature was most pleasant and Anna and I both relaxed, as did Oscar, who stretched out on the ground at our feet and was soon snoring happily.

Anna and I both chose grilled anchovies as a starter, after which she opted for grilled plaice while I went for my very favourite Italian dish – fritto misto . Since coming to live in Tuscany, I had developed a real taste for this simple but often exceptional mixture of fried prawns, squid, octopus, whitebait and other little fish. Unlike British fish and chips, there's no thick batter involved. Normally, the ingredients are just dusted in flour and then lightly fried. Tonight, my fritto misto was served on a platter with a sheet of absorbent paper beneath the fish to collect any excess oil. My rating of tonight's fritto misto was nine out of ten, which is just about as good as it gets. Accompanied by a mixed salad and some cold white wine, it was a delightful meal and a most pleasant evening in perfect company.

At the end of the meal, when I was trying to decide whether to have panna cotta or an ice cream, my phone started ringing. It turned out to be Diana Greensleeves, presumably now back in England. This came as a surprise. I hadn't been expecting to hear from her again. Had something happened?

‘Hello, Mr Armstrong. I hope I'm not disturbing you.'

Of course she was, but what could I say? ‘Hello, no problem. How can I help you?'

‘I've just had a call from Heather.'

‘That's excellent news. I'm sure your parents must be delighted.'

‘I haven't told them yet.' I could hear concern in her voice. ‘You see, she's got herself into a bit of trouble; well, to be honest, quite a lot of trouble, by the sound of it.'

‘Where is she now?'

My ears pricked up when I heard the reply. ‘She said she's in a place called Portofino. I've heard of it before but I'm not sure where it is. Isn't it on the Amalfi coast somewhere south of Rome?'

‘No, it's actually quite a lot further north than that, still on the west coast but a lot closer to Genoa. Tell me about this trouble she's got herself into.'

‘She didn't go into much detail because she didn't have time. Her phone's run out of battery – she never remembers to pack her charger – and she called me from a public phone, but it only took coins and she didn't have many. It sounds as though there's real trouble brewing between her and her boyfriend, but there's more to it than just a falling-out. She sounded really scared. I haven't heard her like that for years, not since she was a little girl. As soon as I heard that she was in trouble, I said I'd try and contact you and I'd ring her straight back. She's waiting by the phone right now.'

‘As it happens, I'm not that far from Portofino myself now, so why don't I call her, and that way, she can explain everything direct to me and I can ask any questions? I'll call you back after we've spoken and let you know what's happening.'

‘That would be wonderful, thank you so much. I'm so sorry to interrupt your holiday but she sounded really frightened.'

‘No problem.' I glanced across at Anna, who was studiously concentrating on her fish. ‘Let me have the number and I'll call her now.'

I've never liked coincidences. Could it be that the trouble in which Heather Greensleeves now found herself might have something to do with a dead Englishman found floating in the sea?