‘That would be fine,’ she said. ‘Where?’
‘You need to come alone.’
‘I’ll do that, Borg. Tell me the place and the time. I’ll be there. Just me. That’s a promise.’
Another hesitant silence. Buitoni was still pacing up and down near the car, drawing on his cigarette like a dying man sucking oxygen.
‘OK, listen,’ Borg said. His voice lowered to a whisper, sounding muffled as if he was cupping his hand over his mouth. ‘I – oh, fuck. Someone’s co—’
There was a scuffling sound, and then the call cut off. Darcey was left staring at a dead phone.
Outside in the street, Buitoni flicked away his cigarette as his radio came to life. Darcey saw his eyes open wide at what he heard. He came running over to the car and she whirred down her window.
‘What’s happening, Paolo?’
‘Remember De Crescenzo, the gallery owner? His wife just phoned the police to say she had a gentleman caller this morning.’
‘Don’t tell me. Hope?’
Buitoni nodded. ‘Made her coffee, apparently.’
Darcey couldn’t believe the audacity of the man. ‘We need to go and talk to her right away. You drive.’ She shifted across to the passenger seat as Buitoni got in gratefully behind the wheel.
‘Who was that on the phone?’ he asked as he started the car.
‘Wrong number,’ Darcey told him.
It took another forty-five minutes to butcher their way back across the city to the De Crescenzo place. The contessa took her time answering the door, and when she did, Darcey could smell the booze on her breath. She rolled her eyes at Buitoni. He shrugged and gave a look that said ‘let me do the talking.’
Ornella De Crescenzo wobbled her way to an airy sitting room, where they all sat on soft armchairs and Buitoni had her run through the events of that morning.
‘He told me his name was Rupert,’ she said. ‘It wasn’t until later, when I saw the TV . . . ’ She bit her lip. ‘I was so shocked. To think I was alone here with a brutal killer. Here, in my own home. What if he had murdered me, too?’
‘You say he left here around ten, ten-thirty? Yet you didn’t call us until late afternoon.’
‘I was resting,’ she said defensively.
Darcey glanced at the half-empty bottle and single glass on the sideboard across the room. Resting.
‘What did he want?’ Buitoni asked Ornella. ‘To see my husband. But Pietro went off to Spain early this morning.’
‘Spain?’
‘Near Madrid. Visiting some art person.’
Buitoni and Darcey exchanged looks. ‘Do you think Hope might have gone there after him?’ Buitoni asked Ornella.
Darcey took out her phone and quickly dialled up an online distance calculator. Rome to Madrid was eight hundred and fifty-five miles. On maximum thrust, the Cessna could get there in under ninety minutes.
‘He certainly seemed terribly keen to talk to him,’ Ornella said, and her face crumpled into a look of terrified realisation as connections came together in her mind. ‘
‘It’s very important that we know exactly where your husband went,’ Buitoni told her seriously. ‘We are dealing with a highly dangerous criminal here.’
Ornella touched her fingertips to her mouth, working hard to recall. ‘He did tell me the man’s name. It starts with . . . it starts with S.’ Her eyes lit up momentarily. ‘Sangio— no, that’s not right. Seg— Seg something. Segovia.’
‘Segovia?’
‘Yes, I’m quite sure it was Segovia.’
‘The famous Spanish guitarist,’ Darcey said. ‘Where was your husband planning on meeting him? The dead people’s concert hall?’
‘I’m trying,’ Ornella said irritably. ‘I don’t remember. Hell, I need a drink.’ She got up and stumbled over towards the bottle on the sideboard. Darcey was on her feet and snatched the bottle away before Ornella could get to it.
The countess snarled at her. ‘Who do you think you are? You can’t—’
Darcey ignored her and coolly turned to Buitoni. ‘Tell her that if she doesn’t remember, it’s withholding evidence and she could go to jail,’ she said in English.
‘
‘Then I’m going to take her into custody and have her pumped full of coffee until she gives us that name. See if we can get hold of her husband. In the meantime, you and I are going to Madrid. Get on the radio and have them prepare the jet for take-off.’
After the long journey west under the hot sun, the Maserati’s dashboard clock was reading 10.31 and dusk was turning to darkness as Ben finally closed in on his destination.
Salamanca, northwest of Madrid, not far from the Portuguese border on Spain’s northern plateau. Ben felt just a little wistful about being here. He hadn’t set foot in the historic city before, but it was somewhere he and Brooke had once talked about coming to visit. Take some time exploring, see the sights, wander around its churches and museums, check out the little backstreet Castilian restaurants where the tourists didn’t venture. Ben remembered reading that Salamanca had been dubbed ‘Ciudad Dorada’, the Golden City, for its magnificent old sandstone buildings. Once besieged by the Carthaginian army under Hannibal, in later centuries it had gone on to become a major battlefield between the Moors and the forces of Christendom.
But Salamanca’s long, colourful history and cultural heritage were the last things on Ben’s mind right now, and he staunchly refused to let himself get all melancholy dwelling on thoughts of Brooke as he followed the Maserati’s onboard sat-nav into the old city towards the home of the fine art collector Juan Calixto Segura. The sun was setting in a blaze of reds and purples that shimmered gently on the waters of the Tormes River and glittered off the dome of the distant cathedral. Spires and minarets reached for the darkening sky, casting long shadows across the rooftops.
Ben left the Maserati in a deserted side-street a kilometre or so from Segura’s place. It had done its job in getting him here quickly, but to hang on too long to such a distinctive car in his position was just begging for trouble. Double-checking the address he’d copied down back in Rome, he stretched his legs after the long drive and set off towards Segura’s home on foot. Night was falling fast. It was hot and close. Rain was coming.
The art collector lived in a four-storey townhouse, a noble and imposing sandstone building with balconies, shutters and a red-tiled roof, high on a hill overlooking the city and surrounded by neatly-tended flower gardens. The street was quiet, the only people in sight a young couple out walking who smiled pleasantly and wished Ben good evening as they strolled by.
Ben glanced up and down the line of cars parked on the kerbside. Pietro De Crescenzo’s silver Volvo wasn’t one of them. He kept his eyes open for it appearing round the corner as he walked up to the house. It didn’t show. It didn’t surprise him too much that he’d managed to beat the count here by some margin.
As Ben had expected from a guy who kept a lot of expensive art in his home, Segura’s security was pretty good. It took Ben four whole minutes to get inside. He moved from room to room unseen and as silent as shadow.
The scent of aromatic pipe smoke lingered throughout the house. Nude art adorned much of the wall space,
