swallow. Her round fleshy face was redder now, more normal.
'Gives me the shock of me life,' Mrs Gobble continued. 'I went out to empty the rubbish and 'e comes round corner of lake on 'is bloody bike too fast. Keels over, sprawls on the ground, loses 'is helmet. Light from me 'ouse streamin' out and I sees 'im. Big black beard and fierce eyes. Gazes at me, then rams 'is helmet back on before 'e gets up, lifts 'is machine, gets back in 'is saddle and drives off towards Drew Franklin's place. I scuttled inside, closed the door, chained and locked it. Didn't sleep that night. 'Orrible face.'
'Very strange, I agree. This was the second motorcyclist?'
'Oh yes. We'd 'ad another earlier. Wish I'd never rented the shop.'
'How did that come about, Mrs Gobble? Your renting it.'
'Sees this ad in The Times. Single woman wanted to run small shop. Pleasant area in Surrey countryside. Rent reasonable. It gave a phone number. So I calls, goes to see this Mr Pecksniff.'
'What was the name?'
'Pecksniff. Like the Dickens character. I love Dickens. Can't say the same for the real Pecksniff. Here's his address. I gets there, 'e asks me a few questions, then says 'e's sure I'll do. Don't know why. Here's where he saw me. Mouldy place in the East End. Funny chap. I must go now.' She jumped up. 'Get back before dark.'
'It is dark now.' Tweed pointed out. 'We can find a decent place for you to sleep in London for the night.'
'I have a spare room at my flat,' Monica offered.
'I am going back to the village,' Mrs Gobble said firmly. 'I only sleep in one place – my own bed.'
'I'm going to my flat now,' Tweed said after their visitor had left. 'I may not be in tomorrow. I want to be quiet to think hard. Two motor-cyclists arriving at Carpford suggests the pace is hotting up. We may not have much time left. And so far we have a list of potential suspects and not one who stands out. I'm very worried. Don't phone me – except in case of an emergency.'
'Here are my biographies so far on the people you asked me to check out.'
She handed him a fat folder. He slipped it inside his briefcase, put on his coat, left the office.
Tweed was in his pyjamas, sitting up in bed. He was reading the last of the copious reports, a notebook by his side for him to scribble a thought. The phone rang. He checked the time. 6 a.m. and still dark outside.
'Monica here. So sorry to disturb you but you did say call in an emergency.'
'What's happened?'
'Superintendent Buchanan has just been here. Roy told me Mrs Gobble has disappeared. Her car was found abandoned on the road to Carpford.'
17
The Venezia express slid into Verona station, stopped, the automatic doors opened. Paula and Beaurain were already standing at the exit and descended on to the platform. The platform was deserted, it was night, the cold was raw and bitter.
'Wait a minute,' Beaurain said, and pretended to button up the top of his coat. He glanced to his left, to the far end of the express. Paula looked in the same direction. Two men in dark coats had alighted from the rear coach. Beaurain grunted.
'I said there would be more of them.' 'They could be businessmen returning home late.' 'Italian businessmen always carry a briefcase. They think it gives them an air of importance. Those two have no briefcases. We'll get out of here quickly, head straight for the amphitheatre.'
He was moving as he spoke, striding out with his long legs. Paula had to hurry to keep up. It was not long before she was gazing at the buildings of Verona in wonderment. Like travelling back into the Middle Ages. They were masterpieces of architecture, seen clearly by illumination from ancient street lights and moonlight. There were superb arches, elegant rows of pillars on the ground floors. The colour was white or a muted ochre. She forgot why they were there as more and more magnificent ancient buildings came into view.
'They're Palladian, aren't they?' she asked.
'Yes and no. Palladio, the genius of architecture, worked mostly in Vicenza, often using brick and stucco. Here is a lot of stone. In a minute you'll see the amphitheatre.'
'Like the Colosseum in Rome?'
'No. That's a wreck. Verona's amphitheatre is intact, as it was when built ages ago. They even hold opera performances inside it in summer. There it is.'
Paula gasped, stood still. The high curving amphitheatre was intact. She could see that already. Slim windows towards the top. A massive symbol of another civilization. Beaurain ran across to the huge double doors, checked the padlock with his torch, ran back to her.
'It's still locked.'
'We're early?'
'Yes, by about an hour despite that long stop when the express sat in the middle of nowhere. We'll go into that bar. Warm you up – you must be frozen.'
As he pushed open the solid sheet of glass which was the door a wave of warmth greeted them. No other customers. The bar extended down the right-hand side with leather-topped stools. Restaurant tables were arranged in a large open space. A girl with black hair tied back came to serve them as they perched on stools.
'What can I get you folks?' she asked in an American drawl.
'Which part of the States are you from?' Beaurain asked with a smile.
'Kansas. Pop works in electronics in Milan. Couldn't put up with that city any longer, so I came here. He has the most enormous apartment here, like a palace. Now what can I get you?'
'I guess you're hungry again,' Beaurain said, looking at Paula with a smile. 'Coffee to drink?'
'Coffee for me. And are those macaroons?' Paula pointed to a plate inside a cooler.
'Try one. You don't like it we'll dump it.' She used tongs to extract one and place it on a plate. 'I'm Sandy.'
'I'm Jenny,' Paula said quickly. 'This is Peter.'
She crunched the macaroon or whatever it was, swallowed it as Sandy poured coffee for both of them. Paula asked for another macaroon. Sandy pointed to a table facing the door. 'Why don't you folks go and be comfortable. I'll bring it over.'
'Good idea,' Beaurain agreed.
He chose a chair facing the door which gave him a sidelong view of the entrance to the amphitheatre. Sandy came over with a tray. A plate full of macaroons, the coffee freshly poured. Sandy stood with a hand on her hip.
'You're British.' She laughed. 'You see, I got it right. I know you don't like to be called Brits. Can't blame you.'
Beaurain asked for the bill, explaining they might have to leave quickly. He included a generous tip. Sandy thanked him, then pulled a face as she picked up the euro notes.
'This stuff is one reason I'll be glad when Pop takes me back to the States. Funny money. Dollars for me any time.'
'That was quick and smart of you,' Beaurain said quietly when the girl was back behind the counter. 'Making up false names.'
'I thought maybe when we've left someone will come in to interrogate her.'
'They probably will. Say we're friends to cover up their real motive…'
Paula had just consumed every macaroon on the plate, had a refill of coffee, when Beaurain checked his watch. Paula raised her eyebrows.
'I thought we were early.'
'We are, but someone I couldn't see very well has just unlocked the padlock on the doors to the amphitheatre. Do not assume it's Petacci.'
They said good night to Sandy and strolled to the doors, now open. The man had vanished inside. Beaurain gestured for Paula to stay behind him. He entered slowly, peered round. Barely seen, a man stood in shadow beyond the entrance. Beaurain walked slowly up to him while Paula followed, glove off her right hand which gripped
