Cell (19 page)

'Very strange, I agree. This was the second motor
cyclist?'

'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 aban
doned 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, swal
lowed 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 the Brown
ing behind her back. Something wrong here.

'Mr Petacci?' Beaurain enquired.

'Si.'

'Mr Murano phoned you from Milan?'

'Si.'

'So what is Mr Murano's first name?'

The shadowy figure shifted his stance. Shuffled his feet
as though getting more comfortable. Both hands inside
the pockets of his overcoat. Not a word of English so
far. Silence. Beaurain had both hands down by his sides,
neither wearing gloves.

'Murano's first name?' he repeated.

'First names do not matter in our circles.' Good English but with a faint trace of an accent Paula couldn't identify.
'You have money,' the figure added.

'You want something first?'

'The money first, then I give you information.'

Beaurain struck with the speed of a cobra. His fist hit the
figure in the mouth. Then both hands grabbed his forearms,
rammed him against the stone wall behind him. One hand whipped up, grasped his jaw, hammered it with force that
made Paula flinch, so much force she heard the skull smash
against the stone wall. All in seconds. The figure slumped
down the wall. Beaurain bent down, hauled one hand out of the shadowy figure's pocket, produced the ugly sight of a Glock pistol when Paula switched on her torch, then off
quickly. Beaurain checked the Glock by feel, shoved it in one of his own pockets. His eyes were accustomed to the
dark now. He lifted the man by his armpits, rammed him
inside one of the alcoves carved out of the rock, stood up.

'How did you know?' Paula asked.

'Didn't ask for that identification card Mario gave me.
And they use first names a lot in Italy as a matter of
course.'

'He was going to shoot us?'

'I think that was the general idea. The real Aldo Petacci
has to be somewhere else inside this vast place.'

He was whispering but now he placed a finger to his lips.
She had also heard the faint sound. Footsteps approaching
the main entrance from outside, several pairs. Beaurain grasped her by the arm, guided her down a sloping ramp
leading towards the arena, a huge oval shape below them.
They hurried, soon reached the bottom. Still holding her
arm, Beaurain guided her along the edge of the amphi
theatre, then pointed her up a flight of steps between a
block of tiers of seats climbing high up.

'Don't think there aren't some of them here already,' he warned. 'Go up to the top - always take the high ground. I'll creep up the next flight . . .'

It was eerie. You could almost hear the silence. Amphi
theatre. Gladiatorial contests had been held here long ago - and now another one was building up.

She crouched down behind the wall below the tiers
of seats, began to climb carefully. Once she glanced to
her right, was appalled to realize that Beaurain, although
crouched, was so tall his head was visible. She placed her
rubber-soled shoes cautiously on each new step. There
could be something on the flight which would make a
noise.