‘Gianni Barberini?’ said a voice behind him.
Barberini whirled around and his eyes opened wide at the sight of the stranger standing there. He hadn’t heard anyone sneak up behind him. The guy had moved like a ghost. ‘Who the hell are you?’ he demanded indignantly.
‘Someone who’s going to ask you a few questions.’
Barberini glared at him. The blond-haired stranger didn’t look much like an Italian. Didn’t sound like one, either. He spoke the language fluently enough, but the accent was foreign. A Swiss, maybe? A Kraut? ‘What’s the matter with you people? I’ve just spent the last seven hours giving my statement over and over. That not enough for you bastard cops?’
‘I’m not a cop,’ Ben said. ‘But some people say I’m a bit of a bastard, so you’d best get talking to me before I start to get nasty.’
Barberini stared at Ben for a moment, the cocksure belligerence in his eyes turning to uncertainty.
‘Lead the way,’ Ben said, motioning towards the door.
Barberini hesitated, then did what he was told. They walked through a comfortable little waiting area into the consulting room, then through that to a nicely decorated office lined with medical certificates and books. At the far end of the office, an open-tread stairway led upwards to the floor above.
‘We can talk in here,’ Barberini said nervously as they emerged in his den.
Ben looked around him at the room. ‘Very cosy. So this is your little hobby room, is it?’
‘Look, whoever you are, I don’t know anything about a missing kid. I swear it. I’m telling the truth, just like I told the cops. I got the rail tickets to prove it. Hotel bill. Everything.’
‘You were in Milano for a conference?’
‘Yeah, for two days. A European Society for Pediatric Dermatology seminar. Top of the agenda was the latest research from Kiel University into infantile haemangiomas.’
‘You can spare me the jargon. I take it you weren’t one of the speakers?’
‘No, I was just attending it. First day was good. Afterwards I spent the evening with Davide Gagliardo, a medical colleague from Bologna. He’s already corroborated my story. Second day wasn’t so interesting, so I left for a while and went to a coffee bar for a break. I called my wife from there to tell her not to wait up for me tonight because I’d be home late. I didn’t think it would be so fucking late.’
‘Go on with the story,’ Ben said, with just enough menace in his voice to keep Barberini on edge.
‘Anyway, so that’s why I had my phone out, see? I’m sitting there finishing my coffee, then I see this guy at the next table eating a cannoncini alla crema — that’s a pastry.’
‘I know what it is,’ Ben said, eyeing him coldly. When people recounted their stories in this much elaborate detail, they were usually full of shit.
‘Right. I’m thinking how I’d like one of those myself. The waiter’s right across the room and I’m in a hurry, so I go over to the counter to order one. Left my stuff at the table. My back was turned maybe a minute, maybe two. When I come back, I notice how the phone isn’t where I left it, like someone had moved it. I thought maybe a waiter or someone had nudged it as they passed by.’
‘So you wouldn’t know if a twelve-year-old boy picked it up while your back was turned?’
‘Hey, listen. The place was full of people. I didn’t even see a kid, let alone speak to him or have anything to do with him, okay? That’s the whole truth, and I’ve got evidence to back up all of it. The first I heard about this kidnapping business is when I got home tonight and the police were waiting for me.’ Barberini’s face was flushed. ‘That’s it. You’ve heard all there is to hear. So now would you kindly leave my home, before I call the cops? Hey, be careful with that. It’s extremely valuable. Please, put it down.’
As Barberini had been talking, Ben had gone over to one of several trophy cabinets that lined the walls of the Italian’s little den. Except they weren’t filled with trophies. From the moment they’d come in, Ben had noticed the large collection of old motor racing memorabilia that cluttered the room. ‘What, this?’ he said innocently, holding the racing helmet he’d picked off a display unit.
‘Yes, that,’ Barberini said, turning pale. ‘It’s the helmet Mario Andretti wore when he won the South African Grand Prix in 1971.’
‘Really?’ Ben lobbed it casually across to him, like a ball.
Barberini leaped forward with a squawk to catch the helmet, and clutched it to his breast as if he’d just rescued a holy relic from the barbarian hordes. ‘Don’t mess with my collection,’ he muttered.
It was far from being the only holy relic in the room. On one wall was a giant signed poster of Ayrton Senna. A steering wheel was encased behind glass, with a photo of a beaming, goggled Jim Clark in the cockpit of a sixties’-era Lotus. A whole corner was dominated by a vintage twelve-cylinder Ferrari demonstration engine on a stand, part of its casing cut away to reveal its lovingly oiled innards. Pictures everywhere. Cars, cars, cars. You could almost smell the high-octane fuel and burning rubber and hear the shriek of high-performance engines revving sky-high.
Ben was putting it together in his mind. ‘Quite the racing car freak, aren’t you, doctor? You must spend a lot of time and money on this stuff.’
Barberini reverently replaced the precious helmet on its unit and turned angrily to face Ben. ‘Never mind what I am,’ he blustered. ‘You haven’t even told me who you are. You better show me some ID. What right have you got to come in here, asking me all these questions and manhandle my property like that?’
‘I never did think it was fireworks,’ Ben said.
‘Fireworks?’ Barberini snarled at him. ‘I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. But there’ll be some fireworks in a minute if you don’t get out of my house.’ He stamped over to a desk, yanked open a drawer and pulled out something small and black.
‘I wouldn’t do that,’ Ben said, eyeing the little Beretta .25 auto that Barberini was pointing at him.
‘And I wouldn’t come a step closer,’ Barberini said with a twisted smile. ‘Unless you want a keyhole in your belly.’
10
Ben stood very still, staring at the gun.
‘Not so tough now, are we?’ Barberini chuckled.
‘You can’t shoot me,’ Ben said.
‘Want a bet? Self defence. The cops will drag you to the morgue and give me a medal. One less scumbag in the world.’
‘No, I mean you can’t shoot me because the safety’s on,’ Ben said, pointing. ‘Let me show you how it works.’ In two steps, he’d walked up to the gaping Barberini and twisted the gun sharply out of his hand.
‘Aagh! You son of a whore! You broke my finger!’
‘You’re a doctor,’ Ben said. ‘You should know it’s not broken. Now this,’ he went on, holding up the tiny pistol, ‘is what we call a mouse gun. Probably wouldn’t have pierced my jacket. Not very accurate, either. I’ll bet I couldn’t even hit that signed Ayrton Senna poster from here. Let’s have a try.’ He flicked off the safety catch and took careful aim.
‘Please!’ Barberini cried out. ‘Not that! It’s irreplaceable!’
‘I imagine so,’ Ben said. ‘All right, then let’s see if we can put a dent in a Ferrari flat-twelve cylinder head. I doubt it, personally.’ He pointed the gun at the engine on the stand.
‘No! I beg you!’ Barberini was virtually crying.
Ben lowered the pistol. ‘Not that either? Then tell me, doctor. How was the Grand Prix?’
There was a moment’s dead silence in the room. Then Barberini, ashen-faced and trembling, said, ‘I know who you are now.’