Either I needed a big city, or a swanky resort where people left their car in the hotel car park for a few days. The solution popped out of my memory just as the autostrada junction hove into sight. The picture-postcard village of Portofino, star of a thousand jigsaw puzzles, its harbor lined with picturesque houses painted every color of the ice-cream spectrum. I’d been there a couple of years before with Richard, and remembered the big car park, half underground, where tourists left their cars to avoid completely choking the center of the former fishing village.
I drove into Portofino just after five A.M. It’s probably the only time of day that there isn’t a queue to get into the village. I drove straight into the car park, taking a ticket at the automatic barrier. I left the van on the lowest level and walked up the stairs to the street. The pale light of dawn was just beginning to brighten the eastern sky as I strolled down to the harbor. There were a few boatmen round in the harbor, but I didn’t want to draw too much attention to myself by asking any of them how soon I could get out of the place. I tried to look like an insomniac tourist enjoying the peace and quiet, and strolled down the quayside to where the pleasure boats ran from. I was in luck. At nine, there was a boat that went to Sestri Levante and on to the Cinque Terre beyond.
I walked on round the harbor and found a bench that overlooked the bay. Using my bag as a pillow, I put my head down and managed to doze off. Strange dreams featuring Gianni’s chef’s knife and bodies that climbed out of bags and into passenger seats prevented it from being a restful sleep, but I was so exhausted that even the nightmares couldn’t wake me up. The sound of a pleasure steamer’s hooter jerked me into wakefulness just after eight, and I staggered back into the village, bought myself a couple of sandwiches and a cappuccino from a cafe and headed for the pleasure boat.
I don’t remember much about the sail. I was too jittery from lack of sleep and the horrors of the night. I kept nodding off and starting awake, nerves jangling and eyes staring in paranoia. I couldn’t stop thinking about Turner’s wife and those two daughters. Not only had they lost a husband and father, but they were going to find out about it in a blitz of police and media activity.
In spite of the fact that arriving on dry land brought me nearer to the enemy, I was glad to be off the boat. Somehow, I felt more in control. In Sestri, I found the tourist office and discovered where I could catch a bus up the valley. The next one left in twenty minutes, and I was first on it, complete with brand-new sun hat. I sat at the back, slouched down in my seat. As Casa Nico approached, I put my sunglasses on and pulled the hat down. The bus was so much higher off the road than a car would have been that I was able to look right down on Casa Nico. As the bus rounded the bend beyond the pen-sione, I looked back. Parked behind the building, where I wouldn’t have been able to spot it in a car, was Gianni’s Alfa. I got off at the next stop and walked cautiously past the alley where I’d left the Merc. It was still there, and no one seemed to be watching it. I doubled back behind the houses and came up the alley from the far end. I crept into the car, not even slamming the door shut until I had the engine running. Then I shot out onto the main road and headed up the valley, away from Casa Nico and the Villa San Pietro, my foot hard on the accelerator, my eyes on the rearview mirror. As I joined the autostrada, I wondered how long Giani would stake out the pensione. It was worth the loss of my overnight bag not to have him on my tail.
Nigel Mansell couldn’t have got to Milan airport faster than I did that day. I dumped the car with the local Hertz agent and headed for the terminal. I’d just missed a flight to Brussels, but there was one to Amsterdam an hour later. If I could only stay awake, I could pick up Bill’s Saab in Antwerp, catch the night ferry from Zeebrugge and be home the following morning sometime. Frankly, I couldn’t wait to feel British soil under my feet.
I had half an hour to kill in the international departure lounge. I thought I’d better give Shelley a ring before she decided tracking me down was a job for Interpol. She answered on the first ring, and I could hear relief in her voice. I knew then it must be bad, since Shelley never lets on that anything’s beyond her competence.
“Thank God it’s you,” she said. “Where are you? You’ve got to get back here. There’s been another death.”
20
I NEARLY DROPPED THE PHONE, MY FIRST THOUGHT WAS, HOW the hell had Shelley found out about Nicholas Turner? Her voice cut through my panic. “Kate? Are you still there? I said there’s been another death involving KerrSter.” This time round, I heard the whole sentence.
“Oh fuck,” I groaned.
“Where are you? Trevor Kerr is reading me the riot act every ten minutes. I’ve managed to stall him so far, but if you don’t speak to him soon, he’s threatening to sack us and to go to the press saying the reason for the second death is your dereliction of duty,” Shelley continued, her voice betraying an agitation I’d never heard from her before.
“I’m at Milan airport. On the way to Amsterdam. I’ll have to leave Bill’s car in Belgium and get a flight straight back to the U.K. When did this happen?”
“This morning. An office cleaner. They found her dead beside a new drum of KerrSter. It looks like another case of cyanide poisoning, according to Alexis. Incidentally, she wants to talk to you too.”
I glanced over at the gate. They hadn’t started boarding us yet. “Is Kerr still in his office?”
“He was five minutes ago,” Shelley said. “He’s had the Merseyside police all over his factory this afternoon.”
“I’ll call him and stall him,” I said. “I’m sorry you’ve had all this shit to deal with on your own. If it’s any consolation, this trip’s been a nightmare. I’ve already had one close encounter with death today. I’m not sure if I’m up to another one.”
“You’re all right?” Shelley demanded anxiously.
“I wouldn’t pitch it that high. I’m in one piece, which is more than I can say for Turner.”
“Oh my God,” she said, sounding stricken.
“Look, it’s okay. Let me talk to Kerr. I’ll call you from Amsterdam. There’s a flight gets in to Manchester about half past seven tonight. See if you can get me a seat on it. I don’t care if it’s business class, club class or standing in the toilet, just get me on it.”
“Will do. I’ll hang on here till I hear from you,” she promised. “For God’s sake, be careful.”
It was a bit late for me to take heed of that warning. I took a deep breath, bracing myself for battle, and rang Trevor Kerr. Not even my powers of imagination had prepared me for his onslaught. For two straight minutes he ranted at me, with a string of obscenities that would have won him admiration on the football terraces but didn’t do a lot for me. I made a mental note to bump that surliness surcharge up to ten percent. When he paused to regroup for a second outpouring, I cut in decisively. “I’m sorry you’ve had a difficult day, but you’re not the only one,” I said grimly. “I have been pursuing my inquiries into your problem as fast as I can. I’ve made a lot of progress, but I needed a crucial piece of information that I’ve not been able to get hold of yet. Now I’m meeting someone in an hour’s time who can tell me what I need to know,” I continued, raising my voice to cut through his crap.