The room itself was the entrance hallway of the Mill restaurant, tastefully decorated in maroon. The reception desk stood against the wall beside the Fulling mill display case. It had a low ceiling with the beams exposed. Hennessey thought the beams seemed original to the later building. Opposite the reception desk the wall was given over to a vast window which looked out onto a garden, then a green meadow on which a herd of Herefords grazed contentedly, then there was the river Derwent, and beyond that more pasture with the occasional clump of trees, and ultimately, a flat skyline and then the vast blue sky.
‘Gentlemen.’ The proprietor of the Mill beamed and bumbled into the reception area, hands outstretched, swarthy, sallow, olive-skinned, dark-haired, white teeth. ‘How do you do?
‘How can I help you?’
‘I’m well, thank you.’ Hennessey accepted the man’s hand, as Yellich stood and also shook the man’s hand. ‘We’d like to ask you some questions, if we may?’
‘Certainly, certainly.’ The man’s warmth did not seem, to Hennessey, to be diminishing. He thought him a man with a clear conscience. ‘We can go to the dining room. It’s empty at the moment.’
The dining room was a long, narrow room with a ceiling noticeably higher than that of the reception area. It had tables along the walls, but no room for tables in the centre of the floor.
‘Rivers change course, you see,’ said the man, indicating a table near the door. ‘When we opened the restaurant, we commissioned a local historian to research the history of the building. It was she who discovered the original Fulling mill and wrote the notice for us. She also notified the academic historians at the university and they came and photographed the length of wood and took measurements of it. I confess I would have chopped it up for firewood, but they were all very excited about it. She found out that a larger watermill had been built over the site of the original Fulling mill when the river ran nearer the building than it does today. The watermill closed down in the nineteenth century, very early nineteenth century, couldn’t compete with steam, and in the near two hundred years since it has closed, the river has migrated to its present course. Rivers do that, apparently. We bought the building as a ruin about five years ago and decided to build up the best restaurant in the Vale of York.’
‘And have you?’ Hennessey found himself liking the man.
‘We think so.’
‘We?’
‘Me and my brother. I am Mario Vialli and my brother is Bruno Vialli. We are of Siena. My brother has studied under the most famous chefs in the world, and I am the businessman. He has the kitchen and I have the office. Together, we do our very best for the customers. My brother has great flair but he is not a businessman. I, on the other hand, have inherited our dear mother’s shrewdness.’
‘Siena, you say?’
‘Yes.’
‘I have been there. I was there during the Palio.’
‘Ah.’
‘I didn’t see anything, couldn’t get near…the crowd was immense. As I recall, it was the horse of the contrada of the tortoise which won.’
‘Ha! That is the enemy of our contrada. We are of the contrada of the horse. The best.’
‘Of course.’
‘So, how can I help the police?’
‘On Saturday’—Hennessey allowed a serious tone to enter his voice—‘a family by the name of Williams were dining here. Parents and an adult son and daughter.’
‘Yes.’ Mario Vialli nodded. ‘They sat at that table there. I know the Williamses well. Is there some problem?’
‘Mr and Mrs Williams have disappeared, but there’s worrying circumstances which makes us inclined to treat it with more gravity than we normally would treat a mis per, as we call it.’
‘Oh…’ Vialli appeared genuinely saddened, and seemed to Hennessey to be very much in the manner of Italians as Hennessey had found them, wearing their emotion on their sleeve. That is bad, bad…bad.’
‘It’s very worrying. You seem to know the Williamses well?’
‘I do…Mr…?’
‘Hennessey. I’m sorry, I’m Chief Inspector Hennessey and this is Sergeant Yellich…we seem to have leapt straight into the conversation.’
‘My fault, forgive me.’
‘No, the fault is mine. But the Williamses…’
‘They’ve been valued customers for about ten years. We had another restaurant before we opened the Mill and we brought many loyal customers with us when we opened.’
‘The other restaurant was in this locality?’
‘Yes. Not far from here.’
‘Interesting. I had the impression that the Williamses were incomers to the Vale.’
‘Oh, no. They did move address a month or two ago. I know that they moved recently because their names are on our gourmet list. Every two months we have a gourmet evening with a great chef. They have been to one or two gourmet evenings, but they did notify us of their change of address.’
‘I see. What are they like as a family?’
‘Very English. It amuses me to look at them, but I didn’t mean that in a rude way. Occasionally you meet someone who is just his nationality…in Italian we would say “quintessenza”.’
‘Quintessential.’
‘There is such a word in English? Quintessential? So?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, that is the Williamses. Very warm, probably not as reserved as some English, but their walk…they way they sit, the way they use their cutlery. So English. A delight to serve. The staff love them, for their manner as well as the generosity of their tips.’
‘So, as a family?’
‘Well, close, I think. Over the years I have observed them value each other’s company. The son seemed angry about something but it didn’t affect the other three, they seemed to be quite happy.’
‘Angry?’
‘Too strong a word. Something had been said to upset him. He left ahead of the others, only by a minute or two, but ahead…a little irritated perhaps. But Mr and Mrs Williams seemed happy and their daughter didn’t seem upset. And they all drove home together in their car, left at about midnight. So their son wasn’t so upset that he didn’t ride home with them.’
‘Not a family at war then?’
‘Oh no.’ Vialli paused.
‘You have something to tell me, Mr Vialli?’
‘How do you know?’
‘I have been a policeman for a very long time. It’s the best explanation I can offer.’
‘Mrs Williams has been coming to the restaurant with a man who is not her husband.’ Vialli spoke matter-of-factly.
‘Not weekly or even monthly, but always on a Wednesday.’
‘How long has this been going on?’
‘Perhaps a year…longer. They have a “thing” between them.’
‘Do you know who he is?’
‘A man called Sheringham. He phones and books the table in his name.’
Yellich took out his notepad and wrote the name down.
‘Can you describe him?’
‘He’s in his twenties. Much younger than she. Very muscular.’
As they walked from the restaurant across the gravel car park to where Hennessey had parked his car, Hennessey said, ‘This is murder, Yellich. No, it’s not. It’s double murder.’