A Murder in Tuscany Read Online Free PDF Page A

him right.

    ‘Well,’ he’d said earnestly, ‘that’s fantastic.’ He didn’t know what idea he’d had of what buying meant; Luisa looking through slides, or brochures, perhaps, or surfing to websites? Going to the Florentine shows, Pitti Uomo and the like, and picking out whatever took her fancy for the new season; harmless enough.
    Well, up to a point, it had turned out.
    ‘When do you start?’ he’d said.
    ‘Well, that’s the thing,’ Luisa had replied. ‘He wants me to start going with him to the shows. Frollini does.’
    Sandro had felt his smile turn rigid at the thought of the handsome old man in his cashmere suits, holding his car door open for Luisa to climb in. He had a wife, up in the villa; they’d been married forever, their children grown up and working abroad. There’d always been rumours about Frollini and his mistresses, but he was discreet all right. And it came to Sandro that Luisa had always defended her boss against any such charges. ‘He’s not like that,’ she’d always say. ‘He’s not sleazy like that. No.’
    But then you’d expect her to say that; loyalty was Luisa’s middle name.
    ‘Right,’ he’d said, nodding vigorously to cover up the fixity of his expression. ‘Shows. So, when? And where?’ He’d shrugged, with pretend nonchalance. ‘Milan?’
    Next to him on the narrow sunlit street someone emerged through the arched side door to the school: the janitor. Sandro had already introduced himself. He’d had to; middle-aged man hanging around outside a school. Grudgingly the man had given him the benefit of the doubt; turned out he was an ex-cop himself.
    Sandro nodded; the man nodded back.
    Last night, Luisa hadn’t been able to look him in the eye. ‘Actually,’ she had said, and the flush deepened, ‘New York. The next shows are in New York.’
    Sandro had nodded, dazed, not even asking the next question because the whole edifice he had constructed – the world in which Luisa would return to her old self and they would spend the weekends and evenings together on sedate meals out, picnics and drives in
the country – was crashing down around him with such calamitous inevitability that he knew there would be no need to help it on its way. She was going to tell him.
    ‘Next week,’ she’d said, looking up from her hands. ‘Flying out Monday morning early. Back Wednesday.’ Her expression had been half defiant, half guilty. ‘Late, Wednesday.’
    He’d been dumbfounded. She was leaving in two days? So it was already arranged. So there was nothing he could do, anyway; feeling anger stir and knot inside him, childishly – ask me? She’s not asking me – Sandro had made a supreme effort.
    ‘How exciting,’ he’d said numbly. ‘ Mamma mia .’
    She’d leaned across and put her arms around him then, having heard his assent; Sandro could feel her softness against him, could smell her sweet familiar scent mingled with the richer smells of cooking and wanted to rage like a thwarted child. He’d said no more; he’d eaten the polpettone , which had smelt so delicious and tasted like nothing but sawdust in his mouth; he’d washed it down with too much Morellino and become too falsely jovial. He hadn’t slept well.
    But this was where they were.
     
     
    The sun was higher in the sky and the wall was warming despite the fine dusting of frost still visible in the valley below; beside Sandro the janitor was taking advantage of it, standing in satisfied contemplation. His bunch of keys dangling from the gate’s lock, he held a lighter in cupped hands around a cigarette, leaned back and let out the blue smoke with deep fulfilment.
    It was 8.30 and Carlotta was inside, at school, where she should be.
    The janitor turned to Sandro. ‘So,’ he said, ‘how’s it going?’ He nodded at the open gate, and the keys dangling. ‘The surveillance operation?’
    The whole scene was so absurdly peaceful, the sharp blue winter light, the dazzle of white stucco, the