picturesque, winding lane and the city spread out below them, that the question for a split second made no sense; for that second Sandro had even forgotten why he was there. Then the faint sardonic edge to the question hit him.
‘I saw her with a boy this morning,’ he said roughly. He wouldn’t have this man patronize him.
The janitor took a small circular tin out of his pocket, opened the lid and stubbed out his cigarette in it before shutting it up again with the butt inside. ‘Otherwise I only have to clean it up myself,’ he explained. ‘Tall, skinny boy? Long hair?’
‘That’s the one,’ said Sandro. ‘Is he bad news?’
‘Alberto? Depends how you look at it.’ Tight-lipped. ‘I wouldn’t want my daughter going out with him.’ Then he seemed to take pity on Sandro. ‘Though her parents might not object to him.’ His tone was sarcastic; Sandro looked at him blankly.
‘Very rich,’ said the janitor patiently. ‘One of the old families, but they’ve consolidated; they own half the warehousing in Prato. They’ve got a castle somewhere in the country, keep a yacht in Porto Ercole, mother spends half the year in India somewhere. Goa? She’s there now.’
He looked at Sandro expectantly, waiting for him to ask more. Sandro was damned if he would; he wasn’t interested. Leave it to airheads to buy the celebrity magazines. Goa, though: mostly what he knew about Goa was that there were plenty of drugs there. Or was she one of those religious nuts, yoga and Zen stuff? Either way, this wasn’t the kind of family he liked. As if responding to his expression the janitor laughed sourly. ‘Open house when the old man’s away visiting one of his girlfriends, that’s what I hear. And she’s – she’s a good kid, don’t get me wrong – but she’s not in his league.’
‘Ah,’ said Sandro. ‘I wonder if she’s told them about it. The parents.’
The janitor shrugged, already turning away. ‘Maybe there’s nothing to tell them, anyway,’ he said. ‘He’s just stringing her along.’
Hands in his pockets, Sandro nodded. He was cold.
‘Come back at one,’ said the janitor. ‘School’s out at one today. Get yourself a coffee, you look frozen.’ And he was gone.
Just inside the Porta San Miniato, a little bar was spilling its customers out into the cold air where they were smoking with gloved hands; inside it was warm and bright and bustling with local oddballs and artistic types, and a fat, theatrical, bearded barman served him an
excellent coffee and a pastry. Sandro settled himself down, and dialled Giuli.
At one he headed back up the hill to the Liceo Classico Marzocco. Carlotta Bellagamba was gone. He had lost her.
Chapter Four
T HEY CALLED A MEETING at eleven in the dining room, for all the staff. Luca Gallo, obviously, was in charge; he ran the place, after all, not her, even if she was called the Director. Dottoressa Loni might host the dinners and greet the guests and talk painting or books with them, but Gallo, who ate at his desk most nights, did everything else. Everything; his crowded office, above the kitchen, was like a general’s bunker; he even had a map of the world on his wall, with pins in it. Each pin represented a guest, past or present; Venezuela, Finland, Mexico, Germany, America, wherever.
Sitting quiet at the furthest end of the row of kitchen staff as Gallo talked to them in his soft, patient voice, Cate Giottone was still stunned.
For a moment or two after she had walked into the kitchen and slung her bag on the table and everyone suddenly stopped talking, Cate knew, they were really thinking whether they should tell her anything at all. Ginevra – the cook, sixty-five, rough-voiced, tight-lipped and rarely, grudgingly, kind – had exchanged a glance with the next most senior member of staff, Mauro, his face like thunder.
‘Well?’ Cate had demanded. ‘I just saw a police car.’
And then, of course, they had all started talking at once, Ginevra
‘I saw her with a boy this morning,’ he said roughly. He wouldn’t have this man patronize him.
The janitor took a small circular tin out of his pocket, opened the lid and stubbed out his cigarette in it before shutting it up again with the butt inside. ‘Otherwise I only have to clean it up myself,’ he explained. ‘Tall, skinny boy? Long hair?’
‘That’s the one,’ said Sandro. ‘Is he bad news?’
‘Alberto? Depends how you look at it.’ Tight-lipped. ‘I wouldn’t want my daughter going out with him.’ Then he seemed to take pity on Sandro. ‘Though her parents might not object to him.’ His tone was sarcastic; Sandro looked at him blankly.
‘Very rich,’ said the janitor patiently. ‘One of the old families, but they’ve consolidated; they own half the warehousing in Prato. They’ve got a castle somewhere in the country, keep a yacht in Porto Ercole, mother spends half the year in India somewhere. Goa? She’s there now.’
He looked at Sandro expectantly, waiting for him to ask more. Sandro was damned if he would; he wasn’t interested. Leave it to airheads to buy the celebrity magazines. Goa, though: mostly what he knew about Goa was that there were plenty of drugs there. Or was she one of those religious nuts, yoga and Zen stuff? Either way, this wasn’t the kind of family he liked. As if responding to his expression the janitor laughed sourly. ‘Open house when the old man’s away visiting one of his girlfriends, that’s what I hear. And she’s – she’s a good kid, don’t get me wrong – but she’s not in his league.’
‘Ah,’ said Sandro. ‘I wonder if she’s told them about it. The parents.’
The janitor shrugged, already turning away. ‘Maybe there’s nothing to tell them, anyway,’ he said. ‘He’s just stringing her along.’
Hands in his pockets, Sandro nodded. He was cold.
‘Come back at one,’ said the janitor. ‘School’s out at one today. Get yourself a coffee, you look frozen.’ And he was gone.
Just inside the Porta San Miniato, a little bar was spilling its customers out into the cold air where they were smoking with gloved hands; inside it was warm and bright and bustling with local oddballs and artistic types, and a fat, theatrical, bearded barman served him an
excellent coffee and a pastry. Sandro settled himself down, and dialled Giuli.
At one he headed back up the hill to the Liceo Classico Marzocco. Carlotta Bellagamba was gone. He had lost her.
Chapter Four
T HEY CALLED A MEETING at eleven in the dining room, for all the staff. Luca Gallo, obviously, was in charge; he ran the place, after all, not her, even if she was called the Director. Dottoressa Loni might host the dinners and greet the guests and talk painting or books with them, but Gallo, who ate at his desk most nights, did everything else. Everything; his crowded office, above the kitchen, was like a general’s bunker; he even had a map of the world on his wall, with pins in it. Each pin represented a guest, past or present; Venezuela, Finland, Mexico, Germany, America, wherever.
Sitting quiet at the furthest end of the row of kitchen staff as Gallo talked to them in his soft, patient voice, Cate Giottone was still stunned.
For a moment or two after she had walked into the kitchen and slung her bag on the table and everyone suddenly stopped talking, Cate knew, they were really thinking whether they should tell her anything at all. Ginevra – the cook, sixty-five, rough-voiced, tight-lipped and rarely, grudgingly, kind – had exchanged a glance with the next most senior member of staff, Mauro, his face like thunder.
‘Well?’ Cate had demanded. ‘I just saw a police car.’
And then, of course, they had all started talking at once, Ginevra
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