Page 49 of The Venice Murders

The woman smiled complacently. This was easier for her to understand. ‘One time he sell, but now restaurant is too big.’ She spread her arms wide. ‘Too much vegetable. Too much fruit. Massi has small farm.’

More interesting snippets, Flora decided, as Jack retrieved his wallet to settle the bill. Franco had quarrelled badly with Silvio Fabbri and Fabbri was in business with Luigi Tasca’s father – another connection – but what, if anything, did either of them have to do with the theft of the painting or a missing woman?

Maybe Franco’s anger that night had nothing to do with what had happened at Santa Margherita. It was what Jack had argued at the time, that Massi’s fury could have been provoked by something completely different. Had that something different affected his family here? An injury to his mother or father, perhaps a business arrangement gone wrong? Tasca and Fabbri were closely intertwined, it seemed, and perhaps Franco had suspected questionable dealings between them, dealings that had prejudiced his own family’s livelihood.

Or perhaps it was simply that he’d found Fabbri out in something underhand – after all, how had a man like Silvio Fabbri, coming from very humble beginnings, managed to buy an expensive restaurant? If Franco had discovered that Fabbri was guilty of dishonesty, when all the time he’d been recommending the Cipriani’s guests to eat at La Zucca, he would have been very angry. He could have seen it as endangering the career of which he was so proud.

From this distance, it was unlikely they would ever discover what had sent Franco Massi into a towering rage that fateful evening, but the incident could still be the key to unravelling the reason for his death. And the key to finding his killer.

Perhaps a visit to the Tasca farm would give them the answers they needed. In her heart, though, Flora was doubtful.

* * *

The owner of the café had been clear in her directions: they were to take the first turning on the right from where they were sitting and follow the long lane until they came to the point that it snaked into a horseshoe. It was there they would find Enrico Tasca’s farm.

Jack had been prepared for a sticky and uncomfortable walk – the sun was now at its zenith – but the reality proved worse. By the time they had reached the horseshoe both of them were steaming and Flora’s usually bright copper waves had become a mass of damp frizz.

But, at least, they had arrived and, even better, despite it being Sunday, there was a man working in the field nearest the lane – a young man. Was he, Jack wondered, one of their ‘persons of interest’, as the inspector was fond of saying? Might he even be Matteo himself? They’d learned this morning that the boy worked on this farm.

Flora, it seemed, had no doubts, marching up to the gate and calling to the toiling figure. ‘Matteo Pretelli?’

Would he recognise her? he wondered. He crossed his fingers – they had met for only seconds in the basement of La Zucca where the lighting was extremely dim.

The young man, his oversized shirt clinging damply to limbs made powerful from years of labour, looked up from his planting. From where Jack was standing, there seemed no sign of recognition on his face.

‘Sì?’ He sounded uncertain, wiping the sweat from his forehead with a none too clean handkerchief.

‘Could we have a word?’ Flora asked. ‘We’ve come from Venice and we’d love to speak to you.’

To Jack, that seemed a pretty inadequate explanation. Pretelli would have no clue as to who they were – at least he hoped not – or what their connection might be to any drama of which he’d been part. Nevertheless, the young man ambled towards them, perhaps not understanding Flora’s English, and propped himself against the gate.

‘We met Father Stephano Renzi in Venice,’ she began, ‘and he told us about you.’

‘Sì?’ Suspicion had crept into his voice at the mention of the priest’s name.

‘He said how you often came to visit your aunt, even when she had moved to Venice, and what a good cook she was.’

Matteo smiled slowly. ‘A good cook,’ he repeated, holding on to words he’d evidently recognised. ‘She is good cook.’

The present tense, Jack noted, though that might simply be the young man’s English. Unless…he believed his aunt was still alive, either because he hadn’t been told of her kidnapping or because he knew where she was.

‘Your aunt is missing.Sua zia è scomparsa,’ he said, plunging head first into difficult territory, and hoping he hadn’t mangled the Italian too badly. ‘Did you know?’

He nodded. ‘It is not good,’ he said in English.

‘You have no idea where she is?’ Flora asked.

‘Dove?No.’

‘And your friend, Luigi, would he know perhaps? He visits your aunt with you, we’ve heard.’

‘You know Luigi?’ He hadn’t answered Flora’s question, Jack saw.

‘We understand the two of you have been friends since you were children.’

Matteo’s smile was genuine. ‘Luigi my best friend,’ he stated proudly.

‘Even though he went to prison.’ Flora was stepping on dangerous ground.

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