Page 1 of Murder at the Ponte Vecchio

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FRIDAY AFTERNOON

In a city as cosmopolitan as Florence, you see all sorts. Of course, there are the usual groups of tourists from all over the globe being herded about by guides waving flags, some even carrying their own microphones and loudspeakers, but sometimes you see some quite unique sights – and I’m not just referring to the Duomo or the statue of David.

Since setting up Dan Armstrong Private Investigations here in the city almost two years ago, I’ve got used to seeing people in medieval dress parading through the streets, tractors and trailers loaded with manure heading for the local government offices to complain about something or other, regular groups of protestors carrying banners advocating everything from saving the whales to legalising cannabis, and even a cortege of a hundred or so naked cyclists one freezing cold morning, but today was a first. As I made my way from my office to Anna’s apartment just on the other side of the River Arno, I suddenly found myself confronted by a group of tigers – or should that be a pride or a pack?

I hasten to explain that these were not real members of thebig-cat family, but humans dressed up as tigers. The month of April had been particularly mild so far and the temperature showing on the illuminated sign above the entrance to a chemist’s shop a hundred yards ahead of me was currently 21º – that’s equivalent to a nice summer’s day back in England. The people inside the stripy costumes must have been sweating buckets. Although I was slightly taken aback by this feline vision, Oscar appeared to take it in his stride. Had they been real cats – the domestic variety at least – he would have erupted into manic barking and set about chasing them from his territory, but all he did was stop and stare and, as one of the tigers approached, his tail started to wag. It wagged even harder when the tiger crouched down beside him and made a fuss of him.

‘Who’s a good boy? What a lovely dog.’ It was a woman, speaking in English, and from her accent, she was Scottish. My Labrador is a very good listener, but I felt I should answer on his behalf.

‘This is Oscar. I’m sure he’s very pleased to meet you.’

The woman stood up and I saw her face peeking out at me beneath the tiger’s slightly comical face with its big staring eyes and whiskers. ‘Hi, I’m Amy. Are you English?’

From what I could see of her, she was probably in her mid-forties and from the colour of her cheeks, she was feeling the heat.

‘Yes, I am, but I live here now.’

She beamed at me. ‘You lucky man. Florence is so beautiful and so wonderfully historic, isn’t it?’

I nodded in agreement. ‘It certainly is. I have to ask: do you always go around dressed like this or is there a specific reason?’

‘Lorraine’s getting married.’ She glanced sideways towards the rest of her group and lowered her voice. ‘For the third time. We’re all beginning to think she only does it for the hen parties.’

‘So that’s what this is: a hen party. But why the tiger costumes?’

‘That was Lorraine’s idea – she wanted cougar costumes but we couldn’t find any, so tigers were the next best thing. It could have been worse – her original idea was harem girls.’

‘I thought hen parties tended to take place in Magaluf or Ibiza or the like. What brought you to Florence?’

‘It was my idea. I’m a lecturer in medieval and Renaissance history at Edinburgh University and I thought the girls would appreciate a bit of culture for a change. To be honest, the last time Lorraine got married, we all went to Marbella and it was pretty gross.’

‘That’s a coincidence – your subject, not Marbella. My partner lectures in medieval and Renaissance history here in Florence.’ Anna and I had been together now for a year and a half, and living together since last summer, so I no longer referred to her as my girlfriend. ‘Partner’ seemed appropriate until we took the next step – if, indeed, we were to go down that route.

An expression of astonishment immediately appeared on the tiger’s face.

‘Do you mean Anna Galardo?’ I nodded and she held out a stripy paw towards me. ‘Dr Amy Mackintosh. I’ve known Anna for years, ever since she used to work at Bristol University. I was thinking about looking her up while I’m here, but I don’t have a phone number for her.’

I shook her hand, wondering what I should do. Amy Mackintosh looked like a nice person but I thought it wiser to check with Anna before handing over her phone number, so I made a note of the Scottish tiger’s phone number and promised I would get Anna to call. By coincidence, I was hosting a party this evening and one more guest wouldn’t matter – although a dozen tigers might upset the balance a bit.

Tonight’s event was being thrown by my new Italian publisher to celebrate publication of the Italian version of the first of my murder mysteries set here in Tuscany, and I had decidedly mixed feelings about it. Although I’d spent thirty years of my life in the Metropolitan Police, my hobby had always been writing, and now that I’d moved to Italy, I’d finally been lucky enough to achieve my ambition of becoming a published author. The book had come out in English a year earlier and was still continuing to sell pretty well, as did book number two, which had come out just before Christmas. As far as tonight was concerned, they had told me that all I had to do was turn up, shake a few hands, say a few words, read a couple of pages from the book and sign some copies for guests, but I wasn’t looking forward to it. I’d invited some of the friends that I’d made since moving here two years ago, and the publisher had invited an unspecified number of local dignitaries, business people, academics, and even a few minor celebrities, but whether any of them would turn up was another matter.

I bade farewell to the stripy medievalist and headed back to Anna’s place. I still thought of it as her place although I had spent most of the last six months living here. My own little house out in the country to the south of Florence came into its own in the hot summer months and at the weekends, but there was no getting away from the convenience of living only a fifteen-minute walk from the office. Private investigation business over the winter had been brisk, mainly the usual mix of unfaithful spouses, pilfering employees, and missing persons – with occasional exceptions.

Prime among these had been a mysterious creature invading a poultry farm to the east of the city and attacking its avian inhabitants. I had set up a series of surveillance cameras, with the aid of which the perpetrator had been revealed as a neighbour’s cat called Napoleon. The cat might even make it into one of mybooks some time but, although I still enjoyed my writing, I was struggling to find the time. Ideas for new whodunnits continued to flash through my mind all the time, and as I walked back past Piazza della Repubblica, I wondered idly whether a group of Brits dressed in tiger costumes might form the nucleus of a convincing plot. Anything was possible.

When I got to the Ponte Vecchio, I paused in the centre of the bridge and looked around. Even though Easter weekend had come and gone, it was still crowded with tourists. I looked out over the muddy waters of the River Arno, marvelling as always at how the level of the river could possibly have risen by ten metres or more during the catastrophic floods of 1966. Now, even though winter had only just finished, the water level was still unusually low, and I hoped the predictions of drought wouldn’t come true. My house in the country was set among olive groves and vineyards, and I knew that last year, the local farmers had really struggled with what had been one of the hottest and driest summers on record. As I was an Englishman, it felt totally alien to be hoping for rain, but I knew that this was what was needed.

The Ponte Vecchio, the ‘Old Bridge’, was built in medieval times and it has the distinction of being a bridge lined with shops. These tiny boutiques flanking both sides of the bridge – many actually sticking out over the sides – are now predominantly jewellers, although Anna had told me that back when the bridge was first constructed, they had mainly been butchers’ shops and the stench had been unbearable. Nowadays, it’s far more civilised but, as a World Heritage site, it draws millions of visitors every year and, for those of us just interested in getting from one side of the river to the other, it could be a real pain having to weave through the mass of humanity milling about there. The Medici family, Florence’s most famous ruling dynasty, had foreseen this problem and ordered the construction of theVasari Corridor – a private covered walkway built over the heads of the populace so they could get from their home in Palazzo Pitti to their place of work at the Palazzo Vecchio and back undisturbed. I often wish they’d given me the keys.

Anna’s apartment is on the second floor of a sixteenth-century building less than a hundred metres from the bridge, and I found her with the ironing board set up in the middle of the living room. As Oscar trotted across to greet her, I realised that the garment she was ironing was none other than my new, very expensive suit. When I lived in the UK, I only ever used to buy most of my clothes from Marks & Spencer or the like, but since being partnered with an Italian, all that had changed. Determined that I should look my best for tonight’s party, Anna had marched me into town a week ago and had chosen an admittedly very smart, dark-grey suit for me, but when I’d seen the price, I had come close to making a run for it. Still, I’d told myself, it probably was time for a new suit, although the opportunities to wear it here were scarce. Work clothes for me nowadays were definitely casual. After years of collars and ties at Scotland Yard, the change had been liberating. Tonight, on the other hand, promised to be much more formal.

‘Ciao,bella.Thanks for ironing the suit, but surely it didn’t need it. I haven’t worn it yet.’ After her being married to an Englishman for twenty years and having lived in the UK, Anna’s English is better than my Italian, so we normally speak English together. This afternoon, she answered me in Italian and I knew her well enough by now to realise that this meant that she was feeling stressed.

‘You’re back at last! You said you’d be home at three. Do you realise we have to be at the restaurant in less than two hours’ time?’

I checked my watch and saw that it was just after four. As faras I was concerned, that was plenty of time to get ready, but I didn’t say that to her. Instead, I headed for the kitchen and answered in Italian.

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