Page 20 of Murder at the Ponte Vecchio

‘Yes. We have a dress rehearsal later today for our next production, which opens on Saturday, and we’re doing our best to get everything ready. I hope you being here doesn’t spoil the atmosphere.’

I thought quickly. ‘There’s no need to tell them that I’m a private investigator. If anybody asks what I’m doing wandering about, tell them I’m your long-lost cousin Dan from England, here for a few days, and you’re just showing me around. How does that sound?’

She smiled happily. ‘That sounds like an excellent idea, Signor Armstrong.’

I smiled back and shook my head. ‘No, not Signor Armstrong. I’m Cousin Dan, remember?’

‘Of course. Welcome, Cousin Dan. By the way, how very rude of me – I haven’t been formally introduced to your furry friend.’

‘He’s Oscar and he’s very pleased to meet you, Zebra.’

I spent half an hour wandering around the interior of the theatre, surreptitiously scribbling in my notebook. I had quite enjoyed drama class when I was at school and getting behind the scenes in a theatre – albeit a far from wealthy one – was fascinating. Backstage, there were piles of pretty obviously scavenged timber and a roll of canvas, no doubt used for making scenery. Behind the stage was a wardrobe room that smelt not unlike the changing rooms in the police gym, and I noticed that even Oscar didn’t stick around in there for long.

I met gangly Dario, the jack-of-all-trades technician, and Camilla, the accountant who was also responsible for PR. I couldn’t help smiling when I was introduced to her. Apart from the name, she couldn’t have been any more different from thecurrent Queen of England. She was tiny, stick thin, and one of those people who appear so nervous, they rarely dare to look up from their shoes. Somehow, however, I couldn’t see this as a sign of guilt and I mentally dismissed both her and Dario from the list of likely suspects.

This left me with the actors, but they wouldn’t turn up until later on, and the two cleaners, both black women. Their reaction to seeing Oscar was initially one of mistrust until he wandered across, tail wagging, and soon won them over. They appeared to be doing a very industrious job, but communication with them was extremely difficult – at first. Neither spoke more than a few words of Italian, and Zebra had to introduce me as Cousin Dan in halting, broken French. To my surprise, when the older of the two women heard me described as the cousin from England, she switched to fluent English.

‘My sister lives in England and that’s where we’re headed. She’s been living in London for the past five years and she says it’s a wonderful place.’

Probably because of my former job, I don’t look on Britain’s capital city through the same rose-tinted glasses, but it was good to hear somebody singing the country’s praises for once. I complimented her on her English and she told me she’d been a teacher of English in the north of the Central African Republic until she and her husband had had to flee the country, one step ahead of a band of vicious militia fighters. She introduced me to the woman alongside her as Vanda, her sister-in-law, and introduced herself as Amélie. She told me her husband was currently working on a building site not far from the theatre while she and Vanda worked here until they could get together enough money to continue their journey north. She was charming, articulate and I really couldn’t see her stealing a packet of cigarettes fromanybody. Her sister-in-law, on the other hand, had a more furtive look about her, but that might just have been natural shyness.

Finally, I sat down with Zebra again and gave her my list of recommendations. These were mostly practical: put bolts on all outside doors and keep them locked, don’t leave stuff lying around, earmark one room for more valuable things and keep it locked as well. As far as the common area where most of the thefts had taken place was concerned, I offered her the loan of a motion sensor camera for a week or two and she accepted the offer gratefully. I told her I’d drop it around and set it up for her later in the day, and then it was time for me to leave. I shook her hand, wished her well, and dragged my reluctant dog away from his new best – and very colourful – friend.

On the way back to the office, I discussed with Oscar why I was being so kind to Zebra when I had so much other stuff to occupy me. Maybe it was because Oscar clearly thought she was the best thing since sliced bread – or, in his case, any food – or maybe it was a nostalgic nod to my days of amateur dramatics at school all those years ago. Of course, I suggested to him as I picked my way through the traffic, maybe it was just because I was a nice guy.

The only response from him was a cavernous sigh and a thud as he settled down for a quick nap.

12

TUESDAY AFTERNOON

I met up with Anna for a snack lunch in a little café near the university. As usual, she opted for a goat’s cheese and aubergine focaccia sandwich while I had a plate of mixed bruschetta, with a couple of biscuits for my ever-hungry dog. As we ate, she told me that she had spoken to her friend, Francesca, in the drama department, about Monica Gallo, the mayor’s daughter.

‘Francesca is actually Monica’s tutor so she knows her pretty well. She says Monica’s a good, motivated student who has a real love of acting. In fact, according to Francesca, if she has a weakness, it’s that she spends so much time doing amateur dramatics that she sometimes gets behind in her coursework. But, overall, she’s a good student. As for boyfriends, Francesca didn’t know of anybody special but, just like her sister, there’s no shortage of men hanging around her.’

I gave a lot of thought to my next step. I could wander around the drama department of the university pretending to be a mature student, but if Monica’s tutor wasn’t aware of the identity of the mysterious boyfriend – always assuming there was one – then I could hardly expect to find that out in an afternoon.Besides which, from what the mayor had said, Monica didn’t have classes on Tuesday afternoons so she was unlikely to be there. I decided to sleep on it tonight and then pay a visit to the drama department next morning.

After lunch, I went back to the office, gave Oscar his food and picked up a spy camera with a motion sensor before heading back to the Teatro dell’Arno. This time, I found four cars parked outside the theatre along with a handful of bikes and scooters. Inside, the scene was very different from this morning. The lights were on in the auditorium and there were half a dozen actors on stage. Sitting in the front row with a clipboard and a pen, no doubt observing the performance closely, was Zebra. I didn’t want to interrupt what was obviously the dress rehearsal for their new play, so I sat down a few rows back, hanging onto Oscar’s collar in case he spotted his new best friend and decided to make a dash for her. From the costumes, it looked as if the play was set here in Italy just before or during the Second World War. It was well over a minute before I suddenly realised that I recognised the face of the actor playing the lead female role. It was none other than Monica Gallo, the mayor’s daughter.

I sat and watched for almost half an hour, interested in the play – which I still couldn’t identify – and fascinated by Monica. Apart from being stunningly attractive, she had a lovely clear voice, and I was able to follow almost all of her dialogue while with some of the other actors, I struggled. It was obviously a very tense and dramatic production and she was most convincing in her desperation towards her boyfriend or husband, played by a tall, good-looking man with an enviable head of glossy, chestnut-brown hair and a commanding presence onstage. There were only three other actors on stage most of the time: a middle-aged woman who looked like a traditional housewife, a younger man in the uniform of one of Mussolini’s blackshirts, and a manwearing faded overalls and a white T-shirt. This man was probably still in his twenties but he had been made up to look older – in my view, not completely convincingly. He didn’t have many lines to say, which was probably just as well as I somehow got the feeling he wasn’t concentrating as hard as he should have been – but what did I know about directing a play?

Finally, the act ended and the curtains were closed. The actors disappeared and Zebra stood up. I felt tempted to clap but then decided against it as there were only two of us in the audience. As it was, Zebra turned, spotted me, and beckoned.

Oscar interpreted the invitation as being for him and he got there first, tail wagging enthusiastically. She crouched down and made a real fuss of him, to which he responded enthusiastically.

I waited until she straightened up again before indicating the bag in my hand. I kept my voice low although we were now alone. ‘Ciao, Zebra. I’ve brought the camera. If you’ve got a moment, I’ll set it up for you.’

She led me back to the small room that she used as an office, where I closed the door behind us and explained how to operate the camera, linking it to her phone. I told her I didn’t need it for a week or two and wished her luck. We decided to install it in the common area used by staff and actors alike and she came with me to watch as I set this up, hiding it among a pile of dusty cardboard boxes. She then offered me a cup of Nescafé, which I accepted, not so much because I wanted another coffee, but because it gave me an opportunity to do a bit of probing into the actors I’d just seen – one in particular.

I started off cautiously. ‘It looks to me as though the play’s set during the fascist period here in Italy, but I’m afraid my knowledge of twentieth-century drama isn’t that great. What’s it called and who’s it by?’

‘The play is calledUltimatumand it makes a change from theseries of Shakespearean tragedies we’ve been doing over the winter.’

‘That’s a new one on me. Who wrote it?’

She looked up and caught my eye. ‘I did.’

‘Wow, you’re a playwright as well as a theatre director. How do you find the time? I do a bit of writing myself and I struggle to fit it in with my day job.’ I moved the conversation closer to my person of interest. ‘I thought the woman playing the main female role was excellent. Are they really just amateurs?’

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