The morning panorama along the horizon is lit so differently from the evening before, yet is just as beautiful. Familiar hints of lemon and lavender waft in on gentle breezes. Idyllic, Albert would have called this—and probably did, sitting right here. But there is also something instinctive that tells me not to let down my guard, as though the allure of the natural beauty is the disguise of a deadly flower.
I wonder if the instinct is an over-exaggeration, a self-preservation hangover from my time on the streets. But then I spy tiny, telltale pencil-thin CCTV cameras on rotating mounts, almost undetectably placed at the top corners of my balcony. Intrigued, I lean back over the balustrade and study the façade at the back of the building. Similar cavities have been created in critical positions beneath sections of the guttering, all of which house exceptionally well-disguised cameras. Unless a person knew to look carefully, they would never spot them.
After stepping back into the bedroom, I stop instinctively to scrutinise the walls, but am reasonably confident there are no cameras inside the room.
I head to the bathroom and do the same. Nothing. I understand that a villa at the end of the lane might need external security, but this seems somewhat overcautious. Albert must have had them installed because many are integrated into the exterior masonry. More importantly, who has access to the feed from the cameras? Do I bring this up with Mrs Bellacci or Dr Romano? Or should I keep this information to myself until I know more? I decide on the latter.
Breakfast is simple. I am not sure if this is typical for Tuscany, but I know that this is what Albert would have enjoyed, apart from the large cup of aromatic coffee served with a small jug of hot milk. Mrs Bellacci has also brought me a basket of pastries, a glass of fresh orange juice and a bowl of colourful fruit, including grapes and plump peaches. While I am eating, I notice Lorenzo emerge from the kitchen, a yellow-and-white-striped towel over one shoulder, and walk toward the olive grove.
“Excuse me, Lorenzo,” I call out. “Would it be possible to have the pool cleaned today? I’d like to take a swim before breakfast tomorrow.”
He continues walking, staring blankly ahead, neither slowing nor acknowledging my request. I want to believe that he doesn’t hear me or realise I am addressing him. I heave a sigh and consider seeking out Mrs Bellacci once the sun gets too hot to sit outside. Half an hour later, once I find a lounger and recline back to enjoy the morning, Lorenzo shuffles my way, carrying a long pole with a large net attached. I sit up and am about to thank him when he tosses the implement onto the ground at the foot of my lounger.
Without stopping or turning around, he spits out words in Italian that I am sure are not civil. Does he expect me to cleanthe pool? I am not averse to manual work, but don’t find the gesture particularly welcoming. When I stare into the waters, there appears to be more to do than clearing the surface. From where I sit, the bottom has patches of dark algae.
A cloud passes over, and a cold shiver runs through me. When I look at the sky, I notice clouds amassing and wonder if we are due rain. I rarely let annoyance take hold of me, but I resolve to take the matter of the pool up with Mrs Bellacci. Perhaps there is a local company that provides pool-cleaning services if her son is too proud to do the job himself.
On my way back to the room, I stop by the kitchen entrance and am about to call out to Mrs Bellacci when I hear her distinctive voice talking to someone. I glance through the doorway and notice she is on her mobile phone with her back to me. After hesitating a moment, I decide to come back later, but in the short time I am there, something unusual commands my attention.
She is not speaking Italian. I didn’t think I was familiar with any language other than English, but my brain automatically translates the one she is using. Russian. Her words make sense, but I have no idea why. I even know that this is not her native tongue and that her use is not only grammatically incorrect in places but highly accented. She’s telling someone that she doesn’t know how long the guest will be staying. I assume that the guest is me. She then goes on to say that she doesn’t think I’m a threat.
I wander off baffled, not only wondering who she’s speaking to, but why I can understand the meaning of her words. Could my birth parents have taught me the language, whoever they might be? When I woke this morning, I had hoped things might start to settle down and I could enjoy the simplicity of staying in this idyllic part of the world. Now I’m no longer sure. I’m almostat the open doors leading into the villa when the familiar voice calls out.
“Mr Redbrick.” I turn to see Mrs Bellacci standing in the kitchen doorway, putting the mobile phone away in her apron pocket. “Was there something I could help you with?”
I am bewildered for a moment but recover quickly. “I wondered if we could arrange to have the pool cleaned at some point. Is there a local company you could call?”
“Let me check with Lorenzo,” she says, and I stop myself from telling her not to waste her time with her ill-tempered son. She appears satisfied with the interaction and heads back into the kitchen.
A blanket of cloud cover has moved to block the sun and maybe even threaten rain. I decide to head to my room and tidy up before finding something to occupy my mind, and what better way than to begin my search of the library?
Chapter Eight
Intruders
Admittedly, I am not an avid reader, not even close. Albert had encouraged me to try some of the crime and thriller novels he favoured by British authors such as PD James, Ian Rankin and Ruth Rendell. I managed two or three and enjoyed them, but in the time it took me to finish one book, Albert could consume six.
Not much tries my patience, but finding a book in an oversized library, where most of the spines are either blank or embossed with barely legible gold or silver letters, is one of the most frustrating and arduous things I have ever attempted. If Albert used some kind of classification system to organise his books, it’s a mystery he took to his grave. Working systematically, I take over two hours to search through one entire section, from ceiling to floor, using a library step ladder and the nearby oak writing desk. Out of a room of thirty identical sections—threeadmittedly empty—this feels like a minor accomplishment, but when sunshine floods the room from the sole window, my attention dissolves.
I need fresh air. I crouch down and squeeze the final book back into place—something about germ theory—before choosing to wash up in the bedroom, then head outside and stretch my legs.
A fresh, yellow-and-white-striped towel has been folded neatly and placed at the end of my bed. Lorenzo had carried a similar one with him the day before. Intrigued, I head out to the balcony, wiping my hands on the towel and surveying the scene below. I notice the long net pole Lorenzo discarded has gone. When I head down to check, I see immediately that the swimming pool has been cleansed. Did Lorenzo do this for me? I scrutinise the depths and see that the pool is now spotless. Sunlight glistens invitingly from the still surface.
I can’t stop the grin that emerges at the sight.Perfect. Although I would be happy to strip naked from my clothes and dive straight in, I decide—even though the grounds appear empty and while Lorenzo feels it is acceptable to shower naked—to hurry back to my room and pull on the Speedos from my pack.
When I return, the sun may be glorious, but the first touch of chill water on my skin is life-affirming and electric, and my limbs come to life with muscle memory. Ten punishing lengths of the pool and I am finally breathing heavily and feeling alive again, blood pumping through my veins.
For the next four days, I slip into a comfortable routine. Breakfast on the patio follows an early morning swim. After that, I tackle the more arduous and tedious task of searching the library, systematically going through the room shelf by shelf. But there’s still no sign of an author called Luria. Lunch is usuallya simple affair of bread, Italian cold meats, cheeses and salad, followed by fresh fruit. In the afternoon, I scout around the villa alone, trying to appear inconspicuous, to see if I can find a room with a CCTV feed. But even though I find rooms with beautifully restored murals and simple furniture, I find none with computer displays or television monitors. As I had predicted, I sit alone on the patio each evening where Mrs Bellacci serves me dinner.
Since our words about cleaning the pool, she has spoken to me very little, once to apologise, telling me they usually clean and treat the water a day before guests come to stay. I have to assume my arrival took them by surprise. When she brings me dinner, she bids me a cursory good evening and says a simplebuon appetitoas she serves. I remember my manners and, after thanking her, ask her to thank Lorenzo as well for doing an excellent job. After that, she is gone. I remember from the first evening with the doctor that she prefers to clear the table once visitors have left, and I always return to my room after I’ve eaten.
Unsurprisingly, since that first evening, I have seen nothing of Lorenzo.
On Sunday, as I climb the staircase to my room, I feel my mobile phone buzzing in my pocket. Once inside, I notice the space has been made up, which is not unusual, but my rucksack is no longer on the floor but on a chair. I wonder if someone has checked through my things. I ignore the suspicion for the time being and pull out the phone.
“Josh?” I ask when the call connects.
“No, it’s Nishan,” comes the voice, sounding relieved but slightly rattled. “Perfect timing, actually. I was about to giveyoua call while Josh is out getting coffee. I’m at the flat right now, the one where we left your phone plugged in. The place got burgled overnight. They used a glass cutter on a windowpane in the back door to gain entry. Drawers and wardrobes have beenleft open around the flat, but naturally, there was nothing in them. They did swipe the brand-new kettle and toaster from the kitchen, but left the flat-screen and microwave oven, which is a little odd but does make me think it’s the work of petty thieves. I called the police this morning and let them have a nose around, gave them a list of what had been stolen for insurance purposes. The thing is, I didn’t include your phone in the list, which is also gone. I honestly believe it’s just opportunists grabbing whatever they could carry away, but Josh insisted I call and let you know.”