Juggling the Stars (16 page)

‘Mind you,' she was going on, ‘half the people at the BBC are the same really. Like Daddy always says, culture's no more than screen-deep with that lot. Despite all their airs.' She hitched up the strap of her dress a little and, leaning nearer to Morris, smiled knowingly from all her Princess Anne-sharp teeth. This ‘screen-deep' and ‘airs' thing was obviously
the
family bon mot.

‘I mean, in the end I'd rather a real pleb than half these twits and pansies who go on about theatre and culture on the television all day without really knowing anything about anything. There's no virility about them or contact with life, whereas there's something natural and earthy about a pleb, straightforward. He parks his camper in front of a view of San Marino and says, “What the bloody hell!” ‘

So now she had come round 360 degrees. And without him even contradicting. Dad would have fucked you black and blue, Morris thought. And sent you packing afterwards (as he had with Eileen - and the others).

But then so many women seemed quite happy that way.

Sandra leaned back, laughing. She must have drunk nearly a whole carafe all by herself and was obviously under the impression she was shining.

‘Giacomo's a real artist, though. You should see the book he's done called
Middle Ages at Twilight
It's really something else. Isn't it Giacomo?' And she took advantage of the opportunity to butt in on his conversation with Massimina and grab his arm.

‘I'll pick up a copy,' Morris promised. And piss all over it. At which he suddenly realized he needed to go to the lavatory quite desperately, but couldn't of course, for fear of what turns the conversation might take in his absence. He was going to have to hold on the whole damn evening, which would ruin his first good meal for a week.

Eleven o'clock. A surprisingly dull morning with a spot of rain, but bright for Morris. He threaded his way from the pensione at the back of town through to the main street and headed towards the newsagent's. He definitely liked, he thought, the way they covered every empty wall with a great haphazard sea of posters in Italy. Every possible colour and message; dance lessons, ladies' underwear, the Radical Party. On the oldest buildings too. To show they weren't overly respectful of the past, that they lived now, in the present; at tonight's meeting of Democrazia Proletaria, for. example.
Forza compagni!
Good for them.

And the girls walking arm in arm. That was another thing Morris liked to see. Not afraid of expressing an innocent affection for each other, not in danger of being considered lesbians the moment they linked arms or kissed each other's cheeks. Even some of the boys could grab each other affectionately without attracting the shameful inferences that such a gesture would inevitably provoke on the streets of suburban London.

Morris hurried through the fresh morning whirl, albeit under a grey sky, and felt at one with the world. He had dreamt of Dad last night; he had dreamt they were sitting together on the sofa watching TV. Nothing else, just him and Dad watching the box and laughing together, as if they'd never hated each other. The odd thing was that on the TV screen, he'd suddenly realized, they were showing himself and Massimina, her rubbing cream into his shoulders as he lay on the bed, and Dad was laughing - ‘Christ, what a pair she's got, up hers any day,' and for some reason Morris was laughing with him.

Yes, the morning had got off to an exceptionally good start, Massimina had lain in quietly till ten nursing a terrible headache which had given Morris a clear couple of hours to finalize his letter, snip snap all the words from the mags he'd bought (a huge pile) and tape the whole thing together. At half ten he left the poor girl in the pensione, hashing up a picnic brunch with yesterday's bread rolls, and went down to the street. Apart from the hangover, she seemed in a state of semi-shock over the amount of money they'd spent the previous evening.

‘Forty thousand lire, Morri! It's mad!'

‘l told you we shouldn't have gone out with them. He was just trying to get you drunk, and for fairly obvious reasons.'

But the evening couldn't really have gone better as far as Morris was concerned. No addresses exchanged, no common acquaintances unearthed, no surnames mentioned even, and most of all, after Morris's coldness and fine show of jealousy towards the end, no mention whatsoever of a further meeting. Given that the two would be picking up the boat from Brindisi to Greece in a few days' time there thus seemed little likelihood they'd ever be in a position to cause trouble for Morris. All well then, and he hadn't killed anybody. (What a stupid idea that was, Morris was far too smart to be a killer.) He smiled his smile feeling the corner of his lip lift. He was going to come out of this clean with all the money and live happily ever after without so much as a smudge on his conscience. On the contrary, he was going to feel very proud of himself. But Morris remembered that strange tightening of the muscles he'd felt the evening before, the overwhelming sensation of physical heat, a moment's blinding determination. It was curious.

He popped into the same newsagent as yesterday, picked up one of only two copies of the
Arena
and there it was. The letter had arrived. A small headline in the margin of the front page led him to an article inside. The police were now definitely considering the matter a kidnap - excellent -though given the curious nature of the letter they still hadn't absolutely ruled out the possibility of some kind of macabre practical joke. Fair enough. It was oddball stuff. But the mole must have been convincing. (Unless even her family had never noticed it? Most people were blind after all.) The search was concentrating on the area around Vicenza, the paper said, where the red tracksuit had been found and Inspector Marangoni was quoted as saying that he expected there would be concrete developments within the next forty-eight hours.

Oh no he didn't, Morris thought, and positively skipped out onto the street. Oh no! He didn't expect anything of the kind. That was just the crap they fed the press with. No mention of himself either, which could only be positive. The only minus was a reprint of Massimina's photograph, admittedly in smaller dimensions this time, but now looking remarkably like the blow-waved, eyebrow-plucked made-up girl who'd sat beside him last night. (What had the photographer done, for God's sake? How much had they paid him?) A friend or even relation might never recognize the creature as she was now, but half the world would - if they were in the habit of scrutinizing photographs in out of town newspapers. Still, Morris was feeling sufficiently secure this dull humid morning to actually welcome a ghost of a challenge (where was the excitement otherwise?) and his face creased into its smile of sly triumph. He stopped a moment to share the smile with himself in the reflection of a window full of children's clothes. Tall, blond, quite handsome - a little indistinctive was the only problem. It wasn't a striking face. Rather boring. Thank God he hadn't kidnapped Sandra though: could you imagine having to put up with that kind of conversation day in day out? Count your blessings, Morris Duckworth.

He bought stamps and an express sticker and then enquired his way to the local S.I.P., the phone centre. Safely installed in a booth, he dialled the number Inspector Marangoni had given him. Perfectly safe, he felt. Ready for a long chat, ready to give his best opinion; he would even offer to go back to Verona if the police thought it could be of any help.

‘
'Pronto, Questura di Verona.'

‘Pronto, vorrei parlare con l'Ispettore Marangoni.'

The inspector was busy; if Morris would like to leave a message perhaps?

Morris wouldn't. He didn't want to communicate through some lackey and be misunderstood.

This is a long distance call about the Trevisan kidnap. Tell the Inspector it is Morris Duckworth speaking and that I have some new information for him.' That should stir things up.

‘Pronto,'
 Inspector Marangoni was on the line in a matter of seconds. ‘Ah, Signor Duckworth,
come va?'

‘Non c'è male
. I'm in Bari.'

‘Marvellous, how's the weather?'

‘Hot,' Morris said, which was scarcely taking a risk, ‘Look, I saw the news about Massimina this morning. I don't know, I feel really shocked. It really is a kidnap then, you're sure? Did the letter ask for money, I mean …‘

‘I can't give you any of the actual details I'm afraid. Confidential. The man was obviously determined not to use his own handwriting though. Used bits of newspapers, lettroset.‘

‘Oh - is that unusual?' Morris asked.

‘So, so. Maybe he has some special reason for hiding his handwriting. Someone close to the family. Or he could be left-handed, you can usually tell that immediately even from printed caps. Hence the lettroset where he couldn't find bits of newspaper.‘

‘Oh?' Morris felt a shade unnerved. The Inspector's voice was heavy and slow, professional, and Morris remembered the businesslike manner of the man in the garden at Quinzano, the impression of experience. How long would it take him to come up with the real reason behind that messy collage?

‘Yes, in which case leaving the tracksuit in a bin in Vicenza - you heard about that, didn't you? Yes, they left it at the rail station - that might just be some kind of deliberate red herring, trying to take us away from the immediate family circle. But my assistant here tells me you have some new information.'

‘Well, I'm not sure if it's really useful, but it's something I remembered yesterday and then when I saw about the kidnap …' Damn! How on earth could he have seen about the kidnap in Bari? No
Arena
there. Rimini was one thing, just a couple of hundred kilometres south of Verona and crawling with tourists from the northern towns, but Bari? Morris trembled, switching the phone from one sweaty hand to another. It was awfully close in the booth. Nobody would ever want an
Arena
in Bari, surely.

'Yes?
Pronto?'

‘Well, Massimina mentioned to me that there was some strange character always bothering her on the bus when she came home from school. He used to try and sit or stand next to her and stare at her.'

‘She didn't give you any description?'

‘No. Oh, only that he was very hairy, and that his eyes were odd. I got the impression he must have been around forty, but I don't know if she actually told me that. I just told her to stick near the bus driver or the other people and not to worry too much. I mean, the world is full of people like that and they're generally harmless. But now …'

‘No other description? She didn't say where he got on, where he got off, what time of day it was?'

Morris left himself an authentic pause for thought. He was feeling confident again. The inspector was swallowing it.

‘Well, she went to school at the Stimate and got the bus straight home when the school closes at one. So it would have been around that time. But where he got on and off I don't know. I can't imagine he got off at Quinzano itself because if so she'd have known him. Everybody knows everybody there.'

‘Quite.' Inspector Trevisan was obviously writing as he spoke which gave Morris a breather. ‘Quite. We'll have some men check out the bus route around that time for a few days.'

‘But if he's the one who kidnapped her he won't
be
on the bus any more.' Morris managed to get some exasperation and fear into his voice. ‘If only I'd asked for more information taken it more seriously.'

‘We can interview the passengers who regularly travel that line and maybe get something from them.'

‘I think I should come directly back to Verona,' Morris said with determination.

‘Why's that, Signor Duckworth?'

‘I don't know. I'm so worried about it all and I'm not enjoying my holiday at all. Then maybe if I was in Verona I could help in some way. I could …'

‘Look, Signor Duckworth, I really don't see any way you can help us here any more than you already have. Remember, you didn't see Massimina for a full month before the kidnap. As for her family, I'm fairly certain that they don't want to see you around. They appear to feel somewhat embarrassed in your regard, and hence hostile.' The inspector chuckled in quite a fatherly way. 'That's life. Now, you're with friends down there, right?'

‘Right.'

‘So you've got something to take your mind off it all.'

‘But…' It was quite touching actually, this concern for his state of mind.

‘The decision's yours, obviously, but I'd advise you to stay. There's no need to feel in any way guilty about not rushing back, seeing as there's nothing for you to do here.'

‘And if I go with them to Turkey?'

'I've got no objections to you going at all. If you want information, just phone this number as often as you like and my assistant will tell you where we're up to. You remember Tolaini. He was with me when we met in Quinzano.'

‘I'll think about it,' Morris said miserably, and after a few more moments the conversation ended.

He stayed in the booth and on impulse decided to call his father. He dialled out the code for England, then the Acton number, listening to all the click and echo of exchange connections untill at last there was the English ringing tone. Its familiarity gave him something of a jolt, so near, so usual. he could have been at Victoria station announcing his return home to a life with the Milk Marketing Board. Perhaps he'd tell Father he'd earned a shit-load of money speculating on the stock exchange or something and that he was going to buy himself a house on the hills outside Florence and would Dad like to come over for a week or two in September to get a bit of a suntan? That should shake him up.

But there was no answer. After a moment or two, Morris realized it was just a regular Thursday morning back there in London and Dad would be sweating away over a hot die-drawing machine in Park Royal. Shame. Each to his own though.
Unicuique faber est …
etc. He went out into the foyer, paid, asked for the Verona directory and scribbled down Bobo's address.