The Villa Triste (43 page)
‘I have never been this close,’ Eleanor Sachs said. ‘I won’t say anything. I swear to God. I’ll do exactly what you tell me.’
She looked at him.
‘But you have to let me come with you. I have to at least see this Massimo, or Piero, or whatever his name is. Please.’ She reached out and took Pallioti’s arm. ‘Because whatever else this man is – he might also be my grandfather.’
The house was more than just a house. The block a lot bigger than a block. And neither, strictly speaking, were in Siena. But Achilleo Venta had got the size right. There was no question that Piero Balestro’s estate, some ten miles south of the town, was large.
Chalky hills planted with what appeared to be wheat and topped by picturesque groves of cypress rolled out on either side of them in a landscape sent from central casting. The drive they were following had to wind through several hundred acres. At a best guess. The phone calls Pallioti had made had merely netted the man’s current address. The exact specifics on the property – and anything else Guillermo could dig up on Piero Balestro, and/or Doctor Peter Bales, – would be waiting for him when he got back to the office.
He had made one last call before they left San Galgano, cancelling the car he had ordered to come and fetch Eleanor Sachs. The driver, who had already been cruising happily down the motorway, was probably not best pleased. Well, they would have that in common, Pallioti thought, because the truth was, he wasn’t best pleased either. He hoped that allowing Eleanor to accompany him was not a decision he was going to come to regret. But he already knew – one way or another – that it probably was. He felt a flood of sympathy for everyone in the world who had children. This was what it must be like, he thought – forever allowing yourself to be backed into a corner against your better judgement.
Piero Balestro’s home, when they finally reached it, sat on a knoll at the end of the drive. A mellow confection of stone and tile, it looked old on first glance, but on second glance, wasn’t. A very shiny silver Alfa and some boxy red thing called a Jeep Wagoneer stood on the parking circle. Through the graceful line of cypresses that spread from the side portico, they could see the green slope of a lawn, and below it a paddock, backed by a line of stables.
Pallioti glanced at Eleanor.
‘I know,’ she said, as she opened the door. ‘I remember. Not a word.’
The pale gravel crunched pleasingly underfoot. Four potted bay trees were lined up on either side of the wide front doors. An appropriately weathered pair of stone lions lay at the top of the steps, paws crossed, mouths open in a silent roar. The only discordant note was a security camera. Its round eye peered down from under the eaves of the house. Pallioti made a point of looking straight at it. He had noticed a similar one mounted on the electronic gates that had stood open at the head of the drive. Either Piero Balestro had become careless, which Pallioti somehow doubted, or he was expecting them.
Probably the only reason Agata Venta hadn’t chased them down the drive with a pitchfork was because she had been too busy – first grilling her father, then alerting Dear, and obviously Very Rich, Cousin Piero.
Pallioti had never laid eyes on the man known as Massimo, had no proof that he had ever done anything wrong, and already he loathed him. He glanced around. At the perfectly manicured beds that edged the curve of the drive. At the newly painted shutters with their shiny brass fittings. At the blue glimpse of a swimming pool cover beyond a stand of camellia bushes. All traces of last night’s snow had melted away. The sun was making a half-hearted attempt to break through the white sheet of cloud. It might yet be a nice afternoon. But this place smelled rotten. Underneath the shiny new veneer, it smelled as if something was dead.
For a second, Pallioti wished Enzo was not in Brindisi, but here, and that he had put his own long-held scruples aside and decided to carry a weapon. He was on the verge of taking Eleanor Sachs by the arm, marching her down the steps and back to the car, when the front door swung open.
The woman who faced them was even smaller than Eleanor. Her hair was so black it shone in the overhead lights from the hallway beyond. Her uniform, pale blue, looked as if it had been expertly tailored for a doll. The apron was newly starched, the cuffs and collar a pristine white.
‘The Doctor is at the stables,’ she said, looking at Pallioti and ignoring Eleanor. ‘He said you should go down. Meet him there.’
Pallioti, who had reached automatically for his credentials as the door opened, slid them back into the inner pocket of his overcoat. He wouldn’t be needing them. Massimo knew exactly who he was, and why he was here.
A paved path led around the opposite side of the house from the swimming pool and down a set of steps set into the lawn. Pallioti and Eleanor followed it. As they grew close, they saw that the stables were brick, a long low block fronted by a deep overhang. A weather-vane, a galloping horse with its mane and tail flying, sat on the centre pitch of the roof. Eleanor opened her mouth, caught Pallioti’s eye and closed it again. The steps led to the edge of the front paddock where three horses grazed lazily, their tails flicking, glossy bodies covered in red rugs.
Pallioti and Eleanor had barely passed the last gatepost when a man stepped out of the door in the centre of the stable block. He wore old-fashioned riding breeches, overly shined boots and a green loden hat with a feather in it.
‘Dottore, Dottore! Such a pleasure.’ Piero Balestro virtually threw his arms open. ‘Welcome,’ he cried. The gesture strained his tweed jacket, making the buttons look as if they would pop across his chest. ‘This is an honour. I have heard so much about you.’
Pallioti wondered if that was actually true, and, if so, what the good doctor had heard. And from whom. He extended his hand.
‘Doctor Bales. Or do you use Balestro now?’
‘Ah, so you know about that, do you? My “Americanization”? But of course you do. Of course you are our all-powerful police.’
Piero Balestro smiled as if this was a great joke. Almost as funny as his knowing who Pallioti was before he introduced himself.
‘Balestro, Bales. Legally, my name is Peter Bales. Use whichever you prefer, Dottore. And this is?’ He dropped Pallioti’s hand abruptly and turned to Eleanor.
‘Professor Eleanor Sachs,’ Pallioti said. ‘She’s been helping us with our enquiries.’
‘Delighted. Delighted!’
Piero Balestro’s voice was as loud and as full of bonhomie in person as it had been on the video tape. Pallioti wondered if it bothered the horses as much as it bothered him. Apparently not. The three in the paddock hadn’t so much as looked up. A couple of others who had their heads stuck over their doors seemed to be asleep.
‘Horses,’ Balestro boomed, following Pallioti’s gaze. ‘Lawrence of Arabia said, “Somewhere in the pastures of the human soul, there are horses galloping.” Do you like horses, Dottore?’
‘No,’ Pallioti said abruptly.
It wasn’t, strictly speaking, true. But he was in no mood for a long-winded tour of Piero Balestro’s equine empire.
‘I don’t want to take up much more of your time than I have to,’ he said. ‘I’m sure you’re a very busy man. But we would appreciate it if we could have a few words with you. Concerning an old friend.’
‘An old friend?’
Piero Balestro smiled. He looked at Pallioti, his pale-blue eyes cold and sharp as ice in the broad genial features of his face.
‘And who would that be?’ he asked. ‘Surely not my dear cousin Achilleo?’
‘No,’ Pallioti said. ‘Not Achilleo. Another friend. Giovanni Tran-temento.’
‘Giovanni Trantemento?’ Piero Balestro did a reasonable imitation of looking confused.
‘Perhaps you knew him by another name,’ Pallioti said. ‘Giovanni Rossi. Il Corvo.’
‘Ah!’ He let out a guffaw. ‘Il Corvo. Il Corvo, of course. My brother-in-arms! How is the old fellow?’
‘Dead.’
Pallioti waited a moment, then he added, ‘He was shot in the back of the head at the door of his apartment. About three weeks ago. The same thing happened to someone else you know. Roberto Roblino. Or perhaps you knew him as Beppe? Giancarlo Menucci.’
‘Good heavens! Really? Both of them dead?’ Piero Balestro did not look especially surprised.
Pallioti smiled. ‘I was hoping,’ he said, ‘that you might be of some assistance.’
‘Well, of course.’ Piero Balestro spread his hands, embracing the world. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Anything I can do to help the police.’
Above them, the weathervane clicked and rattled. The stillness of the day had broken. For the first time since the night before, the wind had risen. It had a cold northern tang. The horses stopped eating and pricked their ears. A handful of straw skittered down the concrete apron of the stable.
‘I wonder,’ Pallioti said, ‘if there is somewhere where we might sit down?’
The interior of the house looked as if it had been bought whole from a catalogue the week before. The only discordant note was a rather mangy ageing spaniel curled in a basket beside the sitting room’s unlit fireplace. It opened one eye as they came in, then closed it again and began to snore.
Sinking down onto a chintz sofa so soft it was difficult to remain upright, Pallioti realized he’d mistaken the show at the stables. It was not meant to be Prussian Cavalry Officer, but English Country Gentleman. The picture was made complete by the appearance of the maid, who brought in tea in a china teapot. She placed the tray carefully on the table in front of Piero Balestro, and gave a small curtsey. As she left the room, Balestro winked at Pallioti.
‘I brought her back from South Africa,’ he said. ‘Filipino. They learn languages like
that
.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘And they work much harder than blacks.’
Pallioti did not look at Eleanor Sachs. Instead, he leaned forward ignoring both the tea and the comment and said, ‘I wonder, Doctor Balestro, if you could tell me where you were on the 1st of November?’
Balestro looked at him.
‘Solely to eliminate you from our enquiries,’ Pallioti added. ‘Of course.’
‘Of course.’ Piero Balestro smiled. He fiddled with the teacups and saucers. His hands, as broad and strong as the rest of him, were the only things that gave him away. The fingers, like his cousin Achilleo’s, were gnarled.
‘Shall I?’ Eleanor leaned forward and placed a cup carefully on a saucer for him. For a moment there was a trace of something that might have been warmth in Piero Balestro’s face. He ran a hand through the thick mane of his white hair and said, ‘November 1st, you say?’
Pallioti nodded.
Piero Balestro got up and crossed the sitting room. He opened a roll-top desk and made a display of flipping through a datebook.
‘Well, it appears that I was here,’ he said. ‘I had the blacksmith coming in the afternoon.’ He closed the book and smiled at Pallioti. ‘I like to be here when the girls get their new shoes. So exciting.’
‘Did you say South Africa?’ Pallioti threw the question in before he could launch into a soliloquy on equestrian footwear.
‘Yes.’ Piero Balestro snapped the datebook shut. ‘Yes! By way of the United States. Not the most direct route, but there you are.’ He smiled. ‘Life is full of twists and turns.’
Obviously relieved not to be talking about his old comrade-in-arms, Il Corvo, Piero Balestro strode across the room, picked up a framed photo and handed it to Pallioti.
‘After the war,’ he said. ‘I was lucky enough to go to medical school. On the GI Bill!’
He let out a guffaw. Across the room, Pallioti felt Eleanor Sachs stiffen. Before she could say anything, Piero Balestro added, ‘Quite a joke, eh? But the Yanks, you can say what you like about them – they’re generous. Reward the people who help them. That’s when I changed my name. Used the American version. It saved a lot of trouble.’
Pallioti glanced at the photo in his hand. In it, a young Piero Balestro stood, wearing a white coat and stethoscope, in front of a brick wall that might have been anywhere.
‘I imagine,’ he said, ‘it must have saved you a world of trouble. Changing your name.’
‘Well, it was the least I could do. To show my gratitude.’ Piero Balestro either did not notice or chose to ignore Pallioti’s expression and the tone of his voice.
Pallioti handed the picture to Eleanor. As he looked back to Balestro, he saw her studying the photo, frowning as she searched for any clue, no matter how tiny, that might tell her where the wall might have been.
‘I married a nurse,’ Piero Balestro announced. ‘From one of the field hospitals. Met her in Florence. Just after the war. Very romantic. Went back with her, on an American passport. They put me through medical school. Ann Arbor, Michigan. Coldest winters this side of hell. Marriage didn’t last, of course.’ He shrugged, as if it was both no surprise and of no account. ‘So I went to South Africa. For the sunshine. Worked for a drug company. Opened a series of clinics. Clinics,’ he said again.
Piero Balestro gestured, his wave taking in the French windows, the sitting room itself, the pool and lawn and stables and land beyond, as if the word explained it all.
‘And there you have it,’ he said. ‘Until five years ago, when I started to get old.’
He sat back down in the armchair. ‘A man gets old, he wants to come home.’
Out of the corner of his eye, Pallioti could see that Eleanor was still holding the photograph. Now, though, she was staring at Balestro. She started to open her mouth, but Pallioti cut her off.
