Spider - Michael Morley [62]
Jack blinked from the smoke wafting his way. ‘You’re right, and he wants to make certain that we’ll play. I think he’s here in Italy, and I’m a hundred per cent sure that he’s going to kill again.’
At the same time that Jack was meeting Massimo in Rome, American tourist Terry McLeod paid the taxi driver, moved his baggage off the dusty road and snapped the first of his holiday pictures, the outside of La Casa Strada.
‘Sure is a pretty place,’ he told Maria, as he bowled into the cool reception area and announced his arrival.
‘We have you staying with us for just five days. Is that correct, Meester McLeod?’ she said in the English that she hoped one day would be good enough to see her compete internationally as a beauty queen.
‘That’s right. Wish it could be longer. Never been to Tuscany before, it looks really fantastic.’ He peered at her name badge. ‘Tell me, Maria, are the owners of this place around? What’re their names again?’
‘Mr and Mrs King,’ said the receptionist, struggling to understand him because he spoke so quickly. ‘Mrs King is here, but not Mr King. Would you like me to call her for you?’ She picked up the desk phone. ‘Are you a friend from America?’
‘No, no, don’t do that,’ he said. ‘I’m sure I’ll bump into them while I’m here. Lots of time to catch them, let it ride for now.’
Maria looked him over. He was about the same age as Mr King but nowhere near as tall or good-looking. He had a little fat belly that billowed beneath a pink Ralph Lauren polo shirt, like the one she’d hoped to buy her boyfriend Sergio. On closer examination, she noticed it had a thin brown stain running down the front of it, as though coffee or ice cream had dribbled from his machine-gun mouth and caught on his big stomach. ‘May I have your passport, please?’ she asked. ‘And the credit card you wish to use to settle your bill? Breakfast is available until ten thirty and is included in your daily rate.’
McLeod handed over his passport and sized up the receptionist as she photocopied it. She was beautiful. He’d pay good money to have her sent up to his room along with a stack of beer and some decent air-conditioning. Man, Italy may be great on historic buildings but it sure sucked when it came to keeping things cool.
‘Thank you,’ said Maria.
McLeod smiled at her. ‘How do you say that in Italian? Is it the same as in Spanish, gracias?’
‘No,’ said Maria sweetly, ‘not quite. We say grazie.’
‘Grat-sea,’ he tried.
‘Perfetto,’ said Maria, deciding it would be rude to correct his slight mispronunciation. ‘You are in the Scorpio suite,’ she told him, taking a key from a set of hooks on the wall behind her. ‘Please go straight down the corridor, here to the right of me, then first left and up some stairs, that’s Scorpio.’
‘Scorpio,’ he repeated. ‘Are all the rooms named after star signs?’
‘Yes. Yes, they are,’ said Maria, now growing tired of him and wishing he would go, so she could return to the magazine under her desk.
‘How many are there? In total, how many rooms?’
Maria had to think for a moment. ‘Six. No, eight. There are eight rooms in all.’
‘Eight,’ repeated McLeod, thinking for a minute of how he might be able to persuade the beautiful Maria to spend some time with him in one of them. Later. There would be time for that later. First though, he had a lot of planning to do. Business first – pleasure later.
40
Rome
The Cristina Barbuggiani case conference was due to start at two p.m., but Massimo had insisted they took a leisurely ‘catch-up’ lunch at a restaurant around the corner, explaining that in Italy two p.m. meant any time before four.
The conference was being staged in a dedicated Incident Room and people were chattering loudly and pointing at whiteboards as Jack and Massimo entered. The Direttore introduced Benito, Roberto and the pathologist, Dottoressa Annelies van der Splunder. ‘Orsetta Portinari I think you already know,’ he said, suppressing the start of a smile.
‘Very pleased to see you again,