Murder on the Italian Riviera by T A Williams

Author:T A Williams [Williams, T. A.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Boldwood Books

Whether she would still be talking to me by then remained uncertain.

I waited until five to eight and then went in. I had showered and changed into a clean shirt and long trousers before setting off, as I suspected it might turn out to be the kind of place where the men would be in tuxedos and the women in evening gowns, sparkling with jewels. My first impression appeared to confirm that; even the doorman was better dressed than I was. It was therefore a considerable relief when I was shown into the sumptuous lounge bar to see that most of the other guests were casually dressed. When I say casually, I don’t mean cheaply. Even though I have no knowledge of high fashion – as already pointed out to me by Freddie – I could see that the people around me didn’t buy their clothes at their local supermarket.

As I stood at the doorway, looking around the discreetly luxurious interior, a figure materialised silently at my side. I turned to see that this was a fit-looking man with close-cropped, fair hair, wearing a dark-blue blazer and immaculately pressed, light-grey trousers. He gave me a polite nod of the head and spoke just loud enough for me to hear. ‘The boss is waiting for you outside.’ His accent was definitely English but almost neutral, hard to place.

Without waiting for my response, he headed for glazed doors at the far end of the room and I followed obediently. I’ve come across enough spooks in my time to recognise one when I see one. I wondered just exactly who these ‘friends’ were with whom my host claimed to be staying. Certainly, if he had brought backup, this probably wasn’t quite what most people would describe as a holiday. Still, that was his affair and, no doubt, the affair of the British government, and I certainly wasn’t going to ask.

The glass doors opened onto a magnificent terrace with a panoramic view along the coast back towards Italy. Tables were set up out here, discreetly distanced one from another and separated by huge, terracotta urns overflowing with flowers, all of them shaded from the sun beneath a wrought-iron pergola intertwined with a magnificent display of purple bougainvillaea. I followed the man in the blazer past a series of tables, at one of which I was sure I recognised a household name Formula One driver dining with a pair of immensely beautiful women. Finally, we reached the end table at the far corner of the terrace and here I saw the familiar face of Graham Oldman-Davis. He was going a bit grey at the temples – but I’m a fine one to talk – but otherwise, he looked unchanged. As he spotted me, he rose to his feet and held out his hand in greeting.

‘Inspector Armstrong, sorry, Chief Inspector Armstrong, it’s good to see you again.’ He glanced up at my shadow, who melted away without a word being spoken. ‘God’ was on his own at a table set for two.

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