Page 5 of Murder on an Italian Island (Armstrong and Oscar Cozy Mysteries #12)
In response, I let my hand slide down his arm to his right hand so that I could grip his fingers and squeeze while pressing my thumb hard down between his thumb and forefinger.
This was a useful little trick that I’d learned from a gnarled old London copper called Sergeant Donnelly thirty years ago, and I could see that it hurt the man a lot, but he stubbornly refused to relinquish his hold on Virgilio.
He snarled and I could see him pull his other arm back as a precursor to trying to punch me, but I kept the pressure on his hand and used my other hand to grasp the neck of the wine bottle on the table in front of us.
To an accompaniment of ferocious growling from my normally pacific dog, I looked the man straight in the eye.
‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you.’ I tried to make my tone as threatening as possible.
‘I don’t know who you are, I don’t know what you’ve been drinking, smoking or injecting, but you’re going to go away now and leave us alone, otherwise things will not turn out well for you.
I can do a lot of damage with this bottle. Do I make myself clear?’
There was a brief standoff for a couple of seconds before the man released his grip on Virgilio’s shoulder, spat out a stream of invective and turned away.
I released his hand and watched as he made his unsteady way back across the terrace once more.
As he did so, I had the satisfaction of seeing him massaging his left hand with his right.
I turned back and saw that Virgilio was now on his feet, an expression of deep loathing on his face.
I felt a double movement at my side as Oscar pressed his nose against my right leg and Anna reached over to catch hold of my left hand and gently disentangle my fingers from the neck of the wine bottle.
Lina was also on her feet, both hands on her husband’s arm, a look of deep concern on her face.
I was conscious of my heart pounding in my chest as the realisation that I had come close to a potentially very nasty fight registered with me.
Along with a feeling of satisfaction that my intervention had successfully defused the situation, there was relief that things hadn’t turned any uglier.
As Anna never ceased reminding me, the older I got, the more vulnerable I was becoming.
I glanced down and was mildly surprised to see the skin of my knuckles stretched white.
The atmosphere was electric and the silence was finally broken by Virgilio himself.
‘Thanks, Dan. I’m sorry about that.’ I saw him give Lina a reassuring look. ‘It’s all right, it’s all over now.’
I gave them both a little smile and sat back down again, feeling the tension start to melt away while the adrenalin still coursed through my body. ‘You’re welcome. Feel like telling us what that was all about?’
He stood there for a few moments, staring across the terrace before, reluctantly, sitting down again and using his napkin to dry himself off.
Interestingly, in the twilight, nobody else appeared to have noticed this little cameo and the holiday mood continued around us – at least among those who had been in the mood in the first place.
Virgilio picked up his empty wine glass and returned it to a vertical position before reaching for his water glass and draining it.
Finally, he launched into an explanation.
‘That animal was Ignazio Graziani, one of the foulest individuals who ever walked on the surface of this planet.’ The disgust in his voice was almost palpable.
‘Just over twenty years ago, there was a spate of abductions and rapes near Pisa. I was a young sergeant stationed there at the time. It took us three months of hard work, but we finally nailed him. He kidnapped a total of four young women, did unspeakable things to them, before abandoning them in the wilds of the countryside more dead than alive. I was involved in the investigation that led to his arrest, trial, and sentencing to twenty-five years in prison. I was appalled to hear that he’d been released last month – would you believe because he was deemed to be “no longer a risk to the public”?
I’d forgotten that he was originally from Elba, and I certainly wasn’t counting on running into him ever again.
’ He relapsed into silence while I picked up the wine bottle and refilled his glass. He looked as though he needed it.
We resumed our meal but I, for one, barely tasted it.
Even the panna cotta smothered in caramel sauce and whipped cream, scattered with fresh raspberries and blueberries, failed to hit the spot.
By the time our coffees arrived, I was wondering if Graziani had already made the acquaintance of the other guests and if he was responsible for the bad mood of the people on the beach.
Might there be some connection between Graziani and the dodgy-looking characters we had seen earlier?
Certainly, he had managed to cast a definite shadow over our evening.
As I sat there, I realised that I was already filing this confrontation away in my memory banks to be included in one of my whodunnits.
That’s the wonderful thing about being an author – real life so often throws up fascinating situations every bit as good as fiction.
At this point, I had no idea when or where I would draw on this evening’s fracas, but I knew I would. Sooner or later.
After dinner, I took Oscar for a walk, accompanied by Virgilio after he had run upstairs to change into a fresh pair of shorts.
The grounds of the hotel were surrounded by a solid chain-link fence taller than me, and there was a pedestrian gate off to one side near the clifftop with a key code to restrict access only to guests of the hotel.
We opened the gate and followed a footpath that ran southwards through clumps of pine trees, not far from the cliff edge.
Apart from a delightful scent of resin, the trees also produced a regular supply of pine cones for me to throw for Oscar to retrieve.
Without the presence of our two partners, Virgilio went into more detail of what Graziani had done to his unfortunate victims and, in spite of our outstanding meal, I could feel a sour taste in my mouth.
Virgilio had actually been part of a three-man team who had found one of the distraught victims, barely conscious, badly bruised and beaten, and it was clear that the appearance of this brutally mistreated woman had burned itself forever into his psyche.
Ignazio Graziani was a monster, and all four of his victims – although they had survived – undoubtedly still bore psychological as well as physical scars.
As we walked along the path, the only sounds the gentle hiss of the tiny wavelets on the beaches below and the background whirring of cicadas in the pines, I felt a million miles away from such depravity – and yet I knew that the perpetrator was sitting having his dinner barely ten minutes away from us. I asked the obvious question.
‘What are you going to do about Graziani? That was quite definitely assault by him on you. If he’s just come out of jail, I imagine he’s on parole. His parole officer isn’t going to like that one bit. A few words from you could see him back inside, surely.’
It took a while before Virgilio replied.
‘I’ve been wondering about that. It was dark on the terrace and I don’t think anybody else was aware of the scene at the dinner table.
If Graziani has a good lawyer, it should be easy enough to point out that the only witnesses were our group and it wouldn’t be hard to make a case for us inventing the whole thing – calling it police harassment.
After all, there’s not a mark on me, but I wouldn’t mind betting that his hand is going to be bruised in the morning.
You could end up with a charge of assault yourself. ’
He had a point, of course, but it didn’t seem fair to let the man get away with it.
‘Surely if you don’t get the police involved, it could be that Graziani’s going to spend the next week here and you’re going to be seeing each other every day.
Sooner or later, that could lead to another confrontation. ’
Virgilio stopped and turned towards me. ‘Part of me would really like that. Nothing would give me more pleasure than to beat him to a pulp.’
I’d never heard Virgilio sounding so bitter and aggressive before and I knew that this was a dangerous way for a senior police officer to talk.
Like it or not, the man had done his time, and any further involvement with him could prove seriously detrimental to Virgilio’s position.
It occurred to me that there was a pragmatic, if unpalatable, solution, and I chose to suggest it before he did.
‘You know what I think? High season hasn’t started yet, so there should be lots of spare accommodation on the island.
Why don’t we cancel our booking here and move somewhere different tomorrow, maybe on the other side of the island?
I’m sure Rita and her boss would understand under the circumstances.
I wouldn’t want you to do anything you might regret. ’
There was another long pause before Virgilio replied, resignation in his voice. ‘You’re right, of course, I have a lot more to lose than he does, but in a way, that would be a victory for him.’
‘But it doesn’t mean it’s got to spoil your holiday.
’ I turned and looked out to sea, the glow of phosphorescence in the water illuminating the scene and a line of distant, orange lights on the mainland framing it.
‘Life’s too short, Virgilio. Let it go. Let’s look for somewhere else tomorrow and do our best to enjoy the rest of our holiday.
’ I reminded myself that this was supposed to be a relaxing holiday, and it hadn’t started out too well.
Secretly, I felt sure that the best thing for all of us would be to turn our backs on this hotel – however lovely – and move on.
Reluctantly, Virgilio told me he would sleep on it and decide in the morning.