Chapter 50 - Meet the Killer

Image by Velizar Ivanov from Unsplash

Gary wondered whether Ike would ever learn to close her doors behind her? Emma's spectre rose, waved an uncapped toothpaste tube at him. Yes, fine. So, her habits had been equally annoying, fair enough. But not closing your toothpaste wouldn't get you killed.

Irritated, he swatted at the thought and hit it mid-air. What was he doing here thinking of toothpaste when Ike could at this moment be facing a killer?

Sweat broke from all pores and once more Gary had to call himself to order. It was unlike him to think such wild thoughts. There could be a perfectly good reason why Ike wasn't in her room. She might be down at breakfast, though it was a tick late for that. Pensione Violetta used keys with a chunky, numbered chrome hanger dangling from them. The doors didn't lock automatically, another reason he had decided against this place for the tours.

In hindsight, he should have known that Ike, chaotic as she was, would endanger herself by not locking doors.

Hang on. Had he just heard footsteps in the corridor?

He strained to listen, but the soft shushing noise had stopped. When he slipped aside, he noticed a movement to his right. His heart missed a beat until he realised he had been spooked by his own reflection in an ornate floor-length mirror.

A mirror . . .

Gary flattened himself at the wall on the other side and watched himself doing so. Ridiculous really. But anybody coming in would notice the mirror first and turn the other way. And then he could—do what? Whack the intruder over the head with his crutch?

Well, he would have to think of something and do so pretty fast as somebody had just pushed open the outer door.

###

Like an abandoned VIP on camera cold turkey, unsure where to go, what to do, Ike hesitated on the flattish tongue of carpet that stretched from the entrance. Framed by a row of terracotta pots with geraniums beyond their prime, the carnelian rug did a great job with diverting the pedestrians on the pavement that kept flowing past the obstacle in an endless stream of strangely reassuring humanity.

The walls that had pressed in on her fell away, the pressure on her head eased, and Ike resurfaced from the panic that had flooded her back in the room.

Debris still littered her mind, and she clung to the one thought that made sense.

She needed to share her discovery. With the Commissario, with her colleagues, whoever.

Hard to do, since she held no tangible proof.

That was the moment when Ike realised something rather important: She didn't even know how the guy looked like. Yes, he would be sitting in a wheelchair, but that was nothing unusual.

All she had was a name, a spiky signature on the letter.

Brian Clarke.

Ike whipped out her phone and was ready to call Brigitte when a commotion on the street drew her gaze. A car hooted, followed by angry shouts. More hooting and shouting. Somehow, Italian was a great language to get mad in, Ike thought wryly. And enough vehicles were buzzing about to create a suitably noisy backdrop.

One voice, deep and rough, detached itself from the din.

"You lot can all eff off," it rumbled, then something shot past in the street so fast her brain was lagging behind in dishing up a match for the outburst and an explanation for the image caught on her retina.

A man in a wheelchair.

Nothing unusual? Oh, no, not this one.

She knew him. Had met him in her mind. What was he doing here? How did he find her?

The same breathless panic that had swamped her earlier rose. A high-pitched whistle ringing in her ears, Ike retreated towards the safe haven of the hotel, one halting step after another, as fast as a snail caught on a patch of glue.

Once inside, she found her speed, turned, hesitated in front of the lift, decided against it lest it became a trap, then raced up the steps. On the second floor, she had to slow down, on the fourth she was limping, and when Ik finally reached the top, she had to lean against the nearest marble pillar to claw back her breath and slow down a heart that seemed to be ready to jump out of her chest.

Reason took a moment to return, when it did Ike wondered why on Earth she had barged up here. Go inside, yes, but bolting all the way back to her room was downright idiotic.

The lobby had more than one exit. Up here, the only way out was via the stairs or the lift. Time to call in the cavalry. But not while she was standing in the corridor where she would be immediately spotted by whoever was coming up.

As if to prove her point, the latticework of the lift rattled as the cabin ascended from the lobby .

She made it back to her room and was about to push open the second door when an alarm went off in her head.

Had she locked her door?

Another wave of panic clawed at her chest.

Out. She had to get out of here.

The lift was still rattling up.

A whimper escaped, and Ike slapped her hands on her traitorous lips when the inner door to her room creaked open.

"Boris?" Gary's tousled dark head poked out. His gaze skidded over the carpet, in search of the dog. When it hit Ike's knees, it slid upwards, a befuddled search beacon.

"Oh, there you are," he said and gave her one of his rare dazzling smiles that zoomed its way straight into her heart. It faded fast, the eyes above were blood-shot, and there was a stubbly patch on his cheek where the razor had failed, but here was his lordship in all his rumpled glory and boy was she glad to have the glorious idiot back.

"Gary!" She raised her hands, wanted to reach out and felt foolish. So, she dropped them again and cleared her throat instead. "I know who the murderer is. And he's here."

###

Ike looked like a jaded copy of herself. The bruises under her eyes had deepened and either her mascara had failed, or she had forgotten to slap it on. Strangely enough, it made her prettier, softer. Cuddly almost. One didn't cuddle one's business partner, not even if she was very obviously coming apart at the seams. Instead, Gary took his crutches in one hand, cradled her arm and led her inside.

"Tell me what is going on, but first sit down, woman. You look like you're going to keel over any minute. Would you like a glass of water?"

"For heaven's sake, Gary, listen. That bloke might be on his way up. I spotted him right in front of the hotel. We need to call the cops!"

"Did he see you?"

"I'm not sure. The bloke zipped past so fast. He had some sort of argument with the locals. Probably because he was on the road. I don't want to find out." Ike, who had bounced up from the sofa, was windmilling her arms, if she got any closer, she would knock him out."

"He zipped past?"

"Yes, in his wheelchair. Brian Clarke, managing director of Serious Study Tours."

That was either impressive or impossible or both. "Did he see you?"

"I don't think so. He vanished down the street."

"How did you work that one out?"

"What do you mean, work out?"

"Well, it so happens I've come to the same conclusion."

She narrowed her eyes. "Oh, do you really?"

"Yes. Jeff sent the picture, and I realised what had bothered me. A much younger man in a wheelchair, rolling on the past behind the senior citizens. He's half hidden, so it didn't click immediately. But you didn't have that picture, so how on Earth did you work it out."

Her gaze skittered aside, then slid back towards him. "No. I had your briefcase instead. Brigitte left it here." Ike turned away from him and stepped towards the door that led to the balcony. Gary felt irritation followed by the first touches of anger tugging at his sleeve.

"My briefcase?" he said, carefully keeping his tone neutral.

"Yes. Sorry. Normally I wouldn't have touched it. But I had this hunch, and I wanted to find out if you kept some intel on the competition." She turned back towards him, her impressive eyes, dull a moment before, back to their sparkling self. "Guidetti came while Brigitte was with me. We realised that those tracks the chambermaid saw were made by a wheelchair. And then I remembered what Shalon had told me about her boss. I wanted to work out whether I was right. Then I found the takeover letter. And then . . ."

"Then what?"

"It all made sense. I knew who the killer was." The eyes slipped aside again.

She wasn't speaking the truth. At least not completely. He filed that away for further reference and focussed on the rest of the babble gushing from Ike like a Villa d'Este waterspout.

"Those marks in the jamb and on the tiles. Also caused a wheelchair. He must have been in a real hurry both times. Those strong arms I felt around me at the fountain? I would imagine that guy is built like a linebacker, from pushing himself around all the time."

"Spot on," Gary said. "He can walk, but not far, his legs are not up to it, they got crushed pretty bad in that accident. Did you happen to share your insights with the local constabulary?"

"Yes. Guidetti's not impressed. A murderer in a wheelchair doesn't really push his buttons. He doesn't believe in the attack, he still thinks I'm making that one up. The marks in the doorframes can be anything, and the tracks are gone, mopped up. He's now busy analysing DNA on the scarf, but that's no good to anybody." Her eyes flashed with determination. "Gary, we need to act. Now. Good that you're here, it has given me an idea."

Had the murderer popped in the same moment, Gary could not have been more scared.

Do let me know if you have questions or comments on my novel. Constructive suggestions and feedback are always welcome! And thank you for reading. In doing so, you give my writing a purpose.