‘I’m sorry. I’m very sorry about your husband,’ he said, acting.
She nodded and opened the door behind her. The flat was functional but expensively fitted; in the kitchen he could hear an espresso machine hissing.
‘This is my friend’s flat – she’s a hospital administrator. One of the perks of the job. Coffee?’ she said. She was calm, in control, but he could sense the electricity of her nerves humming beneath the surface, like a failing neon light.
‘Please,’ said Dryden, wondering what state he would be in under similar circumstances.
‘Another cup, Liz,’ she called, and then folded herself down into a leather sofa.
A woman appeared at the door. She was smartly dressed but looked tired. ‘I really think this is a mistake,’ she said. ‘You need to rest. Mr Dryden can get his story another time.’
Thanks, witch, thought Dryden, smiling.
‘It’s OK, Liz – please.’ Suddenly Dr Beaumont looked as if she might cry, and her self-appointed guardian retreated.
She brought her legs up, kicking off the leather flat-heeled shoes. ‘There’s no point in pretending this hasn’t happened,’ she said, fingering the white linen edge of her jacket. Dryden waited to be asked before sitting, trying to give her all the space she might want.
‘This must have been a terrible shock,’ he said, producing a notebook.
She smiled, and Dryden felt she made an extraordinarily good job of it. ‘Yes – yes, of course. I can’t believe it now. Such a barbarous thing to do, and cowardly.’
Her eyes blanked out, as if she were seeing something which hovered between them. Had she identified the body? If she had, Dryden guessed her odd sense of calm could be due to shock, or sedation.
He jotted the quote down, making sure he had it right before carrying on. ‘When did you know your husband was missing?’
‘I didn’t. We’d had dinner together here – Liz was out at a hospital trust meeting.’ She paused, appearing to lose the thread of her narrative. ‘We were at Girton together,’ she said, waiting for this news to have some impact. Dryden stared back, making her go on.
Her eyes swam. ‘Sorry. Yes, we had dinner and talked. Then Aze had to be back on the site – the police had given him a warning, about the nighthawks. He’d promised to keep an eye on the site overnight. I drove him back to the Portakabin. I told him to stay here – it was so unnecessary.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, they’d been – while he was off the site. They must have been watching. The gate locks were cut, the padlock was just hanging there. Aze said they’d used bolt-cutters. He was very agitated, I offered to stay with him but he said he’d survey the site and then ring the police. I should have stayed,’ she said, her head dropping slightly.
Dr Hayden reappeared with Dryden’s coffee. He stood to take the cup and shook hands with the hospital administrator, who clearly disapproved of journalists. She extracted her fingertips quickly and retreated to the kitchen to immerse them in disinfectant.
Dryden tried to re-engage his witness. He’d already learnt something DS Cavendish-Smith had kept to himself; no wonder he was so interested in the nighthawks. The detective had interviewed Dr Beaumont that morning, and must have known about the nighthawks’ raid before taking Dryden’s statement at California.
‘I’m sorry to ask these questions, they must seem trivial. But we’re a local paper – and I understand Professor Valgimigli had roots here – he was born here? Is that right? And you?’
‘Yes. I’m afraid Aze was not particularly proud of his origins. He rather played up the Italian academic. It was a game, really. We met at Ten Mile Bank – in 1982. I was 17.’ She laughed, forgetting herself again. ‘I’d met his brother at school in Cambridge. They were bright, the brothers, very bright.’
She looked wistful, and then her eyes began to fill again. ‘The family,’ said Dryden quickly. ‘The Valgimiglis – what did they do in Ten Mile Bank? It’s an odd place to end up.’
‘They’re still there. They changed their name, of course – after the war, such a mouthful. The father – Marco – wanted something more anglicized, I think, for the restaurant. So – Roma.’
Dryden’s head span. ‘Il Giardino?’ he said, trying to imagine the urbane Azeglio in the down-at-heel greasy spoon and recalling the fight the diggers had witnessed at California.
‘Indeed. Which is why Azeglio left, I think – not really his idea of a life, Mr Dryden. And he took the old name with him. He and Jerome had enjoyed a private education, you see – before the money ran out. Azeglio did history at Cambridge – we were undergraduates together.’
‘But the younger brother must be Pepe, surely?’
‘Three brothers, Mr Dryden. Pepe is the youngest – Jerome was in the middle.’
‘And Jerome is…?’
She closed her eyes, a hand rising to massage her forehead. ‘Family questions, Mr Dryden – perhaps another time?’ She looked suddenly exhausted, the low sunshine making her narrow her eyes, the heavy lids almost closing again.
‘I’m sorry.’ Dryden checked his watch. ‘I won’t be a second. Just a small point – I don’t believe in coincidences. How was it that your husband ended up directing an archaeological dig in Ely? I understood he has a chair at Lucca – surely not in Anglo-Saxon studies?’
She took a deep breath, the ever-present Liz now hovering by the kitchen door: ‘His thesis – at Cambridge – was on the Anglo-Saxon theory of kingship. He had been a digger in his student days on several similar sites, and particularly the chariot burial at Manea, not far to the east. At Lucca he heads the school of Etruscan studies, a much more popular subject, clearly. But sabbaticals are common and academics keep track of what’s going on. He had a friend here who alerted him to the prospect of the dig… and was able to recommend his work. His was an outstanding application, I think – they were lucky to get him.’
‘Can you remember the friend’s name?’
‘Mann,’ she said sharply. ‘Dr S. V. Mann. He taught Azeglio, both of us, actually.’
‘I see. But why did he want the job – your husband? It seems an odd ambition.’
She laughed. ‘It was not perhaps apparent, Mr Dryden, but my husband was an extraordinarily proud man. He left the family, as I have said, when he was twenty-one. It had cast a shadow over his life, I think. He wanted to come back, to perhaps make peace with his mother, with Pepe. This appointment gave him the professional cover he required. I think he took some pride from it as well. It rather proved his point, did it not? If he’d stayed he’d be the part-owner of a rundown roadside café.’
She stood, the cue for Dryden’s final question. ‘Have you any idea who could have done this? Had he been threatened?’
‘Not at all. No. But he was intrigued by what they’d found in the tunnel. I don’t think he was entirely honest with the police about what he knew – I’ve had to explain that today several times. You see, he knew all about it of course.’ She’d said too much, and a glance to her friend pleaded for help.
‘About what?’ asked Dryden, keeping to his seat.
‘The moon tunnel,’ she said, slumping back to the sofa.
Dryden’s pulse jumped. He thought quickly. ‘Could I have some sugar?’ he asked, diverting the brooding presence of Dr Haydon back to the kitchen.
‘The moon tunnel?’ asked Dryden, drinking as much of the coffee as he could before the sugar bowl arrived.
Her eyes switched to the fog beyond the window where a watery sun had just penetrated the canopy of grey. ‘There’s not much to tell. That’s what they called it. Marco was one of a group of prisoners who dug a tunnel. I suspect that at first they thought of escape, but then that seemed pointless. So they had a better idea. Serafino was a petty thief – at least that was Marco’s story. It was wartime, the police were stretched, these old houses had little security…’