Brian Freemantle - Madrigal for Charlie Muffin

Willoughby’s office had reserved him a room at the Grand Ville, on the Via Sistina. It was just two streets away from the Eden; even with the detour because of the roadworks, the distance was not more than four hundred yards. It was into the Eden that the British security team were booked.

Ostia has been the seaside for Rome since the days of the Caesars and the Billington villa occupied a site where a general serving under Claudius had lived. It was secluded from the other constructions along the coastline, the nearest neighbour at least a mile away. The highway looped along the red clay and granite cliffs, with a sheer drop into the sea on one side, and then turned sharply at a minor peak. And there, set out as if for admiration in the small valley below, was the mansion. It was built right against the cliff edge and, before the car began to descend, Charlie had a bird’s eye view of a verandah, colonnaded and heavy with grapevines and bourgainvillea overlooking the sea. There were walls on the remaining three sides and Charlie was able to make out the central courtyard around which the main house was arranged. It was almost all single-storey, with just one upper level; five bedrooms, according to the insurance information. There was a fountain, with a figure motif he couldn’t distinguish, directly in front of the gravel drive, and along its entire length there was a border of neatly barbered cypress trees. The gardens were tiered down to the perimeter fence, against which were regimented groves of olives and oranges and more wine grapes.

‘Posh,’ judged Charlie, as he slowed the car at the gate lodge. Charlie gave the name of Willoughby’s insurance firm and noted, for the report he had later to prepare, the care with which it was scrutinized against a visitors’ sheet by a uniformed security guard. As he was waved through he saw the telephone being lifted, to warn the main house.

Inside the grounds it was easier to see the cat’s cradle of electrical wiring topping the walls. There were electrical booster points at the corners and Charlie assessed the conduit weight powerful enough for a current that could kill. The cypresses were bigger than they had appeared from the approach road, shadowing the drive almost completely from the mid-morning sun. The protection ended just before the front of the house, and the sudden glare was disconcerting. Charlie squinted against the brightness, aware of a woman waiting for him. She came forward as he got out of the car, hand outstretched.

‘I’m Jane Williams,’ she said. ‘Secretary to Lady Billington.’

Charlie was conscious of her aloof scrutiny. It had been hotter that he’d expected on the drive from Rome and his suit was concertinaed. He pulled at the sleeves, trying to straighten them and dry his hands at the same time. She permitted the briefest contact.

‘Lady Billington asked me to look after you.’

Charlie grinned. ‘What does that mean?’

Her face remained blank. ‘It means I’ll conduct you through whatever sort of examination you wish to make of the security precautions of the house.’

Squire’s daughter, judged Charlie: twin-set, pearls and the hunt on Sunday. Except that because of the heat it was voile not cashmere and if she had to work for a living he didn’t expect the pearls were genuine. She probably still rode, though. She was slim and small-busted, with a full-lipped, heavy-browed face. Her dark hair was strained back into a businesslike bun at the nape of her neck and the tortoiseshell spectacles were held like a wand of office in her hand. A fashion magazine image of the perfect secretary, he thought.

‘Lady Billington suggests you join her for sherry later,’ said the girl.

‘All right.’ accepted Charlie. He noticed that the fountain motif had water coming out of a cherub’s nipples.

The secretary led the way into the villa through a side door. Charlie felt the chill of air conditioning and saw that the windows were tinted against the sun, in addition to the Venetian blinds. The floor was black and white marble, like a chessboard, and halfway down the corridor there was another fountain. This time the water was spurting from a fish’s mouth. There were recesses and alcoves with plinths and urns, and from them trailed tendrils of evergreen plants. She stopped at the beginning of the corridor that seemed to run the length of the house and said, ‘What exactly is it that you want?’

‘Reassurance, I suppose,’ said Charlie. ‘To know that the security is still good.’

‘Sir Hector is very security conscious,’ she said curtly.

‘So it would seem. Is that electric circuit on the wall operated every night?’

‘By a time switch,’ she confirmed. ‘It prevents human error, someone forgetting. There are floodlights, too, along the beach.’

‘What about the house?’

‘Why don’t you see for yourself?’

There were restraining fixtures on the majority of the ground-floor windows, preventing their being opened more than six inches. There were two sets of French windows, one at the side overlooking the seaview verandah and the other at the front of the house, leading out onto the wide driveway. On each were two sets of breaker points, to sound an alarm if contact was interrupted. In addition there were pressure pads beneath the carpeting. The same protection was installed at all the doors. There was the main entrance, the minor door through which they’d come into the house, one leading out through the kitchen and a fourth out onto the verandah, separate from the French window. Charlie followed behind the secretary from place to place, checking the details against the protection listed upon the file copy he had brought from London.

‘Are these manually activated?’ he asked, testing her.

‘Time switch again,’ she said.

‘But you can override it if you want to?’

‘Of course.’

‘Shall we see?’

‘Whatever for?’

‘To guarantee it works.’

‘Why?’

‘I would have thought that was obvious.’

‘We weren’t advised this would be necessary.’

‘I’ve only just decided it is. Bells that don’t ring aren’t an awful lot of good, are they?’

‘These work.’

‘Have you tested them?’

She moved her feet, uncomfortably. ‘No.’

‘So we’ll check, shall we?’

‘But people will have to be warned: one alarm sounds directly into the local police station.’

‘You’d better warn them, hadn’t you?’

‘Are you sure it’s necessary?’

‘Positive.’

She turned on her heel and flounced out, leaving him in what he supposed was a drawing room. Over the marble fire-place, the unspeakable in hunting pink pursued the unseen uneatable. The English scene seemed curiously out of place among the classical ornaments and carvings, which Charlie supposed were genuine. There was no sense that anyone ever visited the room except to dust. He ran his finger along the top of a side-table. They did that well enough. It was fifteen minutes before Jane Williams returned.

‘Are you ready?’ she said.

‘If you are.’

Her face was expressionless. ‘What do you want?’

‘Is the alarm set?’

‘Yes.’

‘The police warned?’

‘Yes. I told them we’d be testing for an hour and they were to ignore it during that time.’

Charlie went to the main entrance, first triggering the alarm by opening the door and then by stepping on the pressure pad. On both occasions, the alarm jangled piercingly. He repeated the process at every other entry point and at the French doors. The protection operated every time.

‘Good,’ he said.

‘I told you it worked.’

‘So you did.’

‘Can I put the system back to automatic now?’ There was a note of weariness in her voice.