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I turn my head and look at him. He’s clearly exhausted, but there’s a spark of real enthusiasm there. ‘I don’t understand you,’ I say.
‘Look, I didn’t go into the law because I hated a challenge. Or because I was allergic to work.’
‘Fine,’ I say, and push myself back off the sofa again. ‘Fine. But if we don’t find anything in this one, you owe me a negroni.’
‘If we do find something, you owe me two.’
‘Whatever.’ I pull one of the remaining two boxes towards me and open the lid. ‘Wow, that’s a change.’
This box is packed tight with folders. Old-fashioned, stiff manila folders. I lift out the top one and open it. It’s full of handwritten letters, all in Italian.
‘For you,’ I say, and plonk the folder into Marco’s lap.
‘Great,’ he says. ‘Now let’s see who owes who a negroni.’
I smile and pull another folder from the box. I’m flicking through it when I hear a sharp in-breath from Marco. ‘Hang on a minute,’ he says.
‘What?’
‘This is incredible. This isincredible. Look!’
I turn. He’s holding a piece of paper in his fingertips, cautiously, as if it were a relic or a bomb. By the look on his face, it could be either. ‘What is it?’ I ask.
He gazes at me. ‘It’s a letter… oh God, I can hardly believe it. A letter from Guido Comacchi.’
‘Sorry, who?’
‘Guido Comacchi,’ he repeats. ‘GuidoComacchi.’
‘Wait, you mean Comacchi like the car?’
‘Like the car manufacturer. Like the racing team. How can you not know who Guido Comacchi was?’
‘Never mind that. What does it say?’
‘Oh.’ Marco blinks at the paper in front of him. ‘Let me see. “My dear Rita…”’ He coughs. ‘Tori, are you sure you want me to read this?’
‘Of course I do,’ I say. ‘Why wouldn’t I?’
‘It might be personal. Really personal. Comacchi had a certain reputation as a…’
‘Serial shagger?’
‘Something like that,’ Marco says, with his lopsided grin. ‘Okay, exactly that.’
‘Then I definitely want to know,’ I say.
‘All right, if you insist.’ He clears his throat. ‘“My dear Rita, I was devastated to hear of the death of your brave Achilles.” Or Achille – that’s the name in Italian, anyway. “I didn’t know him for long, but I saw in him a rare soul and a kindred spirit, and I hoped…” Oh, wow. “I hoped that I could persuade him to race for me one day. I am sorry he won’t, but I am sorry above all for you, who have lost a beloved of such extraordinary calibre. We all send our condolences, I most of all, and if there is anything I can do for you then you must only let me know. Your devoted etc. etc.” Sorry,’ Marco says, and wipes his eyes with the back of his hand.
I’m feeling quite misty myself. ‘I wonder who he was,’ I say. ‘This brave Achilles.’
‘I think I might know.’ Marco puts the letter down and takes out his phone. A few taps at the screen, and he turns it to show me a picture. A black-and-white picture of a smiling young man, his dark hair blown back off his face, standing proudly next to an old-fashioned racing car. He’s dressed in overalls and he has a certain swagger about him, something irresistibly daring, like a flying ace in an old film. I can practically smell the testosterone.
‘Achille Infuriati,’ Marco says. ‘The Red Devil of the Valdana. The star driver of the Scuderia Guelfa. And, apparently, someone very important to your grandmother.’
15
Stella
