Image by William Randles from Unsplash

Ike fingered the Agatha Christie in her pocket for reassurance, but it was a shut-eye, not whacky magic she needed right now. Back in her room and halfway towards her bed, her brain raised the alarm.

Ike swung around and rushed back to the doorframe, all the while ignoring Gary's inquisitive brows.

Instead, she stared at the scratch that showed brightly in the shiny wood of the doorframe.

Placed roughly at hip height, the scar in the veneer started close to the lock and continued inside, a clear sign somebody had dragged something past the door either on the way in or on the way out.

Gary bent over to examine the mark. "Well spotted. Never noticed that. Was a bit fixated on the tracks the chambermaid found after cleaning."

"Somebody's been in my room!"

"That's what I've been trying to tell you."

"Claire here—uh, Brigitte where is she?"

"Had to catch up with her work, la pauvre. I gave her a good tip, and I know where to reach her. What is this?" Brigitte kneeled to examine the scratch.

"Has somebody been jingling the lock?"

"Shimmying," Gary and Ike chorused.

No," he continued, "Looks more like somebody scraping past."

"I've seen something similar before," Ike said, dread rising from the murky depths of her mind like a smelly swamp monster. "Same width. Roughly same height. In the ladies toilet. When I found Shalon. Only there it was some sort of black stripe."

As a wave of fear washed over her, she staggered and would have fallen had Gary not dropped his crutch and pulled her against himself. "Come, come," he mumbled into her hair. "It might mean nothing."

For a moment she was content to stay where she was, safe in the comforting warmth of a solid male body, with strong arms hugging her, pressing her close. Physical contact with other human beings was the first thing that went out of the window when a partnership slipped down the drain. Small furry mammals and good friends helped (a lot!), but they couldn't go all the way.

Reason checked back in. Gary was her partner, not hers to hug. Nor did she want to. Well, not normally. Shame at her stupid weakness sent a hot flush into Ike's cheeks, and she pulled out of the precious embrace.

Wrong word. The man had only tried to be helpful.

Once more, her vision wobbled.

"You need to lie down. At once," Brigitte commanded, put surprisingly strong arms around Ike's shoulders and pushed her down on the bed. 

From the door, Gary regarded her with an inscrutable expression on his face. Had Ike not known better, she would have called it longing. Then his eyes narrowed. "That's it. We've got to call in the pros. Do you have Guidetti's number?"

"No—Stoffelhaut gave me his, but Guidetti never did." She couldn't stop the bitterness from spreading on her tongue and sending stupid tears to her eyes. "For him, I'm nothing but a suspect. I know, I just know he'll say I left these marks myself and I imagined the attack this afternoon."

A grim expression on his face, Gary thumbed a number on the screen. He pressed the phone to his ear. Got a connection.

"Adrian? Do you have a mo?"

Squawking came from the speaker. "Sure, I'll make it short. But we're sure somebody is after my partner, Ike. As in trying to kill or at least maim her. And we can't get hold of that local copper. What? Yes, we have evidence. Two photos taken by a film crew who was around during the first act of real sabotage. An attempt to shove Ike down the steps at the Trevi fountain this afternoon. And evidence that somebody's gained access to Ike's room. According to Ike that person even left a mark on the door jamb. Should be enough, I would imagine."

Silence. No squawking.

"Hello? Ah, I thought you were gone."

The seconds ticked by as Gary took his instructions. He nodded. "Okay, we'll do that. What about Bri and myself? I figure one of us should stay here. And keep Ike's room, perhaps like that we can trick—"

Gary scowled. "No, we're not trying to play cops and robbers. I want this sorted, for feck's sake. Can't you prod that Guidetti chap into action?"
He held the phone away from his ear, wincing. "The man not happy," he said. "Adrian? Sorry, I didn't get that?" 

Gary's not-so tame cop seemed to have calmed down and was spouting more instructions, to judge from the string of "Uh huhs" Gary was muttering.

"Okay, you do that, and I'll send you those photos, the shots of the marks on Ike's door and the toilet downstairs. With our luck the stuff's been wiped off. But I'll swear blind I saw it too. Hang on, you know what I mean. Anyway, Guidetti's minions should have captured that for posterity, right?"

Gary's face fell. Apparently they did not.

"Well, then at least we can make our statements and provide the evidence from the room here. And no, I don't think that scratch was there before?" He raised his eyebrows at Ike, in an unspoken question.

She shook her head

"No, no, it's new. Anyway, we'll collect the shebang and send it across. Much appreciated, I'll owe you. What?"

Again, that brief grin that made him look so much like his boy, who sat slumped in Ike's armchair, fiddling with his beloved phone.

"Aw, come on. You don't like posh restaurants. How about a bottle of Scotland's finest? Trust me to know what's good for you, mate." He thumbed off the call and strode towards them. He didn't get far. "Ouch! I keep forgetting that blasted foot." Gary bent over to massage his mauled ankle.

"Jeff's photo has come in," Jon announced.

What photo? Before Ike could raise her head and ask, Gary had straightened and was facing his son. "Check, there should be two. One with the hand in the hedge and the other one with those senior citizens. That one is actually more important."

Senior citizens??

"Nope, only one."

"Oh blast," Gary said. "Respond to him and say we need the other one as well."

"Am I your secretary?"

"If you shanghai my mailbox, then, yes, you are. And while you're at it, you can take a shot of this doorframe and mail that to Adrian, together with the photo of the guy in the hedge."

Jon rolled his yes. "Yessir! Three bags full, sir!"

Brigitte sniggered. Boris woofed.

Gary swung towards Ike, a grim little smile on his lips. "Do me a favour and start packing. You're moving out."

Ike propped herself up on one elbow. "I am?"

"Adrian advised not to take any risks. He's found somebody who can lean on this detective chappie to be more flexible when it comes to suspects. But there's not much they can do. It appears, we don't have enough proof that somebody is trying to take you out of the equation. They still don't consider that guide's murder—what was her name?"

"Shalon."

"Thanks, Brigitte. The local boys in blue don't seem to believe this Shalon got killed because she wore Ike's windbreaker and looked like her. According to them either Ike had it in for her or there's a spurned lover in the picture somewhere."

"Bullshit! Ben is too useless to kill anybody!"

"Well, Ms Wordsworth, that's one way of putting it. Let's see if the evidence changes things. In the meantime, you need to disappear."

"Where to?"

"When I did the recce for this tour, I checked out quite a few hotels. Found a cute little place near to here, but it was too small to accommodate our group. It's in a busy area, where people with nefarious intentions can't just skulk around in the bushes and get in and out of the premises via the emergency escape."

Ike shuddered. Gary was right. That wraparound porch she had navigated earlier and the staircase leading down into the garden meant somebody could pretty easily gain access to the building.

An idea bubbled up, but Brigitte was faster. "They still need to get a card to enter the room."

"Yes, well. Ike's keycard was up for grabs while she was gone. The guy might have copied it somehow. Is that possible, Jon?"

A bored "Yes" was his response.

"See? No, you move. Now."

"But when the next group comes, they'll be in the Stella del Monte . . ."

Gary thrust out his chin. He had a cute chin. Firm, but not too square. Determined. "By the time the next group comes we either have this sorted, or you are on your way back home. I prefer the former. I'm not the world's greatest tour guide."

"Me, I think I should go with her," Brigitte said.

"Makes sense. I'll give the hotel a call. Hopefully, they'll still have rooms left. Now how about that packing?"

Ike commanded her leaden limbs to cooperate and dragged herself off the bed. She opened the cupboard while Brigitte retrieved the suitcase from the metal contraption it sat on.

"What is my handbag doing in here?"

"Ah, pardon, chérie. The maid moved it. You had left, the door was open, and your bag was sitting on the floor. With your keycard."

Ike bent over and retrieved her handbag. The little metallic rectangle slipped off a silk scarf in autumn colours stuffed into the side pocket of her bag and fell to the floor. With a sigh, she leaned over again to pick it up. Froze. Stared at the scarf. Heard that oncoming train thundering into her head. Accompanied by over-bright lights.

"The scarf!"

Gary rushed towards her. "What's the matter? You look like porridge warmed over?"

The roaring became thunder. "My scarf. It was in the side pocket of my windbreaker! That means . . . "

Gary finished the sentence for her. "The murderer took it from Shalon's body. Watch it!"

Too late. Ike vomited onto the freshly cleaned floor, missing his dusty trainers by finger's breadth.

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.