I ignored him and leaned out of the window as the Mercedes pushed its way through the crowd. The girls were a little more fashionably dressed than when I had last been here and so were the younger men, but I could smell incense and candle grease, hear voices chanting beyond the square. The crowd parted and the penitents appeared looking remarkably like the local chapter of the Ku Klux Klan in pointed hoods and long white robes.
No, nothing had changed-not down there beneath the surface where it counted.
About seven miles out of Palermo on the coast road to Messina you come to the beaches of Romagnolo, a favourite spot for city-dwellers at weekends. Hoffer’s villa was a couple of miles further on. It didn’t look more than a year or two old and had obviously been specially designed to fit into the hillside site, rising above us on three different levels with what looked like a Moorish garden crowning the highest roof.
The whole was surrounded by a high wall and we had to wait to be identified at the gates by a guard who carried an automatic rifle slung from one shoulder.
‘Why the private army?’ I asked Burke.
‘Hoffer’s a rich man. Since this business with the girl he’s been getting worried. Maybe they’ll have a go at him next.’
Which seemed reasonable enough. Kidnapping was, after all, one of Sicily’s oldest industries and in any case, I’d been to parties at houses in Bel Air where the gatekeeper was armed. Sicily wasn’t the only society where the rich got neurotic about the prospect of someone trying to take it away from them.
On the other hand, Hoffer certainly seemed to cover all his bets. Even our driver, a burly Norman-Sicilian with ginger hair, was wearing a shoulder holster, a fact which his tight-fitting chauffeur’s uniform made rather too obvious.
There was a scent of wistaria in the air and I could see the purple blooms in profusion on the other side of the drive. It was all very lush, very Mediterranean with palm trees carefully placed to make every vista please and yet its very harmony was vaguely unsettling. Things were a little too perfect, a design on paper, pro-duct of some expert mind, planned to produce results in the shortest possible time. An instant garden.
The Mercedes braked in a gravelled circle in front of the entrance and a couple of houseboys came down in a hurry to get the bags. As they went back up the steps a woman appeared in the porch and looked down at us languidly.
She was small, dark haired and with the kind of body that can only be described as ripe. She was Sicilian to the backbone, twenty-two or three by my judgement, although she looked older as southern women often do. She was wearing black leather riding pants, a white silk shirt knotted at her waist and a Cor-doban hat.
‘And who might that be?’ Piet demanded.
‘Hoffer’s girl friend. I’ll see what the situation is.’
Burke went up the steps and they held a brief, whis-pered conversation that died as I joined them.
‘Hoffer isn’t here at the moment,’ Burke told me. ‘Had to go to Gela on business last night, but he’s due back later on this afternoon. I’d like you to meet Signorina Rosa Solazzo. Rosa, my good friend Stacey Wyatt.’
Her English was excellent. She held my hand briefly, but didn’t remove her sunglasses. ‘A pleasure, Mr. Wyatt. I’ve heard a great deal about you.’
Which might have been true or could have been merely conventional politeness. Hoffer didn’t sound like the sort who needed any confidante and from the look of her, it seemed more likely that he kept her around solely to help him through those long night watches.
She turned to Burke. ‘Rooms are arranged for you. The servants will take you up. I suppose you’d like to shower and change so I’ll order the meal for an hour from now.’
She left and we followed the houseboys through a large cool hall where everything seemed to swim in green and gold and up a short flight of stairs to the second tier of the building.