Two years later David and Thomas were sitting on the terrace of their former house that now served as the centre of golf club. The costly renovation work had just been completed and the place still smelt of fresh paint. In the golden light of the sunset the pair looked out dreamily on to the golf course below them. There they saw golfers, clad mainly in white, striding across the green or taking a caddy to their next drive. What was once agricultural land had been reshaped to present a varied landscape of golfing greens interspersed with woodlets, streams, ponds and hillocks. Today the couple were celebrating what they liked to call a “very special kind of birthday”. For it was exactly two years to the day that David had found himself staring at the blade of the knife Sara was holding held in his face while shackled Thomas was forced to look on helplessly. They were just seconds away from death.
The called over the waiter and ordered a bottle of Dom Perignon, 2003 vintage, to mark the occasion of their “rebirth.” Just moments it arrived, brought over by Chiara Bertani. She greeted them with a broad smile and announced, “signori, welcome to Valle del Vento Country Club. This bottle is on the house.“
Chiara told them that she had given up her bar in Lama Niccone to take up the well paid job she’d offered here at the clubhouse.
David and Thomas congratulated her and raised their glasses to thank her for the generous gesture. Thomas couldn’t resist adding: “Long live the sport of golf.“
© 2015 by Peter Carl
All Rights reserved
First published in 2015 by hansanord Verlag
ISBN: 978-3-940873-85-9
English translation: Carol Carl-Sime
Coveridea: Sascha Carl
Cover and Layout: Anna Radlbeck
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The sound of the pages rustling as David Mandelson browsed through his newspaper was enough to disturb Thomas Boyle’s siesta in the stillness of their Umbrian country garden. Sitting up with a start, he leaned forward in his deckchair and scowled at his partner.
“Do you have to make such a noise on this delightfully peaceful afternoon?“ he complained with exaggerated indignation.
“Hmm, while you’ve been sleeping I’ve been trying to rescue our most important asset,“ retorted David.
He’d been studying the Financial Times and come across an article discussing the dramatic fall in property prices in the USA and England. It reinforced his fear that the current crisis on the property markets would not go unnoticed in Italy.
“I’m wondering if we shouldn’t sell up as soon as possible. We could still get a decent price for our house here in Umbria and use that cash to buy a lovely property in England that would be relatively cheap,“ David murmured.
Thomas picked up on David’s soliloquy immediately. ”If you’d listened to me in the first place, we’d have sold this huge place over a year ago and made a really good profit on it.“
David looked across to his partner of more than twenty years, ready to defend his position.
”Thomas, we might well have got a better price then, but on the other hand, we’d have had to pay a far higher one in England. At the end of the day, we won’t be any worse off. And besides, here in Umbria it’s mainly houses in the price bracket of under a million Euros that are affected by the fall in demand. A property like ours will attract the seriously rich who still have plenty of money to spare. They’re not particularly bothered by the crisis.“
Following the collapse of Lehman Brothers in the autumn of 2008, it was not just the property market in the States that was badly hit. In Britain, too, house prices had plummeted. And, in their wake, mortgage lenders had become increasingly nervous. With the banks adjusting mortgages to correspond to the fall in the value of real estate, many British house-owners who’d benefited from the earlier property boom and run up major debts to fulfil their dream of a second home abroad were now having to sell up to meet their commitments in England.
Those Britons in particular who had seen the value of their houses increase substantially during the property boom and taken on an additional mortgage to fulfil their dream of a holiday residence or retirement home in the relatively unspoilt countryside north of Lake Trasimeno, suddenly found themselves in financial difficulties as house prices started to tumble. With the banks adjusting mortgages to correspond to the fall in the value of real estate, many house-owners, who had run up major debts to purchase their paradise in Italy, were now having to sell up their second homes to meet mortgage commitments in England. And the more they came under pressure, the more this impacted on house prices in Umbria. Confronting the rise in supply was the rapidly downward spiral of demand. However, such concerns in these crisis-stricken times remained alien to multi-millionaires – be their fortune in dollars, pound sterling, Euros or roubles. Their losses from sinking share prices were relatively minor seen in the wider scheme of things. Why should a multimillionaire worry if, probably only for a while, the odd million or two are missing?
In fact, the demand for illustrious properties could even be expected to rise during a financial crisis and avoid hectic fluctuations on the financial markets – through creative solutions such as tax-saving schemes for wealthy non-doms in the form of bricks and mortar.
For these and other wealthy house-seekers the small rural community of Lama Niccone, tucked away in the hills between Umbria and Tuscany north of Lake Trasimeno, provided just the answer – not least of all thanks to the services of James Martin. The local estate agent specialised in clients keen to exploit the opportunity of investing discreetly in luxury properties in exquisite locations.
It was back in the early 1990s that the American James Martin started paying regular visits to the area around Lama Niccone – initially as a holidaymaker. For his vacations there in the hills he soon found a dilapidated parsonage, complete with disused church, which he went about converting into a more than comfortable domicile. Eventually his personal circumstances in the USA convinced him that it was time to leave the States and settle in Italy. For him, the move with his wife and child was in a sense ‘back to the roots’, since some forty years earlier James Martin – then Geremia Martini - had emigrated from Sardinia, where his family had lived in abject poverty, to seek his fortune in America.
How he had made his money in those days remains something of a mystery. Now, on returning to Italy, he played to the full the role of successful American businessman. He saw his future commercial prospects in investing in the remains of old buildings with extensive land attached to them, developing them through restoration and renovation into superior properties and selling them off to high-class clientele. His business strategy included taking potential clients out on hunts for wild boar and deer in the local woods, playing golf with them and inviting them to dine with him in the region’s finest gourmet restaurants.
Within just a few years he had managed to acquire some thousand hectares of land in the countryside close to his house. His extensive portfolio of properties included a lofty mediaeval village built around a – more or less – intact fortified castle.
However, the real value of his properties lay not so much in the extensive oak woods and chestnut forests overlooking the valleys, nor in the fertile tobacco and sunflower fields below. By far the greatest treasures in James Martin’s portfolio were to found on the often overgrown hillsides – in the piles of stone remains of what were once farmhouses, stables and barns.
These discreet locations and, above all, the local property laws permitting the construction of residential homes in remote, nature-protected areas only where once, long, long ago, a building had stood, made the crumbled stone walls and ivy-clad stables into true goldmines. James Martin, together with his wife Carolina, an interior designer of noble Neapolitan descent, and his architect-trained son Nicholas transformed these ruins and their surroundings into icons of exquisite taste – boasting infinity swimming pool, tennis courts, sauna, fully equipped outdoor kitchen, vineyard, orchard and olive grove.
For such exclusive features Martin’s clients, who came to him through collaboration with a prestigious real estate agency or had been lured by effusive feature articles in glossy magazines, were willing to pay anything between four and eight million dollars. Martin’s business model extended to providing obligatory full-service: including cook, gardener, pool maintenance, child care on-request and limousine service. The costs for these extra creature comforts amounted to some eighty thousand Euros a year, a sum that had to be paid in advance into the Martins’ business.
James Martin’s offer of exclusivity attracted sufficient numbers of interested parties, all of whom laid the greatest emphasis on absolute discretion. Among them were prominent actors and film directors wishing to hide from the public eye, also Anglo-Saxon investment bankers and traders keen to spend their bonuses on a luxurious residence and super-rich business people engaged in offshore property activities.
The Martinis had by now completed the restoration and sale of roughly half of the sixty or so ruins in their portfolio. So the time was rife to launch the next enterprise: the conversion of the fortified, hill-top village of Monte Rose into a high-class boutique hotel surrounded by elegant holiday homes and apartments created fro the remains of outbuildings.
James Martin calculated that this would keep his wife and son more than busy for the foreseeable future, thus allowing him to turn his attention to a different project – one that was particularly close to his heart but as yet still secret. It would require not only his fullest concentration and effort but also utmost discretion as long as all the formalities were not settled. James Martin was confident that the final hurdles could soon be overcome.
Having ended his short discussion with Thomas, David was about to resume reading the Financial Times when his mobile phone on the terrace table rang.
„Pronto!“ he answered.
„Good afternoon, it’s James Martin speaking. I hope I’m not disturbing your well earned siesta?“
A wide-eyed Thomas placed his hand over the mouthpiece and whispered to David, “It’s James Martin!“
David shrugged his shoulders, a gesture suggesting ‘so what does he want?‘
„Good afternoon, James! It’s Thomas Boyle speaking. What can I do for you?“
“You may already know that we’re planning a little summer festa at Monte Rose this coming Sunday. We’ve invited an award-winning youth orchestra to play and there’ll be some other surprise acts as well. My wife and I would be delighted if you could join us.“
“It sounds great. But just a minute, James, I’ll need to check with David first that we don’t have something else lined up for Sunday.“
Thomas again placed his hand over the mouthpiece and told David about the invitation. After thinking about it briefly, he nodded in agreement. “James, thank you for inviting us. We’d love to join you. What time should we come?“
“We’re planning to start late morning, around eleven o’clock, and will be putting on a buffet lunch. Then, early afternoon we’ll begin the programme in the open air. Luckily it’s not too hot at this time of the year.“
“Fine, so we’ll see you Sunday. Have a good evening.“
Once the phone was switched off, Thomas and David pondered for a moment as to why they had been invited to the festa, for although they saw James Martin around the village and local town from time to time, they’d never socialised with him or other members of his family up till now.
After the surprise phone call Thomas returned to the subject of selling the house.
“Let’s get serious and put the house on the market. I reckon the best way to go about it is to ask our old friend Marc Peterson to discuss the sale with us. After all, he was the one who found us this place. So why shouldn’t he sell it for us now?“
Thomas was certain David wouldn’t object. And right he was. Indeed, David really liked the suggestion and was only too glad that Thomas was taking the initiative.
„Good idea. Why don’t we ring him immediately and arrange an appointment with him as soon as possible – preferably tomorrow morning.“
Thomas went inside the house, telephone in his hand, and came out a few minutes later to say, “tomorrow it is. He’s gong to come to us around five in the afternoon.“
“That’s good,“ said David with a smile
For the past two decades, the Briton Marc Peterson and his wife Helen had been living in an old farmhouse, which they had loving restored over the years. It was situated in the Tiber valley not far from Marceto Rubicone, a market town that for some time now had been drawing Britons to the area like a magnet. This was due not least of all to the services of Marc Peterson, who had set himself up as a real estate agent selling houses mainly in the Umbrian hills between Marceto Rubicone and Castel Montone and in the more gently rolling landscape of the Niccone valley, where the river dividing Umbria from Tuscany joined the Tiber at Marceto Rubicone. In this predominantly agricultural part of the world dozens of Britons had settled over the years: among them a surgeon-turned-car dealer who had made his fortune from selling old-timers, a painter, who in earlier days had been art director of an international advertising agency and an ex-film-starlet from London’s East End, who thanks to her blonde hair and curvaceous shape had appeared in minor roles in a couple of Fellini films in her younger days and now lived peacefully in retirement with her much younger lover. Every Wednesday on market day in Marceto Rubicone, these ex-pats would meet up around eleven o’clock at the Bar Centrale to exchange news and local gossip over several glasses of prosecco or gin and tonic.
Three quarters of an hour before the agreed meeting with David und Thomas, Marc Peterson set off in his Land Rover. He opted for the road through the Niccone valley, allowing himself enough time en route to check out the recently erected construction cranes on the hillsides and follow the progress the building sites on James Martin’s estate were making. At Monte Rose he turned off on to what was known locally as the tobacco road in order to take a shortcut to San Sebastiano. On arriving at the top of a steep hill he stopped the car – not so much to admire the spectacular view across to the Tuscan side of the Niccone valley as to take a closer look at the house built in the style of a Roman villa that James Martin had recently sold to a Scottish millionaire’s family. The electrically charged fences and constantly rotating video cameras were clear evidence of the high level of security surrounding the house luxury property.
Half a mile away, on the opposite side of the road, Marc could just make out between the oaks and chestnut trees a small part of the vast estate recently acquired by a Hollywood director and his wife, a former actress.
Continuing his journey, Marc drove down the serpentine pass leading to his destination, Valle del Vento, where David and Thomas lived.
Arriving on time, Marc rang the bell on the heavy iron gates that protected access to the long driveway up to the house. A few seconds later the security gates swung open to let Marc in. After parking the car in front of the garage, Marc raced up the steps to the terrace and called out to his friends David and Thomas who were waiting to greet him.
„I hope you’ve got a strong sun-downer for me. I wouldn’t mind a gin and tonic, even though the sun hasn’t gone down yet.“
All three laughed and shook hands before sitting down to relax in the armchairs on the terrace. Minutes later Thomas was up again to mix the drinks in the kitchen.
“So you really are planning your exodus from country life here?“ asked Marc. “For a gem of a house like this you should find it easy to attract the odd tax evader or two, who’d love to take it over,“ he chuckled. And with that, he raised his glass to toast the plans of the couple.
“Here’s to a successful house sale.“
David und Thomas then expanded on the idea of putting their property with its grand house and eighty hectares of fields and forests on the international property market. Marc agreed with their analysis of the current situation and went on to reassure them about the prospects:
“Unlike houses in the lower price brackets of four hundred thousand to nine hundred thousand Euros – with the usual three bedrooms and half a hectare of land - properties like yours enjoy a much more stabile market. Precisely because of the financial crisis, people in Europe and America are looking for investment opportunities where, if possible, they can by-pass the tax authorities. And these days the group of investors will also include Russian millionaires and oligarchs, who don’t know what else to do with their money, which often comes from highly dubious sources.“
“So you’re confident we won’t have to wait long before we find a buyer?“ Thomas’ thoughts were already racing ahead from selling their present domicile to embarking on house hunting in England – whereby it occurred to him it needn’t necessarily be London, his original idea. In fact, come to that, it didn’t have to be England at all.
“How do you feel about South Africa?“ he asked his partner David, who stared at him in bafflement.
“What do you mean by that?“ he replied.
„Well, for one thing, the weather there is a darned sight better than in England.“ Thomas looked rather sheepish as he said this since he knew David - some twenty years older than himself and well into retirement - was utterly fed up with moving house every few years from one exotic location to another. The pair of them had once lived in South Africa. Then, California and now it was Italy. David simply wanted to settle down and enjoy his retirement. And, for him, that meant returning to his beloved England with all the cultural stimulation and get-togethers with old friends it had to offer. Admittedly, he’d made a number of good friends, too, in Italy – among several British ex-pats – but the call of the homeland was becoming ever stronger.
“It was just a thought,“ Thomas added, trying to cool the subject. He quickly turned his attention back to Marc.
“How much do you reckon we could get for our property?”
Marc didn’t need long to give them his estimate. “You should ask for three and a half million Euro. I’m sure you could get more than three million.“
Thomas looked out across the verdant valley to the narrow serpentine road leading to the crossroads saddled between the romantic village of Castel Montone at the top of the hill and the fortified town of Passignano on the lake below. For sure, he was going to miss Umbria – the „green heart of Italy“ – with its vast expanse of woods, picturesque hill-top towns like Perugia, Assisi and Todi and the easy access to Rome, Florence and Siena further afield. No doubt on rainy days in his future house in England he could see himself becoming homesick for the Umbrian sun – certainly in the period from early spring to late autumn, though far less so in winter when the climate was not that different from Britain and he would need to escape to warmer climes. But most of all, of course, he would miss the friends he and David had made in Italy, a rich mix of people from all over the world.
Well, who knows, thought Thomas, ‘perhaps we’ll find a way to have the best of both worlds?’
“All right, Marc, so it’s now full speed ahead with selling the house. Then you can show us what your reputation in the real estate business is worth and come up with some big-spenders, And once that’s settled we can start thinking about looking for somewhere in England,“ said Thomas teasingly, raising his glass to his guest with the words “cheers, there’s no stopping us now!“
Marc made some hasty notes, making sure to clarify with his hosts that he was right “in assuming the buyer will be paying my agent’s fee of five percent?“
“If you can come up with a good deal – and very soon at that – we’ll be more than happy to top the figure up,“ added David with a broad grin.
On the following Sunday morning, around 11.15, David and Thomas arrived at the Martins’ festa in Monte Rose. Their host welcomed them with such enthusiasm it was as if they were the guests of honour. Shouting at the top of his voice, he called out to his wife.
“Carolina, come and see who’s just arrived. It’s our guests from Valle del Vento!“
The lady of the manor floated across the medieval cobbled stones to welcome the new arrivals with open arms. For a brief moment David was tempted to recoil from the embrace he could see coming. But he quickly resisted the temptation, choosing instead to extend his hands in a gesture that signalled a stiff hug.
After the effusive hostess had greeted Thomas with the full treatment of kiss to the right, kiss to the left and kiss to the right again, she linked arms with the two men, one on each side of her, and marched them over to the lavish buffet. Then she signalled to the waitress in her frilly apron and white bonnet to serve them glasses of prosecco that were balanced delicately on a silver tray.
“Salute, and again, welcome to Monte Rose,“ announced Carolina Martin as she raised her glass. She was quickly joined by her husband, who toasted their apparently very important guests even more profusely than she did.
“I’m sure we’ll find time in the course of the day to discuss a matter very close to my heart,“ declared James Martin before moving on to other guests.
On that early summer’s day David and Thomas were only too pleased to have time first to enjoy the delicious food, drink elegant wines and be uplifted by the accompaniment of joyous Baroque music. Among the guests were strikingly large numbers of Americans and Britons as well as a few Germans, who conspicuously preferred to keep themselves to themselves.
Standing out very much in contrast to these brightly clad foreigners was a small group of Italians, most of whom were dressed in dark suits and two-piece costumes more appropriate to a funeral service. In their midst, leaning on a walking stick and sporting a bright green blazer stood the tiny figure of an elderly red-haired woman.
It was Elizabeth Morgan, clearly the centre of attention within the Italian speaking community. Although American, she saw herself very much as one of the locals. On retiring from her job as languages teacher with the US Department of Defence in Naples, she had made her home in Umbria, where she ran a highly successful bed-and-breakfast guesthouse for tourists, who came mainly from the States. During the one and a half decades she had lived in her converted farmhouse in the hamlet of San Sebastiano alongside her Italian neighbours she had built up a wide circle of friends, among them both local and foreign residents - thanks to her engaging personality. The dinner parties at Elizabeth’s house were legendary, regarded as the absolute top venue for multicultural, multinational get-togethers that embraced the entire social spectrum around her.
Everyone loved and respected Elizabeth. Always ready to listen to others, she was the perfect sounding board as well the most charming hostess. These were roles that came easily to her – being fluent in four languages: English, Italian, Spanish and German.
At the Sunday festa in Monte Rose, David and Thomas quickly joined the Italian entourage gathered around Elizabeth. And it was here they picked up in a series of conversations hot rumours that Signor Martin was planning a project on a grand scale, which would bring pots of money pouring into the locality. But not everyone was happy with this as David, a former lawyer and attentive listener, detected. What exactly people feared was still nebulous at this point.
As soon as the concert following the food and drink was over, James Martin came over and extracted the British couple from Elizabeth’s group. He ushered them into his vaulted wine cellar, where the pair took a seat on a rustic bench while James went off to select one of his best vintages for a tasting session. He quickly returned with a slightly dusty bottle of red wine and opened it very carefully. After the three oft them had savoured several sips of the highly noble contents James came straight to the point.
“I’ve heard from various sources you’re thinking of selling your property.“
“Chinese whispers do travel fast in this part of the world,“ commented Thomas with an air of indignation.
„So it’s true then,“ replied James Martin, as he got up from his seat and looked meaningfully at Thomas und David.
“Yes, it is. And we’re making no secret of the fact. On the contrary, the sooner the word gets around, hopefully the quicker we’ll find a financially strong buyer,“ responded David in an attempt to ease the atmosphere.
“I may have someone for you already,“ replied James triumphantly. “We must get together soon and discuss things further.“
David nodded in agreement. “So let’s get down to brass tacks as soon as possible. Would next Wednesday – say late afternoon – suit you? We’d like to include our advisor Marc Peterson in the discussion, since he’s the one we’ve commissioned to sell the house.“
James Martin took his diary out of the pocket of his white linen jacket and flicked through it.
“Wednesday evening around six o’clock would be fine. Of course I don’t mind if Marc joins us. I don’t want to spoil his business.“
“Can’t you tell us here and now who the buyer is you have in mind?“ Thomas fidgeted around on his seat as he asked. He was keen to know.
“Let’s leave it till Wednesday to discuss the details. I don’t want to be too hasty.“
David and Thomas, satisfied with this explanation, finished up their wine, and the three of them rejoined the party al fresco – but not without receiving some sceptical side glances from Elizabeth’s entourage.
* * *
In the evening following the Martin’s festa David and Thomas were sitting on the west-facing terrace to capture the last rays of sun on what had been a day of perfect weather. Thomas had his laptop on his knees and was surfing through the property pages looking for town apartments for sale in the area not far from their current house. He was particularly interested in both Città di Castello to the north and the idyllic, hilltop village of Panicale to the south of Lake Trasimeno. He still had to persuade David of his secret plans but was confident he’d manage this. Città di Castello, in particular, with its excellent restaurants and vibrant cultural life was bound to appeal to David. In the autumn especially, during the season of white truffles, there were always a whole series of lively events and interesting menus in and around the town. And it had the added advantage that it was less than thirty kilometres from where they were living now. So easily near enough to stay in close touch with the friends they’d made.
That evening they went to bed early, both preoccupied with the prospect of selling the house and where the might end up.
Well after midnight, around 3 o’clock in the morning, David was rudely awakened by the sound of howling sirens coming from the road. He hastily nudged Thomas and the pair of them listened intently as the noise grew louder and nearer. They could hear the screeching tyres of a police car in hot pursuit of the fire brigade as both vehicles hurtled down the dirt track close to English couple’s house. But theirs was not the one the emergency services had been sent out to. The vehicles shot past the path leading to their driveway and continued on to the neighbouring property.
Thomas jumped out bed and rushed to the window to see what was happening. His cry off horror alarmed David, who immediately joined him at the window. What they saw was a huge glow of fire some five hundred yards away, where a conifer grove bordered on to pastureland used for grazing sheep.
From a distance David and Thomas could see the fire brigade fighting the blaze. Less than an hour later the flames were extinguished, the scene was calmer and only thick black smoke remained. But shortly afterwards David and Thomas witnessed again the wailing of sirens. However, this time they appeared not to come from the police or fire brigade. It sounded more like an ambulance..
“It looks as if somebody’s been hurt by the fire,“ said David. “Let’s hope it’s not serious.“
* * *
Commissario Eduardo Graziano plodded around the scene of the fire to what remained of the burnt out barn. Here his carabinieri officers had found badly damaged farm machinery, which according to the fire brigade was no doubt where the fire had started. Commissario Graziano decided to inspect the barn for himself. He was still annoyed at being called out in the middle of night to what for him was no more than a paltry shed used by the local Sardinian sheep farmer, who kept his flock in the adjacent field. But h now that he was here, Graziano felt he might as well make the most of the investigation. He ordered his assistants to stay where they were as he moved in on the scene of the fire. Using a stick he’d picked up in the nearby wood, he poked around in the charred remains of the barn. Suddenly the stick touched something soft. Graziano stepped back and waved vigorously to his officers to come over. They shone their torches on the spot indicated by il commissario and, after a few seconds, they, too, stepped back, staring in horror at the sight of two charcoaled arms outstretched, the cramped hands fixed in a claw-like gesture.
After recovering from the shock, the three carabinieri moved in on the macabre discovery and established that it was the body of a severely burnt man – and clearly a very dead man at that.
With their torches they then inspected the corpse from head to foot. Apart from the fatal burns covering the entire body they could not detect any other obvious injuries.
„And for this we’ve had to get up in the middle of night,“ grumbled Graziano. “The man obviously wanted to spend the night here and fell asleep with his cigarette still alight.“
Graziano then ordered the paramedics, whom he had called out, to take the body to Perugia for a post-mortem, even though he was convinced the forensic examination would come to the same conclusions as he had – namely death either from suffocation through smoke inhalation or from severe burns. Commissario Graziano concluded it was a tragic accident; not a case for a murder inquiry.
As soon as the police, fire brigade and ambulance had left the scene, Thomas went into the kitchen and turned on the espresso machine. He could do with a strong coffee after all the excitement of the past few hours. Dawn was beginning to break, the birds were singing though the sun had not yet risen. He looked at his watch. It was just gone six and very peaceful outside.
“Shall we go and see what’s been happening?“