Rum, Sugar and Lime

By Giasone Spada

Thriller set in Turin (Italy) and Montevideo (Uruguay).
A new figure of detective
A series of events brings keen amateur detective Sandro Serino, to set about solving the disappearance of his friend Giovanni. The trail eventually takes him as far as Uruguay, where he finds himself drawn into a complex web of financial intrigue and personal affairs.
The reader is swept along with the narrator on his thrilling search, every page bringing a new revelation. Until Sandro, a young a Turin resident in search of a better future, finally finds the answers he has been looking for...
But not without one last twist in the tale.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mnamon
• Release date: Mar 22, 2021
• ISBN: 9788898061006

Giasone Spada

Giasone Spada, 50, was born in Fermo (Marche region) and lives in Novara. After graduating with a degree in Engineering, he completed his Masters in Applied Economics for Technology Studies in Paris, which he now teaches in the Faculty of Economic Engineering. He has previously published a collection of short stories, entitled Our Animal Companions, as well as various papers on Economics and Politics.

Book preview

Mole antonelliana

GIASONE SPADA

RUM, SUGAR AND LIME

A Novel

mnamon_100.jpg

Characters

- Sandro Serino – Narrator

- Giovanni Versoi – Missing Person

- Adele – Consular Official, Montevideo

- Liza – Aide to Adele

- Lazaro – Friend of Giovanni

- Count Fabrizio Moretti – Powerful Nobleman

.

Any resemblance to real persons or events is purely coincidental and a product of the author's imagination.

PROLOGUE

1.

At that late hour, the dark walls of the Villa Mandria loomed high and insurmountable.

The night they had chosen was dark and impenetrable, but for a pale half-moon whose light reached them faintly, like a table lamp in a cavernous room. It was regrettable, then, that the last few days had brought a change in the weather, so that shifting clouds now covered, at times completely, the curved face of that pale satellite. There was no turning back now, though; everything had already been arranged.

Lazaro had explained everything down to the last detail. He was to turn left at the crossroads with Via Bulbara and proceed along the avenue. Just beyond the fifteenth tree, was a well-worn path, which he should follow for one-hundred yards. At the end of this, to his right, was a narrower, less visible path, whose entrance he would recognise by the No Tipping sign.

Once beyond the pile of waste, which seemed to lie in comical defiance of the sign, he was to follow the path until he reached the villa walls.

Lazaro had also told him not to be deterred by the height: just thirty feet to his right, some missing bricks would provide a convenient foothold by which to scale the wall.

A rope attached to the tree nearby and thrown over would aid his descent. A final jump of six feet or so and he would be on the other side. They had laughed to think that this was a leap of faith in every sense, for there was also the danger that his fall would be broken by some unseen tree root or hole in the ground.

As luck would have it, a small torch showed him the way in the dark, revealing the paths and stretch of wall he was to summit. He was careful, though, to only turn it on at intervals lest the light be seen from afar.

He had come to land in a dense thicket which hid everything from view, even the light which Lazaro had promised to leave on beside the entrance to the villa.

He turned the torch on once more, holding his head at an angle so that he might to listen for any sounds; or worse still, the dreaded bark of the dog. Touching his pocket, he felt the metallic form of the pistol, which he had brought more as a precaution than out any real desire to use it. Lazaro had assured him that the Professor’s pit bull would be sound asleep. He had been promised this by the vet who sold him the sleeping pills, planted in the dog’s bowl with double the recommended dose.

A profound silence confirmed that the pit bull was sleeping while, at the same time, lending a sense of foreboding and inevitability to what he was doing.

Meeting Lazaro fourth months earlier had been like finding what he had spent a lifetime searching for.

It had been at that bar in Turin, the kind of place you only go into if you are looking for another man, where the air was thick with cigarette smoke and the atmosphere heaved with the type of chatter you only hear when the background music is intrusive enough to prohibit normal conversation. It was there, in that crush of bodies, that silence had suddenly fallen, the smoke vanished, the people dispersed and his gaze had met the black eyes of Lazaro, glinting in the middle of that beautiful Creole face.

They say that one look is all it takes: that was how it had been for him.

There, in a clearing in the wood, the villa suddenly appeared before him, lit by the cloudless face of the moon. The sight of it brought him back from the unexpected reverie which had seized him in that moment of extreme tension.

A light at the villa’s entrance indicated the door he was to enter by. Moving towards it now with purpose, Giovanni was only a few steps away when it opened to reveal the diminutive silhouette of Lazaro, clearly waiting for him to appear.

There was no time for greetings, the moment was upon them and they needed to hurry. They had already decided that they would pay the Professor a little lesson. Lazaro, who had been in service there for a year now, had unburdened himself to Giovanni about the unwanted attentions of that man, having almost become too insistent and violent to bear. A fortnight earlier, Lazaro had appeared before Giovanni in tears, showing him, between the sobs, the vivid bruises left by the Professor hand on his face and back.

He beat me and kicked me all over. All I did was drop a plate he tried to pass me. How was I supposed to grab hold of it if he wasn’t even looking what he was doing? When I try to reject his advances he flies into a mad rage. It’s almost like he gets some kind of sick pleasure out of beating me.

Ten days earlier, he had tried to enter his room in the dead of night, having lost his temper when Lazaro had refused to open the door to him. The situation was, by now, too much to bear and at this stage, there was no telling what might happen. They had decided that it would be best if Lazaro left his job. Without the proper papers, he was at risk of blackmail, for he knew the Professor would not let go of him so easily. That was why they had decided to teach him a lesson he would not forget in a hurry. Anything so that he would let him leave and never come looking for him again.

They were aware, however, that the Professor may not back down so easily and because of that, had decided to leave right away. Lazaro came from a powerful Uruguayan family, which he had left behind in South America to come and make a life for himself in Italy. His relationship with Giovanni and the untenable situation he now found himself in with the Professor had opened his eyes and he now began to dream of a more secure future. For this reason, they had resolved to flee Italy together for the safety of his home country.

They tiptoed into the dark kitchen. Giovanni refused the large knife which Lazaro tried to hand him, touching the hard outline of the pistol once more for reassurance as they moved towards the stairs that lead to the Professor’s studio on the first floor.

With a sudden flash the light was turned on and the Professor appeared in the doorway of the kitchen. Giovanni was immediately struck by the man’s stature, for though a little overweight he was easily the same height as him. Lazaro’s description of him had not been entirely accurate.

What the hell is going on here? roared a steady voice without a hint of fear, what do you think you’re doing? Right, I’m calling the police.

The Professor reached for his mobile phone and started to dial the number. Giovanni was upon him in a shot and with a swift blow, he was floored.

The Professor seemed more surprised than afraid by this turn of events

What are you doing?! Stop right there! he exclaimed, as he backed into the hallway. Picking up a wooden walking stick, he waved it threateningly at Giovanni, before landing a well-aimed blow square on the jaw right between his neck and temple. Giovanni felt a dull pain and fell to his knee, like a fighter whose opponent has administered the penultimate blow. Meanwhile, Lazaro picked up a poker and brandished it in the direction of the Professor.

Giovanni saw them facing each other down like a pair of fencers, one with the stick, and the other with the poker. Clambering to his feet, he leapt upon the Professor and knocked him down, just as he was slowly drawing his arm back wide to take a swipe at Lazaro. Clearly out of shape, the Professor remained on the floor, kicking his heels out as he tried to stand up. Lazaro was upon him in an instant and dealt him a blow to the head with the poker. There was a dull thud as a blackish liquid seeped across the floor.

The Professor raised one hand to his head and, with the other still gripped tightly around the stick, managed to strike Lazaro in the leg. With a cry of pain he fell to the floor. The Professor got to his feet and blindly covered Lazaro in a hail of blows. Giovanni leapt upon him once more and pushed violently against his flanks.

The whole scene was like something from a film, played out in slow motion. The Professor fell to his right, his arms limp at his side, cracking his temple on the