Sacred Cut

by David Hewson

  “I don’t think anyone would dare throw the law at me,” she answered. “Or at any of us. That would be too embarrassing all round, surely. I’m sorry, Nic. I imagine you thought you knew me. But how could you? We only met a few days ago.”

  “True.”

  She lifted the lid on a box folder that stood on a table, the only thing in the room that didn’t seem covered in dust. It was new. Without asking, she lifted the lid and stared at the prints inside.

  “What’s this?” she asked. “It’s recent.”

  He stood by her and flicked through the professional-sized black-and-white photographs.

  “I picked them up in the office when I went in yesterday. There’s a filing cabinet for photos in here somewhere. I wanted to keep them.”

  “What are they?”

  No one wanted Mauro Sandri’s last few rolls of film. Not his parents, who didn’t even want to see them, scared of the associations they had. Or forensic, who’d closed the case.

  “This was the night it all began. The photographer we had with us. The one who died.”

  “Oh.” She stopped on a single print. Costa hadn’t had time to go through them all. This one surprised him.

  “I don’t remember him taking that one,” he said.

  It was in the briefing room before they’d gone out that evening. Sandri must have taken it from the door. Costa was there, showing some report, probably on the weather, to Gianni Peroni. Falcone stood in the background, observing them. The photo was remarkable. Somehow Sandri had captured such life, such expression in their faces: Costa’s seriousness, the way it was received with a touch of jocularity by the grinning Peroni. And Leo Falcone peering at the pair of them, just the trace of a thin smile on his normally expressionless face.

  “He must have been a good photographer,” Emily said. “To take a candid shot like that and you never even knew.”

  What was it Mauro said that night in the deserted cafe? If you asked, people would just say no.

  “It’s about stealing moments,” Costa reflected.

  “Sorry?”

  “That’s what Mauro said. About the kind of photography he did.”

  She studied the picture, thinking. “Smart man. And you know what makes him extra smart?” Emily held the photo in front of him. “He’s just recording something there everyone else but you three sees. You’re a gang, really, aren’t you? A close one too, which is dangerous. If you were in the FBI and someone saw this they’d be breaking you three up tomorrow. Can I keep this?”

  He picked up the roll of negatives. “I’ll get you a copy.”

  “OK. That’s not to say there won’t be the opportunity, by the way,” she added.

  “The opportunity for what?”

  “For us to get to know each other. I’ve made a decision. I’m going to go back to college. Get my master’s degree. Here, in Rome. Why not?”

  “To do what?”

  “Finish learning how to draw buildings. Then learn how to create them. It’s called being an architect. It’s what I should have done all along.”

  This was all so sudden. “When?”

  “As soon as I can get in,” she said with a shrug. “There’s nothing keeping me in the States, really. I need the change, too. Now. I keep thinking about what happened. Not the details, the reasons. All those people breaking their backs over some stupid convictions. My dad and Thornton Fielding. Joel Leapman. They all thought—no, they knew—they were doing the right thing. And look where it got us. I’m sick of certainties, for a while anyway. I want to get a few doubts back in my life. Besides …”

  She paused, trying to make sure this was clear to herself too, he thought.

  “My dad’s dead and buried now,” she went on calmly. “He wasn’t before, and I just didn’t want to face that fact. I’m not proud of what I found out about him. But he was still my dad. There was still a part of him that always loved me. I’ve got this relationship with him right now. I—”

  Her voice did falter then.

  “Last night, I cried and cried and cried. I lay in bed in that soulless little apartment and let it all out. Just me, a very wet pillow, a resignation letter and some memories. Everything ended then, Nic. All this fake existence I’ve been trying to lead on someone else’s behalf. You know something?”

  This puzzled her. The doubt, not something he was accustomed to seeing in her face, was obvious.

  “In my head I kind of talked to him. I felt he understood. Nic, your dad’s dead: tell me, is that crazy?”

  Emily was always astonishing him. She just came straight to the point, never minced words. He’d grown up in this farmhouse. He’d watched his father turn from youth to middle age, to a sick, frail, prematurely elderly cripple. He knew what she was talking about.

  “What did you say?” he asked.

  “All the things you never got round to when he was alive. About how you never appreciated the good times as much as you should have. How the bad always seemed worse than they really were. And how the time came when you weren’t a kid anymore. When you had to cut the cord, however painful that would be on both sides.”

  Costa didn’t know what to say. He didn’t have conversations like this. Not with anyone.

  “You didn’t answer me, Nic.”

  “Did you feel better? After?”

  She grinned. “After I talked to him? Much. And the really crazy thing is it felt as if he did too.”

  He slipped Mauro’s photo back into the folder; the little photographer’s words rang in his ears.

  “I know that feeling,” he said.

  “My,” she murmured, “that was hard.”

  “Where will you stay?” he asked, desperate to change the subject.

  “That’s the first on my list of doubts. I’ve no idea.”

  Nic Costa was aware he was blushing and wondered how much it showed. “This is not … something you need answer quickly. It’s nothing more than a thought. No strings. Take it or leave it.”

  She nodded, but said nothing.

  “As you’ve noticed … I have this huge house. You can use the studio. Or use one of the bedrooms if you like. No strings. It’s up to you.”

  She thought about it. “No strings. That means rent.”

  He waved a nervous hand. “Of course. Rent. And there’s no rush. Just think about it.”

  “OK.”

  “And …” He was stuttering. His cheeks felt as if they were on fire. She screwed up her face, looked into his eyes and asked, “Are you sure you’re Italian?”

  “Just … no strings. No need for a quick decision. Tell me whenever you feel like it.”

  “Nic!” Her voice bounced around the dusty room, echoing from the corners. “I have thought about it. I said OK. OK means yes. I would love to stay here for a while. Do a little dusting. See how everything works out. It would be a … pleasure.”

  The blue eyes bore into him, amused, mischievous.

  “Just one thing,” she added.

  It took a little while to get the word out. “Yes?”

  She walked up to him, spread the fingers of her hand across the base of his neck and reached round, gently stroking his nape, sending electric shivers up and down his spine.

  “Can we please sleep together before I start paying rent? Because if it happened after I would find it very freaky indeed.”

  “PURDAH? Where the fu—”

  Peroni’s eye caught Laila, who was looking shocked at the suddenness of his outburst.

  “Where the hell is Purdah?” he demanded. “It’s in the north, isn’t it? They’re trying to get me to quit. They know I hate those miserable bastards up there.”

  “Gianni …” Teresa Lupo stood opposite him, her arms folded, a look of tried patience on her face. “It’s not a place. It’s a, a, a …”

  “A figure of speech,” Emily Deacon interjected.

  “Quite,” Teresa agreed.

  Peroni waved a big, angry arm at Leo Falcone. “So where’s this figure of sp
eech when it’s at home? Will someone tell me that?”

  Nic Costa didn’t like the expression Falcone was wearing. It was sly. Amused. And the inspector wasn’t saying a damn thing.

  “Just a minute,” Nic said, pointing a finger at Falcone. “This is off duty. You’ve eaten my food. You’ve drunk my wine. Today, of all days, I have the right to call you Leo. Understood?”

  Nothing but a frown on the long, intelligent face.

  “So what’s going on?” Costa demanded.

  Falcone took a deep breath. “As I was attempting to explain before the volcano exploded, there is news. I have spoken with the Questura. And others.”

  He fell silent, pointed to a bottle on the coffee table, smiled with approval, motioned for the others to pick up the glasses he’d brought in from the kitchen.

  “This is champagne,” Falcone announced. “Not prosecco, thank God. I had it in the boot of the car. Just in case.”

  “We don’t want to talk about the wine, Leo,” Teresa Lupo growled, snatching a mouthful of liquid bubbles. “Facts, if you please.”

  “Facts,” Falcone agreed. “The news is that Moretti will retire immediately. Filippo Viale the same. There will be no criminal prosecutions, no further investigations. The matter will drop, which is for the best. Kaspar will be tried in Italy, naturally, and plead guilty, which should diminish the publicity somewhat. And …”

  He eyed Costa and Peroni. “And we three are going into purdah.”

  “Will you stop saying that?” Peroni roared. “For how long?”

  “A little while.”

  Costa knew these games. “Is that a short little while or a long little while?”

  Falcone considered this. “Probably nearer to long. We have to let things blow over a bit.”

  “Shit!” Peroni had his eyes screwed shut and was chanting a little refrain that ran, “Please don’t make it in the north, please don’t make it in the north, please …”

  Falcone listened, cool and detached, in silence.

  “Where, Leo?” the big man bellowed, unable to contain himself any longer.

  “Venice,” Falcone answered, with no emotion whatsoever.

  Nic Costa blinked. Emily had slipped her arm through his. She was coming to Rome. She was going to live under his roof. And he’d be on the other side of Italy, watching the grey lagoon ebb and flow, alone.

  “I love Venice,” Emily said, and squeezed his arm. “It’s not so far.…”

  Teresa Lupo asked, “Am I going?”

  “No,” Falcone replied, looking faintly shocked at the idea. “This is a police matter. What’s it to do with you?”

  “Oh, nothing. Venice?” She was trying to remember something. “I’ve only been there once. Got drunk after a rugby match in Padua. I don’t recall a lot, to be honest. But …”

  She looked at Laila. The poor kid didn’t know what was going on.

  “Venice isn’t far from Verona, Gianni. You can visit Laila as much as you want. I could come over too from time to time. If you like.”

  She tousled the girl’s hair. Laila smiled back at her. A real smile. Teresa Lupo stifled an urge to hug her.

  “I hate Venice,” Peroni moaned. “It’s cold and damp and horrible. The food stinks. The people are cheating, miserable good-for-nothings …”

  Falcone looked at his watch. “We start a week from Monday. It would be best to avoid the Questura in the meantime. Take a vacation, you two. Enjoy yourselves.”

  He was different somehow, Costa decided. For once, Leo Falcone seemed genuinely content, free of all those invisible burdens he was used to carrying around on his stiff shoulders. He was looking forward to the change. He needed it. Perhaps they all did.

  “We did the right thing,” Falcone declared. He smiled at Emily. “Particularly you. If Nic hadn’t gone to the Piazza Mattei …”

  “I was just guessing, Leo,” she replied. “Really. It was just a stab in the dark.”

  Falcone looked dubious. “Really?”

  She sighed. “It’s such a long time ago. Maybe it was just my memory playing tricks. I remember … sitting on that fountain, underneath the tortoises, eating an ice cream. It was summer. Very hot. And my dad had left me there to go and do some business in one of the houses. This happened more than once, I think. I never did see who he was visiting, but I understood something. It was someone he knew. Not a stranger.”

  Emily glanced at Laila, who was bored by this conversation, engrossed instead in a teenage magazine Peroni had brought her.

  “I remembered the name of the place. Because of the tortoises. I remembered being so happy I thought that world would never disappear.” Then, a little ruefully, “I was a child.”

  Falcone nodded, acknowledging her point. “What you did was very brave. You risked everything.”

  He looked at each of them. “All of you. I’m grateful.”

  “Don’t hug me,” Peroni growled. “Don’t even think of it. Venice. Venice? What is happening to my life?”

  “We’re taking a little detour,” Falcone said. “Let’s try to enjoy the ride. And now …”

  He downed the champagne and glanced at his watch.

  “I must be going. Ciao!”

  Falcone moved so quickly. He had his coat back on and was about to leave before any of them could object, stopping only at the threshold as a final thought struck him.

  “Oh,” he said, “one more thing.”

  Peroni and Costa watched him with a mute foreboding.

  “Uniforms,” Falcone said. “You will be needing them. Best get measured after the holiday. When you’ve lost some weight.”

  Then Leo Falcone was through the door, with what, in another, might pass for a skip, leaving the growing storm behind him.

  About the Author

  DAVID HEWSON is a weekly columnist for the Sunday Times. The Sacred Cut is the third novel in a crime series that began with the acclaimed A Season for the Dead, set in Rome and featuring Detective Nic Costa. He is also the author of The Villa of Mysteries and Lucifer’s Shadow.

  A former staff writer on The Times, he lives in Kent, where he is at work on the fourth Nic Costa crime novel, The Lizard’s Bite, which Delacorte Press will publish in 2006.