A Season for the Dead nc-1

by David Hewson

  Rossi put out a big hand and patted him on the cheek, not so gently.

  “It’s a new place in Testaccio. Caligula. Thirteen Alberoni. Eight o’clock. Don’t be late. I’m paying.”

  “Great.”

  Then Rossi was gone into the crowd, pushing his way through, exchanging a glance with one individual Costa thought he recognized.

  Soon there’d be a beer around the corner, he guessed. Maybe there was something to talk about. It still seemed a slim option. He remembered Falcone and thought: Look for a simpler explanation. The big man just didn’t want to see Sara Farnese. That was all.

  The idea seemed even crazier when she let him in to the second-floor apartment. She wore a dark-red cotton shirt and faded-blue designer jeans. Her hair was tied back at her nape. Her large and intelligent green eyes had a deep, shining luster that was new to him. She was about his height and just as slender. She moved with a controlled grace as if she thought everything through first.

  The apartment was decorated with a degree of taste Costa associated with the wealthy middle-aged: reproduction wooden furniture, a polished dining table at the center, and paintings everywhere, landscapes, Renaissance portraits and some more modern, abstract works that still seemed to fit. The walls were covered with the kind of heavy wallpaper you saw in expensive hotels. And books, shelf upon shelf of books, all hardcovers, some leather-bound. There was no TV set, only a very pricey-looking stereo system and a pile of classical CDs next to it. None of this made sense to him. The designer jeans and her own magnetic looks apart, it was as if this woman—who could be no more than thirty—was living the life of a rich spinster in her fifties.

  He gestured toward the crowd, now out of sight beyond the window.

  “There are laws about harassment, you know. If you want me to do something, I can call the municipal police.”

  She sat down in a stylish high armchair that looked uncomfortable.

  “They’ll go away, won’t they? I still don’t understand what they want.”

  They wanted to splash her beauty all over the front pages and say: Here’s the woman some university professor went crazy over, killing himself, his wife and her boyfriend, all for some approximation of love.

  He fell into a low sofa feeling awkward and out of place in these surroundings. “They want your photograph.”

  “Then they’ll have a long wait. I’m getting my groceries delivered. The man downstairs brings them to me. I’m not going back to the university until this nonsense is over. They can camp out there for a week if they like. They’ll still get nothing.”

  That was easy to say, he thought. She didn’t understand how soon you wore down under this constant attention, and how that was all part of their game.

  “You never told me your name.”

  “Costa. Nic Costa.”

  “What do you want, Mr. Costa?”

  He pulled out a notebook. “Just some simple, basic paperwork. If that’s okay. Personal details.”

  “Very well.”

  In an efficient five minutes Sara Farnese told him all the bare facts.

  She was twenty-seven, a little younger than he’d thought, held both Italian and English passports, thanks to the nationalities of her respective late parents, and was a middle-ranking professor at the university. Her affair with Stefano Rinaldi had lasted no more than a few weeks. She had not, as far as she was aware, mentioned Hugh Fairchild’s visit in Rinaldi’s earshot, although it was possible this had happened. Nor was she aware of Rinaldi’s money or drug problems, both of which came as some—genuine, Costa thought—surprise to her.

  She cited from memory the source of the quotation about the blood of the martyrs but was unsure what relevance it had. Just for interest, Costa read her the full version of the doggerel about St. Ives as Falcone had explained it that morning.

  “So it’s just a riddle?” she asked, bemused.

  “You’re not reaching for a calculator.”

  “Why would I? Isn’t the answer obvious? There’s one man going to St. Ives. The rest are going the other way.”

  He began to understand Rossi’s discomfiture in the presence of this woman. She was too smart, too cool, too distanced. She made him feel small and stupid, not by any deliberate act on her part but simply from her presence, her way of speaking. This was, he thought, accidental. Some curious air of loneliness hung around her too and it was evident in this antiseptic, over-decorated place she called home.

  “Did Professor Rinaldi know many people in the Vatican?”

  “He knew the ones we all knew. The academics. The people who controlled access to the library.”

  “You need a ticket to get in there, surely? Something that gets you through the private gates without having to queue with the tourists?”

  She opened a small blue leather handbag that sat by the chair, one that was, like everything else in the room, too mature for her. Sara Farnese sifted through the contents and pulled out a laminated card.

  It bore her name and photograph.

  “Of course. The library has more sources on early Christianity than anywhere else in the world. That’s why I came to Rome.”

  Costa looked closely at the card. “But this is for access to the Vatican itself. Not the library.”

  “Sometimes,” she said a little hesitantly, “one needs to look at items that are stored elsewhere. This saves time.”

  He didn’t know anyone outside Vatican staff who owned one of these things. “And Stefano had a card too?”

  “I don’t think so. He was waiting for it to come through. Perhaps that’s why there was such a fuss when he forced his way in. If he’d had a card there would have been no problem.”

  It made no sense. She had been at the university three years and owned one of these precious things. Rinaldi, who had been in the department for more than twenty, had to wait in line with the queues of Japanese.

  “Why didn’t he have one? If it was essential?”

  “I don’t know. I’m sorry. We worked in the same department but not on the same courses. Perhaps he felt it wasn’t so necessary. You can get a lot of material online these days. I prefer to look at the source. It feels more proper somehow.”

  “Why wouldn’t he feel the same way?”

  “I told you,” she replied a little testily, “I don’t know. I had a brief affair with the man. I wouldn’t claim I knew him terribly well.”

  Yet Stefano Rinaldi felt he knew her well enough to try to commit suicide in front of her and rely on this woman… to do what? To save his wife somehow, in return for the death of her current lover?

  A snatch of their conversation from the previous day came back to him.

  “Ms. Farnese. You said that he spoke in two different voices to you.”

  She had forgotten that part. It was obvious in her face, and the return of the memory puzzled her.

  “That’s correct. When Stefano quoted Tertullian it was as if it were some kind of pronouncement, meant to be heard by everyone. It was loud, purposeful.” She thought carefully before going on. “It was much quieter when he spoke about Mary. Then he was just talking to me.”

  Costa racked his brain for what that might mean. “Was there anyone else in the room that you knew? Apart from the guard who shot him?”

  “No. They were all strangers.”

  “But if he said one thing in a loud voice and the next more softly there had to be a reason. As if someone was watching, someone who needed to hear the first part, and to miss the second. Please. Try to think. Is that possible?”

  She considered the idea. “I’m sorry. The way I remember it he entered the room in a rush. The first time he said those words from Tertullian he was well past everybody else. Even when he spoke loudly they wouldn’t hear. The second time was different. But…”

  Nic Costa thought about the kind of money the Vatican could spend on security and felt a sudden and urgent need to go back to the place where he had last seen Hugh Fairchild’s skin lying on an old mah
ogany desk.

  “I understand. I’m sorry. These must seem very stupid questions.”

  “Not at all. They seem very intelligent ones. As intelligent as anyone could ask in the circumstances. I wish I could be more help.”

  Rossi had been right. It would have been awkward with him in the room.

  Sara Farnese was a baffling mix of strength and timidity. The more she was surrounded by people, the less she would divulge.

  He put his notebook in his pocket and got up.

  “Would you like a coffee, Mr. Costa?”

  “Thanks,” he said, smiling. “But I have another appointment.”

  “Will there be another time?”

  “I hope we can clear this all up by tomorrow. There shouldn’t need to be another interview.”

  He nodded toward the window and gave her his card, scribbling his home and mobile numbers on it. “Remember what I said about harassment. Call anytime and I’ll get someone to talk to them.”

  She looked at the card, then placed it in her bag. “Thanks. I’ll bear that in mind.”

  “Good. Oh…” It was an old trick but sometimes an effective one.

  “I almost forgot. Do you know someone in the Vatican? Someone called Cardinal Denney?”

  She shook her head and smiled, the fullest smile Costa had seen on her face. “I’m sorry. I’ve never heard of anyone of that name.”

  “No problem.”

  Sara Farnese was looking out of the window again, wistfully.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to go outside for a little while?”

  Costa asked. “A walk. You can’t stay here forever.”

  She frowned at the world beyond her window. “I’m not sure I can face that right now.”

  He looked at her and said, “Maybe…”

  * * *

  Ten minutes later the door to the apartment block in Vicolo delle Palline opened and the mob outside went wild. In spite of the heat the woman coming out of the building was dressed in a long, full raincoat. Big sunglasses obscured her features and a head scarf covered her hair. She pushed away the forest of TV mikes that were thrust into her face. She said nothing, keeping her head down, trying to look as anonymous as possible in the scrum of reporters clamoring for her attention.

  Cameras flashed. Arms and elbows jostled for position. A reporter from one of the tawdrier magazines fell to the ground, winded by a sharp stab to the ribs. Another screeched as he was jostled out of position. One of the bigger hacks started to throw punches at a TV cameraman who was attempting to push him out of the way. The slender figure at the center of the mêlée was unable to avoid the photographers but remained silent throughout, pushing forward through the mass, dark glasses fixed firmly on the ground ahead.

  Then the center of gravity shifted. The raincoat forced its way through the final barrier of bodies and was free in the cobbled street. The mob’s clamor diminished. This was not what was supposed to happen. Victims gave in eventually. They offered a sight of themselves or a few words in deference to the power of the pack. It was unknown for victims to reject the mob’s advances so completely, so successfully. One or two of the hacks wondered what to make of it, but then there was no time.

  Sara Farnese began to run. The two arms of the raincoat started to pump. Her legs beat on the ground. The figure that eluded them now set up a pace, steady and deliberate, out beneath Il Pasette into the broad tourist street beyond, inviting them to follow.

  The herd howled and was after her, without pausing to think about how odd this situation was. Close to an ice-cream stand in the Via dei Corridori they almost caught her. Then she picked up speed once more and was away, only just, until the pedestrian lights on the Piazza Pia turned red and a surging sea of cars rolled forward, horns hooting, drivers screaming at each other, a solid sea of metal blocking her way.

  The figure turned and saw the mob on her heels, panting, unused to this kind of chase, determined to repay the effort by pinning her down in public, forcing her to remove the disguise, bellowing at her until she said something, anything to explain why three people died in her name, and in such crazy ways too.

  The first hack, some way ahead of the rest, pounced, placing a firm hand on her shoulder. This was a mistake. A sharp fist stabbed him in the ribs, the breath went out of his body in an instant, and all he heard for his considerable pain was a low, half obscene curse.

  The traffic was gridlocked in the wide piazza, a mass of overheated vehicles sending out a choking cloud of pollution into the humid air.

  She watched the rest of the pack come close then turned, jumped, mounted the hood of a Lexus next to the curb and raced quickly across the road, leaping from car to car. The mob watched in anguished amazement. The hacks were out of breath. The photographers scarcely had the energy to lift their cameras. The TV crews were still struggling up the street wondering what was going on. It was just possible for them to see the conclusion once she had navigated the hoods, roofs, and trunks that filled the piazza.

  Sara Farnese, who was, as far as they knew, a quiet, academic university professor, kicked hard on the pavement, like an athlete setting off for the race. She broke into her pace, a faster pace than she had used down the Via dei Corridori, one which was more natural to her. Then she disappeared past the squat rotund magnificence of the Castel Sant’Angelo sprinting like a pro, the raincoat flapping behind in the wind.

  Five minutes later a skinny, scared-looking young woman from Kosovo, with a ten-month-old baby in her arms, sat outside the make-shift tent that was her home. It was on the wide footpath by the banks of the Tiber on the Tridente side, near the Ponte Cavour. She was astonished to see a man walking toward her, a slender man with a woman’s raincoat flapping around him. He wore a broad, self-amused smile and was somewhat out of breath.

  The young woman held her child more tightly and retreated into the shade of the small, tattered tent. He was not a cop, surely, who would move her on again. Cops didn’t wear women’s raincoats. They didn’t smile like this, a nice smile, she realized, one that came from some happiness inside.

  He stopped and crouched next to her, looking at the baby, breathing heavily. Then he took off the raincoat, bundled it up with a pair of expensive-looking sunglasses and a head scarf and gave them to her.

  “Can you use these?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  The man reached into his pocket and pulled out a fifty-euro note. It was a lot of money. She knew what that meant.

  “What do you want?” she said in what she knew was bad Italian. “I don’t…” She didn’t want to say any more. It was a lot of money.

  “Don’t worry. It’s a family custom. My father told me to give something away twice every day,” he said in a warm, calm voice.

  “Maybe one day I’ll be hoping someone does the same to me.”

  She couldn’t take her eyes off the note in her baby’s tiny fingers.

  It was more cash than she had seen in weeks. “A lot of money,” she said again.

  “I told you. Twice a day. I was busy this morning, I missed out. You’re lucky. You get both.”

  She smiled nervously. “I like being lucky.”

  Nic Costa wondered how old she was. Probably no more than seventeen.

  “Promise me something,” he said, scribbling on a page ripped from his notebook.

  “What?” she said, taking the paper from him.

  “You’ll go to this address. It’s a hostel. They can help.”

  “Okay,” she replied mutely, some suspicion in her voice.

  “I don’t come this way often,” he said. “Remember that address.”

  Then he walked off, back toward the steps that rose up to road level, back toward the bridge that led on to the Vatican.

  He was on the stone staircase when the mobile phone rang.

  “I’m in your debt, Mr. Costa,” said Sara Farnese, and he could hear the relief in her voice.

  “The name’s Nic. You’re welcome. I lost your coat and things
. Sorry.”

  She laughed. It was the first time he had heard her make any sound of pleasure and this was, he thought, the real Sara Farnese, not the person she tried to portray to the world. “It was worth it ten times over. Watching them, chasing you… Nic.”

  “So you escaped?” he asked.

  The line went quiet. It had been a direct question, an understandable one in the circumstances. Perhaps she was wondering whether it was personal or professional. He was unsure himself. Nic Costa considered where she would go in the circumstances, and cursed his curiosity: He wished, automatically, that he had arranged to have her followed.

  “Call again, Nic. If you like,” she said, and was gone.

  Ten

  The man wore a black suit and dark glasses. He was muscular and probably middle-aged, though he wore such heavy clothing, in spite of the heat, it was difficult to tell from what was on show. For the life of him, Gallo could not figure out his accent. Southern? Sicilian maybe? He didn’t want to try. There was something serious about him, something that said you just did your job, did it well, got your money, then walked away.

  The car struggled through the traffic out to the motorway which led to Fiumicino airport and the coast. He had jazz playing on the music system: Weather Report, with Wayne Shorter’s sax wailing like a banshee.

  Gallo knew Ostia well. He’d taken many parties around the old port area and the ruins of the imperial town. “Who are they?” he asked.

  “Who are who?” the man in the black suit grunted.

  “The people I’m supposed to entertain.”

  “Visiting college professors. Not archaeologists themselves, but people with an interest. I hope you know what you’re talking about.”

  “No problem.”

  The car turned off the motorway early. Gallo was puzzled.

  “Aren’t we going to the town?”

  “Not first. There’s another area that got cut off from the meander by a flood hundreds of years back. The Fiume Morto. The dead river. You know it?”

  “No.” Gallo felt his good mood start to wane. No one ever went to the dead river except hardened diggers. It was just mud and mosquitoes. “You might have told me.”