by David Hewson
The icy, judgmental eyes bore into him. Falcone looked disappointed.
“That’s one possibility,” he conceded.
“What else? His key’s in the door . . .” Costa stuttered, trying to understand how many other possibilities there could be.
“Quite. Don’t get ahead of yourself, Nic. It’s a bad habit. Start from ignorance and let the facts inform you, not your own guesswork. Randazzo’s doubtless right. This case is as simple as he says. But you can’t expect me to throw away a lifetime’s habits now, can you? Go take a look around on your own. I’m not quite finished here. I can’t believe I’m working a location without scene-of-crime people. Please . . . Unless you have something else to add.”
“Hugo Massiter has a history,” Nic said curtly.
Falcone looked interested. “What kind of history?”
“I can’t remember. But I know the name. He was in the papers. Something to do with music. And a death. Perhaps more than one. I can find out.”
“I think someone like Massiter’s best left to me,” Falcone replied.
Feeling more than a little like an unwanted and chastised child, Costa walked back towards the shattered remains of the windows. He watched the men in overalls hammering in their cheap wooden shutters.
“Do you work here?” he asked the first, a squat, middle-aged individual in grimy clothes.
The two of them looked at each other and laughed.
“Nice joke,” the man said. “You think they’ve got money to pay staff? News to me. News to the whole of Murano. Insurance, mister. The insurance people sent us, they pay us. They want these windows boarded because if they’re not, the bill just gets bigger. Surprised me the Arcangeli still got insurance, mind. Probably the only bill they’ve paid this last year.”
“Thanks,” Costa muttered, and moved a little away from the beat of their hammers and the stink of their cigarettes.
Peroni was attempting to start a conversation with the two Arcangelo brothers, both of whom seemed more interested in attacking the furnace with hacksaws and blowlamps, working on the spider’s web of gas pipes that led to it, removing the areas that had been mangled beyond repair by the heat. There was little point in joining his partner in the effort, Nic decided. Randazzo had obviously given them carte blanche to destroy any evidence remaining in the place.
Improvise. That was Falcone’s guiding rule in circumstances like these, cases that seemed to be blank pages, looking for evidence to fill them. Costa knew his inspector well enough by now to understand what that meant. Poke around, get a feel for the crime scene. In this instance, try to imagine yourself in the shoes of Uriel Arcangelo, waiting for the flames to consume him, his dead wife turning to ash and smoke in the furnace that his two brothers were now treating with an everyday disdain, as if it were simply another piece of malfunctioning machinery.
He couldn’t do what Falcone wanted, though. Something was wrong here and, from Falcone’s diffident yet taut manner, Costa wondered if the inspector knew it as well. No two families reacted to tragedies in the same way. Sometimes there was anger and hatred. Sometimes simple disbelief and a mute refusal to accept plain fact. Michele and Gabriele Arcangelo, on the other hand, seemed almost indifferent to what had occurred here. Or, more accurately, they felt the resuscitation of the foundry—and the flame of the giant angel’s beacon outside—came first, ranked higher on their inflexible set of priorities than the notion that their youngest brother had murdered his wife just a few hours before, in this very place.
Nic Costa felt lost for a moment, then was aware he wasn’t alone. He turned and found himself looking at a woman who had come to stand by his side without making a sound. Her long dark hair was very clean and straight, with a touch of silver to it, as if the true colour were grey, now disguised by dye. She was wearing a red cotton shirt, good quality once, made shapeless over the years, and dark cheap slacks. The poor clothes didn’t match her unlined face, which was aristocratic and striking, dominated by querulous brown eyes. This was the person he’d seen at the strange window jutting out over the lagoon, staring out at them, seeming lost.
That impression was immediately dispelled by her manner.
“I thought there might be more of you,” she said in a warm, well-spoken, northern voice. “I’m Raffaella Arcangelo. I must apologise for my brothers. They’re . . . single-minded sometimes.”
“Nic Costa,” he replied, aware that Falcone was bearing down on them, eagle-eyed, curious. “And this is Inspector Falcone.”
“Signor Costa,” she said, a little warily. “Inspector.”
He waited for Falcone to take the lead. It wasn’t happening. Some small, puzzled inner voice told him Falcone felt a little awed by this fetching woman who returned the inspector’s open gaze with an equal frankness.
“It would be best if we spoke upstairs,” Raffaella Arcangelo said. “I’ll ask my brothers to join us once they’re ready.” She glanced at Falcone. “It’s no use. We’ve been through this once already with the men who preceded you. My brothers will talk when they want to talk. Not before.”
Falcone found his voice. “That’s understandable, Signora Arcangelo,” he said, giving her his personal card. “You have our condolences, naturally. And my apologies for the fact we must be here now. To lose two family members simultaneously. It must be terrible. I can understand why we’re the last people you want to see.”
The woman’s eyes fell on the card he’d supplied, then swept over Falcone.
“Well. You’re the first person who’s had the good grace to say anything like that today.” Raffaella Arcangelo sounded somewhat surprised. “Thank you. May we get out of this place? Please? It’s not . . . somewhere I care to be right now.”
“Of course,” Falcone agreed. “This is quite the wrong time. These officers who spoke to you earlier. They took statements?”
She was bemused. “They did. I thought you might have known.”
“The system is a little slow to catch up sometimes. It’s inexcusable.”
He couldn’t take his eyes off the keys on her belt. Falcone extended a hand towards them. “May I see those, please?”
The request caught her off guard. Nevertheless, without any hesitation, Raffaella unhooked the bunch and handed them over. Falcone examined each in turn, spending most of his time on the long, old shaft of metal which was, Costa thought, a match for the one in the door. Then he quickly brought the bunch up to his nose, sniffed, and handed them back.
“I’m sorry,” he told her. “That was stupid of me. Everything smells of smoke around here at the moment.”
She wasn’t put out by his actions. Or offended either.
“It does,” she agreed. “Were you . . . looking for something, Inspector?”
He smiled, an expression Nic Costa rarely saw, one that, at that moment, seemed remarkably genuine. “Just a bad habit, I’m afraid. Who else would have keys to this building? I’m sorry. I imagine you’ve been asked all this before.”
“No,” she replied, thinking. “I haven’t been asked that question at all. Only the family keep keys. Myself. Michele, Gabriele. And Uriel and Bella, of course.”
“Hugo Massiter?” Costa asked.
A brief cloud of distaste crossed her face. “Why should he have keys?”
“I thought he was working on the hall next door.”
“His men are working on the hall. Massiter visits from time to time. The men are allowed in only during the day. Michele opens the gates for them. There’s no need for anything else. Not yet anyway. Signor Massiter . . .” There was an unmistakable note of bitterness in her voice. “ . . . has not acquired us. Not yet.”
Falcone considered this. “You and your brothers. You’re not married.”
“Michele is divorced. Gabriele and I never married.”
“And no one else lives on the island?”
She gave him a cautious look. “It’s been a while since we could afford servants, Inspector. I thought they might have told you
that too.”
“We’re not local. But I’m sure you noticed. And this night watchman? He had no keys?”
“Piero? No. There was no need. He just brings material to the lower warehouse by boat. We don’t even bother to lock that. There’s nothing of great value and it doesn’t allow access to any other part of the buildings.”
“And,” Falcone persisted, “Uriel and Bella? They would have a set each?”
“Yes,” she answered. A small note of testiness started to appear in her voice. “Bella worked in here a little too. Is all this important?”
“Probably not,” he replied, shaking his head, smiling. “You must understand. These days we’re tied in regulations, from head to toe. In cases like this we have to account for every last piece of evidence, however unimportant. It’s just paperwork really. Oh . . .”
He withdrew the evidence pouch from his pocket and held the transparent bag in front of her. “I do need you to identify this set for me, please. Yours has a green sash on it, I see. This has a crimson one, mostly burned by the heat but recognisable nonetheless. These were Uriel’s?”
She gazed miserably at the object in the bag. “That’s correct,” she replied.
“And Bella’s? They had a sash too?”
“Yellow.” She was thinking. “And before you ask, Michele’s is black and Gabriele’s blue. We’re an organised family. Michele likes to know who to blame if there’s carelessness about.”
“It would be useful for the records if we knew where Bella’s keys are,” Falcone said, as if it were a matter of small importance.
Raffaella’s eyes wandered towards the furnace. “Surely . . . She was found there. Wouldn’t that be the place to look?”
Falcone nodded. “Probably. I gather there’s an abundance of material back at the Questura. This is an awkward time, signora. I really believe the police should intrude on a family’s grief as little as possible. You’ve been pestered enough already. We may not know why this tragedy occurred but it seems clear it is . . . self-contained, shall I say?”
Raffaella Arcangelo’s strong, handsome face became stern and determined. “It’s inexplicable, Inspector. Uriel was my brother. He had a temper from time to time. All the Arcangelo men have. But to kill someone. His wife . . . No. I don’t believe it. All I can think of is that there was a terrible accident of some kind.”
Falcone’s eyes sparkled. “Possibly. And Bella? What was she like? Had they been married long? Were they a . . . loving couple?”
Raffaella grimaced. “They’d been married for twelve years or so. I don’t recall exactly. They’d been cold to one another for some time. These things happen in a marriage, I believe. She wanted children. It never happened.”
He waited, then asked, “Bella told you this?”
There was a rush of anger in her eyes that the men understood. Raffaella Arcangelo was at the very limit of her patience with them.
“Uriel,” she replied curtly. “What’s that about blood being thicker than water? It was an accident, Inspector. There’s no other possible explanation.”
“An accident he could have avoided,” Falcone replied quietly. “You see the problem for me there? Whatever happened in this room, he could have walked to the door, opened it and gone for help. Instead . . .”
Falcone left the matter there. Raffaella Arcangelo’s deep, attractive eyes had welled with tears, suddenly, and it appeared to be as much a shock to her as it was to them.
She dashed a bitter look at her two brothers, who worked on the furnace oblivious to the world.
“I can’t cope with this,” she said finally, once she’d recovered some composure. “There are arrangements to be made. And just me to make them.”
“If there’s any way we can help,” Costa offered.
Raffaella Arcangelo gave him a dark look. “This family buries its own. It’s not police work. When do you wish to interview us again, Inspector?”
“Tomorrow,” Falcone replied. “I’ll be in touch about a convenient time. If you need me beforehand, you have my mobile number on the card.”
“Tomorrow.”
Then she walked off, stepping over the fallen doors, out into the bright blue day.
Falcone’s eyes followed her departure avidly. There was an unhealthy amount of interest in his sharp, ascetic face.
“Is there something I should know, sir?” Costa asked.
“Presently,” Falcone replied cheerily, then glanced at his watch. “Now, listen to me carefully. I’m going back to town to see what passes for a morgue in this place. You poke around in here for a little while, just to let them know we’re interested. Then take an hour for lunch. More, if you like. Visit a few cafés. Peroni’s good at that. Be nosy. Be obvious. After that, talk to this Bracci family. I want people to understand we’re asking lots of questions. That’ll get back to Randazzo, which should do us some good. Tomorrow, first thing, I want to see this casual worker they had. Out on Sant’ Erasmo. We’ve got the boat after all. Best use it. When you’re through here it’ll be close to five o’clock anyway. That’s when your shift ends. You’ve got your women in tow. Leave early if you’re finished.”
Costa didn’t know what to say. Falcone was a man who never let go once a case began. They were all used to working every hour of the day to get a result. Shifts, lunch, dinner, family . . . everything went out the window to get the inspector what he wanted.
“Why are you looking at me in that curious way?” Falcone asked.
“I just . . .” Costa stuttered. “Lunch? We never take lunch. This is a murder inquiry.”
“Ten out of ten for observation!” Falcone replied chirpily. “But you heard Randazzo. He’s the commissario. He just wants a painstaking inquiry, and that is what I intend to deliver. Besides, you’ve seen this for yourself. What happened here happened in this room. I don’t think there’s a guilty party trying to escape us now, is there? In fact, I don’t see anyone hereabouts keen to make much of a move at all. Even for a funeral . . .”
Costa was silent. The man had the scent of something, and it was useless trying to probe. He would say what he wanted, when he wanted, and nothing could bring it out into the light of day any earlier.
Falcone rattled the keys in his jacket pocket. “Oh,” he added. “You’ll be eating together tonight, presumably? The four of you? I imagine it’s that little restaurant that Peroni found? The one with the peasant food?”
“‘Family cooking’ is how it’s described, I think.”
“Not in my family it wasn’t. Still, I’m willing to slum it once in a while. You don’t mind if I string along, do you? It’s been ages since I saw the ladies. I won’t intrude. I promise. The time?”
“Eight-thirty,” Costa muttered, half rebellious. He hadn’t wanted to share a meal with Peroni and Teresa. He and Emily had spent too little time together as it was. Now with another chair at the table . . .
“Good.”
Falcone took one last, self-satisfied look around the room. Then he caught Costa’s eye. “Two deaths usually mean two murders, Nic. Remember that. Always start off from the obvious. Let the unlikely prove itself later. I’ll make a detective of you yet.”
“Two murders?”
“Exactly,” Falcone said. The keys rattled in his pocket again. “But at least we’ve one of them in the bag.”
AT FOUR THAT AFTERNOON THE TWO WOMEN SAT ON the waterfront a little way down from San Marco, escaping the crowds and the heat. After the phone call from the men, breaking the bad news, they’d gorged on pasta in a little restaurant under the shadow of the Greci church’s crooked tower, then bought a couple of gelati—a boozy confection of vanilla and brandy-soaked raisins for Teresa Lupo, a lemon water ice for Emily Deacon. Now they slumped, half dozing, a little bored, in the shade made by the prow of a gigantic cruise ship, with just enough room past the white metal for a view of the beautiful and busy lagoon beyond.
“Venice in August,” Teresa moaned. “We must be mad. I mean, the place eve
n smells. I thought that was supposed to be a myth.”
“Italians complain too much,” Emily declared. “Most of the time it is a myth. Sit back, ignore your nose and enjoy yourself.”
“In this heat!”
Teresa Lupo felt as if she could squeeze a bucket of water out of her limp cotton shirt. The humidity was astonishing. It made every step she took an effort, a drain on what reserves of energy she had after the night train. She wasn’t even sure how annoyed she was that Peroni wouldn’t be on vacation with her after all at the end of the day. The city instilled lethargy in her. If he really could take extra time once the case was over, she could rework her own vacation schedule and possibly cut another two weeks. Emily was in the same position. They were livid initially, that went without saying. But it could still work out in the end.
And, she was out of Rome. Away from the morgue for the first time in months. It was the quiet season there anyway. Silvio Di Capua, her assistant, could surely cope. Silvio was becoming the coping kind more and more each day. Sometime soon she could cast off from the whole show if she liked, and never have to worry—much—about what was left behind. She’d talked the idea over with Peroni, usually when the grappa bottle had materialised after dinner. The two of them quitting the city, moving out to Tuscany. She could work as a rural doctor, stitching up farmers, caring for their fat, pregnant wives. And he could go and try out what he really wanted all along, from when he was a country kid. Raising pigs on some rural smallholding, selling gorgeous roast porchetta at the weekend markets in and around Siena. Dreams . . . They were ridiculous, impossible. They teased her too, if only because, until Gianni Peroni came along, she’d never really had any.
Emily finished her gelato, then threw her napkin into the nearby bin with an accuracy Teresa wished she could teach Peroni.
She stared out at the flat expanse of grey water, with its ever-active flotilla of vessels, the ferries and the vaporetti, the speedboats and the transport barges, then sighed.
“I’m going to have to tell him, Emily. I can’t just not say a thing.”