‘Angelo!’ calls a voice. Ruth looks round and sees a figure approaching, grey-haired and vigorous-looking. He’s wearing a black robe, which reminds her of Cathbad and his cloak. What’s Cathbad doing now, she wonders. She only had time to leave a voice message for Judy before she left. Will they think she’s gone mad, disappearing to Italy at a moment’s notice?
‘Don Tomaso,’ says Angelo. Of course. It’s a priest, and that’s a cassock, not a cloak.
Angelo’s voice is expressionless but the priest seems delighted to see him, kissing him on both cheeks and turning to Ruth with a broad smile.
‘This is Doctor Ruth Galloway from the University of North Norfolk.’
‘Delighted to meet you.’ Don Tomaso takes her hand in both of his.
As if by magic, the waitress appears at their table. Angelo orders grappa. Ruth, only halfway through her glass of wine, asks for water.
‘Water?’ says Don Tomaso. ‘You should have limoncello. It is a speciality of the region.’ He speaks good English, but with a heavy accent.
Ruth is rather confused that a priest seems to be urging her to drink alcohol. Aren’t they meant to be in favour of abstinence and bread and water? But as her only priestly friend, Father Hennessey, would say, ‘Catholics. That’s different.’
‘Another glass of wine then,’ she says. ‘You must let me pay this time. And some water, please.’
‘Never mix water and wine,’ says Don Tomaso. ‘Our Good Lord turned water into wine for a reason.’
‘To please his mother,’ says Angelo. He seems curiously subdued by the arrival of the priest.
‘Are you here on holiday?’ Don Tomaso asks Ruth. ‘We don’t get many tourists here.’
‘I’m helping Angelo with some bones that he’s discovered.’
‘Bones!’ The priest throws up his hands in mock horror. ‘Why all this talk of the dead, Angelo?’
‘That’s what archaeology is all about.’
‘Beware of waking the dead,’ says Don Tomaso, patting him on the shoulder. ‘Concentrate on the living. That is my advice.’
The waitress is still hovering. She asks the priest a question in Italian and he answers, smiling and shaking his head. Ruth guesses this means that he’s not about to join them. Sure enough, Don Tomaso takes his leave, bowing courteously to Ruth. ‘Maybe I’ll see you on Sunday,’ he says.
‘I don’t think so.’ Ruth feels that she should be honest about this, but the priest does not seem to have heard. He moves off, calling out greetings to his friends.
‘He seems nice,’ says Ruth.
‘All priests are charlatans,’ says Angelo. ‘I’m like you, I won’t be going to Mass on Sunday.’
Their drinks arrive. Angelo drains his grappa in one gulp. Ruth takes a sip of her mineral water. It tastes odd, she thinks, almost sulphuric.
‘Can I ask you something?’ she says.
‘Ask away.’
‘There was some writing above the door of your apartment. Graffiti. It said “Stranieri andate a casa”. I looked it up on Google Translate. It means “foreigners go home”. Why would someone write that? Was it aimed at us?’
Angelo is silent for a moment, then he says, ‘In a small town like this, there are resentments. People go away and come back rich and successful. Sometimes it’s hard for those left behind.’
‘So the writing was aimed at you? But you’re not a foreigner.’
Angelo shrugs. ‘Round here, people from the next village are foreigners.’
Ruth understands this. It’s the same in Norfolk.
‘I thought your grandfather was a war hero,’ she says. ‘He had a state funeral. I would have thought that would make you popular.’
This time she thinks there’s something almost demonic about Angelo’s smile. Like the water, it has a whiff of sulphur.
‘Being a hero doesn’t make you popular,’ he says. ‘Not in Italy anyway.’
Chapter 8
‘Micky Webb hasn’t got the guts to kill someone. Not face-to-face anyway. Paying someone to torch his wife and kids when he’s miles away, that’s different.’
‘My thoughts entirely. I just thought you’d want to know.’
Nelson and Freddie Burnett are sitting on a bench, looking down on Cromer pier and esplanade. It’s a sunny day and the beach is full of families building sandcastles, eating ice creams, venturing into the freezing North Sea. On the smooth lawn behind, a group of elderly men are playing bowls. It seems wrong to be talking about murder and arson, and yet, thinks Nelson, a passer-by would probably assume that the two men – one white-haired but still vigorous, wind-tanned and fit, the other heavyset and greying – are simply a father and son enjoying the view. On second thought, maybe that’s giving him too much credit. He and Freddie probably look like brothers, and there is a similarity in the way they are sitting, relaxed yet still alert, eyes constantly scanning the innocuous surroundings for signs of trouble. Any self-respecting criminal would be able to spot them as a pair of coppers from a mile off.
‘Ten years,’ says Freddie. ‘It’s laughable.’
‘He found God when he was inside,’ says Nelson. ‘Changed character, apparently.’
Freddie grunts sceptically. ‘First thing you learn to say to the parole board. “Please, sir, I’m very sorry. I’ve found Jesus and he’s taught me to be a good boy.” God help us.’
Nelson thinks the mention of God is probably not meant to be ironic. As he remembers, Freddie is short on irony and on any sort of religious belief. He also clearly thinks that criminals are all male.
Nelson looks out over the storybook seaside town in front of them. The tide is out and the sands stretch for miles, dotted with tiny figures. From this distance, you could be in the last century, he thinks. Even the pier is devoid of flashing lights and amusement arcades. It’s a leggy Victorian creature striding out into the shallow sea. Nelson suspects that Freddie would probably prefer to be living in a different time, when policing was both simpler and more brutal.
‘I’ll never forget seeing those little kiddies being brought out of the house,’ says Freddie. ‘Hanging was too good for him, in my opinion.’
‘There’s a lot you don’t forget,’ says Nelson. ‘That’s why the job gets to you in the end.’
Freddie looks at him curiously. ‘Is it getting to you? You’re too young to retire though.’
‘I’m forty-eight,’ says Nelson.
‘I retired at fifty-five,’ says Freddie. ‘Best thing I ever did.’
‘I can’t retire,’ says Nelson. ‘Michelle’s pregnant again.’
‘Bloody hell.’ Freddie’s laugh sends two seagulls, who are fighting over a chip on the grass in front of them, squawking into the air. ‘You old devil.’
‘Old is right,’ says Nelson. ‘I feel a hundred. Far too old for all that nappy changing.’
‘Michelle must be happy though.’ Freddie has two children, both grown up now, but Nelson bets that nappy changing didn’t feature much in his experience of fatherhood.
‘She is happy,’ says Nelson, ‘but it was a bit of a shock to both of us.’
‘I bet,’ says Freddie. ‘How are things at Lynn? I hear you’ve got a woman boss now.’
‘Terrible,’ says Nelson. ‘She’s one of the PC brigade, all yoga and quinoa salad and talking about your feelings. Going into the station these days is like being on the set of Loose Women.’ He’s aware, as he says this, that he’s not being entirely fair to Jo. True, she does sit on a balance ball to conduct interviews, but, during the course of their last investigation, he learnt that she’s also a hands-on police officer who enjoys driving fast and interrogating suspects. But today he craves some male chauvinist sympathy. Perhaps because he still hasn’t heard from Ruth.
‘Bloody hell,’ says Freddie. ‘Things have changed since our day. Remember the super we had back then? Chubby Brown? You wouldn’t be able to call someone chubby today. They’d have you up in front of the employment tribunal before you could say
—’
‘You’re right,’ Nelson cuts in, before Freddie can say something unsayable. He remembers Roy ‘Chubby’ Brown, the super when he’d first moved to Norfolk. He’d been a good boss, even if he had been rather prone to calling women officers ‘love’ and doing most of his briefings in the pub, next to the dartboard. It was Chubby who had first promoted Nelson to detective inspector. His career had only stalled with the arrival of the new superintendent, Gerald Whitcliffe, a perma-tanned graduate with a passion for appearing on television. That and his failure to solve the Lucy Downey case, of course.
‘Dave Clough is a DS now,’ he says. ‘You remember Dave?’
‘I certainly do,’ says Freddie. ‘I arrested his brother a few times. A DS, eh? Who would have thought it?’
‘He’s a good copper,’ says Nelson. ‘And he’s just married a rich actress. They’ve got a baby, too.’
‘Bloody hell,’ says Freddie. ‘Cloughie has landed on his feet all right. Give him my best, won’t you?’
‘I will,’ says Nelson. He remembers that Freddie had always taken an interest in Clough, perhaps because of the link to the ne’er-do-well brother. Sometimes an early brush with the law can stimulate an interest in policing as well as in the criminal life. It can go both ways. Tim, he remembers, also has a brother who has been in prison. But he doesn’t want to think about Tim.
Freddie cuts into this line of thought. ‘Where’s Micky living now?’ he says. ‘Hope it’s got a fire escape.’
‘Spalding,’ says Nelson. ‘He’s out on licence, has to sign in at the local nick every day.’
‘Did he marry that bird?’ says Freddie. ‘The one he was planning to run away with?’
‘Wendy Markham,’ says Nelson. ‘No, she didn’t wait for him. But he met another woman when he was inside. She wrote to him, apparently, and they got married last year. Had the wedding ceremony in the open prison.’
‘Why do women do that?’ says Freddie. ‘Marry prisoners. Seems like the worse the villain, the more women want to marry him.’
‘A psychologist once told me it’s because women are attracted to alpha males,’ says Nelson. ‘Apparently killing someone makes you an alpha male.’ Nelson never had that much time for the psychologist in question, Madge Hudson, known to him as Queen of the Bleeding Obvious. But there’s no doubt that women are sometimes attracted to villains. He’s not sure if it works the other way, though, with female killers deluged with letters from admiring men.
‘Nothing alpha about most murderers,’ says Freddie, standing up. ‘Pathetic specimens, most of them.’
Nelson stands up too, realising that the conversation is at an end. It’s certainly true that a lot of criminals are inadequate people who take out their frustrations on those they consider even lower than them in the food chain. Micky Webb had certainly fallen into this category.
‘Fancy a pint?’ says Freddie. ‘There are a couple of nice pubs in Cromer.’
‘I’ve got to get back to work,’ says Nelson. ‘My boss would just love to get me done for drunk driving. She’s already had me on a speed awareness course.’
Freddie’s laughter follows him all the way back to the car park.
*
Angelo is at the apartment bright and early. Shona, still in her silky kimono, gives him the full hair tossing, eyes twinkling treatment. Angelo seems appreciative, if slightly amused. Ruth is dressed and ready to go. She’s wearing dark trousers to seem more businesslike, but already feels too hot. Angelo, in black jeans and a black shirt, seems oblivious to the heat.
‘Bye, Kate,’ says Ruth, kissing her. ‘Be good. Have fun with Shona and Louis.’
Graziano is going to take Shona and the children to a nearby swimming pool. Graziano is an old friend of the family, Angelo had said, but that doesn’t quite explain why he’s at their beck and call like this. Still, there’s no denying that he is being very useful. The pool is apparently only a mile away but it would be a gruelling walk over the hills. Shona seems delighted at the chance to get to know Graziano better. Ruth prays that she won’t become so distracted that she forgets to put on Kate’s factor 50.
Angelo drives fast and well down the switchback road and across the flat valley, between fields of sunflowers, their heads rising up towards the sun.
‘There must be some interesting prehistory around here,’ says Ruth. ‘It looks the right sort of landscape.’
‘Yes,’ says Angelo. ‘The valley used to be a huge lake and there have been some very old bones found there. There was a fossilised skull found near Ceprano that was approximately half a million years old. Homo heidelbergensis. And there are Bronze Age and Iron Age remains too.’
The bones are being held in a laboratory at the University of Cassino. As they approach the town they see the abbey, gleaming white on the very top of the highest mountain.
‘What a vantage point,’ says Ruth. ‘It was bombed in the war, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ says Angelo. ‘There’s almost nothing left of the ancient monastery. The new building is very beautiful though. I’ll take you one day.’
‘Was it bombed by the Allies?’ says Ruth, wishing she knew more about recent history. She’s fine on the Battle of Tollense in the Bronze Age, but the Second World War is linked in her mind to the sort of films her father used to watch on Sunday afternoons. She wonders what her dad is doing now.
‘Yes,’ says Angelo. ‘Cassino was in a very important position defensively, the lynchpin of the Gustav line, but, of course, it was also important as a lookout. The Germans told the Vatican they wouldn’t use the monastery as a base because of its historical significance, but the British bombed it anyway. The church was full of monks and Italian civilians seeking sanctuary. They were all killed. Apparently it was a mistake in translation from a British Intelligence officer. He intercepted a message saying that the abbey was full of monks, but he mistook the German word “monk” for a similar word meaning “battalion”.’
‘How terrible,’ says Ruth. ‘The more I read about historical wars and battles, the more they seem to be full of mistakes.’
‘Except the Romans,’ says Angelo. ‘The Romans were experts on battle strategy.’
This is partly why Ruth prefers prehistory, the dark and mysterious years before the Romans. Battle strategy is all very well but there’s something cold and inhuman about it.
‘The monastery was fourteenth century,’ says Angelo, ‘but the order was founded by St Benedict in the fifth century. The hilltop site was originally a pagan temple dedicated to Jupiter with an altar to Apollo. When St Benedict arrived, the local people were still worshipping the old gods in the sacred grove. St Benedict was a pragmatist though – he simply turned the Temple of Jupiter into a church, dedicated to St Martin of Tours. ’
‘Who first settled this area?’ says Ruth. ‘Was it the Romans?’
‘The Volsci,’ says Angelo. ‘Do you know about the Volsci? They were one of the Italic tribes. Rivals and enemies of Rome. The Volsci inhabited all of the Liri Valley and the Pomentine plains. Very interesting people. One of my students is doing a dissertation on them.’
After all this history, Ruth is rather disappointed with the university. It’s a modern building in the middle of a traffic intersection, all glass and concrete blocks. Angelo lets them in with his pass key. They ascend an open-plan staircase, the glass balustrade cracked in places, the walls pock-marked where posters have been taken down. The building seems empty – but then it is August. UNN would be the same.
Ruth is panting by the time they reach the third floor. Angelo, who has been talking constantly about the Romans and the Volsci, is hardly out of breath.
‘Now here,’ he says, flourishing another key, ‘is Toni.’
They are in a laboratory, familiar the world over, with microscopes and gas taps and test tubes in racks. The bones are laid out on one of the work surfaces. They are complete, fully articulated in Angelo’s phrase, laid out in anatomically correct order and remarkably well p
reserved.
Angelo hands Ruth a lab coat and gloves and she approaches the skeleton, feeling the thrill that she always experiences at seeing old bones, knowing that they will have secrets that she can uncover.
‘Is it unusual to find a skeletal burial from this era?’ she says. ‘Wasn’t cremation more common?’
‘Before the first century, cremation was more common,’ says Angelo, ‘but articulated burials are often found afterwards. We think the site is about 500 Common Era but we won’t know about the bones until we have the carbon-14 results.’
Waiting for test results is obviously an international problem. She walks slowly around the table. From the pelvic bones, she thinks that she is looking at a male, not very tall. The skull isn’t complete, but it looks as though it has been broken up by ploughing rather than brute force.
‘And the body was face down?’ she says.
‘Yes. That could have some cultural significance, but he could just have been buried in a hurry.’
‘The position is always important though,’ says Ruth. She realises that she is echoing her old archaeology professor, Erik Anderssen: ‘Look which way the bones lie. The position tells you everything. In Christian burials, bodies are usually buried facing east, supposedly towards heaven. Sometimes priests and religious leaders are buried facing west, so that they can rise facing their people. Facing downwards, you are looking at something else altogether.’
‘One strange thing,’ says Angelo, ‘we found something between his teeth.’
‘What?’ Ruth straightens up.
‘This.’ Angelo proffers an object in a transparent evidence bag. It looks like a flat, grey stone.
‘A stone?’
‘Yes, it looks like it may have been lodged between his teeth.’
Ruth leans closer. ‘I wonder . . .’
‘What?’
‘I wonder if the tongue was removed. It’s hard to see because the soft tissue will have rotted away. But, if so, it could have been some kind of punishment. Have you ever seen anything like that before?’
The Dark Angel Page 6