Many memories . . . A pretty face. A spider that lured a fly into a web. A woman who wore odd shoes, both from expensive pairs. A well-appointed apartment and a client who needed the reassurance that millions of euros were in good hands. A trip on a kerbstone as a hero went forward – no dog in that fight. A cut across a face that was no longer pretty.
He went on up the hill, threading between rocks, and took care that his feet fell mostly often on rock, not on any small pads of bare earth where he might leave prints.
Jago was almost on them before he was aware of it – they wore camouflage, with dark cream or mud on their hands. A fine net of russet material mixed with natural colours – black, olive green, sweeps of brown brushstrokes – but the lens behind it caught the light. He paused for a few seconds, then went past them.
They exchanged no words. It never crossed Jago’s mind to offer gratitude for the food they had given him, ask about the weather forecast or the weekend’s Serie A games. He could not have said whether they would, from that vantage point, have seen him take aim, then hurl the tyre iron at Marcantonio as he levelled the shotgun on the crippled wolf – Jago’s friend. There was only one similarity between him and them. He was quiet, light on his feet, and thought he could compete with them in skills that would be second nature to them and new to himself. The similarity? He knew the family, was growing closer to it, and they, too, would be familiar with its members, their vagaries and habits. A second similarity: they would be waiting for a sighting of the old man and they, too, would have just the black-and-white photograph, decades old, for identification. He and they shared ignorance. Both waited.
Higher up was the open space where trees and foliage pressed close around what a poet might have called a glade. There was grass and soft moss, and the sun filtered through the leaves. In the books his mother read it was the sort of place where a boy might take a girl. It was hidden, and the house was not visible. He sat, checked his watch and determined how long he would wait. He might have slept. If he had slept and dreamed, he might have seen the man he had never met.
Giulietta walked with her father. They were there to be seen. It was a way of answering those who might have whispered the poison of doubt. He had gone past the war memorial of Locri and by the statue in the small square that commemorated Padre Pio. They had had coffee in a bar on a side-street, the Via Piave, had sauntered along Via Giacomo Matteotti, and now he was at the fruit and vegetable market. He would have brought tomatoes and olives here most weeks recently, had he not been incarcerated in the bunker. It was important that day that men should note he was free, not crushed by the death of his grandson. It was on the radio – and would have been the subject of vivid gossip. The corpse was now in the Ospedale Civile, and the rumour mill would be spinning that the death was ‘mysterious’. It would have been known that he was in hiding, that a magistrate in Reggio was conducting an investigation into his affairs. It was important to be seen – and to be seen with his daughter. Word would pass to those of influence in the community.
The town of Locri housed a carabinieri unit and a team from the Squadra Mobile. The Guardia di Finanze was also present. It was possible, in this town, that a rival might pick up a firearm, hurry to where he was in the marketplace, and blow the back off his head, probably dropping his daughter at the same moment. It was not possible that any man who had seen him on the street, or had taken coffee with him, or now discussed the quality of the fruit and vegetables on sale, the effect of the recent storm on the crops in the poly-tunnels would reach for a mobile phone. Of that he was certain. No one would dial the numbers of any of the three police units in the town. None would be told that a wanted man, gone to ground, was close to them and vulnerable.
He had good conversations in the market, and seemed not to hurry, but Giulietta watched his back and carried in her handbag an Italian-made Beretta 84F.380 Auto calibre, deluxe, with gold inlay. She could use it – probably shot better than his grandson had. Men would murmur about her behind their hands, about her nose, but not to his face. Men talked about the produce, about the weather, and when Marcantonio was mentioned it was with sympathy. It was not Bernardo’s prime territory but he was accepted there. He had a financial interest in some bars, a restaurant and two of the new apartment blocks along the Siderno road. It was good to have Giulietta with him, but it hurt that she had no man to look after her and that now no one other than his daughter could take over the family business. Would a woman be tolerated as an equal? He couldn’t say. He shrugged off commiseration about his grandson.
He had been seen.
Later, at home, the major personalities from Locri and the foothills where his village was would come to pay their respects to him and Mamma. He had no friends in whom he confided, to whom he let slip his worries or to whom he crowed about successes. He had allies and associates, but no friends. That morning he had used, at Giulietta’s prompting, a new method of leaving home.
Giulietta had walked down the track to Teresa’s villa and borrowed her car. Beppe, once a postman in the village and semi-retired, still wore his old uniform each day and always brought the mail – usually tax demands – on foot to the house. Beppe sat in the kitchen and Mamma give him lunch, breakfast or coffee. Bernardo put on the postal uniform, pulled the cap well down on his forehead, took the sack and swung it over his shoulder, then walked back down the track, where Giulietta picked him up. A change of clothes behind a cow byre – another of Giulietta’s ideas.
The sun beat down on him as he left the market.
She said, ‘Not long now, Papa. What else do you want to do?’
‘We shouldn’t waste time, but I’d like to see the sea, be close to it.’
‘Have you any idea what we’re here for now?’ They were on the beach.
The excitement of the early morning had dissipated. Carlo thought he had seen a lens flash in the sun’s brightness, and Fred thought it odd that the washing had been left out overnight – ‘No one with a cadaver in the backyard is going to go out at first light with a mouthful of pegs.’ Fred reckoned his colleague had an itch that needed scratching. He carried his trunks and his towel, rolled together. He couldn’t even begin to estimate what sort of payback might be called in at some time in the future for the help given them. He had sensed a failure in morale, a cliff-edge drop in confidence, among the men he had been alongside when he had made two visits to Calabria and been embedded. He thought the mood worse now than when he had first come nine years ago, and when he had been back three and a half years previously.
He didn’t answer – Fred was rarely short of words. Which was why Carlo’s itch needed scratching. He wanted a response to ‘Why?’ It was the fourth time he had asked the question which had gone unanswered. It was not a pretty beach and now contained too much debris from the storm. It was unlikely that it would be cleaned before the following spring when the tourists came back. The water would be too cold to swim, but better than the Baltic. The banker boy was up on that slope. Where the lens might have flashed but there would have been a covert team in position there, with a chance to scoot out, but the backup would have been closer. Did he feel responsible for the girl who had been scarred for life? That was what happened, and the boy who had done it had lost his life that morning: was that a fair return? Fred was unsettled because answers should have come easily, and it annoyed him that they didn’t. Why were they there?
Carlo said, ‘I suppose I want – not that I’d admit it anywhere close to where I work – to help. I’d like to support the people, at the end of the chain, shield them against what’s around them. That’s narcotics, kids being trafficked, extortion, so that the little money they have is bled out of them, the corruption that means they have to pay a pizzo, a bribe. Anything I can do that puts some or all of that family into gaol, I’m in support of it. A guy turns up and isn’t governed by endless regulations, well, I can criticise him to my superiors. Out of earshot, I’ll cheer him on. If I said as much, and was heard, I’d be sacked. M
y feet wouldn’t touch the ground – I’d be down the stairs on my backside. Why am I here? Because I’m rooting for that young man. He’s a fool, and should be well clear of there by now, on the road and into the airport soonest . . . I have a bad feeling, Fred, and there’s not much I can do about it. I reckon he’ll want to hang around, think himself invincible. I’m saying we do what we can. We don’t get in line and wait for citations to be read out, but we contribute if possible, then head off back to our tidy little desks. No one, thank the Lord, knows our names. How’s that?’
‘Have you finished?’
‘Maybe I shouldn’t have started. I’m trying to say that he’s gone rogue in a hostile environment.’
‘Difficult world out there . . .’
‘Sorry to have spoiled the walk.’
Fred let his hand rest on Carlo’s arm. They had nothing in common except the confused feeling about what was ‘right’ and what was ‘wrong’. It was as if they were bumping around in a darkened room, a brotherhood. He thought of where they were, of the great history of the beach and the town that flanked it, the marvel of the Greek civilisation that had been there millennia before, the artefacts that remained, their writings and sophistication, then of the people who cared nothing for that heritage, polluted it with toxins and ran the cocaine trade. He kicked at the sand. He was only an investigator.
An old man was watching them from close to a statue, a younger woman beside him. When he looked again, they had gone.
It would be good to swim.
It was natural that Father Demetrio, as the hours passed that day, should go to the shrine of the Madonna. He found it a consoling place.
He parked. The church and the dormitories around it, where pilgrims could lodge, were in a steep-sided valley. The sun had still not penetrated and the air was cold. He went towards the church door. The women in the village regarded the shrine as especially important in their lives. The men he baptised, married and buried thought Polsi a useful place of business while their women were at mass when they would huddle in the shadows. Deals were closed, shipments bought and sold, and the problem of those who tried to break away from the authority of the family was settled: strangulation, disappearance or the bullet. The women believed passionately what he told them of the Madonna of the Mountains and of the shrine’s value to them as a protector. Prominent men believed they owned the church, its rituals, the priests, and used it as a comforter, in the way that a child would cling to a favourite toy. The holy epicentre of many lives was filthy, with litter and cigarette ends clogging the cobbles. He walked to the church door.
It could be read in the eyes.
Often enough, Father Demetrio had seen in the faces of the prominent men he met the knowledge that they were condemned and that nowhere remained to them as a refuge. He supposed, had he lingered in front of the mirror as he’d shaved and stared hard into his own eyes, that he might recognise his fate. He might have laughed at the irony of it, but it was likely that no attempt would be made on his life until he had conducted the funeral of the loathsome wretch who had been Bernardo’s grandson. He would settle his mind. Inside the church there was evidence of artistry, a decorative ceiling by skilled workmen, tasteful flower arrangements, and an altar where dignity and tradition reigned. He knelt, bowed his head. He would be put to death – probably painfully – after Marcantonio was buried.
A big step, perhaps none bigger, confronted him.
The lawyer who had quit London, then fled the south-west coast of England and was now resident on the outskirts of Brancaleone took a mobile call. He had not known the caller’s number, nor was he given a name. The information passed to him referred to radio reports that a young man – identity given – was dead from a gunshot wound at his home. Now he had to pacify his client.
Humphrey said, ‘It’s one of those things, Bent. Nothing can be done. You know the old saying “out of a clear blue sky”, well, that’s what happened. The guy shot himself, something about a wolf near the chickens and he was outside with a weapon and must have tripped. Dead as mutton. That’s why you were stood up. Nothing about disrespect. They take death very seriously in these parts – and so they should. They live close enough to it. Before the funeral, I’m told, which is a reflection of the respect for you, Bent, within twenty-four hours, there’ll a meeting with the man himself – not Jack, not me, just you. They’ll have their own interpreter. These boys, Bent, don’t allow a death in the family to get in the way of a deal. You’ll be sorted out and on your way by the end of tomorrow. They know who you are, Bent, the extent of your contacts, your reputation and influence. You’ll get what you came for. The kid’s dead and that was why they skipped today . . . I saw you talking outside, Bent. Did you meet up with some tourists? A bit off-season but there’s always visitors coming here for the sun and the peace.’
‘Something like that. Pity about the kid, not that I liked him. Maybe we should have some flowers for them. Pity that. An accident out of a clear blue sky, yes.’
Jack said, ‘As you say, Bent, an accident and a clear blue sky. Spot on, Bent.’
‘I meant to be here earlier – had to come the back way,’ she blurted. Jago sat on the grass, leaning against a mature birch. The sunlight cut through the branches and its warmth played on him.
‘I’d have been earlier but for roadblocks. Yesterday I had to turn back. There just wasn’t a way through.’
A second excuse. He thought Consolata was flustered.
‘They moved the blocks overnight and I was able to go round them. I brought some food and clothes.’ She put two plastic bags close to his feet. Then she was on her knees, rummaging in them – food and water from one, socks, underwear and a shirt from the other. It didn’t worry Jago that she had been through his rucksack, taken stuff out of it. There was nothing in it of himself. He thought she was anxious.
‘God, it’s been so long since you’ve had anything to eat. Was the storm awful? There were floods and landslides, the worst in years. You should eat now – please. Or do you want to change first?’ Consolata brought out the wrapped food and the water, then put the clothes near to him. ‘It was on the radio. I’ve been listening to it ever since I dropped you. They said it was an accident but I didn’t believe that.’
Jago thought she was desperate to please – she was talking too much. All the time he had been burrowed under the two boulders he hadn’t spoken. He remembered how she had been on the beach at Scilla, under the moonlight, it shimmering on her skin. She had been quiet then. And in the car, when they had systematically stolen from washing lines and had talked of concealment, she had been factual and economic. She would have thought a lunatic had wandered across her path, been captivated, and set on a course of action that she had dictated – she might or might not come back with food, water, clean clothes. He started to unbutton his shirt.
‘I had the radio on all night – I hardly slept. It was on the earliest news broadcast. Just the first report, but he was dead – confirmed. I had it on in the car and that’s when they said about a shotgun. I can’t believe it was an accident. You did it. You struck a real blow against the family. I’m proud to have helped. I’ve done more than I’ve achieved in years. And we’re a team.’
Jago slipped off the shirt and the vest under it. He ignored the food and the water. It was good to get his clothes off. They were drier, but still clung to him. He would have liked to eat, but not yet. The Arena was across the river from Canning Town, one stop on the train, and he’d been there with his sister, when a big boy-band was playing. He’d seen the adoration on her face and those of the other kids, in awe – like the nuns when the Holy Father went walk-about from St Peter’s. They’d shown it on TV when he was at the Catholic school. He wouldn’t have said her gaze was reaching adoration or awe, but saw admiration and astonishment that he had done what she gave him credit for. She had been aloof and distant on the beach.
‘You’ve really damaged them. It’s what a few of us were screaming for. The be
st I could offer my group was to stand outside the principal home of a Pesche or a di Stefano, give out leaflets and probably get beaten. What you did is incredible. Find a wasps’ nest and poke a stick into it, destroy their home and infuriate them. That’s direct action. We had urban guerrillas in Italy forty years ago, the Brigate Rosse. They killed people for direct action, and I understand now, for the first time, the value . . .’
He untied his laces and pushed off his trainers and socks. Then he took off his trousers and pants. He felt the sun on him. He saw Marcantonio’s face – what had remained of it. He thought of the wolf and where it had spent the long night before its death, and the boy who had kept vigil, as he had. The boy, Jago and the wolf had been together for hours before the first hint of dawn. It was not her business.
‘I brought what I thought you might like. It’s not as fresh as if I’d bought it today, but I couldn’t make it yesterday and started too early today. I’m sorry.’
Jago could have slept in the sun. She wore an anorak, jeans, boots and a couple of T-shirts. She was a few feet from him and was unwrapping the food, then opened a bottle. She was turning herself into a café waitress. He didn’t know her. She passed him a sandwich and he saw her face screw up because the bread had curled at the edges. He took it and their fingers touched momentarily. He ate the sandwich, which tasted good but he didn’t thank her. Then she held up a water bottle. He took it, tilted it and drank. He screwed the top back on and let the bottle drop onto the grass. She told him what time the plane was.
‘Just after six this evening. Out of Lamezia to Milan. There’s a connection about nine for Berlin. When I heard the radio I checked the flights. It’ll be late but you’ll be back in your own bed tonight. It’s incredible, what you’ve done. I’ve never managed anything like it. None of the people in my group have. We all talk about it but don’t do it. You hurt them, Jago.’
No Mortal Thing: A Thriller Page 33