‘Si?’ He hears a man’s voice.
Pasquale explains the phone is lost and he needs it urgently.
‘No problem. My daughter says she found it a short time ago. You can come and collect it now.’
They hail a taxi and drive ten minutes to the upper reaches of the Spanish Quarter.
‘Here. Stop here!’ Marcello says. They pull up outside a line of dingy terraces and he hands the fare to the driver. There is nothing to distinguish number 260 from its neighbours, the same unpainted walls and crumbling masonry. They climb three levels and ring a buzzer.
‘Si?’ Pasquale recognizes the father’s voice. The door is opened by a man of thirty or so. A young girl with saucer-brown eyes and long black hair stands beside him. ‘Go on. Give it to them,’ the father urges her.
The girl hands Pasquale the phone. Marcello glances at it quickly. ‘Definitely Riccardo’s. Thank you very much, Carmine. This is very important to us.’
He turns to the father. ‘Could you let her show us where she found it?’
The man nods and takes his daughter’s hand. He locks the door behind him and together they descend the stairs to the street. They walk to an intersection with a wider street.
‘There,’ she points to the gutter. ‘Right there. That’s where I found it.’
Marcello pulls a twenty euro note from his pocket and hands it to her father. ‘That’s for Carmine.’
The man tries to give it back. ‘That’s not necessary. We teach our children to be honest. They don’t need to be rewarded for doing what is right.’
‘Please. This means a lot to us,’ Pasquale says. ‘We want to thank her.’
The father shrugs and Carmine giggles as they turn back to their apartment.
The two men pace up and down the street, looking for more clues, the sign of a struggle. But they see nothing. Marcello checks the phone, looking for any calls Riccardo might have made. He clicks onto the message menu. ‘There’s something here!’ He holds the phone up to Pasquale. ‘Riccardo’s tried to write a message. Not police.’
‘He obviously wasn’t able to send it. Maybe he threw the phone out of a car?’ Pasquale says. ‘Where do we start to look for him?’
‘I don’t know. I just don’t know.’
The light of a bar burns onto the street above. Marcello gestures to Pasquale and he follows him up a small rise and opens the door. The barman and a cluster of men sitting at the tables inside the single room look at them curiously when they enter.
‘Grappa. Two please.’ Marcello orders.
The barman places the glasses in front of them and they both drink.
Pasquale appreciates the strong warm liquor. He gauges the atmosphere in the bar has relaxed, their intrusion dismissed as harmless.
The door opens again and the girl’s father walks in. He greets them warmly and offers to buy them a drink. They shake their heads. ‘But maybe you could help us,’ Marcello says quietly. ‘We are very worried about our friend. He was taken away from the garbage protest by two men dressed as carabinieri, but we don’t think they were police. They may have driven past here where Carmine found his phone.’
‘No problem. These are my friends,’ the man says. In a loud voice he retells the story, embellishing all the details and asking if anyone had seen two policemen in the street just after sunset.
Laughter punctuates the air. ‘The real police are too scared to come up here unless they bring a battalion,’ one says.
‘I saw something.’ A deep voice comes from a small table in one corner of the bar.
‘What did you see, Bruno?’ asks the father.
‘Police, and maybe some others, driving a Mercedes. That’s why I noticed. I’ve never seen that before. It sped up the hill here.’
‘Did you notice a number? Anything else?’
‘No. It was a dark-coloured car, very expensive. That’s all I saw.’
Pasquale and Marcello thank the men and leave the bar.
Marcello shakes his head. ‘I’m feeling helpless. But I’m going to go home and get the car and start driving around the streets. Just in case. Pasquale, why don’t you go home and see Frances? She’s worried sick and it would be good if you kept her company.’
The two men go their own way. But the same darkness of spirit, matching the blackness of the Naples night, follows them.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Frances wakes to the sound of sirens below and for a moment wonders if Riccardo’s disappearance was just a bad dream. She has fallen asleep on the sofa but when she sits up and sees Pasquale slumped in the chair next to her, she remembers the hours of waiting through the night for news, any news at all that might stymie their worst fears.
She goes to the window and throws open the shutters. Two paramedics are lifting an elderly woman on a stretcher into the back of an ambulance parked in the street.
‘What is it?’ Pasquale is awake.
‘An ambulance, but not for Ricky,’ Frances says. ‘A woman. I don’t know her.’
Pasquale is beside her, putting on his coat. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to stay here all night.’
‘I’m glad you did. It’s not a good time for either of us to be on our own.’
Frances opens the door for him. ‘I’ll let you know if I hear anything from Marcello.’
He walks down a couple of steps and returns. ‘Frances, I know this sounds trivial with Riccardo missing…’
‘What is it?’
‘The cello. The one I’ve been saving to buy. It’s gone from the shop.’
‘What happened to it?’
‘I don’t know. I passed by last night and it’s not in the window.’ He looks like a lost child, his striking eyes still reddened from the spray attack.
Frances smiles at him. ‘Maybe the shopkeeper just moved the instruments around. Don’t worry, you’ve been paying instalments so he won’t have sold it to anyone else.’
She closes the door and checks her watch. It’s still early. She rings Marcello’s phone but there’s no answer. Riccardo’s backpack is propped against one wall. She unzips the front. A half-full packet of his precious chocolate biscuits falls out and crunches as she picks it up. She feels sick to the stomach, remembering his laughter and praying she’ll hear it again. Where on earth is he? She bites her lip hard then tries Marcello’s number again. Still no answer. She hears the ambulance leaving. Hospitals—they must check all the hospitals and all the other police stations. She throws on her leather jacket and hurries downstairs. Her bike stands alone and she remembers his bike must still be in the city.
The café is empty and Massimo starts making her café latte before she has even ordered it. ‘Buon giorno, Francesca. Anything to eat with your coffee?’
‘No thanks, I’ve lost my appetite.’
‘Must be serious,’ he teases her.
She’s about to tell him about Riccardo when her phone rings.
‘I’ve found him,’ Marcello says.
‘Is he—’
‘He’s OK. A bit knocked about, but OK. I’m bringing him home.’
Relief and joy, the emotions are so strong she must have looked overwhelmed.
‘Everything OK?’ Massimo asks.
‘Yes, couldn’t be better.’ She quickly rings Pasquale. ‘He’s safe!’
‘Thank God. Where is he?’
‘Marcello’s bringing him home. Can you tell the others?’
Frances drinks her coffee slowly, her mind racing. Brutal images of the murdered scientists force their way back and she inhales sharply. That was her deepest fear—first Riccardo, then Marcello, then her.
She pays for her coffee, then waits on the pavement, where scores of schoolchildren jostle together, heading for another day in the classroom. The shutters are pulled up and the small shops are trading, women with shopping baskets are buying food for lunch. The day is so deliciously ordinary. Ricky is alive.
But still, her stomach lurches as Marcello’s four-wheel-drive approaches. S
he waves him over and climbs into the back seat. Riccardo sits in front but doesn’t speak. Marcello smiles at her over his shoulder, weariness lining his face.
Frances drapes her arms around Riccardo’s neck. ‘I’m so pleased you’re safe.’
He lets out a sound like a sob. She rubs his shoulders and says nothing more.
When Marcello parks in the courtyard and jumps out to help Riccardo, Frances pulls him aside. ‘Shouldn’t we take him to hospital? He’s in shock.’
‘I tried to but he stopped me. He doesn’t want to go.’
Together they half carry Riccardo up the flights of stairs to the apartment, where they peel off his coat, jeans and shoes. Frances smells a bitter cocktail of urine and the streets as they lay him on his bed. His face is stained with dirt and blood, one of his eyes is blackened and there are cuts on his hands and bruises on his legs.
Doing her best to conceal her shock, Frances strokes his forehead. When Marcello returns with a basin of hot water to wash his face and hands, she makes a pot of strong tea. He manages a smile and they gently raise him to sip the steaming brew. He acknowledges them with his good eye but seems incapable of speech. Soon he closes both eyes and drifts into sleep. Frances covers him with a blanket and removes the fouled clothing.
Marcello pulls her towards the lounge and holds her close.
She clings to him, breathing in concert. ‘What happened?’ she whispers.
‘I drove around for hours before I found him dumped in an alley. He’s lucky to be alive. They’ve let him off with a warning, and a message to all of us.’ He releases her and pulls a piece of paper from his pocket, a coarse charcoal drawing of a decapitated man, his head lying at his feet. ‘This could be the future for you and your friends’ is scrawled beneath it. ‘This was pinned to his coat.’
Frances gasps. ‘Il Sistema?’
‘Must be, posing as carabinieri. What amazes me is that they didn’t murder him.’
‘What stopped them?’
‘I don’t know.’
Marcello holds her again and she wants to collapse in his arms. She leads him to her bed and they lie together, their limbs tangled, as they drift into a deep and troubled sleep.
A loud groaning wakes them—Riccardo calling from his room. Frances checks her watch. They’ve been asleep for three hours.
He’s trying to sit up in his bed. ‘Ricky, careful now.’ She sits next to him and takes his hand.
‘Thank you,’ he murmers as Marcello joins them. ‘I thought I was going to die.’
‘Not yet, as my Nonno would say, the saints aren’t ready for you.’
Riccardo laughs then clasps his ribs. ‘Ouch! They really did me over.’
‘Can you tell us what happened? We saw you disappear off the stage with the police, then we couldn’t find you.’
‘Well, they fooled me at first. But when they bundled me in the back of an unmarked Mercedes I realized they weren’t carabinieri.’
Marcello holds up his mobile phone with the message. ‘We figured that!’
Riccardo holds out his hand to take it. ‘Madonna! A miracle! I started to write a message on my phone but I was interrupted when one of them got into the back and pointed a gun at me. When he opened the window to throw his cigarette away I managed to toss the phone out. I never imagined it would bounce back so fast.’
‘What did they do to you?’ Frances asks.
‘There were three of them, the driver and the two goons. They took me to some warehouse, full of clothes. I don’t know where it was. They gagged me and started punching and kicking me, warning me not to spread rumours about Vesuvius that would stop development. Then they drove me around again and dropped me in the alley where you found me. But first…’
He starts to cough. ‘But first they tipped bags of rubbish over me then one of them pissed on me. They finished me off with a few more kicks and I don’t know whether I passed out or not, but I know I was lying there for a long time.’
Frances scans his face and body, fearful of his injuries, not just physical but to his indomitable spirit. ‘I think we should get a doctor.’
Riccardo shakes his head. ‘No, nothing is broken.’
‘Well, how about a good hot bath? You don’t exactly smell like a rose garden.’
While he is soaking, the doorbell rings. A courier hands Frances an envelope embossed with the university’s logo and addressed to Riccardo.
‘Who was that?’ Marcello has helped dress Riccardo and is leading him to the sofa.
Frances hesitates by the door. ‘For you, Ricky.’ She hands him the envelope and he tears it open so clumsily the letter falls out. His left eye is so swollen and black he squints to read it, then spits and throws it on the floor.
Frances scoops it up and reads it out loud.
Dear Signor Cocchia, I am under instructions to inform you that your contract with Progetto Vulcano has been terminated. In spite of previous warnings from the director, you have continued to breach the terms of your contract that require you to keep the research findings confidential until they have been substantiated and released officially by the university. It has come to our attention that you have addressed a public rally about the project without permission and in further breach of your contract. Regrettably, this amounts to professional misconduct and cannot be tolerated. Your termination is immediate.
Professor Bartolo Caterno.
Frances sits down next to him, caught in a cross-fire of emotions, struggling to find anything that might console him. ‘Would you like me to talk to Professor Corsi? Ask her to reconsider?’
He shakes his head. ‘I wouldn’t waste your time.’
Marcello paces the floor. ‘They’ve done a Galileo on you.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘When Galileo declared the earth revolved around the sun, he was condemned by the Church. He was forced to recant and spent the last eight years of his life under house arrest.’
Riccardo grunts. ‘Nothing much has changed in four hundred years!’
‘We could try the media. Get your story out,’ Frances suggests.
‘Another waste of time.’ Riccardo smiles grimly. ‘No, I think I will go to Stromboli. I don’t like to run away but I need to get my strength back. I’ll go there for Christmas and put myself under house arrest.’
The doorbell rings again. Frances opens the door and is taken aback when another courier gives her an envelope from the university, this time addressed to her.
She walks slowly back into the room and holds it up, wondering if she’s about to become another Galileo. Opening the envelope carefully she reads the letter, raises her eyebrows and reads it through a second time, more slowly. She puts it down and turns to her friends.
‘Looks like I’m going to Stromboli too.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The shelves in the small shop bulge with hundreds of painted figurines, Christian icons side by side with pagan symbols. Frances picks up a small pink angel and turns it over in her hands.
‘What’s it made of?’
‘Cork, moss and bark,’ the shop assistant replies. ‘They’re traditional, the presepe artists make them by hand. Would you like it?’
Frances nods and hands it to her. Perfect for baby Luciana. She reaches to a higher shelf and removes a plump reindeer with a bulbous nose for Stefano. And for Lorenzo? She scans the shelves and picks up a shepherd. He looks a little too real for comfort, with a five o’clock shadow and arthritic fingers. She puts it back and settles for a younger shepherd holding a dog on a leash. The shop assistant carefully wraps each piece in tissue paper and places them in Frances’ basket.
She steps into a dense crowd of Christmas Eve shoppers milling around the crèche shops each side of the narrow thoroughfare of Via San Gregorio Armeno in the heart of the old city. The shops try to outdo each other with their nativity scenes. Some would fit into a shoebox, while others are so large they would fill the room of a house. Motorized angels fly through the air, th
e three kings dance like a clownish chorus in the background and complete casts of moving shepherds and animals watch over a myriad of representations of Mary, Joseph and baby Jesus in the manger.
A crowd of people laughing outside one tiny shopfront attracts her attention. Frances stands on tip-toes to peer over a scrum of shoulders. A cast of life-sized wooden figures is arranged in a stable. The intricately carved faces resemble ministers of the government. She starts as she recognizes the image of the politician she met at the British Embassy dinner. He is a severed head, neatly sitting on a silver platter.
She shivers and walks away. A sweet smoky smell drifts down the street. An old man is leaning over a charcoal burner roasting chestnuts. ‘Castagne, castagne,’ he utters, voice frail and teeth missing. Frances hands him some coins and he gives her a brown paper cone filled with the nuts. They’re steaming and she gratefully warms her hands on them. She bites into one, tasting its floury nutty centre.
Ahead of her a line of food shops overflows with Christmas fare; supersized packets of pasta in a rainbow of colours, rich chocolates and fine olive oils. Bottles of liqueurs dangle temptingly in the doorways and she walks into one to buy a bottle of bright yellow limoncello.
The crowds continue to grow and press against her. Suddenly she is pushed hard. Men are shouting and she’s squeezed as the mass of people around her compress and panic in the confusion.
Close by, a short man pushes through, holding a gun above his head. She’s so near, every feature of his face is visible, including a deformed ear. It’s grotesque, a remnant of an ear, hacked or chewed off. His face seems familiar and those around her shrink back to let him through. Frances clings motionless to the wall beside her. A gun fires and she hears screaming and loud footsteps. Then, nothing. The tension is choking. No one talks. People shift uncomfortably, then sensing the crisis has passed, quietly return to the business of shopping, as though nothing has happened. She wants to get away as fast as possible but she has two more stops to make.
She walks further into the old city streets of Spaccanapoli, where expensive jewellery and fine gift shops vie for attention. The bell jingles when she enters one. The shopkeeper recognizes her. ‘Ah signorina, it is ready,’ he says, handing her a small parcel.
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