by Will Adams
‘I mean, come on boss. He’s obviously not in Rome. Wherever the hell he’s got to, it’s not here.’
‘Are you telling me you want to go home?’
Knöchel bit his teeth together. ‘No, boss. Just hoping the bastard comes back soon, that’s all.’
‘Me too,’ said Dieter. ‘Me too.’
III
Herculaneum Primary School
Deputy Chief Superintendent Romeo Izzo reversed his battered sky-blue Fiat Uno into the empty space before the red Renault Clio could nip in from behind. Then he sat there with his hands on the wheel, tapping out Beethoven with his fingers, while his six-year-old Mario waited patiently in the back, well used to his father’s moods.
Get back in the game, friends and colleagues had urged. You can’t mope for ever. But why the hell not? He was good at moping. Ten thousand hours to make oneself an expert, wasn’t that what they said? Surely that made him world-class. Yet they wanted him to throw it all away. What kind of attitude was that? No wonder Italy always propped up the medal tables.
He leaned across a little to check himself in the rear-view. Yes. As he’d thought. A buffoon. And no time left to go home and change. What had he been thinking? How could he possibly have considered dress uniform a good idea? A warm smile and a brush of hands didn’t make a woman interested. It meant that she’d heard about his wife and was being kind.
But there was nothing for it now.
The red Renault Clio rolled past slowly enough for its woman driver to shoot arrows with her eyes. She had squabbling twins in the back, he noticed, which made him feel a little guilty. But only a little. Parenthood, he’d discovered, was a kind of war. He checked the road was clear, sucked in his stomach to zip and belt up his trousers. Christ, but he’d put on weight. He threw open his door and twisted round in his seat, reaching out his legs before heaving himself up onto his feet, half expecting something to rip. Nothing did. He opened the rear door, unstrapped Mario from his seat and led him along the pavement towards the school, crouching from the knees as far as his trousers would allow, the better to hold his son’s hand. Young mums fell silent as he approached. His wife had been their friend; they knew all too well the tragic story of how she’d fallen sick with a cancer that had kept coming remorselessly after her, whatever treatments they’d tried, however promising her brief remissions. They knew how her widowed mother Isabella had moved in to nurse her through her final weeks, then had stayed on afterwards to help look after Mario while Izzo himself had wallowed in his grief.
Normally, it was Isabella who brought Mario to school each morning and collected him again afterwards. It was easy for them, therefore, to work out why Izzo had tarted himself up on this particular morning, to bring Mario in himself. They weren’t judging him exactly. If anything, they looked sympathetic. Yet somehow that made it all the worse.
Give him the Mafia any day. At least he could shoot those bastards.
Then he rounded the corner into the school and saw that this wish, at least, had come true.
Chapter Two
I
Earlier that year, Carmen Nero had got caught up in the craziest adventure of her life, which had thrown her together with Cesco Rossi and culminated in the discovery of the fabulous lost tomb of Alaric I deep inside a mountain grotto. Its excavation had been planned for the summer, to be led jointly by the University of Sapienza, at which she was studying for her doctorate, and the Archaeological Museum of Naples. She and Cesco had duly come down to Naples to prepare, only for unseasonal heavy rains to force postponement. By then, however – tipped off by her new friend Lucia Conte – she’d discovered a large trove of valuable research materials in the Rare Books & Manuscripts department of the city’s wonderful National Library, so she’d opted to stay on to study them. And Cesco had stayed on with her, taking a job in the studio of Lucia’s glamorous photographer brother Raffaele, to learn the ropes of the profession he’d resolved to pursue.
A little shiver ran through her suddenly with anticipation of what the day might hold. Raffaele Conte had been due to photograph their expedition this morning, but he’d texted a little earlier to let them know that something had come up, and that he’d be sending Cesco instead. She couldn’t imagine what urgent business could have come up at this time of the morning, leading her to fear that Cesco had lobbied Raffaele for the assignment. It would be the first time they’d seen each other since the night of her return from America, and their feelings were still so raw from that wretched encounter that it was all too easy to envision this morning ending the same way. But their split was the last thing she wanted to dwell on right now, so she leaned forward and waved to get the attention of Lucia, sitting on Rupert Alberts’ far side, to distract herself with conversation. ‘You were going to tell us about the protests,’ she reminded her.
‘Oh,’ said Lucia. ‘Yes.’ They were at that moment heading along Herculaneum’s main street. She pointed left down a winding alley of dilapidated homes leading off it, their fronts buttressed by scaffolding covered by huge yellow tarpaulins. ‘Those are some of the houses there,’ she said. ‘And the Town Hall’s just ahead. Where that poor old woman went crazy, you know?’
‘Poor old woman!’ scoffed Professor Zeno D’Agostino from the front seat. ‘She threatened to burn me alive.’
‘Not just you,’ observed Lucia. ‘All of us connected to the excavations.’ A silence fell in the car at this – for while they were high-powered academics, one and all, this was still Naples. Curses meant something here, particularly the curse of an old woman. Particularly the curse of that old woman, despite her obvious insanity, or perhaps because of it. Lucia made a faint sign of a cross, as did Alberts beside her.
‘Well, we’re all still here so far,’ said Carmen, as cheerfully as she could manage. ‘And would I be right in thinking that the Villa is right beneath us?’
Lucia nodded. ‘Thirty metres straight down. This whole high street is directly above it. Which is the exact problem, of course. All the people who own property here blame the excavations for every little crack in their walls. Even though the tremors put the exact same cracks in walls all over town.’
The Villa was indeed directly beneath them, yet Herculaneum’s convoluted one-way system meant that reaching the entrance to the site took them round three and a half sides of a large city block. They finally approached it up a winding lane called Via Mare, built on the bed of the ancient stream that had once separated the Villa of the Papyri from the main body of the Roman town. Taddeo Santoro stopped outside its gate. A fob app on his phone gave access to all museum sites. He tapped it and the steel-barred gate began to squeak and trundle sideways on its rails, revealing the tarmac apron behind, at the top of the hairpin track that wound thirty metres down the escarpment wall to its foot and the Villa itself. To Carmen’s surprise, a car was already parked there. And not just any car, but a familiar yellow Lamborghini Gallardo.
Taddeo frowned round at Lucia. ‘Isn’t that your brother’s? I thought he couldn’t make it.’
‘So did I,’ said Lucia uneasily.
No one said another word, yet the car filled with foreboding all the same. Memories of that madwoman with the flame-red hair shrieking out her vile curses on the Town Hall steps. Memories of the death threat letter pinned to this very gate a few days later. Even as Taddeo pulled up, Carmen and Lucia both jumped out. A puddle on the ground beneath the Lamborghini stank of fuel. Its windows were tinted, yet Carmen could see a bulky shape across its front seats covered by a pale-brown blanket. Then, even as Lucia reached for the door, there was a strange clicking noise inside, a soft pop and then a whoomp.
And, just like that, the car burst into flame.
II
A reckless thing to do, to check out your location map on your phone while weaving through traffic on a Harley. But Cesco Rossi had no time to waste. Arrive late, they’d set off without him. Then he wouldn’t get to see Carmen at all this morning, another day lost in his—
&nb
sp; A battered old dump-truck backed abruptly out of a building site ahead, without even the courtesy of a reversing siren. Cesco swerved so violently round it that he briefly lost his rear wheel and had to fight to regain control. He slowed right down, heart hammering, hands clammy, thinking dark thoughts of his boss Raffaele Conte. He loved the guy, but how very like him to drop out at the absolute last moment, giving him the least possible notice! But he quickly sped back up again, for this could still prove one of the more important mornings of his life – and he dared not be late.
He didn’t know this part of Naples well. A relief, then, to pass the Portici Gardens and find himself in Herculaneum. He cut down towards the sea, turned onto Corso Umberto, then headed up Via Mare, flanked to his left by high brick walls and polytunnel greenhouses – while to his right the exposed ruins of the main Herculaneum site were visible in glimpses through the tall, rusted wire fencing. Then suddenly he was there, even as the automatic gate closed behind what he assumed was Taddeo Santoro’s Ford Discovery.
He stood up the Harley, took off his helmet, and went to wave for their attention. The gate wasn’t solid but rather comprised of steel struts through which he could see the Discovery pulled up alongside what appeared to be Raffaele’s yellow Lamborghini; except it surely couldn’t be, for why then had the bastard made him get up at this ridiculous hour to—
A pale orange glow on its tinted windscreen, like a rising sun reflected. Yet the Lamborghini was facing the wrong direction for that. His stomach clenched like a fist. His friend was in there. He instantly knew it. All those vile threats that had been made hadn’t been bluster after all. Lucia began screaming and pulling at the door handle, setting off its alarm. Smoke began leaking into the sky. He looked for a way in but the gate was tall and topped with vicious spikes.
Two months Cesco had been working for Raffaele. He’d learned more in that time about the craft and technique of photography than he’d imagined possible. More importantly, he’d learned what it meant to be a photographer, to have a camera and other supplies always at the ready. Because you never knew. In one swift movement, he grabbed his Nikon from his saddlebag, removed its cap and reached it through the gate to record the dreadful scene even as a shadowed figure sat up in the driving seat.
Lucia saw him too. Her shriek of anguish confirmed it was her brother in there. She slammed a stone against the window. It shattered, releasing a dragon’s breath of orange flame that forced her to throw herself to the ground, screaming in grief and pain. The extra oxygen swiftly turned the fire into an inferno, swallowing Raffaele and radiating such intense heat that Carmen and the others had to put up their arms and retreat further and further. Only now did Cesco notice the message written in large capital letters on its windscreen, as though someone had smeared it with lemon juice that had now scorched black.
And what it said was:
MAYBE THIS TIME
YOU’LL LISTEN
III
It was long-held practice at Herculaneum Primary School for a member of staff to stand by the front gate and tick off the children as they arrived, to make sure all were present and accounted for. This duty was assigned on a fortnightly rota, which was how Romeo Izzo – and everyone else – knew that this morning it would be the turn of the school’s latest recruit, an enchanting young woman called Margarita Buendia, recently moved here from Sorrento, possessor of huge dark eyes, a diamond nose stud and a palette of colourful lipsticks.
Sure enough, she was standing with her clipboard when Izzo rounded the corner in his unbecoming crouch. To his dismay, however, she was with a tall and handsome young man in a pearl-grey silk suit, whose obvious interest had put a flush in her cheeks and a sparkle in her eyes. It was none other than Gennaro Battaglia, a coming figure in the local Camorra and nephew of its brutal capo Giovanni Bruno.
‘I didn’t know you had family here,’ said Izzo tightly.
‘My sister’s little girl,’ Battaglia told him. ‘I like to walk her in from time to time.’ He gave Margarita a salty wink. ‘Mostly on alternate Tuesdays. Seems like I’m not alone. And wearing such a pretty uniform too. I wish I got the chance to dress up like that in my job.’
Izzo raised an eyebrow. ‘You have a job?’
‘Import export.’
‘Oh. So that’s what you people call it these days.’
‘Guys, please,’ said Margarita. ‘Not in front of the children.’
‘Apologies,’ said Izzo. He stooped to kiss Mario on his crown, then let go his hand and gave him a gentle push. He set off at once, yelling and running for the door, satchel bouncing on his shoulder, little legs splaying as he climbed the steps, so that Izzo couldn’t help but wince as he watched, visualising so clearly his son catching his foot on the edge of one of the steps, smashing his mouth into one of the concrete flagstones as he fell, blood and broken teeth and that terrible wailing that was such torture for a parent. But thankfully he made it safely up and vanished inside.
‘So what’s it for?’ asked Battaglia. ‘The fancy dress?’
‘I have an event this morning, that’s all. A speech.’
‘A speech! How thrilling! About what? To whom? Can anyone come?’
‘No.’
‘Please, guys,’ said Margarita again. But her throat and cheeks were flushed as a winter frost. Gratification at being fought over. Not that it was much of a fight. Margarita was young, fresh and gorgeous. Battaglia was good-looking, tall and rich. He himself was balding, overweight and worn out. What had he been thinking? Just because she’d smiled at him one time and touched his hand. She was kind, that was all. Not even that. Polite.
‘How’s Mario doing?’ he asked.
‘Good, as far as I know. But really you should talk to his teachers.’
‘I know. I get so busy.’
‘We all get busy. Mario is your son.’
‘Yes. Of course. You’re absolutely right.’
‘Don’t let us keep you,’ said Battaglia. ‘You mustn’t be late for your speech.’
Izzo nodded. He needed to return home to change into normal clothes before going in to work. Yet he couldn’t quite bring himself to leave, knowing that Battaglia would mock him the moment he was gone, and that Margarita would tell him not to be so mean, but with a twinkle in her eye. Suddenly he felt sixteen again: awkward, ashamed, on the outside of things. He was fumbling for something to say when Margarita reached out to touch his arm. He looked at her in surprise only to see her frowning at something behind him. He turned to look. A car alarm was wailing and a column of black smoke was rising along the hillside, right by the entrance to the Villa of the Papyri. At once he felt a dreadful premonition, recalling the dire threats that had been made, and the glib assurances he himself had offered, that there was nothing for anyone to be frightened of.
But at least it gave him a way out.
He turned back to Margarita with a formal nod. ‘You’ll have to excuse me,’ he said. ‘It seems I have work to do.’
Chapter Three
I
At one time, all civilian crime in Italy had been investigated by the Polizia di Stato. Then the carabinieri had been turned from military police into civilian force, with responsibility for criminal investigations shared between them on a first come, first served basis. In Herculaneum, at least, the two forces did not get along well, each of them leaking to boost themselves and harm the other. Which was why, if this fire had anything to do with the recent death threats, Romeo Izzo needed to get there first.
He ran back to his Fiat, indifferent to how ungainly he must look in his skintight trousers. He undid his belt and zip, then buckled himself in and sped off so fast that he earned himself a reproachful look from Margarita. But he ignored her to call Valentina Messana on his hands-free. ‘Villa of the Papyri,’ he yelled, braking sharply at a junction. ‘I need you there now.’
‘On our way, boss,’ she told him. ‘Just got the call. Taddeo Santoro, no less.’
‘Hell! He’s not there himself, i
s he?’
‘Afraid so. Says it’s murder too. That photographer Raffaele Conte.’
‘Oh no.’
‘You know him?’
‘A bit.’ He reached Via Mare and took the turn too fast, his worn tyres slithering on the cobbles. ‘I was at school with his sister Lucia.’
‘She’s there too, apparently. Burned herself badly trying to get him out. Ambulance is on its way. Fire too.’
‘Good. Get hold of traffic. Have them close off Via Mare. Us and emergency only. And we’ll need scene-of-crime. Is Onofrio in yet?’
‘Not yet, no.’
‘Well get hold of him now. I want his arse down here. Fifteen minutes or he’s out.’ He neared the Villa entrance, but he needed to leave space for fire and ambulance, so he drove by the gates, then pulled in against the wall and hurried back on foot. The already burned-out car was a blackened husk with yellow tips. It was spewing toxic fumes still, and he could see a charred corpse in its driver’s seat, wrists tied to the steering wheel by twists of wire still glowing orange from the heat, like the filament in an old bulb. Pebbles of broken and molten glass glittered in thin puddles of sheeny liquid that made rainbows of the morning sunlight.
Four men were standing in a semicircle. Two he recognised instantly. Taddeo Santoro, the black-bearded, larger-than-life director of Naples’ Archaeological Museum, standing with his good friend Zeno D’Agostino, barely half his size, so that they always looked slightly comical together. Yet D’Agostino was an impressive figure in his own right, a professor of ancient history at their city’s university, and a regular on regional and even national TV. A third man with silvered hair stood slightly apart, murmuring and making the sign of the cross like a priest at a deathbed. But it was the fourth who demanded Izzo’s immediate attention, a young man in cargo pants and a leather jacket snapping photographs of the victim, no doubt to sell to the media.