by Will Adams
‘Or was already on his way.’
‘Yes.’ She made another note, looked up again. ‘When did you last see him?’
‘Yesterday evening. Leaving work.’
‘What time?’
‘Not late. A bit before six, I’d guess. Though I can find out exactly, if you’d like. The studio’s alarm system logs being turned on and off.’
‘Thank you, yes.’ Another scribble on her pad to get the ink flowing. ‘Do you know where he went?’
Cesco shook his head. ‘Only that he had a meeting. He didn’t say who with.’
‘Any reason anyone might have wished him harm?’
‘There’ve been threats. I’m sure you’ve heard.’
‘Against the excavations, yes. But that includes many people. Yet they picked your friend. Why?’
Cesco frowned. A shrewd question, and one he hadn’t even considered. ‘He was a photographer,’ he said.
‘I don’t follow.’
‘He took his camera everywhere. Because you never knew. When he was bored, he’d listen to the emergency services radio for incidents he could get to. He hung out in seedy parts of town. And whenever he heard gunfire, he’d run towards it, not away. His pictures had figured in numerous trials.’
‘Mafia trials?’
‘Come on, Detective. This is Naples. Everything’s Mafia, if you look hard enough.’
‘Anything else?’
‘He liked women,’ volunteered Carmen. ‘And they liked him.’
Messana looked up sharply. ‘Married women?’
‘All kinds.’
‘Any names?’
Cesco gave her a couple, though neither were married. ‘But there was someone else,’ he told her. ‘She’d call him at the studio. On our landline, I mean, not on his mobile. Which was odd. He’d always take it outside for privacy too. So I kind of assumed she was married, though he never said so. Maybe Lucia would know.’
‘Lucia?’
‘His sister. The one they took off in that ambulance.’
Messana made a final note, then gave her pad an emphatic double tap. She handed them each a card should they think of anything else.
‘What now?’ asked Cesco.
‘The hospital?’ suggested Carmen. ‘I expect Lucia could use a friend.’
‘Good thinking,’ said Cesco. ‘Let’s do it.’
Chapter Five
I
Rupert Alberts was a loner by nature. He disliked Taddeo Santoro for his brash loudness; Zeno D’Agostino for his vanity. Only their collaboration on the extraordinary new scroll gave him the fortitude to put up with them. So when Santoro offered him a ride back into Naples, he mumbled an excuse and went in search of a taxi. Then he sat in the back staring blankly out the window, biting his knuckle and trying not to think of Raffaele Conte. But it was futile. The flames consumed his mind, the way he’d sat up and glared straight at him.
Yet he couldn’t have known. He couldn’t.
The news came on. A farmer had shot his neighbour out in Ottaviano. Then that report was interrupted by word of a man burned to death at the Villa of the Papyri. It was more than he could bear. ‘Could you turn that off, please?’ he asked.
‘Sure,’ said his driver. He adjusted his rear-view a little, belatedly noticing Alberts’ smutted hands and face. ‘You were there?’
‘I don’t want to talk about it.’
‘You were there.’
Alberts studied him more closely, in profile and in the mirror. Young, dark, slightly built, with teenage-soft cheeks, huge black eyes, thick, upturned lashes, and hair that fell in lustrous waves to his shoulders. Moroccan or Tunisian, if he had to guess, though his accent was pure Napoli. ‘Just take me home, please,’ he said.
A rosary was hanging from the rear-view, its bead strings slightly out of kilter so that its silver cross tipped askew. A taxi licence was clipped to it. His driver’s name was Idris, it seemed. He was smiling broadly, almost flirtatiously, in his photograph. He wore three gold hoops in his right ear and silver studs in his left nostril and eyebrow. He had a silver bangle on his left wrist and gaudy gemstone rings on his slender, long fingers with their perfectly trimmed nails, nudging the wheel this way and that, guiding the gearstick sweetly between its slots.
Alberts looked up at the rear-view again. So did Idris. Their eyes met and briefly locked. Idris gave him the smile from the photograph. It jolted him like a pothole. He scowled and looked away. But then he glanced back up again, he couldn’t help himself. Idris was there waiting. His smile bloomed wider. He had a small gap between his front teeth, noticed Alberts, and his lips were so bright and shiny they had to be glossed. He tore his eyes away once more, folded his arms and stared out at traffic until they reached Naples’ port district and his apartment.
‘You were lucky to catch me,’ said Idris, brushing his palm as he slowly counted out his change into it, coin by coin. ‘My shift had just finished.’
‘Is that right?’
‘My last ride. I’m free as a bird now. To do anything I like.’
‘Well,’ said Alberts stiffly. ‘I wish you a good day.’
‘One moment,’ said Idris. He reached into his glove compartment for a business card. ‘In case you should ever want me,’ he said. ‘Day or night.’
‘Thank you,’ said Alberts. ‘That’s very kind.’ He turned and made his way to his building’s front door, fumbling keys in his haste. He pressed for the lift, only to hear its doors clanking on an upper floor. He couldn’t wait. He ran up the six flights to his apartment, let himself in, went straight through to his bedroom where he flung himself to his knees in front of the silver crucifix above his bed, wrestling the hateful madness with his favourite prayers, subduing with scripture the vile sweet thoughts of a pretty Moroccan boy with huge bright eyes, smooth skin and glistening lips.
The weakness finally passed, leaving him drained, consumed by shame and self-disgust. What was he? What kind of ugly pervert was he? He’d structured his whole life against these abominable desires, yet still they tormented him. Even now, at this most delicate of moments, engaged by far in the most important mission of his life. But perhaps that was why. For evil was real. Alberts believed that absolutely. The devil too. Not the mischievous cloven-footed demon of popular culture, but rather a malign and pervasive force, subtle, wicked and strong. So of course it would seek to undermine him at this precise moment. Of course it would. Seen in a certain light, it was actually encouraging.
It meant the enemy was worried.
He felt better now. He felt himself again. He got back to his feet and made his way to his desk. For he needed to write up the morning’s gruesome events for his Cardinal while it was all still fresh in his mind.
II
Herculaneum’s Serious Crime squad was blessed with its very own forensic and scene-of-crime capability – a rumpled thirty-seven-year-old by the name of Onofrio Angelino with such wretched notions of punctuality that he didn’t even arrive on scene until almost everyone else had left. He stood up his Vespa and lit a cigarette as he walked across to where Izzo stood contemplating the burned-out Lamborghini. But he showed little interest in that. He drank in Izzo’s dress uniform instead, gave him a sly wink. ‘You old dog,’ he said.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Margarita on the gate today, I take it?’
‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’
Onofrio punched him lightly on the shoulder. ‘You forget my kid goes there too. A fine-looking woman. No reason to be embarrassed.’
‘I’m not embarrassed.’ Izzo scowled. ‘I’m private. There’s a difference.’
‘You know she works evenings at that new fish restaurant? Come eat with us one night. You can wear your uniform again, if you think it helps.’
‘Who are you to talk clothes?’ retorted Izzo. ‘Whatever happened to those bodysuits I got you? The mask, the gloves, the booties, all that TV shit. Do you ever even wear them?’
‘Sure. Eve
ry Halloween. They scare the crap out of the neighbourhood kids.’
Izzo handed him Cesco Rossi’s memory card. ‘Photographs of the blaze as it happened,’ he told him. Then he nodded at the smouldering husk. ‘You going to get anything useful?’
Onofrio shrugged. ‘There’s a reason bastards burn stuff. All this water too.’ He flicked his cigarette butt out onto the road behind. ‘But a man got torched this morning. And in a Gallardo too!’ He shook his head in bewilderment at the depravity of the world. ‘So you’ll have my report on your desk first thing. I give you my word.’
III
Cesco Rossi parked his Harley in a motorcycle courier bay outside Torre del Greco Hospital, then went inside with Carmen to ask for Lucia. The receptionist didn’t even look up. She simply jabbed a thumb at the visiting hours board on the wall behind. ‘You don’t understand,’ said Cesco. ‘Her brother was just murdered in the fire that burned her.’
Now she looked up. Hair up in a bun, half-moon glasses on a string round her neck and a forbidding look in her eye, as though she’d been taken in once as a teenager, and had vowed never ever to let it happen again. ‘Then I expect she needs to rest.’
‘Her brother left two kids. Someone needs to let his wife know before they see it on the news.’
‘Call her, then.’
‘It’s not my place. Not without Lucia’s say-so.’
She stared at him a few moments longer, as if to make him buckle. He didn’t. She dialled an internal number, then dropped her voice and turned away even though she was only passing on his story. She held up a finger when she was done, then pointed them at chairs. A minute passed. A young woman doctor backed in through swing doors, making notes on a clipboard. ‘Lucia’s friends?’ she asked.
‘That’s us,’ said Carmen.
She gazed at them a few moments, then came to a decision. ‘With me.’ She led them upstairs, then along a glass-walled passage, dodging nurses pushing trolleys and empty wheelchairs. They reached a private room. She knocked, then held the door open for Lucia to see their faces. Lucia beckoned them in. ‘She’s on morphine,’ said the doctor. ‘Not as much as she should be, but enough to get confused. If that happens, leave. Otherwise you have two minutes.’
They went to her bedside. Her left arm was so swathed in bandages only her fingers were free. Her left shoulder and left cheek were also dressed, as was her shaven scalp. She reached out for Carmen, only to wince. The pain brought sharpness to her gaze. ‘There was blood on Raffaele’s head,’ she said. ‘Caked blood. Someone had hit him from behind.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘They’d taped his mouth too. To stop him shouting. Tell the police.’
‘I promise.’
‘Good.’ She relaxed back onto her pillow. ‘Thank you.’
‘What about Roberta and the kids?’ murmured Cesco.
Lucia blinked. ‘Oh hell! Do you have her number?’
‘I’ll do it, if you’d like?’
‘Thank you, yes.’
The door opened again. It was Valentina Messana, the detective they’d just given their statements to. ‘You two,’ she said flatly.
‘She’s our friend,’ said Carmen.
‘One more minute,’ said the doctor. ‘Then all of you are out.’
Messana went straight to Lucia’s bedside. ‘I’m investigating your brother’s case,’ she told her with unexpected gentleness. ‘Is there anything you can tell us?’
Lucia frowned a little, as if confused by déjà vu. But she told her of the blood on his head and the tape over his mouth.
‘Any idea who? Or why?’
‘There was a letter.’
‘Yes. I know. But why pick on your brother?’
She shook her head. ‘It makes no sense. Everyone loved him.’
‘I understand he was seeing a woman.’
‘He saw a lot of women.’
‘This one was married. He was seeing her secretly.’
‘Then how would I know?’
‘There may be helpful information in his apartment and studio. May we look?’
Lucia nodded and gestured at her bag. ‘His apartment keys are in there. I water his plants when he’s away. But for the studio you’ll have to ask Cesco.’
‘No problem,’ said Cesco. He rummaged through Lucia’s bag for her keys, held them up for her to point out Raffaele’s. He was about to return the rest when she gestured for him to give them to Carmen instead. ‘My doctor says I may be in here three days,’ she said, slurring quite noticeably now. ‘But we need to keep working on the scroll, even if I’m not there. We’re too far behind already. We can’t keep it quiet for ever.’
‘What can I do?’
‘Ask Taddeo to take the chair until I’m back. He’s done it before. Open up for them, then lock up again afterwards.’ She indicated which keys, watched Carmen detach them. ‘That big rusted one’s for the safe. Don’t let Taddeo have it, not even if he insists.’
‘He’s director of the museum, Lucia. I can hardly—’
‘I don’t care,’ she said fiercely. ‘He’ll take it and we’ll never see it again. If the safe must be opened, have Father Alberts do it. Not Zeno. He lives in Taddeo’s pocket. Only Father Alberts. But clear it with me first, okay? Promise me. I mean it. Promise.’
‘Okay,’ said Carmen. ‘I promise.’
‘Good. Good.’ She relaxed again. ‘And please let everyone at the library know I’m fine, and that they’re to carry on working as normal.’
‘That’s enough,’ said the doctor. ‘Everyone out now.’
They made their way back down and outside together. ‘Need a lift?’ asked Cesco.
Carmen shook her head. ‘I’ll take the train.’
‘It’s no trouble.’
‘For me neither.’ She touched his arm. ‘Anyway, don’t you need to show Raff’s apartment to the good detective?’
‘How about our truce?’
‘Extended. Until all this is behind us.’
‘Then maybe a drink later?’
‘I’ll text you.’
‘Good.’ He made to kiss her, but she gave him her cheek and then set off down the road.
Messana watched it all with a certain amusement. ‘You two having problems, then?’ she asked.
‘Sure we are,’ said Cesco. ‘Busybodies keep poking in their noses.’ He took out his mobile to call Raff’s ex-wife Rosanna. He’d never met her, but he’d often acted as go-between for the two of them, as they couldn’t bear to deal directly with each other any more, and he was cheaper than lawyers. ‘Oh God,’ she said, when she picked up. ‘What’s his excuse this time?’
‘It’s not that,’ Cesco told her.
‘It never is. It’s always something else, yet somehow I end up without my money.’
‘Listen, Rosanna. I’ve got some terrible news.’
‘Terrible news that I presume means he won’t—’
‘I said listen, for Christ’s sake.’ He paused for breath. ‘There’s been a catastrophe. A tragedy.’
A moment’s silence. ‘What are you saying?’
‘I’m sorry, Rosanna. I’m so sorry.’ He waited for her to speak, but all he could hear was silence, so he pressed on, describing the morning’s events, the site visit, the blazing car, Lucia in hospital for her burns.
‘Christ in heaven,’ said Rosanna, when he was done. ‘What now?’
‘I don’t know. I’d guess it’ll be a few days before the police release his body.’ He glanced at Messana, who nodded. ‘I’ll call when I know more.’
‘And the will?’
‘Jesus, Rosanna.’
‘Fuck you,’ she snapped. ‘You’ve no idea what he was like. All you ever saw was the charm. How can I feed my kids on charm? He owed me four months support. Four months!’
‘I’ll look into it,’ said Cesco. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’
‘She took it well,’ said Messana drily, once he’d rung off. ‘You don’t think…?’
&n
bsp; ‘No chance,’ said Cesco. ‘Not like that.’
‘Too cruel?’
‘No. I meant not in the Lamborghini. It was worth too much.’
Messana laughed. ‘And I thought I was a cynic.’
Cesco rubbed the back of his neck. ‘You have Raffaele’s address, yes? Then I’ll meet you there.’
Chapter Six
I
Romeo Izzo took a slow circuit of the burned-out Lamborghini, looking around as he did so. Their witnesses had been unanimous that the firebomb had been triggered after the Discovery had pulled up alongside it but before any of them had touched it. If so, the killer had surely been watching, timing it for maximum effect.
But from where?
The vast open pit dug down through the lava bedrock to the Villa made this whole site perilous for curious children and drunken teens, so it was surrounded on three sides by high concrete walls. Someone could have looked over one or other of them, atop a van or ladder, say, but they’d have been mightily conspicuous. And pointless too, considering the fine view afforded by the fourth side, particularly from the upper floors of the houses directly across the pit from where he was standing, owned by local Camorra boss Giovanni Bruno.
Izzo trudged up Via Mare to reach the winding alley of tall, thin houses. Clothes were hanging up to dry on several of the balconies. Hard to believe that anyone would choose to trigger a firebomb from any of those. But three had been badly enough damaged by the quakes to need scaffolding and keep-out signs. The first front door was locked. But not the second. Dust fell in gentle cascades as he closed it behind him. The wooden stairs creaked beneath his weight. The rear windows of the master bedroom did indeed offer a perfect view of the burned-out Lamborghini. Yet his were the only prints in its dusty floor.
Another creak upon the stairs. A second and then a third. Izzo turned towards the door. A Camorra tough named Fabio Longo appeared, a crowbar in his left hand. Two more now arrived, one holding a length of scaffolding, the other a chisel. His heart sank. He should have known one or other of the tenants would tip the Brunos off. They spread out between him and the door, then turned towards it. Giuseppe Battaglia now came in, still wearing his pearl-grey silk suit from that morning, swinging a sledgehammer like the clapper of some enormous bell. ‘How did the speech go?’ he mocked. ‘Up on YouTube yet?’