by Will Adams
Cesco kept his expression impassive. But inside he was churning.
Raff, you idiot. What the hell did you get yourself into?
II
Thirty odd years ago now, adolescence had turned Romeo Izzo from a bright, brash twelve-year-old into an uncommonly self-conscious teen, painfully aware of his Picasso features, his bad teeth, gangly limbs and narrow shoulders. He’d had the same raging hormones as all his mates, however, and a cheeky quick wit with which to make girls laugh, in the wake of which he’d managed to ask almost all of them out, at one point or another, despite the pummelling he’d taken from rejections along the way.
Yet there’d been one girl with whom his courage had always failed him.
Lucia Conte.
His problem had been simple. His tongue had ceased working in her presence, his usual instinctive jokes coming out slow and laboured instead. It hadn’t been her looks exactly, for – despite her long coiled black hair and the hypnotic way her skirts had swished and swirled around her legs – she’d by no means been the prettiest of their year. He’d been unnerved instead by her obvious intelligence and knowledge, constantly making allusions, connections and remarks that had whooshed over his head, but which he’d smiled nervously at all the same, despite suspecting that he himself was their butt. Worse still, he’d striven so hard for clever ripostes that he’d come out with stupidities instead, stupidities that she’d teased him for and which still had the power to wake him in a sweat. Yet somehow, considering how awkward and strained they often were together, they’d spent a surprising amount of time that way. And once or twice he’d caught her looking at him in the strangest way, making his insides tumble over themselves like clothes in a dryer, so that only his wretched shyness had stopped him from seizing her in his arms. But then she’d started dating an older boy with rich parents, beautiful clothes and a gorgeous crimson Vespa that had somehow always kept its showroom gleam, and who’d bought her flowers and chocolates, and who’d called her his principessa. And how had he been supposed to compete with that?
He took a pool car up to the hospital, asked directions at the front desk. She was dozing when he arrived in her room, so he scraped the legs of a chair across the floor to wake her as he moved it beside her bed. Her hair was shorter than it had been, and her complexion darker. She’d always been solidly built, but her figure was even fuller now. A woman rather than a girl. Yet, the moment she opened her eyes, he was fifteen again, the tumble dryer on full spin. He might have lost his nerve entirely except for the blankness of her gaze. ‘My name is Romeo Izzo,’ he began. ‘You won’t remember me, but actually we were at school together here in Herculaneum back in—’
‘I remember you, Romeo. How could you possibly think otherwise?’
‘Oh,’ he said.
‘I was so sorry to learn about your poor wife,’ she told him. ‘I wrote to you, several times in truth, though I never sent the letters.’ She paused a moment and then added: ‘I thought it would be you who wouldn’t remember me.’
He stared wide-eyed at her. ‘But I remember you so perfectly,’ he said, with such revealing candour that he had to look away for a moment. Then they smiled together at their shared folly in a way that broke the ice. ‘Well,’ he said, spreading his hands. ‘I became a policeman. A detective, no less. In fact, I’m in charge of the investigation into your… into this morning’s terrible tragedy.’
‘Yes. I saw you earlier.’ She reached out a hand, though stopped short of touching him. ‘I’m glad it’s you. I know you’ll find who did it.’
‘Thank you. And I know you’ll want to help, however you can.’
Her eyes narrowed a fraction, realising there was more to this visit than an old friend saying hello. ‘I told your colleague everything I know. Valentina Messana, I think her name was.’
‘Yes. I’ve read her notes. But you talked mostly of what you witnessed. I have other questions. Another question, I should say. It stems from something Il Direttore Santoro told me about your brother: that he went to see him out at his home last night, to discuss the second phase of some project they’re working on.’
‘He was doing some photography for him.’
‘Yes. Il Direttore said something odd. He said they met there rather than at the museum because of politics. Office politics. Can you think what he meant?’
‘I imagine he was referring to Professor D’Agostino. He sits on the museum board and was very much against Raff being awarded the contract. He claimed he was too expensive, that he didn’t appreciate the pieces he was photographing, that he’d bring the museum into disrepute, that he was a security risk. But really it was because of an impersonation Raff did of him that got beneath his skin.’
‘An impersonation?’
‘Yes. You know. His voice, his posture, his way of speaking. It was perfect and very funny. But cruel.’
‘So he wouldn’t have wanted his contract renewed? Yet Il Direttore meant to go ahead anyway?’
‘As I understand it, yes. But look: Zeno may be thin-skinned, yes, but I’m sure he isn’t dangerous. Not like that.’
‘Who else, then? How about your brother’s ex-wife? I hear it ended badly.’
‘She took the kids off to Milan, in part to punish him. But something like this?’ She shook her head. ‘Other than that, everyone loved him. He was such fun to be around. So much charm and youth and energy.’
‘I remember.’
‘He was only fourteen or so back when you knew him. But honestly, he never really grew up. That was his magic. He’d make you feel a teenager again. And you know how precious that is, at our age.’ She reached out and this time brushed the back of his hand with her fingertip. ‘Listen, Romeo. Do you think you could keep me informed? You yourself, I mean. It would mean so much.’
‘Of course.’ He took it as a cue, rose to his feet. ‘Perhaps tomorrow morning?’
‘That would be wonderful. Thank you.’
‘My pleasure.’ Their eyes met and briefly held. The dryer had stopped tumbling, he noticed, leaving behind it only the pleasurable comfort of hot and airy clothes. Then he realised how inappropriate it was even to be thinking this way during an investigation, so he nodded in mild confusion and made his way to the door, where he paused and turned. ‘It was good to see you again, Lucia,’ he told her. ‘I only wish…’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Me too.’
III
Carmen was waiting at her usual spot on the pavement outside Gran Caffè Gambrinus when Cesco arrived. He pulled in alongside her, pushed up his visor. A flippant remark about nightly rates trembled on his tongue; then he caught her eye and thought better of it. ‘A drink?’ he suggested.
‘Sure,’ she agreed. ‘Where?’
He hesitated. The places they’d gone with Raffaele held too many painful memories. ‘Murphy’s?’
‘Perfect.’
She unbuckled the rear pannier, took out her helmet. He’d bought them matching ones as a kind of joke, black with red flashes to match the Harley’s new livery, itself a play on their surnames, Rossi and Nero, red and black. She climbed on pillion, put her hands on his waist. He waited for a gap in traffic, then pulled a tight turn, heading back the way he’d come. Murphy’s was only a short drive away, an Irish bar that gave Carmen a whiff of home with its wall-mounted TVs that occasionally showed baseball and other American sports. He parked outside. By midnight it would be heaving, but right now it was empty. The barmaid frowned as they ordered drinks. Her eyes flickered to the TV. He raised an eyebrow. She found the remote control, skipped back until she found the news, then pressed play again as a reporter gave details of Raff’s murder against a revolving backdrop of photographs. Raff himself, of course, then Lucia. Taddeo Santoro and Zeno D’Agostino. Then one of himself and Carmen at one of their endless Alaric press conferences. He cursed softly. They’d deliberately dropped out of sight since then out of respect for the many enemies they’d made along the way, from the Stuttgart Hammerskins through the Calabri
an ’Ndrangheta to a squad of renegade Israelis.
He handed Carmen her red wine. ‘To Raff,’ he said, chinking glasses.
‘To Raff,’ said Carmen.
The bar was long and narrow. They found a place near the loos where they could talk without being overheard, though it meant falling silent whenever people squeezed by. ‘Well?’ he said. ‘You had something to discuss.’
‘Yes,’ she said. But then she paused.
‘Raffaele?’ he hazarded. ‘Lucia?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘Her keys? The Philodemus scroll?’
‘Kind of.’
‘Then I wouldn’t worry about it. God knows why she’s pushing herself so hard over it. It’s not like they don’t have dozens more upstairs.’
‘Quite,’ said Carmen.
His ears pricked up. He was acutely sensitive to her noises. ‘What are you saying? Are you saying it’s not Philodemus?’
‘No. I never said that.’
‘Of course!’ muttered Cesco. ‘I can’t believe I’ve been so blind. No way would Taddeo or D’Agostino spend so much time on just another Philodemus. What is it, then?’
‘I don’t know. And I’m not speculating. Lucia’s our friend.’
‘Friends don’t lie about what they’re up to.’
‘Of course they do. If people find out what it really is…’
‘So you do know.’
‘I don’t. I swear I don’t.’
‘Not for sure, maybe, but you’ve got a sniff.’ He squinted at her. ‘How? Was it something Lucia said?’ She scowled in annoyance at being so easy to read. He thought back to the hospital, their brief conversation with Lucia. ‘Alberts,’ he said, snapping his fingers. ‘Father Alberts.’
‘Shh,’ said Carmen, motioning for quiet. ‘That doesn’t mean anything. Lots of experts are in the Church.’
‘Yes. But why hide it? Surely only because…’ He frowned as the various pieces suddenly snapped together in his mind. Then he gazed at her in disbelief. ‘Dear God,’ he said. ‘They’ve only gone and found the Gospel of Mark.’
III
It was well after dark when Cousin Claudio finally rang. Zeno D’Agostino was stumbling drunk by then, thanks to his diet of vermouth and cashew nuts. He dropped the handset as he made to answer and had to pick it up from the floor. ‘Pronto,’ he slurred.
‘It’s me,’ said Claudio.
Zeno had been expecting this. But precisely because he’d been expecting it, he was ready with his response. ‘You’ll have to be more specific. I don’t know who—’
‘Don’t even try it, arsehole. You know exactly who I am.’
‘I assure you, I don’t have—’
‘Shut your mouth and listen. I did as you asked. Now it’s your turn.’
‘I assure you, I haven’t the first idea what—’
‘Who the fuck do you think you’re dealing with? You honestly think you can make a deal like this and then back out? After what I just did for you? Don’t you know who I am? The people I work for?’
‘What have you done? Perhaps if you tell me, I’ll remember who you—’
‘You’re drunk,’ said Claudio in disgust. ‘I’ll call again in the morning, once you’ve sobered up. I’ll tell you what you’re going to do for me in return.’
‘In return for what?’
‘You stupid fucking moron. I’ve got our whole conversation on tape. Every last second of it.’ He paused a moment, then added, with unnerving relish: ‘You belong to me now.’
The phone went dead. Zeno held it against his ear, hard and cold. He felt, for a moment, an unexpected pride in himself that he hadn’t buckled and admitted to anything. It was all about nerve in the end. About staying strong. He could still survive this if he just stuck to his plan.
But then the truth of his situation bore in on him, and he began to weep.
Chapter Twelve
I
‘Shh!’ said Carmen again, looking anxiously around the small bar. But it wasn’t busy yet and there was no one within earshot. Even so, she dropped her voice to a whisper. ‘Not a word to anyone. You have to promise.’
Cesco gave a hollow laugh. ‘My God!’ he said. ‘It’s true. It’s really true.’
‘I don’t know. Honestly. It could be anything.’
‘Come on, Carmen. A Christian document found in Italy and dating to—’
‘We’re not discussing this,’ she said. ‘Not here.’
‘Where, then? The apartment? I’ll cook us dinner.’
She gave a grimace. The obvious place, but it would be her first time back there since their fight. Yet it had to happen sometime. ‘Okay,’ she said.
He showed no sign of triumph, just took her glass from her to return to the bar. They went out. Night had fallen, bringing with it a little of the grimy rain that had plagued Naples ever since Vesuvius had grown restless. Headlights made the drizzle glitter and painted golden stripes on the wet black tarmac. Cesco wiped the Harley’s leather seat with his sleeve, smearing the droplets as much as removing them. They strapped on helmets. Carmen climbed on pillion, hugged her arms round him. They pulled out into traffic, leaned together into the bends, quickly recapturing their old rhythm. The air was heavy with a coming storm. They passed the museum and Cavour Metro, then cut left along Vergini. She gave him a hug as they passed Raffaele’s front door, though he didn’t so much as glance at it. They headed up Via Cristallini to the steps, turned down Centogradi to Tronari and their front door. He waited until she was safely off, checked she had her keys, then set off to find a place to park.
She let herself in. Their apartment was top floor. The stairs were narrow, steep and dark. Cesco still hadn’t replaced the bulb. It was typically messy inside, yet it lifted her spirits anyway. Her weeks here had been among the happiest of her life. Raffaele himself had found it for them after they’d moaned about their Airbnb rental. A fashion model friend of his had moved to Paris for her career, and let it out informally to people who pledged to leave at short notice should she decide to return home.
It wasn’t just happiness that Carmen had found here. In a strange way, she’d found herself too. She’d become adult in a way she hadn’t been before, more confident in her opinions, bolder in thought and act, ready to make trouble for what she believed in too. Partly that was the result of their Alaric adventure, but it was also simply being with Cesco. He had an infectious attitude to life, cheerful and cavalier, yet ultimately decent. Besides, being loved and admired by a man you yourself loved and admired – was there anything better?
It broke her heart that it had all ended so abruptly.
A bottle of red stood on the kitchen sideboard. She popped its cork, poured herself a glass. The fridge kept switching between low rumbles and high-pitched squeaks, as though it had come down with food poisoning. She took a peek inside, wondering about dinner. He’d been to the fishmonger recently, she was delighted to note. Half a dozen mussels in a bowl of cold water covered by a white tea towel. A tray of thin bags through whose pearly skin she could make out squid, shrimps and scallops too, along with a fillet of pinkish monkfish and a polystyrene cup of fish stock. Everything necessary for Cesco’s zuppa di pesce, her favourite of his dishes – almost as if he’d known she’d be coming.
The heavens burst suddenly, as threatened. Rain pounded down so hard outside that it sounded like heavy traffic. She went to the window. Cesco arrived at a comical, flat-out run, sending up great splashes with every step, his jacket zipped up to his throat, holding a futile arm over his already drenched head. The front door opened and slammed. Shoes squelched on the stairs. He tripped on a step in the darkness and swore out loud. She smiled and opened the door. He headed straight into the bedroom. She tossed him a white towel as he stripped. He dried himself briskly, mussing up his hair before pulling on crumpled chinos and a black T-shirt. ‘This bloody weather,’ he said. ‘See Naples and drown.’
‘Blame Vesuvius, not Naples.’
‘Napl
es is Vesuvius.’ They went together through to the kitchen. She poured him a glass of red. He took a gulp, then opened the fridge and looked inside. ‘Fish stew?’
‘I’ve been dreaming about it.’
He arched an eyebrow. ‘About my fish stew, huh. I don’t know whether to be flattered or jealous.’ He took the ingredients from the fridge, lined them up on the counter. He’d earned his living, for a while, in restaurant kitchens, and she loved to watch him cook, not just for his skill and speed, but for the uncharacteristically finicky manner he took on, the way he’d taste everything as he went, muttering darkly at himself and adjusting flavours.
He splashed olive oil into a heavy saucepan, set it on the stove, lit the gas. He salted and chopped the monkfish, then seared it and the scallops before splashing in more oil for the celery, red onion and the pulp of baby plum tomatoes that he squeezed out between thumb and forefinger.
She took a wooden spoon from the drawer. ‘Want me to stir?’
‘Like old times, eh?’ he said, sprinkling in the chopped garlic, oregano and chilli flakes. But this was dangerous ground and he hurriedly switched topic. ‘You were going to tell me about Mark. How the scroll wasn’t his.’
‘I never said that. Just that it could be other things too. Community rules, say. A sermon. A letter. Any of those would still be the oldest surviving Christian document by a good hundred years.’ Bits of onion kept sticking to the bottom of the pan. She vigorously scraped them loose. ‘And it wouldn’t even have to be explicitly Christian, when you think about it. An official Roman report mentioning the new religion. An early Jewish text or Midrash.’
‘Why would the owners of the Villa care about any of those? But Mark would fit right in. And it’s the right time and place, isn’t it?’