The Heretic Scroll

by Will Adams

  Intruder spotlights suddenly snapped on, so bright they made him squint. They illuminated a horrific scene. A man – Taddeo Santoro from the look of it – was on his knees in front of the fountain, his wrists tied behind his back with orange rope, his chest resting on its low stone rim, and a white pillowcase over his head, which was tipped forward so that his face was completely submerged beneath the water, as if bobbing for apples. Cesco walked dizzily across the gravel to him. He hauled him from the water by his shoulder, rolling him onto his back, on the outside chance that his life could yet be saved. It was Taddeo for sure; he could see his face and beard through the sopping wet cotton of the pillowcase. Bizarrely, there appeared to be other objects in there too, though he couldn’t make them out. And drowning obviously hadn’t been good enough, for there was a savage gash in Taddeo’s white silk shirt just beneath his ribs, and it and the stone perimeter of the fountain were both stained dark with blood.

  More out of a sense of duty than from any real hope, Cesco felt Taddeo’s wrist and then his throat for a pulse. His skin was cool and a little plastic-feeling. He looked around for the murder weapon, but saw no sign of it. The killer must have taken it with them. But this was a murder scene, all the same. He needed to leave everything else as it was and call in the police. He took out his phone as he stepped backward towards the house, wondering who best to—

  A noise behind him. He whirled round even as a dark figure came racing out of the front door and across the gravel towards him, their hood up and drawn so tight around their face that he couldn’t make them out, not least because he found himself transfixed instead by the glinting blade of a kitchen knife in their left hand, the dark stains of congealed blood upon it. Instinctively, he threw up his forearms to protect his chest and face. They lunged with their other hand instead. A pale blue glittering of electricity thumped into his left wrist like a well-swung baseball bat. He cried out with shock as much as pain and collapsed onto the gravel.

  The stun gun briefly lost contact. He tried to push himself back up. Then the pain exploded again, this time against his throat, a blast that went on and on and on, overwhelming him and leaving him twitching, dazed and helpless, despite the knowledge that he was now utterly at the mercy of Taddeo’s killer – a cold-blooded murderer with two victims already to their credit, and no doubt fearful that he’d seen their face.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  I

  Professor D’Agostino invited the two detectives to take the sofa, then sat in his favourite armchair across the coffee table from them. ‘Well,’ he said, checking his watch to remind them of his purported engagement. ‘You have questions.’

  It was Izzo he addressed, but the senior detective concentrated on settling in, wriggling his backside into the cushions until he was comfortable, while Messana sat forward and spoke for him. ‘You told us yesterday that you barely knew Raffaele Conte.’

  ‘That’s not quite what I said,’ he replied carefully. ‘I said I didn’t know him well. But of course I’d met him a few times. Apart from anything else, he did a lot of photography for the Archaeological Museum, on whose board I sit.’

  ‘Yes. And you were unhappy about that.’

  ‘Unhappy is too strong. I thought there were better alternatives.’

  ‘You lobbied against him.’

  ‘I had a different opinion to the others. I was outvoted. It happens all the time.’ He felt strangely unsettled, directing his answers to Messana while knowing it was Izzo he needed to convince.

  ‘Did Conte know?’

  ‘That I can’t tell you. I never told him myself, certainly. But I made no secret of my position.’

  ‘So he may have held a grudge against you?’

  D’Agostino frowned. ‘It would be the first I’ve heard of it.’

  ‘And you? Did you hold a grudge against him?’

  ‘What kind of grudge?’

  ‘The kind of grudge to make you lobby against him, even though he was the best candidate. We hear, for example, that he did an impersonation of you.’

  ‘Really, Detective! I’m not a child.’

  ‘Were you aware he knew your wife?’

  ‘I wouldn’t be remotely surprised. We move… excuse me, we moved in the same circles.’

  ‘I’m not asking if they knew each other,’ said Messana. ‘We already know that. I’m asking if you knew about it.’

  ‘No. I can’t say that I did.’

  Messana set her shoulder bag on the coffee table, drew out a slim laptop. She opened it up and waited patiently for it to come to life. She tapped a key, then turned it around for him to see its screen. A slide show began playing. He and Emanuela taking breakfast at a Vomero cafe. Her being stalked by the photographer, whose identity was obvious. An improvised shoot that moved swiftly to Raffaele Conte’s studio and then his balcony. Then finally her lying naked on his bed. The slide show ended with that final picture. He kept staring at it, he couldn’t help himself. Not for its infidelity or evidence of his guilt, but rather because Emanuela was glowing with the same happiness he remembered so vividly from their own first few months together. All that love. All that joy. Where the hell had it gone? But he knew where it had gone. He’d grown cold to her and pushed her away, out of shame and resentment that he wasn’t the husband he’d hoped to be. How could he have failed her so badly? He looked up finally, lost for what to say.

  ‘You don’t seem surprised,’ observed Messana. ‘Did you know they were lovers?’

  D’Agostino didn’t answer at once. Prudence demanded he ask for his lawyer. But that would effectively admit his guilt. They might not be able to prove it yet, but they’d know. They’d leak it to the media so that his family and friends would all know too. People would never look at him the same way again.

  ‘Did I know?’ he said carefully. ‘Not exactly, no. But I must admit I did suspect. I saw them together several weeks ago. Eating ice creams on Via Toledo. It was the way they talked. The way they touched. I was shocked, yes. Shocked and angry and offended. I vowed to tackle Emanuela that very night. Issue ultimatums. Demand undertakings. But when she finally came home, she wasn’t just happy, she was radiant. She insisted we go out to dinner together, then she talked enthusiastically about a winter break in La Gomera we’d discussed. And no, it wasn’t guilt or shame. It was happiness. Not just with him, but with me too. With our life together. She’d found a way to make it work.’

  ‘And you? Were you happy? That the only way to make it work was by her sleeping with another man?’

  D’Agostino found a small, sad smile. ‘I was glad for her. I love her, you see.’ Even as he said it, a great weight seemed to fall off him; for he realised, to his own surprise, that this much was still true. ‘Besides, after the first sting, it hurts less than you might think. My wife is young and beautiful and full of life. I love her fully in almost every way you can imagine. But she deserves to be loved fully in every way there is. And the unhappy truth is that I’m neither so young nor as vigorous as once I was.’

  Izzo sat forward abruptly. He’d been quiet so long that D’Agostino had forgotten he was there. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘So you knew Signor Conte was fucking your wife. Now please tell us where you were at ten thirty this morning.’

  II

  Cesco returned slowly to his senses, unsure exactly how long he’d been out. Long enough for the security lights to have turned themselves off again, at least. A minute, maybe two. He felt groggy and disoriented. His arm and throat both throbbed painfully from the stun gun, while his crotch was cold and sodden, so that for a panicked moment he feared he’d been stabbed in the gut after all, only to discover that in fact he’d pissed himself a little from the electric shock.

  He sat up gingerly, triggering the lights again. He looked around. No sign of his assailant. They must have fled. It made no sense to him that they’d left him alive with one murder already notched that night, when he might have seen their face; but his mind was still too fuzzy to worry much about i
t. He tried standing up, but his balance had gone. He staggered a couple of steps sideways then fell back down to his knees, scraping his palm painfully on the gravel. He needed to call the police. He patted his pocket for his phone, but couldn’t find it. He feared for a moment that his attacker had taken it until he saw it lying on the gravel a few feet away, where he must have dropped it.

  He crawled over to it on hands and knees, picked it up. He was halfway through calling the emergency services when he hesitated. Speed couldn’t help Taddeo now. On the other hand, if he were to be found on the scene of a second murder inside three days, he’d likely be in for a long and difficult night. Maybe worse. It was notoriously hard to change an Italian policeman’s mind once they’d settled on their culprit. Far better, then, to have them arrive already on his side. So he called Valentina Messana instead, to tell her what had happened.

  III

  Professor D’Agostino gazed blankly at Romeo Izzo. ‘This morning?’

  ‘Yes. At ten thirty this morning.’

  ‘I… that is, of course.’ He could feel the blood draining from his face. They knew about his false alibi. But of course they did. That was why they were here. ‘You’re talking about the statement I gave to your colleagues in Secondigliano, I presume.’

  ‘That’s correct, yes.’

  ‘That has nothing to do with this.’

  ‘We’ll be the judges of that.’

  ‘As you wish.’ He spread his hands. He was startled and rather impressed by how steady they looked. ‘If you’ve already spoken with your colleague, I don’t know how much more I can add. My cousin Claudio gave a dinner a couple of weeks back. A friend of his was there, a man called Carlo. I forget his surname. Frankly I don’t know him that well, though he has a very distinctive scar by his right eye. We both have family in Sicily, so we talked about good places to eat in Palermo. I couldn’t possibly have been mistaken about him being there, so—’

  Valentina’s phone rang. She checked who it was, raised an eyebrow at Izzo, asking his permission to take it. Izzo nodded. D’Agostino watched her leave the room, half suspecting it was some kind of ruse to let her search the apartment while he talked. If so, let her search. There was nothing for her to find, he was sure of it. He was almost sure of it.

  ‘You were saying?’

  ‘Yes.’ He scratched his throat. It was clearly time to call his lawyer, yet he couldn’t bring himself to ask. ‘Like I say, I’d met Carlo before, so there’s no question of a misidentification. And it seems he was arrested for some horrible crime that had been committed on the other side of the city at the very moment we’d been talking.’ Messana was making shocked exclamations on the other side of the door. It made it hard to concentrate. ‘Obviously he couldn’t have committed the crime himself. So when my cousin told me about it, I felt it was my duty as a citizen to let the investigating officer know.’

  ‘This cousin Claudio of yours. He’s Camorra, yes.’

  ‘So I’ve heard, though I’ve never seen any sign of it. And even if he is, so what? Am I supposed to keep silent when I could save an innocent man from—’

  The door opened again. Messana hurried in, consternation on her face. She went straight to Izzo, stooped to whisper in his ear, yet still loud enough for D’Agostino to overhear. ‘That was Cesco Rossi,’ she murmured. ‘He’s out at Taddeo Santoro’s place. He’s saying he found him dead.’

  The news was a punch to D’Agostino’s gut. ‘Dead?’ he muttered, half rising to his feet. ‘Taddeo dead? Oh Christ!’

  Both detectives turned to stare at him, their eyes identically sharp and focused. ‘What?’ asked Izzo. ‘What do you know?’

  He stood there with his mouth hanging open, unable to produce the words his mind yelled at him to speak. All he could think of was how he’d told Claudio that same morning that Taddeo could scupper his alibi, and how Claudio had assured him that he’d never even hear of it. It hadn’t occurred to him for a moment that he’d meant this. His friend. His best friend in the world. His remaining defiance drained instantly away. His sense of worth. He slumped back into his chair like a sack of coal dropped into a cellar. ‘It was me,’ he told them dully. ‘Me and Claudio.’ Then he added: ‘I’m ready to tell you everything.’

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  I

  The intruder lights went out yet again, leaving Cesco alone with Taddeo’s corpse. He waved his arms to bring them back on. Even that brief darkness had left him unnerved; this place had too many nooks and shrubberies for comfort. It was likely to be several more minutes before the police arrived, so he made his way back up the gravelled drive to the gate. He buzzed it open, then slipped out, leaving it a little ajar so that he could get back in when they arrived. Then he went across the lane and stood with his back to the wall of the property opposite to wait.

  A minute passed. He heard an engine. It drew closer. He looked along the lane to the next bend down. A green Audi swung round it at surprising pace, headlights on full beam. He backed up against the wall to let it pass, his arm up to shield his eyes. A second vehicle now appeared, labouring to stay in touch. A van, he noticed, with a lurch. A white van. Pieces clicked together in his mind. How easy to hide a mobile phone or other tracker in his saddlebags outside the studio, then to follow him at will, waiting for the right moment. The Audi drew alongside. He saw Dieter and Knöchel in its front seats at the same moment they saw him. They braked sharply and veered in to ding the wall with their front bumper, cutting him off from his Harley. The doors flew open even as the white van pulled in on his other side, hemming him in.

  He turned and leapt, grabbing the top of the concrete wall behind. He hauled himself up, yelling for help as he did so. But he was still suffering from the effects of the stun gun and his ankles were grabbed before he could make it over. He was pulled back down so that he fell tumbling to the ground, knocking the wind out of him. A man built like a tank flipped him onto his back, then knelt on his shoulders and clamped a hand over his mouth.

  As quickly as that, it was over.

  A second Hammerskin knelt beside him with a roll of black tape. He tore off a strip and put it over Cesco’s mouth to gag him, then bound his wrists and ankles too. Dieter meanwhile knelt on his other side, grimacing in disgust when he saw Cesco had pissed himself. He patted his pockets anyway, took his phone, wallet, memory card and keyring. He detached the Harley’s key from the larger ring, then stripped the battery from the phone and tossed it and everything else over the wall.

  A siren down the hill was coming closer. ‘Take him with you,’ Dieter told his crew, holding up the Harley’s key. ‘I’ll follow on my bike.’ He gave Cesco a kick. ‘And remember he’s a tricky bastard. Not even a sniff.’

  ‘Got it, boss,’ said the tank, hoisting Cesco over his shoulder like a rolled-up carpet. ‘Not even a sniff.’

  II

  Even after all these years in the police, it could still take Izzo aback how quickly a crack in the dam wall could turn into a deluge. He sat alongside D’Agostino in the back of the car as Messana drove them out to Secondigliano police station – in part because of the imminent evacuation of Herculaneum, but also in order to interview him and his cousin Claudio in neighbouring cells, to challenge them with any discrepancies in their stories. It quickly became clear, however, that there was little need for cunning, because D’Agostino barely stopped talking.

  All Izzo had to do was record.

  ‘You’re right,’ D’Agostino admitted wretchedly. ‘My wife was screwing that bastard Conte. That little shit. She never even realised he was only ever getting back at me over that damned contract. But he charges too much! You should see how much he charges! Like he’s some great artist. His pictures aren’t even that good. They’re… they’re confected. Everything he shoots, it looks so pretty. But history isn’t pretty. History is true. He never even finished school. Did you know that? Let alone attended university. As if! Everyone knows he only got the contract because his sister is Lucia. Even he knew
it. Yet the airs he gave himself! I mean, how hard is photography? You point a camera at a fucking vase and go click. A monkey could do it.’

  ‘He found out you’d lobbied against him so he went after your wife,’ said Izzo. ‘How did you find out? Was it the ice cream thing?’

  ‘No. I made that up. I found out because he wanted me to. He rubbed it in my face. We were at this fund-raiser for the museum. I mean he never went to that kind of thing, not if he could avoid it. But he went that night. Oh yes. He was talking to Emanuela. He waited until I was looking and put his hand on her backside. She slapped him away and gave him a glare. But it wasn’t a who the hell do you think you are? kind of glare. It was a not here kind of one.’

  ‘Did you ask her about it?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking. In the car on the way home, I told her I’d seen it and what a disgrace it was, him touching her like that; that I intended to report him to the museum board in the morning, to get him fired. She begged me not to. She said it had only been for a moment and she’d dealt with it herself and it was always the women who came out of these things looking bad.’

  ‘She has a point,’ observed Messana, from up front.

  ‘Yes. But of course I was suspicious now, I couldn’t stop brooding. Then, one morning, maybe two or three days later, she seemed unusually excited. I asked her about her plans. She told me she had none. I didn’t believe her. I set off as normal, then waited round the corner. She came out a few minutes later, got into her car. I followed. I hung well back in case she spotted me. I wasn’t worried about losing her, you see, because I knew where she was going. Straight to Conte’s place in Rione Sanità. There’s a cafe across the piazza with a view of his block’s front door, and of his terrace too. I sat there nearly two hours before she came back out again. Rossi was with her. They hugged in the doorway. Kissed. And not like friends. Like lovers. Like lovers who’d just made love, you know? Satisfied. Happy.’