The Heretic Scroll

by Will Adams

  Noble acts and declarations are rarely noble all the way through. They want to be seen. She’d noticed that with her mother, whose rejection of her help had been less about the help itself than the obligation it would place her under. But was she any better herself? Was her decision to give up on life in Italy truly based on what was sensible or right, or on what made her look good? Because, in some perverse way, she’d wanted to be admired. And admired by Cesco too.

  The impossibility of good outcomes added to her weariness. She closed her eyes. Her head nodded, jerking her back awake. The temptation to climb beneath the duvet and wait for Cesco there was strong. But she didn’t give in to it. She wrote him a note instead, asking him to call, however late, then left it on his bed and went back out, trudging through the drizzle to her hotel.

  III

  For once, tonight, luck was with Cesco. When the driver of the Audi saw the van charging towards him, he swung instinctively out of its way – though not quite fast enough. Cesco still caught it as he hauled the steering wheel round, hard enough that his front and side airbags instantly deployed. Metal shrieked against metal as his front bumper clawed along its side, but then he was away and clear, fumbling for his headlights. The right one was smashed. Only the left still worked. He turned it on full beam, then glanced in his rear-view even as Ox and Knöchel clambered into the back of the Audi. Then he braked into the first hairpin and lost them from view.

  Six turns, as he recalled. Six turns and then a junction. Headlights flashed in his mirrors as he reached the second. The Audi was catching up fast. It appeared again behind him when he was just halfway along the next straight, before closing right up as he braked into the final bend. Gunfire pinged his bodywork. A window shattered and fell away. His damaged front bumper screeched along the tarmac and threw up sparks until it fell away altogether. The road straightened and flattened out. The Audi tried to pull alongside. He weaved to block it. A junction ahead, its lights red. A main road with cross traffic. He put on his seat belt then screeched out onto it, wrenching the steering wheel round. A lorry tooted furiously. A blue Renault estate braked and swerved out of his way. He righted himself and stamped his foot back down.

  The Audi had had to stop to avoid the lorry. Now it came after him again, weaving swiftly through the traffic. The road was too wide for Cesco to block it. It pulled alongside. He glanced across. Knöchel had a gun in both hands, the better to keep it steady. A bullet buzzed by his ear. Another punctured and deflated his front airbag. He steered into the Audi, driving it into the verge and making it drop back. They’d left the last cluster of traffic well behind by now but were closing fast on another. A commuter train trundled slowly over a low railway bridge ahead. He could see passengers gawping. The Audi pulled level again. Knöchel fired twice more. A bullet flicked Cesco’s shirt. His windscreen shattered and fell out, pebbles of glass cascading over his legs and feet, cool night air blasting in his face. He wrenched the steering wheel around so violently that he’d have flipped onto his side if he hadn’t hit the Audi instead, forcing it off the road and up a grass bank. It smashed into a concrete drain, ripping out its undersides before tipping up onto its side and then its roof, sending out cascades of sparks as it skittered along the road. A rear door opened. A man staggered out and then collapsed.

  A motorbike travelling at absurd speed sped right by. Cesco’s heart sank. Dieter. He caught him briskly, pulled alongside. He was bareheaded but he’d found another gun, holding it across his chest and aiming blindly as they hurtled along. A slip road ahead. Cesco took it at the last moment, forcing Dieter to brake sharply and cut across broken ground. He sped through a junction at the bottom, followed the road round beneath a bridge and then on until he found himself in a busy town centre. He sounded his horn repeatedly to clear people from his way. Dieter pulled alongside once more. Cesco nudged into him, sending him veering away then slamming back into him. He grabbed hold of the frame of Cesco’s broken windscreen as the Harley went from beneath him, spinning on its side along the pavement. Dieter hauled himself onto the bonnet. He reached in to grab Cesco by the throat then squeezed hard to choke him of air. Cesco slammed on the brakes, using momentum to rip him free. Dieter grabbed hold of the dashboard instead and clung grimly on, glaring up at Cesco, their faces only a couple of feet apart. His eyes were bloodshot and his lips were drawn back like a Rottweiler raging at its leash. Never had Cesco seen such hatred in a human face. Never such murder.

  Some months before, Carmen had talked Cesco out of killing a man. He was grateful to her for that. It had made their life together possible. But she wasn’t here now. And, anyway, that had been about revenge. This was pure self-defence. Dieter would never let this go. Put him in jail for life, he’d only send his Hammerskins after him instead. And not just after him either. He’d send them after Carmen too. So, quite deliberately, Cesco took his foot off the brake and stepped on the accelerator instead, while Dieter was still clinging to his bonnet. Then he turned the steering wheel around to bound over a short patch of broken ground outside a factory wall. Dieter bellowed in rage and fear. He clawed at Cesco’s face. But the van smashed into the wall a moment later, so hard that the van’s bonnet crumpled up against Cesco’s knees, slamming him into his seat belt before snapping back so violently that for a moment he blacked out.

  IV

  Pietro Chiellini insisted on driving Romeo Izzo back to Napoli Centrale, from where he caught the Circumvesuviana out to Herculaneum. The train was so crowded that he waited until he was on his walk back home before calling Valentina to share news. They were still talking when he arrived back at his apartment. He paced back and forth outside until they were done, lest Mario overhear the grisly details.

  Isabella was in a poisonous mood. There was no dinner ready and she gave him the silent treatment too. What they called a win-win. Except she hadn’t packed yet and she’d got Mario upset too, alarmed by the evacuation and despondent at the prospect of leaving his friends behind. He liked his Aunt Teresa and his cousin Emilia well enough – but not to share a small apartment with. Izzo read him a story and promised that everything would be great. Then he ordered his favourite pizza of ’nduja sausage and drank a bottle of wine while waiting for it to arrive, ignoring the filthy looks that Isabella kept shooting him. She went to bed. He opened a second bottle in celebration, then stretched out on the sofa to eat his pizza and watch TV.

  That woman from the Vesuvius Observatory was on. Fatima Zirpoli. She tried to explain why she and her team were convinced the volcano was perilously close to a cataclysmic eruption. But all the questions were about the evacuation instead. Where would their children go to school? Where were they to live? What jobs would there be for them? With admirable calmness and patience, she explained over and over again that this wasn’t her responsibility, that she was qualified only to talk about the science; yet still the questions came, ever more angrily too, as if they somehow blamed her for all that was happening. Most certainly, they’d turn that fury on the police tomorrow when the full evacuation was announced, and they were sent out door-to-door to enforce it. Not for the first time, it struck him how resistant people were to new realities, as if they had no proper understanding of the difference between inconvenience and catastrophe. He hoped, for their sakes, that such ignorance would continue. That in three months’ time they’d all return to their homes, still seething at the unnecessary disruption.

  For, dear God, the alternative…

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  I

  The wall was on a slight up-slope, so that the van rebounded from it a little way and drifted back out onto the road, releasing Dieter to fall like a broken toy to the ground. A moment of silence, as if the world was holding its breath. Then an alarm began wailing and people began screaming and running, terrified that Cesco was some crazed terrorist come to mow them down. He caught a whiff of fuel. It became so pungent that it roused him from his daze. He fumbled at his seat belt to release it, then threw open his door an
d almost fell out, staggering a safe distance away before collapsing onto his back on a small patch of grass, heaving in the fresh night air. Sirens sounded on every side. He raised his head as three squad cars converged from different directions.

  If only they’d been this quick out at Taddeo’s.

  ‘It was him,’ yelled a woman, when the first squad car stopped beside her. ‘He drove that poor man straight into that wall.’

  Two officers advanced upon him, hands on their holsters. Still lying on his back, he raised his arms above his head. A policewoman gestured for him to turn onto his front. He did so. They cuffed his hands behind his back, then hauled him to his feet and over to their car. More witnesses stepped forward. Flashes popped. A crude cordon was set up with yellow tape. An ambulance arrived. Its paramedics went to check on Dieter before returning to look at Cesco.

  ‘How is he?’ asked Cesco.

  ‘How do you think?’ retorted the paramedic. He treated Cesco professionally enough all the same, asking questions to assess concussion, then cleaning, stitching and dressing the gash on his thigh, before applying cream to the rope burns on his throat and chin. Then he assured the policewoman that Cesco was fit to be taken to the station and interrogated to her heart’s content. He stared out the window as they set off, unable to contain his smile at the sight of Dieter being zipped into a body bag.

  ‘Didn’t like him much, huh?’ asked the policewoman.

  ‘I’m sorry?’ asked Cesco.

  ‘That poor bastard you just murdered. Guess you didn’t like him much.’

  ‘I was going for the brake. My foot slipped.’

  ‘Hands slipped on the steering wheel too, I suppose? How unlucky.’

  ‘Stranger to you, was he?’ asked the driver. ‘Or did you know him?’

  ‘We’d met.’

  ‘Christ!’ laughed the woman. ‘He’s only gone and admitted it.’

  ‘Hope he likes prison food. He’ll be eating plenty.’

  They passed a sign to the university hospital. He knew where he was now. They must have been all the way out near Capua. They drove on another five minutes to a police station, parked in an empty bay by the doors. People in reception watched sullenly as he was swept by them to an interview room with white plastic chairs and a wooden table bolted to the floor. They undid the cuff round his left wrist and clipped it instead to a steel ring on the table. Then they left him to it.

  A camera on brackets whirred as it zoomed or panned, letting him know they were watching. Mind games, no doubt, intended to unnerve. He closed his eyes and used the time to rest and recuperate a little. Ten minutes passed. Fifteen. The door banged open and two burly men came in. The younger of them was dressed sharply in new trainers, cream jeans and a brown leather jacket; the older in a shabby dark grey suit and matching brogues. But their stolid, implacable faces were a perfect match: the kind of men who made a virtue of their toughness, who wanted you to know they weren’t in the market for your bullshit. The elder checked his watch, spoke the time and date. Evidently the room was miked for sound. Then he spread his hands and invited Cesco to tell all. Cesco began by explaining how he’d found Taddeo Santoro murdered earlier that evening, and how he’d called the police only to be abducted before they could arrive.

  ‘For fuck’s sake!’ said leather jacket disgustedly. ‘Enough with the fairy tales.’

  ‘We should find him a frog,’ said his mate. ‘See what happens when they kiss.’

  ‘It’s the truth,’ said Cesco. ‘You have phones, don’t you? Check it out.’

  ‘You drove a man into a wall. You pulped him like a food mixer. This bullshit about your foot slipping—’

  ‘It’s not bullshit,’ said Cesco, rising painfully from his seat.

  ‘The fuck you doing?’ demanded leather jacket.

  ‘Showing you.’ Even with one hand cuffed to the table, he managed to undo his trousers and pull them down over his thigh. Then he peeled back the dressing to show them where Dieter had nicked him with his saw. Thanks to the paramedic’s liberal use of iodine and antiseptic cream, it looked far worse than it felt. ‘You try driving a van with your leg like that.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have been driving at all,’ said the older man grudgingly.

  ‘I had people shooting at me,’ said Cesco, doing his trousers back up, ‘and you expect me to observe the Highway Code?’

  ‘I expect you not to commit murder. Is that too much to ask?’

  ‘I’m telling you what happened. I’ve given you the names of people who can verify it. Not my fault you won’t call them.’

  They moved their chairs a little further apart, so that he could only see one of them at a time. It was clearly designed to make him feel uncomfortable, and it worked a treat. They fired alternate questions, switching themes to make him contradict himself or otherwise trip up. The adrenaline drained inexorably. He felt exhausted, guilty and afraid. When all was said and done, it was true. He’d driven a man into a wall. In front of witnesses too.

  Finally, they’d had enough. They left the room to confer. Ten minutes passed. Leather jacket came back in alone. ‘On your feet,’ he said.

  ‘I can go?’

  He laughed in genuine amusement. ‘You killed a man in cold blood tonight. You’ll be lucky if you ever go anywhere again.’

  II

  Romeo Izzo was woken by the buzzing of his phone to find that he’d fallen asleep on the sofa. He had a crick in his neck. He rubbed it with one hand even as he grabbed his phone. A man began talking rapidly, but he was still too addled with sleep and wine to take it in – not helped by his TV still being on, two women trying to flog him some gaudy-looking bracelet on a shopping channel. He turned it off, slapped himself on the cheek and asked the man to start again.

  His name was Lorenzo Ucello, it turned out. He was a detective in the Polizia di Stato out in Afragola. Colleagues of his had taken a man named Cesco Rossi into custody earlier that evening, following a fatal road traffic accident. He and a colleague had just done his interview. He’d spun them the strangest story and given them Izzo’s name to verify. They’d ignored it at first, putting it down as the usual bullshit, but enough pieces of his account had now checked out that they’d decided to follow up.

  ‘You have him, then?’ asked Izzo groggily. ‘You have Rossi in custody?’

  ‘Yes. That’s why I’m calling.’

  Izzo rose unsteadily to his feet. ‘I need to see him. I need to talk to him.’ But even he could hear himself slurring.

  ‘How about the morning?’ suggested Ucello kindly. ‘He’ll still be here, believe me. And we could use a break this end too.’

  ‘Good. Good.’ He sat back down again. ‘Maybe that would be wise. Give me your address. I’ll be there first thing.’ He took his details, finished the call and sat there with his head in his hands for a few more moments, trying to work out what it all meant, not just for Rossi and their investigation, but for tomorrow’s evacuation too. But his brain was mush. He was too tired to care. He took his glass to the sink to throw the dregs away. Then he rinsed out his mouth with water from the cold tap and dragged himself to bed.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  I

  The holding cell had a hard bed and a corner toilet with faulty plumbing that hissed and groaned and creaked throughout the night, changing note at irritating intervals, ruining any chance of sleep. Not that Cesco’s painful cuts and bruises, let alone his conscience, would have let him sleep anyway. He lay on his side, comforting himself with thoughts of Carmen’s arms around him, the smell of her shampoo and her breath against his neck.

  Morning arrived. He sat up slowly, aching in every joint. Pushing himself to his feet to take a piss was such a slow and painful process that it made him laugh at his own feebleness. A policeman gave him a cereal bar and a plastic cup of warm black coffee. He asked for painkillers and a glass of water, got a snort instead. He lay back down. More time passed. The policeman returned to unlock his pen. He followed him upstairs
one step at a time, pausing on the landing to regain his breath. He was led to last night’s interview room, expecting to find his two detectives, only to see Romeo Izzo instead. ‘Thank Christ,’ he muttered.

  ‘A little early for that,’ said Izzo drily.

  ‘You told them about Taddeo, though? That I’ve been telling the truth?’

  ‘No need. They’ve been busy. As our colleagues out in Capua have been too. An exciting night for them. A car chase. Shots fired. A fearful crash. One man dead; three others injured – one of whom has been talking. He directed them to a rental house with a camera in its basement. I imagine you know what was on it.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘So. Your crazy story has checked out. These Germans abducted you. They meant to dismember and kill you. You escaped. They came after you. You drove their car off the road then rammed their leader into a wall. Because no one believes your foot slipped. But no one cares either. Bastard got what he deserved.’

  Cesco squinted at him. ‘What are you saying? Are you saying it’s over?’

  ‘No. Not yet. Those men were Germans. Gangsters, yes, but still. Our German friends will privately be delighted. But in public they’ll want answers. So we’ll have to investigate properly. But I can’t see any great cause for you to worry. Not about that, at least.’

  ‘Oh. What should I be worrying about, then?’

  ‘Last night, when you called my colleague Valentina Messana, you told her that you’d arrived in Posillipo to find Taddeo Santoro already dead.’