A Season for the Dead

by David Hewson

  ‘Oh, please,’ he groaned. ‘The young. They think they invented everything. My dear, I grew up in the Sixties. Can you begin to imagine what our lives were like then? What you think of as promiscuity? Nothing. Nic’s mother and I, we went through that in the first five years of our marriage. Talk to Bea about it if you like. She was there. I’m amazed the kids don’t remember some of the things that went on.’

  She thought of Bea, who said so much without uttering a word. Bea, who would not leave the old man’s side. ‘Perhaps they do and they’re scared to show it.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ he acknowledged.

  ‘Bea still loves you nevertheless. You do realize this?’

  His face contorted in astonishment. ‘What? You can see this? You, who has never met either of us until today? And saw her for, what, just a few minutes in any case?’

  He had a point but she was certain of this. Even in the brief time they had met, Bea’s devotion was obvious. ‘Yes, I could see it. She loves you and regrets it was just a fleeting thing. And there you have the proof. The legacy of your infidelity. And that’s nothing?’

  ‘Defeated by your own argument,’ he declared. ‘I said Bea was there. I never said we were lovers. By the time Bea’s feelings for me became apparent – men are deeply stupid on these matters as you doubtless appreciate – Nic’s mother and I had realized that way of life was a waste. It had become unimportant to us. We were married, we were lovers but we were friends, allies too. All the other people were a distraction for us. We became monogamous because we wanted to, not through a need for propriety. Who’s to say the same won’t happen for you?’

  ‘It won’t,’ she said with some certainty.

  ‘If it does, it’s in the future and none of us can see there, Sara. Not even a clever university professor. Mind you, I meant what I said about Nic. He has something in him if only he’d let it out. He has that anger, the same anger I felt, even if he keeps it well hidden.’

  ‘He’s afraid.’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘Losing you.’

  ‘All men fear their fathers’ deaths. It’s the moment you see your own mortality face to face. You witness a part of yourself dying with them.’

  She went back to the counter and poured a glass of wine for herself, then one very small one for him.

  ‘There’s more to it than that, Marco.’

  ‘Again? You know this?’ he asked, a little angry. ‘You, the convent girl who never had a family?’

  ‘I can see what he feels. He’s a transparent person in some ways. There’s some part of him that’s wounded already, in preparation, waiting for the real hurt.’

  He grasped the glass of wine, took a tiny sip then pushed it away. ‘Then it’s time he grew up. We try to be their rock, you know, but even the rock goes in the end. You have to find your own.’

  She listened. There were voices a long way off. One was Nic. He sounded angry.

  ‘You know what I thought he would be?’ Marco Costa asked. ‘What I really feared him becoming when he grew up?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘A priest. It used to keep me awake at night. Not that he ever expressed any interest. There was just something in his manner. I was a politician. I tried to change big things, not help little people, individuals. You couldn’t do both. And frankly I was no good at it. Nic has that gift. When he talks to you he sees you, no one else. He looks right into you, hears things you daren’t even say to yourself. And here’s another thing. You have that too. So I guess it’s not a question of upbringing. Maybe you’re both psychic. I don’t know.’

  Sara understood immediately that he was right. Nic had that talent. It was what had drawn her to him from the first. He seemed to possess the same internal emotional bruises.

  ‘You’re not drinking your wine,’ she said.

  His old eyes glittered and she saw a glimpse of a different Marco Costa then, a younger man, who was surely handsome in his prime, with a sharp, mischievous sense of humour. ‘I didn’t want the wine. I just wanted to see you pour it.’

  A tea towel flew across the room and landed on his lap.

  ‘Bea warned me. You’re a wicked old man,’ Sara Farnese declared.

  Marco Costa laughed. They looked at each other, wary of the intimacy that had grown in a single night, an intimacy based on some unspoken, perhaps unrecognized, mutual need.

  ‘Will you stay long?’ the old man asked, trying not to sound as if he was pleading. She was a warm and human presence in the house, not least because she behaved as if there were nothing wrong with him at all. ‘Bea is a friend, and a better one than I deserve. But the old require young people around them. We need to suck the vitality out of you like vampires.’

  ‘As long as I’m welcome.’ She had turned away from him so Marco Costa could not see her face. The old man watched this solitary woman and remembered what his son had said earlier in one of their brief conversations touching the case. There was a part of Sara Farnese that was beyond reach, a secret part that defined her. Nic believed it was there that the riddle of these bizarre deaths lay. Marco Costa had no way of knowing whether this was true. All he understood was that he did not envy the young any more, not Nic, not Sara Farnese. They had yet to place their hands into life’s flames. They had yet to acknowledge their existence. Not Sara Farnese, though, the old man thought. She had been burned already, and in ways he could not begin to comprehend.

  ‘Will you sit with me?’ he asked. ‘And listen to some music?’

  ‘Of course,’ she said, smiling warily.

  Marco Costa pushed his wheelchair over to the hi-fi unit and found the CD. He put on Dylan, played loud, singing ‘Idiot Wind’ and was amazed that back in 1975, when he first heard this scream of rage and pain, he wondered what the hell it was all about.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Luca Rossi’s white face was miserable in the moonlight. The visitor he had brought along was refusing to come to the house. He wanted to meet Nic outside the farm, under the eye of the police team stationed there but out of earshot. Rossi explained this in a low, mournful voice as they walked.

  ‘You should be asking yourself what a man like this is doing here, Nic,’ Rossi said firmly. ‘Why don’t they leave us alone?’

  He knew the answer and didn’t want to say it. Falcone was right. Hanrahan was involved in some way, perhaps on behalf of the elusive figure of Cardinal Denney.

  ‘What harm does it do to talk?’ Nic asked.

  Rossi grimaced as if to say: you never learn. The harm is you just don’t know who you’re talking to.

  Hanrahan stood beyond the almond tree by the rickety wall that formed the perimeter of what once was a sheep field. He was half illuminated by the headlights of a black Mercedes with Vatican number plates parked some twenty metres away. Costa recognized it as one of the city’s pool cars, familiar symbols of authority. An anonymous driver sat behind the wheel, the light of the radio reflecting on his wan face. Hanrahan wore a dark overcoat in spite of the heat and was smoking a cigar. The stocky Irishman stared at the cops around him until they dispersed, Rossi with them. Costa walked over and took the hand that was offered.

  ‘Nice place,’ Hanrahan said. ‘All yours one day, I guess. A big house for a cop.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  Hanrahan stared at him. ‘A little gratitude wouldn’t go amiss. I took risks sending you that tape, Nic. There are people who’d be less than pleased if they knew what I’d done.’

  ‘Thanks,’ he said curtly. ‘Is that good enough? It was all too late. We had another body by then. We knew Stefano Rinaldi wasn’t the one.’

  He shrugged. ‘I was just offering a little something. I wasn’t to know what would happen in the meantime.’ Hanrahan pulled out a pack of cigars, took out a half-smoked stub, and offered him one. Costa shook his head.

  ‘Clean-living boy,’ the Irishman said cheerfully. ‘That’s what they all say about you. And now you’ve got that woman living in your house. How’s
that going? I saw her on the TV. She’s an attractive piece of work. Quite a private life too. I saw that trick you played, pretending there was something special between the two of you. Do you really think anyone would fall for that? With all these cops around?’

  ‘Who knows?’ He didn’t like Hanrahan. The man was too indirect. Talking to him was like juggling with eels.

  ‘Perhaps you could take a shine to her. Anyone could, I imagine. Though I can’t help wondering what would make an intelligent, attractive woman behave like that. I’m a single man by choice. Young people. It’s just laziness. All these empty lives. Why does it happen?’

  Costa waved the stinking cigar smoke out of his face. ‘I’m asking one more time before I go back in. What do you want?’

  Hanrahan frowned. ‘You don’t like small talk, do you? It’s a shame. You’ll never make a diplomat. It’s important to learn how to deal with people. Going straight to the point is not necessarily the best way. You have to learn about nuances. You have to be patient.’

  Costa looked at his watch then glanced back at the house. Hanrahan waited, knowing he wouldn’t walk away.

  ‘I gave you something. It was a gift. The next one doesn’t come for free.’

  ‘The next one being what?’

  Hanrahan threw the cigar on the ground and stubbed it out with his toe. ‘A name. Maybe the name you’re looking for. I don’t know.’

  Costa blinked back the fury rising in him. ‘Let me make sure I understand,’ he said slowly. ‘This is a man who has killed four people and you know who he is? You think you can bargain for that? I could get you arrested right now for withholding information and throw you in jail until you talk. I could tell those reporters round the corner and let them sweat your ass off.’

  ‘But why would you do that?’ Hanrahan asked, bemused. ‘I wouldn’t say anything. To you. Or to the press. Where’s the gain for any of us? And besides it’s just a name. I don’t know if it’s useful or not. I just think it would be … productive if you talked to him.’

  ‘Jesus, Hanrahan. What if someone else is killed?’

  ‘It could be the wrong man. Who’s to know?’

  ‘You make me sick. Haggling over something like this.’

  Hanrahan sighed. ‘You’re so young. I thought I was doing the right thing going to you, not through Falcone. Perhaps I made a mistake. Perhaps I should just let you go your own way. Whatever that may be.’

  ‘I can get Falcone here in ten minutes if that’s what you want.’

  The Irishman scowled. ‘No. I don’t think so. You haven’t even asked the obvious question. What’s the point?’

  Costa gripped the Irishman’s dark coat in his right hand and pulled the man to him. ‘I asked the question. It was the first thing I said. “What do you want?” Remember?’

  Hanrahan released himself from Costa’s fist and raised a conciliatory hand. ‘Apologies. I forgot. You don’t do small talk. Let’s get straight to the point then. There’s a man in the Vatican who needs his freedom and a particular kind of freedom at that. I require you to look the other way when I ask. Nothing more.’

  ‘Denney? You’re not serious. You think you can trade for that?’

  Hanrahan looked surprised. ‘You can trade for anything.’

  ‘A cardinal of the Vatican? You don’t need us. You can let Denney go yourself. There’s a helipad behind those walls, isn’t there? Get him out that way. Don’t waste my time with this.’

  ‘Nic.’ Hanrahan looked disappointed. ‘If it were that easy don’t you think it would be done by now? Even if the cardinal were predisposed to leave like that, and he isn’t, probably with good reason, we couldn’t make it look as if the Vatican approved his departure. There are too many … strings attached. All he would require is discreet free passage to the airport, say. We could organize a private plane there. You’d just turn a blind eye for fifty minutes, no more.’

  ‘Are you asking for this on his behalf? Did he send you here?’

  ‘Not exactly. His life’s going through a little turmoil too right now. People he thought were on his side are starting to desert him. He’s an old man. Confused. A little scared. Don’t believe everything you’ve heard about him. He was a good priest once. You should know what the press are like better than most. Do you think every word they wrote about your own father was true?’

  Costa glanced back at the farmhouse, wondering what was going on there. ‘My father isn’t a crook. From what I hear Denney is.’

  ‘So you know he’s guilty? You’re judge and jury in this too?’

  ‘No. I’m a cop. I hand him over to people who make that decision.’

  Hanrahan laughed. ‘And you the Italian? Here, where nothing’s ever black and white. Can you hear yourself talking?’

  ‘I can. And one more thing. What if Denney has something to do with these murders? Maybe I’m letting go of a material witness. Or worse, someone who’s involved.’

  Hanrahan’s bluff manner disappeared immediately. ‘Nic, I swear to you. The cardinal has nothing to do with this. He doesn’t even know I’m here. I’m just trying to grease a few wheels for all of us. You with your problem, me with mine.’

  Kill two birds with one stone. The Irishman was so like Falcone. He tried to discern some unease on Hanrahan’s rugged face. ‘So Denney doesn’t know Sara Farnese?’

  ‘Why the hell should he?’ Hanrahan answered, shrugging his stocky shoulders. ‘You mean that call to the Vatican? Let me tell you. There are forty people working off that same switchboard, for lots of different officials. So someone answered, “Denney’s office” by mistake. You ring again and you could get mine. It doesn’t make him part of this any more than it does me or the other people who get their messages taken that way. But I’ve been looking at some of those we’ve had working there. And maybe – I don’t promise this – but maybe there’s something there for you. Nothing to lay at Michael Denney’s door. Just a name, that’s all.’ Hanrahan caught him with a dark, intent eye. ‘Maybe there’s a little interesting history. But it doesn’t come for free, my boy. I don’t have to lift a damn finger to help you. Remember that.’

  Nic Costa took a few steps away from him and looked down the dirt track. The other cops were smoking underneath the old carob tree that marked the farm boundary. They looked deeply bored. It was insane to think they could draw out anyone like this. Falcone was clutching at straws.

  He came back and looked at Hanrahan. ‘I’m not convinced.’

  ‘To hell with it then. What else am I supposed to do?’

  ‘Fix a meeting. Me and Denney. Inside the Vatican, naturally. Whenever, wherever he pleases.’

  Hanrahan’s eyes sparkled. ‘Oh! Is that all?’

  ‘That’s all for now,’ Costa said and turned to go.

  ‘Hey.’

  He felt a strong hand on his arm.

  ‘Are you serious?’ Hanrahan asked. ‘You really want me to book an appointment between some junior Rome cop and a cardinal of the Catholic Church, a man you people can’t wait to throw in jail? How do you think I’m going to sell that to him?’

  ‘Tell him I want to talk about religion,’ Costa said. ‘Tell him I’m thinking of converting.’

  Then he walked off to the farm without waiting for Hanrahan’s answer.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  She was sitting by the fireplace, next to the old man, who was asleep in his wheelchair. Sara put a finger to her lips and indicated to Costa to come to the foot of the stairs.

  ‘You were gone a long time.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Was it worth while?’

  ‘Possibly. I can’t talk about it, Sara.’

  She frowned, disappointed. ‘I understand. I gave him the tablets he asked for. He was very animated for a while. And then …’

  She looked down.

  ‘Thanks for being so kind to him. He can be quite a handful at times.’ He meant that. She had gone out of her way to amuse the old man, and in doing so revealed something abo
ut herself too.

  ‘It was a pleasure,’ she said. ‘I mean that. Nic …’ She seemed a different woman, he thought. Somehow his father had relaxed her, given her some perspective. ‘He loves you deeply. He’s worried about you. About how you’ll cope.’

  ‘He’s worried about me?’

  ‘Of course. Why would he worry about himself? He knows what’s going to happen. He accepts it.’

  She was right. Sometimes he allowed himself to be led into blind alleys.

  ‘“I met a man with seven wives …”’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  In the low yellow light of the farm, dressed simply, unaffected by events outside, as if this place were a sanctuary, she was extraordinarily beautiful. He was grateful for her presence. But this was all a mistake. The man would never come to the farm, not with so many cops outside. And she, unconsciously perhaps, was beginning to work on him. He would be sleeping a few steps away from her tonight. Already he was wondering what she looked like in bed, how it would feel to touch her skin.

  ‘Distractions,’ Nic Costa said by way of explanation. ‘Everywhere.’

  She shook her head, not understanding. ‘Goodnight,’ she said and, before he could move, took his arms and kissed him gently on the cheek.

  He watched her go up the stairs, then, for the first time in many a year, walked into the kitchen, took down the ageing bottle of grappa that sat there and poured himself a tumbler of the thick, colourless liquid.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Only thirteen hacks and TV people braved the night in the roped-off area which the police had set aside for the media. For a while they passed around beer and cigarettes, knowing there would be no action until daylight, and maybe not then either. The cops were keeping this woman to themselves. Maybe, the word went, one of them had good reason.

  Just after midnight they were woken by a noise. A newcomer arrived, on foot it seemed. Denis Renard was wide awake; he wasn’t drunk. The paparazzo from the French celebrity weekly had already decided he would be the first to get a decent photograph of Sara Farnese. In the darkness he glowered at this odd figure coming out of nowhere, asking questions, soliciting help as if he deserved it.