A Season for the Dead

by David Hewson

  One memory followed another. His grey face winced at the remembered pain. ‘They let her keep one child provided she pretended it belonged to someone else, someone who didn’t care a damn. Imagine having to face that decision and I was nowhere in sight, I was banished. Do you take the girl? Do you take the boy? None of this was my doing. These are the cruel ways of the Church. Sometimes they make my sins seem like mere transgressions. And then …’

  He recalled the last time he visited them both and the way the sickness was dragging the light from her eyes.

  ‘My family had more influence. I was saved for greater things. They put my worldliness to other uses.’ He took one last look at the apartment. ‘Sometimes these past few days I’ve wondered how much are we born to be what we become and how much are we made that way? What would have happened if we’d said to hell with them and got married? Would I have made a loyal husband? A good father? Or would I have become what I am now in any case? A devious old fraud desperate to save his own skin? It’s the former I know, which is the worst of it. You see, Brendan? I don’t need you to judge me. I can do that for myself, better than any save one.’ Denney noted the Irishman’s embarrassment with amusement. ‘And now I’ve made you my confessor. How very awkward for you.’

  Hanrahan coughed into his hand. ‘We’ve twenty minutes to wait, Michael. When the time comes I’ll carry your bag and you can follow me.’

  Denney stood his ground. ‘And the painting?’

  ‘I’ll keep it till I hear.’

  SIXTY

  He waited in front of the Pantheon watching the crowds of tourists struggling in vain to find some shelter from the heat inside its vast, shady belly. It felt as if there was a fire beneath the world. The fierce humid heat was working its way to some catharsis. The sky was darkening, turning the colour of lead. From somewhere in the east came a rippling roll of thunder. A speck of rain fell on his cheek with only the slightest touch of gravity, as if it had materialized out of the soaking air.

  Gino Fosse had saved these clothes for the last moment. They were his own this time: the long white alb almost touching the ground which he’d worn when he took his first mass in Sicily. It was gathered at the waist with a cincture. In one deep pocket was a CD player and headphones. In the other rested the gun.

  A tourist, a young girl, pretty, with long fair hair, asked for directions to the Colosseum.

  ‘Buy a map,’ he snapped and she wandered away, puzzled, a little frightened perhaps.

  He looked at the looming, lowering sky. A storm was on the way, a bad one. The city streets would run deep with rain. The people would race for shelter in the cafés and bars. The short, humid summer would come to a sudden climax and still the city would not be washed clean in the flood that followed.

  Man was born evil and waited for the events that purified him. There was no other way.

  He pulled out the CD player, put on the headphones and listened to the music. It was Cannonball Adderley live playing ‘Mercy, Mercy, Mercy’ with Joe Zawinul on piano. It sounded like a spiritual, like a sinner praying for redemption.

  Gino Fosse sang the refrain out loud as he walked: Da-da-deedle – deedle-deedle-dee.

  By the time he reached the church the sky was black. He walked inside and took a bench in the darkness, watching the way the light was beginning to fail beyond the windows, waiting for a familiar shape to walk through the door.

  SIXTY-ONE

  Greta Ricci stood with the rest of the pack outside the main Vatican gate, eyeing the Swiss Guards in their blue uniforms, steadily becoming more and more convinced someone was playing them for fools. The men on duty looked half bored, half amused. She couldn’t believe for one moment that the event they were expecting – an event that would make the news bulletins throughout the world – was about to happen here, in front of two dumb-looking would-be cops. The Vatican surely had other plans. Maybe they were using the helipad at the back, unseen. Maybe they were taking him out of one of the small exits in the wall which led to the Viale Vaticano at the rear, or putting him on a private train at the Vatican Station, behind St Peter’s.

  She was with Toni, the dumb teenage photographer from Naples who had been attached to her side since the story began. He was never the most fragrant of youths at the best of times. Days and nights of constant doorstepping and itinerant sieges had given him the odour of a street bum. Which Greta Ricci believed she could have handled were it not for his manifest incompetence. Toni was six feet tall and extraordinarily well built. His strategy for getting the best picture comprised waiting for the moment then fighting his way to the front of the pack and elbowing himself into position for the shot. It lent, she was forced to admit, a certain graphic immediacy to his work which almost always appeared, with some justification, to have been taken from the inside of a brawl. But it made him useless as a journalistic colleague. He looked for nothing except the emergence of an opportunity. He had no flair for creativity beyond the raw muscle of the snatched shot, no talent for seeing that pictures must sometimes be made, not merely captured. He was a chimp with a rapid-fire Nikon, hoping that somewhere among the scores of frames he squeezed out of it a memorable image would emerge.

  Her mobile phone rang. She scowled at Toni, eyes fixed straight ahead, staring at the two smirking guards at the gate.

  ‘Don’t,’ she ordered, stabbing a finger into his back, ‘look away for an instant. Understand?’

  He nodded. He didn’t have a sense of humour either.

  ‘Ricci,’ she said, walking away from the herd to get some peace and a little silence. Then she walked a little faster, a little further, when she heard who it was.

  ‘Nic? Where are you?’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. Where are you?’

  ‘At the main gate. Where they’re telling us to be to get the best view. Not that I believe a word of it.’

  ‘No.’ He kept it short and direct and made sure she agreed, first, to the preconditions. Just her and a photographer. No other people in the media. He couldn’t take the risk.

  ‘You think I’d invite someone else along to my own party?’ she asked, then hastily scribbled down the details that he gave her, looking all the while for the nearest cab rank.

  When he rang off she walked back into the media pack and physically pulled Toni out from close to the front of it, ignoring his screeching objections all the time.

  ‘Shut up!’ she hissed when they were close to the edge.

  ‘Why? What gives?’

  She looked at the faces around them. Interested faces. They were hacks. They had the same instincts she had. They knew when someone was trying to pull a stunt of their own.

  She dragged him into the shadow cast by the high Vatican wall.

  ‘I got a tip-off. Somewhere we can get a picture of Denney, all to ourselves.’

  ‘Where?’ he asked suspiciously.

  The cameramen liked to hunt in packs. It was safer that way. She knew he’d tell them somehow, just a little later so that he got first pickings.

  ‘Never you mind. We just find a cab and get the hell out of here now.’

  ‘What? And let those bastards loose on whatever happens next? You want to get me fired or something?’

  ‘I want to get the story,’ she hissed.

  ‘Well you go off and get it. If everyone else is here, then here is where I stay. If you want to change that, you ring the picture desk and get them to tell me.’

  ‘Moron,’ she muttered. ‘Give me that spare camera you carry.’

  ‘No. It’s company property.’

  She stared up at him. ‘Give me the camera, dimwit, and I will, when they realize what a screw-up you’ve made of this, do my very best to let you keep your job.’

  He thought about it. Maybe there was a little insurance there.

  ‘It’s idiot-proof,’ he muttered, handing the compact over. ‘So you should know how to use it.’

  ‘Moron,’ she repeated, and strode quickly off towards the Piazza del Risorgiment
o, looking for a cab, noting, as she did, the long khaki van covered in antennae close to the bus stops, wondering why she had failed to see it before.

  SIXTY-TWO

  It was a black Mercedes with darkened windows in the rear. Michael Denney looked through the windscreen: two men in dark suits sat in the front, anonymous behind sunglasses.

  ‘Do I tip them, Brendan?’ he asked.

  The Irishman carried the small case to the back of the car. Then he looked around. The street was empty. It seemed to meet with his approval.

  ‘I can carry my own luggage,’ Denney said, watching Hanrahan begin to open the boot.

  ‘If you choose.’ Both men looked at the case. It seemed so small, so insignificant.

  ‘Have a good journey, Michael. Call me when you’re settled.’

  ‘Of course,’ he said, and extended a hand. Hanrahan looked at it.

  ‘Come on.’ Denney laughed. ‘I’m not a leper. And you’ve got what you want, haven’t you? No embarrassing revelations. No more scandal.’

  Hanrahan took his hand and pumped it in a summary fashion. ‘Call.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Denney replied as he started to climb into the passenger seats, taking the case with him. ‘If I don’t just disappear into thin air.’

  SIXTY-THREE

  He abandoned the car in the street and dashed through the thickening rain, looking for her, knowing she would be trying to hide. Nic Costa had no idea what was driving Michael Denney to the church but he felt sure his daughter would join him there. Teresa Lupo’s news had cleared his head. He could begin to see a direct, linear connection linking her actions now. When he had time to sit down and think it all through he would see more. For now that was a luxury. The truth seemed apparent. She was intent on joining Denney in his flight from Rome, unaware of the fate Falcone had in mind for her father.

  The crowds milled around the back streets of the Pantheon, trying to escape the slow, greasy rain. He pushed hard through them, ignoring the curses he got in return, praying she was not already inside. Then, in a narrow alley a minute from the church, he saw her. She wore a neck scarf over her hair and had the collar of her light raincoat up to her face. She was huddled in a doorway, avoiding the rain, avoiding a decision too, perhaps.

  He ran across the cobblestones and faced her, holding out his arms, barring the way. Her green eyes were dark in the half-light of the coming storm. They refused to leave the pavement.

  ‘Sara,’ he said, gently taking her by the shoulders. ‘I know.’

  ‘Know what?’ she murmured, pulling herself away from him.

  ‘There’s no need to pretend any more. I understand.’

  She detached herself from his hands and leaned back against the damp, grimy wall. ‘Don’t, Nic. I’d rather not hear this.’

  He hesitated. These were big ideas. There was so little time. ‘The labs have been looking at evidence. About you. About Gino Fosse. You’re Denney’s daughter, not his lover.’ He made sure to see the effect of what came next. ‘Gino’s your brother. Did you know that?’

  She groaned. ‘Can’t you ever stop prying?’

  ‘There are people dead, for God’s sake. It’s not done yet. Did you know about Gino?’

  ‘Yes.’ She sighed. ‘Michael … my father told me some weeks ago. He thought it unwise to tell Gino as well. He couldn’t handle himself. Michael wanted me to know for my own sake. He only told me he was my father last year. Before that I just thought he was a friend from the convent in Paris. Someone who administered the estate of the people I believed were my parents.’ She turned her face towards the wall, fighting back the tears. ‘You can’t imagine the joy I felt when he told me that. There was a part of me alive, outside myself.’

  ‘A year ago. Exactly when he began to realize he needed help to get out of that place.’

  Her green eyes stared into his and he wondered what emotion was there: love, pity, hate? Or a little of all three. ‘You only think you understand what’s happening, Nic. Stay away from me.’

  ‘No. There’s more. Someone else knew what was going on. When they found out about Gino they had the weapon they needed.’

  ‘What weapon? Gino is … what he is.’

  ‘Perhaps. But he was primed. I know it. Pretty soon I may be able to prove it too.’

  ‘What?’ Her head went from side to side. Her eyes were wild. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘This was what they wanted all along. Your father dead. Everything began from that. Gino was just a tool they used to try to make him run. I know what he was doing for Denney. Driving you to those people. Taking pictures for blackmail if he needed it. Then handing them to Denney who used them to try to get his freedom. What Denney didn’t know was that he was being watched all the time too. By someone who eventually told Gino who you really are. That was what drove him over the edge. He realized what Denney was doing to his own sister. That’s what we’ve been chasing every step of the way.’

  He was unable to guess what she was thinking. ‘Who would tell him that? Why?’

  ‘Denney’s former friends. Crooks. Maybe some people in authority too. Maybe all three. Why? Think about it. He could put them all in jail. He’s stolen from them. They want to feel safe. Maybe they want payback.’

  ‘Nic!’ she said, despairing. ‘Don’t make this worse than it is. He’s leaving. It said so on the news. They’re letting him go back to America. He’ll be out of everyone’s life there.’ She paused. ‘Including mine. I just want to see him before he goes. That’s all. He’s made this arrangement so that we can say goodbye.’

  She looked at him in a way he’d forgotten. It was the expression she wore when they first met, the one full of suspicion and doubt. The one in which he was a cop, nothing more. ‘I suppose you know that anyway.’

  He held her hands, not knowing what to say, wanting to believe her.

  ‘You know what I did for him?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He’s my father, Nic. I thought I could help. The person who did all that … it wasn’t me.’

  ‘I know. I knew all along. I just couldn’t work it out.’

  She wouldn’t meet his eyes. It was, he thought, embarrassment. ‘Was I supposed to say no? What wouldn’t you do to save Marco?’

  He didn’t say a word. She understood his answer.

  ‘You mean Marco would never have asked, would never have allowed such things to happen? You’re right. The trouble is, most of us aren’t trying to be perfect like you and your father. We accept we’re flawed. We do our best to cope with that.’

  He touched her face, gingerly. ‘What’s done is done. All I care about now is what’s ahead.’

  ‘I have to see him,’ she insisted. ‘Stay away, Nic. You don’t have to do this for me.’

  ‘If I stay away, he’s dead. This isn’t just about you either. I’ve lost a partner. I don’t forget things like that.’

  She looked down the alley. The rain was starting to fall steadily now. The crowds were dispersing into doorways. ‘Leave me alone with him. Just for one minute. After that …’

  ‘I can’t. It’s not safe.’

  ‘What is?’ she asked. ‘Nic, this church is where he met my mother. Our mother.’ She waited to see his response. ‘It means something you can’t begin to appreciate. Something that doesn’t concern you.’

  He turned away from her, scowling.

  ‘Are you jealous of him?’ she asked. ‘That we’re close in spite of everything?’

  The words hit home. ‘Maybe. Baffled too. I don’t know how he could do this to you.’

  ‘He was at his wits’ end. He needed my help. He was dying behind those walls. You didn’t see it.’

  ‘This was about help?’ he asked bitterly. ‘He keeps his existence secret from you for years. He reveals it only when he needs you. Is that an act of love?’

  ‘No, desperation. Sometimes love grows out of despair. He wasn’t the only one who felt that way. I was alone. I’ve been alone all my life. I
told you, Nic. We’re not perfect people. We never will be. I didn’t have a family around me like you. I knew when he told me about my mother, about the choice they were forced to make … I knew I’d do anything for him. Anything.’

  ‘And you still will?’

  She looked him frankly in the face. ‘Do you think it was easy for me? Sleeping with these people? Knowing I was being watched … used.’

  ‘Then why do it?’ He couldn’t keep the note of disapproval out of his voice.

  ‘I’ll never make you understand. We’re too different. My father’s a frightened, vulnerable man. He’s wronged people. He’s wronged me. In a way I can’t explain that made it all simpler. I could either abandon him, or I could … do what he wanted and hope one day he’d be free. I did what I did for both of us. To set him free. To restore to my own life something that had been taken from me. Given the same choices again I’d make the same decision. What’s one night with a stranger if it brings your own father back from the dead?’

  ‘You’re right there,’ he admitted. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Don’t do this to me. You’re as frightened of a world on your own as I am. That’s one thing we do have in common.’

  He didn’t argue. He didn’t even want to think about it.

  ‘I want him safe,’ she insisted. ‘And Gino too, whatever he’s done. He doesn’t deserve this.’ She looked down the street. ‘You think the church is where they …’ She couldn’t go on.

  He scanned the street, looking for someone, anyone, he knew. There were just tourists, skulking in doorways. Perhaps they were there already. ‘Falcone agreed he could go there. It’s insane. In the circumstances. He wouldn’t go along with the idea without a reason.’

  ‘What can you do?’

  ‘Something, maybe.’ It wouldn’t be easy. He was on his own. He’d no idea whether the calls he’d placed would work. Or whether they’d been intercepted. ‘I don’t know, Sara. If it’s Falcone, some enemies he’s made among his own people, some crooks from outside too …’