Food for the Fishes (Marcus Corvinus Book 10)

by David Wishart

  ‘Uh-uh.’ One of the other punters shook his head. ‘Wasn’t there then.’

  ‘And that was - what? - an hour after you left, Corvinus?’ Alcis turned back to face me. ‘Anyway, what makes you the expert? Trebbio’s got a head on him like a block of oak. He could’ve done it, easy.’

  ‘Anyone could’ve done it.’ Zethus topped up a punter’s cup. ‘Or like Corvinus says it could’ve been an accident.’

  ‘Accident to hell.’ Alcis chuckled. ‘Got to hand it to the bugger, though. He’s paid Murena out nicely. Poetic justice. Pity he won’t get away with it for long.’ He drew his finger across his throat. ‘Psssst!’

  Well, I couldn’t fault him there, anyway. If it was murder, and the family took it up - which they definitely would - then as the only suspect Trebbio’s neck was on the line, sure enough. And if he was found guilty then it meant a quick appointment with the public strangler.

  I sipped my wine.

  If...

  That was what stuck in my throat. There were too many ifs. It could’ve been an accident, sure, whatever Alcis said. The guy made a habit of visiting his tanks after dark, these things weren’t fenced in and the walkways were pretty narrow. Slippery, too, maybe. And even if he had been murdered, the proof against Trebbio amounted to zilch. At best, he was in the wrong place at the wrong time, but there again like Zethus said that wasn’t unusual, he was out that way every night. And he might not have been there yesterday evening at all. I’d seen Trebbio myself, and I’d’ve said barring a short stagger home he was out of things for the duration. Suggesting that in his condition he’d walked half a mile up the beach, got into a fish farm that probably had a serious wall around it, negotiated a set of fish tanks and pushed a man into somewhere he didn’t want to go just didn’t add up.

  ‘So where is he now?’ I said.

  ‘No idea.’ Alcis grinned. ‘If the bugger’s got any sense, he’s half way to Neapolis. The town officer can’t tell his arse from his elbow, sure, but even he’ll see letting a prime murder suspect run around loose is –’

  He stopped. The door opened. A dozen pairs of eyes zeroed in on it and the only sound was a single cup being laid down on the bar.

  ‘Evening, lads,’ Trebbio said. ‘How’s it going?’ He hesitated when he saw the expressions. ‘Uh...lads?’

  The frozen tableau broke up.

  ‘Grab him!’ That was Alcis, naturally, but the two punters nearest the door were off their stools before the words were out of his mouth. Not that it needed more than one. Trebbio wasn’t big, and with the physical condition he was in a seven-year-old kid could’ve taken him one-handed, easy. They slammed him back against the closed door with a beefy shoulder either side pinning him to the boards, and he hung there gasping.

  Okay, that was it. I stood up.

  ‘That’s enough,’ I said. ‘Let him down.’

  ‘Corvinus, you just –!’ Alcis began.

  ‘You want to lose a couple of your shiny teeth, pal?’ I said quietly, without looking at him. Then to the two punters: ‘Let him down. You want to ask him questions, fine, go ahead, but to answer them he has to breathe. Door’s closed, he’s got nowhere to run. Let him down.’

  They did, a bit sheepishly. One of them even pulled up a stool and got him on it while another uninvolved punter handed him a cup of wine. They weren’t bad lads in Zethus’s, most of them, and he was one of their own, after all.

  Trebbio drank the wine in a oner and passed the back of his hand across his mouth. He was shaking.

  ‘What the hell’s going on?’ he said.

  ‘You killed Murena,’ Alcis said.

  The guy’s jaw dropped. ‘I did what?’

  ‘Pushed him into a tank full of morays last night.’

  Trebbio shook his head numbly. ‘I never! ’Course I never!’ He frowned. ‘Murena’s dead?’

  Alcis grinned. ‘Come on, Trebbio! You know he’s fucking dead! By this time half Baiae knows.’

  ‘Not me. I been out in the boat. Fishing.’ Trebbio jerked his head the direction the beach would be in. ‘’S down on the shore now. Been out all day, since first light, and just got back.’ He raised a pair of eyes like blood-cracked poached eggs. ‘Zethus, you tell them to cut this out! They’re having me on, right? A joke’s a joke, but this isn’t funny!’

  Zethus said nothing. I noticed, though, that when the rumpus started he’d reached under the bar for the heavy stick all bartenders keep there in case a customer needs placating. He was still holding it. A nice guy, Zethus.

  ‘You go and check your lines last night, Trebbio?’ Alcis said.

  ‘Sure I checked my lines! I do it every night! You know that!’

  Alcis shot me a triumphant look. Shit. Well, if he’d managed that in the state I’d left him a head like a block of oak was right. Still, he’d admitted it straight off, and taking the rest into account that impressed me. If it was acting then he was wasted as a beach bum.

  Zethus’s silence must’ve registered. Suddenly, without warning, Trebbio slumped. If one of the guys standing behind him hadn’t caught him in time he’d’ve been off the stool. ‘You’re not having me on?’ he mumbled. ‘Murena’s dead?’

  ‘Pork-dead.’ Alcis grinned again. ‘So when you went –’

  ‘You see anything, Trebbio?’ I cut in. ‘Last night, when you checked your lines? Over by the fish farm?’ He goggled at me. ‘Valerius Corvinus. The Roman. You remember me?’

  ‘Yeah. Right.’ He pulled his hand across his mouth again and shuddered. ‘Someone give me another drink. Oh, bugger!’

  One of the punters handed him a full cup and he drank it down, holding the cup in both hands. Even then he spilt half of it.

  ‘Answer the man, Trebbio,’ Zethus said quietly.

  ‘Yeah. I saw a light. Two, in fact,’ he muttered. ‘’S not unusual. The old man goes down nights to talk to the fish, and he takes a lamp. They come up to the light. Or maybe I’m wrong, maybe that was another night.’ He raised his eyes. ‘It could’ve been.’ He drank the last dregs of the wine, tipping the cup back to get the last trickle, then licked his wine-soaked hand. ‘I can’t...fucking...remember, okay?’

  ‘So you checked your lines,’ I said. ‘Then?’

  ‘I went home and went to bed. What else would I do?’

  ‘You didn’t see anyone? On the beach, by the fish farm?’

  ‘Who’d be out there at that time of night? Nah, I didn’t see a soul.’ He looked, suddenly, frightened. ‘I didn’t kill him, right? Never laid a finger on him. I wouldn’t, not ever. I just went home.’

  Alcis glanced at me. ‘You finished, Corvinus?’ he said sourly.

  I shrugged. ‘Yeah. More or less.’

  ‘Right. Then we’ll get this bugger down to the town officer’s. Lucius! Philo!’

  The two guys behind Trebbio leaned forward and took his arms. They were gentle enough this time, sure, but they weren’t having any arguments. Trebbio didn’t even struggle.

  At the door, he turned and looked directly at me. The two cups of wine seemed to have settled him, if anything, because his eyes were steady and he didn’t mumble. ‘I never done nothing, Corvinus,’ he said. ‘I swear it. You’ll help me, right? You’re a Roman purple-striper, they’ll listen to you. Whoever killed the bastard it wasn’t me.’

  ‘Come on, Trebbio,’ Alcis said. ‘You can tell that to the town officer.’

  The three of them hustled him out.

  After they’d gone the bar was pretty quiet. There was plenty of conversation, sure, but it wasn’t loud, and the punters kept their backs to me. Maybe they felt a bit ashamed. I hoped so, anyway: even if Trebbio had committed a murder the guy was obviously in a total funk. It’d been like kicking a puppy.

  I finished my wine, dropped a handful of coins on the counter, and turned to leave.

  ‘’Night all,’ I said. ‘Somebody look after his boat.’

  Jupiter!

  Perilla was still up and around when I got back, sitting out on t
he terrace overlooking the sea. There was no sign of Mother or Priscus. I just hoped the old bugger wasn’t out on his own somewhere painting the town red.

  ‘You’re back early, Marcus,’ she said.

  ‘Yeah.’ I kissed her and lay down on the next couch. Bathyllus oozed over with the homecoming cup of wine.

  ‘Nice evening?’

  ‘Interesting.’

  ‘Oh?’

  I told her. About half way through, her lips set in a line and stayed set. The rest of her wasn’t exactly radiating joy and delight, either.

  ‘Corvinus, we’re on holiday,’ she said when I’d finished. ‘You are not getting involved.’

  ‘Ah...who said anything about –?’

  ‘And don’t try to tell me you’re not thinking about it, because I won’t believe you. Not unless I spot a few flying pigs first.’

  ‘Yeah, well.’ I cleared my throat. ‘Actually there is the patron-client aspect of things to consider, lady.’

  ‘What patron-client aspect? Come off it, Marcus! This man Trebbio is not your client! You don’t know him and have no connection with or obligation to him whatsoever!’

  I sighed. Oh, yes I did. I wasn’t flannelling there; I’d thought the thing out on the way back, and there was no getting round it: I was clean-gaffed, caught by the obligatories. Not that I was too upset about that, mind, but then the lady didn’t have to know everything. ‘Look, Perilla,’ I said. ‘If the punters in Zethus’s represent local opinion, which I suspect they do, then Trebbio’s a dead man walking, and I’d swear he didn’t murder anyone. And he asked me directly to help him. I can’t buck that.’

  ‘Help him how?’

  ‘I don’t know. But for a start I thought I might go and see the town officer. Explain the situation. According to Alcis at Zethus’s, the guy isn’t altogether on top of his job. If I can get him to see the potential problem here and how it might affect him then maybe we can exert a little pressure.’

  Perilla was staring at me. ‘What potential problem?’ she said. ‘And what kind of pressure? Corvinus, if you’re intending to –’

  ‘No big deal, lady,’ I said. ‘And at the end of the day it’s in everyone’s interests. I was just going to point out to the guy that, pace Toothy Alcis, there’s about as much proof at present that Trebbio murdered Murena as wouldn’t fill a salt spoon, that I was aware of the fact, and that if he let things go as they were going and the result was that Trebbio got himself bowstringed I would be having serious words with my very good friend in the praetor’s office at Rome. After which the bugger would be lucky if he ended up running the urine collection service from the public latrines. Little truths like that.’

  ‘What friend? Marcus, you don’t have any friends in –’

  ‘Sure I do. Caelius Crispus.’

  ‘Crispus? He wouldn’t do you that size of a favour!’

  ‘Yeah. I know that and you know that. But the town officer doesn’t know that, does he? And I’m betting that he’ll be too shit-scared to check.’

  ‘Corvinus, this is ridiculous! It’s also pure naked blackmail, and totally unjustified! Why should you –?’

  ‘It’s the easiest, quickest way.’

  ‘To do what? You are going to interfere, aren’t you? Really interfere.’ I said nothing. ‘I wish for once you’d just – ’

  ‘Look, lady. Believe me, if I don’t get involved here then Trebbio’s dead meat, and I know that whoever killed Murena - if anyone did kill him - it wasn’t that poor sod. Only I could be wrong, and that’d be okay too, because then I’d know for sure I was wrong. You see? Now. All I need is the authority to gather evidence, right? One way or another, for or against, it doesn’t matter so long as it’s hard proof.’ She was still frowning. ‘You want me to forget the whole thing and spend the time instead strolling along the front looking at the yachts and ogling the girls, or can we just save a man’s life here?’

  She was quiet for a long time. Finally, she said: ‘All right, Marcus. You win. Not that I had any doubt you would, mind. But I still don’t like it.’

  ‘Yeah, well...’

  ‘Anyway, why are you so sure that this Trebbio isn’t the killer? Just because he claims not to be and has the cheek or perspicacity to ask you for help doesn’t mean he isn’t guilty after all.’

  I grinned to myself: the fingers of her left hand had gone absently to the curl of hair at her temple, just above the hair band, and she was twisting it. She only does that when she’s sleepy or interested in something and thinking. Perilla may pretend she’s got no time for sleuthing, but she likes a puzzle as much as I do. She’s just ashamed to admit it to herself, that’s all. ‘Trebbio didn’t know a thing about the murder until Alcis told him,’ I said. ‘Unless he’s the best actor since Roscius I’d swear to that. Second, he didn’t make any bones about admitting he’d gone to check his lines near the fish farm last night, and if he had killed Murena then that’d be crucial. Third, I gave him an out and he didn’t take it. It would’ve been easy enough for him to say he saw someone skulking along the beach the time of the murder. He didn’t. Fourth –’ I paused.

  ‘Fourth?’

  ‘He said he’d seen - or thought he’d seen - two lights at the fish farm. One, fair enough: that would’ve been Murena himself. But no one carries two lamps. Sure, the guy was confused and he said himself he could be wrong, but two lamps means two people. And you don’t show a light if you’re planning to sneak up behind someone and push them into an eel tank.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So if there were two lamps then it had to be murder. Or at least there had to be two people involved. And if the second guy was carrying a light he couldn’t’ve minded being seen and recognised, not by Murena at least. Which meant that he had to be someone Murena knew.’

  Long silence.

  ‘Ah,’ Perilla said.

  I’d got her. Well, holidays in Baiae were boring anyway.

  4

  It worked like a dream. I had to compromise, sure - Trebbio was kept locked up in Baiae’s tiny holding-cell off the market square - but after a fifteen-minute interview with an increasingly-worried town officer I walked out with a letter empowering me to investigate Licinius Murena’s death.

  That day was the funeral, butting in would’ve been crass, and besides we were booked for a visit and dinner to one of Mother’s friends who had a villa further down the coast, near Misenum. Pals of my mother’s can be hit or miss, but this one and her husband were okay, even if they did bring the conversation round pretty smartly to their new yacht and keep it there. Priscus, I noticed, was unPriscusly quiet throughout; he has a tendency to assume that everyone he comes in contact with has a deep and abiding interest in recherché topics like Umbrian marriage customs and Phoenician silver mines in Spain. This time we hardly got a single bleat out of him the whole visit. I had the distinct impression that the old guy was sulking.

  We stayed over. The next day as soon as we got back I sent Bathyllus round - equipped with the town officer’s letter - to arrange a meeting the following afternoon with Licinius Murena’s widow.

  Okay; so we were in business. First stop was the fish farm itself, half an hour before the scheduled meeting, to check out the basic facts. Zethus had said that Murena had been found by his manager. I couldn’t remember the guy’s name, if I’d ever heard it, but obviously he was the one to talk to.

  Fish farms are common everywhere along this part of the Campanian coast. Some of them - the ones belonging to ordinary private villas - are pretty small-time and hardly worth the name: a couple at best of simple concrete tanks formed by projecting berms closed off at the far end and with a coarse-meshed gate on the sea side that lets the small fry in so the captive fish can feed but can’t get back to the open sea. Basically, they’re just larders for keeping shellfish or the finned variety alive until it’s wanted. Others - the commercial ones and the ones belonging to Baiae’s richer punters - are a lot more complex: anything from a dozen to fifty huge tanks, sub
divided to make finding and lifting the fish easier and prevent the more vicious buggers from snacking on their less aggressive pals. Some places even have tanks that’re closed off from the sea altogether and kept supplied with fresh water from wells and springs inland: freshwater fish like barbels fetch prices you wouldn’t believe, even here in the seafood gourmet’s paradise where there’s plenty of the other sort. Fish-fanciers can be pretty obsessive, too. The story goes that old Lucullus - a gourmet if there ever was one - had an underground channel cut through the mountain between his estate and the sea, just so he could keep his dinner fresh and swimming. Digging the channel cost more than the estate.

  Mind you, the returns are pretty hefty. Fish costs an arm and a leg in Rome, especially in winter. Prawns and sea-urchins can be literally worth their weight in gold pieces, and a decent-sized tuna’ll set you back the price of a slave. Serious stuff.

  Murena’s fish farm was very definitely in the second category: a network of concrete tanks projecting out into the bay beyond the stretch of rocks at the far end of the beach where Trebbio must’ve had his lines, and for a good hundred yards along the coast the other way. There was a flanking wall cutting the place off from the shore and running up to a gate further inland, but it’d collapsed at the sea end to an easily-climbable height and been left unrebuilt. Either Murena had been slovenly over repairs or he hadn’t viewed theft as a serious danger. Whichever the reason was, for anyone who didn’t want their presence officially known informal access to the farm from the sea side would be easy-peasy. One for the prosecution, although even with his head for booze I doubt if Trebbio could’ve managed it in the state he was in when he left the wineshop.

  Under normal circumstances I’d’ve shinned over the wall to check out the practicalities, but this first time things had to be done formal. Besides, for the purposes of the interview I was wearing a decent mantle, and these things aren’t designed for a scramble over brickwork. I followed the wall up the beach to the gate.