The Savage Shore

by David Hewson

The priest he’d seen in the chapel in the cave stood in the shadow of the broken campanile, wearing the same white, long-sleeved cope. Four men in black, hired pall-bearers he guessed, waited, hands behind their backs, next to a newly-dug grave, a coffin in simple white pine, a bronze cross on the lid, on the earth by its side.

  The priest glanced at them as they turned up. Nervous, Costa thought. He didn’t want to be here, any more than the pall-bearers who must have carried the coffin up the shallow hill into the graveyard beneath the cypress trees. Money or the last of the Bergamotti’s influence must have brought them here.

  ‘Signora. Do you wish me to say some sort of … eulogy?’ the priest asked when they arrived. ‘I could try and—’

  ‘Just the words,’ Alessia told him. ‘The usual. Vanni was never one for flattery. Or small talk.’

  What followed was in Griko so Costa had to try to match the sonorous tone of the man’s voice to what he recalled of the Italian ceremony. The service, such as it was, didn’t last long. Then the pall-bearers lifted the shiny black sashes beneath the coffin and manoeuvred it into the grave. The earth looked bone dry and the colour of the bark on the cypresses. When the casket was in place the priest threw some soil on the pale wooden lid, Alessia did the same and nodded at the men to fetch their spades.

  ‘We must speak.’ The priest came straight to her. He was pale and his hands were shaking. ‘My condolences of course but—’

  ‘But what? Didn’t we give you enough money over the years?’

  ‘Of … of course,’ he stuttered. ‘All the same … this is not a proper graveyard. No longer hallowed ground. If the authorities were to find out—’

  She nodded at Costa. ‘They know. Why do you think he’s here? They’ll do nothing.’

  He kept quiet.

  ‘Roman,’ she said, tapping on his jacket with a sharp finger. ‘My brother’s dead. You will never find his murderers. You will not come here and disturb his peace. As to this being hallowed ground …’ She waved her hand around the little cemetery, the church, the piazza below. ‘It was to him. The place he loved. I want him here. Now—’ she nodded at the cars – ‘get your people to finish their work then go. You’ll get your money later.’

  The priest didn’t argue. The men with the shovels never looked up from their task.

  An hour of silence followed, spent sipping water and wine at the trestle table by the old dry fountain. She wouldn’t say more with the others around. Then she watched them leave in the hearse, the priest nodding warily as he climbed into the passenger seat.

  ‘I mean it,’ she said when the long black vehicle had edged slowly down the hill on the broken cobbles. ‘You won’t come here and touch him. There’d be no point. You know he’s dead. Everyone does. The local police too. They at least have some decency in these matters.’

  The weather was colder now, a chill breeze that heralded autumn drifting off the hills. Soon a different family would be harvesting the bergamot crop. Not long after there’d be snow. He wondered what Manodiavolo would look like when that happened and knew he’d never find out.

  ‘Agreed,’ he said. ‘In return I want two things.’

  She stared at him and he saw again that santina in the squalid shack. ‘Do you think you’re in a position to make demands?’

  ‘Requests. That’s all.’

  Quickly she snatched his hand and ran her fingers across his skin, found the scar beneath the thumb that Lucia’s blade had left little more than a week before.

  ‘She made you one of us. Or tried.’

  ‘Lucia—’

  ‘What I said when I saw you that first time in the hills. I know you think that was all a trick. But I can play the santina. I can see things too. When I want to. Death follows you like a shadow. You like having it around.’

  That was too much. ‘I didn’t betray your family. I was doing my best to try to save them.’

  She scowled and looked across at the decaying palazzo. ‘They’ll let this rot and turn to ruin now. Vottari. The Corigliani. They want what the Sicilians always do. Money. Luxury. Comfort.’

  ‘Who was it?’

  A shrug and then: ‘Ask who prospered. Vottari for one.’

  ‘And Rocco.’

  ‘What of him?’

  ‘They let him go. I saw it. We found his car. He’s alive somewhere.’ Costa didn’t take his eyes off her. ‘Isn’t he?’

  Half a laugh and there was something cold and amused in her eyes. ‘That is a family matter. For the family to deal with. Not you. Ask the question that’s in your head. Or I’ll get in that car and leave you here to walk.’

  A moment then he said it. ‘What happened to Lucia?’

  ‘Don’t you know?’

  ‘Not for sure.’

  She ran her fingers on the wound then let go of his hand. ‘The Sicilians snatched her as security. When they realized what Vanni had in mind they killed her.’

  He couldn’t speak for a moment. The pain was real. Like a blow to the chest.

  ‘Vanni gave himself up to them. I can’t imagine he’d do that without making some kind of bargain. He loved her—’

  ‘We all loved her,’ Alessia snapped. ‘Don’t presume.’

  ‘He wouldn’t have offered her—’

  ‘My niece is dead! How many times do I have to say it? I don’t know where. I don’t know how. We got Vanni back because he wasn’t far from here. Lucia … they took her across the water. It wouldn’t be easy to bring her back. Or safe. So …’

  Alessia reached inside her bag and retrieved something that took his breath away. It was the silver bracelet, the copy of the Virgin’s, that she always wore.

  ‘This is all they sent.’ She placed the shining clasp in front of him. ‘Take it. The memories I have of my niece are here.’ She tapped her head. ‘I don’t need anything else.’

  The silver was cold and more worn than he remembered. Running round a quarter of the circlet was a shiny stain of dried blood.

  ‘I can’t …’

  ‘Take it! From what I heard she’d have … wanted that. I …’ Alessia wiped her eyes. ‘God. Tears. We’re not meant for them. Take it, damn you. Then I’ll drive you to Reggio. You can go back to Rome. Where you belong. Not here. Never here again.’

  He didn’t budge. ‘Rocco must have known. It couldn’t just be a foot soldier like Santo Vottari.’ Silence. ‘Tell me, Alessia.’

  ‘Why? What can you do? What business is it of yours? My brother and my niece are dead. My nephew’s God knows where. Australia for all I know. He liked it there.’ She leaned forward and took his hand, her eyes full of tears now. ‘For your sake, Roman, learn to let things go. Otherwise those shadows will return and one day the life they’ll claim will be yours.’

  She got up, wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her funeral dress, then walked to the car. ‘If you want a ride come now. You’re not the only one who’s leaving.’

  He didn’t get the plane to Rome. Instead he caught the first flight to Naples, landed there at five, took a cab to the harbour and the first fast ferry across the bay to Capri. The weather was warmer even though this was further to the north. But the boat was quiet, mainly occupied by locals returning from their daily commute. By the time he reached the island and took the funicular to the centre even the Piazzetta was barely half full with tourists gasping at the prices of evening coffees and cocktails. The way to the ruined imperial villa was called the Via Tiberio, little more than a footpath, the only traffic the three-wheel scooters of the rubbish trucks, delivery carts and transport carriages for elderly locals. Too dark to do much even if he had an idea what that might be. So he found a room in a hotel, ate lukewarm flabby pizza in a bar along the road, took the silver bracelet from his jacket pocket, stared at the dark stain there, wondering what it might tell him.

  He’d fled Calabria so quickly, so impetuously, he didn’t have any luggage and had to beg reception for toothbrush and a disposable razor. The past few weeks it seemed as if someone had been hu
nting him. Now he was the hunter and that felt good. Rocco was out there somewhere, the reason Vanni and Lucia were dead. He needed answers.

  Back in his room at nine, shirt and socks and underwear drying on the balcony, his phone went.

  ‘Leo,’ he said, looking at the number.

  ‘Where in God’s name are you? What happened?’

  ‘Vanni’s dead. They wanted me to know. To be sure. They don’t want anyone looking for the body—’

  ‘Hardly their decision. Where is it?’

  Somewhere beyond the window he could hear the sound of animals: goats or sheep perhaps. The little hotel was halfway along the lane that led to the ruined imperial Villa Jovis, an ancient home of Tiberius, away from the tourist glitz and racket of the centre. He could see how it would remind her of Aspromonte.

  ‘I don’t know. They wouldn’t tell me.’

  It hurt to lie but it seemed necessary.

  ‘This lead of yours—’

  ‘May be nothing. Book me out of work. We’re owed the time. I’m taking it.’

  ‘Nic—’

  ‘When I’ve got something to say I’ll call. Good night.’

  The next morning he checked out of the hotel first thing and walked up the Via Tiberio wondering how he’d find the house. There was something here. Something asking to be found. A piece in the jigsaw that was the Bergamotti, Lucia most of all. He felt that, not that he knew how.

  The lane narrowed into a footpath as it wound towards the ruins at the end. Before long he reached the turning marked for the Salto di Tiberio, the precipice where two millennia before a fisherman had died, a lobster rubbed in his face before a soldier threw him off the cliff.

  Her words came back.

  It’s not just the criminal peasants of Aspromonte who can display a heartless streak at times.

  Opposite, a little way down the hill with a dramatic view over a cliff that fell to stark rock teeth in the bay below, stood a small villa, orange walls, neat garden with fruit trees. Some of them looked like bergamot. There was a for sale notice by the gate alongside a sign that said: Villa Carlotta. It was unlocked so he walked through, down the drive, heart pumping when he heard a distant female voice.

  Costa marched straight through the half-open front door. A woman in a long red dress, gold necklace, gold earrings, the very picture of Capri rich, glared back at him. She was with a middle-aged Chinese-looking man in a dark suit who was holding what looked like sheets from an estate agency.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ she demanded.

  ‘I was looking for the family. They live—’

  ‘You said the house was empty,’ the man objected.

  ‘It is. They moved out. We’re the sole agents.’ She led Costa outside and whispered, so the man inside couldn’t hear, ‘I don’t know what you’re doing here but I’m closing this sale today. Beat it.’

  ‘The Ursi … Father, son, daughter—’

  ‘There’s never been anyone here of that name.’

  ‘The woman who lived here—’

  ‘She’s gone. Now … do I have to call the police?’

  There were paintings on the walls. Simple, a little crude. Orchards and a peak he could see was Aspromonte.

  Hers. He knew it.

  ‘No you don’t.’

  It was only a few minutes after nine. Down the lane, on the way back to the Piazzetta and the funicular to the port, there was a sign for a cafe by an arch into a quaint garden. Little more than a few tables set next to someone’s vegetable patch. An elderly man with a grey beard was bent over lines of artichokes and squash, not a single customer to serve. Costa went in, sat down and ordered a coffee when he finally arrived. The ferries left all the time. He could get to Naples in an hour then Rome on the fast train in about the same. Call in at the Questura by lunchtime. Get his luggage. Put on his work suit, pick up his ID card. Return to being Nic Costa, a sovrintendente in the Centro Storico Questura. He’d escaped those chains for a while when they made him put on the mask of Maso Leoni. That change in identity had opened his eyes in some ways. More than anything, so had she.

  ‘You,’ the gardener declared, ‘look like a man more in need of a drink. How about I make that a caffè corretto?’

  Something about him reminded Costa of Vanni, working in his fields. ‘Just a macchiato thanks.’

  A shrug then.

  ‘Well, I’m having one,’ the old man announced and after a while came back with two cups and sat down on the other side of the table. ‘How’s the macchiato?’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘No. It’s not. The machine needs fixing. Sorry.’ He took a gulp of his own and the rich smell of spirit wafted across the table. Mingling with the scent of orange blossom, it took him straight back to Manodiavolo. ‘I saw you looking at the villa up the road.’ He laughed and shook his head. ‘Six million euros they want for that place. Or so I heard. My uncle Gennaro sold it for a pittance in the Fifties. What he got for it, you couldn’t pick up a chicken coop in Capri for that these days. All foreign money. All foreigners.’

  ‘It wasn’t owned by foreigners. A woman. A young woman.’

  ‘Ah!’ His eyes opened, then he went to the counter, grabbed the grappa bottle, came back and topped up his cup. ‘Thirsty work gardening. You’re right. They weren’t foreigners.’

  ‘They …?’

  ‘The family. It wasn’t just that young woman.’

  ‘The Ursi?’

  The man looked baffled. ‘No. They were called Bianchi. Came from the south. Near Reggio, I think. The father was a farmer, I believe. A rich one, I assume. The children … I don’t know. Wait …’

  He ambled to the bar again and returned with a photo album and a plate with a piece of cake on it. ‘Here. Earlier this summer. It was a birthday. The daughter’s, I think. They let me take a picture because my wife cooked dolci. Almond from our trees. Try it.’

  The gift he’d brought was sweet and gritty and delicious and he barely noticed as he stared at the picture. It looked like a warm spring day. Vanni was in the centre raising a glass, Lucia happy in a long-sleeved shirt to his left, on the other side Rocco, grinning as he cut into a huge and fancily-decorated cake.

  ‘They were a lovely family,’ the gardener said. ‘It was always a pleasure to have them.’

  ‘I thought she lived here. Alone.’

  He shook his head. ‘No. They came and went. No one lives in half these places these days. They rent them out for a small fortune and from time to time they visit. As I said they came from the south. Near Reggio. Though lately …’ He scratched his rough grey beard, thinking. ‘Lately they’d been talking about moving. Not here. Too busy they said. Must be money in farming in Reggio. Me … I just own the one home. One’s enough.’

  Costa finished the coffee. It was lukewarm and weak. ‘Moving where?’

  The gardener was screwing up his eyes, trying to remember. ‘They liked islands. The old man said that. He didn’t talk much usually.’

  ‘Venice,’ Costa suggested, remembering how Gabriele, the counterfeit capo, had talked of the lagoon, presumably after Vanni’s covert briefing. ‘Duck hunting.’

  ‘No.’ He checked his watch and frowned. ‘I must get on.’

  ‘Where …?’

  ‘He mentioned the ducks. I remember that. The son was really keen on hunting. Liked guns, I think. Not much of that here.’

  ‘Rocco?’

  He nodded. ‘Yes. That was his name. Rocco and Lucia. A lovely pair of kids.’

  ‘Burano. They talked about—’

  ‘No, no, no. Not Burano. We went there once. I talked to him about it. All the houses are painted in funny colours. To please the tourists mostly. Rocco didn’t want to be near the tourists though I said maybe he could use his guns on them. He wanted to be near the ducks.’

  There were little islands all across the lagoon. If someone wanted to hide …

  The gardener was thinking. ‘There was a restaurant the girl talked about. Some American writer w
ent there. The one who wrote about fishing. She was a fan. I remember him.’ He grinned and jabbed a triumphant finger in the air. ‘Hemingway. Yes.’

  ‘Torcello.’

  He could picture it from when he was there with Emily, before they married. A distant island at the very northern tip of the lagoon, a beautiful old basilica from the brief time, more than a millennium before, when it was the most important place in Venice. Hardly anyone lived there. But there was the Locanda Cipriani, a hotel and restaurant Hemingway had used, and all around fields of fruit and vegetables, goats and mules, by the shore the nets of fishermen and the boats of hunters.

  The gardener raised his glass. ‘Torcello. That’s it.’ He stopped as Costa got quickly to his feet. ‘You don’t want another.’

  ‘No,’ he said, throwing some coins on the table. ‘But thanks.’

  He walked, half-ran back to the funicular, checked flights on his phone as the little carriage clunked and bumped the steep way down to the harbour. The high-speed ferry took fifty minutes and it felt twice as long. The cab driver at the other end sped him to Capodichino in thirty. No luggage, just a credit card and personal ID, he got onto the first flight with just twenty minutes to spare.

  No time to call Falcone even if he wanted. Besides the battery on the phone was starting to bleat and pieces of glass were falling from the shattered screen.

  Marco Polo airport was an hour away, north east across the breadth of Italy. It was just after two when he watched the grey expanse of the lagoon emerge along the Adriatic coast, the familiar shape of Venice coming up beneath the wing, a forest of red tiles and marble buildings, spires, palazzi and squares divided by the winding blue corridor of the Grand Canal. Torcello soon emerged, the tower of the campanile jutting out of the low grey horizon.

  A humid haze hovered over the lagoon as he leapt into the gleaming motoscafo at the water taxi stand. There was only one person to call.

  ‘Nic?’ Teresa Lupo answered straight away. He could hear the sound of the office behind the rattle of the boat’s engine and the wash of waves against the hull. The Questura never slept. ‘Where are you? Leo’s worried. Dammit, I’m worried.’

  ‘Don’t be. I’m in Venice. I need something quick.’