by David Hewson
“You can’t convict someone on statistics,” Falcone said carefully. “Or instinct. I don’t mean any disrespect, sir, but I think we’ve more experience of murder inquiries than you. Rome’s that kind of place.”
“I don’t doubt it!” the commissario snapped. “But I didn’t bring you back from Verona for a tutorial in criminology. I want a piece of paperwork done and I’m cancelling your leave so you can do it. Uriel Arcangelo murdered his wife and placed her corpse in the furnace. Then, deliberately or by accident, he was burned to death himself. There’s no other possible explanation. We’ll know more later. They’re working on the postmortems now.”
Falcone was speechless for a moment. Then he asked, “You mean the victims are no longer in place?”
“No! Why should they be?”
“I’m not used to investigating crimes where the evidence has been removed before we arrive.”
“And I’m not used to having to explain myself when I give orders. You can see the bodies in the morgue if that’s what turns you on.”
“Why us?” Costa asked.
“Because I want it.”
“But you’ve had men here already,” Costa objected. “Local men. Why can’t they follow through on the case?”
“They’ve better things to do. Besides, you said it yourself: You’ve a track record.”
Peroni’s eyes widened. “Not for sweeping up we haven’t,” he objected. “You don’t want an investigation. You want clerical work. You—”
“I want you to do as you’re damn well told,” Randazzo burst in, furious. “I never asked for you people to be here in the first place. It’s time you earned your pay. You’ve just been a burden all the while. Something I had to watch every time my back was turned. Why do you think I packed him off to Verona?”
Falcone smiled, which further infuriated the commissario.
“That seems a little harsh, sir,” the inspector commented cheerfully. “By our standards we’ve been exceptionally well behaved.”
“By your standards.” Randazzo let loose the ghost of a smile then. “Which is why I’ll release you the moment you finish this inquiry. That could give you an extra three weeks’ paid vacation if you add it up. You can go back to Rome where you belong. You can do what the hell you like. Provided . . .”
He reached down to the walnut cigarette box that sat on the table between them. Randazzo knew this boat, Costa thought. He was familiar with the Englishman, who had sat in silence throughout this entire interlude, an amused expression on his striking features.
“ . . . you deliver what I want. A report, a thorough report. From a team that’s experienced in murder. A report that says what we know to be true. That Uriel Arcangelo murdered his wife and then died, possibly by his own hand. You’ve got a week. That’s plenty of time. Don’t rush it either. I don’t want anyone saying this was slipshod. I don’t expect you to be working your balls off. You two might even get some extra time with your girlfriends.”
Peroni punched his partner lightly on the shoulder. “See! So that’s why it’s us. Get it? We’ve credibility.”
“We get it,” Falcone grumbled. He looked at Hugo Massiter. “And you?”
The Englishman opened his arms in a gesture of innocence. They were at the quay now. For all the damage and mess left by the firemen, it was an impressive sight. From the first floor of the house, which was more in keeping with the Grand Canal than the backwater of Murano, the feature Costa had noticed earlier was revealing itself to be something like the stern of a medieval galley, a great glass eye curving out over the lagoon.
“What the hell is this place?” Peroni asked, amazed.
“Fairyland gone wrong, I fear,” Massiter said quietly. “This is all a great tragedy, gentlemen. But do understand. I’m simply the concerned benefactor in these proceedings, as Commissario Randazzo will readily confirm. Without me, the island is lost. And if the island is lost, so are several million euros of city money that could have been better spent.”
“Meaning . . . ?” Falcone insisted.
Massiter sighed and glanced at the blackened warehouse. “The Isola degli Arcangeli is bankrupt, Inspector. It’s been bankrupt for some time and only two things have been keeping it afloat. Some considerable, and in my view unwise, investment, shall we say, on the part of the city and the regional authorities. They need the tourists, you see. In theory anyway, this is a prime leisure location. Plus there has been some weekly generosity from me in renting the palazzo, that glass exhibition hall. If all this works out, I plan to turn it into a gallery. If I can finally fix the thing. It was designed by a lunatic, but you can probably see that for yourselves.”
Costa thought about the man, with his old-fashioned film-star looks, his fancy boat and something lurking in his past too. Costa was sure of that. On the way from the station to Castello, Massiter had pointed out his “home,” partly to impress Emily, Costa thought. It was a large, palatial motor yacht moored conspicuously on the waterfront near the Arsenale.
“Why is the city involved?” he asked now. “You look like someone who can afford it.”
“Appearances can be deceptive,” Massiter replied. “Wealth and debt go hand in hand. None of this is without self-interest, naturally. Six months ago, certain people in the city and the regional authority approached me to help. There’d been potential buyers before, but none of them met the Arcangeli’s approval. There is a limit to how much good public money can be thrown after bad. The Arcangeli aren’t the easiest of people to deal with, but eventually I managed to strike a deal to buy the island lock, stock and barrel, provided I rent the foundry and part of the palazzo back to them on a peppercorn rent to get them back on their feet. After which, I open the gallery, perhaps, build a few apartments in the rest of the place to pay for it all, and add another tourist attraction to bring in more hordes for the Venetians to fleece. It’s not just money, though, not from my point of view. I hate seeing traditions founder simply because they’re badly run. The glass is exquisite, if a bit unfashionable. With a little help they could make a go of it, once they free themselves of debt. And we take over the running of the island. Which is where—”
“They don’t need the details,” Randazzo interrupted. “It’s none of their damn business.”
Massiter flashed the commissario a sharp look, one that silenced him. “What does it matter, Gianfranco? If they don’t do their job, all this goes public anyway. And God alone knows what happens then.”
The speedboat docked at the jetty. Massiter barked at the helmsman to tie up, allow Falcone and his men to disembark, then return to the city. Costa glanced up at the extraordinary glass structure fronting the mansion. There was a figure at the windows. A woman—tall, erect, with long dark hair and a pale face—was watching their arrival intently.
“I am,” continued Massiter, “at an awkward juncture in this negotiation. The lawyers have been bleeding us dry. The deal is still unsigned. The public purse is empty. It’s only my rental of the hall that keeps them afloat. This damned island’s covered by all manner of trusts and covenants. It’s taken us months just to go through the fine print. Now . . .” A morose frown briefly broke the handsome cast of his face. “ . . . we have to close or walk away. I have until the end of next week to bring this negotiation to a conclusion or my backers will look to place their money elsewhere. Nor can I blame them.”
Falcone stared at Randazzo. “So we’re doing this in order to expedite some private financial transaction of his?” he said.
It was Massiter who answered. “In a sense, but with good reason. If you can just write up that report to say Uriel killed his wife—which we’re all assured is the only possibility—then the contract can go ahead. Since you’re experienced detectives, and from Rome too, not hereabouts, no one will question it. Alternatively . . .”
“I don’t care about your business affairs, Mr. Massiter,” Falcone declared. “They’re nothing to do with us.”
Randazzo stabbed out his ciga
rette in the silver ashtray between them. The smell of dead tobacco mingled with the fire smoke from the jetty above.
“They’re everything to do with us,” the commissario declared. “If this case is still open by the end of next week, then it can only say to the outside world that we consider one of the other Arcangeli to be a suspect. No one else was on the island. However ridiculous that is—and hear me, Falcone, it is ridiculous—it kills Signor Massiter’s contract stone dead. In order for that to proceed, all three living Arcangeli must sign. If they do, and one is then charged with the murder of Uriel Arcangelo, all manner of civil proceedings could follow that might throw the entire contract into jeopardy. These people are drowning in debt. There’s any number of shark lawyers out there who’d leap on a criminal charge as an excuse to try to void the contract and seize the property direct. Or blackmail Signor Massiter for more money he doesn’t have in return for keeping quiet. The negotiations are fragile enough as it is. Any doubt about future litigation would end them for good. No investor would take that risk. The case has to be closed or the Arcangeli go into liquidation next week and . . .”
He didn’t want to go any further. Falcone leaned back in his seat and shook his head.
“I repeat,” the inspector said, “I don’t care.”
Massiter nodded at the man beside him. “You have to tell them, Gianfranco. What’s there to lose?”
The commissario swore bitterly, then lit another cigarette before continuing. “This isn’t about business. It’s about politics. You three of all people should know that’s not a place to make enemies. In your case, more enemies.”
They were on probation. Costa understood that as well as Falcone and Peroni. It didn’t make them anybody’s fools.
“We’re listening,” Costa said.
“Jesus,” Randazzo hissed, flashing Falcone a grimace. “You smug bastards really think you’re a team, don’t you? All for one, one for all. Wise up. Do you think you’re untouchable because of that? Listen to me. The Arcangeli have been bankrupt for years. Five at least. Probably more. They’ve managed to stay afloat because they’ve been working their way through some influential friends. If you know the right people here, you’d be amazed how easy it is to dip your beak into the public purse. They owe millions in taxes going back a decade. They’ve been quietly getting subsidies from everywhere to keep that stupid place running, even though it’s just a museum that’s no longer even fit to open its doors to the public. The cultural people have paid. The historical commissioners have paid. The city, the region. They’ve all been sweet-talked by the Arcangeli into stumping up cash on the promise that sometime soon it would all come right.”
“And I guess a little went back into some private pockets?” Peroni suggested. “Is that what we’re talking about here?”
“Maybe,” Randazzo snapped. “Maybe not. Nothing comes for free anywhere, does it? Or don’t you have kickbacks in Rome? Are you people all just too high-minded for that?”
Falcone scowled. “We are.”
“Well, that’s your privilege. But let me say this. If the Arcangeli go down, then this city suddenly has a hole in its books the size of the lagoon. They can’t keep it quiet any longer. There’s just too much money at stake. If it goes to some kind of judicial inquiry—and it would—then all manner of decent people are going to find themselves standing in the dock, or worse.”
Peroni raised a battered eyebrow. “Decent?”
“Don’t preach to me!” Randazzo yelled. “You don’t belong here. You don’t know how we work.”
Massiter leaned forward and tapped the commissario lightly on the knee. “No need to lose your temper,” he cautioned. “These are practical men. They know which side their bread’s buttered.” The Englishman eyed them. “Don’t you?”
Falcone took out his notepad, scribbled something on it, tore off the sheet and tossed it into Randazzo’s lap.
“There’s my signature,” he said. “Write the report and stick that at the end. Then we can all go home.”
“No!” the commissario bellowed. “I need you to do this. You’re outsiders. You’ve got background. No one’s going to argue with what you say. Uriel Arcangelo killed his wife. We know that. I’m not asking you to bend the evidence or sign off on anything you don’t believe. The facts are there. I just want them put down on paper. You’ve got a week. Then . . .” He gestured towards the lagoon and the cloudless blue sky. “Then you’re gone. Do we have a deal?”
Falcone shook his head. “You can’t put a time limit on an investigation.”
Massiter opened another bottle of water for himself and shrugged. “A week’s all I’ve got. After that, the whole business goes tits up, and me with it. At least I only lose money. Some of the other people hereabouts . . .”
“What if we find out he didn’t do it?” Peroni interrupted.
“That’s not going to happen,” Randazzo said wearily. “It’s impossible. Listen, we’re just trying to keep a lid on an awkward situation that would hurt a lot of people if it got out of hand.” He glowered at Falcone. “Hurt them unnecessarily,” the commissario insisted. “Uriel Arcangelo killed his wife. There is no other possible explanation. Prove otherwise, Falcone, and you can have my job. God knows there’s times I’d happily do without it.”
Falcone looked tempted by the offer. Costa could understand why. The idea of a leisurely investigation that guaranteed them all an early ticket home was attractive, even in these extraordinary circumstances.
“What exactly did you have in mind?” Falcone asked.
Randazzo suddenly turned hopeful. “Go through the statements we already have. Take a look at the scene. Interview the Arcangeli again if you want. Together. One by one. It’s up to you. This night-watchman character is probably worth talking to again too. Anyone else you feel. I should warn you that you’re going to have to talk to the dead woman’s family. The Braccis. They’re regular customers of ours. Petty crime. You name it. A bunch of assholes. My, are they going to be pissed off right now.”
“What about the morgue?” Costa asked.
“Go in and ask for what you want. We’ve got a good pathologist. Tosi’s been here for years. I’m not asking you to cover up anything. I just want an efficient establishment of the facts, then a report I can wave everywhere and say this matter is dead and buried. Understood?”
Commissario Randazzo paused, a little fearful. Then, when he heard no objections, not even from Peroni anymore, he looked at his watch and raised half a smile.
“Don’t rush. That would look bad. When it’s done, disappear on vacation. You’ll have earned it.”
He waited, nervous.
Peroni leaned forward, paused, just to give the commissario a nasty turn. “We’re going to need a boat,” he insisted. “Our own boat. With a driver too.”
“Of course,” Randazzo said quietly. “Except you don’t call it—”
The small puff of an explosion interrupted the commissario, loud enough to make them all jump. There was the sound of a man’s excited shouts. Nic Costa turned to try to see what was happening.
A flame now emerged from the torch at the end of the iron angel’s extended hand. The silver-haired individual who’d been working at the cables watched it.
“Michele Arcangelo,” Randazzo said by way of explanation. “He’s the capo around here.”
A smiling capo, Costa noted. With a crooked face. A man who couldn’t take his eyes off the beacon of fire he’d just been able to revive.
NIC COSTA SURVEYED THE BLACKENED INTERIOR OF the foundry and wondered how much the flames and the smoke had managed to destroy. A blaze of this nature and magnitude was outside his realm of experience. What else might have disappeared in the blasts from the firefighters’ hoses and the tramp of feet by the unseen cops and others who’d entered the building long before Randazzo had invited them onto the scene?
All three had quietly acquiesced in the face of the commissario’s demands. There was precious little point
in arguing anyway. Besides, each of them was, Costa knew, tempted by what was on offer, in spite of the immediate loss of leave. Conduct a thorough investigation, produce a sound, predictable report on a crime which seemed a closed case from the outset, then enjoy some extra holiday at the end before returning to Rome. The circumstances were unusual but not, perhaps, unknown, particularly in Venice. Besides, Emily was free of college work for the next month. They could visit Sicily first, perhaps, or make a lazy progress back to Lazio through Tuscany and Umbria.
Provided they gave Gianfranco Randazzo and the Englishman to whom the commissario seemed somehow beholden exactly what they wanted.
He and Falcone had walked carefully around the foundry, first examining the furnace where the woman’s remains had been recovered, then looking at the chalk outline around the stained and partially missing portion of planked flooring where Uriel Arcangelo had fallen. And examining the peripheral details too. The shattered windows were now being covered by wooden shutters hammered into place by a couple of carpenters—against all conventional police routine. The tall wooden doors, turned almost to charcoal by the heat, had been smashed from their hinges by the axes of the entry team. Falcone fussed over the hatchet marks, then took out a handkerchief and bent over the door, which now lay on the floor. The key was still in the lock, on a ring with a bunch of others. It was an old-fashioned mortised mechanism, which meant that, once a key was inserted from one side, it was impossible for anyone to open the door from the other. Falcone juggled at the key in the mechanism, then withdrew it and placed the item in a plastic evidence pouch, which he pocketed. Costa watched him, thinking.
“The door is locked, isn’t it?” he asked.
“Definitely,” Falcone replied. “They told us that already. You don’t imagine they lied, do you?”
Costa tried to read Falcone’s demeanour. Was he being sarcastic? It was difficult to tell exactly what the distant, expressionless inspector was thinking at the best of times. Just then, Costa really had no idea.
