The Lizard's Bite

by David Hewson

  That, finally, got both brothers listening.

  “What the hell do you know about our private business?” Michele demanded.

  Peroni burst out laughing. “Private? What’s your definition of the word private around here? We walked up and down Murano yesterday, talking to people who can’t wait to gossip about you and your problems. Your dirty linen gets washed in public on a daily basis. Do you really not know that?”

  They didn’t, it struck Costa, and that, in itself, was interesting. The Arcangeli really were still outsiders, even after all these years.

  “You can talk here. Or you can talk in the Questura,” he repeated.

  “We don’t have time for this crap,” the elder brother snarled.

  “You get even less time if we have to haul you over to Castello,” Peroni pointed out.

  Michele grunted. Then he walked out into the sunshine, lit a cigarette, and perched on one of the bollards on the quay, watching the water stretching between the island and San Michele.

  “Ten minutes,” he said, in that grating cold voice that was starting to get to Costa. “Then you can go bore the hell out of someone else.”

  LEO FALCONE STOOD WITH RAFFAELLA ARCANGELO IN the glass gallery. Both watched the scene developing below, two brothers, two cops, talking underneath the sputtering torch of the iron angel on the bridge, not that far from the pair of carpenters who were still slowly putting the front of the fornace back together.

  “I told you there’d be no problem in the end,” Raffaella said. “They’re not unhelpful. Just preoccupied. And they’ve nothing new to say. You do understand that, Leo, don’t you?”

  She was wearing better clothes today, he thought. A smartly pressed white silk shirt and black trousers. A little makeup and two small, delicate earrings, crystal naturally.

  Falcone had taken the call from Teresa Lupo just after he’d left Costa and Peroni grumbling their way to the men downstairs, chastened by his reprimand for the way the younger detective had stepped out of line with Piero Scacchi. He was heartened to hear the interest and determination in Teresa’s voice, however. Something would, he thought, get resolved as a result. Even so, the nature of Uriel’s death remained puzzling. He was unable, too, to decide whether the news of Bella’s pregnancy clarified matters or simply made them more opaque. The answers to these problems lay in small details, snatches of conversation, tentative, private relationships. Falcone preferred dealing with crooks. He knew he was somewhat out of his territory in these waters, though he was determined the locals, and Randazzo in particular, wouldn’t notice.

  “You promised to tell me what you know,” Raffaella reminded him.

  He sipped the weak Earl Grey tea she’d brought. It was an affectation, a pleasant one. There were many in this overlarge, slightly pretentious home of which the Arcangeli filled barely a quarter.

  “I said there would be limits,” he replied.

  “I understand that, Leo. So tell me something within those limits.”

  “Within those limits there’s precious little to say. What possible motive could Uriel have? What happened to Bella’s keys? You’ve still not found them?”

  She hesitated, a fleeting look of reserve on her face. “No. I’ve looked again. Everywhere.”

  In another case, one properly resourced, with strong backing from above, Falcone knew he’d be doing all the searching himself. Under Randazzo’s curious restrictions this was, if not impossible, quite difficult. Besides, he trusted Raffaella Arcangelo. She knew this rambling mansion better than they did. If there was anything to be uncovered here, she would surely find it. All the same . . .

  “I ought to look.”

  “Certainly.”

  She led him to Uriel and Bella’s apartment, on the floor above. There was nothing to see. Nothing to take away except the ambience, which was a little tawdry: old furniture, the smell of musty damp.

  “This is better than it normally was,” Raffaella said, seeing the expression on his face. “I wouldn’t clean for them. Even I have limits.”

  “Where do the rest of you live?”

  The answer didn’t surprise him. As far apart as possible. Michele’s apartment was on the ground floor. Gabriele occupied a sprawling hovel behind the dining room. Raffaella’s own room, about the same size but immaculate, though still with dated furniture and little in the way of modern conveniences, was a little way along from Uriel and Bella’s, almost within earshot. The rest of the mansion was empty: dusty, bare rooms, cleared of anything valuable they might once have contained. The short tour depressed him. He was glad to return to the dining room, the one place in the house, it seemed to him, that retained some memories of what the Arcangeli once were.

  “Why did Bella have that phone, Leo?” Raffaella asked. “It doesn’t make sense.”

  He frowned. “There would be one obvious reason. If she kept it hidden from all of you, how many possibilities are there?”

  She didn’t look convinced.

  “Affairs . . . happen,” he pointed out. “Even in Murano. There must have been others. Before Uriel, surely.”

  “I wasn’t Bella’s keeper,” she replied quietly, evading his unspoken question.

  “But you were Uriel’s, weren’t you?”

  The dead man was two years older than she, but something in Raffaella’s attitude told Falcone the relationship between the two siblings was, in an odd way, reversed. That Uriel was under Raffaella’s care, somehow, the weakest of the three brothers. Perhaps that was why she chose to live so close to Uriel and his wife, when there were so many other rooms she could have used.

  “What do you mean?” she wondered, not offended by the question, more puzzled.

  “I was simply being presumptuous,” Falcone replied with a shrug. “This job makes you think you can read people. Sometimes I can. Sometimes . . .”

  She was watching him, intrigued. “And how do you read me?” she asked.

  “I think you cared for Uriel more than for the other two. Perhaps because he was the youngest. The least happy . . .”

  “Uriel wasn’t unhappy! Not in the way you mean.”

  “How then?”

  “He was . . . unfinished,” she answered carefully. “Even I got out of here for a while. Studying, in Paris, when we still had money. Uriel never escaped. He never really knew what the world was like beyond Murano. And this place can be so cold, so claustrophobic. You won’t understand that. Most people don’t even notice. Michele, Gabriele—they never did. Uriel knew there was more to life, but he didn’t get the chance. And now . . .”

  She paused, a sudden mist in her eyes. “You read people well, Leo. I’m not sure that’s a compliment. It must be a difficult talent to possess. Do you know when to turn it off?”

  His former wife had once said something very similar, not long before she’d left him. At the time, he’d rejected the accusation. The talent she despised was a necessary part of his job. Now, after several solitary years of single life, he wondered whether it didn’t, in truth, carry a heavy personal cost.

  “I’m trying to learn,” he said with a smile. “You will still accompany me this evening, won’t you?”

  A faint rush of pink appeared on Raffaella’s cheeks. “Of course. I said I would.”

  “Good. I understand you want to get to the bottom of this. I hope it helps.”

  “I would have gone anyway,” she answered, not looking directly at him. “We were invited, apparently. Not that I knew of it. Michele had thoughtfully rejected Mr. Massiter’s offer without telling me. Now I’m going, it appears he will be too. Separately . . .”

  She added the last part quickly, anxiously.

  Falcone wondered why Michele Arcangelo would have rejected a social invitation from a man with whom he wished to conclude important business. At an event that was on his own doorstep, on property that was, technically, still their own. Then he checked himself. There were dangers in an excess of suspicion. The Arcangeli were pursuing the arrangement with Massi
ter out of financial necessity. It was, perhaps, only understandable if they found elements of it unpleasant.

  “I have to ask something,” he declared abruptly. “It’s a personal matter, for which I apologise, but it can’t be avoided. I need to know about Uriel’s marriage. Is it true that it was more a family decision than his alone?”

  There was a sudden, unexpected flicker of anger across Raffaella Arcangelo’s face. It made her look rather beautiful. “Who told you that? It’s nonsense!”

  “Aldo Bracci. He said the marriage was more than just a personal liaison. It was meant to be some kind of alliance. That Bella brought knowledge with her, as part of her dowry perhaps. Knowledge that could help the business.”

  She laughed. The anger disappeared in an instant. Falcone watched her sudden, flashing smile and wondered why a woman of Raffaella’s looks had stayed single throughout her life.

  “So we’re accused of arranging marriages now, are we? And by Aldo Bracci of all people? Let me tell you something, Leo. Murano may not care much for us. But it has even less time for the Braccis. They’ve a reputation that precedes us by a couple of centuries. They’re all crooks and devils. Ask around yourself. So what else did Aldo say?”

  “That it was Michele who was interested in Bella initially. Not Uriel at all.”

  She sat down on the bench by the window and gazed out onto the bright water.

  “God, this place,” Raffaella Arcangelo murmured. “Whispers in the dark. All this made-up rubbish.”

  Falcone joined her. “I don’t mean to pry. You understand why I have to ask?”

  “Of course.” She nodded and turned her eyes away from the lagoon, staring him in the face. “You don’t like this kind of work, do you?”

  “It’s work,” he replied, a little offended. “I don’t get the luxury of choice.”

  “In Rome, I imagine, you’re dealing with different people. Ones you know are guilty. You just have to find some way of proving it.”

  “Sometimes it’s like that,” he agreed. “Not always.”

  “We’re not criminals here,” she insisted. “You must understand that. I don’t know what’s gone wrong. But it’s some personal matter, Leo. You can’t use your usual rules to get to the bottom of this. Normal rules don’t apply here. Not . . .” she added, smiling, “that I’m in any position to give you advice.”

  “It was Michele, then? In the first instance?”

  She closed her eyes briefly. “That happened after his marriage collapsed,” she said. “Michele had had his eyes on Bella. All the men did. She was very pretty. Very . . . accommodating. I told you the Braccis had reputations. Sometimes that attracts men, in case you hadn’t noticed. Were there others? Yes. Half the men of Murano, married men sometimes, or so they say. For Michele it was just a stupid infatuation. Nothing more. It came and then, when he realised how ridiculous the idea was, it passed. A few years later Uriel proposed to her. Bella was in her thirties by then. I imagine her options were running out. It never struck me as love, not from the very beginning. It was merely a practical arrangement for both of them. Did we discuss it as a family? Of course. Uriel wanted to know Michele no longer had feelings, naturally. Not that any of us needed to ask. By then the business was in a bad way. Michele’s been wedded to the business. There’s no room for a real relationship.”

  Those dark eyes flickered towards the lagoon again. “You could say the same for all of us,” Raffaella added softly. “And besides . . . to hear an accusation of that nature from a man like Aldo Bracci. I told you to look, Leo. Well? Did you?”

  Falcone thought about those ancient criminal records and wondered how reliable they were. Michele Arcangelo’s infatuation seemed much more recent, more real.

  “More whispers in the dark, perhaps. Aldo Bracci was simply cautioned, never charged. If there’d been real evidence—”

  “There was evidence,” she interrupted. “It was the talk of Murano. A scandal. No one could believe it. They were brother and sister. The two of them scarcely tried to hide what they were up to, though Bella was just a child, of course. She couldn’t have known what she was doing. At least, I believe she didn’t.”

  “Such a long time ago . . .”

  “Here? It’s like yesterday. These people have long memories. For good and bad. They don’t bear a grudge. They nurture it. Bella and that creature had an argument. She went to the police out of spite. Aldo was lucky he didn’t go to jail for what he’d done to her!”

  “And afterwards? They made up?” It was the question she wanted him to ask.

  “They’re the Braccis. A family. Of course the argument didn’t last.”

  “And you think the affair may have resumed? With her own brother? Even after she was married?”

  “I don’t know.” She was suddenly circumspect. “He used to come here to see her from time to time. Ostensibly, of course, it was to speak with Michele. About business. Bracci was always looking for extra work, not that we had much. I heard . . . sounds from time to time. Whether it was Aldo . . .”

  Falcone waited.

  “Oh for God’s sake, Leo,” Raffaella objected. “I wasn’t going to get into the habit of eavesdropping on my sister-in-law making love. What kind of person do you take me for? I simply couldn’t avoid hearing things sometimes. It could have been her brother. It could have been someone else. Do you expect me to greet every single visitor at the door?”

  “Did Aldo have . . . ?”

  “A key?” She understood him in an instant. “Of course not. At least not that I’m aware. Michele would have been livid if that was the case. Though if Bella gave him one anyway . . . Who’s to know?”

  Raffaella Arcangelo stared at her hands, clasped over her knees, and frowned. “I don’t think Aldo ever really accepted the marriage. Funnily enough, in spite of his own background, I think he felt Uriel wasn’t good enough for Bella. Perhaps if it had been Michele, things would have been different. He resented us, though. We had money once. That’s something he’s never known. And perhaps . . .”—she glanced into his face—“ . . . perhaps that resentment amounted to hatred. I wondered about that sometimes. When he was here. Full of drink. With Bella. I heard shouting sometimes. I wondered about intervening. He’s a bitter, angry man. I wouldn’t want to be on the end of that anger.”

  Falcone stood and stared out the window, down towards the small iron bridge. It wouldn’t be difficult to get onto the island surreptitiously. A man could climb around the fence. Or take a boat up to the jetty, perhaps an hour or two before Piero Scacchi arrived. Yet the question of the keys remained. Someone had locked the door on Uriel Arcangelo. Someone had left him with a key that could never work, condemned him to die.

  “Tell me something outside your limits, Leo,” she pleaded. “I’ve been as frank with you as I possibly can. Perhaps I can help more. I will, if you let me.”

  Falcone mulled the possibilities. What was there to lose?

  “Bella was pregnant,” he told her without emotion. “She’d known for more than a week. Uriel wasn’t the father. We’ve seen medical records. It’s impossible. Nor do we have any way of establishing who the father was. Not in the circumstances . . .”

  Raffaella Arcangelo screwed her eyes tight shut, moaned gently, then buried her head in her hands. The mane of long dark hair fell forward, concealing her face.

  Automatically, Leo Falcone reached down and placed a hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, and realised she was right: There was something too close—too personal—about this case. He needed to think about the way he broached his next question. “I thought perhaps . . .”

  Raffaella raised her head. Her tear-stained eyes blazed at him.

  “You thought I knew? This is insane, Leo! Three lives now! Gone. For what?”

  Falcone blinked, feeling dizzy. The heat was different in Venice. Humid, and riddled with the stink of the lagoon. It leeched the energy out of him, made it difficult to think straight. He missed Verona, where there w
ere colleagues of his own age, and of similar experience. A line led through this investigation. He knew that, and knew he had to keep the search for it in his sight. Someone killed both Bella and Uriel Arcangelo. Somehow Bella was implicated in her own death too, or so the evidence seemed to say.

  “A child . . .” he murmured. “She would have told someone, surely?”

  “She would have told the father,” Raffaella answered, her voice angry, determined. “And . . .”

  Her eyes flickered towards the window and the men below. Michele was the head of the family. Falcone wondered what that really meant. Was Michele supposed to be a party to everything?

  “I need to speak to my brothers.”

  Falcone followed her through the old, fading mansion, down through the warren of dark corridors half lit by dusty chandeliers populated by dead bulbs, listening to the echoes of her hurried footsteps.

  THE TOSIS WERE RIGHT ABOUT ONE THING: THERE WAS plenty of information on spontaneous combustion out there. Any number of lunatics, sceptics, and pseudoscientists were busy yelling at each other on the subject. Teresa Lupo had spent two hours sifting through the reams of material on the computer in Costa’s apartment, saving the little she found useful, and examining the documents sent from Anna Tosi’s miracle medium of e-mail. After that, her head spinning with possibilities, she’d popped out to buy some pizza and water from the shop around the corner, returning to the computer immediately, spilling crumbs, Peroni-like, across the keyboard as she worked. All the same she was, she decided, none the wiser. Wrong. She was a touch the wiser, just reluctant to admit it because there was something here that disturbed her greatly: a possibility that the Tosis had a point. This wasn’t spontaneous combustion in some fantasy comic book kind of way, flames licking out from underneath Uriel Arcangelo’s apron, sparked by some passing moonbeam. But people did die on occasion from an event that appeared, on the surface, inexplicable, a sudden, inner fire which seemed to consume them with a shocking rapidity.