Season for the Dead

by David Hewson

  A tea towel flew across the room and landed on his lap.

  “Bea warned me. You’re a wicked old man,” Sara Farnese declared.

  Marco Costa roared with laughter. They looked at each other, wary of the intimacy that had grown in a single night, an intimacy based on some unspoken mutual need.

  “Will you stay long?” he asked, trying not to sound as if he were pleading. She was a warm and human presence in the house, not least because she behaved as if there were nothing wrong with him at all. “Bea is a friend, and a better one than I deserve. But the old require young people around them. We need to suck the vitality out of you like vampires.”

  “As long as I’m welcome.” She had turned away from him so Marco Costa could not see her face. The old man watched this solitary woman and remembered what his son had said earlier: There was a part of Sara Farnese that was beyond reach, a secret part that defined her. Nic believed it was in that secret part that the riddle of these bizarre deaths lay. Marco had no way of knowing whether this was true. All he understood was that he did not envy the young anymore, not Nic, not Sara Farnese. They had yet to place their hands into life’s flames. They had yet to acknowledge their existence. Perhaps Sara Farnese was different, though, the old man thought. Perhaps this woman had been burned already, and in ways he could not begin to comprehend.

  “Will you sit with me?” he asked. “And listen to some music?”

  “Of course,” she said, smiling warily.

  Marco Costa pushed his wheelchair over to the hi-fi unit and found the CD he sought. He put on Dylan, played loud, singing “The Idiot Wind,” and was amazed that thirty years earlier, when he’d first heard this scream of rage and pain, he’d wondered what the hell it was all about.

  26

  In the moonlight, Luca Rossi’s white face was miserable. The visitor he had brought along was refusing to come to the house. He wanted to meet Nic outside the farm, under the eye of the police team stationed there but out of earshot. Rossi explained this in a low, mournful voice as he and Nic walked.

  “You should be asking yourself what a man like this is doing here,” Rossi said firmly. “Why don’t they leave us alone?”

  “What harm does it do to talk?” Nic asked.

  Rossi grimaced as if to say: You never learn. The harm is you just don’t know who you’re talking to.

  Hanrahan stood beyond the almond tree by the rickety wall that formed the perimeter of what once was a sheep field. He was half illuminated by the headlights of a black Mercedes of city license parked some twenty yards away. Costa ran the flashlight over the license plate and recognized it as one of the Vatican’s staff cars, familiar symbols of authority. An anonymous driver sat behind the wheel, the light of the radio reflecting on his wan face. Hanrahan wore a dark overcoat in spite of the heat and was smoking a cigar. The stocky Irishman stared at the cops around him until they dispersed, Rossi with them. Costa walked over and took the hand that was offered.

  “Nice place,” Hanrahan commented. “All yours one day, I guess. A big house for a cop.”

  “What do you want?”

  “A little gratitude wouldn’t go amiss. I took risks sending you that security tape, Nic. There are people who’d be less than pleased if they knew what I’d done.”

  “Thanks,” he replied curtly. “Is that good enough? But you sent it too late. We had another body by then. We knew Stefano Rinaldi wasn’t the one.”

  Hanrahan shrugged. “I was just offering a little something. I wasn’t to know what would happen in the meantime.” He pulled out a pack of cigars, took out a half-smoked stub, and offered him one. Costa shook his head.

  “Clean-living boy,” the Irishman said cheerfully. “That’s what they all say about you. And now you’ve got that woman living in your house. How’s that going? I saw her on TV. She’s an attractive piece of work. Quite a private life too. I saw that trick you played, pretending there was something special between the two of you. Do you really think anyone would fall for that? With all these cops around?”

  “Who knows?” Costa didn’t like Hanrahan. Talking to him was like juggling with eels.

  “Perhaps you could take a shine to her. Anyone could, I imagine. Though I can’t help wondering what would make an intelligent, attractive woman behave like that. I’m a single man by choice. Young people. It’s just laziness. All these empty lives. Why does it happen?”

  Costa waved the stinking cigar smoke out of his face. “I’m asking one more time before I go back in. What do you want?”

  Hanrahan frowned. “You don’t like small talk, do you? It’s a shame. You’ll never make a diplomat. It’s important to learn how to deal with people. Going straight to the point is not necessarily the best way, Nic. You have to learn about nuances. You have to be patient.”

  Costa looked at his watch, then glanced back at the house. Hanrahan waited, knowing he wouldn’t walk away. He said, “I gave you something. It was a gift. The next one doesn’t come for free.”

  “The next one being what?”

  Hanrahan threw his cigar on the ground and stubbed it out with his toe. “A name. Maybe the name you’re looking for.”

  Costa blinked back the fury rising in him. “Let me make sure I understand,” he said slowly. “This man has killed four people and you know who he is? You think you can bargain for that? I could arrest you right now for withholding information and throw you in jail until you talk. I could tell those reporters around the corner and let them sweat your ass off.”

  “But why would you do that?” Hanrahan asked, bemused. “I wouldn’t say anything. To you. Or to the press. Where’s the gain for any of us? And besides, it’s just a name. I don’t know if it’s useful or not. I just think it would be . . . productive if you talked to him.”

  “Jesus, Hanrahan. What if someone else is killed?”

  “It could be the wrong man. Who’s to know?”

  “You make me sick. Haggling over something like this.”

  “You’re so young. I thought I was doing the right thing going to you, not to Falcone. Perhaps I made a mistake.”

  “I can get Falcone here in ten minutes if that’s what you want.”

  The Irishman scowled. “No. I don’t think so. You haven’t even asked the obvious question. What’s the point?”

  Costa gripped the Irishman’s dark coat in his right hand and pulled the man to him. “I asked the question. It was the first thing I said. ’What do you want?’ Remember?”

  Hanrahan released himself from Costa’s fist and raised a conciliatory hand. “Apologies. I forgot. You don’t do small talk. Let’s get straight to the point, then. There’s a man in the Vatican who needs his freedom, and a particular kind of freedom at that. I require you to look the other way when I ask. Nothing more.”

  “Denney? You’re not serious. You think you can trade for that?”

  Hanrahan looked surprised. “You can trade for anything.”

  “A cardinal of the Vatican? You don’t need us. You can let Denney go yourself. There’s a helipad behind those walls, isn’t there? Get him out that way. Don’t waste my time with this.”

  “Nic.” Hanrahan looked disappointed. “If it were that easy don’t you think it would be done by now? Even if the Cardinal were predisposed to leave like that, and he isn’t, we can’t have it look as if the Vatican approved his departure. There are too many . . . strings attached. All he would require is discreet free passage to the airport, say. We could organize a private plane there. You’d just turn a blind eye for fifty minutes, no more.”

  “Are you asking for this on his behalf? Did Denney send you here?”

  “Not exactly. His life’s going through a little turmoil too right now. People he thought were on his side are starting to desert him. The Cardinal’s an old man. Confused. A little scared. Don’t believe everything you’ve heard about him. He was a good priest once. You should know what the press are like. Do you think every word they wrote about your own father was true?”
<
br />   Costa looked back at the farmhouse again. “My father isn’t a crook. From what I hear, Denney is.”

  “So you know he’s guilty? You’re judge and jury in this too?”

  “No. I’m a cop. I hand him over to people who make that decision.”

  Hanrahan laughed. “And you the Italian? Here, where nothing’s ever black and white. Can you hear yourself talking?”

  “I can. What if Denney has something to do with these murders? Maybe I’m letting go of a material witness. Or worse, someone who’s involved.”

  Hanrahan’s bluff manner vanished. “Nic, I swear to you. The Cardinal has nothing to do with this. He doesn’t even know I’m here. I’m just trying to grease a few wheels for all of us. You with your problem, me with mine.”

  Kill two birds with one stone. The Irishman was so like Falcone. Costa tried to discern some unease on Hanrahan’s rugged face and failed. “So Denney doesn’t know Sara Farnese?”

  “Why the hell should he?” Hanrahan answered, shrugging his stocky shoulders. “You mean the call that old boyfriend of hers made? Let me tell you. There are forty people working off that same switchboard in the Vatican for lots of different officials. So someone answered ‘Denney’s office’ by mistake. You ring again and you could get mine. It doesn’t make him part of this any more than it does me or the other people who get their messages taken that way. But I’ve been looking at some of those we’ve had working there. And maybe—I don’t promise this—but maybe there’s something there for you. Nothing to lay at Michael Denney’s door. Just a name, that’s all. Maybe there’s a little interesting history. But it doesn’t come for free, my boy. I don’t have to lift one damn finger to help you. Remember that.”

  Nic Costa took a few steps away from him and looked down the dirt track. The other cops stood smoking beneath the old carob tree that marked the farm’s boundary, looking deeply bored. It was insane to think they could lure out a killer like this. Falcone was clutching at straws.

  “I’m not convinced,” he told Hanrahan.

  “To hell with it then. What else am I supposed to do?”

  “Fix a meeting. Me and Denney. Inside the Vatican, naturally.”

  “Oh! Is that all?”

  “That’s all for now,” Costa said, and turned to go.

  “Hey.”

  He felt a powerful hand on his arm.

  “You really want me to book an appointment between some junior cop and a cardinal of the Catholic Church, a man you people can’t wait to throw in jail? How do you think I’m going to sell that to him?”

  “Tell him I want to talk about religion,” Costa answered. “Tell him I’m thinking of converting.”

  Then he walked back to the farm without waiting for Hanrahan’s answer.

  27

  She was sitting by the fireplace, next to the old man, who was asleep in his wheelchair. Sara put a finger to her lips and motioned to Nic to come forward.

  “You were gone a long time,” she said.

  “Sorry.”

  “Was it worthwhile?”

  “Possibly. I can’t talk about it, Sara.”

  She frowned, disappointed. “I understand. I gave him the tablets he asked for. He was very animated for a while. And then . . .”

  “Thanks for being so kind to him. He can be quite a handful at times.” He meant that. She had gone out of her way to amuse the old man, and in doing so revealed something about herself too.

  “It was a pleasure. I mean that. Nic . . .” Somehow his father had relaxed her, given her some perspective. She seemed a different woman, he thought. “He loves you deeply. He’s worried about you. About how you’ll cope.”

  “He’s worried about me?”

  “Of course. Why would he worry about himself? He knows what’s going to happen. He accepts it.”

  She was right. Sometimes he allowed himself to be led into blind alleys. “ ‘I met a man with seven wives . . .’ ”

  She shook her head. “I don’t understand.”

  In the low yellow light of the farm, dressed simply, unaffected by events outside, as if this place were a sanctuary, she seemed extraordinarily beautiful. He was grateful for her presence. But this was all a mistake. The killer would never come here, not with so many cops outside. And now he would be sleeping a few steps away from her tonight. Already he was wondering what she looked like in bed, how it would feel to touch her skin.

  “Distractions,” Nic Costa said by way of explanation. “Everywhere.”

  She shook her head, not understanding. “Good night,” she said, and, before he could move, kissed him gently on the cheek.

  He watched her go up the stairs, then, for the first time in many years, walked into the kitchen, took down the aging bottle of grappa that sat there and poured himself a tumbler of the thick, colorless liquid.

  28

  Only thirteen people braved the night in the roped-off area which the police had set aside for the media. For a while they passed around beer and cigarettes, knowing there would be no action until daylight, and maybe not then either. The cops were keeping this woman to themselves. Maybe, the word went, one of them had good reason to do so.

  Just after midnight they were awakened by a noise. A newcomer arrived, on foot it seemed. Denis Renard was wide awake; he wasn’t drunk. The paparazzo from a French celebrity weekly glowered at this odd figure coming out of nowhere. Renard had already decided he would be the first to get a decent photograph of Sara Farnese. No one was getting in his way.

  “Where you from, friend?” Renard called.

  The reviewer shone a torch in his face. He wasn’t big but he looked powerful, not the sort to mess with.

  “Time magazine,” the stranger replied.

  Denis Renard rolled over onto his stomach and swore into the dry grass. It was the ones who lied that you had to watch. Time. As if this was their kind of story. Renard knew a fraud when he saw one. This was a rival, maybe, with a little digital snap camera in his pocket, looking to steal his story. He was trouble, to be watched.

  Renard set the alarm on his watch to 6:22: sunrise.

  When it rang, the man was gone.

  29

  Nic Costa rose at daybreak knowing he had to run. It was an addiction. When he ran, he felt in control of himself. There was a stillness that came with the constant effort and the onset of exhaustion, a solitude which sometimes produced the most extraordinary insights. He had solved a case once, an awkward and violent domestic tragedy, one morning at dawn as he raced along the bank of the Tiber near his apartment, beneath the shadow of the Castel Sant’Angelo. Running was a source of satisfaction, of consolation. Whatever Falcone might think of him leaving Sara briefly, he needed it now more than ever.

  The house was still. The sun peeked above the eastern horizon intent on searing another summer day. He wore shorts, a white T-shirt and the battered trainers that had somehow survived the last two months, a record. Quietly, he let himself out the front door and walked down the drive to where the police cars were parked. The shift changed at midnight. He might not know the men who had now come to guard them. Steeling himself for an argument, he stopped. Luca Rossi sat in the first Fiat, glaring at him through the window: Only one other cop in the adjoining cars was awake and he showed little interest in what was going on.

  The big man got out, stretched, yawned and then said, “You’ve got to be kidding me. Today of all days.”

  “You should be home. Time for bed.”

  “Yeah. And what’s for me there? Too late to start drinking. I can sleep in a car. I’ve done it before.”

  It was all a lie. Nic Costa understood what the big man was doing: staying there to look after him. He was touched and a little ashamed Rossi felt he needed the attention.

  “Let me repeat myself,” Rossi said. “You’re not even thinking about this.”

  “Team motto, Uncle Luca. Run or die.”

  “You mean run and die? We’re setting you up as a target here, kid. Don’t make it too
easy for him.”

  Costa spread his arms wide, pointing down both sides of the narrow dirt track that led to the farm entrance. “Oh, come on. Just up and down the road. Where’s the harm? What’s going to bite me? Mosquitoes?”

  “Don’t do it,” the big man pleaded. “Just go back inside. Drink some coffee. Be patient.”

  “Uncle Luca . . .”

  The big man knew it was pointless to argue. “I am not your fu— Oh, hell, what’s the point? Why do you do this to me?”

  “I’ve got to run. I’ve got to get some space inside me.”

  “Shit.” Luca Rossi sighed. “How far? How long?”

  “Just a little way. I won’t even make it to the public road. I’ll stick to the drive, that’s all.”

  “Okay,” Rossi grunted. “But I’ve got no one who can keep up with you. And if you’re not back here in ten minutes I start screaming. Understood?”

  Nic Costa grinned and opened his arms wide.

  “No hugging, no funny stuff,” the big man said forcefully. “You got your way, haven’t you? Now let’s have it over.”

  Costa laughed and was gone, down the track, kicking up dust, glad to feel the cool morning air in his face, glad that, for a few minutes at least, he could put the complex mix of problems in the farm into some kind of perspective. He thought of his father and how much the old man had relished the previous night. He thought too of Sara Farnese. It had given her pleasure to be such good company. That seemed a rarity in her life. He could only speculate what she would be like if it happened more regularly.

  He’d lied to Luca Rossi. The track wasn’t long enough. He needed to run farther, as fast as his powerful legs could take him. The hard basalt stone that paved the surface of the ancient highway was part of his childhood. Once, when he was thirteen, after a row with his father, he had run all day until he was ready to drop. Some thirty miles from home, exhausted, and he called the farm from a village bar. Marco had come cheerfully to fetch him and laughed off the whole thing as a grand adventure. They’d been closer after that. His efforts had somehow marked him out for the old man. Giulia was too scared to argue with him; Marco, being the eldest, too smart. Neither would have countenanced that kind of escape and Nic knew, from the moment the car arrived and his father had stepped out grinning from ear to ear, that this denoted some change in the nature of their relationship. It didn’t become easier, just closer in some unspoken, mysterious way, as if they shared part of the same mind.