A Season for the Dead nc-1

by David Hewson

  “To be honest,” Hanrahan said very carefully, “none of this matters anymore, Michael.”

  “It matters, Brendan. Tell me now. Do you think we’ll be judged one day? All of us? Or is that just one more piece of whimsy?”

  “I think there’s plenty who would like to judge you now.”

  “And who are they? I’ve wasted my time in this dump, fearing them. Fearing you. What can they do except steal away what little of my miserable life’s left?”

  Hanrahan shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “I wouldn’t value that too lightly, Michael. Think of what happened to Valena and the rest.”

  Denney looked around the apartment. It seemed smaller, more dismal than ever. How had he allowed himself to be talked into being some voluntary kind of captive here?

  “Terrible ends,” he agreed. “But you know the problem with spending your days afraid of dying? What you really end up fearing is life itself. You wind up hoping no one knocks on the door, no one comes close. You die anyway. It’s just that you don’t notice it happened a long time before you stopped breathing.”

  Hanrahan closed his eyes as if he weren’t listening.

  “Tell me, Brendan,” Denney said. “Do you believe in anything?”

  “I believe in keeping our little piece of the world in order. Protecting it from those who’d destroy it.”

  “Isn’t that what Pontius Pilate said?”

  “You’re talking like a churchman, Michael. That’s something you’re not.”

  “Say it, then,” Denney spat back. “Let’s hear what you came here for. Because it wasn’t to pass the time.”

  “You’re out,” Hanrahan said flatly. “Today. By noon, it must be, or they’ll send someone in and throw you onto the pavement, I swear it. I’ve argued till I’m blue in the face but it’s no good. It’s these pictures. The proof that Gino Fosse is your boy. The woman. They’re scared there’s more to come, Michael. And let’s face it”—Hanrahan’s emotionless face fixed on him—“there is.”

  Denney felt trapped in the small, airless room, felt as if his head might explode. “Meaning?”

  “Meaning I’ve known a lot about you for a long time, Michael. It wasn’t that hard. You cover your footsteps well, but you’re still an amateur. Now it’s beyond my powers. When they turn and say, 'Is this all?’ I won’t lie for you anymore. That time’s past.”

  “So who’s casting the first stone, then? Just for interest’s sake. I’d like the names. I’d love to know how many people in this place would survive having someone spying on them night and day, seeing everything they do.”

  Hanrahan pulled a half-smoked cigar from his jacket pocket and lit it. The vile smoke filled the room. “Think of someone,” he told Denney. “Then put him on your list. I tried my best, but not with much conviction, to be honest. They’re right. You’re too much of an embarrassment now. We have to wash our hands of the stain of you before it leaves a mark on the rest of us. There’ll be a private plane back to Boston. Someone can help you there if you need it. We can give you a new name. A place to live where they won’t find you, with a touch of luck. But”—he waved his hand at the world beyond the walls of the apartment—“this part of your life is past. You can’t return to Rome. You can’t be Cardinal Michael Denney anymore. If you stay in Italy, even under a false name, someone will find you. Maybe the police. Maybe some people with other ideas. Either way, you don’t want it. And we don’t want it.”

  It was what he expected but still the words smarted. “So I’m reborn. I become Joe Polack and work on some factory line in Detroit. Is that it?”

  Hanrahan shrugged. “If that’s what you want…”

  Denney felt his face become suffused with red. He wished he could keep the anger away. “Damn it, Brendan. I want what they owe me.”

  The Irishman laughed. The sound made Denney miserable; it emphasized how alone he truly was. “Everyone wants what they’re owed, Michael. That’s the problem, isn’t it? All these debts to be paid, and so many of them to people none of us would like to know.”

  “You’ll take me to the airport.” He tried to make it sound like an order, not a question, but the words failed to come out right.

  Hanrahan scowled, then slowly shook his head. “No. We can’t afford the publicity. In America things can be different. There we can be more subtle. But for now, we need to make it plain. At eleven, the press department plans to issue a statement. I can show you a copy if you like. It will say you’ve decided to resign your office for personal reasons and intend to take up a new life outside the Church, beyond Italy. No more than that. We will brief the press privately, of course, and set some clear water between the Vatican and yourself. That must be done. You’re a pariah. We’ll make it clear we’ve been concerned by your actions, by the rumors about your personal life, for years, but these last revelations—which were, of course, new to us—proved too much to bear. You’ll become the prodigal son, Michael, one we must send out into the world to atone for his sins. Except, naturally, you’ll never return. We’ll not meet again after today. You’re making the rest of this journey on your own.”

  Denney couldn’t believe what he was hearing, couldn’t comprehend how Hanrahan took such obvious pleasure in torturing him like this.

  “And what am I supposed to do, exactly? Call a cab and wait for one of those crooks to join me in the back? Do I look suicidal, Brendan? I’d rather walk straight to the nearest policeman and ask him to take me in.”

  Hanrahan laughed again. “And how long do you think you’d last in prison? If you got that far. Don’t be naive. The police can’t save you. Maybe even we can’t save you in the end. You’ve gone too far. You’ve offended too many people, given them such a wealth of ammunition to bring you down. Oh, to hell with it…” He scanned the apartment, wrinkling his nose. “Don’t pack much, Michael. Tell us what, if anything, you wish to keep and I’ll see it’s done. Bear in mind, though, that most of your possessions are attached to the office you held until this moment and they remain our property. Anything that is truly personal you may mark and I’ll send on later.”

  “The paintings are mine.” Denney nodded at the copy of the Caravaggio.

  “That I doubt. But you’re an accomplished thief. I’ll send them on. Perhaps.”

  Michael Denney wasn’t listening. His eyes were fixed on the couple at the focus of the canvas: the dying Matthew and his assassin, both bathed in the compelling light of Grace.

  “Now, Michael, you won’t be thinking of yourself as the martyr in all this, surely?” Hanrahan asked lightly. “That would be a little rich.”

  Denney hung his head and whispered, “Christ, Brendan, don’t enjoy it so much.”

  He looked up. The Irishman’s eyes now held him in a fixed, concentrated stare, full of contempt.

  “You confuse pleasure with duty, Michael. You always have. It’s the root of your problem. Don’t hate me, man. I’ve performed one last favor, for old times’ sake. Two men will meet you outside the gates at twelve. A couple of Rome cops at your discretion. They’ll take you to the airport. Off-duty, as it were.”

  “Two men?” Denney asked. “Do you want me dead?”

  “If I wanted that, do you think I’d have gone to all this trouble on your behalf? Not that we haven’t discussed it, you understand. There are those who thought it would have been the… cleanest solution.”

  Michael Denney closed his eyes. He could picture them talking, in a private, secret room, somewhere in this tiny, insular state which had, in the space of thirty years, turned from a kind of heaven into a cruel, unbending prison. Perhaps they met weekly. Perhaps they had more information, more pictures, tapes. And they’d been planning, for how long? Wondering how to dispose of him, safely, cleanly, with the minimum of fuss. Wondering where they would find a trigger, the catalyst who could flush him out of his lair. Time and fate had finally provided that, but not by chance.

  He pointed an accusing finger at Hanrahan. “You told him, you bastard.�
� The Irishman said nothing. His eyebrows rose a fraction. “You told Fosse about us. You set him against me, thinking that would be a swift end to it. You never guessed what he’d do instead. All these other people, Brendan. Alicia Vaccarini. Valena. Those poor bastards Falcone sent out to watch over him. Don’t you feel the slightest sense of guilt?”

  Hanrahan drew himself up in the chair, preparing to go. “You’re rambling again, Michael. All wars have their casualties. The trick is making sure you’re not among them. Do yourself a favor and focus on that.”

  Denney rose swiftly from his seat, crossed the room and brought his hands to the Irishman’s throat. Age and agility were not on his side.

  Hanrahan was on his feet in an instant, knocking his arms away, standing there ready to fight. He had big fists and they were now half raised. Denney tried to remember who he was, who he still would be in his own head, whatever they did to him.

  “Anger’s such a wasteful emotion,” Hanrahan said. “You should have spent more time dealing with yours, Michael, and a little less beneath the sheets.”

  “Get the hell out of here,” Denney spat.

  “Midday,” Hanrahan continued. “I’ll come to make sure you’re gone. Don’t worry. The press will be elsewhere. You’ll leave in privacy.”

  He extended a hand, waited, then withdrew it. “You must place a terribly low value on your life, Michael.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Because I’ve saved it so many times. Here I am saving it again. And not so much as a word of thanks.”

  He looked at his watch. They had their arrangements. Michael Denney closed his eyes and prayed for the call.

  It was two minutes late but it came.

  Forty-Eight

  Costa rang the doorbell of the apartment. It was on the fourth floor of a modern block a couple of miles from the airport, just off the main road. You could hear the traffic constantly but it was still better than he’d expected. In the few days he’d known Rossi he’d built up a mental image of what the man was like beyond work: unkempt, disorganized, solitary. He thought he’d be living in some dump closer to town. Instead, here was this neat apartment block with geraniums on the staircases and the smell of home-cooking floating out of the windows of the adjoining homes.

  He wished he’d noticed more about the man. Teresa Lupo had seen something else there. His own detachment had prevented his noticing, though he couldn’t help but ask himself whether this was what Rossi really wanted.

  A slender middle-aged woman in a plain blue blouse and black skirt came to the door. Her hair was graying and cut severely short. She stared at him through a pair of black-rimmed glasses. He didn’t feel welcome.

  “I’m from the station. I was Luca’s partner.”

  “Really?”

  “I came to say…” She didn’t look as if she’d been crying. If anything, she was full of fury. “… how sorry we all are. We’ll do what we can.”

  “Too late for that, isn’t it? Hell, I’m not his sister. Come in.”

  She threw open the door and he followed her along a hall decorated with paintings of flowers. It led into a sunny living room. In the corner, seated in a plain wooden chair, was a stocky woman in her early thirties. She was dressed in a nylon housecoat. Her face was pale and flabby, recognizably similar to Rossi’s. She had long black hair flowing down her back and shoulders, like a schoolgirl’s.

  The woman looked at him as he entered, opened her mouth and made an unintelligible noise. It sounded like the moan of a wounded animal.

  “Nic Costa,” he said, extending a hand. “I worked with Luca.”

  She made the noise again, only this time it was more prolonged, more agonized.

  “Maria’s deaf and dumb,” the older woman told him. “I’m her care worker. I used to spend time here when Luca couldn’t cope.”

  She turned to Maria Rossi and began signing with a quick, ready fluency.

  “I didn’t know,” Costa said. “I didn’t even know he had a sister. I can’t believe we never got around to talking about it.”

  “Don’t be too hard on yourself,” she replied, and began signing again. The woman in the chair nodded and smiled up at him. “That was Luca for you. I offered your condolences, by the way. I made some small talk.”

  “Thanks.” He had no idea what to ask, what to offer. “How bad is she?”

  “How bad does deaf and dumb get?” the woman snapped. Then she cursed herself and went to the window for a moment, staring out at the motorway. “I’m sorry. Don’t take it personally. I’ve been working with Maria for five years. Ever since Luca took her out of the home to try and look after her himself. After a while I came to realize you don’t just end up caring for one person. It’s both of them, and lately, to be honest, it was him. He was a complicated man. A good man. Not that it ever made him happy.”

  “Why didn’t he tell me? I wouldn’t have let him work all those hours. Last night…” He couldn’t say it. Rossi’s presence in the Piazza Navona had been coincidence. Falcone could have sent any of them on the same job. No one was to blame except the man who killed him.

  “What do you think?” she asked. “That he was ashamed of her?”

  “No.” That was impossible. “Perhaps in some way he was ashamed of himself, for not being able to make things better. I only got to know him recently. There was something… Luca wasn’t happy inside his own skin. Maybe that’s part of the job.”

  She studied him, seeming to approve of his answers, then went over to Maria, sat down next to her, smiling, and put an arm around her shoulders. “I think you’re right. He told me one time he kept waking up in a fury, mad that he couldn’t do anything else for her.”

  A flurry of signs brought a brief smile from Rossi’s sister and then half a sob.

  “She can’t lip-read. Always found it too difficult. It means it’s easy for me to lie.”

  Costa scribbled out his home phone number. “If she needs anything, call me anytime. The department can help with money. There’s a pension. I know it’s no comfort now, but tell me what she needs and I’ll see to it.”

  The woman looked at the piece of paper and sighed. “She needs her brother back.”

  Costa stiffened. The woman closed her eyes, ashamed of herself.

  “I’m sorry,” she said again. “There’s nothing you can do. Maria can’t look after herself. She has to go back in the home. That’s the only place she can get full-time care.”

  He understood how Rossi felt.

  “It’s okay,” the woman continued. “She has friends there. She used to visit anyway. It’s just…” She had to stop until she could continue. “She’ll miss him. We all will.”

  “I know.”

  He looked at the small, tidy apartment. There were images of flowers everywhere.

  “They’re Maria’s,” she said, noticing his interest. “It’s what she does. She’s deaf and dumb. She’s not stupid. Nor was he.”

  Costa walked over and looked at a small oil painting of a single hyacinth bloom: vivid blue hues against a yellow background. She’d seen Van Gogh. The work was full of life and happiness. She’d found something that eluded her brother and had, perhaps, fought to share it with him.

  “If you want,” the woman said, “I can show you his room. Perhaps there’s something there you’d like. To remind you of him. A photograph. He had a lot of stuff.”

  “I didn’t know him that well. But I know someone who’d appreciate it.”

  She led him down the corridor. Rossi’s bedroom was small and looked out of the back onto a car park. The dead smell of stale cigarettes hung in the air. There was a single bed, neatly made, a desk with a few tidied papers, an office diary and a swan-neck lamp. A corkboard on the wall was covered in little yellow notes and photographs. Costa looked at them. They were dates for outings: trips to the sea at Ostia, meetings at the hospital, coach tours into the country. His sister was in every last photograph, on the beach, at a fancy-dress party, eating at
a country restaurant, smiling throughout. Luca made her happy. That had been his gift.

  There was only one photo with Rossi in it. Brother and sister were seated in a long open-topped Bugatti 57 in a vintage-car museum somewhere. Rossi had his hands on the steering wheel. Maria laughed from the passenger seat. He looked like a different man, someone in control of himself.

  “That was before he had the breakdown,” the woman explained.

  “He looks happy.”

  “Don’t be fooled,” she answered with a bitter laugh. “He was always on the brink, to be honest. For as long as I knew him.”

  He touched the photograph. “I can’t take this. It belongs to her. It’s too precious.”

  “It’s my photograph. I was on the trip. I can get another made. Take it.” She looked around the little room. “He hated me coming in here. It was his secret place, I think. Somewhere he liked to hide sometimes. Still had to be cleaned, though. I’ll leave you for a while.”

  She walked out, closing the door. Nic Costa sat at the small, neat desk and looked out of the window, out at the rows of cars and the apartment blocks running away from the motorway. This was a life he could never have associated with Luca Rossi: an ordered existence with responsibilities no one in the department could have guessed at.

  He opened the desk diary and immediately felt guilty, ashamed. It was apparent from the moment he looked at the page that this was where Rossi put the other side of himself: the black and gloomy side that always threatened to lead him to the edge. The writing was unbalanced: sloping and too small. There were doodles, tiny scribbles that could have been the faces of demons. And a small line of doggerel, one Costa knew by heart…

  As I was going to St. Ives I met a man with seven wives.

  He read more. This was the private place where Rossi took his inner fears for a walk and everyone was in there: Falcone, Teresa Lupo, Sara, everyone. No one was spared. No small detail went unrecorded.

  No wonder Rossi kept the care worker out of the room.