The Lizard's Bite nc-4

by David Hewson

  “Get out!” he barked.

  Neither of the policemen moved.

  “They’re simple questions,” Peroni observed. “I don’t think they should interfere with your grief.”

  Bracci glared furiously at both of them. The door to the workshop opened. The two sons stood there, big and menacing, both eyeing Gianni Peroni, recognising him as the greater threat. There was violence inside this particular clan, Costa thought. Something he never detected within the Arcangeli at all.

  The cops didn’t move. Peroni gave the sons his best battered grin and said, “Just two questions, Bracci. Then we’re gone.”

  The older man shot a vicious, bitter look at his offspring, mad their presence hadn’t done the job. “No! I don’t have a set of keys. Why the hell should I? And last night? Ask them. We were all here. I was the omo de note. These two were helping. Or . . .” He shot a bitter glance at the box of seconds. “ . . . trying anyway. We do what’s necessary around here. We work. We earn.”

  “All night?” Costa wondered.

  Enzo stepped forward. He had his father’s sour face, now covered in soot and sweat. A big, powerful man, Costa thought. The tattoos were something to do with music. Heavy metal. Thrash. Images of swords and skulls, thick strokes, the kind that must have hurt.

  “All night,” Fredo said halfheartedly, glancing at the other two to see if he was doing the right thing. “The three of us. We can vouch for each other.”

  “That’s what families do best,” Peroni said gently.

  Enzo picked up a rag and wiped the soot and grease from his large hands. Then he looked them over and asked, “You’re not from around here, are you?”

  Peroni smiled again. “You noticed?”

  “Yeah,” Enzo grunted, walked over to the seconds box, withdrew the flawed vase, and slammed it into the side of the table, exposing a line of jagged sharp glassy teeth.

  He didn’t wave the thing in their direction. He didn’t need to.

  “A word of advice,” he said. “Go careful out there. It gets dark sooner than you think.”

  ENZO BRACCI WAS WRONG. NIGHT FELL SLOWLY ON Venice, the way it did at the end of every clear, fine day, with a sunset so lovely it seemed unreal, a magical hour of golden glory that trapped the city on the water in radiant amber. Leo Falcone watched it from the busy vaporetto terminus at Piazzale Roma, wondering about what he’d just seen in the simple city morgue, what he’d heard, from a pathologist who was so unlike Teresa Lupo it was difficult to imagine the man was in the same profession at all. Alberto Tosi was seventy if he was a day, a tall, stiff individual of the old school, more meticulous in his manners than his work, if Falcone had read him correctly. A man of ideas too. He didn’t possess Teresa Lupo’s down-to-earth practicality, though he was well enough read to have mentioned some of her cases when Falcone revealed he was on attachment from Rome. And that, with the formal news Tosi had imparted, raised possibilities too. Along with the meagre report on Hugo Massiter that Falcone had read in the central Questura, watched, he had noted, with a degree of curiosity by the archives officer in charge of the place.

  The inspector glanced at his watch, wondered, with some foreboding, what kind of restaurant Gianni Peroni would find so compelling he ate there four or five times a week, then walked down the jetty, out to the boat stop, and waited for the fast service, straight to San Zaccaria.

  RAFFAELLA ARCANGELO WATCHED the dying golden light too, acknowledging the familiar sight at the window of the kitchen in the dusty, crumbling mansion by the water. She was untouched by any sense of wonder. This was one more unexpected side effect of sudden loss. She was thinking of herself, of her life on this little island, home for nearly half a century apart from that brief period at college in Paris when, foolishly, she believed she might escape Murano and the hard, unrelenting grip of her family. But those were dreams, and the Arcangeli never put much store in anything they couldn’t see and touch, buy and sell. Which was why she was about to do what she always did at this time of night: make a meal, on this occasion simple penne pasta and tomato sauce. Some salad too. And fruit. She didn’t have the time or money for better.

  Raffaella had briefly visited the city that day, walked into a few of the antique merchants scattered close to Fondamente Nuove, negotiated the best price she could for her father’s crystal, then used the cash to pay for a burial on San Michele, when the police allowed, with one of the undertakers situated by the vaporetto stop across from the island. He’d taken a good discount when she offered to pay in full, fixed for up to a year. It was an odd thing for a Venetian to do, stumping up money early. But at least that way Uriel’s burial was settled. No one, not even Michele, could use the money once it was locked in the safe of a funeral service across the water.

  After that, she’d made a perfunctory stop at the small grocery store near the lighthouse, paid cash for two fewer portions than normal, accepting the store owners’ quiet, muted sympathies with a nod, nothing more. It was her opinion that the island did not dislike the Arcangeli anything like as much as the family imagined. Even the residents of Murano lacked the unhealthy enthusiasm needed to maintain a vendetta over the years. Ordinary people simply weren’t made that way.

  Then, before starting on the meal, she sat down with a glass of weak spritz and began to turn over the day’s events in her mind. The dead were buried twice, she thought. Once in the earth. A second, more important time, in the memory. Neither event seemed as close as the family deserved.

  The card was still in the pocket of her bag. She took it out and stared at the name there: Inspector Leo Falcone. With the address of a Questura in Rome and two phone numbers, one, the land line, scribbled out in a legible, firm hand, replaced with a number for Verona. She walked to the window and watched the fire dying on the lagoon, holding the card to her lips, wondering. The pasta was boiling: eight minutes to al dente. A decision had to be made. The Arcangeli rarely dealt with the police over the years. They shared the conviction of the community around them that it was best to avoid all contact, unless absolutely necessary. Problems were there to be solved in the old ways, by negotiation and bargaining, alliances and trysts.

  In normal times, she whispered to herself.

  Raffaella Arcangelo turned down the pasta, then called the inspector’s mobile from the kitchen phone, speaking quietly, praying she would not be overheard.

  “Pronto,” said a firm, preoccupied voice on the other end of the line.

  “Inspector . . .”

  There was the sound of a vaporetto, the chatter of people close to the man. Police inspectors led ordinary lives too, she reminded herself. They were merely mortal.

  “Signora Arcangelo?”

  He sounded surprised. Flattered perhaps.

  “I was wondering . . .” she began, and found it difficult to phrase such a simple question.

  “Wondering?” he asked.

  There was the hint of amusement in his voice, which was quite warm, it seemed to her.

  “I didn’t find the keys,” he said pleasantly. “They weren’t in the furnace. That was the question, I believe?”

  “You’re a very perceptive man, Inspector. Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely. The only metal they found . . .”

  His voice disappeared. She wondered if the line had gone dead.

  “Yes?”

  “The only metal they found was gold,” he said flatly. “A small amount. Melted. Bella had a wedding ring?”

  “Yes,” she replied, in a quiet yet untroubled voice. These were practical matters. An Arcangelo knew how to address such things.

  “I’m sorry.” His voice sounded dejected. “These aren’t pleasant details. Perhaps you would prefer it if I discussed them with your brothers.”

  “I can speak for myself, thank you. And this is my business. More than yours in some ways.”

  There was a pause on the line again.

  “You didn’t find anything either then?” he asked.

  An intellige
nt man, Raffaella thought. One who didn’t miss much.

  “I’ve looked everywhere,” she answered. “Not a sign. To be honest with you, I never saw Bella and Uriel’s apartment looking so tidy. She was never one for housework.”

  There was the sound of voices, an attendant calling the stop. San Zaccaria.

  “Signora . . .”

  “My name is Raffaella,” she interjected with a sudden determination. “From listening to your men speaking when you’re not around, I believe yours is Leo. Do they normally call their superiors by their first name? No matter. We should. I want the truth now. You don’t believe this is as simple as it seems. Nor do I. You have professional reasons. I have personal ones. Are we going to work together? Or are you going to be some stiff and pompous policeman who does everything by the book?”

  He did laugh then. She could hear clearly over the crowd and the sound made her feel bold, more confident than ever that this was a man she could trust.

  “I’m not from around here,” he answered. “I don’t know what passes for a book in Venice.”

  “Leave that to me. I must make it clear, Leo. No one must know about this. Not my brothers. Not your officers either. This city has a very poor record of keeping secrets. I want to make an exception.”

  “Of course. So what do you want me to do?”

  She hesitated. “Tell me what you think.”

  “I have to have some limits,” he warned. There was caution in his voice.

  “I understand that.”

  “When?” he wondered.

  “Not with my brothers tomorrow, Leo. We’ll act as if this conversation has never taken place.”

  A small rush of excitement and pleasure ran through her veins. Raffaella Arcangelo was aware she was blushing, and the thought made her feel deeply guilty.

  “After that . . .” she continued.

  “Massiter has this party in your exhibition hall tomorrow.”

  “He does?”

  Another detail kept from her. Michele must surely have known.

  “I thought you would have been invited.”

  “We’re not the sociable kind. Not normally. A party?” It was inconceivable. Should she wear black? Or what? “That wouldn’t be right, Leo. Not in the circumstances.”

  “Right or not,” he said, “I think you should go. I want you to go. This is important. Besides . . .”

  His voice was firm. But not like Michele’s. There was no coercion, no threat in it. Leo Falcone had a reason to ask this, she believed.

  She waited before answering, trying to imagine what he was doing now, on that busy portion of waterfront close to La Pietà, where the fast boat to Murano departed every hour.

  “There’s something I must ask,” Falcone added, rapidly changing the direction of the conversation. “Did Bella or anyone else in the family own a mobile phone?”

  “No,” she answered. “Why do you ask?”

  “No reason.”

  A policeman never asked questions without some point.

  “I don’t believe you, Leo. We’ve never needed a mobile phone. None of us. Why?”

  “I’m fishing in the dark, I’m afraid,” the voice on the line confessed, and sounded a little weary. “Do you have any suggestions?”

  “No.” It was a family matter, she thought. Not something to be shared with strangers.

  The inspector would keep pressing, though. In the end . . .

  “There is one thing you ought to know, Leo,” she said. “You’d doubtless find out in any case. The police never forget anything.”

  “If only . . .”

  She could sense his anticipation.

  “There was trouble. Many, many years ago. With Bella and her brother. I’m not saying any more. I’d never have told you this if I didn’t think it would come out anyway. I believe you’ll find the Questura knows Aldo Bracci. I’m pleased to say I don’t, not well anyway.”

  “I’ll make some inquiries.”

  “Do that. Is there anything else I can tell you?”

  “You can tell me what you know about Hugo Massiter.”

  The question surprised her. “You mean you haven’t heard of him?” she asked.

  “Not till today. Now I know that he’s very rich. Very influential. And that, for a few years anyway, he was very much persona non grata in Italy.”

  “It was in all the papers, Leo!” she objected. “Surely you must remember. There was a terrible scandal. A piece of music—a wonderful piece of music by the way, I’ve heard it—was peddled as something it wasn’t. First Massiter was responsible. Then he wasn’t. Some Englishman and his girlfriend hoodwinked him, apparently.”

  “So I understand,” said the implacable voice on the line. “And people died.”

  She’d forgotten that part somehow. It was the music that stayed in her head. The small professional orchestras playing for the tourists now made it a centerpiece of their repertoire, one that was almost as popular as the Seasons. Just as memorable, and fresher somehow.

  “People died. It was nothing to do with Hugo Massiter. The papers all said that in the end. Why would he have returned to Venice otherwise? You’re a police officer. You should surely know more about this than me.”

  “I should,” Leo Falcone conceded. “And tomorrow?”

  She looked at the pasta pot and the cloud of steam finding the window, working its way out towards the iron angel, whose flame burned once more, flickering in the wind, devouring gas they could ill afford. Raffaella Arcangelo wondered how many meals she’d cooked over the years, how much of her life had been spent serving in this kitchen.

  “Tomorrow they can feed themselves for a change,” she said.

  ARMS GINGERLY INTERLOCKED, NIC COSTA AND EMILY Deacon walked the short distance from the small apartment in Castello to the waterfront by Giardini. It was just ten minutes from here to Peroni’s restaurant in the backstreets, beyond the Arsenale. They needed some time to themselves. More than the evening’s dinner with Peroni and Teresa—and Leo Falcone along as self-invited guest—would allow.

  Emily wound herself free and took a table outside a small café. They ordered a couple of overpriced coffees, the cost enhanced by the unencumbered view of the lagoon. The deep yellow stain of the sun was now flooding down from the mountains that rippled the distant horizon of terra firma and everything—the lagoon, the city, the reflections of buildings in the dappled water—took on its warm, rich hue. Sometimes, when he was alone with nothing better to do, Costa would catch the slow vaporetto, number one, up the Grand Canal just to catch the moment, and watch the quiet wonder it created in the eyes of his fellow travellers, even, from time to time, a few Venetians.

  “Tell me about the case, Nic,” she suggested. “As much as you can. It must be important if they’re cancelling leave.”

  Costa couldn’t forget that Emily was making a fundamental shift in her career. Trying to put away her lost career, as an FBI agent kicked out of the Bureau for insubordination, and replace it with a future as an architect, in a foreign country too. All the same, her past still lived with her. She was always curious, always interested in a challenge. It was one of the facets of her complex, multifaceted personality that intrigued him.

  “It’s the usual story. A family affair. A man kills his wife. Then either kills himself, or dies accidentally. We don’t know yet.”

  “It sounds straightforward.”

  But this was Venice, he thought. Or, more accurately, Murano, a place that welcomed the prying eyes of investigators even less.

  “I think so. By the way, we have an invitation to a party tomorrow night. Hugo Massiter. The Englishman with the boat. Does the name ring a bell?”

  She looked baffled. “No. Should it?”

  “Five years ago. There was a scandal.”

  “Five years ago I was in Washington trying to be someone else,” she said quickly. “And when aren’t there scandals?”

  He must have looked downcast.

  “I’m sorry, Nic. Do
you really think I should have heard of him?”

  “I have,” he replied. “And I want to know the details. Before we meet him again. He sees himself as a player in the city. He’s buying the Arcangeli’s island on Murano, where those people died. Tomorrow night we’re invited to a party there. He’s renovating it apparently. It’s going to be a gallery.”

  Emily’s forehead grew even more furrowed. “This is the Isola degli Arcangeli you’re talking about?”

  “You’ve heard of that?”

  “Anyone who’s studied modern Italian architecture has heard of it. It’s one of the great follies of the twentieth century.” Her blue eyes were bright with anticipation. “That place is supposed to be amazing. They’ve kept the public out for years. I thought it was unsafe.”

  “Not with the work Hugo Massiter’s having done.”

  “He’s buying it? I would have thought a site like that would end up being the property of the city. It’s a kind of local monument. An odd one, a forgotten one, but all the same . . .”

  Costa recalled Massiter’s quiet complaints of penury, and the Englishman’s obvious closeness to local officials.

  “Perhaps there was a small arrangement. I don’t know. He certainly hopes to own it now. He seems a little short of cash too. Does that add up?”

  “If he’s trying to restore a failed project like that, you bet. I’ve read up on the Isola degli Arcangeli, Nic. Everyone who hopes to get an architecture degree in Italy does. It’s mandatory, an object lesson in what happens when you’re more interested in design than structure. Much of it was judged to be fundamentally unsound from the outset. If I recall correctly, the man who came up with most of the plans wasn’t even a professional architect. A couple of people got badly hurt there in a roof collapse twenty years or so ago. It’s been closed to the public ever since. You have to be talking about a big, big project getting it back to something close to usable.”

  Massiter did seem desperate, perhaps in more ways than he was admitting. And he wasn’t bluffing about the deadline to conclude the deal with the Arcangeli either.