by David Hewson
GIANFRANCO RANDAZZO ENJOYED HIS JOB, MOSTLY. Castello was an easy station to run, with little more to do than police the tide of immigrants passing through the bars and restaurants, deal with a trickle of distraught ripped-off tourists and keep a lid on the local drug trade. It was a place where routine ruled. In the narrow rambling warren of alleys that ran from the waterfront to the dead industrial land around the Arsenale basin lived a shifting, eager population that had to be reminded, from time to time, of its place. Randazzo was third-generation Venetian and understood from an early age that a little thievery was part of the native character. The city had been working its captive trawl of visitors for centuries. It was futile to pretend the place would ever change. What he’d come to appreciate in his twenty years as a cop, steadily working his way up the ranks, was the need for balance. The locals were there to be controlled, to be kept in check, confined within accepted boundaries of behaviour, and pounced upon when some damn fool felt minded to overstep the mark. He could post a good set of statistics each month: few crimes, a cleanup rate well within acceptable levels, low staff turnover. Statistics mattered. They were the first thing the hierarchy looked at when they wanted to know if a commissario was doing his job. On paper, Castello’s Questura was in a happy state. Until the three Romans came, with their arrogance, their questions, and their ever-present attitude. Randazzo lived by the idea that it was best to leave well enough alone, to keep a lid on things unless there was a very good reason to do otherwise. The Romans just couldn’t buy that notion. From the moment they arrived they picked at every case that came their way until events fell apart at the seams. Despatching Falcone to Verona made a difference. Then circumstances had changed. The commissario hesitated over giving them the Arcangelo case, and would probably have balked at the idea had there not been such overwhelming pressure from above for a clean result. The logic seemed incontrovertible. No one could argue with the findings of a team of outside police officers, ones skilled in homicide.
All the same, if there was dirt to be uncovered on that closed, dusty island across the lagoon, the Romans would surely find it. They were fools, their own worst enemies, blind to the effects of their meddling. So now what should have been a simple, predictable investigation was growing more complex, more awkward by the minute, threatening to spread in ways that made Gianfranco Randazzo deeply uncomfortable. He’d listened in fury to the briefing Falcone had given him over the phone, explaining the request for a guard outside Aldo Bracci’s home. Randazzo had said nothing at the time. Now he stood on the terrace of Hugo Massiter’s apartment inside the Palazzo degli Arcangeli, wondering when the private boats of the partygoers would begin to arrive at the private jetty, and what he’d say to Falcone’s face in an hour or so, when the reception began. Wondering, too, whether the Romans weren’t the only fools hereabouts. Gianfranco Randazzo followed orders. His relationship with the wily, rich Englishman was not a matter of personal choice. Nevertheless, the commissario was aware of the delicacy of his position. Should the Arcangelo case fail to be closed on time as his masters demanded, and should the threatened scandal ensue, there would be scapegoats. His head would, in all probability, be on the block, for no other reason than that he’d done as he was told. It was difficult, at times, to strike the correct balance between duty and self-respect.
The young Roman’s American girlfriend walked out to join him. She was carrying a glass of spritz, with an olive alongside the slice of lemon, just as a true Venetian would have demanded.
“Hugo said you’d appreciate this,” she told him. “Seems I’m now the bartender around here as well as the architect. You’ll have to excuse me, though. I’ve got workmen to yell at downstairs. The host will be along in a moment. Then I need to change.”
“You’ll be ready in time?” Randazzo asked, enjoying being close to her. The quiet little Roman, who Randazzo suspected could well be the most awkward of the trio given half a chance, was obviously a fortunate man. “Massiter’s got quite a guest list tonight. They’ll want to be astonished. No one’s been in this place, not properly, for years.”
“They’ll be astonished,” she promised, smiling. “Wait and see.”
He let his eyes linger as she walked back into the room towards the door. Even in paint-stained overalls she was a sight to savour. Massiter passed her as she left, murmuring something Randazzo couldn’t hear, patting her shoulder in a light, intimate gesture.
Then the Englishman joined him on the terrace. He looked content, smug. Massiter had no idea of the storm clouds gathering elsewhere.
“I can’t believe a woman like that would be interested in some lowly Roman cop,” the commissario declared. “Can you?”
“No accounting for taste,” Massiter agreed, raised his own glass, then took a taste. “She makes a good spritz too.”
“Are you going to take her from him?” Randazzo asked.
The cold blue eyes shone like burnished stone. “Free will, Gianfranco. There’s no bucking it. I never take anything from anyone. I’m interested in presents, not plunder. Unless something’s freely offered, what’s it worth? A little persuasion, on the other hand . . .”
Randazzo stifled a laugh. The whole city knew what Hugo Massiter was. A man who couldn’t resist women. A man who seized what he wanted, regardless of the cost, in money and human terms. His bank balance helped, but there was more to it than just cash and power. The Englishman had a certain kind of charm. The commissario had spent some social time in the man’s company. He had seen this skill in action, had wondered at the quiet, sly talent Massiter had for understanding instantly what was required to get his way. Hugo Massiter possessed a certain aptitude for persuading others to do his will, while at the same time convincing them he was merely going along with their own wishes, not pressing some kind of reward upon them. Randazzo knew all this for another reason too. High in the Dolomites, in a remote village close to some good ski runs, was a compact, well-furnished chalet which now, through a front company based in Switzerland, was Randazzo’s own, a tiny, to Massiter insignificant, bribe for some earlier services the commissario had performed.
“Take her after this business is done, please, Hugo. It’s complicated enough as it is. Let’s just get the Romans to sign on the dotted line, as they will. Close that contract with the Arcangeli. Then let your cazzo have its fun.”
Massiter laughed. “I’ll never quite understand the Venetian love of coarseness, you know. Emily’s a lovely thing. You shouldn’t spoil my sense of anticipation with that kind of talk. Besides . . .”
The man could turn serious in an instant. Randazzo questioned whether, in truth, he had any other mood.
“They will sign on the dotted line, won’t they? I must nail down that deal shortly or we’re all in deep trouble. You do know that, don’t you?”
Oh yes, Randazzo thought. He’d had that fact hammered home to him well enough by any number of city henchmen anxious to keep their reputations intact.
“They’ll sign. If I have to hold the pen for them myself. It just seems a little more complicated than we first suspected. It’s important they come up with something that sticks. Credibility is everything. There is, it seems . . .”—Randazzo knew he couldn’t avoid the point, awkward as it was—“ . . . the possibility that a third party was involved. The strong possibility.”
Massiter screwed up his face in a baffled grimace. “The locked door. The evidence, man. Explain that.”
“Falcone can’t,” Randazzo replied with a shrug. “Not yet. But he’s a persistent bastard. He will. One way or another. There’s a problem with the woman’s keys. They can’t find them anywhere. I don’t suppose . . . ?”
Massiter gave him a withering look. “I’m not some kind of burglar,” he growled.
“I know that,” Randazzo insisted nervously.
“Do what you’re paid for, Randazzo. Sort this mess out. And quick.”
“Of course. They will come up with the goods. In time to save your skin, Hugo.”
<
br /> “Our skin.”
“If you wish to put it that way. I’m still somewhat unclear about precisely what those goods will turn out to be, though.” He hesitated. Massiter was a man with powerful friends. All the same, the question had to be asked. “I can’t help but wonder. Do you have any idea?”
Massiter’s bland face turned furious. He launched the half-full glass out over the balcony. It spun through the thin, hot air, despatching its contents, then tumbled down to the canal, falling just a metre short of a workman’s boat manoeuvring for the jetty. The man at the wheel glared back up at them, furious, then saw Massiter’s purple face at the terrace, and went back to the wheel, chastened.
“To hell with this,” Massiter cursed. “You people have bled me dry over the years. Now, when I ask for a little in return . . .”
He didn’t go on. Randazzo felt offended. He was doing his best. Risking much too.
“I think that’s deeply unfair,” he noted. “We’ve turned a blind eye to certain of your activities.”
“Not without reason,” Massiter pointed out. “Or profit.”
“True. I . . . I know I shouldn’t say this,” Randazzo stuttered. “But it’s time for some frankness between us. I want this matter closed just as much as you do. A little more disclosure on your part wouldn’t go amiss. When I bury things I like them to stay buried. No new corpses, not when they can be avoided. It’s best all round.”
“That little chalet of yours starting to feel somewhat small?” Massiter asked, icily composed now. “What is it you’re wanting this time? An apartment by the beach? Come on. You’re a Venetian. You’re not too shy to name the price.”
“It’s not always about the price.” Randazzo said it primly, feeling his temper beginning to fray. “I need the truth. Everything. Particularly about your relationship with each of the Arcangeli.”
“That’s simple,” Massiter snapped. “I give. The Arcangeli take. It’s the kind of relationship I have with most people in this godforsaken city.”
It was years since Randazzo tried to think like a cop. Being commissario was admin, management. He had detectives out there to pursue the fine detail of crimes, their commission, their solution. All the same, he’d been a detective himself once upon a time. Not a bad one, either. Not afraid to throw the odd hard, unexpected question into the conversation now and again, which was what he’d been paid for back then.
“And Bella?” Randazzo demanded, risking a guess, not caring if this went back to his bosses, because he wanted exactly what they did: closure. A part of him resented Hugo Massiter too, detested the man’s easy arrogance. “She was a good-looking woman. Everyone says that. You like women. Was Bella, perhaps, part of the deal?”
Massiter turned on him, smiling, an amused, detached look on his face that made Randazzo regret he’d ever decided to walk down this path.
“My! You are uncharacteristically curious today. What on earth’s prompting all this? Are you afraid those Romans will steal your thunder? Is your nose out of joint because there are finally some real police in Venice for a change?”
“That was uncalled for. I would like to know the truth,” the commissario repeated, unable to look Massiter directly in the eye. “It would help all of us.”
“The truth?” The blue eyes sparkled. “The trouble with the truth is it’s so damned hard to gauge. One man’s truth’s another man’s lies. I’d have thought someone like you would know that better than most.”
Gianfranco Randazzo smoothed down the lapels of his fine-weave black cotton suit. Beneath he wore a well-pressed white shirt, and the red silk tie he’d bought on vacation in Osaka the previous spring, the one marked with the pattern of his name in katakana script. He regarded himself as a dutiful man. Not perfect, but one who tried to do his job in difficult circumstances.
“Bella was having an affair,” he said sternly. “It’s possible she’d resurrected a relationship with her brother.”
Massiter’s eyebrows rose. “Strange habits they have out here.”
“Quite,” Randazzo replied. “I merely said it was possible. She was pregnant. Her husband could not be the father. So who was Bella’s lover? I need to know. Falcone and his men are shockingly good at what they do, I’m afraid. It would be for the best if I were forewarned.”
Massiter stared silently out at the teeming channel of water. “Paternity,” he murmured, looking glum. “Now, there’s a thought.”
“I can’t protect you from everything,” Randazzo snapped. “There are limits beyond which . . .”
The Englishman was laughing. His shoulders heaved. A growing chuckle emerged from behind a set of bright, shiny teeth. He came close and touched the tie.
“Japanese?” he asked. “How is your wife, by the way?”
“My wife has nothing to do with this.”
Randazzo had seen the way Massiter stared at Chieko whenever they met on social occasions. It wasn’t the curious look she normally got when the locals discovered a woman from Tokyo had married a Venetian cop. Besides, Venice was an international city these days. Marrying a foreigner, a very beautiful one, was nothing remarkable.
“This isn’t funny,” the commissario complained, aware of the whine inside his own voice. “Not at all.”
With a swift, feline ease, Massiter was next to him, whispering in Randazzo’s ear. “On the contrary,” the Englishman murmured. “It’s delightful. Let’s get straight to the point. Then I must go. There’ll be locals down below soon, and I’ll be damned if I’m leaving them alone with the valuables. So . . .”
Massiter pulled away, drew in a deep breath, certain of himself. “The last time I saw Bella Arcangelo was two weeks ago. I never bed Venetian women for more than a month. It’s a matter of principle. They cling, they paw, they grow tiresome. The bitches are best gone before the amusement begins to fade. I doubt I fathered a brat on her but you never know. No one ever will. I expect you to make sure of that.”
Randazzo swore, then asked quietly, “You weren’t here the night they died? You can prove it?”
“Oh . . . that night. Where were you for that matter?”
“I was working,” Randazzo snarled.
“Work. Play. For me the two tend to be much the same really.”
He knew something. He couldn’t wait to say it either.
Massiter reached out and flicked some dirt off the commissario’s tie. The Englishman stared at him, his ageing film-star face devoid of feeling, a man who felt nothing whatsoever, about himself, about anyone. Commissario Gianfranco Randazzo knew he was idiotic for thinking he could tackle this man head-on. It was uncharacteristically imprudent, a stupid mistake that would have to be rectified by some act of visible fealty.
“I was occupied until one in the morning. With company. After that, I slept alone.”
“Here?”
He scowled. “You’re being very inquisitive, Randazzo. Is that wise? Besides, you surely know that’s not possible. They don’t allow me access at night. I had to beg for dispensation from the Arcangeli for this little party, even though it’s in their interest as much as mine. No. I was in my apartment. First with a woman. Then alone.”
It wasn’t so far from Massiter’s vessel on the waterfront near the Arsenale. He could still have been on the island in time. Bella could have provided the key.
“Listen to me. You were busy until two, Hugo. No. Make that two-thirty. This woman must confirm that.”
Massiter shrugged as if it were a matter of no consequence.
“This is important,” Randazzo objected.
“Very well,” he conceded.
“Stick to that story. Leave the rest to me.”
“I left the rest to you from the start. Look where it’s got me.”
“I will sort this out,” the commissario insisted. “I assure you. This woman. We may need to know her name. She will vouch for you. You’re sure of that?”
Massiter beamed back at him, amused. “Given you’re nothing but a possession of
mine, one whose value appears to be rather less than the price I originally paid, you are, I must say, distinctly uppity tonight, Randazzo. I trust my tolerance of this impertinence will be rewarded. And . . .” He hesitated before making this last point, a fierce, bright certainty burning in his eyes that chilled Gianfranco Randazzo’s blood. “ . . . Soon. Patience is not one of my virtues.”
“I cannot save you from yourself!” Randazzo answered, scared by his own impetuousness, all the more aware now that he had no idea how he could deliver what Massiter, and his own superiors, wanted. “Will this woman say what she’s told?”
Massiter was grinning again. The abrupt, scary chill was gone.
“I believe so. Perhaps you’d better ask her yourself. When you get home.”
IT WAS NOW ALMOST SEVEN. THE THREE OF THEM WOULD be late for Massiter’s party, but it was inevitable. Falcone wanted the men to write up everything in the Questura before leaving. It was important, the inspector insisted, to make sure all the facts, as much as they understood them, were set down for the record. He didn’t want any room for mistakes, holes through which problems might slip. Teresa had been occupied too, in a way that hadn’t proved entirely satisfactory, if he read correctly the troubled expression on her face.
It was a gorgeous evening. Even on the vaporetto there was scarcely a hint of breeze. The city stood breathless, trapped inside its own archaic splendour.
“Was Leo right?” Costa asked. “Did you get anything out of the morgue here?”
A disgruntled frown creased her face. “Sort of. They’re not exactly state-of-the-art. To be honest with you, it was a bit amateur-hour there. All the serious stuff gets sent over to the mainland.”
Peroni and Nic looked at each other. Costa knew they were thinking the same thing.
“And this isn’t serious?” he asked. “Two people dead? In very odd circumstances?”
