‘Have some wine,’ says Shona, pushing a glass towards Ruth.
*
Nelson drives back to the station in a foul mood. How dare Ruth take Katie out of the country without consulting him? How could she go swanning off to Italy with that flaky Shona? Anything could happen to them. To his child. To Ruth. He shoots a red light, narrowly avoiding oncoming traffic. Super Jo sent him on a speed awareness course a few months ago but it hasn’t taken.
By the time he reaches King’s Lynn, he is calmer, if no less angry. He knows that Ruth has been feeling low, to use that idiot Phil’s phrase. The news of Michelle’s pregnancy, coming so soon after her mother’s death, must have hit her hard. Not that she has said anything to him, beyond formal congratulations on his impending fatherhood. But they both know that, moments before Michelle’s bombshell announcement, they had been on the verge of moving towards a new stage in their relationship, one that might have involved forsaking all others. But now things are back where they were, only with added tensions. On balance, Nelson thinks that he won’t ring Ruth today.
The CID rooms are quiet. Judy has gone home and Tanya is investigating a possible malicious wounding in Swaffham. They all miss Clough: his stream of un-PC consciousness accompanied by hearty snacks allows little time for introspection or boredom. But none of them are willing to admit this. Nelson reads through some case notes and adds a comment on a circular from head office (‘What does this mean in English?’), wondering if he should head home. Michelle is still feeling very tired and Laura is often out in the evenings. Someone needs to cook dinner and walk Bruno. He starts to gather up his things.
‘Leaving already, DCI Nelson?’
It’s Jo Archer, wearing what he recognises from his daughters’ wardrobes as exercise clothes: leggings and a crop top, giant fluorescent trainers, hoodie tied around her waist. Nelson considers the outfit unsuitable for a woman of her age and position. Not that he knows her exact age, which is a closely kept secret. Clough once organised a competition to find Jo’s date of birth but no one was able to come up with a definitive answer. Jo often implies that she’s nearing ‘the big Four-O’ but Nelson suspects that it’s actually the big Five-O.
‘Yes,’ he says, not wanting to demean himself by saying that it’s past five and he has been in the office since seven that morning. ‘Are you off to do aerobics?’
‘Aerobics? You’re out of date, Harry. Hello?’ She mimes answering a phone. ‘Hello? It’s for you. The eighties are calling.’ Nelson waits for her to come to the point – sometimes Jo’s little jokes go on for ever. Eventually Jo says, jogging slightly on the spot, ‘Actually I’m off for a run. I just wanted to have a word with you before I go.’
‘Oh yes?’
Jo sits on the visitor’s chair, which forces Nelson to sit back behind his desk. Jo says, in a voice from which all traces of banter have vanished, ‘Micky Webb has been released.’
‘Micky Webb.’ Nelson leans back in his chair. ‘How come he’s out already?’
‘He’s out on licence. He served ten years.’
‘Ten years! For killing his wife and kids.’
‘He pleaded diminished responsibility, if you remember.’
‘He set their house on fire.’
‘I know. I’ve been reading the case notes. The point is that he might still be holding a grudge against you, as the officer who put him away. That’s why the probation service have alerted us.’
‘Has he said that he’s coming after me?’
‘No, he got religion in prison. A changed character, apparently.’
Nelson laughs hollowly. ‘I’ll believe that when I see it. I still remember his kids’ bodies being brought out of that house. While Micky was planning to go on holiday with his girlfriend, paid for by the insurance.’
‘He sounds a wrong-un all right.’ Jo has never quite got the hang of police slang. ‘Anyway, Micky claims to be completely reformed, heartbroken by the deaths of his kids, that sort of thing. I just wanted you to know that he was on the loose, that’s all.’
‘I’m not scared of Micky Webb.’
‘I know you’re not,’ says Jo, ‘but you’ve got some holiday owing. It might not hurt to go away for a week or two.’
‘We’re too busy with Clough away,’ says Nelson. He loathes holidays.
Jo waves a hand at the silent suite of rooms. ‘We’ll manage, Nelson. Think about it. Ciao.’
After Jo has jogged away, Nelson sits at his desk, remembering that summer, ten years ago, when he’d been called to a house fire on the outskirts of Lynn. All coppers dread a fire – the injuries are terrible and there are often children involved. And this case was especially harrowing, three little bodies brought out of the house: Tammy, aged eight, Petey, six, and Chelsea, two. The mother, Marie, was actually found with Chelsea in her arms, lying in the hallway where they had both been overcome by smoke. Micky Webb had been two miles away, drinking with friends in a snooker club, but witnesses saw another man, Todd Larkin, pushing what turned out to be petrol-soaked rags through the letterbox. Todd was arrested and claimed to be acting on Micky’s instructions. CCTV cameras placed the two men together and money changing hands. Nelson had interviewed Micky over twenty-four hours and, at the end of this, Micky admitted paying Larkin to burn down the house, saying that he thought his wife and children would be away at the time. Later he claimed that Nelson had intimidated him to get this confession. In court he pleaded diminished responsibility and was sentenced to fifteen years. As he was led out he spat at Nelson, who was sitting with Marie’s family, and vowed to get even with him. And now Micky Webb is free, having served ten years ‘with good behaviour’.
Driving home, Nelson wonders whether Jo, reading through the notes, thought that he might have been guilty of intimidation. He’d played it by the book, as he remembered, but there’s no doubt that he’d played the hard cop to . . . what was the name of the sergeant he’d had then? Freddie Burnett, that was it, a tough copper of the old school who also knew how to offer spurious man-to-man sympathy when he thought it would get him a conviction. He’d better warn Freddie that Webb is on the loose. Not that Freddie will care; he’s happy in his retirement bungalow in Cromer, playing golf all day and having the occasional holiday with his wife in Tenerife. Is that what lies in wait for him? Retirement in a Norfolk seaside town? But, by the time Nelson is sixty, this new child will only be twelve, just starting secondary school. Nelson sighs heavily as he pulls up outside his house. He can already hear Bruno barking.
Chapter 7
In the end, Ruth walks down to the bar on her own. Shona, revived by the wine and a meal of pasta, bread and cheese, offers to stay behind with the children. ‘We can snuggle on the sofa and watch The Lion King.’ Ruth has prudently brought a stack of DVDs from home, and the sight of the crypto-Shakespearean cartoon appearing on the television screen in the vast, echoing sitting room is curiously comforting. The children are in their pyjamas and Shona is finishing the wine. Ruth suddenly feels very tired and wishes that she could join them on the sofa, even though it is white leather and extremely uncomfortable. But she has to go to the bar – braving the stares of the old men who are probably still sitting at the same table – and see Angelo.
It’s still warm, but at least the murderous heat has gone out of the sun. She’s able to appreciate the beauty of the evening, the glimpses of the valley through archways and across rooftops, the scent of lemon trees and wild garlic, so deliciously un-English. Although it’s not yet dark, the shadows are lengthening and the moon is up, a white disc in the purplish sky. It’s hard to get much sense of the town: the houses seem to have been built on top of each other, some with elaborate balconies and grand, pillared entrances, others with little wooden doors like Hobbit holes. The narrow street is empty, but from inside one of the shuttered houses, she can hear a piano playing, from another the sound of cooking pots clattering. The caged bird is still singing and she hears a child’s voice raised in complaint: ‘Mam-ma’. She r
ecognises the tone immediately. Some of the houses seem to have been abandoned, with trees growing out of roofs and feral cats sleeping in the doorways. Near the bottom of the hill, she passes a large house that looks half-ruined – the upper windows are boarded up and some roof tiles are missing, revealing the wooden rafters below. Through the open downstairs window, she sees a man cooking over a camping stove. There’s a camp bed too and clothes hanging on a rail. Is he a squatter? Do they even have squatters in picturesque Italian towns? The man looks up as she passes and says, ‘Buonasera.’ Ruth says it back to him, embarrassed by her English accent and by the uncomfortable feeling that she had been spying on him.
If the streets are empty, the square seems very full. Children are running about, flicking water from the fountain at each other and squealing with excitement. There are several youths on mopeds exchanging backchat and the old men are still there, now playing an intense game of cards. The other tables are full of people, some of whom look alarmingly smart, like extras from Italian Vogue, others in overalls and working clothes. A young woman with a chic haircut glides between them, dispensing lemon sodas and tiny glasses of wine. On the other side of the square is a church, white-brick and classical, with sweeping steps at the front and rows of columns and arches above. At the very top is a stone pediment with two winged figures on either side, silhouetted against the purple twilight. One has a sword and one holds what looks like a scroll. They must be angels. Is this how the town got its name? It seems a very grand building for such a small place. As Ruth stands, looking about her, a man rises from one of the Vogue tables. ‘Ruth?’
At first she thinks that she wouldn’t have recognised him. The Angelo she remembers had a mane of black hair, dressed in bright colours and was given to wild hand gestures and violent laughter. This man has greying hair, still curly but cut rather short, and is soberly dressed in a black shirt and dark trousers. But as he approaches, she sees that her old Angelo is still there; he still walks as if he owns the place and, when he comes closer, his eyes are the same – dark brown yet full of light.
‘Ruth. How good to see you.’
He kisses her on both cheeks. Ruth feels rather embarrassed at this very public reunion. She wonders how she appears to Angelo. She’s not grey yet, but she’s twelve years older and a lot fatter. And, in the last eight years, she’s had a baby and has been almost constantly involved with violent death. She’s pretty sure that this shows in her face, if not in her hair.
‘Did you have a good journey?’ says Angelo, smiling down at her. She had forgotten how tall he was.
‘Yes, thank you. Graziano met us at the airport. He was very kind.’
‘He is an old friend of the family,’ says Angelo. ‘And the apartment? Is all as it should be?’
‘It’s lovely,’ says Ruth. ‘Thanks for getting the food in.’
‘It was OK? I thought you might not want to go out to eat on your first night.’
‘It was perfect. Thank you.’
‘But there are some excellent restaurants around here. I’ll take you another time.’
Ruth doesn’t quite know how to answer this. She intends to keep their relationship entirely professional this time. But she still feels rather dizzy and disorientated. In the evening light, the square looks more like a stage set than ever, the steps of the church just perfect for a soprano belting out a dying aria, the moon hanging overhead like a backcloth. Now Angelo is steering her towards an empty table and asking her what she’d like to drink.
‘Coffee, please.’ She has already had two glasses of wine and feels that she should keep her wits about her. But when the coffee arrives it is so strong as to be almost solid, served in a tiny gold cup. Drinking it makes her feel headier than ever. Too late, Ruth remembers that coffee in Italy is always espresso, unless otherwise specified. And no self-respecting Italian would drink cappuccino after lunchtime.
‘It is very good of you to come,’ says Angelo.
‘That’s OK,’ says Ruth. ‘It’s great to be back in Italy.’
‘You haven’t been to any more conferences here?’ Angelo is smiling in a way that she doesn’t quite like.
‘No,’ she says evenly, ‘but I’ve been on holiday a few times.’
‘Tell me about your life, Ruth,’ says Angelo, leaning back in his chair. ‘Are you married? I know you have your daughter with you.’
Ruth would much rather be talking about archaeology, but she supposes they have to get through the social stuff first. She had ascertained Angelo’s marital status from Facebook, but she isn’t on social media, something Phil (or @archaeoman) often bemoans.
‘I’m not married,’ she says, ‘but, as you know, I have a daughter, Kate. She’s six.’
‘I have a daughter of fifteen,’ says Angelo unexpectedly.
Ruth looks surprised. Angelo hadn’t mentioned his daughter all those years ago at the conference, but then they hadn’t talked very much about their personal lives.
‘I got married when I was at the University of Columbia,’ says Angelo. ‘The marriage broke up and I came back to Italy. It’s hard to be so far away from Poppy.’
‘Poppy?’ It seems an odd choice for an Italian.
Angelo laughs. ‘My mother still thinks it’s not a real name. But Shelly wanted to call her Boadicea so we had to compromise. She is an archaeologist too, specialising in Roman Britain.’
Ruth hopes he isn’t going to ask about Kate’s father. She says, rather hurriedly, ‘It must be difficult, but I’m sure Poppy loves coming here for holidays.’
‘She does,’ says Angelo, ‘and now she’s older, she can come on her own. I’m hoping she’ll come for a long stretch next summer, even work with me on a dig. My mother loves having her to stay.’
‘Does your mother still live in Castello degli Angeli? It’s where you’re from, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ says Angelo. ‘I was born here. My parents used to live in Castello but, when my father died, my mother moved to a flat in Arpino. It’s more convenient. My grandfather lived here all his life though. It’s his apartment that you’re staying in.’
‘Is your grandfather . . .?’ She doesn’t know how to phrase the question without using the D word.
‘He died two years ago,’ says Angelo, ‘aged ninety-six. He was a big resistance hero in the war. He won the gold medal of valour. People still talk about his exploits. He had a state funeral, at the church in Cassino. Four priests officiating, two senators, a marching band, the choir from the abbey at Monte Cassino.’ He lapses into silence.
‘I’m sorry,’ says Ruth. ‘He must have been a wonderful person.’
Angelo laughs, but his eyes are bright with what could be tears. ‘Yes,’ he says, ‘he had some amazing stories. This area was occupied by the Germans, you know. The resistance fighters had to hide in the hills. The Nazis carried out terrible reprisals if you were caught communicating with the partisans. They must have been terrifying times.’
‘I don’t think we British can imagine what it must have been like to have your country occupied,’ says Ruth. ‘I mean, Britain suffered terrible bombing raids, but at least the Nazis weren’t walking the streets. Except in Jersey, of course.’
‘They used to sit here at this café, my grandfather said. With their boots on the table, calling for beer.’
Ruth looks round the square, the café full of laughing, gesticulating people. It’s nearly dark now and the fountain is illuminated in blue and green. It’s hard to imagine jackboots on the tables. She wonders if it was the final insult to call for beer rather than wine.
Angelo says, cutting into her thoughts, ‘I’m very glad that you were able to come to give your opinion on the bones.’
Ruth is grateful to get back to archaeology. ‘I’m looking forward to seeing them,’ she says. ‘It’ll be interesting to be involved in an Italian research project.’
‘It’s not exactly a research project,’ says Angelo, looking slightly gloomy again. ‘I did get a research grant to b
egin with, but the excavation only went ahead because Cielo Blu, the TV production company, backed it. Then we found a body, a fully articulated skeleton, so that was even better. I wanted to film the excavation live on TV.’ He pauses. ‘Do you want another drink? A glass of wine? Limoncello? Grappa?’
‘A glass of red wine, please,’ says Ruth. She is on holiday, after all.
Angelo speaks rapidly to the waitress as she passes, then turns back to Ruth. ‘It was all set. The TV people were all in place. Lights, cameras, action. I was just about to dig through the final layer when a telephone rang. Turned out to be mine.’
‘God, how embarrassing,’ says Ruth. ‘That happened to me in a lecture once.’ It had been Nelson, ringing to check that Kate’s swimming teacher had been CRB checked.
‘Embarrassing,’ says Angelo, ‘yes. But, when I looked at my phone, the caller came up as “Toni”. That was the name we had given the skeleton.’
‘Goodness,’ says Ruth. Her wine has arrived and she takes a gulp.
‘Exactly. I thought I was going mad. I started digging away in the trench, and when I got to the bones, there was the phone. In his hand. In Toni’s hand. At that exact moment, I got a text. “Surprise”, is all it said.’
‘How could that happen?’
‘Apparently it’s fairly easy with new smartphone technology,’ says Angelo. ‘It’s the same application you use in Find My iPhone. All you have to do is link both devices. A clever trick, eh?’ He grins at Ruth but this time there is no humour in the smile. His white teeth flash in what is almost a snarl.
‘But what about the layers?’ says Ruth. ‘Surely you’d know if the grave had been disturbed recently.’
‘The layers were intact,’ says Angelo. ‘We had just left a thin covering of soil over the bones. That could easily have been dug up and replaced.’
‘Have you any idea who did it?’ says Ruth.
‘Lots of ideas,’ says Angelo, ‘each more ridiculous that the last. The problem is that the TV company have lost interest now. They were furious to have wasted a day’s filming. And I need their money if I want to continue.’ He lapses into a rather morose silence, draining his glass of wine.
The Dark Angel Page 5
