The man Winter had assumed to be Don Zerbinati reacted with surprise. A surprise that became delight. He gave a sting of a smile, tight and sharp.
‘Allow me to correct you, my friend. I am Cesare Zerbinati. Son and heir.’
19
The next evening Winter kept an appointment at La Salamandra. The club was located in Chiaia, among the march of nightlife that met the shoreline in the shadow of the hills. It was an affluent, luminous part of Naples, where the elite of the new jet age congregated, drawn like gilded insects to the throb and glitter of the city.
He pushed through the doors. The pair of gem-studded salamanders etched on the glass shimmered as they caught the last of the day’s light. The hat-check girl smiled, though it had the look of professional obligation, and a set of stairs brought him to the blue-smoke haze of the dance floor. The sound of Astrud Gilberto played among the palms and mirrors, the louche thump of bossa nova soundtracking the black-skirted waitresses walking trays of drinks to patrons.
Winter cut through the dancing couples, breathing in a potent fug of perfume, cologne and perspiration. Bracelets and belly-chains jangled around him, the girls embracing the rhythm. The men tried to match them but their high-buttoned suits left them looking stiff and cautious.
Cesare Zerbinati sat at a table in the corner. It was the only booth in the room not to be surrounded by mirrors. Two chic, assured women stood up and left as Winter approached, as if by prior agreement. They slid past him, leaving no shadows on the lacquered floor. He could feel his skin cool in their presence, like the chill of a whiskey tumbler loaded with ice.
‘My brides,’ said Cesare, as Winter joined him.
There was a beat as Winter considered a diplomatic response. ‘Then you’re a lucky man. Twice over.’
Cesare broke into an unexpectedly impish grin. He reclined against the velvet-lined seat, a monarch supremely confident in his low-lit kingdom. Two of his men were positioned some distance away. ‘I’m kidding you, Englishman. Can you imagine the misery? The jealousy? The demands? The movies are useful propaganda for my kind but you mustn’t take their lies too seriously.’
‘I’ll try to remember that.’
‘Those girls are my daughters.’
Winter nodded blankly, unsure if this was another joke.
‘So tell me,’ said Cesare, plucking an olive from a dish. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Anthony Prestwick.’
The olive split between the immaculate teeth. ‘Names are such easy currency in Naples. Can you prove who you are?’
Winter took the passport from his pocket, the one the service had prepared for the mission in Budapest. ‘I’ve been working with the Creadley Gang in London. Jack Creadley.’
‘Wow.’
‘You’ve heard of him?’
Cesare flipped through the pale blue pages. ‘No. Should I have?’
‘In my city he had a certain notoriety.’
‘Alas his legend has yet to reach this city.’ The shreds of the olive turned on Cesare’s tongue. ‘Why do you use the past tense for this man?’
‘He’s dead now.’ Winter presented this as a flat fact.
‘Did you kill him?’
Winter found himself smiling at the suggestion. ‘No. No, of course I didn’t kill him.’
Cesare lingered on Winter’s photograph, the rather glum portrait taken in a Piccadilly Circus photo booth, his face as characterless as he could make it, another suburban businessman caught in the unforgiving flash. ‘Ambition is nothing to be embarrassed by. I might even applaud it. Tell me, what do you do?’
‘I tend to be useful.’
‘What use would I have for you?’
Winter shrugged. ‘I can handle myself. And a gun. Well, most things, really. Anything that comes to hand.’
Cesare nodded, closing and returning the passport, the dance-floor light catching the coiling gold of his salamander ring. ‘I saw how you dealt with Salvatore, back in the warehouse. A screwdriver, of all things. Were you confident you could kill him, my Salvatore?’
‘I can kill anybody, circumstances permitting.’
‘Could you kill me?’
The question hung between them, the thump of the music seeming louder than before.
Winter didn’t flinch. ‘Circumstances permitting. But I must think of my job prospects.’
Cesare beamed, though the smile was given to the waitress leaning in to collect the abandoned glasses. ‘Grazie,’ he said, his gaze lingering as she left the table.
He met Winter’s eyes once more. The charm was gone from his face.
‘I can do more than kill you, Mr Prestwick. I can turn you, claim your throat, take your shadow. I can make you understand that this shallow thing you have now is only the briefest echo of a true life. I can introduce you to the great, sweet thirst. And once you have tasted blood, and want to taste so much more in the endless years to come, I can steal that gift back, with a stake or a blade, and kill you so that it really hurts.’
Winter nodded respectfully. ‘You’re a powerful man, Signore Zerbinati. I imagine your father must be very proud.’
Cesare scrutinised Winter’s face, searching for any ghost of a smile, any hint that the last sentence had been less than sincere. ‘And what would you know of my father, Englishman?’
‘He’s the reason I came to Naples.’
Cesare was curious now. ‘Tell me what you mean.’
‘Power is something I respect. Clearly you have it. I can see that. But I didn’t hear stories about you, Cesare. I never found myself wondering if you were real or just a rumour that could make even London’s gangland shit itself. It was your father they spoke about in my city. Not you. Maybe you’ve never heard of Jack Creadley. Fair enough. But I’m pretty certain the late Jack Creadley had never heard of you, either. Frankly you’re not the stuff of legend.’
For a moment Winter wondered if he had gone too far with the provocation. He had been trained to evaluate facial response – to judge if a tightening of the lips or a muscle moving beneath the skin might be a cue for retaliation. Cesare’s composure was intact but there was something brittle and defensive in his eyes, something he couldn’t quite conceal. Winter knew he had chanced upon a faultline.
‘You came to this city to stand closer to power,’ observed Cesare. ‘To stand closer to my father?’
‘I had to get out of London. They’re cracking down on the gangs. No place for a career. There’s opportunity here in Naples.’
‘You betrayed three men. To impress me. To prove your allegiance. They died in that warehouse because of you.’
This was harder for Winter to internalise. But he managed it.
‘Some people are born to be collateral.’
Cesare reached for another plump olive. ‘You impress me, Mr Prestwick. You can fight. You have ambition. And most of all you’re unafraid. It’s a quality I rarely encounter. You’re arrogant, too, but I can beat that out of you, if need be.’
‘So I have a job?’
‘I’m prepared to see how useful you can be. Report here to Salvatore tomorrow morning. There will be work for you in my city, Englishman, of that you can be assured. One day you may even be the stuff of legend.’
Winter extended a hand across the table. Cesare took it, and his skin felt cool and smooth as a stone beneath water.
‘I’m grateful,’ said Winter. ‘I appreciate your faith in me.’
‘It’s not faith. Faith is what your kind use to kill mine. I make investments.’
With a nod Cesare indicated that the interview was concluded.
Winter rose from his seat, the mutual silence between the men as much a seal on the deal as the handshake. He turned and began to cross the dance floor, threading between the couples as the beat of the music pulsed through his shoes. Distracted, he nearly collided with a waitress as she made her way to the tables. Winter spun, dodging the cocktail tray in her hands. As she steadied the tall glasses the girl offered a gap-toothed
grin.
‘I never had you down as a dancer, mate.’
He was looking at Libby Cracknell.
Winter kept his expression neutral, though he knew his face had already betrayed him. Cesare’s men had them in their line of sight. Cesare too, potentially. He stole a glance at the corner tables. The glare of the overhead lights and the nicotine veil of the room gave them a fractional cover. He edged behind a dancing couple, grateful for the man’s ungainly moves.
‘What are you doing?’ he demanded, keeping his voice as low as he could against the syncopated thud.
Libby took a square of cloth from her blouse pocket. She dipped it in a glass of mineral water then attended to an imaginary spill on Winter’s jacket.
‘Tidying up. You can’t be too careful with a Brandy Alexander. It’s the crème de cacao. Tends to stain.’
‘Why are you here? I told you to get back to London.’
Libby pressed the cloth against his chest, kneading the fabric. ‘I went back to London.’
‘I don’t need your help.’
‘That’s not why I’m here.’
‘I’m not going back for a debrief. I told you to tell that to Faulkner.’
‘I told him.’
‘Get out of Naples,’ Winter hissed.
One of Cesare’s men had broken from the wall at the far end of the dance floor. He was walking towards them.
‘Make a pass at me,’ said Libby, urgently. ‘Clumsier the better. Do it now.’
Winter leaned in, one hand reaching for her hip. She delivered a slap to his face, authentically hard.
‘Inglese,’ she said to Cesare’s man, who was already smiling. ‘I know his type.’
The lackey nodded in sympathy to Winter, as if she wasn’t there. ‘Don’t waste your time, signore. This one goes with no man.’
‘So I see.’
Winter walked away, his cheek still smarting and his thoughts furious. Damn the girl for being here. Her presence could risk everything, compromise the plan he had set in motion, a plan tailored to his involvement alone. Was she keeping a watch on him for London? No, he was an incidental detail now. She was here, in this club, undercover. Faulkner had assigned her to investigate Zerbinati. The Russians were chasing the ghosts of Operation Paragon. Cracknell was a countermeasure.
Reaching the edge of the dance floor he glanced over his shoulder as casually as he could. Libby was watching him leave. Their eyes locked, only for a second. Her gaze was hard and determined and the chill of it unsettled him. It was as if he had caught her with the mask gone.
Winter had seen that look before, he realised. In Normandy, just before dawn, as she had stood over that undead creature, a makeshift stake in her hands. She had killed with those eyes.
20
Tiring of the bell, Salvatore put his heel to the door. The impact of the boot splintered wood and sent flakes of paint to the pavement. The door, already precarious, swung inwards on rust-eaten hinges, its lock shattered.
‘Benedetta!’ he called into the hot gloom of the house. ‘Are you home?’
Winter glanced at the street, feeling the crush of buildings in this skyless corner of the Quartieri Spagnoli. A crowd had assembled around them. Old women, their faces tanned and creased like Bible bindings, baskets of ham and fish in their arms. Teenage boys, some shirtless, taking a crack at macho stances but keeping a cautious distance just the same. Everyone watching clearly knew who they were, the power they represented.
Two men had come to this neighbourhood. Only one of them threw a shadow across the sun-scorched tarmac. No wonder these people were wary. Winter could sense a crackle of emotions in the crowd. Fear, resentment and an obvious fascination, even from the onlookers who held their sculpted Madonnas and murmured prayers of protection.
Salvatore entered the hallway. ‘Benedetta!’ he cried again. There was still no reply from inside the house.
Winter followed him in, grateful to escape the throng. He imagined it must have amused Cesare to pair the two of them together, given their confrontation in the warehouse. But then Cesare struck him as someone who’d trap two wasps in an upturned glass out of pure, malevolent boredom. Salvatore was far from easy company – any small talk between them felt spiky and sour – but a fortnight had passed without them trying to kill one another. That had to count as reasonably convivial.
The golden salamander was on his finger, as it had been for the last few days. All the Shadowless wore them – at least those closest to the inner circle – and it had given Winter a certain satisfaction to slide the ring over his knuckle. It had made him feel just that bit nearer to Don Zerbinati, though the leader of I Senz’Ombr remained elusive, off-limits even as a subject for conversation, as Winter had soon learned.
That bullet would need to wait.
Salvatore called again, a darkly playful edge to his voice now. ‘Benedetta! Are you thirsty, pretty girl?’
The hallway was narrow and dominated by a convex mirror, the pregnant bulge of the glass surrounded by gilt angels. There was dust on the mirror’s surface and more dust in the votive niches of the wall, where potted candles had burned away to their wicks, leaving only smears of wax. A clock hung above them, the dogged shudder of its second hand the only sound in the house.
Tick. Tick.
It was stifling in this cramped, half-lit space and Winter was aware he was sweating. There was something oppressive about the concentrated heat and hush and stillness. Something oddly unnerving, too. This little home felt wounded.
‘Benedetta! I know you’re here, girl!’
Salvatore passed by the mirror. As ever he left no reflection. Winter glanced at the glass, as if trying to catch the secret of a magic trick. As he did so he noticed a faint handprint in the dust. It was a child’s hand, and it had trailed down the mirror, as if dragged from it.
A room waited. The door was closed. Salvatore twisted the handle.
‘Don’t hide from me, bella!’
The carcass of the dog was the first thing Winter saw.
The animal lay on the threadbare carpet. Its throat was torn. The gash went deep and blood matted the clumps of fur that remained. The dog’s eyes were wide and still, its legs rigid. It stank like spoilt meat.
Winter spotted the girl next.
She was harder to see – the curtains in the room were pulled against the sun – but her body was wrapped in a rug and lay on a lumpen sofa pushed into the furthest corner. Her face was lost beneath a heap of black hair.
Salvatore walked towards the body. He was about to speak when Winter put a hand to his sleeve. Salvatore shrugged and let Winter approach the sofa before him.
One of the girl’s arms had fallen free of the rug. Her nails scraped the carpet, long and tattered at the tips. The fingers were soiled with blood, dried to a dark brown.
Winter lifted the tangle of hair away. Her throat was also bloodied. A pair of parallel scabs marked the side of the neck. They had recently been agitated, judging by how angry the wounds were.
To his surprise Winter saw she was still breathing. He watched the swell and fall of her throat. And then his eyes moved to her face and he realised he had seen this girl before. It was the Tarantella dancer from the street. The one in the grey dress and the ribbon that had barely concealed these terrible lesions.
There was a crusting of blood around her mouth.
‘Smile for me, Benedetta!’ said Salvatore, bullyingly upbeat.
Her eyes reacted to the sound of his voice, shifting beneath the lids. The lashes parted. Benedetta looked up, flinching at either the minimal light in the room or Salvatore’s presence.
She looked like she wanted to stay in dreams.
‘Good girl,’ said Salvatore, encouragingly. ‘Good baby girl.’
The crust of blood broke as her lips opened. She whimpered, the sound barely loud enough to leave her mouth. And then she found her voice, even if she couldn’t find words. With a sudden, agonised cry seized from her lungs she put her hands to h
er own throat. Her fingers clawed at the scabs, the movement frenzied and desperate.
Winter took her by the wrists. ‘Hey, it’s okay. Listen to me. It’s okay.’
She fought his grip, determined to bring her fingers to her mouth. Her tongue was extended now, quivering between the teeth, and Winter realised she was attempting to lap her own blood, the blood she had scratched from the wound. Her hunger was terrifying.
He stared at the coagulated blood on her chin. There was animal fur caught in the dark streaks. She must have killed the dog, trying to sate this craving.
Queasy in the heat of the room, he turned to Salvatore. ‘We need to get this girl to a hospital.’
Salvatore laughed. ‘She’s no problem.’
‘I’m telling you we need to take her away from this place.’
‘Relax. She just needs a fix.’
Salvatore had taken a packet of Scarlatto from his pocket. He broke three of the caplets from the foil and let them roll on his palm. The crimson fluid turned inside the tiny plastic shells.
He put them in front of the girl. ‘Here you go, bella baby. Sweet, yes?’
Benedetta’s eyes widened at the sight of the caplets. She made a soft, imploring sound. Winter still had hold of her wrists and could feel her muscles relax, no longer reaching for her throat. A moment later they flexed again, trying to push her arms closer to the red pills.
‘You want these?’ teased Salvatore. ‘Molto Scarlatto per bella?’
She was crying now. Crying with the pain of pure thirst.
Salvatore snatched the pills away, closing his fist around them. ‘You owe us molti soldi. You cry because you are broke? You are always broke, little dancer.’
Winter was sickened by all of this. ‘Give her the pills, for God’s sake. Give her the pills or get her to a hospital. She needs help.’
‘For God’s sake?’ Salvatore was openly contemptuous. ‘You don’t impress me as a businessman, signore.’
Winter watched as the girl snatched at the air. This was a business, that much was clear. The Shadowless had a neat little operation here in Naples. Claim a throat, pass on the blood lust, spread the thirst. Satisfy that craving with the chemical fix of Scarlatto, because no one in their right mind wanted to murder or maim for the real thing. Once they were hooked they would have no choice but to pay for it; unchecked, the urge would burn the sanity from their minds. And if they did put their teeth into flesh they were simply creating more victims, more customers, more demand, more business.
The Spider Dance Page 19
