Dead Season

by Christobel Kent

  A cigarette, that was it. That was what was lacking. He felt in his breast pocket: the pack of Marlboro Lights was reassuringly full. Save it. He wouldn’t smoke in the car: save it, luxuriate in the delicious blast of cold air a while longer.

  August. He shouldn’t be working in August anyway. Did anyone? No one but losers, and he wasn’t a loser. Could sell ice cream to a Sicilian, snow to an Eskimo. There was no one to sell anything to, though, in August. Only losers, who didn’t have the money for what he was selling anyway. Go away, he should have told them, you can’t afford it. It would have been a mistake to have kept the office open if there hadn’t been the one big sale that would justify it.

  He put two fingers inside his shirt collar to ease it. Trouble? Maybe. The single glass of Friulian Chardonnay glowed comfortably in his stomach, complementing the salade niçoise. His favourite, on a hot day: he’d choose a nice salad niçoise over a bistecca fiorentina as his last meal, any day of the week, not to mention salad was better for the maintenance of the six-pack. Any day. A ristretto with a shot of grappa, and all it needed was that cigarette to top it off. He could almost taste it now. His last meal.

  Turning up the stereo, he settled back, dreaming. Search for the hero inside yourself.

  Just as well he had sidelines, he didn’t rely on the office. There were ways of making money in this business. If you knew what you were doing. He’d have this car paid off in no time at all: no time. Might even trade up, for the real thing, the big red beast with its leaping horse. He felt for the pack of cigarettes again, sat up, rubbed his eyes.

  Even with the breeze, was he ready for the heat, out there? It was just right in here, the suit sat comfortably on him in this temperature, the shirt crisp, collars sharp. Two minutes out there and he’d be sweating into a thousand-euro suit. He pictured himself, blowing smoke rings under the trees. The music slowed, coming to the end of a track. He heard something.

  Outside, something.

  What? A stone displaced? He turned his head, squinting into the sun back along the road, but all he saw were the thick, rough-barked trunks of the mulberries, the dry seedheads along the verge, further off the squat shapes of a couple of ugly semidetached villas. Nothing. No one. The sun bleached the road out to nothing.

  It unsettled him: this was his place. He didn’t want to have to find somewhere new for his illicit afternoons, when he was supposed to be with clients. He almost started the car up to head back to the office after all. Just to show the girl: he liked to pull up alongside it, slowly, the gleaming length of the car, the music booming. But it was the cigarette that did it. He took out the pack with his right hand and with his left tugged on the door handle, listening, without knowing he was doing it, in pleasurable anticipation of the central locking system’s heavy, expensive click at his command. Open Sesame.

  But he never heard it.

  He thought for an instant that the sound he heard instead might stop his heart, the horrible sledgehammer crunch of metal on metal, of irresistible force meeting the beautiful immovable object that was his pristine company car. He whirled his head, thinking, What the fuck? thinking someone had rammed him, but there was no car behind him. But it wasn’t the sound that stopped his heart.

  Someone was there all the same, at the driver’s window now, he just got a glimpse of dark midriff at eye level, a centimetre of tattoo as the door was pulled from his grasp. Then a blinding pain as the door was swiftly slammed back, trapping his left hand; he twisted against its upholstery, trying to see up and out of the window, trying to work out what was going on. Oh, shit, he thought, as the door, pulled sharply open again, gave way beneath him and, now freed, he fell heavily to the gravel, head first. A glimpse of white trainers. Oh, shit. And someone’s foot stamped hard on his ear, fracturing his skull, and his last living thought, profane, astonished, disbelieving, was just that. Oh, shit.

  White wine, olives, tuna, lattuga romana. Consumed approximately one and a half hours before death. His last meal.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  GOOD NEWS. WELL, HE’D be the judge of that.

  Sandro mopped his brow, walking more slowly than he had thought possible so as to keep the clammy heat at bay. Without success: the Banca di Toscana Provinciale was in sight but he still had to stop.

  For the second time that day, Sandro had found himself rolling his eyes in a frustrated attempt to communicate silently with one of the only two people he had ever been able to trust. First Pietro, when Anna Niescu’s presence had prevented them getting down to the important question as to why, if Claudio Brunello was not Anna’s lover, her lover was using his name? And then Luisa, her eyes boring into him and commanding him to keep silent as Giuli beamed up at them like a child taking a bow at the school play. Bursting with pride.

  ‘You’re what?’ Sandro had said, modifying his tone only just in time from appalled to merely startled.

  ‘Engaged,’ Giuli had said. And she had put out her right hand, on the ring finger a diamond so modest he had had to resist the impulse to pull her fingers up to his face to squint at it.

  ‘Isn’t that lovely?’ Luisa had said, a warning note in her voice.

  He had looked from one of them to the other, knowing when he was beaten. Lovely? What was this Enzo after? He had to be after something.

  He hadn’t listened as they started murmuring on about how long it would be till the wedding, what his family thought, what Giuli would wear.

  ‘Not white,’ Giuli had said – he’d heard that much.

  Sandro had just needed to get Luisa on her own. And then Pietro. But instead he’d said, ‘I think I might just get off down to the bank.’

  ‘But they won’t be open,’ Luisa had said, giving him a hard stare. He wasn’t lying either: he just wasn’t going to his bank, to ask his manager if they’d consider him for a loan, but to Claudio Brunello’s bank. If he couldn’t rely on Pietro to give him the inside track on the sudden appearance of the Guardia di Finanza, then he’d better do some detecting on his own.

  ‘I’ve got an appointment,’ he had said defiantly, although Luisa had clearly not believed him.

  The Banca di Toscana Provinciale looked very shut indeed. Sandro’s heart sank. He took out his mobile and looked at it, pointlessly; he’d tried Pietro on the way down but no answer. All it told him now was that it was almost three o’clock. He peered through the window, a hand shielding his eyes against the smoked glass. He could see two people in there, a tall woman, a man. He moved to the door: opening time was four. He peered in again, and saw the two heads turn to look at him. The taller of the two held up a finger, no.

  There was no sign of the woman he’d spoken to yesterday, and his heart dipped. Because she was his only in; and because he’d liked her. She’d been straight, which was rare, in Sandro’s experience. Wary, but honest; she’d trusted him.

  What was he going to do in there? In his briefcase – which was beginning to make him feel stupid, carrying it around like a man who’s lost his job and needs to convince the wife he’s still got something important to do – he had the out-of-focus picture of Anna Niescu’s fiancé.

  Fiancé: an untrustworthy word. Engagement wasn’t marriage; it was a promise worth no more than air. Every girl coming gossiping out of senior school for her lunch break was engaged, but not many of them were actually going to get married any time soon.

  And now Giuli had a fiancé too.

  Not that he and Luisa had needed to say it out loud to know what they were thinking. Surely she’s not. But why else did people get engaged? Why had Anna Niescu got engaged? Because they wanted to set up home. Make a family.

  Isn’t Giuli too old – for all that?

  Inside the bank it looked dead. The three figures had gone further into the interior somewhere. He straightened. On the corner an overweight man in a security guard’s uniform was leaning against a small, cheaply armoured van, lighting up a cigarette in leisurely fashion. Illegally parked. They obviously didn’t go for the premium
service at the Banca di Toscana Provinciale.

  In his pocket the phone rang. He held the screen up to his face and saw that the call was from Pietro. Slowly he raised it to his ear: since when had his heart sunk at the prospect of talking to his oldest friend?

  ‘Sorry, mate,’ came the familiar voice down the crackling line. Cheerful, straightforward. Traffic noise in the background. ‘I had to have the phone off, I was getting the preliminary findings. On Brunello’s body.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Well, one or two things.’ Now Pietro’s voice was wary. ‘Look, we need to talk, don’t we?’

  ‘And his apartment? Been there?’ He was aware of being pushy, but somehow could do nothing about it.

  A whistling sigh. ‘Clean.’ Sandro detected a lowering of his old friend’s voice. ‘Unless you count two tumblers washed and upside down on the draining board.’

  ‘Two. His wife away at the seaside.’ A silence. Could be anything, or nothing: a neighbour round, an old friend, or they could have been there a week, no wife around to put them away.

  ‘Matteucci there?’ A grunt. ‘Hold on a second.’ Muffled talking as at the other end Pietro, his hand over the receiver, told someone – Matteucci – to go get himself a coffee, something to eat. And then he was back, loud and clear.

  ‘Jesus,’ said Pietro cheerfully, ‘sticks like glue, that guy. Sometimes I wonder if he’s been sent down here with a mission.’

  ‘A mission?’ That little prick of anxiety again: he mustn’t get Pietro into trouble. ‘What mission?’

  ‘A mission to wind me up,’ said Pietro cheerfully. ‘It’s OK. He’ll learn. I guess it’s just that he wants to know everything about everything, and he wants to know it now. He’s young.’

  ‘You were saying,’ said Sandro. ‘We need to talk.’

  Pietro sighed. ‘Impossible to say anything with the girl there,’ he said. ‘Poor kid. Didn’t realize she was so far gone. So pregnant, I mean.’

  Sandro grunted. He didn’t want to think about what would happen when Anna Niescu’s time came.

  ‘At least it wasn’t him on the slab,’ he said. ‘That’s all she was thinking. Could have been worse.’

  ‘Well,’ said Pietro, hesitating.

  ‘I know,’ said Sandro. ‘You’re thinking, can’t be just a coincidence, right?’ He turned and peered into the bank’s gloomy interior: a strip light blinked on. They must be close to opening.

  ‘No,’ said Pietro with finality. ‘Why did he choose that name, of all names?’

  ‘And this dozy little bank,’ added Sandro. ‘It’s hardly a household name.’ He hesitated. ‘He’s got to have some connection with the bank. A customer? A – a neighbour? And perhaps with Brunello himself.’

  ‘With Brunello himself,’ repeated Pietro. ‘With – his death too. Perhaps.’

  ‘All Anna can think is that he’s in danger,’ said Sandro thoughtfully. ‘It hasn’t occurred to her that he might have—’

  ‘Might have had something to do with Brunello’s death.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Sandro, without thinking. But there was something in Pietro’s voice. ‘What? Hold on. Preliminary findings, you said?’

  Pietro sighed. ‘Looks like some of the injuries were postmortem. Plus there’s the angle of trajectory—’ He broke off, irritable. ‘Injuries not consistent with being struck by a car, after all. There’d have had to be a lot more force than is consistent with the trauma, particularly if a car managed to propel him over the crash barrier. There’d have been more in the way of scratching – I don’t know. The geeks presumably know what they’re talking about.’

  Sandro said nothing: he knew what it was like, to have a theory demolished. ‘You’ve talked to his wife,’ he said.

  ‘Up to a point,’ said Pietro wearily. ‘I told her we’re still not sure, about whether it was an accident after all or – or something else. She’s staying with the woman, his colleague from the bank.’ Pietro sounded thoughtful.

  ‘Really?’ said Sandro. He could almost hear Pietro’s shrug.

  ‘She wants to keep the children – out of it, for the moment.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Sandro, trying not to think of the children. ‘So he – ah – he died somewhere else. Anything on time of death?’

  ‘He hadn’t eaten in four hours at least, and probably died in the afternoon or early evening of Saturday.’ Pietro cleared his throat. ‘They can work it out from the insect activity.’

  Sandro felt his stomach clench even at the memory of the pathology lab. He had grown soft, that was for sure, away from the smell of formaldehyde and carbolic and latex, the bonesaw, the tilted slab and the ceramic trough for bodily fluids draining from the body.

  ‘Any sign of the car yet?’ he asked.

  ‘Not yet,’ said Pietro. ‘But we’ll find it.’ They would, too, even if it was burnt-out or sunk in a reservoir. ‘I’ll let you know.’

  Catching the resignation in his old friend’s voice, Sandro had his shoulder against the hot wall in the shade, feeling his cheeks and forehead bathed in sweat. He loosened his tie. Jesus, he thought. To be out of here.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said softly.

  ‘No,’ said Pietro. ‘It’s all right. It’s – well. Complicated enough already. The wife, the kids – I just don’t want to be the one tells her he was on the make.’

  ‘Is that what the Guardia think?’

  ‘Who knows what they think?’ For a moment Pietro sounded angry, then he sighed. ‘They’re being tight-lipped bastards just now. But it’s obvious. When a bank manager dies in unexplained circumstances – well. He might have been on the make – or someone wanted information out of him. That’s what I’d look for first.’

  Sandro pursed his lips and said nothing: he knew what Pietro meant. There’d been a case only a month or so back, a bank employee and his wife abducted and tortured by an Eastern European gang for security details, a whole wall of safety deposit boxes plundered before the bodies were found the next morning. He peered inside: no sign of panic in there. No sign of violence, or ransacking, and however sleepy the security guard looked, surely he’d have noticed?

  He could say to Pietro, I’m right here, I’m on the spot. Want me to ask a few questions? But he didn’t, because he didn’t want to hear that tone in Pietro’s voice again. And what could he do, anyway? Without the technical support to make sense of what would be encoded and computerized and secured beyond the reach of intruders, legitimate or otherwise.

  In the background Sandro heard the bleep and crackle of Pietro’s police radio, and wiped his forehead. ‘You need to go?’ he said softly, but Pietro was already on it, talking in that familiar urgent and muffled tone into the radio. Then he was back.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, and Sandro could tell his mind was already elsewhere. He wished he could ask what had come through on that radio message but he kept silent.

  ‘Something’s come up,’ and from his guarded tone Sandro realized Pietro knew what thoughts had gone through his old partner’s head.

  ‘I understand,’ said Sandro. ‘You go.’

  ‘There was something else,’ said Pietro, hurriedly. ‘The forensic examination. The post-mortem injuries – there were some marks – small abrasions – on his wrists, something like a friction burn across his back. And there was a lesion on his leg. Long, oval-shaped mark, on the inside of his leg.’

  ‘A lesion?’

  ‘Like a deep graze, or a burn.’

  ‘And that stuff on his shoe, that was ash, right?’ Sandro ran his tongue over his teeth, thinking. His mouth was sour. That was the heat too, and last night’s wine. ‘A fire?’ He puzzled over it, thinking aloud. ‘But he wasn’t seriously burned.’

  ‘No, no,’ said Pietro, distant, not quite answering. ‘They’re analysing the ash. It’s something unusual. Cellulose, celluloid, something like that.’

  ‘Pietro,’ said Sandro, losing his cool just a bit. ‘Look. Is this a problem? I know he’s not my guy. I know it’s not m
y case. I know all that. I’m just trying to be thorough.’ He sighed. ‘I just wish we could – I don’t know. Sit down and chew this over. Face to face.’

  There was a long silence, and Sandro resigned himself to failure. He had no leverage: he couldn’t ask, he could only wait, and patience wasn’t his strong point.

  Then Pietro breathed out explosively. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I know. It’s just delicate, you know? With the Guardia and all. All right. There was some – DNA evidence.’ Again Sandro waited. ‘That blood – it wasn’t all his. We’re checking it against what we’ve got registered. You never know.’

  All right. Sandro was keenly aware that Pietro hadn’t told him not to worry, this was fine. But still.

  You never knew. There was no national DNA database yet; the legislation was still being wrangled over. So presenting it as evidence was far from being a guarantee of results, unless things were absolutely cut and dried. But there was an embryonic resource, and some regional forces and some individuals were becoming enthusiastic about collecting samples. They could get lucky.

  ‘I’ll let you know.’ And again that resignation.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Sandro humbly, staring down at the pavement.

  ‘Chiara loved the present,’ said Pietro, out of the blue, then hurriedly, ‘I trust you. You won’t let me down on this.’ And he hung up.

  It was a warning.

  Sandro turned and once again he looked inside the bank. Time to grow some balls, he thought, and rapped on the window; when those inside turned towards him, he took out his badge and held it up against the glass.

  *

  Why didn’t anyone tell me? This was the thought that ran stupidly through Roxana’s head as she stared at what was left of the Carnevale.

  Stupid, because why would anyone? Oh, by the way, Roxi, she could just hear Maria Grazia say, the old porn cinema’s closed down, thought you’d be interested. Not.

  It was hardly dramatic, either. They’d only got around to mounting the board halfway round the frontage. The signage – a vertical strip of coloured neon letters spelling out the name, 1950s vintage – was intact. Gaudy once, never tasteful, maybe they’d even be re-used now that kitsch was in again. When the building became whatever it was going to become, people would walk past, they’d shop there, maybe they’d even live there, and they’d be oblivious to the fact it had once been a porn cinema.