The Sacred Spoils

by The Sacred Spoils (retail) (epub)

Two and a half hours had now passed since Zara had arrived at the gelateria, summoned by a text from Dov. She’d taken a pavement table in full view of the police station’s front doors, so that Carmen would see her as she came out. Her sunshade kept rocking and creaking, as though it couldn’t quite get comfortable. She knew exactly how it felt. Killing time didn’t come easily to her. She’d already nursed two coffees like hospice patients, and nibbled her way through a mango sorbet with a long spoon. But still no sign of Carmen. To make matters worse, she’d so over-rehearsed her cover story that it had drained of meaning. An old university friend had married her Italian sweetheart in Sorrento the previous weekend. She’d decided to make the most of it by visiting Amalfi and Capri. Then news of Alaric had broken. With Cosenza only a short drive away…

  She wanted to run it by Dov, but he was several tables away, his back turned to her. She sent him a text instead. He checked his phone and scowled back at her. Bells tolled midday. Carmen had been inside almost three hours. It didn’t seem feasible. Zara got to her feet then walked along the road. A blonde woman in a shiny leather skirt and scarlet cork platforms came out of a side door at that moment, stooping to hold the hands of two young girls in school uniform. With a thrill of indignation, she turned on her heel and marched over to Dov’s table. ‘You idiot,’ she hissed. ‘There’s another exit.’

  ‘Sit down,’ said Dov.

  ‘What for? She left hours ago.’

  ‘Sit the fuck down.’

  There was something in his voice. She glanced around. A young woman was trotting down the police station steps and heading straight towards them. She saw Zara and stopped before she even reached their pavement, then gave a puzzled smile and hesitantly approached. ‘Professor Gold,’ she frowned. ‘Is that you?’

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  I

  It hadn’t only been false witness that Zara’s parents and their community had abhorred. They’d frowned with almost equal severity on the theatre, cinema and other such forms of make-believe. One of her cousins had once become an actor in Tel Aviv. He’d never been talked of again. But suddenly she found herself thrust on stage and, to her immense relief, her lines came naturally. ‘Carmen Nero,’ she smiled, holding out her hand to shake. ‘What an extraordinary coincidence. I was just writing you an email.’

  ‘An email?’

  She glanced down at Dov. His face was stone. But it was too late now to pretend she didn’t know him. ‘This is my friend Dov,’ she said. ‘We were in Sorrento for a wedding. I’ve been telling him for weeks about how beautiful the Amalfi coast is, so we agreed to stay on a few days, to head up to Capri. Then you went and posted that photograph of those Alaric artefacts, and I’ve been transfixed ever since.’

  ‘I didn’t even realise you’d been following.’

  ‘I know, I know. It’s silly, but I felt ashamed. Every year, I give my new students the exact same introductory lecture. I’m sure you know the one. How archaeology isn’t about the hunt for fabulous lost treasures any more. Then this happens and I can’t look away. And Cosenza was only two hours away. It seemed almost like it was meant to be. So I’m afraid I bullied poor Dov into coming here instead.’

  For a moment she feared Dov would refuse his cue. But then he got to his feet and smiled warmly. ‘No bullying required,’ he said. ‘What can Capri offer, after all, that Cosenza can’t?’

  They laughed together, but then Carmen gave a grimace. ‘I wish you’d sent that email,’ she said. ‘I could have saved you a drive.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘We found Alaric’s tomb yesterday. At least, we found the thing we thought might be his tomb. It wasn’t his tomb at all. It wasn’t any kind of tomb. It was something else altogether.’ She glanced over her shoulder at the police station, as though wondering how much to tell them. Then her expression cleared. She took a local newspaper from beneath her arm and flapped it to an inside page, struggling to hold it against the faint breeze. ‘That photograph I posted. It turns out those pieces weren’t even from around here.’

  Zara took the paper and read the article. When she realised what it meant, she couldn’t help but laugh. ‘How about that?’ she said, passing it on to Dov. ‘All this way for nothing.’ But then she frowned. ‘Puglia?’

  Carmen grinned. ‘That’s exactly what I was wondering. The gold solidus and the dolphin, sure. The brooches maybe. But that ring makes zero sense.’ She turned to address Dov directly, to include him in the conversation. ‘Alaric was in Italy for years. But he never went anywhere near Puglia, not as far as we know. Though our sources are so thin that tracking his movements is hellishly hard. Like trying to guess a jigsaw from seven surviving pieces.’

  ‘And you think these artefacts might be piece number eight?’ suggested Dov.

  ‘Maybe. And maybe piece number nine is still in the museum.’ Then she added, with just a hint of shame: ‘I was actually planning to go visit it, except it’s a nightmare without a car.’

  Zara glanced at Dov. He shrugged and spread his hands. She considered for a moment. The chances of finding anything in Ginosa were vanishingly small. But their first flight home wasn’t until tomorrow anyway, and the less time she spent alone with Dov, the happier she’d be. So she turned back to Carmen with a smile. ‘Then it’s just as well we have one, isn’t it?’

  II

  It was on the Naples ring road when exhaustion finally got the better of Cesco. He woke from a micro-sleep to find himself veering into a container lorry. In his rush to save himself, he overcorrected and took the Harley fishtailing across two lanes, fighting to stay upright amid the screech of brakes and blare of horns.

  He pulled into the next lay-by to give his heart a chance to settle. He needed to get some sleep. Yet he had too many enemies in Naples to make that an attractive option, while his near miss had given him enough adrenaline to make it a little further. He looped around the city to reach the coast at Pozzuoli, where he decided to call it quits. It was still low season. He had his pick of pensiones. He found one with rear parking then went inside. A kindly looking woman, all teeth and moles, was perched on a tall stool behind reception. She shook her head at him when he asked for a room, and gave an explanation he was too tired to take in. He thrust banknotes at her until she sighed in exasperation and led him upstairs. Now he understood. The room hadn’t yet been made up. He shooed her to the door and told her he wasn’t to be disturbed. Then he stripped off his jacket, shoes and jeans and dived head first onto the bed as if into a swimming pool, to be swallowed up by sleep even as hit the water.

  III

  Carmen looked from Zara to Dov and back again. There was a peculiar tension between the pair of them, as though she’d surprised them in the middle of a fight. The last thing she wanted, if so, was to exacerbate it with a futile six-hour round trip. ‘Are you sure about this?’ she asked doubtfully. ‘Ginosa’s quite a hike.’

  ‘For you as well as us,’ said Zara.

  ‘Yes. But I’ve got a thesis at stake.’

  ‘How far is it exactly?’ asked Dov.

  ‘Two hours, I’d guess,’ said Carmen. ‘Maybe three.’

  ‘Two hours!’ he scoffed, waving it away.

  ‘Maybe three. Then the same again coming back.’ She frowned at them. ‘You will be coming back, yes?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Dov. ‘I’ve already had to cancel one hotel room for tonight. Damned if I’ll cancel a second.’ His brow furrowed. ‘Though, while we’re vaguely on the subject, may I ask a favour?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Carmen. ‘What?’

  ‘The fact of the matter is, I’m technically a married man. Only for another few weeks, but still. I’d hate for my kids to find out about me and Zara before I’m ready to tell them. So if you could keep us to yourself…’

  ‘I won’t say a word,’ promised Carmen.

  ‘Great,’ said Dov. He clapped his hands together. ‘Then how about this: you didn’t come over here to say hi. You came for ice cream. Don’t even try to de
ny it, I saw it in your eyes. So you stay here with Zara and gorge yourself while I go fetch the car. It’s not far. I’ll be back before you know it.’ He nodded cheerfully then headed off before they could argue, his leather jacket slung over his shoulder on the hook of his finger. Carmen stared after him. Something about the way he moved reminded her of that man in the cafe that morning. Except it couldn’t be him, so she shrugged it off and went inside.

  The neat rows of brightly coloured ice creams and sorbets beneath the impeccably polished glass made her mouth water. She ordered scoops of chocolate and lemon, then went outside to eat. She asked Zara about her Sorrento wedding, but Zara had no interest in discussing that. All she cared about was Alaric. Carmen answered cautiously at first, mindful that a police investigation was still in progress. But this was Professor Zara Gold. If she couldn’t trust her, who could she trust? And it was such a relief to talk to someone uninvolved that soon it all came spilling out: Vittorio, Giulia and the GPR; her brief alliance with Cesco Rossi, and how he’d proved a fraud; how she’d fallen into the hands of the ’Ndrangheta before being rescued by Baldassare and his men. It was a treat to watch Zara, the way her mouth dropped, the perfect circles of her eyes. She was describing her morning with the sketch artist when Dov reappeared, tooting for their attention from a scarlet Renault. They hurried over. Carmen got in the back. A leaflet of some kind had slipped beneath the passenger seat. Thinking it might be important, she pinched it out between her fingertips only to find it was just a car-hire map of Calabria. She passed it forward all the same, for Zara to put away in the glove compartment.

  ‘You have to hear what Carmen’s been up to,’ Zara told Dov.

  ‘I never should have said anything,’ wailed Carmen. She meant it too. Zara she trusted, but there something off-putting about Dov, particularly when he smiled. But it was too late now, so out it all came again. Dov kept glancing round at her, his disbelief apparent. ‘What did I tell you?’ said Zara when she was done. They pressed her with questions for a while. She answered as best she could. But even the best tales wind eventually to their end. Silence fell. Dov shook his head and let out a long breath as if to draw a line beneath it all, then turned on the radio and searched channels until he found some Bach.

  The day was warm, the car stuffy. Their tyres made lullaby on the tarmac. Carmen’s eyelids grew heavy. Every kilometre they put between themselves and Cosenza leached more tension out of her. Her head lolled against the window, startling her back awake. She shook herself and sat up. Her head lolled again. She found an angle of repose between the seat back and the window and gave herself permission to close her eyes just for a minute or two, vowing to herself that on no account was she to let herself fall asleep.

  And, so vowing, she fell.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  I

  Dov adjusted his rear-view mirror so that he could keep an eye on Carmen in the back seat. Her eyes were closed, her mouth open, while the steady rasp of her breathing indicated that she was now fast asleep. He turned to Zara with a glare. ‘What was I supposed to do?’ she asked defensively. ‘Pretend I didn’t know you?’

  ‘How about not coming to my table at all?’ he said, switching to Hebrew, just in case. ‘How many times do I have to tell you things?’

  ‘The police station had a side door.’

  ‘I know it had a fucking side door. I was watching it.’

  ‘Bullshit. You couldn’t even see it from your table.’

  ‘There was a shoe shop across the street. I could see its reflection in the glass.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Zara.

  ‘Oh,’ said Dov. He checked on Carmen again. She was still out, a little saliva glistening at the corner of her mouth. He reached across to pop the glove compartment, take out the car-hire map. ‘And this! Who the hell flies into Lamezia Terme for a wedding in Sorrento?’

  ‘You were the one who fetched the car. You should have checked to—’

  ‘Your map. Your mistake.’ He buzzed down his window and tossed it out, watching in his wing mirror as it flapped after them like a wounded bird. Reception on the Bach began to go. He found some Rossini instead. They reached the Gulf of Taranto, the arch of the Italian boot. The sky was clear but hazy, the water still and pale. There were grey shapes in the distance, like a ghost armada. They drove another forty minutes then turned inland and uphill towards Ginosa. Dov took a turn at the edge of town deliberately sharply, to lurch Carmen awake. She sat up and rubbed her eyes. He smiled warmly at her. ‘Back with us?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘The last few days, you’ve no idea.’

  ‘No worries. The greatest compliment you can pay a driver – isn’t that what they say?’

  The streets were narrow; the houses whitewashed. They found the ethnographic museum near the top of town, a one-storey building in need of paint. It had five parking bays outside, four of which were empty. Dov reversed into the one closest to the entrance. ‘You two go on in,’ he said. ‘I think I’ll take a stroll.’

  ‘Are you not coming?’ asked Carmen.

  ‘I’m not a museum guy, to be honest. Not on an afternoon like this. Give me a centro storico any day. A centro storico and a beer.’

  ‘But that’s terrible,’ said Carmen. ‘After driving us all this way.’

  Dov smiled, touched by her concern. What a shame it was that, thanks to Zara’s amateurish blundering, he was now almost certainly going to have to kill her too.

  II

  As a boy, Tomas Gentile had loved to watch his father doing his household chores. No job had been beyond him. There’d been nothing he couldn’t fix. He’d already been rich by then, so it hadn’t been a question of saving money. He’d done it because the ability to keep one’s house and possessions in good working order had been an important part of what it meant to be a man.

  There was a wooden ladder in the basement. Tomas carried it outside to unclog the gutters and downpipes of sodden handfuls of moss and pine needles. The pine trees themselves needed cutting down to size, but that would take a chainsaw, the noise of which might draw unwelcome attention. He oiled the hinges and locks on all the doors and windows, cleaning them while he was at it and making a note of which needed repair or replacement. He weeded and swept the paved forecourt then cut back the shrubberies with a pair of clippers.

  A message came in on his phone. It had an attachment. He opened it and studied it for a while. He hadn’t been lying to that American woman. They really did have sources in the Cosenza police who’d be happy to sell her out for a hundred euros. He went inside and found Guido at the stove, wearing a small pink apron with white trim as he cooked up a batch of red sauce. ‘That smells good,’ he told him.

  ‘It’s the rosemary.’

  ‘I know it’s the rosemary,’ said Tomas. ‘I’m just saying, it smells good.’ He held out his tablet and said: ‘The police have sketches.’

  Guido scooped up sauce on his wooden spoon. He blew on it to cool it before taking a small taste, letting it sit on his tongue before swallowing it. ‘That American bitch?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  Guido wiped his hands on his apron before taking the phone. ‘Would you look at the fucking teeth she’s given me,’ he said balefully. ‘Mine don’t look anything like that.’

  ‘You could brush them more, you know, oh my brother.’

  ‘Fuck you, brush them more. How would brushing make them straight?’

  ‘Forget your teeth. What about the likenesses? Do you think we could be recognised from them?’

  Guido looked at them again. ‘Recognised, no. Suspected, sure.’

  Tomas nodded. ‘That’s what I think too. I think if the police see us, they’ll arrest us and take us in, just in case. Then they’ll invite her to the station to look at us. She will say yes, that’s them. And that will be that.’

  Guido pinched sea salt between thumb and forefinger, crumbling it into his sauce. ‘What are we gonna do?’

  ‘According t
o her apartment listing, she’s checking out on Wednesday morning. With everything that’s happened, she might not even stay that long. And who can say where she’ll go then?’ He still had her passport so she wouldn’t be heading back to America any time soon. But that was the best that could be said for the situation. ‘We can’t risk waiting for Massimo and the boys. Nor can we ask the Critellis. We’ll have to take care of her ourselves.’

  Guido looked unhappily down at his sauce. ‘Now?’

  ‘Not in daylight, no. Not with every policeman in Cosenza having those sketches. After it gets dark.’

  Guido gave his pan another stir. ‘Tonight, then.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Tomas. ‘Tonight.’

  III

  A Japanese family of six was leaving the museum as Carmen and Zara arrived, identical expressions of polite bemusement on their faces, as if convinced there had to have been a real museum in there somewhere, they just hadn’t been able to find it. They waited until they were all out then went on in. The small foyer had a reception desk at which a woman with toothpick arms and hair like blue candyfloss hurriedly closed a paperback with a lurid jacket and hid it on her knees beneath her desk. She gave them two tickets and a pair of introductory leaflets in exchange for the entrance fees that Carmen insisted on paying. There were six rooms in total. The first dealt with the region’s Palaeolithic origins; the second, its Magna Graecia pomp. They ignored both of those and walked straight to the third, a special collection dedicated to the finds of a local farmer, Genaro ‘Il Siciliano’ Scopece, whose full-length, sepia-tinted photograph was on the wall by the door: bald-headed but with thick grey stubble, dressed in a checked shirt and heavy jacket, holding a long staff with a knobbly end, and a glint in his eye that said that if the photographer cared to come a fraction closer, he’d find out what the knobbly end was for.