Nighthawks

by Lambert Nagle

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Carabinieri.’ The door swung open.

  ‘ID please,’ the concierge said.

  Stephen flashed his badge. ‘And you are?’

  ‘Sergio,’ the man said, ushering Stephen in.

  ‘Have you seen Monsignor Michael McCarthy today?’ Stephen asked.

  ‘Yes. Why do you ask?’ Knowing other people’s business was a perk of his job, Stephen supposed. He ignored the question.

  ‘When?’

  ‘This morning, about eight. He went for his usual walk.’

  ‘Did you see him return?’

  Sergio shook his head.

  ‘How did he seem to you?’

  The concierge shrugged. ‘Like normal.’

  ‘What did you talk about?’

  ‘He said he didn’t know how much longer he’d be in the apartment. He thought his landlord might want it back.’

  ‘I need to take a look inside.’

  Sergio hesitated, as though he was weighing up whether to comply.

  ‘Come with me,’ he said, pulling open the door of the little metal lift. There was barely room for one person, yet alone two.

  ‘I’ll meet you up there,’ Stephen offered. He took the steps two at a time and met Sergio at the top. Jingling the keys, Sergio unlocked the heavy door to the apartment.

  ‘I’ll give you five minutes. No longer. He won’t want you touching his stuff.’

  The rooms had soaring ceilings, and each one was ornately decorated with heavy brocade curtains and dark, solid furniture. But what struck him was that every inch of wall in every space, apart from the modest, utilitarian kitchen, with its elderly electric stove, a small sink and tiny preparation area, was filled with shelving. Every shelf was either stacked with books or held an antiquity. He switched his phone to video and panned backwards and forwards as he walked from room to room.

  He was in the sitting room, which had an enormous period fireplace. He peered through a set of panelled doors that led to a separate dining room, furnished with an opulent dining table and six chairs. The furnishings wouldn’t have looked out of place in a bishop’s palace. And indeed, no priest he knew from back home could ever dream of living like this, surrounded by books and expensive looking antiques. But McCarthy had been at the heart of the Holy See, in the inner circle of the Bishop of Rome and was unlike any priest Stephen had ever known. Even so, there was something that nagged at him.

  No matter how high up you were in the church hierarchy, it would be hard to live like this without another means of support, surely? What that means was, Stephen was determined to find out.

  As he walked into the dining room, the only clear space appeared to be the ceiling. The remaining walls had deep shelving, right the way up to the top. Some of them had been glassed in. Here, Stephen guessed, McCarthy kept his prized possessions: an array of figurines and sculptures. There was a portable wooden ladder parked in the corner of the room, the kind that you’d find in an old-fashioned library. He moved the ladder and climbed up. No sign of a disturbance up there, either. Just as he was putting the ladder back, he heard footsteps. He turned around to see Sergio staring at him.

  ‘Everything appears to be in order,’ Stephen said. ‘Give me one more minute. One last room to check.’

  As he walked into the book-lined study, he noticed the desktop computer was on. Light from the monitor bounced round the room through a series of reflections, scattering off a pair of beautiful glass lustres on the mantlepiece. Projected faintly on the glass doors of the bookcase was an image of what was on the computer display: a page open on eBay.

  ‘He can’t have gone far,’ Stephen said. ‘He’s left his computer on.’

  ‘Thought so.’ Stephen detected a note of disappointment in Sergio’s tone. ‘Nothing to worry about. I won’t tell him we were in here. It’ll be our secret,’ he said, looking expectantly to Stephen.

  He has a damn nerve if he expects a tip. Stephen smiled and shook his head.

  Sergio muttered to himself as he began to close the door when all of a sudden they heard a commotion coming from the back of the building.

  ‘Help, help. Call the police.’

  Stephen and Sergio looked at each other.

  ‘The widow who lives on the third floor. She walks her dogs in the courtyard at the back,’ Sergio said, panting like an overweight Labrador as he lumbered towards the back of the building, with Stephen following behind. ‘This way.’

  They burst through the emergency exit that opened out onto a back alley where the bins were and there, sitting amongst the piled-up bags of rotting food was McCarthy, bleeding from a gash across his forehead.

  An elderly woman, clutching the lead of her two pugs, was shaking.

  ‘I was out with the dogs, and I found him like that.’

  Stephen looked around and finding nothing suitable, unbuttoned his shirt, took it off and wrapped it around McCarthy’s head.

  ‘Get the first aid box, will you?’ Sergio bustled about while Stephen sat down beside McCarthy, holding onto his shirt and calling the ambulance at the same time.

  ‘There’s no need, McCarthy said. ‘I’m fine. It’s just a gash.’

  ‘It’s alright, I’ve got this,’ Stephen said as Sergio passed him the first aid kit.

  Sergio turned his attention instead to the woman and her dogs. As he took her by the arm and tried to gently lead her away, she elbowed him.

  ‘Don’t patronise me.’ Her angry tone set the pugs off barking at him.

  ‘The police are here,’ he said nodding in Stephen’s direction.

  The woman looked straight at Sergio.

  ‘Him? He doesn’t look old enough.’ She gave Stephen a withering look.

  He ignored her and knelt down to tend to McCarthy where he lay on the ground.

  ‘I know who you are.’ McCarthy said.

  ‘I don’t expect to be forgiven, but won’t you tell me what happened?’ Stephen asked gently.

  ‘I walked into a door, that was all,’ McCarthy said.

  Sure. That's what every second victim of abuse from Rome to Roscommon would say.

  Sergio took out his phone and busied himself taking photographs.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Stephen asked.

  ‘What does it look like?’ Sergio huffed.

  ‘Like you’re filming. So please stop.’ Stephen said.

  ‘It’s a crime scene. That’s what they do on TV.’

  ‘Thanks, but it won’t be necessary.’

  ‘Suit yourself.’

  McCarthy’s right eye was so swollen, it looked like he could barely see out of it, but he acknowledged Stephen with a tilt of the head.

  ‘Stay still. I think we both know what happened here,’ Stephen said. ‘How many were there?’

  McCarthy, looking defeated, held up one finger.

  ‘Did you recognise your attacker?’

  McCarthy didn’t answer.

  Stephen tried again. ‘What did they take?’

  ‘My wallet,’ McCarthy said.

  ‘Anything else?’

  McCarthy hesitated then opened his mouth to speak, but was drowned out by an ambulance siren.

  Stephen stood up. As he did so, he felt a warm trickle of liquid flow from his shoe into his sock. And at the same time, noticed the distinct odour of ammonia. One of the pugs had peed on his foot. Their owner turned away and looked up as he glared at her. She turned to speak to Sergio.

  ‘How do you know he’s a police officer?’

  ‘Who were you expecting, Inspector Montalbano?’ Sergio said under his breath, as the woman turned to go inside, the incontinent pugs beside her.

  While Stephen waited for the ambulance crew to attend to McCarthy, he walked away out of earshot and called Pasquale.

  ‘Can you pull CCTV of the immediate area as per the GPS co-ordinates on my phone. Victim is male, Caucasian, early seventies and was unable to give me a description of his assailant.’

  As Stephen w
alked back to where McCarthy was lying, the paramedics were insisting that his head wound was serious and he needed to go to Accident and Emergency.

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ Stephen offered.

  ‘There’s really no need,’ McCarthy said, brushing Stephen off.

  ‘You don’t know how long you’re going to have to wait to be seen at the hospital. At least let me give you a lift home.’

  ‘I appreciate the offer,’ ’McCarthy said, his tone flat, indicating that he had no intention of taking Stephen up on it.

  As soon as McCarthy was safely inside the ambulance, Stephen shot over to the cafe.

  None of the regulars had seen anything out of the ordinary. The manager recalled some customers he didn’t know, but they often had passing trade. Stephen uploaded the cafe’s CCTV footage onto a memory stick. He wasn’t hopeful.

  Stephen puzzled over McCarthy’s reluctance to cooperate. Did he recognise his attacker and had kept quiet? Statistics proved you were in far more danger from someone you knew than a stranger.

  When Stephen’s phone buzzed, he was surprised when he saw the text was from McCarthy.

  Be careful. Your Stephen Walsh business card was stolen. They know about you.

  Who was he talking about? Was this something to do with the robbery?

  Back at the apartment building, Sergio sat at his desk and made a phone call.

  ‘A cop came here looking for McCarthy. He’s been mugged.’

  ‘Mugged? What did they take?’

  ‘Money, I suppose. Isn’t that what they always want? I’m sending a photo of the cop to you now.’

  Chapter 18

  Bruno casually threw Michael McCarthy’s emptied wallet into the Tiber as he loped across Ponte Principe towards the city. He touched the cash he had in the pocket of his hoodie. He was carrying McCarthy’s dropped parcel, still in its black plastic wrapping. His skinny arms were no match for the heavy, oddly shaped package, which was beginning to weigh him down. He leant up against the bridge, tore open the packaging and peered in. He glanced at the brown heavy frame with a disappointed look.

  He was about to dump it there beside the bridge, but must have thought better of it, as he slung it under his arm and carried on walking.

  As he made his way down Via Acciaioli, taking in the various shops, he caught sight of a display board advertising payday loans and cash for goods.

  He pushed opened the door and a buzzer rang. A man stood behind the counter, eyeing him up and down.

  Bruno sauntered up, pulled the painting from its wrapping and plonked it on the desk.

  ‘How much will you give me for this?’

  The man put his glasses on and peered at St Jerome and the Lion.

  ‘ID,’ he said.

  Bruno fished out McCarthy’s driving licence from his wallet and handed it over.

  The shopkeeper looked at the photograph of an older, grey-haired man and then at Bruno and laughed.

  ‘Did you steal the painting off the guy whose wallet you pinched?’

  Bruno shook his head.

  ‘No. Give me 100 euros.’

  The man looked at the frame and at the painting and then at Bruno.

  The lease on the place ended next Friday. If he put it in the window, he could make a quick profit, so what the hell. The shopkeeper opened his cash register and handed over five twenty euro notes.

  ‘Sign here,’ he said, handing over a receipt.

  Bruno signed an illegible scrawl and stuffed the money into his hoodie pocket, hiding his scarred wrists from the shopkeeper, before slinking out of the door and heading off into the city.

  Elisabetta’s phone rang. She glanced down at the caller ID and answered straight away.

  ‘Hi,' Elisabetta said, mouthing ‘sorry,’ to Stephen as he watched her pace around her office, listening, nodding. It reminded him of his first day at work in Italy. Only this time, he understood most of what she was saying, despite talking at a hundred miles an hour.

  As Elisabetta got off the phone, she was flushed with excitement.

  ‘An old colleague who works in the office of the DNAA, the National Anti-Mafia and Corruption Prosecutor’s office, just tipped me off about an anonymous call.’

  Stephen wondered where this was headed.

  ‘The caller reported comings and goings at odd times of day as well as large amounts of chemicals being unloaded from a lorry.’

  ‘Not a spiteful neighbour wasting police time?’ Stephen asked.

  ‘They’re treating this one seriously because of where it is,’ Elisabetta said, pulling a map up on her laptop. ‘It’s in a wealthy neighbourhood. Trieste-Salaria, the embassy district. They think the call came from the New Zealand embassy, which backs onto the garden.’

  ‘The chemicals could be for a swimming pool, maybe?’ Stephen said.

  ‘There’s definitely a pool there. But the owner hasn’t lived there for the past six months.’

  ‘Do they know who owns it?’

  Elisabetta shook her head. ‘An anonymous offshore company registered in the Cayman Islands. Counterterrorism are investigating who the beneficial owner of the company actually is.’

  ‘And counterterrorism are talking to us because?’

  ‘They started watching the house and managed to get eyes on what they were unloading by hiding in the garden at night.’

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘Along with the chemicals and industrial quantities of bleach and other items which they were thinking might be used for bomb-making equipment, there were crates and crates of old pots and ceramics.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I know, right. But you know what the best part is?’

  Stephen shook his head.

  Elisabetta slid her phone over.

  ‘This vehicle is parked there six days a week. They ran the number plate and it belongs to Aniello di Lauro.’

  ‘So that’s where he went. It’s di Lauro’s house?’

  ‘No, more like his place of work. Once they find out the name of the owner they can serve them with a search warrant. They want to mount a joint operation with us.’

  ‘I guess we wait then.’

  ‘We need to be ready to move once we get the go-ahead. And we’re going to need Renzo, wherever the hell he is. He’s gone walkabout again,’ Elisabetta said, looking over at Renzo’s empty desk. ‘That’s the third time this week. After you had a word with him, he seemed to get better. But now he’s up to his old tricks.’

  Stephen met her gaze and shook his head.

  ‘Not in here, in case he’s lurking,’ she said. ‘Let’s get a coffee.’

  ‘Okay.’ Stephen grabbed his jacket off the back of his chair and followed Elisabetta out of the office door and down the stairs.

  Stephen and Elisabetta sat opposite each other at a cafe table.

  ‘If Renzo screws up, we’ll get the blame.’ Elisabetta sighed.

  ‘It isn’t just the divorce. The wife won’t let him see their kid. If he has to go to court about access, it’s bound to have an impact on him. Plus his money worries must be giving him sleepless nights. Especially when he’s in debt to his colleagues.’

  What Stephen couldn’t tell Elisabetta was why he was so desperate to defend the guy. Or that he was willing to forgo the money he was owed. Stephen’s debt to Renzo was far greater, the one person who knew his guilty secret about hacking Ginny’s phone.

  ‘I think he’s the type who can keep home and work life separate,’ Stephen lied.

  ‘You’d better be right.’

  ‘And as for the money he owes us. I’m not expecting to get that back.’

  ‘I know you meant well. But as I keep stressing, we’re too small a team to carry anyone.’ Elisabetta said. ‘And I was willing to make allowances for getting over a break-up.’ She added sweetener to her coffee and stirred it in vigorously, before looking up. ‘It’s not like I haven’t been there myself.’

  This was the first time Elisabetta had dropped her guard and spoke
n about her personal life. Usually she was so private.

  ‘You too?’

  Apart from a brief head nod, she didn’t so much as pause for breath.

  ‘I took him aside as well,' Elisabetta said, glancing around. ‘When I told him there was no hurry to pay me back, you know what he did?’

  Stephen shook his head.

  ‘He cried. A cop who’s seen it all. Done it all. Reduced to tears over money. And you should have seen the way he walked out of that room. Head down, shoulders hunched.’

  ‘I hadn’t realised things had got that bad,’ Stephen said. ‘Another coffee?’

  Elisabetta shook her head and pushed her espresso cup away.

  ‘Renzo’s giving me enough sleepless nights as it is. I won’t sleep. The thing is,’ she began, ‘I know this is harsh…’

  Alarmed, Stephen interrupted her before she could finish her sentence.

  ‘I’ll look out for him,' he said, although he couldn’t help feeling that what Renzo really needed saving from was himself.

  Michael McCarthy discharged himself from hospital, even though his doctor had insisted he be kept overnight for observation.

  ‘Thank you for taking such good care of me. The painkillers you gave me have really helped. But if I stay here, I’ll be up all night, worrying about the boy who attacked me.’

  ‘You were knocked to the ground and you’re thinking about your attacker?’ The doctor shook her head.

  ‘He’s thirteen years old and an addict. That money he stole from me will have bought his next fix.’ McCarthy said as he hobbled off. His only concession to his injuries was a taxi home.

  Once the taxi dropped him off, he hurried upstairs to his apartment, left his things and was out the door. By then it was dark. The square outside his apartment took on a different, more sinister tone at night.

  Two police officers were standing next to a huddled mass in a sleeping bag. It was Ernesto’s usual sleeping place, but McCarthy couldn’t see if it was him or not. He could hear someone ranting and raving.

  McCarthy hurried over. ‘Ernesto? What’s wrong?’

  ‘They want me to go to the shelter, but if I go I’ll lose my spot,’ Ernesto said.