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.
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 to 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.’
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.
There was a short biography inset into the photograph with his name and dates. His family had apparently owned and worked land around Ginosa for three hundred years. Too young himself for active service in the Second World War, he’d volunteered for the Genio Guastatori instead, helping to clear Italy’s battlefields of unexploded munitions. It had given him a love for metal detection that had lasted his whole life. He’d been a common sight in the fields and valleys around Ginosa, particularly after his retirement, sweeping them for the artefacts here on display. Unfortunately, his passion for treasure hunting hadn’t been matched by diligence at record keeping, so it was impossible to say precisely where each piece was found, but the collection as a whole gave a fascinating glimpse of the town and larger region’s long and vibrant history.
There were glass-topped display cabinets against the walls, and more running down the centre, with the exhibits arranged thematically rather than by era. The first two had a military motif, with arrowheads, a shell casing, various military buttons, a pair of pitted knives and what was optimistically billed as the hilt of a Roman short sword. Then came jewellery, with rings, bracelets and other pieces – as well as colour photographs of Vittorio’s ring and brooches, their absence explained by a faded photocopy of a newspaper article about the theft.
Farm implements. Cutlery through the ages. Coins of varying vintages and interest. The gold solidus had been the star of that particular show, its absence again marked and explained by the same photocopied clipping. But there were other interesting coins too, staters from Magna Graecia all the way up to rare lire from the Italian Republic, along with others in too poor condition to identify, artfully arranged to spill out of a pair of small wooden chests. None that Carmen could see could plausibly be attributed to Alaric or his Visigoths, however, so she glanced at Zara with an apologetic smile, hoping that she wouldn’t hold this wasted trip against her, only to be startled by her flushed face and shining eyes. She asked the question with an eyebrow. Zara hesitated then pointed to the left of the two troves. ‘The one with the cup.’
Carmen leaned closer. The glass lid was old and scratched, and the way the strip lighting reflected made it hard to be sure. But yes, one of the coins did indeed seem to be stamped with a cup. ‘And?’ she asked.
Again that hesitation. ‘I’d need to see the other side.’ She made her way back to reception. Carmen could hear her talking animatedly. Then she reappeared with the receptionist, who unlocked the glass lid and lifted it like a bonnet. Zara pointed to the coin. The receptionist pulled on a pair of loose white gloves then took it delicately between her fingers, turned it to its obverse. Carmen peered closely. Again, she could see a design, but it was almost impossible to make out what. ‘A fleur-de-lis?’ she hazarded.
‘No,’ said Zara. ‘Three fruits hanging from a branch.’
‘Oh. Yes.’ She saw it now. ‘Well?’
‘A half-shekel. Year two of the Siege of Jerusalem.’
‘A half-shekel?’ frowned Carmen. ‘But that makes no…’ She stopped herself then gazed at Zara in astonishment. When Titus had led the Roman army to Israel to suppress the Great Revolt, thousands of rural Jews had fled to Jerusalem for sanctuary. They’d stayed there for the next three years, during which time they’d minted their own coins – including this one, apparently – until Titus had finally seized the city and torn down the temple, stripping both of their wealth and treasures to take back to Rome in triumph. And, realising that, Carmen realised something else too. It wasn’t Alaric himself that had brought Zara here from Sorrento. It was the whiff of sacred treasures.
The larger mystery remained, however. What was this coin doing in Ginosa at all? The coin and the sealstone too? Carmen wandered back over to the photograph of Genaro Scopece, the man who’d found them both, whose family had lived here for three hundred years and who’d been a common sight in the fields and valleys around Ginosa, particularly after his retirement. The one they’d called…
A monstrous suspicion came suddenly to her. She marched back over to the cabinet. ‘This man Genaro Scopece,’ she demanded, folding her arms in anger. ‘Why was he known as Il Siciliano?’