The lecture had gone well. No doubt about it. But then it always added a frisson to an event like this when the volcano under discussion was liable to erupt at any moment in a massive Plinian event likely to bury not only this auditorium but the whole region beneath its discharge. Fatima Zirpoli, Chief Scientist at the Vesuvius Observatory, answered the last of the questions, then excused herself and went to the restrooms, where she sat in a cubicle with her head in her hands, for – even after all these years – it always took her a few minutes to decompress after a talk.
She’d put her phone on silent for her lecture. Now she fished it from her bag. A number of missed calls from Carlo, her number two. Her heart did that peculiar little trick of sinking in dread even as it thrilled in excitement – for the days ahead, awful as they were liable to prove, were what she’d spent her life preparing for. She stood and flushed the loo, though it didn’t need it, then went out to wash her hands. Her phone rang again as she was drying them on a paper towel.
‘Hey Carlo,’ she said. ‘What’s up?’
‘Another incident,’ he told her curtly.
‘I guessed that already. Tell me more.’
‘Pair of farmers up in Ottaviano. Used to be best friends. Then the wife of one decides she prefers the other. Bad blood ever since.’ He had an irritating way of talking, Carlo, in truncated sentences that somehow didn’t help him get to the point any quicker. ‘Anyway, farmer number one finds his dog dead early this morning. Blames his rival and the ex-wife, because they’d threatened the poor brute for messing with their chickens. So he grabs his shotgun, goes over, gives number two both barrels through the window. Then the ex-wife clunks him with a shovel before he can reload.’
‘Which all has what to do with us?’
‘Bear with me. Police turn up. Take statements. Signor Cuckold accuses farmer number two of poisoning his dog. The ex-wife says no. They’ve been in Turin for a funeral. The police call in a vet. Our friend Massimo, no less, who of course is on the lookout for volcanic gases. Sure enough, it presents like carbon dioxide.’
‘Oh Christ.’ It was impossible to predict eruptions with anything like precision. All one could do was watch for signs. Gases leaking from a previously unknown fumarole was another to add to a list that already included a massive increase in seismic activity, alarming rises in surface and subsurface temperatures, a noticeable bulging of the caldera and the deformation of the surrounding terrain. Every light on her dashboard was now flashing red. ‘Where was this, exactly?’
‘Ottaviano, like I say. Those farmhouses on Via Carcova. The one with that old green barn with the patched roof.’
‘I know it. Any other explanations?’
‘Always other explanations. Like maybe the wife and her new hubby got imaginative with their poison of choice. You know, arrange an alibi, gas the dog, blame it on the mountain. But Massimo says these two aren’t the imaginative sort. You know the kind. Solid citizens of the soil. Salt of the earth.’
‘Arseholes?’
‘Your word, not mine.’
Fatima sighed heavily. Her hostess Johanna had been looking particularly fetching in her cream linen suit. And recently separated too. But their drink was going to have to wait. ‘Okay,’ she told Carlo. ‘I’m on my way.’
Cesco stared in shock at the computer screen. Was it possible that he’d found Raff’s killer as quickly and as simply as that? Except no. Miranda Harcourt had already tweeted several times that morning, including with selfies taken respectively outside her Naples waterfront hotel, at the city’s Capodichino Airport, at Paris Charles de Gaulle, in the back of a Turkish taxi and finally on a hotel balcony set against Istanbul’s unmistakeable skyline. It was just about possible that the photos were old, however, and only posted to give herself an alibi. He needed to make sure. She’d given the name of her Sultanahmet hotel in her last tweet, pimping it in the influencer manner as the city’s finest, doubtless trading her endorsement for a comped room. He found its number, called to confirm that she’d checked in, asked to be put through. She answered on the third ring, her voice strained and weary. ‘Yes?’
‘Hi,’ he said. ‘Is that Miranda Harcourt?’
‘Yes. Why? Who is this?’
He ended the call without another word, checked out her possible flights. Only one fitted with her tweets. Depart Naples Capodichino at 6:05 a.m., switch at Paris Charles de Gaulle for Istanbul. As the Lamborghini hadn’t arrived at the Villa of the Papyri until 7:44, she clearly hadn’t been directly involved. Yet her presence in Naples was too great a coincidence to ignore.
He reached for Valentina Messana’s card, then hesitated. Raff had been desperate for cash and had had access to countless valuable artefacts. The police knew that now. They were likely to put two and two together, and maybe leak it too, staining Raff’s reputation for ever – even if he was ultimately cleared. Cesco refused to be part of that, especially on such flimsy evidence.
Yet he couldn’t ignore it either.
His phone buzzed. A text from Carmen. Any chance he could pick her up outside Gran Caffè Gambrinus at six? Something she wanted to discuss. He checked his watch. It was a little past five. Leave now and he could swing by Miranda Harcourt’s hotel and then meet Carmen straight after. He texted back that he’d see her there, then grabbed his jacket and hurried for the door.
They came for Dieter when he was already ninety minutes in to his afternoon workout, lying on his back beneath the weights machine they’d brought down from Stuttgart in the van. They came as a group, of course. None of them had the balls to take him on alone.
He sat up and grabbed a towel to wipe himself down. ‘Yes?’ he said.
It was Knöchel who stepped forward. ‘A word,’ he said.
The buzz was on him from his workout. He felt mellow and pleasantly weary. No doubt that was why they’d chosen this moment. He threw away the towel, grabbed a pair of twenty-kilo bells to pump away at while they talked. ‘About what?’ he asked.
‘This trip. Don’t get us wrong. We want Rossi too. But he isn’t here.’
‘He’ll be back. Eventually.’
‘Of course. And then we’ll come for him. But why stay here until then? We’ve got shit back home needs taking care of. Hans says our new suppliers are taking the piss. Then there’s the Azerbaijanis too.’
‘You think that’s coincidence, do you?’ asked Dieter, pumping rhythmically at the bells. Twenty kilos were for pussies, but they made for better weapons. ‘They’re taking liberties because they’ve lost respect for us. Rossi fucked with us and lived, so now they think they can too. The Romans knew how it was done. They hung their enemies from gibbets. They crucified them and put their heads on spikes.’
‘They had to find them first,’ muttered Gunther.
Dieter turned to stare at him. ‘What was that?’
‘Nothing, boss.’
Aged ten or so, Dieter had realised he wasn’t like other kids, even the troublesome ones. They used violence to get what they wanted. But violence was what he wanted. The fear in people’s eyes. Not just contemporaries but the older kids too, teachers and other adults. But at length he’d grown weary of the arrests, tribunals and the rest, so he’d learned to control himself, turning his rage into a Rottweiler that he mostly kept tightly leashed. But you had to let it snarl from time to time, or people would take liberties.
He looked from face to face, wondering who to choose. Gunther himself was too useful. Knöchel too. His gaze settled on Ox. He’d christened him that himself, not just for his obscene size and strength, but for his docility too. His fists tightened round the dumbbells. ‘What about you?’ he asked.
Ox took half a step back, puzzled rather than alarmed. Good-natured himself, he assumed good nature in others. ‘I’m with you, boss,’ he said. ‘Whatever you say.’
On the floor beside the weights machine, his phone pinged with a notification. It was always doing that, but this one had an unfamiliar trill. Then he remembered setting it up some weeks before to alert him should the names ‘Cesco Rossi’ and ‘Carmen Nero’ ever appear together. His mouth went a little dry. He set down a dumbbell to pick up his phone and check the story out.
‘Well?’ asked Knöchel.
Dieter looked up at him with a savage grin. ‘Fucking told you,’ he said.