When he’d left the studio last night, Raff had mumbled vaguely about going to see someone. At the time, Cesco had assumed it was his mystery girlfriend. But what if it had been Miranda Harcourt instead? Her boutique hotel occupied the top two floors of a block just off the strip of prime Naples waterfront known as the Lungomare. Parking was always hard here, but finally he found a slot for his Harley and took the lift up. The woman on reception shook her head when he showed her a photo of Raffaele on his phone. He asked if Miranda Harcourt had received any visitors yesterday evening. She told him indignantly that it was against hotel policy to give out such information. Ten euros changed her mind. But all he learned was that Harcourt had gone out sometime around six to six thirty and hadn’t returned before her own shift had finished at ten. He thanked her and went back down.
There was a pavement cafe on the corner of the street. It seemed the obvious place for them to have met. He showed Raff’s photograph to a waiter. He shook his head. But one of his colleagues nodded. Yes, he’d been in here last night, she was sure of it. Shortly after six, because that was when she’d started work, and he’d been one of her first. Had he been with anyone? No. In fact she’d felt a little irritated with him for taking an outside table rather than a bar stool, even though they’d been crazy busy and he’d been on his own. But then a woman had come by and he’d left with her, having barely touched his Peroni. Cesco brought up one of Harcourt’s Twitter selfies. The waitress nodded at once. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘That’s her.’
Cesco kept his expression impassive. But inside he was churning.
Raff, you idiot. What the hell did you get yourself into?
Thirty odd years ago now, adolescence had turned Romeo Izzo from a bright, brash twelve-year-old into an uncommonly self-conscious teen, painfully aware of his Picasso features, his bad teeth, gangly limbs and narrow shoulders. He’d had the same raging hormones as all his mates, however, and a cheeky quick wit with which to make girls laugh, in the wake of which he’d managed to ask almost all of them out, at one point or another, despite the pummelling he’d taken from rejections along the way.
Yet there’d been one girl with whom his courage had always failed him.
Lucia Conte.
His problem had been simple. His tongue had ceased working in her presence, his usual instinctive jokes coming out slow and laboured instead. It hadn’t been her looks exactly, for – despite her long coiled black hair and the hypnotic way her skirts had swished and swirled around her legs – she’d by no means been the prettiest of their year. He’d been unnerved instead by her obvious intelligence and knowledge, constantly making allusions, connections and remarks that had whooshed over his head, but which he’d smiled nervously at all the same, despite suspecting that he himself was their butt. Worse still, he’d striven so hard for clever ripostes that he’d come out with stupidities instead, stupidities that she’d teased him for and which still had the power to wake him in a sweat. Yet somehow, considering how awkward and strained they often were together, they’d spent a surprising amount of time that way. And once or twice he’d caught her looking at him in the strangest way, making his insides tumble over themselves like clothes in a dryer, so that only his wretched shyness had stopped him from seizing her in his arms. But then she’d started dating an older boy with rich parents, beautiful clothes and a gorgeous crimson Vespa that had somehow always kept its showroom gleam, and who’d bought her flowers and chocolates, and who’d called her his principessa. And how had he been supposed to compete with that?
He took a pool car up to the hospital, asked directions at the front desk. She was dozing when he arrived in her room, so he scraped the legs of a chair across the floor to wake her as he moved it beside her bed. Her hair was shorter than it had been, and her complexion darker. She’d always been solidly built, but her figure was even fuller now. A woman rather than a girl. Yet, the moment she opened her eyes, he was fifteen again, the tumble dryer on full spin. He might have lost his nerve entirely except for the blankness of her gaze. ‘My name is Romeo Izzo,’ he began. ‘You won’t remember me, but actually we were at school together here in Herculaneum back in—’
‘I remember you, Romeo. How could you possibly think otherwise?’
‘Oh,’ he said.
‘I was so sorry to learn about your poor wife,’ she told him. ‘I wrote to you, several times in truth, though I never sent the letters.’ She paused a moment and then added: ‘I thought it would be you who wouldn’t remember me.’
He stared wide-eyed at her. ‘But I remember you so perfectly,’ he said, with such revealing candour that he had to look away for a moment. Then they smiled together at their shared folly in a way that broke the ice. ‘Well,’ he said, spreading his hands. ‘I became a policeman. A detective, no less. In fact, I’m in charge of the investigation into your… into this morning’s terrible tragedy.’
‘Yes. I saw you earlier.’ She reached out a hand, though stopped short of touching him. ‘I’m glad it’s you. I know you’ll find who did it.’
‘Thank you. And I know you’ll want to help, however you can.’
Her eyes narrowed a fraction, realising there was more to this visit than an old friend saying hello. ‘I told your colleague everything I know. Valentina Messana, I think her name was.’
‘Yes. I’ve read her notes. But you talked mostly of what you witnessed. I have other questions. Another question, I should say. It stems from something Il Direttore Santoro told me about your brother: that he went to see him out at his home last night, to discuss the second phase of some project they’re working on.’
‘He was doing some photography for him.’
‘Yes. Il Direttore said something odd. He said they met there rather than at the museum because of politics. Office politics. Can you think what he meant?’
‘I imagine he was referring to Professor D’Agostino. He sits on the museum board and was very much against Raff being awarded the contract. He claimed he was too expensive, that he didn’t appreciate the pieces he was photographing, that he’d bring the museum into disrepute, that he was a security risk. But really it was because of an impersonation Raff did of him that got beneath his skin.’
‘An impersonation?’
‘Yes. You know. His voice, his posture, his way of speaking. It was perfect and very funny. But cruel.’
‘So he wouldn’t have wanted his contract renewed? Yet Il Direttore meant to go ahead anyway?’
‘As I understand it, yes. But look: Zeno may be thin-skinned, yes, but I’m sure he isn’t dangerous. Not like that.’
‘Who else, then? How about your brother’s ex-wife? I hear it ended badly.’
‘She took the kids off to Milan, in part to punish him. But something like this?’ She shook her head. ‘Other than that, everyone loved him. He was such fun to be around. So much charm and youth and energy.’
‘I remember.’
‘He was only fourteen or so back when you knew him. But honestly, he never really grew up. That was his magic. He’d make you feel a teenager again. And you know how precious that is, at our age.’ She reached out and this time brushed the back of his hand with her fingertip. ‘Listen, Romeo. Do you think you could keep me informed? You yourself, I mean. It would mean so much.’
‘Of course.’ He took it as a cue, rose to his feet. ‘Perhaps tomorrow morning?’
‘That would be wonderful. Thank you.’
‘My pleasure.’ Their eyes met and briefly held. The dryer had stopped tumbling, he noticed, leaving behind it only the pleasurable comfort of hot and airy clothes. Then he realised how inappropriate it was even to be thinking this way during an investigation, so he nodded in mild confusion and made his way to the door, where he paused and turned. ‘It was good to see you again, Lucia,’ he told her. ‘I only wish…’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Me too.’
Carmen was waiting at her usual spot on the pavement outside Gran Caffè Gambrinus when Cesco arrived. He pulled in alongside her, pushed up his visor. A flippant remark about nightly rates trembled on his tongue; then he caught her eye and thought better of it. ‘A drink?’ he suggested.
‘Sure,’ she agreed. ‘Where?’
He hesitated. The places they’d gone with Raffaele held too many painful memories. ‘Murphy’s?’
‘Perfect.’
She unbuckled the rear pannier, took out her helmet. He’d bought them matching ones as a kind of joke, black with red flashes to match the Harley’s new livery, itself a play on their surnames, Rossi and Nero, red and black. She climbed on pillion, put her hands on his waist. He waited for a gap in traffic, then pulled a tight turn, heading back the way he’d come. Murphy’s was only a short drive away, an Irish bar that gave Carmen a whiff of home with its wall-mounted TVs that occasionally showed baseball and other American sports. He parked outside. By midnight it would be heaving, but right now it was empty. The barmaid frowned as they ordered drinks. Her eyes flickered to the TV. He raised an eyebrow. She found the remote control, skipped back until she found the news, then pressed play again as a reporter gave details of Raff’s murder against a revolving backdrop of photographs. Raff himself, of course, then Lucia. Taddeo Santoro and Zeno D’Agostino. Then one of himself and Carmen at one of their endless Alaric press conferences. He cursed softly. They’d deliberately dropped out of sight since then out of respect for the many enemies they’d made along the way, from the Stuttgart Hammerskins through the Calabrian ’Ndrangheta to a squad of renegade Israelis.
He handed Carmen her red wine. ‘To Raff,’ he said, chinking glasses.
‘To Raff,’ said Carmen.
The bar was long and narrow. They found a place near the loos where they could talk without being overheard, though it meant falling silent whenever people squeezed by. ‘Well?’ he said. ‘You had something to discuss.’
‘Yes,’ she said. But then she paused.
‘Raffaele?’ he hazarded. ‘Lucia?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘Her keys? The Philodemus scroll?’
‘Kind of.’
‘Then I wouldn’t worry about it. God knows why she’s pushing herself so hard over it. It’s not like they don’t have dozens more upstairs.’
‘Quite,’ said Carmen.
His ears pricked up. He was acutely sensitive to her noises. ‘What are you saying? Are you saying it’s not Philodemus?’
‘No. I never said that.’
‘Of course!’ muttered Cesco. ‘I can’t believe I’ve been so blind. No way would Taddeo or D’Agostino spend so much time on just another Philodemus. What is it, then?’
‘I don’t know. And I’m not speculating. Lucia’s our friend.’
‘Friends don’t lie about what they’re up to.’
‘Of course they do. If people find out what it really is…’
‘So you do know.’
‘I don’t. I swear I don’t.’
‘Not for sure, maybe, but you’ve got a sniff.’ He squinted at her. ‘How? Was it something Lucia said?’ She scowled in annoyance at being so easy to read. He thought back to the hospital, their brief conversation with Lucia. ‘Alberts,’ he said, snapping his fingers. ‘Father Alberts.’
‘Shh,’ said Carmen, motioning for quiet. ‘That doesn’t mean anything. Lots of experts are in the Church.’
‘Yes. But why hide it? Surely only because…’ He frowned as the various pieces suddenly snapped together in his mind. Then he gazed at her in disbelief. ‘Dear God,’ he said. ‘They’ve only gone and found the Gospel of Mark.’
It was well after dark when Cousin Claudio finally rang. Zeno D’Agostino was stumbling drunk by then, thanks to his diet of vermouth and cashew nuts. He dropped the handset as he made to answer and had to pick it up from the floor. ‘Pronto,’ he slurred.
‘It’s me,’ said Claudio.
Zeno had been expecting this. But precisely because he’d been expecting it, he was ready with his response. ‘You’ll have to be more specific. I don’t know who—’
‘Don’t even try it, arsehole. You know exactly who I am.’
‘I assure you, I don’t have—’
‘Shut your mouth and listen. I did as you asked. Now it’s your turn.’
‘I assure you, I haven’t the first idea what—’
‘Who the fuck do you think you’re dealing with? You honestly think you can make a deal like this and then back out? After what I just did for you? Don’t you know who I am? The people I work for?’
‘What have you done? Perhaps if you tell me, I’ll remember who you—’
‘You’re drunk,’ said Claudio in disgust. ‘I’ll call again in the morning, once you’ve sobered up. I’ll tell you what you’re going to do for me in return.’
‘In return for what?’
‘You stupid fucking moron. I’ve got our whole conversation on tape. Every last second of it.’ He paused a moment, then added, with unnerving relish: ‘You belong to me now.’
The phone went dead. Zeno held it against his ear, hard and cold. He felt, for a moment, an unexpected pride in himself that he hadn’t buckled and admitted to anything. It was all about nerve in the end. About staying strong. He could still survive this if he just stuck to his plan.
But then the truth of his situation bore in on him, and he began to weep.