The holding cell had a hard bed and a corner toilet with faulty plumbing that hissed and groaned and creaked throughout the night, changing note at irritating intervals, ruining any chance of sleep. Not that Cesco’s painful cuts and bruises, let alone his conscience, would have let him sleep anyway. He lay on his side, comforting himself with thoughts of Carmen’s arms around him, the smell of her shampoo and her breath against his neck.
Morning arrived. He sat up slowly, aching in every joint. Pushing himself to his feet to take a piss was such a slow and painful process that it made him laugh at his own feebleness. A policeman gave him a cereal bar and a plastic cup of warm black coffee. He asked for painkillers and a glass of water, got a snort instead. He lay back down. More time passed. The policeman returned to unlock his pen. He followed him upstairs one step at a time, pausing on the landing to regain his breath. He was led to last night’s interview room, expecting to find his two detectives, only to see Romeo Izzo instead. ‘Thank Christ,’ he muttered.
‘A little early for that,’ said Izzo drily.
‘You told them about Taddeo, though? That I’ve been telling the truth?’
‘No need. They’ve been busy. As our colleagues out in Capua have been too. An exciting night for them. A car chase. Shots fired. A fearful crash. One man dead; three others injured – one of whom has been talking. He directed them to a rental house with a camera in its basement. I imagine you know what was on it.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘So. Your crazy story has checked out. These Germans abducted you. They meant to dismember and kill you. You escaped. They came after you. You drove their car off the road then rammed their leader into a wall. Because no one believes your foot slipped. But no one cares either. Bastard got what he deserved.’
Cesco squinted at him. ‘What are you saying? Are you saying it’s over?’
‘No. Not yet. Those men were Germans. Gangsters, yes, but still. Our German friends will privately be delighted. But in public they’ll want answers. So we’ll have to investigate properly. But I can’t see any great cause for you to worry. Not about that, at least.’
‘Oh. What should I be worrying about, then?’
‘Last night, when you called my colleague Valentina Messana, you told her that you’d arrived in Posillipo to find Taddeo Santoro already dead.’
‘He was kneeling by the fountain with his head underwater. I checked him for a pulse, then someone attacked me with a stun gun.’ He rubbed his neck at the memory. ‘It left me in a daze for a minute or two. Then I called her.’
‘And afterwards?’
‘I went straight out onto the lane. I was spooked, frankly. It was dark and there was a murderer nearby. That was when the Hammerskins got me.’
‘So you never went inside the house?’
‘No.’
‘Have you ever been inside?’
‘What the hell is this?’
‘Just answer the question.’
‘No. I’ve never been inside. I’d never even been out there before.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Of course I’m sure,’ said Cesco irritably. ‘You think I wouldn’t know?’
‘Fair enough,’ said Izzo. ‘Then perhaps you might explain how come your fingerprints are all over his safe.’
Carmen woke early to find she’d still had no response from Cesco. It was out of character for him not to respond quickly. It was unprecedented overnight. She sent new messages on every channel she could think of, begging him to call, then showered briskly and threw on clothes and hurried back to his apartment. She let herself in, made her way upstairs, palms pressed against the walls to keep herself composed. He hadn’t been back. Her note was still on his bed and the answerphone pulsed with her own messages.
A sense of doom consumed her. She remembered the blazing Lamborghini. She took out her phone to check for news. Then she sat down on the end of the bed to absorb it all. In disbelief, she took out Messana’s card to call her on her mobile. Messana answered almost at once. She was evidently in her car, talking loudly over the traffic. Cesco was safe, she assured her, though a little banged-up. As for his location, she couldn’t divulge that. Only that he was helping them with their enquiries.
‘They’re saying on the news that you think he killed Taddeo,’ she protested. ‘That’s insane.’
A hesitation. ‘I’m sorry, Carmen. It doesn’t look good.’
‘What the hell does that mean?’
‘I’ve told you all I can. I have to go now.’
The line went dead. Carmen sat there staring at her phone. The Hammerskins were one thing. Taddeo was another. She couldn’t believe it. She wouldn’t believe it. Yet dread consumed her even so. She had no faith in Italian justice. The papers here were filled with miscarriages of it. People who’d spent months or even years in jail awaiting trials that promptly fell apart. Hapless experts and corrupt officers. False testimony and planted evidence. And she didn’t have the first clue how to help. An awful thing, being unable to protect the people you loved. And she did love Cesco. That suddenly became crystal clear again. Her hands stopped trembling when she realised it. She herself might not know how to handle this, but she still had friends. Friends with friends of their own, one of whom happened to be Romeo Izzo.
She brought up Lucia Conte’s number and called her now.
Father Rupert Alberts lay on his side in bed, wide awake yet too consumed by self-loathing and disgust to get up. He’d done it now. He’d put himself beyond the pale. Some sins could be forgiven. But not last night. Because it hadn’t just been a sin. It had been a confession of who, at base, he was.
He rose at last for another lengthy shower, as though he could yet scrub himself clean. He dried himself and dressed, then turned on the television for the news. Then he stood there stunned. According to the reporter standing in a Posillipo lane, Zeno D’Agostino and Cesco Rossi had both been arrested in connection with the murder of Taddeo Santoro and were currently helping the police with their enquiries.
He was still trying to absorb this when the anchor switched to an even bigger story. The long-anticipated evacuation of the Red Zone around Vesuvius had been ordered by the authorities. By eight o’clock tonight, Herculaneum would be deserted and then sealed off. And no one could say when people would be allowed back in again. Indeed, if the expert from the Observatory was correct, it was highly likely that the volcano would erupt before that could happen, burying the town, the Villa and any more scrolls still inside it beneath thirty more metres of volcanic sludge.
When your life had been touched by God as closely as Alberts’ had been, everything had meaning, everything was a sign. The difficulty usually came in deciding which way the signposts pointed. This morning, for once, they all pointed in the same direction. At once he felt better again. He felt invigorated.
He knew exactly what he had to do.