22.

Alberto’s café was open for business, new windows gleaming. A room full of colour and movement: lamps on each table and strands of fairy lights looped along the brick walls, a dozen customers signing animatedly. Not a bad turn-out for the usually slow Thursday night; the community turning up to support Alberto after the vandalism. And to catch up on the news.

Frankie stopped in the doorway, taking in Nick’s greeting from behind the coffee machine and a few waved hellos from the customers. Caleb had given her the basics of the sabotage job, but hadn’t said anything about the café or his connection to Alberto. And right now he had no idea why he’d risked exposing it to her. She gave him an unfathomable look and headed for a table in the back corner.

Nick approached, his usually bright smile missing a few watts.

‘More problems?’ Caleb asked. There hadn’t been any messages from Alberto.

‘No – I mean, Grandad just told me to cancel the marquee. The one for the fiftieth. He said there’s no point if the business is … I’ve never seen him like this before.’

‘I know. I’m working on it.’ Not very well, not with any results. He turned to Frankie. ‘Point to what you want on the blackboard or ask me to translate. Nick doesn’t speak or lip-read.’

‘Why not?’

‘Same reason you don’t sign.’

‘I sign.’ She proved it by laboriously signing to Nick, ‘Want coffee white, food hot.’

Nick gave her an encouraging smile and replied slowly. ‘Sure. Do you mean spicy hot?’

‘Yes, hot.’

An odd request from a woman whose tastes usually ran to salt and cholesterol. She’d probably meant to sign ‘please’ but accidentally touched her fingers to her lips instead of her chin.

‘This one, then.’ Nick pointed to the penne all’arrabbiata on the blackboard and received a thumbs-up from Frankie.

‘You don’t want that,’ Caleb told her. He’d tried Alberto’s version of the chilli-infused Calabrian dish once and would rather be pepper-sprayed than eat it again.

Frankie gave him narrow-eyed look. ‘You really mansplaining my order?’

‘Deafsplaining. You asked for –’

‘I know what I asked for.’

He gave Nick his order, got a puzzled look at his request for a glass of milk as well as his usual long black.

Frankie sat back as the young man left. ‘So how long you been doing this?’

‘What?’

‘Being with your people.’

Were they his people? ‘A few months.’

‘And you’re doing a job for them? Brave man, pissing in your own backyard. So what’s your theory – greed, fear or revenge?’

The unholy trinity of criminal motivation.

‘Possibly dodgy developers. And there’s an ex-son-in-law who might hold a grudge. Although he’s been out of the picture a while.’

‘People can simmer for a long time if they’ve got a real fire in their belly.’ She looked around the room. ‘They might be better off just selling if the business is damaged.’

‘Alberto won’t sell. This is one of the few Deaf-friendly workplaces around.’

‘They’ll cope in other jobs. You did.’

‘Cope’ was the right word. He hadn’t realised how enjoyable work could be until he went into partnership with Frankie. Hard to know why she’d asked him and not a fellow cop: they’d been a good team the handful of times their paths had crossed in his days as an investigator and hers as a cop, but he’d come with no connections and limited experience. Not to mention a few communication issues. Was it because she thought he’d be easy to manipulate?

He wavered, then asked the question. ‘Why’d you ask me to go into business?’

Her expression didn’t change. ‘Your sunny nature.’

Nick’s mother, Ilaria, was coming from the kitchen bearing two large plates and a glass of milk. A fine-boned woman with the same wavy brown hair as Nick, but only flashes of his brightness. Always in muted greys and browns, her clothes a couple of sizes too large. Strange to see her in the café instead of the kitchen.

Her eyes skimmed their faces as she set down the food. ‘Nick’ll be over with the coffees in a minute.’ A gentle signer: small movements, close to her body. She glanced around the room and adjusted the already straight table lamp.

Caleb hesitated; they couldn’t have a private conversation in a room full of signers. ‘Want me to come outside?’

A wry smile. ‘Guess there isn’t much point. It’s not like everyone doesn’t already know my business.’ She stood a little straighter. ‘Nick said you’re looking for Tony. I’d rather you didn’t.’

‘Alberto told you about the trouble with the business?’

‘Of course.’

‘You think your ex-husband could do something like that?’

‘No, he’s too impatient. You won’t talk to him, will you?’ Direct eye contact now, her fingers plucking at her apron.

Couldn’t say yes, shouldn’t say no. ‘I’ll speak to you first if I have to.’

She gave him a short nod and left, tension radiating from her like phosphorous.

Frankie watched her go, then picked up a fork. ‘You were the best raw talent I’d seen, and I could stand being in the same room as you.’ She stabbed a piece of penne. ‘Most of the time.’

A moment to work out she was answering his question about their partnership. Jesus, a compliment. No idea what to say in reply, so he just pushed the milk across the table as she ate her first mouthful. There’d be a second or two before her brain caught up to her mouth, then the entire five stages of grief.

She stopped chewing, eyes widening. ‘Christ.’

At the bargaining stage.

‘Hot,’ he said, twisting his hand away from his lips. ‘Please.’ He brought his hand from his chin. ‘Good not to get the two confused.’

She grabbed the milk and gulped it down. ‘You could have warned me.’

He managed to eat half his meal before Frankie claimed it, then went to find Alberto. The cook was in his cramped office behind the kitchen, pecking one-handed at the computer. He looked up as Caleb toggled the lights. ‘That was fast, I only just texted’

‘Something else happen?’

‘In a way. Come and look.’

Alberto switched on the outside lights and led him to the narrow gap between the building and side fence, one of the few places not covered by the cameras Caleb had installed. He lifted an upended rubbish tin, revealing a jerry can and handful of rags. Petrol wafted into the air. A raw wooden fence beneath low-hanging eaves. If that caught alight the building’s ceiling would be down before the fire brigade got there.

Alberto replaced the bin. ‘No idea how long it’s been there. I found it half an hour ago when I was stacking boxes by the fence.’

Had the arsonist had a change of heart or just been interrupted? Too much to hope it was an empty warning.

‘Check your insurance,’ Caleb said. ‘Make sure it covers fire. Water damage too. Everything.’

Alberto patted the air. ‘It’s all right, Nick gave me the lecture last week. I upped the insurance, got top cover on everything.’

That was going to raise a few red flags if he ended up making a claim.

‘Make sure everything’s well documented. You go to the cops yet?’

‘Had to use the NRS, couldn’t get an interpreter. They say they’ll come and look.’

A relayed phone call wasn’t going to cut it; the operator wouldn’t have voiced any of the fear behind Alberto’s typed words. It might take the cops days to respond to a calm message about a can of petrol.

‘Give it a couple of hours, then go to the cop shop,’ he told Alberto. ‘Use a pen and paper if you have to.’ He stopped to get his thoughts in order. ‘Is anyone pressuring you to sell? Developers or neighbours?’

Alberto shook his head.

Damn. It was looking more and more like the danger was coming from within. ‘Tell me about Nick’s father.’

A flush crept up the cook’s face. ‘It’s not Tony.’

‘You like him?’

Alberto’s mouth folded. ‘The man’s an arsehole. A hearie. Tried to keep Ilaria and the boy away from us, barely bothered to learn sign. I should have known sooner what he was …’ He rubbed a hand across his face. ‘I don’t want Nick knowing, but I pay his dad to stay away. The business goes down, the bastard doesn’t get any money. He’s a problem gambler, needs it.’

‘Got an address?’

‘He’s overseas. Thailand.’

‘You sure?’

‘I paid for the ticket. One way.’

Maybe the man had stayed put, maybe he hadn’t, but if the cops didn’t take Alberto seriously now, he’d need more help than Caleb could currently give. Broken windows were bad enough, but arson could be fatal.

‘I’m too distracted,’ Caleb told him. ‘It’s not safe. If the cops give you the run-around, you need to get someone else on the job.’

Alberto was motionless, the overhead lights casting his eyes into shadow. ‘Please don’t make me expose my family to a stranger.’ He turned and went back inside before Caleb had a chance to respond.