36.

It wasn’t quite sunset, but Alberto’s house was ablaze with light, a lot of people visible through the net curtains. The place could have been built by Caleb’s father: solid blond brick, all right angles and straight lines. The kind of house where you slept well at night, knowing the roof would stay on and the weather stay out. A much more abundant garden than anything Ivan Zelic would have planted, though – a mini-orchard of olives, lemons and apples, carefully pruned and mulched.

Nick answered the door, eyes red-rimmed and swollen. ‘He’s OK,’ he signed before Caleb had a chance to ask. ‘The doctor said nothing’s broken.’

The nausea receded, but only a little. More than just bones could be broken in an assault.

Nick gestured him into the tiled entrance hall. Its wide double doors opened onto a living room filled with people: Ilaria, staff, customers. Everyone signing and eating, the mood somewhere between a funeral and a party. No Alberto darting among them, making sure everyone was fed and happy.

‘Do you know what happened?’ Caleb asked Nick.

‘We were setting up, around six-thirty. Just me and Grandad.’ Nick’s hands jerked from one sign to the next with none of his usual grace. ‘He went back to the car to get something, took ages. When I finally went to look, he was lying in the alley, kind of curled up.’ The teenager’s lips pressed inwards as he tried not to cry. ‘I was in the kitchen the whole time.’

Ilaria came through the living-room door towards them, eyes on her son. Dressed in her usual dull greys, but an intense focus Caleb had never seen before. She stopped in front of Nick. ‘It would have been much worse for your grandad if you’d been hurt. He’s thankful you weren’t there.’

Tears rolled down the boy’s face. ‘It’s Dad.’

Ilaria glanced back at the living room. ‘It’s not.’

‘It is. Dad –’

‘I’ve watched the security tape. It’s not him.’

‘You sure?’ Caleb asked. It would have been dark at that hour.

A grim smile. ‘I know how Tony moves.’ She touched Nick’s arm. ‘Grab my laptop from the kitchen, will you? The video’s on it.’ She nudged him gently when he hesitated, and he headed down the hall. Ilaria waited until he’d gone, then faced Caleb. ‘Wipe it when you’re done, I don’t want Nick seeing it.’

‘So it might have been his father?’

‘No, it’s definitely not Tony. But Nick’s already seen too much damage. I don’t want him seeing his grandad getting hurt. I can at least do that.’ She lifted her chin, daring him to argue.

He went in to Alberto as soon as Nick returned with the laptop. A cosy room, family photos on the walls, along with a large tapestry of what looked like an Italian village. A portrait of Alberto’s late wife in pride of place on the dresser. Alberto lay on top of the blankets in a fleecy brown tracksuit. He sat up as Caleb came to the bed, carefully propping himself against the headboard. Purpling bruises marred his face, his left eye swollen almost shut.

Old. Frighteningly old. Like Caleb’s grandfather in the last few months, his once mortar-cracked hands soft and trembling. Tears burned in Caleb’s eyes.

‘Don’t you start,’ Alberto told him. ‘The boy and his mother have been going all morning.’ But he gave Caleb’s arm a little rub as he sat on the bed.

‘You see who did it?’

‘No.’ Alberto’s head lowered. ‘Hit me from behind, and I stayed down.’

A white hot rage. How could anyone have made this man feel ashamed? ‘D’you think you’re up to watching the tape? It could help.’

‘The police have already looked. They said it’s too dark for an ID.’

‘Worth a try. You might recognise the way he moves.’

‘Of course. I should have thought of that.’ Alberto levered himself straighter, making a painful show of interest.

The video was set up and ready to go. Alberto’s spry figure walking down the darkened alley, someone running up behind him. A blow to the back of his head; he smacked to the ground. Caleb flinched. Too dark to see the attacker’s face, but his movements were clear as he raised his arm, brought something long and thin down on Alberto’s back. Lashing repeatedly as Alberto curled in a ball, his arms over his head. Eventually the man turned, and walked away, the whip held down by his side.

No, not a whip. Cylindrical, a piece of pliable pipe like a garden hose.

Alberto was ashen. ‘I don’t know him.’

A garden hose. Someone had mentioned an attack with a hose just the other day. A few seconds to retrieve the memory: Tedesco in the park eating a bowl of kale, talking about his latest case, the murder suspect. Jimmy Puttnam, the loan shark. ‘… whipping people with a cut-off garden hose …’

A rancid thought oozed into his brain. Smashed windows and threatened arson were all straight from a loan shark’s playbook; standard methods when a debtor couldn’t pay.

Caleb looked at Alberto. ‘He’s a loan shark.’

‘You know him?’

His tension released at Alberto’s blank expression. Of course the man wasn’t in debt to Jimmy Puttnam. No loan shark would have sabotaged the deliveries and cancelled the electricity account – too time-consuming, too subtle.

But an owner might, to scam money from an insurance company.

‘I upped the insurance, got top cover on everything.’

He stood, mouth dry. Alberto couldn’t have used him as a smokescreen. It’d be unbearable.

Alberto reached towards him, looking alarmed. ‘Are you all right? Sit down, sit beside me.’

Caleb’s arms were almost too heavy to sign. ‘Why couldn’t you have just sold the business if you needed money? Sell the building? Why involve me?’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘You’re in debt to Jimmy Puttnam, trying to con the insurance company to get the money.’

Alberto slumped against the bedhead. ‘How could you think so little of me?’

How could Alberto think so little of him?

He left. A glimpse of Nick through the living-room door, the boy’s face filled with anxiety, Ilaria huddled with friends in a corner. Not his job to tell them, they’d find out sooner or later. He kept going, closed the front door behind him.