The Lizard's Bite Part 11
She drained her gla.s.s and placed it firmly on the table. The air below was alive with the curse of workmen, doing what the h.e.l.l they liked, she suspected.
"I haven't applied for the job."
Ma.s.siter didn't even notice her objection. "And we'd need to dream up some ruse to allow me to fire that idiot down there. I can't just get rid of him. He's too well connected for that."
There she was one step ahead.
"Did you order real marble for those dreadful tables by the door? Or fake?"
Ma.s.siter bristled. "I didn't order anything. They were the idiot's idea. And I do not deal deal in fakes." in fakes."
"They're veneer. Marble layered on wood. It's obvious if you look at the edges. I doubt it's the only problem-"
"It's enough," Ma.s.siter interrupted, suddenly furious, getting to his feet. "Follow me, please."
He stormed downstairs at high speed, yelling for the architect, "Andrea! Andrea! Andrea!"
They finally found the man lounging on a dire purple velvet sofa next to the dead palm tree. He was smoking a cigarette, watching a couple of sweating workers attempt to fix the phony marble tops with tubes of cement.
"Ma.s.siter! Ma.s.siter! So much noise. I try to think. Please . . ."
He was a skeletal creature in his twenties, dressed in a black suit and white shirt, open at the neck. A ridiculously ornate moustache was trying to establish itself on his upper lip.
"Problems," Ma.s.siter said, picking up a ma.s.sive club hammer from the floor.
The architect splayed his hands. "What problems? Are you mad?"
Ma.s.siter swung the hammer in a rapid, powerful arc and brought it down hard on the shining black surface. The two men who'd been working on it took two steps back, yelling obscenities. The "marble" split instantly in two, revealing the shattered edges of cheap pale plywood between.
"I'm mad now," Ma.s.siter declared. "I'm b.l.o.o.d.y b.l.o.o.d.y mad." mad."
Andrea got up and started slapping one of the workmen round the head, swearing at him in a vivid burst of Veneto.
"No games!" Ma.s.siter bellowed. "I've had enough of that. You can clear out of here now. And tell your uncle he can shove his bill up his a.r.s.e."
"Screw you!" Andrea yelled. "You can't come here and do whatever you like."
The Englishman pa.s.sed the huge hammer from one hand to the other and gave it a good swing. Andrea thought better of things and began to slink off for the door, his workers following on behind.
"Where the h.e.l.l do you think you're going?" Ma.s.siter shouted at them.
The men stopped in their tracks, worried, a little scared.
"Emily? Tell them."
It was absurd. It was also highly amusing. They were staring at her, mute aggression in their faces, daring her to speak. Italian builders didn't take orders from women. Especially not foreign ones.
She gave her instructions briskly, in the kind of language they would understand.
"You've got a choice. You can crawl off home now and whistle for your money. Or you can take every last piece of this c.r.a.p out of here and find me some paint. White paint. Good Good white paint. Matte only. And lots of brushes. Plus some fabric for hangings. White again. This is the island of the archangels. Angels like white." white paint. Matte only. And lots of brushes. Plus some fabric for hangings. White again. This is the island of the archangels. Angels like white."
The workers looked at each other. They said nothing.
Ma.s.siter laughed discreetly, then leaned toward Emily.
"A silent Venetian is a defeated Venetian, my dear," he murmured in her ear, his breath warm and familiar, sweet with the aroma of wine. "Well done."
COSTA WAS MULLING OVER HIS PARTNER'S RHETORICAL question: question: Why did they always get the b.u.m deal? Why did they always get the b.u.m deal? Because he'd defied Leo Falcone, that's why. Pushing Scacchi for what he knew about the missing Daniel Forster and Laura Conti had been an act of direct rebellion. Falcone was too preoccupied with the case to make much of it. But both Costa and Peroni knew there'd be a price, and when they got to the Isola degli Arcangeli they discovered what it was. Falcone was keeping the sweet part-the house and Raffaella Arcangelo-all for himself. Because he'd defied Leo Falcone, that's why. Pushing Scacchi for what he knew about the missing Daniel Forster and Laura Conti had been an act of direct rebellion. Falcone was too preoccupied with the case to make much of it. But both Costa and Peroni knew there'd be a price, and when they got to the Isola degli Arcangeli they discovered what it was. Falcone was keeping the sweet part-the house and Raffaella Arcangelo-all for himself.
All the same, Costa didn't feel a single pang of regret. It would have been remiss to have left Sant' Erasmo without tackling Scacchi about the missing pair. And those postcards the farmer had shown were, it seemed to him, distinctly odd. No one printed their own name. Certainly not a student from Oxford. Scacchi said he worked as an illicit ferryman for people who didn't want to pay the price of official water taxis. The cards could have been posted by anyone. Some Alitalia steward he took to the airport from time to time, and who he'd asked for a little souvenir of his travels, signed in a particular way. But why?
Ordinarily, Costa would have mulled the idea over with Falcone and Peroni. Now, it seemed pointless. Both were fixated on the Arcangeli, keen to see this case closed, then engineer their escape from the lagoon. Nic felt the same way. In principle, anyway. Watching Falcone stride off for the mansion, with its glistening eye looming out over the lagoon, leaving them to the smoke stink of the foundry and the two surly brothers, he almost wished he'd kept his mouth shut.
Almost.
The face was at the great gla.s.s window again: calm, attractive, sensitive.
"I am am going to get a look inside that place before we leave for good," Costa swore. going to get a look inside that place before we leave for good," Costa swore.
Peroni huffed and puffed. "In that case maybe you'd better do what Leo says. You know he hates being crossed."
But Falcone was was wrong. Venice wasn't some backwater unworthy of their metropolitan talents. Costa sometimes wondered whether they weren't the ones being duped all along. Doing Randazzo's bidding. Being forced to see matters the way the Venetians liked. wrong. Venice wasn't some backwater unworthy of their metropolitan talents. Costa sometimes wondered whether they weren't the ones being duped all along. Doing Randazzo's bidding. Being forced to see matters the way the Venetians liked.
Falcone was at the window with her now, listening, nodding. Interested, Costa thought, and that was new too. The two brothers were working away inside the foundry, close to the furnace, Gabriele welding, Michele cutting pipe, as if they hadn't even noticed their presence.
Costa watched Gabriele extinguishing the lance, waited for the sound of the gas to die down, walked over to the man, took the long metal implement out of his hand and placed it on the floor.
"Enough," he said with a deliberate gruffness. "And you."
He turned on Michele, who was grappling with some joint work, trying to wrestle a tangle of metal into submission. "Put that thing down and talk to us. If we don't get some cooperation here, I will, will, I swear, arrest the pair of you and continue this at the Questura." I swear, arrest the pair of you and continue this at the Questura."
Michele kept on straining away at the job, giving him just a single, filthy glance with the ruined side of his face.
"One call, garzone, garzone," the old man spat back at Nic. "That's all it takes and you're out of here."
Costa walked up close. "I am not your boy. Understand something. If we move off this case and someone else has to pick up the pieces, you lose time. That means no deal with this Englishman who's looking to save your skin. Screw around with us all you like, but don't think it won't come at a price."
That, finally, got both brothers listening.
"What the h.e.l.l do you know about our private business?" Michele demanded.
Peroni burst out laughing. "Private? What's your definition of the word private private around here? We walked up and down Murano yesterday, talking to people who can't wait to gossip about you and your problems. Your dirty linen gets washed in public on a daily basis. Do you really not know that?" around here? We walked up and down Murano yesterday, talking to people who can't wait to gossip about you and your problems. Your dirty linen gets washed in public on a daily basis. Do you really not know that?"
They didn't, it struck Costa, and that, in itself, was interesting. The Arcangeli really were still outsiders, even after all these years.
"You can talk here. Or you can talk in the Questura," he repeated.
"We don't have time for this c.r.a.p," the elder brother snarled.
"You get even less time if we have to haul you over to Castello," Peroni pointed out.
Michele grunted. Then he walked out into the sunshine, lit a cigarette, and perched on one of the bollards on the quay, watching the water stretching between the island and San Michele.
"Ten minutes," he said, in that grating cold voice that was starting to get to Costa. "Then you can go bore the h.e.l.l out of someone else."
LEO FALCONE STOOD WITH RAFFAELLA ARCANGELO IN the gla.s.s gallery. Both watched the scene developing below, two brothers, two cops, talking underneath the sputtering torch of the iron angel on the bridge, not that far from the pair of carpenters who were still slowly putting the front of the the gla.s.s gallery. Both watched the scene developing below, two brothers, two cops, talking underneath the sputtering torch of the iron angel on the bridge, not that far from the pair of carpenters who were still slowly putting the front of the fornace fornace back together. back together.
"I told you there'd be no problem in the end," Raffaella said. "They're not unhelpful. Just preoccupied. And they've nothing new to say. You do understand that, Leo, don't you?"
She was wearing better clothes today, he thought. A smartly pressed white silk shirt and black trousers. A little makeup and two small, delicate earrings, crystal naturally.
Falcone had taken the call from Teresa Lupo just after he'd left Costa and Peroni grumbling their way to the men downstairs, chastened by his reprimand for the way the younger detective had stepped out of line with Piero Scacchi. He was heartened to hear the interest and determination in Teresa's voice, however. Something would, he thought, get resolved as a result. Even so, the nature of Uriel's death remained puzzling. He was unable, too, to decide whether the news of Bella's pregnancy clarified matters or simply made them more opaque. The answers to these problems lay in small details, s.n.a.t.c.hes of conversation, tentative, private relationships. Falcone preferred dealing with crooks. He knew he was somewhat out of his territory in these waters, though he was determined the locals, and Randazzo in particular, wouldn't notice.
"You promised to tell me what you know," Raffaella reminded him.
He sipped the weak Earl Grey tea she'd brought. It was an affectation, a pleasant one. There were many in this overlarge, slightly pretentious home of which the Arcangeli filled barely a quarter.
"I said there would be limits," he replied.
"I understand that, Leo. So tell me something within those limits."
"Within those limits there's precious little to say. What possible motive could Uriel have? What happened to Bella's keys? You've still not found them?"
She hesitated, a fleeting look of reserve on her face. "No. I've looked again. Everywhere."
In another case, one properly resourced, with strong backing from above, Falcone knew he'd be doing all the searching himself. Under Randazzo's curious restrictions this was, if not impossible, quite difficult. Besides, he trusted Raffaella Arcangelo. She knew this rambling mansion better than they did. If there was anything to be uncovered here, she would surely find it. All the same . . .
"I ought to look."
"Certainly."
She led him to Uriel and Bella's apartment, on the floor above. There was nothing to see. Nothing to take away except the ambience, which was a little tawdry: old furniture, the smell of musty damp.
"This is better than it normally was," Raffaella said, seeing the expression on his face. "I wouldn't clean for them. Even I have limits."
"Where do the rest of you live?"
The answer didn't surprise him. As far apart as possible. Michele's apartment was on the ground floor. Gabriele occupied a sprawling hovel behind the dining room. Raffaella's own room, about the same size but immaculate, though still with dated furniture and little in the way of modern conveniences, was a little way along from Uriel and Bella's, almost within earshot. The rest of the mansion was empty: dusty, bare rooms, cleared of anything valuable they might once have contained. The short tour depressed him. He was glad to return to the dining room, the one place in the house, it seemed to him, that retained some memories of what the Arcangeli once were.
"Why did Bella have that phone, Leo?" Raffaella asked. "It doesn't make sense."
He frowned. "There would be one obvious reason. If she kept it hidden from all of you, how many possibilities are there?"
She didn't look convinced.
"Affairs . . . happen," he pointed out. "Even in Murano. There must have been others. Before Uriel, surely."
"I wasn't Bella's keeper," she replied quietly, evading his unspoken question.
"But you were Uriel's, weren't you?"
The dead man was two years older than she, but something in Raffaella's att.i.tude told Falcone the relationship between the two siblings was, in an odd way, reversed. That Uriel was under Raffaella's care, somehow, the weakest of the three brothers. Perhaps that was why she chose to live so close to Uriel and his wife, when there were so many other rooms she could have used.
"What do you mean?" she wondered, not offended by the question, more puzzled.
"I was simply being presumptuous," Falcone replied with a shrug. "This job makes you think you can read people. Sometimes I can. Sometimes . . ."
She was watching him, intrigued. "And how do you read me?" she asked.
"I think you cared for Uriel more than for the other two. Perhaps because he was the youngest. The least happy . . ."
"Uriel wasn't wasn't unhappy! Not in the way you mean." unhappy! Not in the way you mean."
"How then?"
"He was . . . unfinished," she answered carefully. "Even I got out of here for a while. Studying, in Paris, when we still had money. Uriel never escaped. He never really knew what the world was like beyond Murano. And this place can be so cold, so claustrophobic. You won't understand that. Most people don't even notice. Michele, Gabriele-they never did. Uriel knew there was more to life, but he didn't get the chance. And now . . ."
She paused, a sudden mist in her eyes. "You read people well, Leo. I'm not sure that's a compliment. It must be a difficult talent to possess. Do you know when to turn it off?"
His former wife had once said something very similar, not long before she'd left him. At the time, he'd rejected the accusation. The talent she despised was a necessary part of his job. Now, after several solitary years of single life, he wondered whether it didn't, in truth, carry a heavy personal cost.
"I'm trying to learn," he said with a smile. "You will still accompany me this evening, won't you?"
A faint rush of pink appeared on Raffaella's cheeks. "Of course. I said I would."
"Good. I understand you want to get to the bottom of this. I hope it helps."
"I would have gone anyway," she answered, not looking directly at him. "We were invited, apparently. Not that I knew of it. Michele had thoughtfully rejected Mr. Ma.s.siter's offer without telling me. Now I'm I'm going, it appears he will be too. Separately . . ." going, it appears he will be too. Separately . . ."
She added the last part quickly, anxiously.
Falcone wondered why Michele Arcangelo would have rejected a social invitation from a man with whom he wished to conclude important business. At an event that was on his own doorstep, on property that was, technically, still their own. Then he checked himself. There were dangers in an excess of suspicion. The Arcangeli were pursuing the arrangement with Ma.s.siter out of financial necessity. It was, perhaps, only understandable if they found elements of it unpleasant.
"I have to ask something," he declared abruptly. "It's a personal matter, for which I apologise, but it can't be avoided. I need to know about Uriel's marriage. Is it true that it was more a family decision than his alone?"
There was a sudden, unexpected flicker of anger across Raffaella Arcangelo's face. It made her look rather beautiful. "Who told you that? It's nonsense!"
"Aldo Bracci. He said the marriage was more than just a personal liaison. It was meant to be some kind of alliance. That Bella brought knowledge with her, as part of her dowry perhaps. Knowledge that could help the business."
She laughed. The anger disappeared in an instant. Falcone watched her sudden, flashing smile and wondered why a woman of Raffaella's looks had stayed single throughout her life.