The Lizard's Bite Part 16
"Do what you're paid for, Randazzo. Sort this mess out. And quick."
"Of course. They will come up with the goods. In time to save your skin, Hugo."
"Our skin." skin."
"If you wish to put it that way. I'm still somewhat unclear about precisely what those goods will turn out to be, though." He hesitated. Ma.s.siter was a man with powerful friends. All the same, the question had to be asked. "I can't help but wonder. Do you have any idea?"
Ma.s.siter's bland face turned furious. He launched the half-full gla.s.s out over the balcony. It spun through the thin, hot air, despatching its contents, then tumbled down to the ca.n.a.l, falling just a metre short of a workman's boat manoeuvring for the jetty. The man at the wheel glared back up at them, furious, then saw Ma.s.siter's purple face at the terrace, and went back to the wheel, chastened.
"To h.e.l.l with this," Ma.s.siter cursed. "You people have bled me dry over the years. Now, when I ask for a little in return . . ."
He didn't go on. Randazzo felt offended. He was doing his best. Risking much too.
"I think that's deeply unfair," he noted. "We've turned a blind eye to certain of your activities."
"Not without reason," Ma.s.siter pointed out. "Or profit."
"True. I . . . I know I shouldn't say this," Randazzo stuttered. "But it's time for some frankness between us. I want this matter closed just as much as you do. A little more disclosure on your part wouldn't go amiss. When I bury things I like them to stay buried. No new corpses, not when they can be avoided. It's best all round."
"That little chalet of yours starting to feel somewhat small?" Ma.s.siter asked, icily composed now. "What is it you're wanting this time? An apartment by the beach? Come on. You're a Venetian. You're not too shy to name the price."
"It's not always about the price." Randazzo said it primly, feeling his temper beginning to fray. "I need the truth. Everything. Particularly about your relationship with each of the Arcangeli."
"That's simple," Ma.s.siter snapped. "I give. The Arcangeli take. It's the kind of relationship I have with most people in this G.o.dforsaken city."
It was years since Randazzo tried to think like a cop. Being commissario was admin, management. He had detectives out there to pursue the fine detail of crimes, their commission, their solution. All the same, he'd been a detective himself once upon a time. Not a bad one, either. Not afraid to throw the odd hard, unexpected question into the conversation now and again, which was what he'd been paid for back then.
"And Bella?" Randazzo demanded, risking a guess, not caring if this went back to his bosses, because he wanted exactly what they did: closure. A part of him resented Hugo Ma.s.siter too, detested the man's easy arrogance. "She was a good-looking woman. Everyone says that. You like women. Was Bella, perhaps, part of the deal?"
Ma.s.siter turned on him, smiling, an amused, detached look on his face that made Randazzo regret he'd ever decided to walk down this path.
"My! You are are uncharacteristically curious today. What on earth's prompting all this? Are you afraid those Romans will steal your thunder? Is your nose out of joint because there are finally some real police in Venice for a change?" uncharacteristically curious today. What on earth's prompting all this? Are you afraid those Romans will steal your thunder? Is your nose out of joint because there are finally some real police in Venice for a change?"
"That was uncalled for. I would like to know the truth," the commissario repeated, unable to look Ma.s.siter directly in the eye. "It would help all of us."
"The truth?" The blue eyes sparkled. "The trouble with the truth is it's so d.a.m.ned hard to gauge. One man's truth's another man's lies. I'd have thought someone like you would know that better than most."
Gianfranco Randazzo smoothed down the lapels of his fine-weave black cotton suit. Beneath he wore a well-pressed white shirt, and the red silk tie he'd bought on vacation in Osaka the previous spring, the one marked with the pattern of his name in katakana script. He regarded himself as a dutiful man. Not perfect, but one who tried to do his job in difficult circ.u.mstances.
"Bella was having an affair," he said sternly. "It's possible she'd resurrected a relationship with her brother."
Ma.s.siter's eyebrows rose. "Strange habits they have out here."
"Quite," Randazzo replied. "I merely said it was possible. She was pregnant. Her husband could not be the father. So who was Bella's lover? I need to know. Falcone and his men are shockingly good at what they do, I'm afraid. It would be for the best if I were forewarned."
Ma.s.siter stared silently out at the teeming channel of water. "Paternity," he murmured, looking glum. "Now, there's a thought."
"I can't protect you from everything," Randazzo snapped. "There are limits beyond which . . ."
The Englishman was laughing. His shoulders heaved. A growing chuckle emerged from behind a set of bright, shiny teeth. He came close and touched the tie.
"j.a.panese?" he asked. "How is your wife, by the way?"
"My wife has nothing to do with this."
Randazzo had seen the way Ma.s.siter stared at Chieko whenever they met on social occasions. It wasn't the curious look she normally got when the locals discovered a woman from Tokyo had married a Venetian cop. Besides, Venice was an international city these days. Marrying a foreigner, a very beautiful one, was nothing remarkable.
"This isn't funny," the commissario complained, aware of the whine inside his own voice. "Not at all."
With a swift, feline ease, Ma.s.siter was next to him, whispering in Randazzo's ear. "On the contrary," the Englishman murmured. "It's delightful. Let's get straight to the point. Then I must go. There'll be locals down below soon, and I'll be d.a.m.ned if I'm leaving them alone with the valuables. So . . ."
Ma.s.siter pulled away, drew in a deep breath, certain of himself. "The last time I saw Bella Arcangelo was two weeks ago. I never bed Venetian women for more than a month. It's a matter of principle. They cling, they paw, they grow tiresome. The b.i.t.c.hes are best gone before the amus.e.m.e.nt begins to fade. I doubt I fathered a brat on her but you never know. No one ever will. I expect you to make sure of that."
Randazzo swore, then asked quietly, "You weren't here the night they died? You can prove it?"
"Oh . . . that that night. Where were you for that matter?" night. Where were you for that matter?"
"I was working," Randazzo snarled.
"Work. Play. For me the two tend to be much the same really."
He knew something. He couldn't wait to say it either.
Ma.s.siter reached out and flicked some dirt off the commissario's tie. The Englishman stared at him, his ageing film-star face devoid of feeling, a man who felt nothing whatsoever, about himself, about anyone. Commissario Gianfranco Randazzo knew he was idiotic for thinking he could tackle this man head-on. It was uncharacteristically imprudent, a stupid mistake that would have to be rectified by some act of visible fealty.
"I was occupied until one in the morning. With company. After that, I slept alone."
"Here?"
He scowled. "You're being very inquisitive, Randazzo. Is that wise? Besides, you surely know that's not possible. They don't allow me access at night. I had to beg for dispensation from the Arcangeli for this little party, even though it's in their interest as much as mine. No. I was in my apartment. First with a woman. Then alone."
It wasn't so far from Ma.s.siter's vessel on the waterfront near the a.r.s.enale. He could still have been on the island in time. Bella could have provided the key.
"Listen to me. You were busy until two, Hugo. No. Make that two-thirty. This woman must must confirm that." confirm that."
Ma.s.siter shrugged as if it were a matter of no consequence.
"This is important," Randazzo objected.
"Very well," he conceded.
"Stick to that story. Leave the rest to me."
"I left the rest to you from the start. Look where it's got me."
"I will will sort this out," the commissario insisted. "I a.s.sure you. This woman. We may need to know her name. She will vouch for you. You're sure of that?" sort this out," the commissario insisted. "I a.s.sure you. This woman. We may need to know her name. She will vouch for you. You're sure of that?"
Ma.s.siter beamed back at him, amused. "Given you're nothing but a possession of mine, one whose value appears to be rather less than the price I originally paid, you are, I must say, distinctly uppity tonight, Randazzo. I trust my tolerance of this impertinence will be rewarded. And . . ." He hesitated before making this last point, a fierce, bright certainty burning in his eyes that chilled Gianfranco Randazzo's blood. " . . . Soon. Soon. Patience is not one of my virtues." Patience is not one of my virtues."
"I cannot save you from yourself!" Randazzo answered, scared by his own impetuousness, all the more aware now that he had no idea how he could deliver what Ma.s.siter, and his own superiors, wanted. "Will this woman say what she's told?"
Ma.s.siter was grinning again. The abrupt, scary chill was gone.
"I believe so. Perhaps you'd better ask her yourself. When you get home."
IT WAS NOW ALMOST SEVEN. THE THREE OF THEM WOULD be late for Ma.s.siter's party, but it was inevitable. Falcone wanted the men to write up everything in the Questura before leaving. It was important, the inspector insisted, to make sure all the facts, as much as they understood them, were set down for the record. He didn't want any room for mistakes, holes through which problems might slip. Teresa had been occupied too, in a way that hadn't proved entirely satisfactory, if he read correctly the troubled expression on her face. be late for Ma.s.siter's party, but it was inevitable. Falcone wanted the men to write up everything in the Questura before leaving. It was important, the inspector insisted, to make sure all the facts, as much as they understood them, were set down for the record. He didn't want any room for mistakes, holes through which problems might slip. Teresa had been occupied too, in a way that hadn't proved entirely satisfactory, if he read correctly the troubled expression on her face.
It was a gorgeous evening. Even on the vaporetto there was scarcely a hint of breeze. The city stood breathless, trapped inside its own archaic splendour.
"Was Leo right?" Costa asked. "Did you get anything out of the morgue here?"
A disgruntled frown creased her face. "Sort of. They're not exactly state-of-the-art. To be honest with you, it was a bit amateur-hour there. All the serious stuff gets sent over to the mainland."
Peroni and Nic looked at each other. Costa knew they were thinking the same thing.
"And this isn't serious?" he asked. "Two people dead? In very odd circ.u.mstances?"
Teresa was staring at the approaching island next to the vaporetto jetty, its trio of buildings misty in the heat haze. Costa followed the line of her gaze. Something about the Isola degli Arcangeli disturbed him. The place clung onto the side of Murano proper by that single metal bridge, with its iconic angel, unsteadily, as if it were unsure whether to belong, or whether to cast itself off into the shallow waters of the lagoon.
"You'd think . . ." she murmured. "I just don't know. I've persuaded Silvio to do a little work on the case. We'll see."
"Oh wonderful," Peroni groaned. "How does Leo manage that? Getting everyone else in the s.h.i.t alongside him?"
Teresa gave him a sharp glance. "I rather thought we were invited because we're good at our jobs."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah . . ." Peroni waved a big hand at her. "I keep hearing that. But this isn't our place, remember. This belongs to the Venetians, and frankly they're welcome to it. We've got our orders from the commissario. A nice neat investigation. Wrap it up. Then go home." He put a huge arm around Teresa Lupo's hefty shoulders. "Home," Peroni emphasised. "Just by doing what we're told for once. Is it that hard?"
Yes, Costa thought, but didn't say it. Something stank about the Arcangelo case and they all knew that. Spontaneous combustion. Damaged keys. Aldo Bracci too, locked inside his own house on Murano, an angry mob outside willing him to go. Costa couldn't get the picture of Bracci out of his head. There was more than just misery inside the man. There was knowledge too, something he was, perhaps, wondering whether to share.
Teresa got back to the point. "Silvio's got some ideas. About this spontaneous combustion thing. He's more the chemist than I am. I've sent him some material to work on. Perhaps tomorrow, the day after, we'll know more."
"What sort of material?" Costa asked.
"Fibres. From his clothes. People don't just catch fire, Nic. Not in this world. It was very hot in there. Very strange conditions. Uriel was partly deaf and had lost his sense of smell too. Someone who knew that could have doctored the ap.r.o.n. There's an explanation. Physical laws apply. It's just a question of understanding them. Maybe . . ."
She stopped. The two men looked at her. It wasn't like Teresa Lupo to be lost for words.
"Maybe what?" Peroni pressed.
"Maybe I was wrong. Maybe it's a kind of witchcraft. Or more accurately, a kind of alchemy. I've been reading up on the way they make gla.s.s. That is is alchemy of a sort. They use chemicals and processes going back hundreds of years. If you wanted to set up a furnace like that now, somewhere else, the health and safety authorities would probably kick you out of town as soon as they saw the stuff you wanted to use. Gla.s.s is beautiful, but what goes into it to make all those colours, all those features . . . I wouldn't want it round me day in and day out. Perhaps the suit or the ap.r.o.n picked up some substance. Accidentally. Or . . ." alchemy of a sort. They use chemicals and processes going back hundreds of years. If you wanted to set up a furnace like that now, somewhere else, the health and safety authorities would probably kick you out of town as soon as they saw the stuff you wanted to use. Gla.s.s is beautiful, but what goes into it to make all those colours, all those features . . . I wouldn't want it round me day in and day out. Perhaps the suit or the ap.r.o.n picked up some substance. Accidentally. Or . . ."
She gave them that sly look, the one that said, You should be thinking this, boys. You should be thinking this, boys. "If anyone could come up with some way of faking spontaneous combustion, don't you think it would be a man who knew the inside of a gla.s.s foundry?" "If anyone could come up with some way of faking spontaneous combustion, don't you think it would be a man who knew the inside of a gla.s.s foundry?"
Costa thought about the shattered furnace. Teresa was, as usual, on the ball. They should have done so much more.
"And Bella was pregnant," Peroni added. "You gave us that. Thanks. Though I don't imagine her brother's too grateful."
"Oh yes," she murmured. "The brother."
Peroni must have told her about what had happened that afternoon. Something didn't ring true.
"On the face of it," Costa said, "the brother's the best suspect we've got. The only suspect. We know he was messing around with Bella once. He admitted it himself. His only alibi comes from his sons, neither of whom I'd trust for a moment. If Bella had told him about the pregnancy, and the fact the child couldn't be Uriel's, he had a motive too. To keep her quiet."
She didn't look convinced. "If I were Leo Falcone," she said primly, "I'd say you were trying to make your suspicions fit your facts. Bracci and Bella were playing those games thirty years ago, weren't they?"
"Something like that," Costa confirmed.
"I'm no expert in incest or s.e.xual abuse. But I am a woman. I've got to tell you, it doesn't fit. Why would they turn back the clock? Most people in that situation would want to put the past behind them. Never remember for one moment all the stupid nonsense they got up to when they were kids. They wouldn't want to take those memories out of the box and bring them back to life. What are the stats for incest among people in their forties, outside the boondocks?"
"This is is the boondocks," Peroni grumbled. the boondocks," Peroni grumbled.
"Is it?" Costa asked. "It's a closed community. I don't think that's the same thing."
"I agree," Teresa said firmly. "This place is too urban. Someone would surely have known if it had started again. Something would surely have happened."
Peroni poked his head around the side of the boat. The familiar yellow sign of the Faro floating jetty was bobbing up and down on the water ahead. And something new: two bright blue neon signs had been erected on the little island next door. One, over the foundry, shone above the fresh gla.s.s and woodwork, announcing Fornace Fornace. The second was five times its size and spanned the entire entrance of the palace in a large semicircle.
"The Palazzo degli Arcangeli," Peroni read, squinting at the sign in the distance. "Something did happen, if you recall."
"I know, but . . ."
She wasn't going to start an argument. Costa understood her point all the same.
The vaporetto lurched to a sudden halt. Its klaxon sounded. Loud, furious voices issued from the cabin ahead. It was one of those rare incidents of a dispute on the lagoon. Two vessels cutting in front of one another, trying to fight for domination of the busy waves.
Nic Costa stuck out his head to see what was going on. Piero Scacchi's grubby motorboat was edging out from the jetty by the furnace, the black, taut shape of Xerxes seated amidships, in front of the figure of his master, working the helm. The vessel carried no obvious cargo. He could have made some kind of delivery, perhaps to help restart the furnace.
Scacchi fought his way past the stalled vaporetto, ignoring the curses coming from the cabin, then turned up the feeble motor, raising the vessel to what Costa guessed must have been its maximum speed. He looked glad to be leaving Murano, pointing the nose of his little craft straight for Sant' Erasmo.
"Hey!" Peroni yelled. "Piero!"
His voice was lost in the roar of the vaporetto's engine. Probably just as well, Costa thought. Piero Scacchi was a player in these proceedings too. He lived in a place where the country habits Teresa ruled out in Murano were, perhaps, not entirely unknown. And he was privy, surely, to information on Hugo Ma.s.siter. Costa was unable to keep from poking at the story of Ma.s.siter's brush with the law five years earlier, and those two disappeared characters in that episode, Daniel Forster and Laura Conti. He wondered what they would have to say in response to Ma.s.siter's version of those events. All the more so now, since Emily seemed destined to spend some time in the Englishman's presence.
A sound-distant, delightful-drifted across the still evening air. From the open doors of the palace came the lilting notes of a small orchestra, the violins foremost, music that, to Costa's largely uneducated ear, sounded like Vivaldi. He strained to see beyond the boat stop, towards the private island. White banners now festooned the iron bridge and the arms of the skeletal angel. Beyond, by the long, narrow jetty outside the palace, one never used before when Costa had visited the island, a long line of private water taxies was queuing to unload its human cargo. They were all in carnival costume: Renaissance, Baroque, English Elizabethan. The women stood waiting to disembark in bright, shining, full-length dresses, silk, damask and velvet, mantles around their shoulders, fans flickering, feathered hats pointing skywards. The men were equally varied: fake n.o.blemen, pirates, soldiers, others dressed as commedia dell'arte commedia dell'arte figures, Harlequin in patchwork with his trademark stick, the plague doctor with his long, vicious beak, Pulcinella in sugarloaf hat and white baggy costume. figures, Harlequin in patchwork with his trademark stick, the plague doctor with his long, vicious beak, Pulcinella in sugarloaf hat and white baggy costume.
"Oh my G.o.d," Teresa murmured. "It's Leo."
Falcone's unmistakable lean, erect figure was indeed visible on the jetty. He was wearing a restrained dark uniform, like that of an old-fashioned military officer. Lines of gold braid stood on his shoulders. Colourful medals adorned his chest.
"The b.a.s.t.a.r.d," Teresa complained. "He knew it was fancy dress all along."
Raffaella Arcangelo stood next to him, in mourning still. Her medieval-style ankle-length dress was solid, dull black. At its high neckline an ornate lace collar, again the colour of night, allowed only a glimpse of the pale flesh beneath. Her long hair was tied back, parted in the middle, held by a pearl-studded band.
"Now that, that," Teresa added, "looks like a couple."