No Mortal Thing: A Thriller (45 page)

Carlo said, ‘I suppose I want – not that I’d admit it anywhere close to where I work – to help. I’d like to support the people, at the end of the chain, shield them against what’s around them. That’s narcotics, kids being trafficked, extortion, so that the little money they have is bled out of them, the corruption that means they have to pay a
pizzo
, a bribe. Anything I can do that puts some or all of that family into gaol, I’m in support of it. A guy turns up and isn’t governed by endless regulations, well, I can criticise him to my superiors. Out of earshot, I’ll cheer him on. If I said as much, and was heard, I’d be sacked. My feet wouldn’t touch the ground – I’d be down the stairs on my backside. Why am I here? Because I’m rooting for that young man. He’s a fool, and should be well clear of there by now, on the road and into the airport soonest . . . I have a bad feeling, Fred, and there’s not much I can do about it. I reckon he’ll want to hang around, think himself invincible. I’m saying we do what we can. We don’t get in line and wait for citations to be read out, but we contribute if possible, then head off back to our tidy little desks. No one, thank the Lord, knows our names. How’s that?’

‘Have you finished?’

‘Maybe I shouldn’t have started. I’m trying to say that he’s gone rogue in a hostile environment.’

‘Difficult world out there . . .’

‘Sorry to have spoiled the walk.’

Fred let his hand rest on Carlo’s arm. They had nothing in common except the confused feeling about what was ‘right’ and what was ‘wrong’. It was as if they were bumping around in a darkened room, a brotherhood. He thought of where they were, of the great history of the beach and the town that flanked it, the marvel of the Greek civilisation that had been there millennia before, the artefacts that remained, their writings and sophistication, then of the people who cared nothing for that heritage, polluted it with toxins and ran the cocaine trade. He kicked at the sand. He was only an investigator.

An old man was watching them from close to a statue, a younger woman beside him. When he looked again, they had gone.

It would be good to swim.

It was natural that Father Demetrio, as the hours passed that day, should go to the shrine of the Madonna. He found it a consoling place.

He parked. The church and the dormitories around it, where pilgrims could lodge, were in a steep-sided valley. The sun had still not penetrated and the air was cold. He went towards the church door. The women in the village regarded the shrine as especially important in their lives. The men he baptised, married and buried thought Polsi a useful place of business while their women were at mass when they would huddle in the shadows. Deals were closed, shipments bought and sold, and the problem of those who tried to break away from the authority of the family was settled: strangulation, disappearance or the bullet. The women believed passionately what he told them of the Madonna of the Mountains and of the shrine’s value to them as a protector. Prominent men believed they owned the church, its rituals, the priests, and used it as a comforter, in the way that a child would cling to a favourite toy. The holy epicentre of many lives was filthy, with litter and cigarette ends clogging the cobbles. He walked to the church door.

It could be read in the eyes.

Often enough, Father Demetrio had seen in the faces of the prominent men he met the knowledge that they were condemned and that nowhere remained to them as a refuge. He supposed, had he lingered in front of the mirror as he’d shaved and stared hard into his own eyes, that he might recognise his fate. He might have laughed at the irony of it, but it was likely that no attempt would be made on his life until he had conducted the funeral of the loathsome wretch who had been Bernardo’s grandson. He would settle his mind. Inside the church there was evidence of artistry, a decorative ceiling by skilled workmen, tasteful flower arrangements, and an altar where dignity and tradition reigned. He knelt, bowed his head. He would be put to death – probably painfully – after Marcantonio was buried.

A big step, perhaps none bigger, confronted him.

The lawyer who had quit London, then fled the south-west coast of England and was now resident on the outskirts of Brancaleone took a mobile call. He had not known the caller’s number, nor was he given a name. The information passed to him referred to radio reports that a young man – identity given – was dead from a gunshot wound at his home. Now he had to pacify his client.

Humphrey said, ‘It’s one of those things, Bent. Nothing can be done. You know the old saying “out of a clear blue sky”, well, that’s what happened. The guy shot himself, something about a wolf near the chickens and he was outside with a weapon and must have tripped. Dead as mutton. That’s why you were stood up. Nothing about disrespect. They take death very seriously in these parts – and so they should. They live close enough to it. Before the funeral, I’m told, which is a reflection of the respect for you, Bent, within twenty-four hours, there’ll a meeting with the man himself – not Jack, not me, just you. They’ll have their own interpreter. These boys, Bent, don’t allow a death in the family to get in the way of a deal. You’ll be sorted out and on your way by the end of tomorrow. They know who you are, Bent, the extent of your contacts, your reputation and influence. You’ll get what you came for. The kid’s dead and that was why they skipped today . . . I saw you talking outside, Bent. Did you meet up with some tourists? A bit off-season but there’s always visitors coming here for the sun and the peace.’

‘Something like that. Pity about the kid, not that I liked him. Maybe we should have some flowers for them. Pity that. An accident out of a clear blue sky, yes.’

Jack said, ‘As you say, Bent, an accident and a clear blue sky. Spot on, Bent.’

‘I meant to be here earlier – had to come the back way,’ she blurted. Jago sat on the grass, leaning against a mature birch. The sunlight cut through the branches and its warmth played on him.

‘I’d have been earlier but for roadblocks. Yesterday I had to turn back. There just wasn’t a way through.’

A second excuse. He thought Consolata was flustered.

‘They moved the blocks overnight and I was able to go round them. I brought some food and clothes.’ She put two plastic bags close to his feet. Then she was on her knees, rummaging in them – food and water from one, socks, underwear and a shirt from the other. It didn’t worry Jago that she had been through his rucksack, taken stuff out of it. There was nothing in it of himself. He thought she was anxious.

‘God, it’s been so long since you’ve had anything to eat. Was the storm awful? There were floods and landslides, the worst in years. You should eat now – please. Or do you want to change first?’ Consolata brought out the wrapped food and the water, then put the clothes near to him. ‘It was on the radio. I’ve been listening to it ever since I dropped you. They said it was an accident but I didn’t believe that.’

Jago thought she was desperate to please – she was talking too much. All the time he had been burrowed under the two boulders he hadn’t spoken. He remembered how she had been on the beach at Scilla, under the moonlight, it shimmering on her skin. She had been quiet then. And in the car, when they had systematically stolen from washing lines and had talked of concealment, she had been factual and economic. She would have thought a lunatic had wandered across her path, been captivated, and set on a course of action that she had dictated – she might or might not come back with food, water, clean clothes. He started to unbutton his shirt.

‘I had the radio on all night – I hardly slept. It was on the earliest news broadcast. Just the first report, but he was dead – confirmed. I had it on in the car and that’s when they said about a shotgun. I can’t believe it was an accident. You did it. You struck a real blow against the family. I’m proud to have helped. I’ve done more than I’ve achieved in years. And we’re a team.’

Jago slipped off the shirt and the vest under it. He ignored the food and the water. It was good to get his clothes off. They were drier, but still clung to him. He would have liked to eat, but not yet. The Arena was across the river from Canning Town, one stop on the train, and he’d been there with his sister, when a big boy-band was playing. He’d seen the adoration on her face and those of the other kids, in awe – like the nuns when the Holy Father went walk-about from St Peter’s. They’d shown it on TV when he was at the Catholic school. He wouldn’t have said her gaze was reaching adoration or awe, but saw admiration and astonishment that he had done what she gave him credit for. She had been aloof and distant on the beach.

‘You’ve really damaged them. It’s what a few of us were screaming for. The best I could offer my group was to stand outside the principal home of a Pesche or a di Stefano, give out leaflets and probably get beaten. What you did is incredible. Find a wasps’ nest and poke a stick into it, destroy their home and infuriate them. That’s direct action. We had urban guerrillas in Italy forty years ago, the Brigate Rosse. They killed people for direct action, and I understand now, for the first time, the value . . .’

He untied his laces and pushed off his trainers and socks. Then he took off his trousers and pants. He felt the sun on him. He saw Marcantonio’s face – what had remained of it. He thought of the wolf and where it had spent the long night before its death, and the boy who had kept vigil, as he had. The boy, Jago and the wolf had been together for hours before the first hint of dawn. It was not her business.

‘I brought what I thought you might like. It’s not as fresh as if I’d bought it today, but I couldn’t make it yesterday and started too early today. I’m sorry.’

Jago could have slept in the sun. She wore an anorak, jeans, boots and a couple of T-shirts. She was a few feet from him and was unwrapping the food, then opened a bottle. She was turning herself into a café waitress. He didn’t know her. She passed him a sandwich and he saw her face screw up because the bread had curled at the edges. He took it and their fingers touched momentarily. He ate the sandwich, which tasted good but he didn’t thank her. Then she held up a water bottle. He took it, tilted it and drank. He screwed the top back on and let the bottle drop onto the grass. She told him what time the plane was.

‘Just after six this evening. Out of Lamezia to Milan. There’s a connection about nine for Berlin. When I heard the radio I checked the flights. It’ll be late but you’ll be back in your own bed tonight. It’s incredible, what you’ve done. I’ve never managed anything like it. None of the people in my group have. We all talk about it but don’t do it. You hurt them, Jago.’

He thought her unsure. It had been easy enough for her to strip when they were on the beach at Scilla, the lights of the town behind them, the waves rippling on the sand, the moon high and heat of the day ebbing off them. Now she started with her anorak, then the outer T-shirt. She moved closer to him so that he could help or take over.

‘I’ve enough to buy a ticket . . . Are you understanding me, Jago? I can buy a ticket at Lamezia. I’ve my passport with me. There’s nothing for me here. You’ve done what you came for. I don’t have to stay. Can I be with you?’

Her shoes and socks were off, and her fingers went to her belt, unclasped it, then lowered the zip on her jeans. She reached forward and touched his arms, perhaps to guide them to the waist of her jeans or under the second T-shirt. He pushed her hands back so that they dropped down onto her thighs.

‘You’ve finished here – you’ve done what you came for. What’s the matter, Jago?’

He could have told her what he had finished and what he had yet to do. He could have spoken of the freshly washed sheets, which had been left on the line during the storm, and how a new cable ran in a shallow trench from the back of the house to a building that was semi-derelict. He could have told her about the death of a wolf – could have sat her down beside him and talked for an hour. He had seen so much, and there was still much to do. He supposed he should have thanked her for driving across the Aspromonte, but he said nothing.

‘You have finished, haven’t you? What else?’

He ate another sandwich and finished the water in the bottle. He started to dress. Clean underwear, fresh socks and a shirt, then eased back into his jeans and pulled the laces tight on the trainers. A light fleece over his body, then the camouflage coat. He collected up the sandwich wrappings, and the empty bottle, then bagged them with the food he hadn’t eaten. His dirty clothes went into the second bag, he gestured for her to dump them. It would have been the same if she had asked about his rucksack – it was of no further use to him. She dressed, clumsily, her eyes blazing but moist. He had needed the dry clothing and the sandwiches, which would last him for the time remaining: not long, two nights under the great boulders where he looked down on the sheets and knew where the join was in the freshly buried cable. A brief smile. It was the smile that a man might give a woman he had sat beside on a bus from Clerkenwell to the City. Uninvolved, strangers passing. No kiss, no handshake, but he let her look into his eyes for whatever she might find. She stared at him, still half dressed.

Jago slipped away, watching the ground where his feet would land. He didn’t turn or wave.

Bernardo held court.

It was a continuation of his promenade around the fruit and vegetable market, but now he was at home, and the postman’s uniform had been returned to its owner. In his kitchen, the blinds lowered, old men had gathered around the table. Some were more important, more influential than him, and others ran lesser clans.