The Garden of Evil (21 page)

Fourteen

C
OSTA TURNED AND WALKED AWAY, LIMPING A LITTLE,
conscious of the blood flowing from his shoulder, intent on moving towards the abandoned van. As he did so, he surreptitiously removed the weapon from his belt, letting it hang loose in his left hand. Before the Lancia could begin to move, he was squeezing through the narrow gap between the van and the stone wall, barely wide enough for one person, a slender space in the darkness into which he could disappear. On the other side . . . he was praying the gunman hadn’t worked this out yet. He guessed there was room—just—for Falcone’s car. But only if it negotiated the gap carefully, in first gear, and with some manoeuvring.

The high-powered car’s eager cylinders roared with sudden life. Its tires squealed on the cold, damp cobblestones of the lane. The shining vehicle reversed. From his position in the pool of black by the van, Costa saw what he expected. The driver had been focused on more important matters than the traffic. When he looked behind, he saw the truck at the head of the lane blocking the obvious exit. There was only one way out: past the van. Past
him
.

The Lancia edged forward, towards the space on the far side. Costa waited, moving farther forward behind the open rear door, heart pumping, trying to summon what strength he still had.

He was aware that there was a second or two during which he might act, nothing more.

From the far side of the vehicle came the teeth-jagging racket of metal screeching against metal as Falcone’s prized possession began to squeeze into the narrow gap between the van and the far wall. He heard the wheels squealing over the stones as the driver locked and turned them, trying to negotiate a corner that was near impossible.

Gradually, the gleaming hood began to emerge, and Costa knew he had one slim chance, the moment when the passenger door would be briefly free before the body of the vehicle cleared the obstacle and they would be gone, flying into the night, to a place and a fate he could only guess at.

The Lancia lurched forward, almost free. He could hear the powerful engine growling with anticipation.

“This I will not allow,” Costa muttered to himself, then judged the timing instinctively, seeking the precise instant he saw the full length of the passenger door by his side before extending his wounded arm, screaming as he did so, “Down! Down!
Down!
”

He saw her face frightened but alert through the glass and that single exchanged glance was enough. She was ready. She was quick. He watched her wayward head of hair dive towards her lap, then turned the weapon in his good hand towards the dark figure at the wheel, placing a single shot through the very top of the side window, praying it would hit home.

There was a bellow of gunfire and the shattering of glass. Splintered shards jumped up into his face, sharp and stinging. He thrust his good hand through the window, then, with the shaft of the pistol, raked at the break there to make it larger, dashing the weapon round and round, screaming words he couldn’t hear or understand. It was enough to get his bloodied right fist through and find the lock. Except she was there already, before him. The passenger door of Leo Falcone’s police car swung open, took him in the chest, sent him reeling backwards, as a body flew out, into his flailing arms.

“Nic!” she yelled.

“Behind me!”

The others were squeezing their way through the narrow crack by the side of the van. There wasn’t enough room for them to gather. He couldn’t get the picture of that sawn-off shotgun out of his mind either. He had failed Emily this way once. Twice . . . It was unthinkable.

“Behind me!”
he bellowed, and felt her slim body squeeze past his aching, screaming shoulder, to some place that might count as safety.

The Lancia revved angrily. The figure behind the wheel was alive, and furious.

But not stupid enough to engage in a battle that was lost.

Costa managed to loose off one more shot with his weak left hand. By then the car was forcing its way out into the open alley, unmindful of the damage caused by stone and metal. Once free, it found a sudden and violent life. Tires spinning wildly on the black shining stones, it careered off the far wall and leapt out into the open space. He watched, the gun loose in his hand, his fingers too cramped, too pained to think of another shot, as the vehicle disappeared in a wild, torque-driven arc, disappearing into the warren of streets he had come to think of once more as Ortaccio, a web of twisting ancient passageways that could lead almost anywhere in the city.

Costa leaned back on the door of their truck and closed his eyes.

He felt weak and stupid, almost paralysed by the aftershock and the wound to his shoulder. But more than anything, he felt elated. This time the man in the hood, with his deadly shotgun, had failed.

“You’re hurt,” she said, sounding cross, as if it were his fault somehow. “Where are the doctors? Leo? Where are the doctors?”

“Coming,” Falcone said.

When he opened his eyes again, the inspector stood next to her, bending down to look at his shoulder.

“He’ll live,” the inspector added. “Now, Agata—”

“ ‘He’ll live’!
‘He’ll live’!
” she roared. “What kind of thing is that to say?”

“I’ll live,” Costa broke in, and stared at her, still only half able to believe she had possessed the speed and the wit to take the minute possibility he had created.

“Agata . . . Did you recognise him?”

She stopped, and glanced at both of them. “Recognise?”

“Was it Franco Malaspina?” he asked, and noticed a sudden, disappointed intake of breath on Falcone’s part when he heard those words.

“How do I know, Nic? I never saw his face.”

“The man knew you,” he pointed out.

“He did,” she agreed. “Still . . . All I heard was that muffled voice through the mask. Perhaps. I don’t know.”

Her bright eyes gazed at him through the steady rain, asking a question she didn’t want answered. Why he needed this so much. Half suspecting, he knew, the answer.

“We know it’s Franco,” he said quietly, not caring what Falcone thought anymore. “I told you.
They
are the Ekstasists, Malaspina and the rest. They killed those women in the Vicolo del Divino Amore. My wife. We
know
. The man’s so rich and powerful and clever, we can’t prove a damned thing. Not without a start. Not without some small concrete piece of evidence. Something that will force his hand.” He knew it was the wrong thing to say. Provocation. Leading a witness on. He didn’t care anymore. “A simple, positive identification would do that.”

Falcone was staring at his shoes. Peroni and Rosa were walking around the other side of the van towards them. Costa knew where they must have been. Inside. A place that seemed, briefly, almost irrelevant at that moment.

“Is this true, Leo?” she asked. “That you suspected Franco all along? You involved me in this, knowing what manner of man he is?”

Falcone held out his arms, pleading. “I was desperate, Agata. We all were. I’m sorry. If I had thought for one moment . . .”

“Is it true?”

Falcone’s eyes were back on his feet. “This is not the way we do these things,” he said in a low, despairing voice. “There are procedures and rules about evidence. Placing ideas in a witness’s head . . . If I were to use you as a witness, there would be the issue of protection. He is a dangerous man.” He hesitated, reluctant to continue. “More dangerous than you can begin to know. I don’t want to hear any more of this. I won’t.”

She didn’t wait long.

“It was Franco Malaspina,” she said. “I am sure of it. I know his voice well. I heard him speak my name. There. Use it. I will say this in court. Use my testimony, Leo!”

The inspector shook his head and sighed. “Don’t go down this road. There’s no turning back.”

“I will say this to you. Or to anyone else in Rome who wishes to hear.”

Falcone took out his radio and put out a call for the immediate arrest of Malaspina, Buccafusca, Castagna, and Tomassoni, with all caution to be taken when approaching men who might be armed and dangerous.

“A doctor too,” Agata Graziano insisted. “For Nic. And those men inside.”

Peroni coughed into his big fist. “Those men inside are beyond doctors,” he said. “I think you can cross Emilio Buccafusca off that list too. Judging by the wallet on the corpse in there, he’s out of this already.”

A distant siren broke the silence of the night. From somewhere in the direction of the Mausoleum of Augustus, a blue light flashed down the alley, like some mutant Christmas decoration newly escaped from the tree.

One

W
ITHIN FIFTEEN MINUTES THE ENTIRE AREA AROUND
the Barberini studio was flooded with a tangle of police vehicles and officers stretching as far back as the Piazza Borghese. A city-wide alert had been issued for Falcone’s stolen vehicle, so far without results. Costa had been seen by the duty medical officer and dispatched, with Agata insistently by his side, to the hospital for treatment for his wounded shoulder. Scene-of-crime were preparing to seal off the studio and start work on the body of Emilio Buccafusca, under the supervision of Teresa Lupo, who had found her own way to the scene, and taken control of her team without a single order from anyone. There was an excess of activity and resources, one suspect dead, one missing, both with clear links to the earlier cases in the Vicolo del Divino Amore.

Falcone should have felt happier than he did. It was Franco Malaspina behind the mask. He was sure of that. But Agata’s identification under pressure from Costa was so vague, and came about from crude prompting. Even in a mess like this, with evidence available everywhere, a rich, powerful Roman aristocrat would retain some friends, and—possibly—sufficient influence to disrupt the momentum of the case at the very point at which it appeared to be about to break.

There were still too many unknowns, and one of them was striding through the rain towards him at that moment, a tall skinny figure about his own build, but with a full head of wavy black hair damp from the weather, not that the man cared much. Falcone had spent little time with Vincenzo Esposito since the man arrived from Milan to take up the position of commissario in the Questura. He had no idea what to make of him, and nor had anyone else, since he was utterly unlike any of the officers—all Roman, all risen through the local ranks—who had preceded him. A few years short of Falcone’s own age, quietly spoken, sharply intelligent, and—to the dismay of active officers—keenly interested in the minutiae of the investigative process, Esposito was a mystery to those he commanded, and seemed happy to keep it that way.

Falcone had looked through newspaper cuttings after his appointment. There was nothing there except an illustrious though quiet career, one that had included busting a clan of the ’Ndrangheta crime organisation while working in Reggio di Calabria, and bringing about the successful prosecution of several state officials for bribery in connection with public-works contracts in his native city. These were the actions of an ambitious officer. One, Falcone hoped, who had limited time for authority when a little leeway was called for. It was possible he would find himself suspended, alongside those he had inveigled into the illicit surveillance operation against the Ekstasists, once the dust of this night had cleared. It was also possible he could talk his way out of things, for a while anyway.

Only the morning before, he had met Esposito in a corridor in the Questura, between a conference with the primary team working on the bodies in the Vicolo del Divino Amore and the visit to his own apartment to brief Peroni, Costa, Teresa Lupo, and Rosa Prabakaran. There had been a brief exchange of words—the kind of sentiments that officers expressed in the middle of difficult cases.

And Falcone had let something slip, quite deliberately, knowing that Esposito was aware of the interest in Malaspina, and the difficulties that caused.

The man had listened and said simply, “The rich are with us always, too. Sadly.”

After which he had excused himself, then, with a backwards glance, headed off down the corridor to one of the endless management meetings that always reminded Falcone why he didn’t want to be a commissario.

Esposito didn’t look displeased at being dragged out of bed. He seemed energised, interested, even a little amused.

“You do spring surprises on me,” the man observed cheerfully. “I’ve just been chatting with that young Indian officer of yours. I thought we had one investigation. Now it transpires we had two.”

“I had intended, sir—”

“No need,” the commissario interrupted. “I don’t expect to be told everything. Unless it’s absolutely necessary.” He stomped his feet and clapped his hands together. It was an act. The night wasn’t that cold. “Well. Is it?”

“I don’t believe so at the moment.”

“Good. No one has seen your car. Don’t you find that odd?”

“Very,” Falcone grumbled. There had been a single sighting of the vehicle, on the Lungotevere by the new museum for the Ara Pacis. The police car which made the identification was blocked behind another vehicle on a red light in a side street. By the time it reached the main road, the stolen car was nowhere to be seen.

“Unless it’s in that damned palace round the corner, eh?”

“It’s big enough,” Falcone admitted. “That would seem rash, surely. An underground car park would be the obvious place. If he was a criminal, I would suggest he might have easy access to some truck used for car theft. Someone could simply drive up a ramp and it’s out of sight.”

Esposito seemed amused by this idea. “
If
he’s a criminal? I read the file. These animals have murdered at least seven women and attacked God knows how many more, just to get their dirty pictures . . .”

“I’m not sure it’s quite as simple as that.”

“I am. Malaspina murdered the wife of one of our own officers. And one of his brothers-in-arms tonight, in front of you.
If
.”

“I meant if he were a career criminal. Part of some organisation.”

“A criminal’s a criminal,” the commissario noted cryptically. “So your suspect is gone. And that painting he loves too.”

“I will find this man,” Falcone insisted.

“I should hope so. And this young officer of yours? Costa? Is he badly hurt?”

“They will be picking shot out of his shoulder for a few hours. It won’t be pleasant. It won’t be fatal either. He is a very . . . persistent individual. Rather too much for his own good sometimes.”

“So I’d heard. Then he should rest. He never took sufficient compassionate leave in the first place.”

“I know.”

Esposito watched him keenly. “You have ideas,
Ispettore
?”

“A few. For later. They are insufficiently developed.”

“And now? Think about this. It’s important. Are you sure it was Franco Malaspina? Absolutely? We can’t play fast and loose with a man like that. One more screwup and he’s probably free for good.”

“We have a positive identification from Sister Agata Graziano, a woman of the Church.”

Falcone was aware of the hesitation in his own voice. So was Esposito.

“Of a hooded man who said very little indeed, from what Prabakaran tells me,” the commissario observed.

“It will put no one behind bars. But perhaps it will unlock enough doors for us to find the evidence that will. Though I hope to have something better before long.”

Esposito looked at the sea of bodies and vehicles around him, the forensic team climbing into their white bunny suits, the organised mayhem that followed any major crime incident, a necessary flow of procedures and bureaucracy set down so firmly on paper that every senior officer knew it now by heart. He didn’t seem much interested.

“I’d be a damned sight happier if we simply picked up this creature behind the wheel of your car,” he complained. “That would make everything so simple, which is doubtless why it won’t happen. Do we really need all these men and women earning expensive overtime at this hour of the night?”

“Those who are not involved in the crime scene are waiting, sir.”

“For some magistrate who’s been dragged out of bed to give you carte blanche to charge through the Palazzo Malaspina?”

“Good God, no,” Falcone answered, aghast. “That’s what he’d expect. If Malaspina’s there, it means he’s fixed some alibi already. If not . . . it’s irrelevant. His lawyers have us wrapped in cotton wool. We can’t apply for a warrant without notifying them first, and that would extend any hearing until the daylight hours at the earliest.”

The commissario beamed. For the first time in a while, Leo Falcone felt quite cheered. Something told him he wouldn’t necessarily be fired. Yet.

“So?” Esposito wondered.

“So I have applied for warrants to enter the homes of Giorgio Castagna and Nino Tomassoni. Castagna lives in the Via Metastasio, two minutes to the south from here. Tomassoni has a house in the Piazza San Lorenzo in Lucina. It’s just as close.”

Esposito looked pleased. “I know Rome. No need for directions. We could walk there. But we won’t, of course. I want this done properly.”

“Sir . . .”

“In fact . . .”

He put a gloved finger to his lips, thinking. Vincenzo Esposito had a pale, softly contoured, and elongated face, that of one of the Piemontese peasant farmers Falcone used to see as a child when he was on holiday in the mountains, or in the bloodless, idealised paintings so popular in the north. It was difficult to imagine the man in the flush of anger or engagement.

“You take Tomassoni,” he ordered. “I shall visit Castagna. With Agente Peroni by my side. Is that agreeable to you?”

“Well . . . as you wish,” Falcone replied, a little staggered by the directness of this intervention. “Peroni?”

“An interesting man. I have read his file. I have read all your files.”

Falcone said not a word.

“I like this city of yours,” Esposito declared. “Now, may we go and arrest some criminals, do you think?”