The Seventh Sacrament (19 page)

“I think we’re doing everything we can. You have the manpower. We’ve followed practice. If someone’s seen Bramante…”

“No one really knows what Bramante looks like anymore. Except whoever it is that’s helping him. We have to go through the motions, but I’m not holding out much hope. So how?”

It was the old truism, one that most police officers tried to forget, because it tended to demean all the routine that went with a normal investigation.

“Statistically I’d say…out in the street. When his mind’s on something else. His work. Or…”—he had to add this—“…on the way back.”

Falcone nodded vigorously. His large bald head had lost its customary tan over the winter. He would turn fifty before the year was out, Costa remembered.

“Quite right. But here’s another statistic for you, Nic. Although you’d rarely understand this from reading a newspaper today, a child is many times more likely to be at risk from his immediate family or friends than from a stranger. It’s not someone around the corner they need fear, usually. Or some Internet stalker. It’s those who are close to them.”

Costa nodded. Of course he knew. The assumption, from the outset, was that the Bramantes were a perfect middle-class family, a photogenic one which, in the eyes of some, meant they felt the tragedy more than most.

“There’s never been a suggestion that Bramante or his wife abused the child. Has there?”

“No,” Falcone agreed with a shrug. “The middle classes don’t do that kind of thing, do they? At least, not so others get to know about it.”

He motioned to some folders on his desk, blue ones, a colour the Questura didn’t use.

“I called in the social service reports before you got here. Nothing, of course. We should still have looked more closely than we did. We allowed ourselves to be distracted by the media. The course of action we took was formed by public opinion, not what we should have been pursuing as police officers. Instead of justice, we sought vengeance, which is an ugly thing that respects no one, guilty or innocent. The curious part of all this is that I rather had the impression Giorgio Bramante didn’t mind. He already knew what he was going to do, even before we put him in court.”

He peered out at the room full of officers, a few laughing with Peroni and Teresa, most head down over their computers.

“And here we are almost fifteen years on, hoping that this time round we can pull some answers out of a machine. Progress…What do you think, Nic? How do we break this one?”

Costa had formed firm opinions on that subject already.

“Bramante isn’t an ordinary killer. He probably doesn’t expect to escape us in the end. Perhaps he thinks he’ll become the hero again. The wronged father who came back for justice on the louts who got away in the first place.”

Falcone nodded. “And the police officer he holds responsible too. Don’t forget me.”

“Perhaps,” Costa replied.

“Perhaps?” Falcone asked.

“You said it yourself. I don’t think this is about you. Or Toni LaMarca. Or Dino Abati, or whatever he calls himself these days. Not really. It’s about Giorgio Bramante and what happened to his son. If we could only understand that…”

Leo Falcone laughed again and relaxed in his big black chair, putting his hands behind his head. “You’ve progressed under my tutelage, you know. Where’s that innocent young man I nearly fired a couple of years ago?”

“I’ve no idea,” Costa replied without hesitation. “He probably went the same way as that cynical old bastard of an inspector who had this office before you turned up. Sir.”

“A little less of that, Agente. I’ve got five more years in this job. I’d like to think that, when I go, you are on the way to filling my shoes.”

Nic Costa found his cheeks going red. Promotion was the last thing on his mind. It was also the last thing an officer like Leo Falcone, who’d had more than a few troubled years of late, was in much of a position to offer.

“Commissario Messina has reminded you the sovrintendente exams come up in the summer. You should be studying now. That way you could be getting a pay rise in time for the wedding.”

“Sir…”

Costa was grateful that Peroni and Teresa bustled in at that moment. The big man had the remains of what looked like a gigantic cheese and tomato sandwich in one hand and a bag full of canned drinks in the other.

“Rations for the duration,” he declared. “Teresa and I have checked out the accommodation. The Gulag suite is ours. You two can take the Abu Ghraib wing. We have installed fresh soap and towels because the ones that were in there were quite…”

When he stopped, lost for words, Teresa filled the gap.

“Let’s put it this way, gentlemen. I wouldn’t have touched them. Not even with gloves on.”

“Ugh.” Peroni shuddered. “Quite why we can’t just go home beats me—”

“Gianni!” she yelled. “There’s a man out there who swished someone’s heart out with a high-pressure hose last night. He has our photographs.”

“We joined up for this nonsense to be popular?” Peroni asked.

Falcone harrumphed. “If Commissario Messina says we’re confined to barracks outside of normal working hours, then that’s how it’s going to be. I don’t want anyone going walkabout.”

Peroni heaved his big shoulders in a noncommittal hug.

“I’m serious about that, Gianni,” Falcone said severely. “He took those pictures for a reason.”

“I know, I know. So what news?”

Falcone and Costa were silent.

“Oh,” Teresa said with a sigh. “This isn’t going to be a protracted stay, is it? I mean, I still don’t understand why I couldn’t go to Orvieto with the other ‘ladies.’”

Falcone raised a long index finger, a man remembering something he should never have forgotten. Teresa responded straightaway.

“Orvieto,” she said with a quick and somewhat condescending smile. “He wants to call the girlfriend, Gianni. Isn’t that sweet? I don’t remember Leo being so sweet before. In fact I don’t remember him being sweet at all. Nic and Emily getting engaged—and expecting a baby too. Leo being sweet. You giving up meat. The fact that there’s some lunatic out there with our pictures and a penchant for swishing hearts out. The world’s a lovely place now, don’t you think?”

Costa didn’t like the way Falcone’s eye caught his. The expression there wasn’t sweet. It was distinctly guilty.

“Actually,” the inspector said quietly, “it’s Emily I need to talk to. A little advice.”

He reached for the phone, then pushed the conference voice box forward on the desk.

“Of course,” he added, “you’re all welcome to listen.”

F
OUR HOURS LATER, AT JUST AFTER MIDNIGHT, THE
office was empty except for Nic Costa and a lone cleaner, faceless in the shadows, working away with duster and broom at the far end of the long line of desks. Costa sat by the window, taking breaks from hunting idly through yet more files on the computer to stare out at the bright, handsome moon, high over the rooftops of the
centro storico,
shining down on empty streets and the dead eyelids of closed shops and bars. It was a good time for a man who couldn’t sleep to try to think. In February the city didn’t stay up late. Come June there’d be people still walking the alleyways outside, happy after dinner, munching on ice creams from the places that stayed open into the small hours, part of the restless summer life of the metropolis. Come summer, too, there’d be a wedding. And a child. Just the thought of those two events dashed Giorgio Bramante from Nic’s mind entirely.

What mattered in the end was family, that undefined and indefinable bond that required no explanation because, to those it embraced, it was as natural as taking a breath, as easy as going to sleep next to the person you loved. As simple as the sense of duty you felt to any child who grew out of that loving relationship.

That, he knew, was what had changed between him and Emily over the previous year. Without Leo Falcone’s influence, and the way the crafty old inspector had opened his eyes, Nic would never have been able to commit to their relationship in the way it deserved. Leo had taught him to relax, to live with his emotions, to take a break from trying to solve the problems of the world for a while. And then to get back into the fray. It was a gift he’d never forget.

They’d all spent an hour and a half on the conference call that evening, sharing ideas, Falcone and Arturo Messina talking together as if nothing had happened all those years before, Teresa trying to make the most of the scant forensic she’d assembled from Toni LaMarca’s corpse and from Calvi’s slaughterhouse. Costa and Peroni had kept quiet mostly, thinking, listening, exchanging that glance they both knew well, a kind of invisible shrug that said
Maybe it gets better tomorrow.

Costa looked at his watch, felt guilty for an instant, then picked up the phone. Emily answered, sounding very, very sleepy.

“If you’re too tired,” he insisted quickly, “just say so and I’ll ring off. I never got the chance to ask how you were on the conference call. It didn’t seem right.”

She sighed. There was the impatient rustling of sheets. “It’s nearly one o’clock!”

“I know. I’m wide awake. There’s a bright moon. I can’t stop thinking about you. What more is a man supposed to say?”

There was the distant sound of her laughter. He wished he could reach out and touch her, just for a moment.

“Flowers would be in order when you have the time. And champagne when I’m allowed to drink it.”

“How do you feel?”

“Fine. Up and down, to be honest. Don’t sound so worried. The doctor said it would be like this. It’s not unusual, Nic. Men always seem to think their first child is the only one there’s ever been in the entire history of the planet. Women know better.”

“Don’t shatter my illusions. Please.”

She laughed again. He could almost imagine himself lying next to her on the bed, such were the tight, unspoken ties between them now.

“Something’s bothering you,” she said, becoming serious. “And it’s not the bright moon. Tell me, Nic.”

He’d worked just one cold case in his entire career. It too had been a murder, though less complex. A man of almost seventy beaten to death in his home in a quiet suburban street out in the suburb of EUR. They’d gone back to the investigation eight years later and discovered that, by then, the neighbours were ready to admit what they’d kept secret before. The victim’s son had been involved in low-level drug running. He’d gone missing two years after his father died and was never seen again. It took three months, but eventually they were able to charge a gang enforcer with the old man’s murder and that of his son. All over a measly three thousand euros owed for cocaine. Time did change the perspective with which one approached a crime. But time hadn’t done them any favours in the Bramante case.

“You said you didn’t understand why no one ever found Alessio’s body,” he answered. “Is it that unusual?”

He thought he heard a yawn getting stifled at the other end of the line.

“Maybe. Maybe not. It just makes me uneasy. They brought in all that heavy equipment. Even thermal-imaging gear. All the reports say those caves go deep. That they get too narrow and dangerous to be explored…. I can’t help but wonder why they didn’t find his body. But if he’s not there, where is he?”

Costa glanced at the computer screen.

“Anywhere,” he answered. “If he’s still alive.”

T
HE LABYRINTH ENVELOPED THEM, HELD THEM
captive in the stone belly of the hill. Ludo Torchia led the way, tugging Alessio’s slender arm. The others followed, stumbling, getting more and more confused and scared with each lurching step.

After a few minutes Guerino had tripped and fallen, cutting his hands, letting the cockerel loose into the gloom, where it flew, screeching, taunting them. Abati was glad of that, though it made Ludo Torchia furious. There were bigger issues to worry about than sacrificing some bird. They were lost, deep underground. And the one man who might save them, Giorgio Bramante, would surely be as furious as Ludo Torchia if he discovered what had happened.

Alessio. Alessio. Where are you?