David Hewson (26 page)

"When
that other man came, the inspector," Teresa continued, "he asked us
to go outside. Remember?"

Laila
took Falcone's banknote out of her pocket, rolled it in her fingers and
almost smiled.

"Quite,"
Teresa said evenly. "You heard the inspector and Gianni arguing. Did
Gianni tell you what he said?"

"No,"
she replied, puzzled.

"Typical."
It would have been, too. "I don't know why I'm telling you
this, Laila. I shouldn't, but you two seem to get along so maybe you
ought to know. Gianni's in trouble. Things haven't been going so
well recently."

She
let that sink in, waited for the moment, hoped she wouldn't come to hate
herself too much along the way.

"The
inspector came to tell Gianni that it's make-or-break time. Either he gets
you to tell him what you know or he's fired. No job. No money, Laila.
Nothing. He's got kids too. One about your age."

The
girl shivered and stared at the table. "It's not true."

Teresa
shrugged. "If that's what you want to think. It doesn't
matter. Why should you worry about Gianni anyway? You don't even know
him."

She
reached forward, touched the kid's lank hair and hoped to God Peroni
never found out about this. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have
bothered you with this. It's none of your business. I've got to go
soon. I'll be upstairs for a little while. Please don't tell him I
told you."

Teresa
went up the old stone steps and found a spare bedroom. There was nothing for
her there. She just wanted them to be together, Peroni and the girl. She could
imagine Peroni waking up, finding the kid staring at him, ready to talk. It
could work. She'd seen that extraordinary bond grow between them that
morning. It
had
to work. The kid wouldn't talk to anyone else.

So
she lay on the cover of the bed in the dusty, musky-smelling room, closed her
eyes and dreamed a pleasant dream, a stupid, childlike fantasy set in a bright
world of pastel colours where the sun always shone, where families, young and
old, stayed together always, sharing the years, growing closer all the time. It
was the kind of dream place you never wanted to leave, a warm, embracing
neverland just beyond reach.

A
noise intruded into this welcome reverie: the sound of the downstairs door.

Nic
, she
thought. He knew as much about family as Peroni in a way. It was all wrapped up
in a tight bundle inside this old, cold farmhouse buried beneath the snow off
the old Appian Way. Where you could just sleep forever with a musty, ancient
coverlet keeping out the freezing cold.

Except...

The
door opened and closed again after a while and that didn't add up, that
could only be part of this half dream.

Maybe.

Cursing
herself, Teresa Lupo threw off the stupor, forced herself awake and, with
growing trepidation, went downstairs.

Peroni
still slumbered in front of the fire. Nic was going through the place, room by
room.

"Where's
Laila?" he asked. "Upstairs with you?"

"I
don't think so," she answered.

Teresa
Lupo went to the front window. The snow was piling down again, a thick blanket
of gigantic soft flakes. Through them she could just make out a couple of fresh
tracks zigzagging towards the gate, fast disappearing in the blizzard.

"Shit,"
she sighed to herself. "Shit, shit and double shit. The kid's only
thirteen for Christ's sake. How the hell am I supposed to know she's
an escapologist? Didn't you see someone on a bike when you came
here?"

Nic
stuck a hand towards the blizzard beyond the window. "In that
weather?"

She
went back to the living room. Her handbag was open, her purse, too, the money
all gone.

A
big, familiar figure came and stood by her. She could sense his puzzlement
without even looking at him. Peroni had some silent, unseen way of
communicating his emotions.

"Where
is she?" Costa asked again.

"You've
got a bike here?"

He
nodded.

"Not
anymore. She must have taken it. I'm sorry, I fell asleep."

"For
Christ's sake..." Peroni muttered under his breath.

"Excuse
me! You were sleeping too. And you were the cop here, remember?"

Costa
was juggling the keys to the jeep already. He looked wiped out.

"I
was trying to help!" Teresa yelled, watching the two men head for the
door, not bothering to look back. "I was trying..."

Then
they were gone.

"Shit,"
she said to no one.

She
didn't even have time to tell them it was her fault. Or to wonder:
Why
?

A
swirl of fatigue swam around her head. Then something made her jump: the phone
trilling like a wild beast, the volume turned up to max the way a solitary man
would in a big house like this.

"Yeah?"
she yelled into the thing.

It
was Silvio Di Capua, screaming hysterically from his mobile, wondering why she
hadn't answered hers, not understanding it was in another room, dead to
the world while she slept elsewhere. She listened, ruefully grateful that some
work had appeared to thrust aside the doubts and guilt lurking inside her head.
Silvio had danced this frantic little dance in tantrum-land all too often, but
this time round it sounded as if he had good reason to do so.

"It's
a body, Silvio," she said, when she had a chance to interrupt the
babbling sea of details and questions. "Just remember that and follow
procedures."

"Oh,
wonderful!" he yelled. "Procedures, procedures. Tell me that when
you get here. It's a slaughterhouse and right near McDonald's
too."

"Well,
in that case it's somewhat appropriate, don't you think?"

"This
is
not
a time for jokes, Teresa. Falcone's livid you
weren't answering your phone."

"What
am I?" she screamed back at him. "Instant fucking pathologist? Just
add water and I crawl out of the bottle?"

Besides,
she thought, Falcone was going to have plenty more reasons to go berserk soon. His
solitary witness had gone walkabout after that little lecture of hers and she
didn't need to wonder about who'd catch the blame on that one.

Think about work. It's what they pay you for
.

"One
thing, Silvio. You say the woman's been cut."

"Oh
yes."

"Good.
Now calm down and think about this because what I'm about to ask is
important: are there any signs someone's used a scalpel?"

The
voice on the line paused for breath.

"That
and the rest," Di Capua panted. "You've got to get here,
Teresa. It's... scary."

She
grabbed her car keys out of the bag. At least the kid hadn't stolen them,
too.

"Twenty
minutes," she told Silvio. "And make mine a quarter pounder with
cheese."

EMILY
DEACON SAT in her small embassy apartment eyeing the phone, wondering what she
could say. It had been a month since she'd spoken to her mother, a week
since they'd exchanged e-mails. The relationship was close but had
boundaries. They'd never really had the right conversation about her
father's death. Even now, she was uncertain how her mother felt about
what had happened. Saddened, obviously. But shocked? A part of Emily said that
wasn't the case. And there was only one way to find out.

She
called home, went through the niceties, heard the conversation fade into its
customary silences.

"What
do you really want, Emily?" her mother said after a while.

"I
want to bury Dad," she answered immediately. "I don't feel
I've done that yet. Do you?"

There
was a pause on the line. "We were divorced, honey. It wasn't
pretty. By the time he died, he wasn't a part of my life anymore. It's
different for you, I know. That's only to be expected."

"But
you loved him!"

"
"Loved." "

Her
mother could be tough. Emily knew that. Maybe it was all part of being married
to her dad.

"And
you hated him? After?"

"No..."
Yet there was no emotion in her voice. In a way, Dan Deacon had vacated both
their lives long before his last breath in a temple in Beijing. "I
can't have this discussion over the phone. Let it wait till you get home."

"I
can't wait. I'm in Rome. I've got memories. I've got
things happening here..."

She
had to hang on so long for an answer she wondered if the line had gone dead. "Things?"
her mother asked.

"Maybe
they're not connected. I don't know. It's just..."

Connected
or not, there was a larger point.

"Until
I know what really happened," she continued, "until I really know
who he was, what he did, why it ended this way... I don't think
he's quite dead. Not in my head."

"He
got killed by a lunatic, Emily!" her mother yelled. "What more is
there to know?"

"Who
he was. What he did."

That
pause again. And then the cruellest thing. An act she'd never have
expected, not in the harshest, most difficult of times during the divorce.

"I'm
not in the mood for this," her mother snapped. Then the line really did
go dead and Emily Deacon understood. She was the only one keeping Dan
Deacon's memory from the grave.

THORNTON
FIELDING WAS one of the embassy good guys, a long-serving member of the embassy
staff who'd gone native over the two decades he'd spent in Rome. Emily
Deacon could remember Fielding from her childhood. He was now fifty-five or so,
still as slim, as elegant, as ever, today in a dark, fine-wool suit, perfectly
ironed white shirt and red silk tie. He'd lost only the big, bushy head
of dark hair, a feature which, she recalled, even back then seemed a little
outre for the job. Now he was back to a conservative, short, scholarly
clip, turning salt-and-pepper grey. This unvarnished admission of age somehow
made his intelligent, constantly beaming face even more likeable.

As
a kid she'd had a crush on Fielding, even though she understood he was,
in some way she couldn't quite work out, different. Then, when she
finally came back to the Via Veneto under Leapman's wing, she'd
understood. Thornton Fielding stayed in Rome for two reasons. He loved the
place so much it was now home. Just as important, Rome didn't judge him.
His sexuality wasn't an issue here. Professionally, it clouded his
career, kept him out of the constant circle of foreign postings that meant
promotion in the diplomatic world. Privately--and Fielding was a very
private man, she now understood--this city let him breathe, let him be
what he was. He'd never have got that in most places, and certainly not
at home, amid all the backroom fighting and bitching of Washington.

Leapman
always referred to him as "the faggot," sometimes within his
hearing. Maybe that was because Leapman realized she knew and liked him anyway.
Or perhaps she was just being paranoid. Either way, the two men kept out of
each other's company as much as possible. It was for the best, though
Fielding's remit covered the maintenance of security systems. As far as
she understood, Fielding was the Bureau's point man within the embassy,
the one they came to when things needed fixing or they had to liaise on
relations with other agencies. It was inconceivable they'd be able to
avoid each other all the time.

She
had typed the two names she had--"Henry Anderton" and
"Bill Kaspar"--into the network and got nothing. She needed
more clearance so, after thinking this through and realizing there were so few
options, she walked to Thornton Fielding's office, waited for one of the
assistants to finish talking to him and then went in, taking care to close the
door behind her.

Fielding
was a smart man. He watched her push the glass shut, then said,
"I'm just guessing here, but if you're about to complain
about your boss, Emily, let me save you some time. First, I don't handle
human resources issues for the FBI. Second, even if I did, there's
nothing I or anyone here can do to help you. Leapman is his own man. We just
provide you guys with floor space, heating and free coffee. What you do with
them is your business."

It
was amusing, almost. Fielding automatically assumed she couldn't cope
with a prick like Leapman. He couldn't yet separate her from the kid
he'd known more than a decade before.

"Why
should I want to complain about him?"

"Are
you joking? If I had to work with that pig I'd be complaining. Mightily."

Which
wasn't true at all. Fielding had too much of the diplomat in his blood
for that. He'd have found some way around the problem. "He's
not employed for his manners, Thornton. He's there because he's
good at his job. He is, isn't he?"

Fielding's
eyes immediately went to the glass door. There was no one there. He held his
long, slender arms out wide in a gesture of bafflement. "I guess so. Do
you know what that job is exactly?"