David Hewson (55 page)

"What's
this?" she asked. "It's recent."

He
stood by her and flicked through the professional-sized black-and-white
photographs.

"I
picked them up in the office when I went in yesterday. There's a filing
cabinet for photos in here somewhere. I wanted to keep them."

"What
are they?"

No
one wanted Mauro Sandri's last few rolls of film. Not his parents, who
didn't even want to see them, scared of the associations they had. Or
forensic, who'd closed the case.

"This
was the night it all began. The photographer we had with us. The one who
died."

"Oh."
She stopped on a single print. Costa hadn't had time to go through them
all. This one surprised him.

"I
don't remember him taking that one," he said.

It
was in the briefing room before they'd gone out that evening. Sandri must
have taken it from the door. Costa was there, showing some report, probably on
the weather, to Gianni Peroni. Falcone stood in the background, observing them.
The photo was remarkable. Somehow Sandri had captured such life, such
expression in their faces: Costa's seriousness, the way it was received
with a touch of jocularity by the grinning Peroni. And Leo Falcone peering at
the pair of them, just the trace of a thin smile on his normally expressionless
face.

"He
must have been a good photographer," Emily said. "To take a candid
shot like that and you never even knew."

What
was it Mauro said that night in the deserted cafe? If you asked, people would
just say no.

"It's
about stealing moments," Costa reflected.

"Sorry?"

"That's
what Mauro said. About the kind of photography he did."

She
studied the picture, thinking. "Smart man. And you know what makes him
extra smart?" Emily held the photo in front of him. "He's
just recording something there everyone else but you three sees. You're a
gang, really, aren't you? A close one too, which is dangerous. If you
were in the FBI and someone saw this they'd be breaking you three up
tomorrow. Can I keep this?"

He
picked up the roll of negatives. "I'll get you a copy."

"OK.
That's not to say there won't be the opportunity, by the
way," she added.

"The
opportunity for what?"

"For
us to get to know each other. I've made a decision. I'm going to go
back to college. Get my master's degree. Here, in Rome. Why not?"

"To
do what?"

"Finish
learning how to draw buildings. Then learn how to create them. It's
called being an architect. It's what I should have done all along."

This
was all so sudden. "When?"

"As
soon as I can get in," she said with a shrug. "There's
nothing keeping me in the States, really. I need the change, too. Now. I keep
thinking about what happened. Not the details, the reasons. All those people
breaking their backs over some stupid convictions. My dad and Thornton
Fielding. Joel Leapman. They all thought--no, they
knew--
they
were doing the right thing. And look where it got us. I'm sick of
certainties, for a while anyway. I want to get a few doubts back in my life. Besides..."

She
paused, trying to make sure this was clear to herself too, he thought.

"My
dad's dead and buried now," she went on calmly. "He
wasn't before, and I just didn't want to face that fact. I'm
not proud of what I found out about him. But he was still my dad. There was
still a part of him that always loved me. I've got this relationship with
him right now. I--"

Her
voice did falter then.

"Last
night, I cried and cried and cried. I lay in bed in that soulless little
apartment and let it all out. Just me, a very wet pillow, a resignation letter
and some memories. Everything ended then, Nic. All this fake existence
I've been trying to lead on someone else's behalf. You know
something?"

This
puzzled her. The doubt, not something he was accustomed to seeing in her face,
was obvious.

"In
my head I kind of talked to him. I felt he understood. Nic, your dad's
dead: tell me, is that crazy?"

Emily
was always astonishing him. She just came straight to the point, never minced
words. He'd grown up in this farmhouse. He'd watched his father
turn from youth to middle age, to a sick, frail, prematurely elderly cripple. He
knew what she was talking about.

"What
did you say?" he asked.

"All
the things you never got round to when he was alive. About how you never
appreciated the good times as much as you should have. How the bad always seemed
worse than they really were. And how the time came when you weren't a kid
anymore. When you had to cut the cord, however painful that would be on both
sides."

Costa
didn't know what to say. He didn't have conversations like this. Not
with anyone.

"You
didn't answer me, Nic."

"Did
you feel better? After?"

She
grinned. "After I talked to him? Much. And the really crazy thing is it
felt as if he did too."

He
slipped Mauro's photo back into the folder; the little
photographer's words rang in his ears.

"I
know that feeling," he said.

"My,"
she murmured, "that
was
hard."

"Where
will you stay?" he asked, desperate to change the subject.

"That's
the first on my list of doubts. I've no idea."

Nic
Costa was aware he was blushing and wondered how much it showed. "This is
not... something you need answer quickly. It's nothing more than a
thought. No strings. Take it or leave it."

She
nodded, but said nothing.

"As
you've noticed... I have this huge house. You can use the studio. Or
use one of the bedrooms if you like. No strings. It's up to you."

She
thought about it. "No strings. That means rent."

He
waved a nervous hand. "Of course. Rent. And there's no rush. Just
think about it."

"OK."

"And..."
He was stuttering. His cheeks felt as if they were on fire.

She
screwed up her face, looked into his eyes and asked, "Are you sure
you're Italian?"

"Just...
no strings. No need for a quick decision. Tell me whenever you feel like
it."

"Nic!"
Her voice bounced around the dusty room, echoing from the corners. "I
have thought about it. I said OK. OK means yes. I would love to stay here for a
while. Do a little dusting. See how everything works out. It would be a...
pleasure."

The
blue eyes bore into him, amused, mischievous.

"Just
one thing," she added.

It
took a little while to get the word out. "Yes?"

She
walked up to him, spread the fingers of her hand across the base of his neck
and reached round, gently stroking his nape, sending electric shivers up and
down his spine.

"Can
we please sleep together before I start paying rent? Because if it happened
after I would find it very freaky indeed."

"PURDAH?
Where the fu--"

Peroni's
eye caught Laila, who was looking shocked at the suddenness of his outburst.

"Where
the hell is Purdah?" he demanded. "It's in the north,
isn't it? They're trying to get me to quit. They know I hate those
miserable bastards up there."

"Gianni..."
Teresa Lupo stood opposite him, her arms folded, a look of tried patience on
her face. "It's not a place. It's a, a, a..."

"A
figure of speech," Emily Deacon interjected.

"Quite,"
Teresa agreed.

Peroni
waved a big, angry arm at Leo Falcone. "So where's this figure of
speech when it's at home? Will someone tell me that?"

Nic
Costa didn't like the expression Falcone was wearing. It was sly. Amused.
And the inspector wasn't saying a damn thing.

"Just
a minute," Nic said, pointing a finger at Falcone. "This is off
duty. You've eaten my food. You've drunk my wine. Today, of all
days, I have the right to call you Leo. Understood?"

Nothing
but a frown on the long, intelligent face.

"So
what's going on?" Costa demanded.

Falcone
took a deep breath. "As I was attempting to explain before the volcano
exploded, there is news. I have spoken with the Questura. And others."

He
fell silent, pointed to a bottle on the coffee table, smiled with approval,
motioned for the others to pick up the glasses he'd brought in from the
kitchen.

"This
is champagne," Falcone announced. "Not prosecco, thank God. I had
it in the boot of the car. Just in case."

"We
don't want to talk about the wine, Leo," Teresa Lupo growled,
snatching a mouthful of liquid bubbles. "Facts, if you please."

"Facts,"
Falcone agreed. "The news is that Moretti will retire immediately. Filippo
Viale the same. There will be no criminal prosecutions, no further
investigations. The matter will drop, which is for the best. Kaspar will be
tried in Italy, naturally, and plead guilty, which should diminish the
publicity somewhat. And..."

He
eyed Costa and Peroni. "And we three are going into purdah."

"Will
you stop saying that?" Peroni roared. "For how long?"

"A
little while."

Costa
knew these games. "Is that a short little while or a long little
while?"

Falcone
considered this. "Probably nearer to long. We have to let things blow
over a bit."

"
Shit
!"
Peroni had his eyes screwed shut and was chanting a little refrain that ran,
"Please don't make it in the north, please don't make it in
the north, please..."

Falcone
listened, cool and detached, in silence.

"Where,
Leo?" the big man bellowed, unable to contain himself any longer.

"Venice,"
Falcone answered, with no emotion whatsoever.

Nic
Costa blinked. Emily had slipped her arm through his. She was coming to Rome. She
was going to live under his roof. And he'd be on the other side of Italy,
watching the grey lagoon ebb and flow, alone.

"I
love Venice," Emily said, and squeezed his arm. "It's not so
far..."

Teresa
Lupo asked, "Am I going?"

"No,"
Falcone replied, looking faintly shocked at the idea. "This is a police
matter. What's it to do with you?"

"Oh,
nothing. Venice?" She was trying to remember something. "I've
only been there once. Got drunk after a rugby match in Padua. I don't
recall a lot, to be honest. But..."

She
looked at Laila. The poor kid didn't know what was going on.

"Venice
isn't far from Verona, Gianni. You can visit Laila as much as you want. I
could come over too from time to time. If you like."

She
tousled the girl's hair. Laila smiled back at her. A real smile. Teresa
Lupo stifled an urge to hug her.

"I
hate Venice," Peroni moaned. "It's cold and damp and
horrible. The food stinks. The people are cheating, miserable
good-for-nothings..."

Falcone
looked at his watch. "We start a week from Monday. It would be best to
avoid the Questura in the meantime. Take a vacation, you two. Enjoy
yourselves."

He
was different somehow, Costa decided. For once, Leo Falcone seemed genuinely
content, free of all those invisible burdens he was used to carrying around on
his stiff shoulders. He was looking forward to the change. He needed it. Perhaps
they all did.

"We
did the right thing," Falcone declared. He smiled at Emily.
"Particularly you. If Nic hadn't gone to the Piazza
Mattei..."

"I
was just guessing, Leo," she replied. "Really. It was just a stab
in the dark."

Falcone
looked dubious. "
Really
?"

She
sighed. "It's such a long time ago. Maybe it was just my memory
playing tricks. I remember... sitting on that fountain, underneath the
tortoises, eating an ice cream. It was summer. Very hot. And my dad had left me
there to go and do some business in one of the houses. This happened more than
once, I think. I never did see who he was visiting, but I understood something.
It was someone he knew. Not a stranger."

Emily
glanced at Laila, who was bored by this conversation, engrossed instead in a
teenage magazine Peroni had brought her.

"I
remembered the name of the place. Because of the tortoises. I remembered being
so happy I thought that world would never disappear." Then, a little
ruefully, "I was a child."

Falcone
nodded, acknowledging her point. "What you did was very brave. You risked
everything."

He
looked at each of them. "All of you. I'm grateful."

"Don't
hug me," Peroni growled. "Don't even think of it. Venice.
Venice
?
What is happening to my life?"

"We're
taking a little detour," Falcone said. "Let's try to enjoy
the ride. And now..."