David Wishart - Finished Business

‘Not a lot. She’s from Padua originally, like me, although that’s just coincidence. Worked there for a year or so before coming to Rome. That’d be four or five years back. She did an audition for the boss and he took her on straight away. That’s about all I know. Anything else, you’d have to ask her husband.’

‘Her husband ?’

‘Sure. Titus Otillius.’ He frowned. ‘You didn’t know about him?’

Jupiter! ‘No, I didn’t. They been married long?’

‘Two or three years. He works as a porter in the market, and he was one of our regulars. That’s how they met.’

Two or three years. So she’d been well and truly spliced when she took up with Surdinus. Yet another thing that the lady hadn’t told me.

Also very relevant, where the terms of the will were concerned. Interesting …

‘He know about Surdinus?’ I said.

‘Naturally.’

‘And he didn’t mind?’

Vulpis laughed. ‘Yeah, well, that’s something I can’t tell you,’ he said. ‘Me, I’d mind like hell, particularly since Tarquitia wasn’t that sort of girl. A prostitute, I mean. Oh, sure, a lot of the talent we have here go with men for money — most of them, in fact, that’s par for the course in our business, and there’s nothing wrong with it. But Tarquitia didn’t. Oh, she was no blushing virgin, she slept with some of the customers off and on, but only by her choice, and money didn’t always feature. But after she married Otillius, all that stopped. He’d’ve half-killed her if it hadn’t.’

‘But taking up with Surdinus was different?’ I said.

He shrugged. ‘Seemingly. Can’t say for sure, myself.’

‘You know where I can find him? This Otillius?’

‘Oh, yes. Nothing easier. But you don’t want anything to do with Otillius, sir. He’s a total head-banger.’

‘Come again?’

‘Known for it. Why a girl like Tarquitia should take up with someone like that, let alone marry him, I can’t fathom. Still, who knows how women’s minds work, eh? He punched her around now and again, but she seemed happy enough.’

‘They still an item?’

‘Again, that I can’t tell you. Like I say, I haven’t seen her around for almost a year. Otillius drops in sometimes, but it’s not a subject I’d risk raising with him, and he doesn’t volunteer.’

‘So where can I find him?’

Another shrug. ‘Well, sir, it’s your funeral,’ he said. ‘Don’t come back and say you weren’t warned. Your best bet’s the market. Any of the porters’ll be able to point him out to you. And there’re plenty of people around in case he does decide to get nasty.’

Shit. Still, it had to be done.

Things were getting complicated. And I was rapidly beginning to revise my opinion of sweet little Tarquitia.

As a matter of fact, the market was pretty quiet. Unsurprisingly so, really: we were halfway through the afternoon, the morning rush was long over, most of the stalls were tenantless and clear of produce, and there was only a scattering of both stallholders and customers. I couldn’t see any porters in evidence, either, so the chances of Otillius still being around were pretty slim. Even so, it was worth asking rather than putting it off and having to take the long hike back here another day.

I tried a couple of the remaining stallholders first with no result, before an old woman selling eggs pointed me towards the edge of the square.

‘You might find him over there, dear,’ she said. ‘It’s where a lot of the men go when they’ve finished for the day.’

I looked. Sure enough, there were some tables and benches with people sitting at them.

‘Thanks, grandma, much obliged,’ I said, and walked over. It wasn’t an actual wine shop, just a drinking area with a canvas booth and a makeshift bar counter. But it was popular enough, and filled entirely, as the old woman had said, with the male element of the market’s sellers and porters. I got a few glances as I went up to the counter, but they were curious rather than unfriendly ones.

The guy behind the bar was already pouring me an earthenware cup of wine from the single jug on the counter — basic was right; evidently you took what you got — and I pulled out my purse.

‘You happen to know a porter by the name of Otillius, pal?’ I said as I paid.

‘Titus Otillius?’ The man gave me my change. Well, the price couldn’t’ve been lower, anyway. ‘That’s him.’ He nodded. ‘The big guy over there in the corner, with the red tunic.’

I took a sip of the wine, decided I’d been grossly overcharged after all, and followed the direction of the nod. ‘Red’ was an exaggeration, but from the looks of the tunic in question I’d guess it was more or less a permanent fixture that had never seen the inside of a fuller’s shop. Maybe our barman here just had a very good memory.

‘Big’, however, was a gross understatement: Naevius’s garden slave, Cilix, came to mind. With added extras. And a head-banger into the bargain, right?

Thank you, thank you, Vulpis. Most appreciated. Still, I had been warned.

Shit.

Ah, well, such are the sacrifices I make in the service of honesty, truth and justice. I sighed inwardly and carried my cup over.

‘Titus Otillius?’ I said. He looked up but didn’t answer. ‘Name’s Corvinus. Marcus Corvinus.’ Still no response. There was another stool at the table opposite him. I pulled it out and sat. ‘I understand you’re Tarquitia’s husband.’

‘So they tell me,’ he said. ‘I haven’t seen the little bitch for almost a year.’ His eyes went to the stripe on my tunic. ‘Who the fuck are you?’

‘I said. Marcus Corvinus.’

A hand the size of a ham reached out and grabbed my tunic just below the neck. I jerked forwards, spilling my wine.

‘You one of the bastard’s relatives?’

I temporized. ‘Ah … which particular bastard would that be, now?’

‘Who do you think? Naevius fucking Surdinus.’

‘Uh-uh.’ I reached up and slowly, gently, unprised the grip, finger by sausage-sized finger. ‘Not me, pal, no way. Perish the thought. No relation whatsoever, not even by marriage. But I am looking into his death. Purely as a favour, you understand.’

‘Surdinus is dead?’ Otillius took away his hand. He could’ve been faking it, sure, but the surprise on his face and in his voice looked and sounded real.

‘Yeah. As of five days ago.’ I was watching him carefully for signs of further imminent head-bangership. Or whatever the phrase is. They were all there, in spades. Bugger. ‘Someone dropped a lump of stone on top of him.’

The surprised look slowly turned into a grin, and it broadened.

‘Well, bully for them,’ he said. ‘You know who did it?’

‘Not yet. I told you, I’m just looking into things at present.’

‘You shake them by the hand for me, then, when you do.’

‘So you haven’t seen your wife — Tarquitia — for almost a year?’ I said, straightening the tunic.

‘That’s right. Since she took up serious with the old lecher and moved in with him.’

I shook my head. ‘She didn’t do that. He set her up in a flat somewhere.’

‘News to me. Mind you, she’d keep that quiet, to stop me gatecrashing the happy home. Which I would’ve done if I’d known where the fuck it was.’

‘You didn’t?’

‘Uh-uh. Me, I thought she’d be up at that fancy villa of his on Vatican Hill. She talked about it enough when she met him first, but I wasn’t going to try anything there.’ He was still grinning. ‘You’ve spilled your wine. Let me get you another cup. Shit, this is the best news I’ve had in a month.’

‘No, that’s OK, pal.’ The tabletop was the best place for the stuff. I could just see it eating into the wood. ‘I’m fine. So you won’t, uh, have heard about the property he sold her?’