Peter Guttridge - The Thing Itself

He offered Tingley wine on a terrace looking out across the countryside. Renaldo waved his arm expansively.

‘All this is a vast necropolis. As Camars, this town was one of the twelve cities of the Etruscan Federation. The Etruscans lived among their dead. With every rainfall, new treasures rise to the surface. There is a thirst for such treasures around the world.’ He pointed to the west. ‘That tufa hill there. It is the Poggio Gaiella. It has three storeys of passages and galleries, a labyrinth of them. It is regarded by some as the likeliest site for the mausoleum of Porsena, the great Etruscan emperor. You have heard of him?’

‘Horatio defended the gate of Rome against him, didn’t he?’

Renaldo bowed his head in assent.

‘There is a labyrinth of catacombs beneath the town, of course. Beneath this very house. Porsena was buried in the middle of a labyrinth with all his wealth about him. Now that would be a treasure worth finding.’

‘You smuggle artefacts, do you not?’

Renaldo ignored him.

‘Our family owned these fields and hills for generations. Then my grandfather took the wrong side.’

‘In World War Two?’

‘Before then. He became a fascist in the thirties. After the war our fortunes declined.’

Tingley nodded, wondering why he was being told this but thinking: only connect.

‘Your cousin said you would help me.’

‘My cousin does not speak for me.’ Renaldo di Bocci touched his fleshy lips with a forefinger. ‘Which is not to say that I won’t help you.’

‘You know who I want?’

‘Of course. But you must wait. You are welcome to stay here. In fact, I insist. Are you a reader?’

‘Not particularly.’

‘Nor I, but it is a pity. We have a fine library here with many rare books. For a bookish man it would be a profitable place to pass a couple of days.’

‘As you say — a pity.’

‘A woman perhaps? A man?’

‘I’ll be fine as I am,’ Tingley said.

Tingley was not a religious man. He did enjoy the calm of churches, however. Their susurrating silence. He was sitting in the cathedral beside the palazzo watching a choir assemble when his solitude was disturbed by a hunched old woman in black who sat down beside him.

He stepped to the back of the church and phoned his friend, Bob Watts.

‘How’s it going?’ Watts said. ‘What’s that noise in the background?’

‘Evensong,’ Tingley said. ‘I figured the church might be the safest place from which to phone.’

‘How far along are you?’

‘Pretty far. These Mafiosi are being unusually helpful with Kadire. Suspiciously so.’

‘You think they’re setting you up?’

‘I’m not sure. Maybe just to do their dirty work for them. The old guy has a grudge against Kadire for some friend he offed. But his children seem strictly business. I don’t think they’d help if there weren’t a business advantage.’

‘And you are a business advantage,’ Watts said. ‘You’re not connected. Whatever you do can’t come back and hurt them.’

‘I know that will be how they see it. But they’re keeping me on ice at the moment.’

‘Watch out for yourself, Jimmy.’

A sudden spasm in his stomach made Tingley double over. He forced himself erect.

‘How are things your end?’ he said through gritted teeth,

‘My father has died.’

‘Bob, I’m really sorry.’

‘I have mixed feelings myself, as you know, Jimmy. I’m sorting out the funeral and so on. I’m staying at his place.’

‘I don’t think I’ll be back in time.’

‘Don’t worry. Where next? And when?’

‘I’m already here — place called Chiusi. Crespo’s cousin is putting me up — a dodgy piece of work called Renaldo. I think this is where it’s going to go down.’

‘Don’t know the place.’

‘Old Etruscan hill town, north of Rome.’

‘You OK?’ Watts said.

‘I’m fine. Locked and loaded. Gotta go, amigo. Raise a glass for your father from me.’

Tingley closed the connection. He looked up at the ceiling, letting the music wash over him.

Tingley and Renaldo dined alone that evening in the villa’s gloomy dining room. Two men in black were stationed by the door.

Tingley didn’t like Renaldo. He knew better than to deal in stereotypes but he could sense something depraved in the man. The obvious thought was paedophilia, the twenty-first century disease.

Renaldo’s mood had changed.

‘Any word of Kadire?’ Tingley said.

‘If we deliver Kadire — what do we get in return?’

Tingley hesitated with his reply. He no longer had any clout with the British secret services for whom he’d so often been contracted. In recent months, he’d first used up his favours then burned his boats.

‘I’m sure there are deals to be done,’ he said. ‘As I understand it, this is returning a favour to the late John Hathaway.’

‘Hathaway. Dennis Hathaway I knew many years ago. We met in Spain. His son, John, I am aware of. Favours, however, I do not know about. And you say John too is dead? This is a favour for a dead man, then?’

Tingley put his knife and fork down and stood.

‘I don’t wish to waste your time.’

Renaldo looked surprised.

‘What are you doing?’

‘I understood you could help me. If you cannot. .’

Tingley turned and walked to the door. Renaldo di Bocci’s two men moved to block his way. Tingley wagged a warning finger at them.

‘Signor Tingley, please,’ Di Bocci called after him. ‘Please sit down.’

Tingley kept walking. He was sure he had been sent into a trap. The two men looked beyond him for a signal from Di Bocci. The serpent writhed. Tingley ruptured the knee of the man to his left with a heel kick. He brought his elbow down hard on the collar of the one to his right and felt the bone snap.

He pulled open the doors and strode down the long corridor to the exit. He wasn’t armed but his car — and its arsenal — was nearby. He heard footsteps behind him but he ignored them. He pulled open the outer door, rabbit-punched the man standing outside it as he started to turn, ran down half a dozen steps and continued running for his car.

He had lifted the lid on the boot when he heard the clatter of a dozen men following him down the street. When he turned, he was cradling the Gatling gun. Cartoon-like, the men facing him stopped abruptly, cannoning into each other or slipping on the cobbles.

Tingley wasn’t worried about these men. He was most worried about someone in a tower a mile away with a high-powered rifle trained on him. Not now, though, not here. Here the streets were narrow, the buildings high. Here it would be at close quarters from an upstairs window.

He walked back down the street. The men made a ragged line. Two in the middle parted and Renaldo di Bocci stepped from behind them. Tingley halted ten yards away.

Di Bocci was flushed and angry.

‘You insult my hospitality,’ he said.

‘Oh, please,’ Tingley said. ‘Spare me all that “my house is your house” rubbish. You would have no compunction about drowning me in the bath if that’s what was required.’

Di Bocci frowned as he struggled to comprehend. The man next to Di Bocci whispered in his ear. Di Bocci scowled at Tingley.

‘You are not what I expected,’ he said.

‘Whereas you are exactly what I expected.’

Di Bocci looked from Tingley’s face to the Gatling gun.

‘Kadire will be at Sant’Antimo at eleven in the morning, the day after tomorrow. He has a meeting with some colleagues of mine.’

‘How many colleagues?’

‘Sant’Antimo,’ Di Bocci said, turning away and signalling his men to follow.