David Hewson - The Fallen Angel

The room had gone quiet. The forensic staff were quietly staring at their computers and their instruments, embarrassed, unsure of where to look.

She strode forward and said, ‘This is a mortuary. A place for the dead. I will not tolerate shouting matches. Nor will I allow it to be used as some kind of interrogation room. If you have anything more to say to each other, go somewhere else, please. This instant.’

The girl, Mina, looked as if she’d woken up inside some dreadful nightmare. Her hands were still at her mouth. Her eyes darted around the morgue, as if looking for something that was out of reach.

Nic, Teresa thought immediately. She needs a friend. From the way her gaze never strayed towards her mother it was surely clear there was little love, no amity there. Such secrets seemed to live inside these two, and Teresa Lupo realized she had no idea how they might be prised into the open. Or whether that was where they belonged.

‘You’re her mother,’ Falcone yelled, wagging a finger at Cecilia Gabriel. ‘Don’t you want to know what happened? What he did?’

He got a slap from her for that. A good one. Teresa had already heard about the first. She wondered if that had been as hard and as painful as this powerful, vicious blow.

‘Will you all kindly get out of here?’ she insisted.

‘Gladly,’ Santacroce replied and placed an arm around the Englishwoman, beckoning her and her daughter to the door.

Then he ushered Mina and Cecilia Gabriel outside.

Falcone watched them, helpless, full of an internal, seething rage, a hand to his reddening cheek. There was an expression on his face that shocked Teresa Lupo. It wasn’t the realization of failure. She’d seen that before, and knew he could deal with that, in time. It was some cruel moment of self-revelation, a realization of how desperately he’d tried to delve into the private moments of a family that, whatever the reason, was locked deep inside some painful, personal agony, one they never wished to share.

The Turk didn’t look too good. His hooded eyes were wide open, his brown, stubbly face taut with fear. There were sweat stains beneath the arms of his linen suit and he was shaking like a sick man.

Cakici opened his mouth and began to scream a loud and wordless plea for help. Peroni batted him once with a big fist, knocked him clean off the chair and spoke a few short, serious words. The Turk’s noise dwindled to a whimper.

Costa pulled out the Beretta’s magazine, shook it: empty. He looked at the gun, scratched his head and said, ‘What happened? Did I forget to load it after the last guy we shot?’

‘I think that may be the case, sir,’ Peroni said, and plonked Cakici back in his seat.

The big man was enjoying this little game, which was going exactly as they’d planned.

Peroni patted his own pockets.

‘I didn’t bring a gun. Sorry. You got some shells of your own?’

‘No.’

Cakici started to scream again. Just the threat of Peroni’s fist stopped that.

‘This is all your fault!’ Costa yelled at him. ‘I haven’t slept a wink since you wasted Riggi and that English kid on Tuesday night.’

‘For God’s sake will you listen? It wasn’t me!’

The two cops glanced at each other and shrugged. Then they looked at Bedir Cakici and Costa said, ‘Haven’t you grasped this yet? We’re not here to decide whether you go to jail. We’re here to decide if you live or not.’

‘I didn’t kill him!’

Costa shook his head and muttered something about going out to the car.

‘I didn’t. .’

‘Sir,’ Peroni said. ‘He seems. . sincere, if I might say so.’

‘Really.’ Costa folded his arms. ‘Then who did kill him?’

‘I dunno.’

‘The car,’ he said, getting up.

‘No, no.’ The Turk looked ready to burst into tears. ‘Maybe I can help.’

‘Maybe?’ Peroni wondered.

‘Really. I can. It’s just. .’

They waited.

‘I don’t know names.’

Costa checked his watch ostentatiously. And Cakici began to talk.

It was an interesting story, and it made sense in some crazy fashion. At the end, when Cakici appeared finished, Peroni reached out and placed his gigantic arm around the cowering prisoner.

‘Let me make sure I understand this properly,’ he said. ‘You’re saying you weren’t the only one shipping dope to all those foreign teenagers hanging round the Campo of an evening, thinking how wonderful it is to be free of their parents finally, and somewhere cool too?’

‘You mean he didn’t tell you?’ Cakici asked.

‘If he’d told us. .’ Peroni began.

‘Sure, sure. Sorry. Hear me out. These last few months there’s been dope turning up in places where I never had anyone. Colleges. Cafes. Language schools. Lots of it. Big money. I’m not so stupid I’d go there. You work the bars. That way it’s all within the boundaries. You don’t start handing out pills in public, just to anyone. What’s the point? Asking for trouble. Gino knew that. He was the one who kept ringing me, asking what was going on. Like I knew.’

Costa asked, ‘There was another supplier?’

‘That’s what I’m saying. And I got to thinking that Gino was locking lips with him too. All the gear was turning up in the places his people went. It made sense. Pretty soon we were going to have to talk.’

‘Turkish?’

‘Italian!’ Cakici insisted. ‘Gino told me he didn’t know the name. But it wasn’t one of ours. The kid told him about it.’

‘The kid?’

‘The English kid. The one who got killed.’ The Turk was getting a little braver. Peroni removed his arm. ‘He was taking us all for a ride, if you ask me. Working both sides. Not a team player. Here’s something else too.’ Cakici leaned forward. ‘The kid came to us. To us. ’

He shook his head as if still unable to believe it.

‘You know how we recruit these morons? Feed ’em a little dope. Wait till they owe enough money. Turn ’em round, send ’em back on the streets selling the junk. Pretty soon you’ve got an army of them. They make a little dough and steal what they want on the side. That’s fine. We take the big margin. It’s been like that for years. The system works. Why screw with it?’

‘You’re saying Robert Gabriel recruited Riggi in the first place?’ Costa asked.

‘That’s what Gino said it felt like. He loved money, that kid. That was all it was about. Gino said he never even saw him using stuff. Always straight. Didn’t even drink much. Got into a little trouble now and again. Arguments in bars. That goes with the turf. But he wasn’t like the rest. Not at all.’

Cakici leaned forward. His cuffs rattled as he pointed a finger at Costa.

‘You want to know who killed Gino Riggi and that English kid? Find this Italian guy. You do that and I’ll take care of him. That’s a promise. No footprints home. Guaranteed.’

The two cops exchanged glances.

‘You’ve nothing to worry about from my end,’ the Turk insisted. ‘Not a thing. I won’t say a word. They won’t pin Gino and the kid on me either. I got an alibi. A genuine one. My auntie was over from Istanbul. I was with her. My auntie. ’

‘Then why in God’s name did you run?’ Costa asked.

Cakici shrugged.

‘I didn’t like the feel of what was going on here. Gino called me on Tuesday. He was getting jumpy. About things. About the English kid. All this publicity. That kid murdering his old man. Something about his family. Gino had good instincts. If he felt this was all about to go bad, it probably was. Time to take a holiday back home and see what happens.’

He held out his hands and smiled.

‘Now. Let me out of these then put me in a car back to the city with a couple of dummies. I can call someone. They can get me loose. You get me the name of that Italian, I’ll deal with it. Then we’re back in business. Whatever Gino passed on to you, I’ll double it. You’re the kind of guys I can work with.’ He smiled and held out a hand. ‘What do you think?’