David Hewson - The Sacred Cut

“You didn’t mention that, Emily,” Peroni said quietly, a faint note of distrust in his voice.

“It only just came back to me.”

“Of course,” Falcone said. “It must have been very shocking. You should try to remember more.”

“I will.” She sighed.

“Can we get to hear it too?” Peroni asked.

“That’s the deal,” she said icily. “Isn’t it?”

“I’m sorry, Agent Deacon,” Falcone interposed. “This has been very stressful for you. I didn’t mean to offend. Or interrogate you. It’s just that I’ve spent rather a lot of time in the company of your colleague today and I have to say that man gets to me.”

She wasn’t rising to the bait.

“But you see my problem?” Falcone added.

She didn’t answer for a moment. Then she looked at Costa. “Nic. I need to be in the office. I promised.”

“This is your problem too,” Falcone persisted. “If Leapman is lying to you as much as he’s lying to us there has to be a reason. Can you guess what that might be?”

“I don’t know how you work, Inspector. But when we have problems we raise them with our own people. Not strangers from another force. Another country.”

“Is that what we are?” Falcone queried. “Just a bunch of odd foreigners who happen to be in the way?”

“No. You’re the resident police force here. You’ve got every right to know what we know. That’s what we agreed. I’ll try to honour it as much as I can.”

“I’ll hold you to that.” Falcone passed the paper with the passport details over to her. “You can give him this, for what it’s worth. I don’t believe you’ll find he’s interested. Agent Leapman is one step ahead of us. Of you too, but I think you know that. You ought to consider what that means.”

She was getting up rapidly from the table, anxious to be out of there. Falcone placed his hand on her arm.

“In times like these, Emily,” he said, “it’s best we work together. When you need us…”

She just glared at his hand until he withdrew it. Emily Deacon was no pushover, however uncertain she felt about the position in which Leapman had placed her.

“I’ll bear that in mind, Inspector. Nic. Can we go now?”

Peroni watched the two of them walk out of the door.

“More coffee, Leo?” he asked.

Falcone grimaced at the mug. “Is this really the best Nic can do?”

“Like Teresa said, Nic’s on his own. What kind of man goes to a lot of trouble to make good coffee just for himself?”

The look on Falcone’s face told Peroni the answer.

“OK,” the big cop said. “I guess you’ve got your own espresso machine or something. But just grin and bear it.” He filled the kettle and turned it on.

Falcone felt troubled by his talk with Emily Deacon. He’d got most of what he wanted, but he couldn’t shake off the impression she was withholding something too. The expression on her face when he mentioned the incident in the Campo…

“You’ve got to remember to call me by my rank in these situations, Peroni. This relationship’s getting too damn casual.”

“Sorry.” Peroni smiled wanly at the surroundings. “It was this place. It’s a home, Leo. Ooh… sorry again, sir . At least it was a home. For me it’s starting to feel like one of those old tombs out by the road right now. What am I supposed to do about my partner?”

“He keeps asking me that about you.”

“Arrogant kids…”

Peroni stared out of the window. Teresa Lupo and the girl were steadily building a snowman there. It was a good metre tall. Not bad for the short time they’d had.

“That’s worth ten euros of your money,” he suggested. “Don’t you think?”

Falcone watched the pair outside working on the cold white figure and remembered how that felt as a child, when he’d spend hours building one alone at the weekend house his father owned in the mountains close to the Swiss border. “It is.”

“Where the hell did that idea come from anyway?”

“I loved building snowmen when I was a kid. Is that so odd?”

“No,” Peroni stuttered. “Not exactly. It’s just… ah, forget it.”

Falcone took the note out from under the plate and passed it over. “You give it to her. You’re better with kids than me. And after that, you start talking to her. Hard. You and your friend.”

Peroni blinked. “Hard?”

“Moretti’s pushing me for progress. More than usual. Don’t ask me what’s going on here, but I need to come up with something and that kid’s got to have it. There’s a lot more we need to know. What really happened in the Pantheon?”

Peroni felt his blood begin to rise. “We know what happened!”

“Not the details. She saw it.”

“She’s a thirteen-year-old kid! You want me to drag that out of her just by yelling or something?”

“Yes,” Falcone barked back. “If that’s what it takes. It’s what you’re paid for. Remember?”

Peroni kept quiet. He was a good cop. One of the best, Falcone reminded himself.

“And something else,” Falcone continued. “Why exactly did this creature want the kid dead, which he surely did? Just because of what she saw? It doesn’t make sense. All it would gain him was some more time where he was staying, and sure as hell he’d be out of there soon anyway. I don’t get it.”

The kettle came to a boil and switched itself off. Falcone looked at his watch.

“Forget about the coffee,” he said. “I don’t have time. Get that kid in here when I’m gone. Make her talk. I don’t care how we get this out of her,” Falcone insisted. Peroni couldn’t distance himself from the girl. That was the problem. Maybe that would provide the solution too. “Cruel or kind. I just want to know.”

Peroni was getting mad. “You’re starting to sound like that damn American. Is that what you want?”

“I’m your boss, Peroni. I don’t care how you think I sound.”

“Really? Well, I’m your friend, dammit. I’ve known you for twenty years. I could be ordering you around by now if things had worked out differently.”

Falcone just stared back at him, lacking the heart to say it. Peroni didn’t need to hear the words. They were there somewhere inside him, always. Things didn’t work out differently. Something-some hidden inner flaw-surfaced and sent a well-ordered life tumbling down the wrong turning .

“Fine.” Peroni sighed. “But let this humble minion offer you some advice. I know what you’re thinking. You can run this all your own way, let Moretti and the rest of them stew in their own juices, work the old Falcone magic. But let me tell you something. This time it won’t work. That ugly American has got the pen-pushers on his side. All those nice men in suits with titles that never really make much sense. If you screw with them-”

“This isn’t the Wild West,” Falcone spat back. “I’ve got the law. That’s bigger than any damn piece of paper from the Palazzo Chigi.”

Peroni shook his big ugly head. “The law? Don’t you get a flavour of what’s going on these days, Leo? Haven’t you noticed the only people who care much about the law anymore are idiots like us? These are pick-and-choose times, my friend. Wear the coat that suits you. Forget the one that doesn’t. Start squawking about the law to the people you’re dealing with now and they’ll laugh straight in your face.”

He paused to make sure this hit home. “Let me tell you something, Leo. I do believe that is the dumbest thing I have ever heard you say. And you are not, by nature, a dumb person.”

Falcone couldn’t take his eyes off the two figures beyond the window: Teresa Lupo watching the girl work steadily on the snowman. He could smell the mountains. He could hear the dead voices of his parents. Single kids were like that. Solitary years followed them around like ghosts all their lives.