David Hewson - The Sacred Cut

Then, after thirty minutes, just when the man behind the counter was beginning to stare at his empty cup wondering when he’d buy another, he heard something else, the unmistakable sound of traffic heard from inside a car. Muffled horns, a car engine, the guttural echo of a bus rumbling up the Via Veneto.

He signalled to the barman for another. And in his ear there came two voices: Emily Deacon and a man, a native Italian, so clear, so young and determined, he could almost picture a face emerging out of the hissing, fizzing jingle jangle of sound in his ear.

“YOU CAN PULL in here, Nic. I need to go home and pick up a few things first.”

She indicated an apartment block just up from the embassy. A fancy address. From her expression-Emily Deacon didn’t miss much-Costa was aware a look of surprise had crossed his face.

“It’s a government apartment,” she told him, amused. “No, I can’t afford a place in the Via Veneto myself. Not on an FBI salary.”

She hesitated for a moment, then scribbled a number down on a notepad, ripped off the page and handed it to him. “If you want, call direct. On my mobile. It can be difficult getting through to the office. The apartment is the one with Clinton on the bell. Someone’s idea of a joke, I guess.”

He watched a bus work gingerly past the car, navigating the soft, grey slush, then made a U-turn and parked a little way up from the embassy, just outside the block she’d pointed out.

“You should get some sleep,” he suggested. “It was a long night.”

“I did sleep. Remember?”

“Ah, right.” It was easy to forget. She looked exhausted. Troubled, too. She’d listened silently to Falcone’s brusque interrogation. She was tough enough to take it, Costa didn’t doubt that. But something was bothering her and he had a feeling it wasn’t just a grilling from a pushy Italian cop.

“What do you do next?” he asked.

“Get some fresh clothes, take a shower and go into the office. What else is there?”

Not much, he thought. For either of them. All the same it was worth making the protest. “Why? You can’t work all the time. There’s nothing new, is there? You saw the expression on Falcone’s face. He’s like a barometer. When things look up so does he.”

She was silent.

“Sorry,” he said, cursing himself. “What I meant to say was, there’s nothing new as far as we’re aware. Maybe your friend in there is better informed.”

She smiled and he saw it again: the years just fell off her. Being a pseudo-cop didn’t fit Emily Deacon. It was a deadweight on her slender shoulders, one she wouldn’t shirk, even though he didn’t doubt it had never been part of her plan.

“Maybe he is,” she answered. “Maybe not. How many times do I need to explain this, Nic? Do you really think I’m going to find out?”

“I don’t know.”

The light blue eyes didn’t leave him for a moment. It was a kind of reproach. “You don’t?”

“No. All I know is we’re getting bounced around like junior partners or something. And this is our town, Emily. You should remind the man in there of that sometime.”

“I’m sure he’d listen.”

“Someone has to,” he said firmly.

She shook her head and ran a couple of fingers through her blonde locks.

“Are you asking what I think you’re asking?”

“I’m asking for some trust.”

“I don’t know you.” It came out as a flat, plain statement. It was true too. “Do you go around trusting people you don’t know?”

“All the time,” he replied. “It’s one of my many weaknesses.”

“Then you’re a fool, Nic. I need to go now.”

He peered out of the jeep window, which was clouding over with condensation in spite of the air-conditioning running full blast. She’d picked up her bag and was reaching for the door.

Costa leaned over and put his hand on her arm. He needed to make this point. “Leapman refused to tell us why he knew it was worth coming to Rome before anything happened. Did he tell you?”

“We’ve been through this,” she said with a weary sigh. “I’ve no idea. I just know what Leapman wants me to know.”

“Emily. We told you about Margaret Kearney being a fake. We gave you that passport photo. Seems to me that’s a hell of a lot more than anyone in there”-he nodded towards the big grey building-“has been prepared to give us. And another thing…”

What was the phrase the English used? “In for a penny, in for a pound.”

“What are you doing here? Don’t you ever ask yourself that? Why you? A…”

He didn’t even know what she was back in America.

She came up with the answer for him. “Junior systems analyst.”

“Exactly. Whatever the hell that means. It doesn’t sound like ideal training for chasing a serial killer around Rome.”

“Look. I ask myself this all the time, Nic, and I don’t hear any answers. What am I supposed to do? Shout and scream at Leapman until he cracks? You’re not the only ones in the dark here. Leapman is his own man in that building. Half the embassy staff don’t know who he is and those that do daren’t talk to him.”

“Well, that’s just wonderful-”

“Yes, it is!”

“OK,” he said, trying to bring down the temperature just a little. “Let me make a suggestion. Maybe this is nothing, Emily. Maybe not.”

He waited. She had to ask.

“Well?” The blue eyes wouldn’t let go.

“It’s just this. We’ve been on a kind of alert over attacks on Americans since October. A man called Henry Anderton was attacked in the ghetto. Badly beaten up. Anderton lived, but he was lucky. There were a couple of uniform cops in the area who got involved. Whoever the guy was ran off. If our men hadn’t been there…”

“I didn’t know that.” She was interested. He’d caught her attention. “What did Anderton do?”

Costa pulled out his notebook and rifled through the pages. “I checked during the night. He was some kind of academic working over here on a project. A military historian. Does his name mean anything?”

She shook her head. “Should it?”

“I don’t know. I made a few more inquiries. I can’t find an academic anywhere called Henry Anderton. He was out of hospital after two days, gone to some private clinic, no one knows where.”

“Keeps on happening.”

“Quite.”

He didn’t want to come right out and ask it. He wasn’t sure he was close enough to her yet. All the same…

“Someone in there will know, Emily. It could help. Both of us.”

She sighed, folded her arms. “This isn’t about my father, Nic. Don’t try and use that. I want this guy caught for all of them. More than anything I want him caught because that’s my job now. It’s what I’m supposed to do, like it or not.”

He shrugged. “Sorry.”

She didn’t move.

“Will you at least think about it?” he asked.

A flash of fury again. “What? Smuggling information out of the confidential files of the US embassy? They fire you for that, I believe.”

“Would that be so bad?”

“You mean because I’m lousy at this anyway?”

Delicate territory. “I meant because… I don’t think you enjoy this kind of work.”

“Perhaps I don’t. But they also send you to jail. I don’t imagine I’d enjoy that either.”

He couldn’t stifle a brief laugh.

“What’s so funny?” she demanded.

“I had that kind of conflict myself once. Did all the wrong things. Which were, in my view, all the right things.”

“What happened?”

“Long story. You can hear it sometime if you want. Anyway I’m still here, aren’t I?”

“Oh yes,” she murmured. “You’re here. You and that partner of yours. But no one’s going to miss either of you.”