Aidan Conway - A Cold Flame - A gripping crime thriller that will keep you hooked

“Have to go,” he mumbled. “Gigi will be waiting.” He didn’t say where. On a morning like this, when life seemed to burst from every pore of his and their being, it was neither the time nor the place to talk of mortuaries, death, and carbonized corpses. She flopped back down onto the bed. Her strength seemed neutralized, and he couldn’t help feeling protective again, even now. A good deal of time had passed since the winter’s events but Rossi knew that doing the job he did and having the enemies he had would always mean she was vulnerable. They could always hit her to get to him. Always.

“Don’t forget to lock the door,” he said then, trying to assuage something of his guilt. As if that action would lock off his darkest and most persistent fears. As if that could stop the worst they could ever do, if they chose to.

He felt tense. The relief after tracing the professor and his family had worn off and he had slept badly, fitfully, in the near-tropical humidity, his thoughts looping as he turned over the various scenarios again and again.

The city was tense too and that same heat wasn’t helping. Grievances often rankled in the punishing summer torpor, especially in situations where numbers or circumstances created a critical mass – a crowded bus, a queue in the post office, a traffic jam. People didn’t move on with their problems here and in the stifling humidity they could fester. They were oversensitive, their assailed and worn-down egos were fragile. And August in the city was also the time of the forgotten and marginalized – the loners, the rejects; those who didn’t or couldn’t get away to summer retreats to enjoy the fruits of their year-long labours. They too had their own axes to grind.

Only the other day Yana had dared to remind a dog walker not to let his animal foul the street outside her building, and the owner in question, once he had quickly established Yana’s non-native status, had subjected her to a tirade of the most venomous abuse. Racist, misogynist, vile and frightening. A few phrases echoed now in Rossi’s mind as he remembered Yana’s stunned retelling of the event.

We wanna be the bosses in our own country!… Italy for the Italians … Burn the lot of ’em!

In another part of the city, as she stepped into the bathroom, Tiziana Belfonte amused herself by thinking again of the extra touches and final details she might add to a well-deserved holiday she had been planning. She had stayed up late the night before to profit from some of the cooler air that had finally wafted in over the city and onto her balcony. She had been organizing the vacation for months now and had decided to take it in September with a good friend in similar circumstances – happily single, feisty and ready for whatever may come, be it fair or foul.

She was also one of the tribe who liked to work through the hottest months, drawing comfort and real benefit from living in the city when it was at its most arid and deserted. True, the sleep-impaired nights could be torrid and also, being a fairly strict ecologist in her outlook, she didn’t use any artificial air-conditioning. Only adding to the source problem, wasn’t it? Heating up the atmosphere to keep you cool. It was against nature. The summer heat meant you had to slow down, find natural solutions to combat its toll on the body. As such, she enjoyed these months when an ice-cold shower before breakfast was like plunging into the waters of some imagined crystal lagoon. That would soon be a reality and the thought gave her a frisson of anticipated pleasure as the water rushed against her lightly tanned skin. She glanced at her own reflection in the misted mirror panelling, patting and caressing herself a little with satisfaction. Not bad. Not bad at all considering she’d been doing the daily grind for nearly twenty years now. Ready for action in mind and body, whatever the bastards might throw at her today.

And then she shuddered, but not because of the water as she recalled the anonymous note that had arrived just a few weeks before.

N***er lover. Bitch. Whore. We know where you live.

But she was tough, she had to be. But she was human too, and even her skin was only so thick. She also knew that the events of the previous winter – especially the body of the murdered African that she had tried so hard to get identified – still weighed on her conscience. She wondered again what might have become of Jibril, the young immigrant she was sure had some connection to the corpse he had viewed in her presence. But he had just disappeared then and the body had remained unclaimed.

As she thought about it, it stung her conscience and the holiday suddenly seemed like another cowardly attempt to flee her responsibility, an extravagance she did not deserve.

Driving in Rome in August was as close to a pleasure as it could ever get. Traffic was down to its annual minimum and a hint of space could finally be seen and felt. As Rossi looked out at the sky and its default-setting of blue, a little of his tension fell away. The air too felt cleaner, while colourful, carefree, smiling tourists seemed to mop up some more of his previous negativity with their languid sweep through the city. Tradition dictated that the lion’s share of the citizenry would be out of town for the whole month and the pervading feeling was usually one of mild and welcome liberation. In the suburbs away from the well-worn tourist trails every second shop had its shutter lowered. Closed for holidays. See you in September. But then there was also something final and obstinate about those shutters – like the sealed lips of a witness who will never speak, holding the secrets back, the unstated “Fuck You” if you want an answer. Try as he might to let the spirit of summers past dominate his thoughts, Rossi knew his work was just beginning.

Carrara was waiting under a tree as Rossi approached. He held out his newspaper so Rossi could check the front page. They’d got their story but not all the facts. “A possible electrical fault” was one theory, and Rossi had made sure they kept a lid on the forensics, at least for now. As usual the man from Puglia was looking fit and focused in an apparently laid-back way. The years in undercover anti-mafia work had kept Carrara sharp and adaptable, and family life with kids had scarcely seemed to sap his energy.

“Coffee?”

Rossi glanced at his watch.

“Why not?”

The corner bar was the only one open within walking distance and catered mainly for the skeleton staffs of the nearby public offices and time-killing locals. Most offices had coffee machines on every floor and any employee worth their salt knew which was the best. Some had their own bars too, but there was nothing like leaving the office behind for the dark gunshot of an espresso to banish the morning lethargy. Some, however, lingered over a cappuccino or a caffè latte . There were even those that didn’t bother to go back to the office at all, having clocked in, and then went about their daily tasks with complete nonchalance until they saw fit to put in at least a token appearance before lunch .

In the bar there was the usual hubbub and high-octane gossip; at peak times there would be the kind of crush more typical of a British pub on a Friday night than a café at ten o’clock in the morning. Fallen and discarded napkins and cornetti flakes littered the floor as Rossi and Carrara edged and nudged their way towards the counter to catch the bartender’s eye. Once they had been served their respective macchiato and espresso , they established themselves at a standing-only table in the corner.

“So, do we have an appointment at the morgue or do we just walk in?” said Carrara stirring his espresso with energy. “Lallana will have been already, of course. Do you think they might consider it irregular?”