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

Rossi stirred a half sachet of brown sugar into his macchiato .

“We just say we have a wide brief to investigate all acts of arson and we’re cross-checking facts. Thoroughness never goes amiss and Lallana’s off it now anyway. Maroni’s busy with some internal audit business. I say we press ahead until we encounter an obstacle.”

Carrara finished stirring his espresso .

“But have you got a theory about this or are you going on instinct or what?”

Rossi knocked back his coffee and waited for the rush.

“The more we know the better. I don’t like taking the easy way out. All this open verdict stuff. That’s a gift to criminals and an affront to investigative police work. We have to eliminate any doubt about this being accidental, which it can’t have been, and then find out if there was more than blind racial hate behind it. So we need to get down to the hospital before they’ve forgotten all about this Ivan guy. He might have said something. Seen something. It has to be worth a try.”

“And last night’s business? I’ve had some more info through on Okoli.”

“Set up a chat with him. What does he do?”

“Playwright, investigative journalist. Rubbed the government up the wrong way it seems.”

“So a target or a coincidence?”

“See what he has to say for himself,” Carrara replied. “I’ll give him a call.” He glanced at his watch. “Should be up and about by now.”

He moved away from the babble and noise of the bar.

A slim but strong woman, perhaps approaching forty but easily passing for five years younger, had seated herself at the bar to Rossi’s left. Her off-white summer dress was elegant without being provocative, thus going against the dominant Roman trend which saw the season’s clothing often resembling more négligées than daywear. The dress’s broad straps framed a rich, evenly tanned rectangle between her shoulder blades.

“He’s going to swing by the Questura later,” said Carrara returning to the table. “Any news on Iannelli, by the way?” he said, recapturing Rossi’s attention.

“Iannelli?” said Rossi with a pronounced exhalation. “It’s going to be a steep learning curve for Dario. Life under 24-hour police escort. I don’t know if he’s realized yet how tough it will be.”

Dario Iannelli, investigative reporter, Rossi’s long-time friend and confidante, and now with a Mafia contract out on his life. He had made it big with his scoop on high-level corruption during The Carpenter case, but had fallen foul of Cosa Nostra and had been fortunate to escape a car bomb with his life.

The woman had finished her coffee and, rising from her stool, appeared to make for the exit, but then stopped, as if struck by some sudden realization.

“Excuse the intrusion,” she said, moving back and then coming alongside Rossi and Carrara’s table. “But I couldn’t help overhearing something. You mentioned Dario Iannelli. The journalist.”

“Yes,” said Rossi. “Is there anything I can do for you?” he began and reached out to take her hand. “Inspector Michael Rossi. And this is Inspector Luigi Carrara.”

As Carrara turned to take her hand, he too was struck by her unostentatious elegance.

“Well, yes. Maybe there is.” She glanced around at the chattering clientele. “Could we talk somewhere, in private. But perhaps not in my office. I work at the hospital of legal medicine. The mortuary to be exact.”

“If I don’t get the job this time then we go, right?” said Francesco. “We pack our bags and leave Italy for good.”

Paola replied on the other end of the line with the usual consternation.

“Where?” she said. “ Where do we go? I mean do you have an idea, a plan?”

Francesco let out a sigh.

“To Spain, to Ireland, or Germany, or anywhere a researcher can make a decent living. Anywhere where they appreciate and value me for my knowledge and experience not just my loyalty and my contacts or my family connections.”

It was the old story. She knew it but didn’t want to hear it, and he was tired of telling her.

“But what about Mum and Dad? And your mother on her own?” she shot back.

It was true that it would be a wrench, a sacrifice for him too, but he had decided.

“Paola, I’ve had enough! I’m going to grow old here trying to get a job in the university, don’t you see? I want to settle down. I want us to settle down and have children. Then we see. And I want you to be able to choose whether or not you want to go back to work, not get thrown on the scrapheap at forty because you’ve had a kid. If we go abroad you can have that chance.”

There was a long pause. He could hear the random noises of a train station in the background. She’d called to wish him well but the conversation had turned sour. But he had to get it out in the open.

“I’ll call you later, when it’s over,” he said, with little real conviction. He wanted to be alone.

He finished his coffee and bit on a breakfast biscuit then went over again the possible questions they could ask him, trying to conjure the unforeseen from thin air, the unseen questions in the envelopes they would proffer him, smiling at him from behind the desk they so loved to interpose between themselves and the mere mortals in the other, real world. The uninitiated, the hopeful, the desperate.

So this was to be the last Concorso . He had decided. The Concorso or “public competition” was, in theory, an open, transparent method of selecting candidates for positions in state bodies or for publicly funded research projects. You applied, sending off the forms and all the relevant paperwork and then you were called to take an exam. Then you got to the interview, which was when they could do what they wanted.

He had been from pillar to post, to deliver conference papers, often at his own expense, to take low-paid temporary teaching positions in this or that university, to win a research grant, which meant he could live just above the breadline for a year. And then when the money ran out? Back to square one. In and out of offices. Up and down the country. Moving. Moving back. Working for free. This was the life of the researcher who could not count on patronage, or a powerful relative, or a favour due from on high. This was the life of that singular and sorry category of person who was not a raccomandato – not “recommended” for a job or a grant. Not useful for someone. Not worthy of being a token to flip across the baize in their feudal game.

He didn’t want to leave Italy, but he had tasted freedom once and had liked it. For the six month post he had been awarded in San Francisco, after he had completed his PhD, the university had contacted him ! They came looking for his expertise after they had seen his research. They had decided to go to the States together, and Paola had then had to persuade her parents, old-style Catholics that they were, that the cohabitation abroad would be a prelude to marriage. They went. The wedding, however, had remained on hold.

They had not committed themselves to a longer stay as Paola was less keen to tear up her roots in the old country. So they had come back, hoping to make a go of it and use the experience gained to get a leg-up. He had been obliged to make the expected compromises – working for free, waiting, biding his time. But he had believed that it might just be worth it. That there would be an outlet in Italy for his ideas. Now the nagging fear always at the back of his mind had become the simple realization that he had been wrong.

And it could all have been so different. He had done his compulsory military service in the carabinieri , the military branch of the police, and had enjoyed it, thriving on its culture of rigour and seriousness and dedication to duty. He’d also been drawn to the increasing use of technology, science, and psychology for the solving and prevention of crimes. So much so that after his initial one-year conscription he had signed on for another one as a paid, working recruit. He hadn’t wanted to fall back on his parents again. That would have been the easy way out; whereas he enjoyed a challenge, like when he was in the mountains with his friends and he would head for the highest peaks. He wasn’t content with the view of the top from halfway up.