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

Francesco got up from the breakfast bar in the kitchen and began closing all the windows despite the heat. He was cautious, prudent, suspicious of the opportunist ready to exploit any weakness in their defences. His family had always expected him to pursue an academic career, their view being that the police force and the army were for those who didn’t have it in them to go any further. They were also institutions tainted by their association with the “regime”. They had been a well-respected and quietly influential family until the fascists had seized power before the war, something which had set in motion their gradual decline towards irrelevance. Yet they had clung on to some of the trappings, the values, the pride, the culture. As for what had actually happened back then, Francesco didn’t know the details but, according to his mother, it was something that had continued to rankle, at least for his father, while he had been alive.

They left the bar and walked across the almost-deserted Piazza Verano, the nearby cemetery not visible but always a presence.

“The park, perhaps,” she suggested, walking slightly ahead. “There are tables and it’s quiet now.”

They stopped at a dark green art-deco kiosk and a wide esplanade where cast-iron tables occupied the space under the shade of several tall eucalyptus trees.

“May we?” said Carrara, addressing a white-shirted and tieless employee moving about without particular urgency while a mop in a steaming bucket stood propped against some flower pots. The bar seemed in general disorder with teetering piles of ashtrays and cases of mineral water dumped here and there. His grudging nod of assent meant they were technically open for business.

“The coffee’s not the best and gossip doesn’t travel well if it’s not in a confined space,” she commented. “So you can always count on getting some breathing space.”

Rossi imagined that it was a commodity she was in need of.

“Here?” he said, indicating the most isolated corner and the cleanest-looking table and chairs. Their new guest gave her approval and Carrara was first to pull out a chair for her.

“Well, gentlemen, I suppose now I should introduce my self,” she said, placing her light, coffee-coloured handbag on the table. “My name is Tiziana Belfonte. And as I said, I work in the hospital.”

“And you have something you would like to tell us?” said Rossi. “With regard to Dario Iannelli.”

“Well,” she began, “yes, but indirectly. It concerns a murder victim. An as yet unidentified murder victim.”

“Do you mean from the Prenestina fire?” said Carrara.

“No, actually. An earlier victim. The African murdered last winter. I have reason to believe Dario Iannelli may be in some way connected.”

“Go on,” said Rossi. “We know something of the case, among others. It was a busy time.”

“Well, it all goes back to the winter and when your colleagues were trying to identify the victim. His body has not been identified or claimed but sooner or later he will have to be buried: in a pauper’s grave, if no one comes forward. It’s policy I’m afraid and it’s all to do with the demands of cost and space.”

“The fate of many,” said Rossi. “In this day and age.”

“Yes.” She nodded. “I am afraid so. And not only migrants or foreigners. But the point I want to make is that someone did come forward to identify him. At least I thought he would make an identification but, as it turned out, it wasn’t to be.”

An accumulation of guilt, perhaps, or unresolved doubts seemed to surface now, as her voice began to betray more emotion. Rossi knew the signs. The secret knowledge that could devour the thoughts of the well-intentioned and conscientious, just as it could eat away at the souls of the remorseful. This had been backing up for God knows how long and he wondered what trap she might have felt she was in.

“Could you perhaps clarify what you mean by ‘it wasn’t to be’?” said Rossi.

The waiter had begun his slow walk towards their table.

“Perhaps we should order something,” said Rossi, noting the approach and sensing the need to ease the tension.

“Tiziana?”

“Oh, just water for me, thank you,”

“ Solo un’acqua minerale per la signora ,” said Rossi dismissing the waiter before he could materialize.

“There’s no rush, Tiziana,” said Rossi. “Just tell me what you remember and then we’ll see what we can do. But when you are ready,” he added, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

She almost smiled and some of the rigidity in her elegant form softened. Plenty of men had put their hands on her in plenty of other situations, something she neither sought nor appreciated, but she didn’t find Rossi patronizing or threatening. He seemed genuine and she was warming to him already.

“My job is very important to me, Inspector. I have considerable responsibility and I am the only woman in my department. I oversee the clerical side of things but I have become a de facto factotum, if you will .”

“A sort of Girl Friday,” said Rossi. “The go-to person.”

“ It’s frequently the way, in the public sector.”

Rossi gave a knowing nod. He sensed she didn’t have any sounding board in her work life.

“Otherwise,” she continued, “nothing gets done and we would be doing a disservice to the citizens we are supposed to be there for. It doesn’t go down well with everyone, however, my attitude to work and duty, and I’ve had to put up with my fair share of bitching.”

The water arrived, and Carrara filled her glass but Tiziana didn’t drink.

“Anyway, that day, last winter, a young man came – I don’t remember the exact date but it’s all recorded in my diary. He was African and he said he was looking for his friend who he feared might have been murdered. He had no form of identification and the front office staff had given him the brush-off, while neglecting to inform me of his presence. It was common practice on their part. Trying to isolate me, trying to get me to slip up, withholding information, that sort of thing. However, I happened to be passing through the office – I had come to find a file or something – and I noticed the gentleman still waiting. I enquired as to who he might be and asked him to come with me and then I assessed the situation on the merits of his story. He seemed to have a genuine interest.”

“Did he give you a name?” Rossi enquired.

“Yes,” she replied. “Jibril. I didn’t press him for a surname as I had gathered that he was an illegal, but my conscience would not allow me to throw him out. I could see it in his eyes, Inspector. He was biting back the tears.”

“So you let him see the body, at his request?”

“Yes, but I first asked if there was anyone who could vouch for him. I had no reason to believe he himself might be criminally involved. Surely no criminal would go back to see the victim if he had been his killer.”

“Stranger things can happen,” said Carrara.

“Go on,” said Rossi.

“Well, I just felt that I would be more comfortable if there were someone who could corroborate his story. And that’s where Iannelli comes in,” she continued, with greater composure now.

Rossi knew that what she was saying tallied with his own recollection of events at that time – his old journalist friend’s investigation into high-level corruption, the mysterious attempt by some emissary of the powers-that-be to buy him off, and then the attempt on his life in Sicily, which had sent him into hiding and the life under 24-hour armed escort he now lived.

“The gentleman, Jibril, produced a business card – Dottor Iannelli’s business card – and said that he knew him personally. I assumed that it had come into his possession by pure chance and that he hadn’t the slightest idea who it might belong to. The card was professional, of course, and said Dottor Dario Iannelli, The Facet. Enough perhaps for a naive young migrant to think it could serve as some temporary passport to acceptance. I had also just heard that the journalist had been caught up in an ambush and was feared killed. I didn’t take it any further. I assumed it was a desperate last-ditch attempt to circumvent the obstacles that bureaucracy put in his way, and I could only feel pity for him, not suspicion.”