David Hewson - The Lizard's Bite

IT ONLY TOOK A COUPLE OF MINUTES TO HEAR RANDAZZO’S story. After that, the three cops from Rome looked at each other and wondered what they’d done to deserve this one. Venice had police aplenty. Any of the locals could have taken on the case, done what the miserable commissario wanted, signed off the report, then returned to guiding tourists back to their cruise ships. There was, Costa knew, some reason why Randazzo had picked three temporary strangers in the little Questura in Castello for this job. He wondered whether they were going to hear it. And one more thing bothered him. Hugo Massiter’s name was familiar somehow. He just couldn’t put a finger on how he knew it.

Falcone nodded when the narrative was done, then asked, “So you’re sure this is what happened? There can’t be any other explanation?”

Randazzo waved a hand at the approaching jetty. Costa could smell the smoke from the island. The firefighters’ vessels clustered around the blackened quayside, near the still-smouldering outline of what looked like a large, once elegant industrial building. A narrow white tapering chimney emerged from its shattered and smoke-stained glass roof. To its left stood an extraordinary glass structure, like a gigantic hothouse designed by a madman, patched with scaffolding and ladders. On the other side was a stone palace, not unlike the Doge’s, but with an extraordinary eyelike bubble of glass protruding from an upper floor. These odd architect’s fantasies sat alone on a small island, next to a squat lighthouse by a vaporetto stop marked “Murano Faro.” Only a narrow metal bridge joined the property to Murano proper. It was surmounted by the iron figure of an angel, like an icon beckoning to visitors. A silver-haired man was working at its base, his face red with anger as he fought with a writhing serpent’s nest of cables.

“See for yourself,” the commissario told them. “The Arcangeli are the only people who live here. It’s locked at night.”

He gazed into their faces, trying to make sure they understood that what he said next was pivotal to his argument. “The room where they were found was locked from the inside. There’s no other access. Except through the windows, and the labourer said they were intact until the fire blew them out.”

“How do you know he’s telling the truth?” Peroni wondered.

Randazzo snorted, amused. “So what’s the alternative? This character somehow let himself in, killed both Uriel Arcangelo and his wife, then locked the door, went out through the fire, went back in and made out he was trying to rescue the man he’d just killed. Why?”

“And the one who’s dead? He’s supposed to have a motive for killing his wife?” Costa asked.

“It’s there somewhere. You’ll find it. We all know the statistics. Families kill one another first. That would be your instinct anyway, wouldn’t it?”

“You can’t convict someone on statistics,” Falcone said carefully. “Or instinct. I don’t mean any disrespect, sir, but I think we’ve more experience of murder inquiries than you. Rome’s that kind of place.”

“I don’t doubt it!” the commissario snapped. “But I didn’t bring you back from Verona for a tutorial in criminology. I want a piece of paperwork done and I’m cancelling your leave so you can do it. Uriel Arcangelo murdered his wife and placed her corpse in the furnace. Then, deliberately or by accident, he was burned to death himself. There’s no other possible explanation. We’ll know more later. They’re working on the postmortems now.”

Falcone was speechless for a moment. Then he asked, “You mean the victims are no longer in place?”

“No! Why should they be?”

“I’m not used to investigating crimes where the evidence has been removed before we arrive.”

“And I’m not used to having to explain myself when I give orders. You can see the bodies in the morgue if that’s what turns you on.”

“Why us?” Costa asked.

“Because I want it.”

“But you’ve had men here already,” Costa objected. “Local men. Why can’t they follow through on the case?”

“They’ve better things to do. Besides, you said it yourself: You’ve a track record.”

Peroni’s eyes widened. “Not for sweeping up we haven’t,” he objected. “You don’t want an investigation. You want clerical work. You—”

“I want you to do as you’re damn well told,” Randazzo burst in, furious. “I never asked for you people to be here in the first place. It’s time you earned your pay. You’ve just been a burden all the while. Something I had to watch every time my back was turned. Why do you think I packed him off to Verona?”

Falcone smiled, which further infuriated the commissario.

“That seems a little harsh, sir,” the inspector commented cheerfully. “By our standards we’ve been exceptionally well behaved.”

“By your standards.” Randazzo let loose the ghost of a smile then. “Which is why I’ll release you the moment you finish this inquiry. That could give you an extra three weeks’ paid vacation if you add it up. You can go back to Rome where you belong. You can do what the hell you like. Provided . . .”

He reached down to the walnut cigarette box that sat on the table between them. Randazzo knew this boat, Costa thought. He was familiar with the Englishman, who had sat in silence throughout this entire interlude, an amused expression on his striking features.

“ . . . you deliver what I want. A report, a thorough report. From a team that’s experienced in murder. A report that says what we know to be true. That Uriel Arcangelo murdered his wife and then died, possibly by his own hand. You’ve got a week. That’s plenty of time. Don’t rush it either. I don’t want anyone saying this was slipshod. I don’t expect you to be working your balls off. You two might even get some extra time with your girlfriends.”

Peroni punched his partner lightly on the shoulder. “See! So that’s why it’s us. Get it? We’ve credibility.”

“We get it,” Falcone grumbled. He looked at Hugo Massiter. “And you?”

The Englishman opened his arms in a gesture of innocence. They were at the quay now. For all the damage and mess left by the firemen, it was an impressive sight. From the first floor of the house, which was more in keeping with the Grand Canal than the backwater of Murano, the feature Costa had noticed earlier was revealing itself to be something like the stern of a medieval galley, a great glass eye curving out over the lagoon.

“What the hell is this place?” Peroni asked, amazed.

“Fairyland gone wrong, I fear,” Massiter said quietly. “This is all a great tragedy, gentlemen. But do understand. I’m simply the concerned benefactor in these proceedings, as Commissario Randazzo will readily confirm. Without me, the island is lost. And if the island is lost, so are several million euros of city money that could have been better spent.”

“Meaning . . . ?” Falcone insisted.

Massiter sighed and glanced at the blackened warehouse. “The Isola degli Arcangeli is bankrupt, Inspector. It’s been bankrupt for some time and only two things have been keeping it afloat. Some considerable, and in my view unwise, investment, shall we say, on the part of the city and the regional authorities. They need the tourists, you see. In theory anyway, this is a prime leisure location. Plus there has been some weekly generosity from me in renting the palazzo, that glass exhibition hall. If all this works out, I plan to turn it into a gallery. If I can finally fix the thing. It was designed by a lunatic, but you can probably see that for yourselves.”

Costa thought about the man, with his old-fashioned film-star looks, his fancy boat and something lurking in his past too. Costa was sure of that. On the way from the station to Castello, Massiter had pointed out his “home,” partly to impress Emily, Costa thought. It was a large, palatial motor yacht moored conspicuously on the waterfront near the Arsenale.