David Hewson - The Lizard's Bite

Falcone shook his head. “You can’t put a time limit on an investigation.”

Massiter opened another bottle of water for himself and shrugged. “A week’s all I’ve got. After that, the whole business goes tits up, and me with it. At least I only lose money. Some of the other people hereabouts . . .”

“What if we find out he didn’t do it?” Peroni interrupted.

“That’s not going to happen,” Randazzo said wearily. “It’s impossible. Listen, we’re just trying to keep a lid on an awkward situation that would hurt a lot of people if it got out of hand.” He glowered at Falcone. “Hurt them unnecessarily, ” the commissario insisted. “Uriel Arcangelo killed his wife. There is no other possible explanation. Prove otherwise, Falcone, and you can have my job. God knows there’s times I’d happily do without it.”

Falcone looked tempted by the offer. Costa could understand why. The idea of a leisurely investigation that guaranteed them all an early ticket home was attractive, even in these extraordinary circumstances.

“What exactly did you have in mind?” Falcone asked.

Randazzo suddenly turned hopeful. “Go through the statements we already have. Take a look at the scene. Interview the Arcangeli again if you want. Together. One by one. It’s up to you. This night-watchman character is probably worth talking to again too. Anyone else you feel. I should warn you that you’re going to have to talk to the dead woman’s family. The Braccis. They’re regular customers of ours. Petty crime. You name it. A bunch of assholes. My, are they going to be pissed off right now.”

“What about the morgue?” Costa asked.

“Go in and ask for what you want. We’ve got a good pathologist. Tosi’s been here for years. I’m not asking you to cover up anything. I just want an efficient establishment of the facts, then a report I can wave everywhere and say this matter is dead and buried. Understood?”

Commissario Randazzo paused, a little fearful. Then, when he heard no objections, not even from Peroni anymore, he looked at his watch and raised half a smile.

“Don’t rush. That would look bad. When it’s done, disappear on vacation. You’ll have earned it.”

He waited, nervous.

Peroni leaned forward, paused, just to give the commissario a nasty turn. “We’re going to need a boat,” he insisted. “Our own boat. With a driver too.”

“Of course,” Randazzo said quietly. “Except you don’t call it—”

The small puff of an explosion interrupted the commissario, loud enough to make them all jump. There was the sound of a man’s excited shouts. Nic Costa turned to try to see what was happening.

A flame now emerged from the torch at the end of the iron angel’s extended hand. The silver-haired individual who’d been working at the cables watched it.

“Michele Arcangelo,” Randazzo said by way of explanation. “He’s the capo around here.”

A smiling capo, Costa noted. With a crooked face. A man who couldn’t take his eyes off the beacon of fire he’d just been able to revive.

NIC COSTA SURVEYED THE BLACKENED INTERIOR OF the foundry and wondered how much the flames and the smoke had managed to destroy. A blaze of this nature and magnitude was outside his realm of experience. What else might have disappeared in the blasts from the firefighters’ hoses and the tramp of feet by the unseen cops and others who’d entered the building long before Randazzo had invited them onto the scene?

All three had quietly acquiesced in the face of the commissario’s demands. There was precious little point in arguing anyway. Besides, each of them was, Costa knew, tempted by what was on offer, in spite of the immediate loss of leave. Conduct a thorough investigation, produce a sound, predictable report on a crime which seemed a closed case from the outset, then enjoy some extra holiday at the end before returning to Rome. The circumstances were unusual but not, perhaps, unknown, particularly in Venice. Besides, Emily was free of college work for the next month. They could visit Sicily first, perhaps, or make a lazy progress back to Lazio through Tuscany and Umbria.

Provided they gave Gianfranco Randazzo and the Englishman to whom the commissario seemed somehow beholden exactly what they wanted.

He and Falcone had walked carefully around the foundry, first examining the furnace where the woman’s remains had been recovered, then looking at the chalk outline around the stained and partially missing portion of planked flooring where Uriel Arcangelo had fallen. And examining the peripheral details too. The shattered windows were now being covered by wooden shutters hammered into place by a couple of carpenters—against all conventional police routine. The tall wooden doors, turned almost to charcoal by the heat, had been smashed from their hinges by the axes of the entry team. Falcone fussed over the hatchet marks, then took out a handkerchief and bent over the door, which now lay on the floor. The key was still in the lock, on a ring with a bunch of others. It was an old-fashioned mortised mechanism, which meant that, once a key was inserted from one side, it was impossible for anyone to open the door from the other. Falcone juggled at the key in the mechanism, then withdrew it and placed the item in a plastic evidence pouch, which he pocketed. Costa watched him, thinking.

“The door is locked, isn’t it?” he asked.

“Definitely,” Falcone replied. “They told us that already. You don’t imagine they lied, do you?”

Costa tried to read Falcone’s demeanour. Was he being sarcastic? It was difficult to tell exactly what the distant, expressionless inspector was thinking at the best of times. Just then, Costa really had no idea.

“In that case he must surely have shut himself in here.”

The icy, judgmental eyes bore into him. Falcone looked disappointed.

“That’s one possibility,” he conceded.

“What else? His key’s in the door . . .” Costa stuttered, trying to understand how many other possibilities there could be.

“Quite. Don’t get ahead of yourself, Nic. It’s a bad habit. Start from ignorance and let the facts inform you, not your own guesswork. Randazzo’s doubtless right. This case is as simple as he says. But you can’t expect me to throw away a lifetime’s habits now, can you? Go take a look around on your own. I’m not quite finished here. I can’t believe I’m working a location without scene-of-crime people. Please . . . Unless you have something else to add.”

“Hugo Massiter has a history,” Nic said curtly.

Falcone looked interested. “What kind of history?”

“I can’t remember. But I know the name. He was in the papers. Something to do with music. And a death. Perhaps more than one. I can find out.”

“I think someone like Massiter’s best left to me,” Falcone replied.

Feeling more than a little like an unwanted and chastised child, Costa walked back towards the shattered remains of the windows. He watched the men in overalls hammering in their cheap wooden shutters.

“Do you work here?” he asked the first, a squat, middle-aged individual in grimy clothes.

The two of them looked at each other and laughed.

“Nice joke,” the man said. “You think they’ve got money to pay staff? News to me. News to the whole of Murano. Insurance, mister. The insurance people sent us, they pay us. They want these windows boarded because if they’re not, the bill just gets bigger. Surprised me the Arcangeli still got insurance, mind. Probably the only bill they’ve paid this last year.”