David Hewson - The Lizard's Bite

“Thanks,” Costa muttered, and moved a little away from the beat of their hammers and the stink of their cigarettes.

Peroni was attempting to start a conversation with the two Arcangelo brothers, both of whom seemed more interested in attacking the furnace with hacksaws and blowlamps, working on the spider’s web of gas pipes that led to it, removing the areas that had been mangled beyond repair by the heat. There was little point in joining his partner in the effort, Nic decided. Randazzo had obviously given them carte blanche to destroy any evidence remaining in the place.

Improvise. That was Falcone’s guiding rule in circumstances like these, cases that seemed to be blank pages, looking for evidence to fill them. Costa knew his inspector well enough by now to understand what that meant. Poke around, get a feel for the crime scene. In this instance, try to imagine yourself in the shoes of Uriel Arcangelo, waiting for the flames to consume him, his dead wife turning to ash and smoke in the furnace that his two brothers were now treating with an everyday disdain, as if it were simply another piece of malfunctioning machinery.

He couldn’t do what Falcone wanted, though. Something was wrong here and, from Falcone’s diffident yet taut manner, Costa wondered if the inspector knew it as well. No two families reacted to tragedies in the same way. Sometimes there was anger and hatred. Sometimes simple disbelief and a mute refusal to accept plain fact. Michele and Gabriele Arcangelo, on the other hand, seemed almost indifferent to what had occurred here. Or, more accurately, they felt the resuscitation of the foundry—and the flame of the giant angel’s beacon outside—came first, ranked higher on their inflexible set of priorities than the notion that their youngest brother had murdered his wife just a few hours before, in this very place.

Nic Costa felt lost for a moment, then was aware he wasn’t alone. He turned and found himself looking at a woman who had come to stand by his side without making a sound. Her long dark hair was very clean and straight, with a touch of silver to it, as if the true colour were grey, now disguised by dye. She was wearing a red cotton shirt, good quality once, made shapeless over the years, and dark cheap slacks. The poor clothes didn’t match her unlined face, which was aristocratic and striking, dominated by querulous brown eyes. This was the person he’d seen at the strange window jutting out over the lagoon, staring out at them, seeming lost.

That impression was immediately dispelled by her manner.

“I thought there might be more of you,” she said in a warm, well-spoken, northern voice. “I’m Raffaella Arcangelo. I must apologise for my brothers. They’re . . . single-minded sometimes.”

“Nic Costa,” he replied, aware that Falcone was bearing down on them, eagle-eyed, curious. “And this is Inspector Falcone.”

“Signor Costa,” she said, a little warily. “Inspector.”

He waited for Falcone to take the lead. It wasn’t happening. Some small, puzzled inner voice told him Falcone felt a little awed by this fetching woman who returned the inspector’s open gaze with an equal frankness.

“It would be best if we spoke upstairs,” Raffaella Arcangelo said. “I’ll ask my brothers to join us once they’re ready.” She glanced at Falcone. “It’s no use. We’ve been through this once already with the men who preceded you. My brothers will talk when they want to talk. Not before.”

Falcone found his voice. “That’s understandable, Signora Arcangelo,” he said, giving her his personal card. “You have our condolences, naturally. And my apologies for the fact we must be here now. To lose two family members simultaneously. It must be terrible. I can understand why we’re the last people you want to see.”

The woman’s eyes fell on the card he’d supplied, then swept over Falcone.

“Well. You’re the first person who’s had the good grace to say anything like that today.” Raffaella Arcangelo sounded somewhat surprised. “Thank you. May we get out of this place? Please? It’s not . . . somewhere I care to be right now.”

“Of course,” Falcone agreed. “This is quite the wrong time. These officers who spoke to you earlier. They took statements?”

She was bemused. “They did. I thought you might have known.”

“The system is a little slow to catch up sometimes. It’s inexcusable.”

He couldn’t take his eyes off the keys on her belt. Falcone extended a hand towards them. “May I see those, please?”

The request caught her off guard. Nevertheless, without any hesitation, Raffaella unhooked the bunch and handed them over. Falcone examined each in turn, spending most of his time on the long, old shaft of metal which was, Costa thought, a match for the one in the door. Then he quickly brought the bunch up to his nose, sniffed, and handed them back.

“I’m sorry,” he told her. “That was stupid of me. Everything smells of smoke around here at the moment.”

She wasn’t put out by his actions. Or offended either.

“It does,” she agreed. “Were you . . . looking for something, Inspector?”

He smiled, an expression Nic Costa rarely saw, one that, at that moment, seemed remarkably genuine. “Just a bad habit, I’m afraid. Who else would have keys to this building? I’m sorry. I imagine you’ve been asked all this before.”

“No,” she replied, thinking. “I haven’t been asked that question at all. Only the family keep keys. Myself. Michele, Gabriele. And Uriel and Bella, of course.”

“Hugo Massiter?” Costa asked.

A brief cloud of distaste crossed her face. “Why should he have keys?”

“I thought he was working on the hall next door.”

“His men are working on the hall. Massiter visits from time to time. The men are allowed in only during the day. Michele opens the gates for them. There’s no need for anything else. Not yet anyway. Signor Massiter . . .” There was an unmistakable note of bitterness in her voice. “ . . . has not acquired us. Not yet.”

Falcone considered this. “You and your brothers. You’re not married.”

“Michele is divorced. Gabriele and I never married.”

“And no one else lives on the island?”

She gave him a cautious look. “It’s been a while since we could afford servants, Inspector. I thought they might have told you that too.”

“We’re not local. But I’m sure you noticed. And this night watchman? He had no keys?”

“Piero? No. There was no need. He just brings material to the lower warehouse by boat. We don’t even bother to lock that. There’s nothing of great value and it doesn’t allow access to any other part of the buildings.”

“And,” Falcone persisted, “Uriel and Bella? They would have a set each?”

“Yes,” she answered. A small note of testiness started to appear in her voice. “Bella worked in here a little too. Is all this important?”

“Probably not,” he replied, shaking his head, smiling. “You must understand. These days we’re tied in regulations, from head to toe. In cases like this we have to account for every last piece of evidence, however unimportant. It’s just paperwork really. Oh . . .”

He withdrew the evidence pouch from his pocket and held the transparent bag in front of her. “I do need you to identify this set for me, please. Yours has a green sash on it, I see. This has a crimson one, mostly burned by the heat but recognisable nonetheless. These were Uriel’s?”

She gazed miserably at the object in the bag. “That’s correct,” she replied.

“And Bella’s? They had a sash too?”

“Yellow.” She was thinking. “And before you ask, Michele’s is black and Gabriele’s blue. We’re an organised family. Michele likes to know who to blame if there’s carelessness about.”