David Hewson - The Lizard's Bite

“It would be useful for the records if we knew where Bella’s keys are,” Falcone said, as if it were a matter of small importance.

Raffaella’s eyes wandered towards the furnace. “Surely . . . She was found there. Wouldn’t that be the place to look?”

Falcone nodded. “Probably. I gather there’s an abundance of material back at the Questura. This is an awkward time, signora. I really believe the police should intrude on a family’s grief as little as possible. You’ve been pestered enough already. We may not know why this tragedy occurred but it seems clear it is . . . self-contained, shall I say?”

Raffaella Arcangelo’s strong, handsome face became stern and determined. “It’s inexplicable, Inspector. Uriel was my brother. He had a temper from time to time. All the Arcangelo men have. But to kill someone. His wife . . . No. I don’t believe it. All I can think of is that there was a terrible accident of some kind.”

Falcone’s eyes sparkled. “Possibly. And Bella? What was she like? Had they been married long? Were they a . . . loving couple?”

Raffaella grimaced. “They’d been married for twelve years or so. I don’t recall exactly. They’d been cold to one another for some time. These things happen in a marriage, I believe. She wanted children. It never happened.”

He waited, then asked, “Bella told you this?”

There was a rush of anger in her eyes that the men understood. Raffaella Arcangelo was at the very limit of her patience with them.

“Uriel,” she replied curtly. “What’s that about blood being thicker than water? It was an accident, Inspector. There’s no other possible explanation.”

“An accident he could have avoided,” Falcone replied quietly. “You see the problem for me there? Whatever happened in this room, he could have walked to the door, opened it and gone for help. Instead . . .”

Falcone left the matter there. Raffaella Arcangelo’s deep, attractive eyes had welled with tears, suddenly, and it appeared to be as much a shock to her as it was to them.

She dashed a bitter look at her two brothers, who worked on the furnace oblivious to the world.

“I can’t cope with this,” she said finally, once she’d recovered some composure. “There are arrangements to be made. And just me to make them.”

“If there’s any way we can help,” Costa offered.

Raffaella Arcangelo gave him a dark look. “This family buries its own. It’s not police work. When do you wish to interview us again, Inspector?”

“Tomorrow,” Falcone replied. “I’ll be in touch about a convenient time. If you need me beforehand, you have my mobile number on the card.”

“Tomorrow.”

Then she walked off, stepping over the fallen doors, out into the bright blue day.

Falcone’s eyes followed her departure avidly. There was an unhealthy amount of interest in his sharp, ascetic face.

“Is there something I should know, sir?” Costa asked.

“Presently,” Falcone replied cheerily, then glanced at his watch. “Now, listen to me carefully. I’m going back to town to see what passes for a morgue in this place. You poke around in here for a little while, just to let them know we’re interested. Then take an hour for lunch. More, if you like. Visit a few cafés. Peroni’s good at that. Be nosy. Be obvious. After that, talk to this Bracci family. I want people to understand we’re asking lots of questions. That’ll get back to Randazzo, which should do us some good. Tomorrow, first thing, I want to see this casual worker they had. Out on Sant’ Erasmo. We’ve got the boat after all. Best use it. When you’re through here it’ll be close to five o’clock anyway. That’s when your shift ends. You’ve got your women in tow. Leave early if you’re finished.”

Costa didn’t know what to say. Falcone was a man who never let go once a case began. They were all used to working every hour of the day to get a result. Shifts, lunch, dinner, family . . . everything went out the window to get the inspector what he wanted.

“Why are you looking at me in that curious way?” Falcone asked.

“I just . . .” Costa stuttered. “ Lunch? We never take lunch. This is a murder inquiry.”

“Ten out of ten for observation!” Falcone replied chirpily. “But you heard Randazzo. He’s the commissario. He just wants a painstaking inquiry, and that is what I intend to deliver. Besides, you’ve seen this for yourself. What happened here happened in this room. I don’t think there’s a guilty party trying to escape us now, is there? In fact, I don’t see anyone hereabouts keen to make much of a move at all. Even for a funeral . . .”

Costa was silent. The man had the scent of something, and it was useless trying to probe. He would say what he wanted, when he wanted, and nothing could bring it out into the light of day any earlier.

Falcone rattled the keys in his jacket pocket. “Oh,” he added. “You’ll be eating together tonight, presumably? The four of you? I imagine it’s that little restaurant that Peroni found? The one with the peasant food?”

“‘Family cooking’ is how it’s described, I think.”

“Not in my family it wasn’t. Still, I’m willing to slum it once in a while. You don’t mind if I string along, do you? It’s been ages since I saw the ladies. I won’t intrude. I promise. The time?”

“Eight-thirty,” Costa muttered, half rebellious. He hadn’t wanted to share a meal with Peroni and Teresa. He and Emily had spent too little time together as it was. Now with another chair at the table . . .

“Good.”

Falcone took one last, self-satisfied look around the room. Then he caught Costa’s eye. “Two deaths usually mean two murders, Nic. Remember that. Always start off from the obvious. Let the unlikely prove itself later. I’ll make a detective of you yet.”

“ Two murders?”

“Exactly,” Falcone said. The keys rattled in his pocket again. “But at least we’ve one of them in the bag.”

AT FOUR THAT AFTERNOON THE TWO WOMEN SAT ON the waterfront a little way down from San Marco, escaping the crowds and the heat. After the phone call from the men, breaking the bad news, they’d gorged on pasta in a little restaurant under the shadow of the Greci church’s crooked tower, then bought a couple of gelati—a boozy confection of vanilla and brandy-soaked raisins for Teresa Lupo, a lemon water ice for Emily Deacon. Now they slumped, half dozing, a little bored, in the shade made by the prow of a gigantic cruise ship, with just enough room past the white metal for a view of the beautiful and busy lagoon beyond.

“Venice in August,” Teresa moaned. “We must be mad. I mean, the place even smells . I thought that was supposed to be a myth.”

“Italians complain too much,” Emily declared. “Most of the time it is a myth. Sit back, ignore your nose and enjoy yourself.”

“In this heat!”

Teresa Lupo felt as if she could squeeze a bucket of water out of her limp cotton shirt. The humidity was astonishing. It made every step she took an effort, a drain on what reserves of energy she had after the night train. She wasn’t even sure how annoyed she was that Peroni wouldn’t be on vacation with her after all at the end of the day. The city instilled lethargy in her. If he really could take extra time once the case was over, she could rework her own vacation schedule and possibly cut another two weeks. Emily was in the same position. They were livid initially, that went without saying. But it could still work out in the end.