David Hewson - The Lizard's Bite

“We do,” he said. “Just for a while.”

THE RESTAURANT WAS DOWN A BACK ALLEY BETWEEN Arsenale and the main drag of Castello, the Via Garibaldi, a quarter of working-class houses not far from the police apartments. Peroni found it within a week of their arrival in the city. He had an uncanny sense about where to eat, and a way of buttering up the staff too. Two sisters, big, friendly women, ran the place. Their daughters, pretty teenagers, worked the ten cramped tables, each with four settings, that filled the dark interior. Most nights Nic and Peroni had to queue—though not for long; his partner’s quick wit had soon seen to that. But this was August, when hordes of locals abandoned the city for somewhere cooler. There was only one other group in the place, so Peroni pulled together a couple of tables at the far end of the room to give the five of them plenty of space and privacy, listened, beaming with pleasure, to the brief list of evening specials, then sat back to enjoy the meal, a man in gastronomic heaven.

Nic Costa knew good eating when he saw it and this was good, seriously good, in a way they rarely found in Venice because it was all utterly authentic, as close to home cooking as they were likely to get outside a private house. Costa’s vegetarianism had now relaxed to the extent that he ate fish, principally because it was so good there. A plate of pasta with tiny brown shrimps was the first course for each of them, some crisp, fresh rocket on the side. Peroni had insisted on stinchi for the meat eaters, ham hocks slowly roasted in garlic and oil. Costa had decided to stick with the gorgeous sarde in saor, fresh sardines slowly marinated with vinegar, oil, onions, pine nuts and sultanas, a Venetian speciality the two sisters prepared themselves, and one which couldn’t be bettered anywhere in the city. Even Leo Falcone looked content once he’d pulled a bad-tempered face at the house red, a weedy Veneto makeweight pumped straight from the barrel, and replaced it with a couple of bottles of fancy Amarone from behind the counter.

Then Falcone pushed away his plate, with that wily expression on his face that always made Costa uneasy, smiled at Teresa Lupo and said, “Spontaneous combustion. You’re a pathologist. Have you ever met a case? Is it rare?”

She gagged on her ham joint and stared at him, dumbfounded. “‘Spontaneous combustion’?”

Falcone pulled a sheet of paper out of his pocket and placed it on the table. Teresa picked it up, began reading, looked at the official crest on the top, then choked again.

“He’s quite an old pathologist they have here,” Falcone disclosed. “Seems knowledgeable. According to him Uriel Arcangelo died of spontan—”

“What next?” she interrupted. “Are we going to have people expiring of witchcraft or something? Did you find any wax dolls with pins in them lying around, Leo? Are you going to give up forensics and use a Ouija board instead? Good God . . .” She put down her knife and fork, a sign that she was surely taking the matter seriously. “You cannot allow this to be recorded as a stated cause of death. I won’t allow it. You’ll be a laughingstock. Every nut magazine and TV programme on the planet will be after you.”

Falcone beamed back at her, unruffled. “The pathologist here, Tosi, said it’s a documented phenomenon. There was even a case in Dickens. Bleak House, I believe . . .”

Teresa’s voice rose to an angry howl. “Dickens wrote fiction, for Christ’s sake! I’m a pathologist. I deal in science, not mumbo jumbo. Listen to what I am saying. Regardless of some ancient British author’s opinions to the contrary, there is no such thing as spontaneous combustion. It is physically impossible. A myth. A fantasy. The kind of thing that should be filed alongside alien abductions, telepathy and stigmata.”

“All matters which some people believe in. With documented cases . . .” he repeated.

“No, no, no! Look. This is just part of the fashion for irrational bullshit that poor bastards like me have to put up with these days. People hate a world that’s logical, rational, and largely capable of explanation. So they fill it with this crap because it makes them feel safe at night somehow, thinking that there really are ghosts and flying saucers out there, and we’re not just what we appear. A collection of atoms wandering through the world waiting for the day we start to fall apart. You cannot—”

“Tosi’s adamant he’s going to put that on the death certificate,” Falcone pressed.

“Stop him! Please! It’s not possible. The man must be gaga or something.”

Peroni put down his knife and fork and stabbed a finger at Falcone. “If Teresa says it’s not possible, Leo . . .”

“You heard Randazzo!” Falcone objected. “We just do as we’re told. Sign off the papers. Then go home early. Besides, we’ve got a witness statement from this garzone who saw Uriel Arcangelo die. He was on fire.”

Falcone’s incisive, birdlike eyes peered out at them from that familiar, walnut face. He was engrossed by this case, Costa realized, and would surely refuse to let go with his talons until he got to the bottom of what had happened on the Isola degli Arcangeli.

“Fire, the witness said, that came from inside him, ” the inspector continued. “Fire’s combustion, isn’t it? It sounds spontaneous to me.”

“Oh no!” Teresa wagged a finger in Falcone’s impassive brown face. “I know what you’re trying to do. I’m off duty here. You’re not stealing my holiday the way you stole theirs . This is down to you, Leo. If the pathologist you’ve got believes in fairies, that’s your problem. Go take an aromatherapy course and deal with it.”

“He seems a rational man,” Falcone replied mildly. “A little traditional. A little set in his ways, perhaps. You have to remember he doesn’t have your kind of experience. Murder and Venice rarely meet. Tosi knows that too. He was very flattering about you when I mentioned we’d worked together.”

He poured some more wine and left it at that, with Teresa gagging for the rest of the compliment. “He’s heard of me?”

Falcone held the glass up to the light, admiring the deep red penumbra it cast on the white tablecloth. “First thing he said when I told him I came from Rome. ‘Do you know Dr. Lupo? Did you read about the wonderful work she did on the body from the bog?’”

“Leo . . .” Peroni growled.

“All I’m saying,” he continued, “is that if Teresa here would like to take a look at this case of spontaneous combustion . . .”

“Don’t use that phrase,” she cautioned menacingly. “Don’t even utter the words.”

“If you wished to take a peek at the body, I don’t think it would be a problem.”

Teresa Lupo reached over, snatched the expensive bottle from his grasp, then tried to pour herself a glass. The bottle was empty.

“Hard to make a decision without a drink,” she announced.

Falcone sniffed and stared at the label on the Amarone. Dal Forno Romano, one of the best, and fifteen degrees proof. Costa’s late father had had a taste for that one. It was, he had said, like Barolo, a fighting wine.

“At forty euros a bottle that’s an expensive decision. So will you just cast your eyes over what I’ve got here? Give me a second opinion. Just me, you understand. I don’t want you getting into a catfight with Tosi. He doesn’t look as if his heart could stand it.”

“I don’t give second opinions,” Teresa snapped. “I dish out facts .”