David Hewson - The Lizard's Bite

“I can’t protect you from everything,” Randazzo snapped. “There are limits beyond which . . .”

The Englishman was laughing. His shoulders heaved. A growing chuckle emerged from behind a set of bright, shiny teeth. He came close and touched the tie.

“Japanese?” he asked. “How is your wife, by the way?”

“My wife has nothing to do with this.”

Randazzo had seen the way Massiter stared at Chieko whenever they met on social occasions. It wasn’t the curious look she normally got when the locals discovered a woman from Tokyo had married a Venetian cop. Besides, Venice was an international city these days. Marrying a foreigner, a very beautiful one, was nothing remarkable.

“This isn’t funny,” the commissario complained, aware of the whine inside his own voice. “Not at all.”

With a swift, feline ease, Massiter was next to him, whispering in Randazzo’s ear. “On the contrary,” the Englishman murmured. “It’s delightful. Let’s get straight to the point. Then I must go. There’ll be locals down below soon, and I’ll be damned if I’m leaving them alone with the valuables. So . . .”

Massiter pulled away, drew in a deep breath, certain of himself. “The last time I saw Bella Arcangelo was two weeks ago. I never bed Venetian women for more than a month. It’s a matter of principle. They cling, they paw, they grow tiresome. The bitches are best gone before the amusement begins to fade. I doubt I fathered a brat on her but you never know. No one ever will. I expect you to make sure of that.”

Randazzo swore, then asked quietly, “You weren’t here the night they died? You can prove it?”

“Oh . . . that night. Where were you for that matter?”

“I was working,” Randazzo snarled.

“Work. Play. For me the two tend to be much the same really.”

He knew something. He couldn’t wait to say it either.

Massiter reached out and flicked some dirt off the commissario’s tie. The Englishman stared at him, his ageing film-star face devoid of feeling, a man who felt nothing whatsoever, about himself, about anyone. Commissario Gianfranco Randazzo knew he was idiotic for thinking he could tackle this man head-on. It was uncharacteristically imprudent, a stupid mistake that would have to be rectified by some act of visible fealty.

“I was occupied until one in the morning. With company. After that, I slept alone.”

“Here?”

He scowled. “You’re being very inquisitive, Randazzo. Is that wise? Besides, you surely know that’s not possible. They don’t allow me access at night. I had to beg for dispensation from the Arcangeli for this little party, even though it’s in their interest as much as mine. No. I was in my apartment. First with a woman. Then alone.”

It wasn’t so far from Massiter’s vessel on the waterfront near the Arsenale. He could still have been on the island in time. Bella could have provided the key.

“Listen to me. You were busy until two, Hugo. No. Make that two-thirty. This woman must confirm that.”

Massiter shrugged as if it were a matter of no consequence.

“This is important,” Randazzo objected.

“Very well,” he conceded.

“Stick to that story. Leave the rest to me.”

“I left the rest to you from the start. Look where it’s got me.”

“I will sort this out,” the commissario insisted. “I assure you. This woman. We may need to know her name. She will vouch for you. You’re sure of that?”

Massiter beamed back at him, amused. “Given you’re nothing but a possession of mine, one whose value appears to be rather less than the price I originally paid, you are, I must say, distinctly uppity tonight, Randazzo. I trust my tolerance of this impertinence will be rewarded. And . . .” He hesitated before making this last point, a fierce, bright certainty burning in his eyes that chilled Gianfranco Randazzo’s blood. “ . . . Soon. Patience is not one of my virtues.”

“I cannot save you from yourself!” Randazzo answered, scared by his own impetuousness, all the more aware now that he had no idea how he could deliver what Massiter, and his own superiors, wanted. “Will this woman say what she’s told?”

Massiter was grinning again. The abrupt, scary chill was gone.

“I believe so. Perhaps you’d better ask her yourself. When you get home.”

IT WAS NOW ALMOST SEVEN. THE THREE OF THEM WOULD be late for Massiter’s party, but it was inevitable. Falcone wanted the men to write up everything in the Questura before leaving. It was important, the inspector insisted, to make sure all the facts, as much as they understood them, were set down for the record. He didn’t want any room for mistakes, holes through which problems might slip. Teresa had been occupied too, in a way that hadn’t proved entirely satisfactory, if he read correctly the troubled expression on her face.

It was a gorgeous evening. Even on the vaporetto there was scarcely a hint of breeze. The city stood breathless, trapped inside its own archaic splendour.

“Was Leo right?” Costa asked. “Did you get anything out of the morgue here?”

A disgruntled frown creased her face. “Sort of. They’re not exactly state-of-the-art. To be honest with you, it was a bit amateur-hour there. All the serious stuff gets sent over to the mainland.”

Peroni and Nic looked at each other. Costa knew they were thinking the same thing.

“And this isn’t serious?” he asked. “Two people dead? In very odd circumstances?”

Teresa was staring at the approaching island next to the vaporetto jetty, its trio of buildings misty in the heat haze. Costa followed the line of her gaze. Something about the Isola degli Arcangeli disturbed him. The place clung onto the side of Murano proper by that single metal bridge, with its iconic angel, unsteadily, as if it were unsure whether to belong, or whether to cast itself off into the shallow waters of the lagoon.

“You’d think . . .” she murmured. “I just don’t know. I’ve persuaded Silvio to do a little work on the case. We’ll see.”

“Oh wonderful,” Peroni groaned. “How does Leo manage that? Getting everyone else in the shit alongside him?”

Teresa gave him a sharp glance. “I rather thought we were invited because we’re good at our jobs.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah . . .” Peroni waved a big hand at her. “I keep hearing that. But this isn’t our place, remember. This belongs to the Venetians, and frankly they’re welcome to it. We’ve got our orders from the commissario. A nice neat investigation. Wrap it up. Then go home.” He put a huge arm around Teresa Lupo’s hefty shoulders. “Home,” Peroni emphasised. “Just by doing what we’re told for once. Is it that hard?”

Yes, Costa thought, but didn’t say it. Something stank about the Arcangelo case and they all knew that. Spontaneous combustion. Damaged keys. Aldo Bracci too, locked inside his own house on Murano, an angry mob outside willing him to go. Costa couldn’t get the picture of Bracci out of his head. There was more than just misery inside the man. There was knowledge too, something he was, perhaps, wondering whether to share.

Teresa got back to the point. “Silvio’s got some ideas. About this spontaneous combustion thing. He’s more the chemist than I am. I’ve sent him some material to work on. Perhaps tomorrow, the day after, we’ll know more.”

“What sort of material?” Costa asked.

“Fibres. From his clothes. People don’t just catch fire, Nic. Not in this world. It was very hot in there. Very strange conditions. Uriel was partly deaf and had lost his sense of smell too. Someone who knew that could have doctored the apron. There’s an explanation. Physical laws apply. It’s just a question of understanding them. Maybe . . .”