David Hewson - The Lizard's Bite

He touched her bare arm, then kissed the softness of her cheek, aware of the way she steeled against him. “I mean it. Thanks.”

“I don’t think it worked,” she murmured. “I’m sorry . . .”

There was an expression on her face, a lost, desolate look there, he didn’t begin to recognise.

“Let’s not prejudge anything,” he urged her. “We’ve more than one way to skin this particular cat.”

“Really? Are you sure he isn’t skinning us? Along with everyone else?”

“Is that how it feels?”

“To me it does. Let’s get started, shall we?” She nodded at the cathedral door. “They’re waiting for you. I want this out of my life forever after this evening. Understand this, Nic. After tonight, I’m gone from Venice.”

Her blue eyes didn’t leave him, looking for something she didn’t seem to find. “With you or without you,” she told him.

He didn’t deserve any better. Costa had been pushing all of them ever since Falcone went into hospital. By force of circumstance, she’d been close to Hugo Massiter. Costa had been blind to what that could mean. He only really began to consider the possible cost when he saw Laura Conti and Daniel Forster cowering in that little hovel on Sant’ Erasmo, still terrified of a man they hadn’t seen for years.

“Tomorrow we leave,” he said, taking Emily’s hands. “Tuscany. Anywhere. Wherever you want. I promise.”

“People in your job make a lot of promises,” she replied, and strode through the door, into the dark, lofty belly of the cathedral, empty save for a caretaker at the door and three figures seated on a wooden bench set in the shadows of the nave: Teresa, Peroni and, to Costa’s surprise, Luca Zecchini, who sat between the two of them. The major looked cheerier than at any time since the two of them had pounced on him as he sat eating a peaceful meal in Verona only a day earlier.

Costa pulled up a couple of flimsy metal chairs, positioned them opposite this unlikely trio, and introduced Emily to the major from the Carabinieri.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come, Luca. I wasn’t sure I should have asked you, to be honest.”

“Hell,” Zecchini answered with a broad grin, “Leo always said you people were good for keeping ennui away. I decided I was getting a little bored lately.”

“And your men?” Costa asked.

“They’re too young and too junior to risk being anything other than bored. I don’t mind putting my own job on the line. But I don’t extend that privilege to my officers. I imagine Leo’s the same.”

“Sure,” Peroni said, laughing. “That’s why we’re here.”

“If we can take Massiter down, he’s yours,” Costa offered. “That should take care of any unpleasantness.”

“Mine. Yours.” The major shrugged, nonchalant. “What does it matter? I’ve talked to my people, Nic. They’ve no ties here. Remember that. They’ve also got a lot of reasons to want Hugo Massiter in jail if there’s a good chance of keeping him there.”

Costa nodded. He understood that last qualification well.

“On the other hand,” Zecchini added. “If we screw up . . .”

The way his pale, intelligent face turned suddenly glum said it all.

“He’s going to be untouchable once he pushes this deal through,” the major continued. “He’ll have people in his debt well beyond Venice. They’re frightened of Massiter as it is. Once he’s tied them up in all the loans and guarantees and whatever other backhanders go along with something like this—”

“We get the picture,” Peroni interrupted.

“I’m glad you do,” Zecchini told the big cop. “This may be everyday stuff for you. For me . . .” Without thinking, he pulled out a pack of cigarettes, then, under Costa’s steely gaze, took one look around the gloomy cathedral interior, laughed, and put it away. “And in a church, too. So, people? What do we have? Can we charge this man with anything? Can we even put him under arrest?”

“I don’t know,” Costa said frankly. “What about the smuggling? You tell me . . .”

Zecchini scowled. “Not a chance. Not with what we have.” He smiled at Emily Deacon. “I don’t want to disappoint you. I’ve no idea how you got that material. From what I know of Massiter it was a very brave thing to do. Our computer people are taking a look at it right now. They say that, without a password, it could take months to try to decode anything. Someone would have to sign off those resources too. I really don’t see that happening. They’re looking. But . . .”

“It’s not just the computer files,” Peroni objected. “There’s Randazzo. Massiter’s relationship with him. That material in Randazzo’s house.”

“Where’s the proven link?” Zecchini demanded.

“It’s got to be there! Bring Massiter in and ask him.”

“On what grounds? I’ve no evidence that says Randazzo got his illicit goods from Massiter. We’ve nothing that proves the relationship between them was anything other than proper. Or to suggest Massiter was behind the shooting of this Bracci character . . .”

“We know, ” Costa insisted.

Zecchini wasn’t going to be moved. “From what I’ve heard I don’t doubt you’re right. Otherwise why would I be here? All the same . . . In terms of hard fact, I can’t see I’ve anything to help you. If we had a couple of weeks to run up an inventory of what’s in Randazzo’s house, check it off against a known list, perhaps then we’d have something, though a direct link to Massiter could still be hard to prove. But we’re talking about lots of time and lots of manpower, and we don’t have the luxury of either. If I’m wrong, just tell me. I can’t see it any other way.”

“So that’s my contribution out the window,” Emily remarked. “Is there anything left?”

“There’s what we had to begin with,” Teresa suggested. “Bella and Uriel Arcangelo. And now this . . .”

She reached into her large black leather bag and took out the digital camera she always carried these days. On the bright screen was a photo of the monogrammed cotton shirt they’d found in Ca’ degli Arcangeli. “It’s safe in a private lab in Mestre. Silvio’s there working on it.”

“What does it tell us so far?” Costa asked.

“The blood’s Bella’s. And that piece of cloth belongs to Massiter, surely. Who we also know slept with Bella on more than one occasion on his yacht in order to get closer to her family. Incontrovertible proof, solid DNA. All the stuff you people love these days. Perhaps . . .”

She stopped, seeing the disappointment on their faces.

“What about the apron?” Peroni asked. “I thought you’d got evidence it had been messed with somehow?”

“It’s been contaminated by Tosi’s lab in Mestre. It could be weeks before we get a proper report.”

“We can’t make an arrest out of that,” Zecchini said with a grimace.

“Why not?” she demanded. “Think it through. Bella’s pregnant. She’s screaming at Massiter to own up to being the father. Perhaps she wants to ditch Uriel and move in with the Englishman. He could have set out to kill her in the house, then murdered Uriel and made it look like he was responsible. Does anyone have a problem with that?”

“In principle, no,” Costa said. What they knew of the facts seemed to support the idea. Just as importantly, it seemed to fit with what Costa understood of Hugo Massiter’s personality. Greed, sexual avarice, ruthlessness . . . and an agile facility for escaping the blame, pushing it onto others, just as he’d done with Laura Conti and Daniel Forster. “But it’s supposition. There’s not enough hard evidence.”

“What?” she screeched. “To hell with deduction, let’s rely on good old-fashioned chemistry. Bella’s blood is on Massiter’s shirt. If that’s not evidence, I don’t know what is.”