David Hewson - The Villa of Mysteries

The biker fell into the room. He wasn’t a big guy. If she’d gone to self-defence lessons as she’d always intended, Teresa Lupo reckoned she could have taken him on there and then. Beaten him up a touch. Tied him to a chair. Waved a magic wand over the gun just in case. Been Linda Hamilton out of Terminator 2 , all muscles and vengeance. Or something. Her head was running away with itself. Dangerous. She kicked him hard out of the way, struggled through the door, was glad to see the dim light of a clear early evening sky drifting through the bigger windows here.

The old cheap wood slammed shut behind her. She turned the key in the lock then snatched the bunch and threw them across the room, gasping, short of breath, trying to think about what to do next.

You look .

Professor Randolph Kirk lay on the floor in a bloody bundle, face uppermost, dead eyes staring at the ceiling. There was a ragged black hole in his forehead leaking gore. Automatically, she began to think of the autopsy. All the incisions, all the organs she’d have to examine, just so that she could come up with the obvious conclusion: this man died because someone pumped a piece of metal into his brain. I see no sign of improvement in his condition. The likelihood is that this is a permanent affliction .

With shaking fingers, Teresa Lupo dragged the phone out of her jacket pocket again, stabbing Nic Costa’s number on the keys, struggling to get it right, praying, praying.

His voice crackled in the earpiece, surprised, and sounding very young.

“Nic, Nic!” she yelled. “I’m in deep shit. Help me.”

There was silence on the line. She wondered whether that was really his breathing she could hear or just some digital static blowing in with the chemicals from the Mediterranean a kilometre away to the west.

“Just outside Ostia Antica,” she screeched. “The place I told you about. Please—”

Then there was a sound behind her, a sound so loud it just had to go down the phone and convince Nic Costa this was indeed serious. A sound that reminded Teresa Lupo she really was stupid in these matters.

He still had the gun.

“Idiot,” she hissed at herself, and dashed out the door, the blasts of the pistol, emptying its load into the lock, ringing behind her.

THREE POLICE Alfas sped past Piramide, sirens blaring, blue lights flashing. Falcone sat in the front vehicle, with Peroni driving down the middle of the road, pushing everything to one side. Costa held onto the dashboard, trying to make sense of things.

“Stupid bitch,” Falcone murmured. They’d talked to Monkboy who’d come clean about Teresa’s destination once they scared him witless. “Who does she think she is?”

“We should’ve talked to the man ourselves,” Costa volunteered.

Falcone leaned forward from the back seat and prodded his shoulder. “It was on my list for tomorrow, smart-ass. We take things one step at a time.” The inspector leaned back in his seat and stared at the lines of grey suburban houses flashing past the window. A red, poisoned sun was setting through the smog in the distance. The city looked grim and dead. “And we don’t go anywhere on our own. In case you two hadn’t noticed, we’re dealing with big boys here. I don’t want any risks. I hate funerals.”

Rachele D’Amato was in the car behind. Falcone had organized it that way.

“At the risk of repeating myself,” Peroni ventured, “do we really need the woman from the DIA along?”

“Who knows?” Falcone replied. “Until we get there.”

“This is some university professor she went to see, right?” Peroni wondered. “What’s a man like that got to do with the Mafia?”

Falcone said nothing. Peroni braked hard to avoid a street-cleaning truck, then wound down the window and began yelling obscenities into the smoggy evening air.

SHE CAME BACK at five thirty, laden down with shopping bags bearing the names of all the best designer labels. She looked perfect. Adele always did. Her red hair was newly trimmed and a little less red somehow, with a blonde tint shining from beneath. Not a strand was out of place. She wore a trouser suit in crumpled white silk and a grey mink jacket. Neri couldn’t work out whether they were new or not. She bought so many clothes he guessed she must throw half out each week just to make room for more.

He watched her go to the open kitchen and make herself a spremuta , topping up the juice with black Stolichnaya. “Where the hell have you been? I tried getting you on the phone.”

“Battery went flat.”

“Then charge the fucking thing next time you go out. If there is a next time. Maybe I’m introducing a curfew around here.”

She walked over and kissed him on the cheek, taking care to let her loose hand idly stroke the front of his trousers. “Bad day, sweetheart?”

“The worst. And where are my family when I need them?”

She blinked at him. She had long, very fine black eyelashes. He wondered how much they cost, how much of them was real.

“You need me?” Her hand went down again. He pushed it away.

“Don’t have time for that shit.”

“What else do I do for you?” she asked plainly. “What else is there?”

“You’re supposed to be a wife. You’re supposed to be here. Giving me some support. Instead I just got a couple of my own men and them stupid servants who piss around doing nothing downstairs.”

“Support? What kind of support do you want?”

He wished she’d just let this go. Normally she did. Lately, though, she’d been different. It began soon after Mickey had come to live with them. The kid was bad news, like a piece of grit getting inside an oyster, always rubbing away, making things worse, and no pearl at the end. Neri couldn’t help wondering what scams he was running on the side too, and keeping it quiet whenever he got asked. The stupid clothes and the dyed blonde hair were beginning to bug him. And the way he and Adele just kept going at each other. A thought floated across his mind. Sometimes, Neri knew, you saw what you wanted to see, what you were supposed to see. You never saw the truth.

“Never mind. Was Mickey out with you? He should’ve been back here hours ago.”

“Out with me?” She looked at him as if he were crazy. “Don’t you think I see enough of him lounging around in here? He’s your son. Not mine. You work out where he is, who he’s fucking now.”

Neri couldn’t believe his ears. She just didn’t talk like this. He raised the back of his hand. “Watch your mouth.”

Adele waved a long skinny finger in his face. “Don’t hit me, Emilio. Don’t even think of going down that road.”

He balled his fingers into a fist, made as if to swipe her with it, then stopped. There was too much going on to let distractions like this worm their way into his head. He could deal with Adele later. And Mickey if need be.

“Where is he?” Neri repeated.

“I haven’t seen him since this morning. He went out before midday. Maybe he’s out screwing some dumb hooker in his car. It’s what he likes to do, isn’t it?”

They’d argued about this before. Two months ago the police found Mickey shafting some cheap African whore in Neri’s own vintage Alfa Spyder down a back street off the Via Veneto. The stupid kid didn’t even know the law, which gave the cops the right to impound the car. It had taken all the powers of persuasion Neri possessed, and a substantial bribe, to get the thing back. Another expense. The cost of parenthood. Had Mickey learned? Probably not. The kid just didn’t care.

“Listen,” Neri said, taking Adele by her slender, bony shoulders, shaking her just a little. “Listen carefully.”

She pulled free, but she looked a little worried all the same. Maybe, Neri thought, she sensed the atmosphere was changing somehow, was wondering how it might affect her.