“Now don’t take this the wrong way, but I know being a copper doesn’t pay much, and you’re helping me out here, so I’m picking up the tab for everything.”
“There’s no need,” Bronson began a halfhearted objection, though in truth the cost of the trip had been worrying him—his overdraft was getting near its agreed limit and his credit cards couldn’t take too much punishment. He also wasn’t certain whether Harrison was going to try to suspend him or not, and what effect, if any, that would have on his salary. But Mark’s last bonus had been well into six figures: money, for him, wasn’t a problem.
“Don’t argue,” Mark said. “It’s my decision.”
When they got inside the airport, they realized they’d just missed the midafternoon Air Berlin flight to Fiumicino, but they were in good time for the five thirty Ryanair, which would get them to Rome’s Ciampino Airport at just before nine, local time. Hampton paid with a gold credit card and was given a couple of boarding cards in return, and they made their way through the security control.
There were a few empty seats at the café close to the departure gate, so they bought drinks and sat down to wait for the flight to be called.
Mark had said very little on the journey to the airport—he was clearly still in shock, his eyes red-rimmed—but Bronson desperately needed to find out what had happened to Jackie.
“What did the police tell you?” he asked now.
“Not very much,” Mark admitted. “The Metropolitan Police received a message from the Italian police. They’d been called out to our house this morning. Apparently our cleaning woman had gone to the house as usual, got no answer and used her key to get inside.” He squeezed his eyes shut for a brief moment, then took out a tissue and dabbed at them. “Sorry,” he said. “She told the police she’d found Jackie dead on the floor of the hall. According to the Italian police, she’d apparently stumbled on the stairs—they found both of her slippers on the staircase—and hit the side of her head against the banister.”
“And that . . .” Bronson prompted.
Mark nodded, the depth of his despair obvious. “And that broke her neck.” His voice cracked on the last word, and he took a sip of water.
“Anyway,” he went on, “Maria Palomo—she’s the cleaner—told the police that I worked in London. They traced me through the British Embassy in Rome, and they contacted the police here.”
That was the limit of his knowledge, but the paucity of information didn’t stop him speculating. Indeed, for the next hour or so he did little else but hash and rehash possible scenarios. Bronson let him—it was probably good therapy for him to get it out of his system—and, to be selfish, it gave Bronson a chance simply to sit there, contributing little to the conversation, as his mind spanned the years and he remembered Jackie when she’d been plain Jackie Evans.
Bronson and Mark had first met at school, and had formed a friendship that had endured, despite the very different career paths they’d followed. They’d both known Jackie for almost the same length of time, and Bronson had fallen helplessly, hopelessly in love with her. The problem was that Jackie only really ever had eyes for Mark. Bronson had hidden his feelings, and when Jackie married Mark, he had been the best man and Angela Lewis—the girl who would become Mrs. Bronson less than a year later—was one of the brides-maids.
“Sorry, Chris,” Mark muttered, as they finally took their seats in the rear section of the Boeing 737. “I’ve done nothing but talk about me and Jackie. You must be sick of it.”
“If you hadn’t, I’d have been really worried. Talking is good for you. It helps you come to terms with what’s happened, and I don’t mind sitting here and listening.”
“I know, and I do appreciate it. But let’s change the subject. How’s Angela?”
Bronson smiled slightly. “Perhaps not the best choice of topic. We’ve just finalized the divorce.”
“Sorry, I didn’t think. Where’s she living now?”
“She bought a small apartment in London, and I kept the little house in Tunbridge.”
“Are you talking to each other?”
“Yes, now that the lawyers are finally out of the picture. We are talking, but we’re not on particularly good terms. We just weren’t compatible, and I’m glad we found out before any kids arrived to complicate things.”
That, Bronson silently acknowledged, was the explanation both he and Angela gave anyone who asked, though he wasn’t sure if Angela really believed it. But that wasn’t why their marriage failed. With the benefit of hindsight, he knew he should never have married her—or anyone else—because he was still in love with Jackie. Essentially, he’d been on the rebound.
“Is she still at the British Museum?”
Bronson nodded. “Still a ceramics conservator. I suppose that’s one of the reasons we split up. She works long hours there, and she had to do field trips every year. Add that to the antisocial hours I work as a cop, and you’ll see why we started communicating by notes—we were almost never at home at the same time.”
The lie tripped easily off Bronson’s tongue. After about eighteen months of marriage he’d begun to find it easier to volunteer for overtime—there was always plenty on offer—instead of going home to an unsatisfactory relationship and the increasingly frequent rows.
“She loves her job, and I thought I loved mine, but that’s another story. Neither of us was willing to give up our career, and eventually we just drifted apart. It’s probably for the best.”
“You’ve got problems at work?” Mark asked.
“Just the one, really. My alleged superior officer is an illiterate idiot who’s hated me since the day I walked into the station. This morning I finally told him to shove it, and I’ve no idea if I’ll still have a job when I get back.”
“Why do you do it, Chris? There must be better jobs out there.”
“I know,” Bronson replied, “but I enjoy being a cop. It’s just people like D.I. Harrison who do their best to make my life a misery. I’ve applied for a transfer, and I’m going to make sure I get one.”
4
Joseph Vertutti changed into civilian clothes before leaving the Holy See and, striding down the Via Stazione di Pietro in his lightweight blue jacket and slacks, he looked like any other slightly overweight Italian businessman.
Vertutti was the cardinal head, the Prefect, of the dicastery of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith, the oldest of the nine congregations of the Roman Curia and the direct descendant of the Roman Inquisition. Its present-day remit hadn’t changed much since the times when being burned alive was the standard punishment for heretics, only now Vertutti ensured that it was somewhat more sophisticated in its operations.
He continued south, past the church, before crossing to the east side of the street. Then he turned north, back toward the piazza, the bright red and green paintwork of the café building contrasting with the Martini umbrellas that shaded the tables outside from the afternoon sun. Several of these tables were occupied, but there were three or four vacant at the end, and he pulled out a chair and sat down at one of them.
When the waiter finally approached, Vertutti ordered a café latte, leaning back to look around him and glancing at his watch. Twenty past four. His timing was almost perfect.
Ten minutes later the unsmiling waiter plopped a tall glass mug of coffee down in front of him, some of the liquid slopping into the saucer. As the waiter moved away, a heavyset man wearing a gray suit and sporting sunglasses pulled back the chair on the other side of the table and sat down.