The smile, a little wink. He went back out through the swing doors and was crossing the car park when he had to skip out of the way of a Mercedes coupé, driven by a man with a flushed face and sparse silver hair. When he reached Carlo, he told him what had happened.
Carlo said, ‘That old guy who almost ran you over – he’s Humphrey somebody. Used to work at the Old Bailey, hot-shot lawyer, more twisted than a corkscrew. Interesting if he’s meeting Horrocks. I’ll get the coffee ordered.’
It looked to be the start of a fine day, and the wind was pleasant. They had a good view of the sea and the narrow beach, and of a man who walked alone. Fred didn’t know where the day would lead him.
Quiet and composed, Giulietta ran through the figures in her head.
Stefano drove in a respectful silence. Shipment charges varied if the cargo was sold at the exit point of the Gioia Tauro docks, at a service station south of Salerno on the A3, in Milan, Rotterdam, Felixstowe, Tilbury or the Port of Dublin. No other family on the eastern slopes of the Aspromonte permitted a woman such access to the inner workings of its business. Her own cosca would revert to type once her nephew returned permanently from Berlin. Within the next two days he would be on a flight back to the German capital then would be away for, perhaps, another three months. After that he would be at home, calling the shots and . . . She detested him.
The kid on the scooter had long left them. He had been their escort as far as Gabella, almost into Locri, then had gone into the town to hang out with kids he knew. She and Stefano would pick him up on their way home. It was a laborious procedure but she knew the value of care. If caution seemed too great a burden, she would think of her elder brothers in gaol in the far north, the aching boredom of the Article 41bis regime. Teresa had said they were weakening. No phone was switched on in the car. Most men who endured the longest sentences could turn their minds back to a call made when it should not have been. There was, she knew it, a building on the south side of Reggio, sandwiched between the railtrack and the beach, close to the prison of San Pietro, where a small army employed by the Direzione Investigativa Anti-Mafia were huddled in half-light over their keyboards, earphones clamped to their heads, and hacked into phone links and internet connections, but the mobile phone was the easiest for them. They were alone in the car, silent – the radio would have disturbed her concentration. Not yet, but soon, they would no longer need the City-Van’s headlights.
She had the figures in her head. She would not have to use a calculator. She would dominate the Englishman.
Stefano brought her into the outskirts of Brancaleone, as the town woke.
Bent had come off the beach. They’d seen him there, ambling along, then lost him – and found him again.
The coffee had been on a tray, proof of Fred’s expertise with the girl inside. They drained the cups and Carlo took the tray to the hotel’s steps. A few moments to wait . . .
‘Hello, Bent. How’s it going?’
A choice moment for Carlo. He enjoyed it. Not quite as good as those involving the ram on a locked door, but it came close. He’d spoken in his best estuary accent, the one most favoured by detectives from the Flying Squad, the organised-crime teams or the people on the Customs units who dealt with major importers. ‘Nice to see you, Bent. Hotel up to scratch?’
Bentley Horrocks – credit to him – didn’t duck, skip or scoot. He took his time, stopped, probably set his face in the scowl that did the business as a frightener to most who were stupid enough to pull his pecker. Carlo might just get to dine out on this story, and it wouldn’t need embellishment. The man turned, and surprise spread across his face. Carlo could understand that, because he and Bentley Horrocks had never met or spoken. Horrocks would know the senior figures, and those who were on his payroll, but had no idea who this intruder was. His expression was supposed to intimidate – it might have done so on home territory, but not here. A first ray of sunlight came through the hotel garden’s trees.
‘Always difficult to know, Bent, how a hotel’s going to shape up. I’d be careful at this one – just a friendly warning. Keep your wallet on you and your valuables in sight. It’s the ownership you want to worry about. One of those ’Ndrangheta clans, via front companies, is the stake-holder. Criminals, Bent – best avoided . . . Nice for you to be getting a bit of sunshine. Weather was awful, wasn’t it, back in London? Anyway, good to see you.’