Jago noted that two of the uniforms wore protective vests and sub-machine guns slung from straps. They seemed nervous. They would have been looking for the wolf’s position, where it might have been when Marcantonio had shot it.
Not the men in uniforms. Not the men crouched over the body and making that examination. There had been a moment, as the cloth was lifted and the face exposed, when the most senior officer had looked behind him, met the glance of one of those men, and there had been a slight nod: that moment in TV cop drama when identification is made in a mortuary chapel, confirmation. Jago focused on the two who seemed to have no role to play. They looked for the ledge on which the wolf had been. The shorter one was slight and his suit too large. The other was heavier, taller and had a beer belly. They looked at the escarpment above the yard. Why were they interested in where the wolf had been? Their noses and mouths were covered with the face masks, but he could see their eyes. Not casual. Both men were gazing across the rocks and trees for a reason. They exchanged comments in whispers, mouth to ear, beyond the hearing of the uniforms, forensic team and village men. Abruptly, both seemed satisfied. It was natural when something of significance had been noted to take a last look, but they did not.
The stretcher was unfolded. The body was lifted, then a blanket pulled over it. The handles were taken but not by the two other men. They left, and the body was loaded into the ambulance.
The handyman brought out a bucket and a yard brush, then washed away the blood, scrubbing hard, then left it to dry. He went to the wolf carcass and lifted it by the tail. Jago saw him take it to the front and down the track, the dogs following hopefully, but he kept them back. Perhaps he threw the wolf into a riverbed in a deep gully. When he came back he filled another bucket, and scrubbed some more. Jago knew what else he should do, but not when.
Soon he would go to look for the girl.
15
Jago wriggled from his belly to his knees and elbows.
The dogs were asleep by the door, and the area where the blood had been swilled away was now drying. The whole yard had been swept and the handyman had gone inside. He had seen no one else. The daughter-in-law and the children had gone, the village men were back down the track. He could smell food cooking. A death in the family but the living needed to eat. And must have needed clean bedding: a half-hour ago the old woman had emerged and hung out double sheets, pillow cases and towels. He’d looked for extra washing – the clothing of the hidden man, the padrino – but Marcantonio’s shirts, boxers, vests and socks were hanging with the rest. Not dead five hours and his gear was already on the line. No one had come to the house to share with them their grief.
Had the living not liked the boy? Did they find him an arrogant waste of space? Did they exist in a climate of death and judge it an unremarkable event? Jago didn’t know. No one was in the yard and the dogs were asleep. The kid wasn’t there to take them to work the hillside, and he didn’t know how suspicious they were about the tyre iron, but he moved with extreme caution. He thought he had learned fast the ways of the Aspromonte.
He kept his body low, hugging the ground, and went in a sort of spider crawl. In a few yards he was among the trees and the foliage would close behind him so he could straighten. But he didn’t hurry. He reckoned himself a good student. He watched for dried leaves and twigs and seemed to remember the route he had taken before. With each hour that had passed, he had become more familiar with the family and was – almost – a part of it, but the old man, the missing piece of the puzzle, was still just a photographic image in monochrome. In it he was young, with a good head of hair and smooth skin. Now the eyes might have dimmed.
He was glad to have moved and not fallen victim to the scent of the cooking coming through the kitchen door. He remembered the wolf, and the feel of its whiskers at his ankles, its gentle tugging with its fangs at the hems of his jeans. He remembered it in the moments before its death: defiant, caught in the beam, too weak to find cover, a proud animal. Best, he remembered how it had not cringed when the dogs had been close and when the barrels were aimed at it.
Many memories . . . A pretty face. A spider that lured a fly into a web. A woman who wore odd shoes, both from expensive pairs. A well-appointed apartment and a client who needed the reassurance that millions of euros were in good hands. A trip on a kerbstone as a hero went forward – no dog in that fight. A cut across a face that was no longer pretty.
He went on up the hill, threading between rocks, and took care that his feet fell mostly often on rock, not on any small pads of bare earth where he might leave prints.