It was natural that Father Demetrio, as the hours passed that day, should go to the shrine of the Madonna. He found it a consoling place.
He parked. The church and the dormitories around it, where pilgrims could lodge, were in a steep-sided valley. The sun had still not penetrated and the air was cold. He went towards the church door. The women in the village regarded the shrine as especially important in their lives. The men he baptised, married and buried thought Polsi a useful place of business while their women were at mass when they would huddle in the shadows. Deals were closed, shipments bought and sold, and the problem of those who tried to break away from the authority of the family was settled: strangulation, disappearance or the bullet. The women believed passionately what he told them of the Madonna of the Mountains and of the shrine’s value to them as a protector. Prominent men believed they owned the church, its rituals, the priests, and used it as a comforter, in the way that a child would cling to a favourite toy. The holy epicentre of many lives was filthy, with litter and cigarette ends clogging the cobbles. He walked to the church door.
It could be read in the eyes.
Often enough, Father Demetrio had seen in the faces of the prominent men he met the knowledge that they were condemned and that nowhere remained to them as a refuge. He supposed, had he lingered in front of the mirror as he’d shaved and stared hard into his own eyes, that he might recognise his fate. He might have laughed at the irony of it, but it was likely that no attempt would be made on his life until he had conducted the funeral of the loathsome wretch who had been Bernardo’s grandson. He would settle his mind. Inside the church there was evidence of artistry, a decorative ceiling by skilled workmen, tasteful flower arrangements, and an altar where dignity and tradition reigned. He knelt, bowed his head. He would be put to death – probably painfully – after Marcantonio was buried.
A big step, perhaps none bigger, confronted him.
The lawyer who had quit London, then fled the south-west coast of England and was now resident on the outskirts of Brancaleone took a mobile call. He had not known the caller’s number, nor was he given a name. The information passed to him referred to radio reports that a young man – identity given – was dead from a gunshot wound at his home. Now he had to pacify his client.
Humphrey said, ‘It’s one of those things, Bent. Nothing can be done. You know the old saying “out of a clear blue sky”, well, that’s what happened. The guy shot himself, something about a wolf near the chickens and he was outside with a weapon and must have tripped. Dead as mutton. That’s why you were stood up. Nothing about disrespect. They take death very seriously in these parts – and so they should. They live close enough to it. Before the funeral, I’m told, which is a reflection of the respect for you, Bent, within twenty-four hours, there’ll a meeting with the man himself – not Jack, not me, just you. They’ll have their own interpreter. These boys, Bent, don’t allow a death in the family to get in the way of a deal. You’ll be sorted out and on your way by the end of tomorrow. They know who you are, Bent, the extent of your contacts, your reputation and influence. You’ll get what you came for. The kid’s dead and that was why they skipped today . . . I saw you talking outside, Bent. Did you meet up with some tourists? A bit off-season but there’s always visitors coming here for the sun and the peace.’
‘Something like that. Pity about the kid, not that I liked him. Maybe we should have some flowers for them. Pity that. An accident out of a clear blue sky, yes.’
Jack said, ‘As you say, Bent, an accident and a clear blue sky. Spot on, Bent.’
‘I meant to be here earlier – had to come the back way,’ she blurted. Jago sat on the grass, leaning against a mature birch. The sunlight cut through the branches and its warmth played on him.
‘I’d have been earlier but for roadblocks. Yesterday I had to turn back. There just wasn’t a way through.’
A second excuse. He thought Consolata was flustered.
‘They moved the blocks overnight and I was able to go round them. I brought some food and clothes.’ She put two plastic bags close to his feet. Then she was on her knees, rummaging in them – food and water from one, socks, underwear and a shirt from the other. It didn’t worry Jago that she had been through his rucksack, taken stuff out of it. There was nothing in it of himself. He thought she was anxious.