He had taken hits from supposed colleagues, was avoided in the corridors, no longer sought out by those who wished to rub shoulders with success. He would not go to the funeral, invite further humiliation. If he was there, and if the association charge could be proven, it would demean the prosecutor to have the uniformed men of the carabinieri wade into a throng of mourners, drag out an old man and cart him away. At the outset there had been great optimism, but failure was hard to embrace. The boys knew and were quiet, the banter gone. He would not stay late that evening – the death of the boy was insignificant, except that a successor had been eliminated. The crusader from Berlin was of no importance and his anger at it had been unnecessary.
He had smoked his last cigarette, and would have to scrounge from the boys again. There was a mirror by the door. He used it to tidy his hair and straighten his clothing, as if a prominent visitor was waiting to see him. He saw himself, saw the ravages, the price of the investigation.
He opened the door and they were up, shrugging into their coats, pistols in their holsters. ‘Sorry, boys, just fags. Short of fags.’
He was happy to be alone.
Jago would watch for the dogs. If they were quiet, if they were inside the house, he would go down and excavate the cable, but later.
It was still too early. The light was going and the shadows lengthening, but the cars at the front had not yet thinned. He rolled the question in his head: Bernardo would not return to his bunker while the cars were still there, the drivers and bodyguards hovering, cigarettes glowing.
His mind was changed.
A hearse was bringing the coffin home.
Jago had a good view of it. Cigarettes were thrown down and caps came off men’s heads. They formed an aisle, no instruction but natural respect, held their hands clasped low and ducked their heads as the coffin was carried past them. Men spilled out of the house and stood close together on the step. Like a guard of honour, but without overt ceremony. Jago looked for a glimpse of a face in the background. He saw Giulietta, who stood straight-backed. She had changed into a black dress, cotton, not silk, he thought, no jewellery, and behind her was the old lady. Teresa and a gaggle of children followed the coffin. It lurched on the step, was steadied, then taken inside and the doorway cleared. He had not seen him – no older man there had been accorded greater deference as master of his own home.
The aisle that the drivers and hoods had made disintegrated. The cigarettes came out, were passed and lit. The kid had the dogs on the hill but the line they took was higher than the cleft in which he lay. They tracked but without a scent, and were well away from him. Then, among the dogs, there was pandemonium. A small deer bounded clear of them, acrobatic in its flight over rock faces. They chased it for a bit, then lost heart, and the kid called them back. It was a listless search and Jago did not feel threatened.
He thought only of the old man, the bunker plunged into darkness and him groping for matches and candles, or a torch, fear gathering round him, pressing close on him. Images flashed in his mind: a girl taking off her clothing, a girl whose face bled or had just been stitched, a policeman who had left a laptop open, and the FrauBoss who would by now have sent dismissal details to Human Resources.
He had not seen the old man who could decide who lived and who died. He would know him when he saw him, would recognise the fear, smell it.
16
He stirred because of the cockerel.
Jago had only rarely seen it. The coop where it ruled was hidden from his view. It was young, had a fine comb on its head, mahogany feathers with red flashes. The cockerel was another friend he had acquired. He liked it, watched it and felt part of its brotherhood. The dogs did not worry it and he thought that the old woman and the handyman talked to it. In the half-light, he wondered what the cockerel knew of shipments and killings and investments. If it knew that a corpse was laid out in the house, it showed no respect – its crowing was as loud as it was on any other morning. The bird said that the day started.
The last day . . .
Lights came on in the kitchen and the door opened. The dogs bounded out and the cockerel ignored them. That was the routine.
He had the feeling, relentless, that it was the last day.
The old woman appeared. He had no name for her. There would have been a name in the file he had glanced at it, but she had not been a priority family member. He looked hard at her and wondered whether she was capable of kindliness, whether she had wept that night in her bed. She held herself erect and carried a bundle of sheets . . . At that time in the morning. It was confirmation.
It seemed inevitable to Jago that the last day had dawned. The target ahead of him – the ultimate worthwhile challenge – was the old man, and the weapon was a buried cable.