Carlo took a last look at them. They were laughing together, holding hands. Unremarkable and unexceptional, just two affluent people in a sea-front café-bar facing the promenade at Cannes, a playground for the well-heeled. It was unlikely he would go back, for work, to Calabria. He had been left with many loose ends, and few would be tied. He might never know whether the old man, head of the family, was still living like a rodent, buried underground and on the run, or how well the old woman had survived the upheaval. He remembered the handyman who drove the little City-Van, and the kid who was good with dogs. He might never know if the wedding had taken place at that house, a clean damask tablecloth over a dresser to double as an altar, the new priest officiating, or whether they had used the church and relied on the community’s obedience and silence. He would never know whether the wedding night had been spent in the bed of the padrino, or how much expertise had been brought to the field of investment. Neither did he know whether Luca, the maresciallo, had gained entry to the fast track programme, or whether the prosecutor had prospered or not at the end of what they had called ‘Scorpion Fly’. He hadn’t learned much about the young man who had joined the family.
He made few judgements on the behaviour of others, and now was not a particularly rewarding time to slough off the habit. He would never forget the village and the hillside above it, the remote house with mountains as a backdrop, or forget Jago Browne. The German hadn’t asked about the aftermath of Bentley Horrocks. If he had, the answer would have been economical because little of that was written up in his mission report: best buried, with a missing-person file. Carlo, punching Fred lightly on the arm, did his job as a plodder. He waved the handkerchief.
The gesture would have alerted the link. A radio call was made. A few seconds of peace, calm – the pavements were filling as the lunch-hour approached, the cruise liner had drifted further along the coast, more yachts had taken to the water and the sea vista had hazed. Some, Carlo reflected, would have been about to rise to their feet, push aside the table and lift a clenched fist of triumph, as the arrest squad went in. Damn it, he felt suddenly empty. Carlo didn’t need to say it, but it would have been about ‘belonging’. The young man had never been in a tribal reserve, like the squads at HMRC, which hunted up Green Lanes or any investigator in the KrimPol. With belonging came power, the proof of which was money. The noughts floated in his mind. He’d gone philosophical in search of an answer but it was not his business to understand, just to do his job.
He looked from the couple, still chuckling, to Fred. The gaze returned to him was stonily impassive. No mortal thing would find himself, herself, proof against the big bucks when they were wheeled out.
Two cars pulled up fast at the kerb, brakes and tyres squealing. The men were out running, jeans, T-shirts and pistols. The heads jerked up inside the café-bar and the laughter died. Shock spread, as it always did. Mouths sagged, eyes bulged, hands froze together, and the ring, still bright and new, was hit by the sunshine. No ceremony. Both on the floor, down among the chair legs, the expert, unemotional search, then the handcuffs. They were brought out, frogmarched close to where Fred and Carlo sat. Were they recognised? Maybe.
Fred said, ‘What nailed him, gave him to us, was that he sent the money to the girl from the pizzeria where it all started. Tainted money. Money taken from the rinsed profits of cocaine trafficking. If I were to go and see her tomorrow, and tell her the origin of the money that would repair her face, she would reject it. Shall I tell her?’
Carlo said, ‘If you don’t, and she uses the money, you’ve compromised the truth. We’re not archangels. We do what is best for the moment and causes least hassle. We don’t stand in judgement . . . Is there time for a beer?’
The chairs were rearranged and the table was cleared.
It was at that moment, when the car’s rear door was open – Giulietta was inside the other vehicle – that Jago Browne had seemed to catch his eye, then looked away and allowed himself to be pushed into the seat. He might have remembered Fred, beside him, and wondered where the mistake had been conceived. He might have wondered, too, why he hadn’t stayed at the bank to live in the slow lane.
The cars left, and sirens yelled on the road. Fred and he would be driven to the airport. It was likely that, on the way, they’d talk expenses, kit, pensions or anything else that gave grief. Mutual congratulations would be verboten, forbidden. They had enjoyed a snapshot moment, handcuffs, arrests, the wave of disbelief that clouded young faces. That was enough. Would they meet again? Perhaps, perhaps not. Would they have time for a beer in the lounge before their separate flights? They’d make time.
‘Did we win, Carlo?’
‘I think so, Fred, but I’m not sure. In that corner of nowhere, it could be that they won because they can buy anybody, which is serious. Why doesn’t anyone try to buy us? Or at least make an offer?’
‘We’re not worth the investment. Find a mirror. Look at yourself and me.’
They hugged. They laughed. Their transport was waiting for them.