‘It’s the best I can do.’
He took a deep breath. Consolata reached behind him and grabbed the kit. He already had the boots on, not a bad fit. She had the ground sheet and the coat, then scampered to the back, opened the boot and rooted in a toolbox. She brought out a penknife, a three-foot-long tyre iron, a small first-aid kit, a water bottle and a pocket torch, then slammed the lid. There was chocolate in her pocket, a fancy bar – Jago thought it might have been her dinner.
He clenched his fist. She looked into his face. He reckoned he saw happiness. Her fist smacked into his. They crossed the road. She glanced at the phone screen, seemed to line herself up, then plunged down a slope.
It was almost a helter-skelter. She was lighter than him, bounced on rocks and evaded the tree trunks he careered into. It might have been a goat trail, but the marks and indentations were clear to follow. They would be overlooking the top end of the village. Consolata stopped. He cannoned into her. Jago wasn’t sure if he could see, far below, the colours of clay roof tiles. She pointed, jabbed her finger. Funny old life – different worries now from what he usually had on board: the FrauBoss, whether a potential client would switch to them if the portfolio value might increase by 7.5 per cent, the bonus and the holidays chart. He didn’t want her to leave him.
She caught his arm. ‘This is the place,’ she whispered.
‘Yes.’
‘Where I’ll come in forty-eight hours, twenty-four if it is possible, so you can eat and drink.’
‘Yes.’
‘Food, water, or to take you out.’
‘Of course.’
‘Hurt them.’
‘That’s what I came for. It was good that we met.’
She pointed down the slope. He could barely see a way, at best a scramble, at worst a fall, with rocks to block him. But he heard, very faintly, dogs barking. A kiss? No. A handshake? No. He had the ground sheet, the coat, the water bottle, and her chocolate was in his pocket, the tyre iron in his belt. He looked down to see where his first step should be, then back to make sure he remembered the place, and she was gone. He heard a twig break and a rustle of leaves, then nothing. He had made a bed and had better now think of lying on it. He would have liked to touch her face, run his finger again where a scar might have been. Jago bit his lip. The quiet settled about him, and the aloneness. He took the first step, then another, clung to a small birch and allowed it to sag while he slid over a vertical rock face. He let it spring back, and found another to latch to.
He went on down, and the barking of the dogs was sharper.
‘What was that?’
‘What? Where?’
Fabio had been dozing, and Ciccio shook him. The night’s cold was in their bones and they were hungry. Ciccio gripped Fabio’s shoulder. He peered forward, and the wall of quiet bounced back at him.
Fabio said, ‘We have twenty-two scorpion flies in the jar, all dead. Twenty-two is enough. Did you see another?’
‘Fuck you.’
‘What’s for breakfast?’
‘Are you dead? Didn’t you see?’
‘I’d like the fruit candy and the bread. I want to piss and—’
Ciccio hit him on the back of the head, hard.
‘What did you see?’
‘A man passed us. Went on down towards the Bravo Charlie house.’
‘Description?’
‘I think camouflage clothing. I saw him for two, three seconds, then he was gone. What does that tell us?’
Fabio didn’t answer. Both men were alert, gazing down at what little of the house they could see. Nothing was different. They heard only the barking of the dogs, then the chugging of the City-Van, which backed close to the kitchen door. Marcantonio was there, and Stefano had driven.
‘They can’t link it, can they?’ Fabio said. ‘The wife is screwing the boyfriend because Article 41bis has left her short. The boyfriend is dead. The woman has disappeared, but it will be lupara bianca, of course. What else? Her husband is in gaol. Her father-in-law is too old. The boy is capable. But the prosecutor has no evidence against him, and we can’t identify the presence of the old man. What does it add up to?’
‘That we go somewhere else next week to look for scorpion flies.’
‘I need a piss.’
Ciccio murmured. ‘Go ahead, and don’t spill it. I don’t know what I saw. No weapon.’