Stefano did not sit with them but played a small accordion, the old music, songs of the ’Ndrangheta and the mountains. Mamma had cooked and Giulietta had helped. Teresa had fussed around them, but it was Mamma’s day and she had called the shots. A small, discreet, careful celebration. One outsider only was invited to share the meal with the family: the priest. Father Demetrio sat on the far side of Bernardo, near to Giulietta, and already their heads were close. Bernardo assumed they were not discussing the Rosary, any order of service or the latest pronouncement from the Holy See: Father Demetrio had a good head for figures, had baptised all the grandchildren and had married Rocco and Domenico. Bernardo would talk to him, but later.
There was a little wine, watered for the children. Pasta with seafood was served first, then beef, chewy and on the bone, but Mamma had good teeth. She might be enjoying it, Bernardo thought, but didn’t show it. When had she ever shown pleasure? When had she ever shown tenderness or grief? She was as hard as the rock of the cliffs behind the house and he doubted that she missed him when he slept in his buried bunker . . . but she was a good wife. She had never criticised him, never complained about his behaviour, especially in the days when he had made many afternoon visits to Brancaleone, and she kept a good home for him.
The mood of the gathering was triumphant. As it should have been.
And Giulietta, his conduit of news, had met a courier from the city across the mountains. She had been handed a message written with a fine nib on a single cigarette paper, which told of bitterness and division at the Palace of Justice, the weakening of a certain prosecutor’s influence, and confirmed what he had heard earlier: that an investigation had run its course and had failed.
There were toasts, which Mamma acknowledged, and more toasts to the absent ones, Rocco and Domenico. The Priest’s face had been suitably impassive. He had not glanced at the small children, Nando and Salvo, when their father’s name was spoken.
Marcantonio praised his grandmother and received the dismissive wave of a gnarled fist. Bernardo thought the family at peace.
After the beef there was cake, a crochette of dried figs. Giulietta had slipped away to the first floor where she had an office – nothing kept in it was incriminating, but she dealt there with legal matters. Bernardo heard the printer. He used a BlackBerry occasionally, not since word of the investigation had been passed to him, but never a computer. He left no footprint: his daughter was his link with sophisticated modern life.
He waited for her return. Without his sons and his grandson, he had depended on her. There were cousins and nephews on the fringe of the family who fulfilled functions and had responsibilities, but if they observed him to be weakening they would close in on him. There was no place among the families for an enfeebled padrino. And good times lay ahead: soon Marcantonio would be at home, playing his part. There were no gifts that day, but he had prepared a small offering for Mamma that he believed she would like. By now, the family who lived behind shuttered front windows would have seen the young Indian-born deacon who assisted Father Demetrio. They would know, but would make no public sign of grief – they wouldn’t dare.
Giulietta brought in the tureen of white china, not used by Mamma for years. A little frown knitted Mamma’s forehead – she hadn’t planned this. A sharp look at Giulietta. The lid was whipped away. Mamma peered at the photograph inside the tureen, and understood. Bernardo would have sworn that his wife almost smiled. It was the ANSA agency photograph, posted on the internet. The man was on the bench, slumped sideways. Blood obscured much of his face, but his mouth bulged, as if something filled it. The crotch of his trousers was dark-stained. She lifted out the photograph and took a sip of water, as if that were enough celebration for the killing of an infame who had damaged her family. Teresa saw it and nodded; Father Demetrio was impassive. The children were not shown it, but Marcantonio grinned. Bernardo heard him murmur to Giulietta that he felt jealous of the man who had done it.
Mamma cackled, a crow’s call, as she realised what was filling the dead man’s mouth. The music was louder, perfect for the day, and power had been asserted.
‘I wouldn’t question your ability to handle banking matters so please don’t question my professionalism as a police officer.’
She was talking to him as if he were a hotel porter. What had Fred Seitz done? What had he not done? How would Jago Browne, on a year’s exchange from London, know that a brawl in the street, and the subsequent disfiguring attack on a young woman, involved crime families in the Italian region of Calabria? She might have sensed weakness in his posture, detected bluster and evasion, but could not have proved it. His temper had risen because his job hung on a laptop left open when he had gone for coffee. If that were discovered, he would be out of KrimPol by the end of the weekend. His temper was exacerbated by her haughty superiority and his own vulnerability.
‘You did nothing.’