‘And any man on the slope would have heard that sneeze. We’ve shown out.’
‘First time ever.’ Ciccio gave a little sigh.
‘Who should know?’
‘Nobody.’
‘That’s the greater sin, worse than showing out.’
‘I can live with it,’ Ciccio told him.
‘Because the mission and the investigation are fucked. We’re in the final hours.’ Fabio gave a minute shrug. ‘Not worth confessing. Think . . . No winners.’
‘Wrong. The winner is the entomologist. He has our collection of carcasses and will make a unique study of the scorpion fly. Be positive.’
‘Our friend is still out there, so we’re sharing our space with him. I say he’s no threat to us. Why should he be? Relax, enjoy your work. If they lay hands on him they’ll take the skin off his back before they kill him. Tonight, we’ll be eating tacchino in gelatina . . . We have a grandstand seat – no priests, no confessions. I didn’t sneeze. And, I tell you, he is there, the target. He’s there.’
His voice trailed away. They watched the rain fall and heard the wind.
Fred said, ‘Here, my friend, a mouse doesn’t break wind unless it has permission.’
Carlo looked around. They had no umbrella between them but had hired a car at Lamezia, bickered as to whether KrimPol or HMRC should pay. The Solomon solution was that they would split general costs and HMRC would do meals. On the drive south they had barely talked because the wipers had trouble clearing the windscreen and the lorries threw up spray. Fred drove. Now he’d come off the big highway and driven into the town of Rosarno. He had parked and they had both climbed out. Why? Carlo was unsure.
They stood in the centre of the Piazza Duomo. It was wide and open, and the rain lashed them. Why? Carlo had known of Rosarno but had never investigated the resident families. On one side of the square he could see the Speedy Market Alimentari and opposite, the magnificent church dedicated to San Giovanni Battista. He had read the carving over the main doorway: ‘Come, King of Peace, end hatred and turn it to love, revenge into forgiveness.’ A tall order.
The town was closed. The doors of the restaurants and bars were shut and the lights off. The parked cars were Mercedes, Audis and BMWs, and the streets were clean – well-paid discipline ruled. On the Via Roma, coming up the hill and into the square, there had been decent small houses, the window boxes alive with geraniums. It was Pesche country. The family had an overview of the docks at Gioia Tauro, with control of the workforce and the routes away from the wharves and containers. Fred had talked about a leader who had buried himself in a bunker but had needed a woman. There was a mistress under surveillance, who came to the safe house close to the bunker and brought her toy dog. She was his weakness and the opportunity for the cacciatore. Fred and Carlo were drenched.
‘I was there when he was taken,’ Fred said. ‘It was a mark of the trust they had in me that I was allowed to witness a significant arrest. He had assets in Germany, which was why I was permitted access. He lived in a hole in the ground, but he had champagne and caviar. It was an important arrest but nothing changed. He was in a cell, but the power of the family was as great as before. In the town there are good churches, and there was affluence, but no one seemed to have a job and there was no industry, except the port. I found it depressing – beautiful but an example of a broken state. And this is Europe. It makes me sad if I think too hard about it. I reckon I understand your English boy.’
‘Tell me.’
‘I think he was disrespected. He is a banker, has a good job, is a subject of envy and would regard himself as a member of an elite. He is different from many other young men. An incident plays out in front of him, and he responds, expecting the bad boys to back off. He is dumped on the pavement. I think he yearns for respect and needs to earn it. He’s no Knight Templar riding to the rescue of holy sites in Jerusalem, but an arrogant boy whose pride was hurt.’
They started to walk back towards the car. The rain was irrelevant. Carlo thought the assessment sounded fair. They would not hurry to fulfil the purpose of the journey – to make their apologies at the Palace of Justice. He thought two old men had been dragged from the comfort of their jobs because they were pawns of diminished status, suitable for work that no ambitious officer would want.
‘Where to?’ Fred asked.
Carlo told him.
The rainwater pooled in their seats and under their feet. They drove towards Reggio and the skies stayed ashen.