‘But do they know who I am – who Bentley Horrocks is?’
Jack knew the answer might have been: ‘Absolutely, Bent. That’s why they’re in no hurry to meet you.’ If Humphrey had said that the furniture might have started flying. He didn’t.
Humphrey said, ‘It’s nothing personal, Bent. When the top man sees you it’ll be worthwhile. That’s a promise.’
‘Believe me, esteemed colleague, if I could help you I would.’
‘But you cannot or will not.’
The prosecutor walked along the wide pavement. To his left was the Via Vittorio Emanuele where the great magnolia trees shook off the last of the rain. To his right was the sea and the far-off lights of Messina, across the strait. The man he was with had hooked a hand into the angle of his arm.
‘I cannot – I’m not involved in the investigations into people you’ve named.’
‘There are few friends I can turn to.’
‘Forgive me – I have the greatest admiration for your work but you shouldn’t attempt to drag me into it.’
The prosecutor was with a middle-ranking officer of the Agency for Information and Security (Internal). The Secret Service played a role in anti-’Ndrangheta operations, but an ill-defined one. It was accepted that their equipment was far superior to that used by the Squadra Mobile and the carabinieri. The prosecutor thought that AISI officers had informal links with the gangsters of Calabria, and that the relationships went back to the days when it was convenient for the state to utilise the Mafia groups against Italian Communism.
‘I didn’t know where else to turn.’
‘My apologies. It’s always a pleasure to see you, but there are many more fish in the sea. Good night.’
His arm was loosed, and the figure beside him drifted away. The prosecutor was alone for a few seconds, then the escort closed around him. They had given him space while he was with the intelligence officer, but now the cars were brought level with the little group. He was isolated, and knew it. He did not have to say so to his protection detail: they would have observed and recognised the signs of rejection. Time slipped through his fingers.
The City-Van drove through the village, where men watched and noted it, waved to Stefano and showed respect to the padrino’s grandson. Lights lit the front of the house and the trees to the side and behind. Marcantonio thought a white plastic bag was flapping in a tree a little up the hill. He ignored it. He went through the front door, and Stefano used the back, where the dogs were. The wind was bad – there had been branches down over the road. The dogs wouldn’t go far tonight because they were valuable and it would be dangerous for them if a tree split or fell.
Every light was on in his bunker. Bernardo lay on his back. He had changed into flannelette pyjamas, but had kept on his vest and socks. The air was damp, and he could hear the TV programme but hardly see it because condensation blurred the screen.
He knew that Marcantonio had been taken to witness the landing and distribution of the latest shipment. It was a step forward in his grandson’s advancement to be seen by the foot-soldiers. It would give him authority. That had been how his own father had brought Bernardo forward, and how, twenty years ago, he had introduced Rocco and Domenico to other families. His father was buried in the village cemetery, killed in a knife attack in Siderno. His sons were in gaol. The future of the cosca depended on the boy.
That worried him. At least, it was among the worries that burdened him, but they were linked. The light dazzled him, but that was as nothing against his growing horror of the darkness.
The priest, Father Demetrio, was prominent in his mind.
There had been no explanations, but the old fool would have understood. A stumbling progress up the hill to a small flat area, where there had been sufficient earth to dig the hole with a spade and pickaxe. A crude mound where the soil had not yet sunk over the small, near-emaciated corpse. Some gabbled prayers. The photograph of the child with the newspaper would, the day after, have been delivered to the parents. It was rare for Bernardo to listen to Mamma’s blunt demand: a prayer had to be said over a grave. She could not do it. Since that day, neither he nor Father Demetrio had mentioned the grave or whose body lay within it. But Bernardo no longer trusted his old friend to keep silent – and had condemned him.