How to kill a priest? The question exercised him.
One had been shot dead while he was putting on his vestments, but that was twenty years ago, near Naples. Another had been shot outside his church but that was even longer ago, in Sicily. Among the Aspromonte villages one had had a pistol fired at him, unsuccessfully, four years previously. A severed pig’s head had been left on the doorstep of Father Stamile’s home further up the coast from Locri. It was a big decision for Bernardo, but he had taken it. The priest would be silenced. It was about the child, the grave he had never revisited, the money paid by the duped parents that had set the family on the road to huge wealth. Other families, after this child’s death and the ransom payment, had given up taking the children of rich northerners and bringing them south: they had claimed that the cases attracted too much attention from the carabinieri and Squadra Mobile. The families had met, head man with head man, on the hills – where they could pose to the inquisitive as mushroom pickers – and the practice had been ended. The investment in the child had enabled Bernardo’s first purchase of uncut cocaine, and he had not looked back until now.
More than two hundred kidnappings had been controlled from the villages close to where Bernardo lived, many millions of dollars paid in ransom. One man had escaped from the prison where his captors had held him, reached a house and begged the occupants to call the carabinieri. He was given coffee and bread and sat in the warmth until men arrived, but not from the barracks. The man of the house had returned the escaper to his gaolers. What else would he have done? Another had freed himself, blundered into the forest and come across women searching for porcini. They had overpowered him, brought him back to the village and passed him to their men. Best of all, in Bovalino, down the coast from Locri, there was a part of the town that local people called Polghettopoli after the billionaire’s grandson, Paul Getty, for whom more than three million dollars were paid. They had sliced off a part of the kid’s ear and posted it to the Messaggero newspaper in Rome, with the demand that the family speed up the negotiation. They had not realised that the postal workers were on strike so it had taken three weeks to reach the capital. Another captive had managed to flee, had been hunted down, shot dead, then kept in a bar’s freezer so he could be regularly lifted out, propped up and photographed to encourage the closing of a final deal. Good stories. They roved in his mind but came back, always, to Father Demetrio and the danger to the family’s future. And with Father Demetrio was the image of the child . . .
An accident, perhaps . . . Bernardo considered the options.
Soon, he would try to sleep. The light would stay on.
Jago might have slept. The moon was bright and there were stars high above, but dawn was not far off. He was so cold, so cramped and so hungry.
His clothing was laid out around him – why? He remembered. The moonlight showed Jago his trainers, trousers, coat, pants and socks. His vest had floated away on the wind.
He looked for it.
Anxiety gripped him. As he recalled it, the vest had caught on a tree that was level with the near end of the house. He could see the tree, and the spread of its branches, but not his vest. The wind was still strong so the vest should have been flying, like a windsock at an airfield, stretched horizontally. He couldn’t see it. He had been wondering how he’d get up a tree and crawl along a branch . . .
Then he saw his vest. It was crumpled on the ground. It had to be retrieved or . . . He could turn his back, put on his clothing and forget the vest. He could get to the road, hitch a ride, find a bus or walk to whatever degree of civilisation existed in this neck of the woods, and put himself clear. He might be at the bank by lunchtime.
The FrauBoss: ‘Where have you been, Jago? We were worried, and you’ve missed several meetings.”
Jago Browne: ‘Something that seemed a good idea at the time. Apologies, Wilhelmina. It won’t happen again.’ At school they’d had lectures on responsibility and consequences – For want of a battle the kingdom was lost, And all for the want of a horseshoe nail. The nail this time was an old vest from Marks & Spencer.
It lay close to the City-Van, within five metres of the front door. He could get it or he could turn back.
Jago started to dress, his clothes still very damp. The cockerel crowed. He could retrieve his vest or abandon it and be gone before daylight. A choice.
Fabio and Ciccio watched.
They had night-vision optics and binoculars but they hardly needed the enhancing gear as the scene was played out in front of them. Ciccio had been sleeping when he’d started awake, Fabio’s hand across his mouth. A little stab of his partner’s finger had told Ciccio where to look.
‘There’s clothing by the vehicle.’