The Lizard's Bite Part 3

The speedboat docked at the jetty. Ma.s.siter barked at the helmsman to tie up, allow Falcone and his men to disembark, then return to the city. Costa glanced up at the extraordinary gla.s.s structure fronting the mansion. There was a figure at the windows. A woman-tall, erect, with long dark hair and a pale face-was watching their arrival intently.

"I am," continued Ma.s.siter, "at an awkward juncture in this negotiation. The lawyers have been bleeding us dry. The deal is still unsigned. The public purse is empty. It's only my rental of the hall that keeps them afloat. This d.a.m.ned island's covered by all manner of trusts and covenants. It's taken us months just to go through the fine print. Now . . ." A morose frown briefly broke the handsome cast of his face. " . . . we have to close or walk away. I have until the end of next week to bring this negotiation to a conclusion or my backers will look to place their money elsewhere. Nor can I blame them."

Falcone stared at Randazzo. "So we're doing this in order to expedite some private financial transaction of his?" he said.

It was Ma.s.siter who answered. "In a sense, but with good reason. If you can just write up that report to say Uriel killed his wife-which we're all a.s.sured is the only possibility-then the contract can go ahead. Since you're experienced detectives, and from Rome too, not hereabouts, no one will question it. Alternatively . . ."

"I don't care about your business affairs, Mr. Ma.s.siter," Falcone declared. "They're nothing to do with us."

Randazzo stabbed out his cigarette in the silver ashtray between them. The smell of dead tobacco mingled with the fire smoke from the jetty above.

"They're everything to do with us," the commissario declared. "If this case is still open by the end of next week, then it can only say to the outside world that we consider one of the other Arcangeli to be a suspect. No one else was on the island. However ridiculous that is-and hear me, Falcone, it is is ridiculous-it kills Signor Ma.s.siter's contract stone dead. In order for that to proceed, all three living Arcangeli must sign. If they do, and one is then charged with the murder of Uriel Arcangelo, all manner of civil proceedings could follow that might throw the entire contract into jeopardy. These people are drowning in debt. There's any number of shark lawyers out there who'd leap on a criminal charge as an excuse to try to void the contract and seize the property direct. Or blackmail Signor Ma.s.siter for more money he doesn't have in return for keeping quiet. The negotiations are fragile enough as it is. Any doubt about future litigation would end them for good. No investor would take that risk. The case has to be closed or the Arcangeli go into liquidation next week and . . ." ridiculous-it kills Signor Ma.s.siter's contract stone dead. In order for that to proceed, all three living Arcangeli must sign. If they do, and one is then charged with the murder of Uriel Arcangelo, all manner of civil proceedings could follow that might throw the entire contract into jeopardy. These people are drowning in debt. There's any number of shark lawyers out there who'd leap on a criminal charge as an excuse to try to void the contract and seize the property direct. Or blackmail Signor Ma.s.siter for more money he doesn't have in return for keeping quiet. The negotiations are fragile enough as it is. Any doubt about future litigation would end them for good. No investor would take that risk. The case has to be closed or the Arcangeli go into liquidation next week and . . ."

He didn't want to go any further. Falcone leaned back in his seat and shook his head.

"I repeat," the inspector said, "I don't care." "I don't care."

Ma.s.siter nodded at the man beside him. "You have to tell them, Gianfranco. What's there to lose?"

The commissario swore bitterly, then lit another cigarette before continuing. "This isn't about business. It's about politics. You three of all people should know that's not a place to make enemies. In your case, more enemies."

They were on probation. Costa understood that as well as Falcone and Peroni. It didn't make them anybody's fools.

"We're listening," Costa said.

"Jesus," Randazzo hissed, flashing Falcone a grimace. "You smug b.a.s.t.a.r.ds really think you're a team, don't you? All for one, one for all. Wise up. Do you think you're untouchable because of that? Listen to me. The Arcangeli have been bankrupt for years. Five at least. Probably more. They've managed to stay afloat because they've been working their way through some influential friends. If you know the right people here, you'd be amazed how easy it is to dip your beak into the public purse. They owe millions in taxes going back a decade. They've been quietly getting subsidies from everywhere to keep that stupid place running, even though it's just a museum that's no longer even fit to open its doors to the public. The cultural people have paid. The historical commissioners have paid. The city, the region. They've all been sweet-talked by the Arcangeli into stumping up cash on the promise that sometime soon it would all come right."

"And I guess a little went back into some private pockets?" Peroni suggested. "Is that what we're talking about here?"

"Maybe," Randazzo snapped. "Maybe not. Nothing comes for free anywhere, does it? Or don't you have kickbacks in Rome? Are you people all just too high-minded for that?"

Falcone scowled. "We are." are."

"Well, that's your privilege. But let me say this. If the Arcangeli go down, then this city suddenly has a hole in its books the size of the lagoon. They can't keep it quiet any longer. There's just too much money at stake. If it goes to some kind of judicial inquiry-and it would-then all manner of decent people are going to find themselves standing in the dock, or worse."

Peroni raised a battered eyebrow. "Decent?"

"Don't preach to me!" Randazzo yelled. "You don't belong here. You don't know how we work."

Ma.s.siter leaned forward and tapped the commissario lightly on the knee. "No need to lose your temper," he cautioned. "These are practical men. They know which side their bread's b.u.t.tered." The Englishman eyed them. "Don't you?"

Falcone took out his notepad, scribbled something on it, tore off the sheet and tossed it into Randazzo's lap.

"There's my signature," he said. "Write the report and stick that at the end. Then we can all go home."

"No!" the commissario bellowed. "I need you to do this. You're outsiders. You've got background. No one's going to argue with what you say. Uriel Arcangelo killed his wife. We know know that. I'm not asking you to bend the evidence or sign off on anything you don't believe. The facts are there. I just want them put down on paper. You've got a week. Then . . ." He gestured towards the lagoon and the cloudless blue sky. "Then you're gone. Do we have a deal?" that. I'm not asking you to bend the evidence or sign off on anything you don't believe. The facts are there. I just want them put down on paper. You've got a week. Then . . ." He gestured towards the lagoon and the cloudless blue sky. "Then you're gone. Do we have a deal?"

Falcone shook his head. "You can't put a time limit on an investigation."

Ma.s.siter opened another bottle of water for himself and shrugged. "A week's all I've got. After that, the whole business goes t.i.ts up, and me with it. At least I only lose money. Some of the other people hereabouts . . ."

"What if we find out he didn't do it?" Peroni interrupted.

"That's not going to happen," Randazzo said wearily. "It's impossible. Listen, we're just trying to keep a lid on an awkward situation that would hurt a lot of people if it got out of hand." He glowered at Falcone. "Hurt them unnecessarily, unnecessarily," the commissario insisted. "Uriel Arcangelo killed his wife. There is no other possible explanation. Prove otherwise, Falcone, and you can have my job. G.o.d knows there's times I'd happily do without it."

Falcone looked tempted by the offer. Costa could understand why. The idea of a leisurely investigation that guaranteed them all an early ticket home was attractive, even in these extraordinary circ.u.mstances.

"What exactly did you have in mind?" Falcone asked.

Randazzo suddenly turned hopeful. "Go through the statements we already have. Take a look at the scene. Interview the Arcangeli again if you want. Together. One by one. It's up to you. This night-watchman character is probably worth talking to again too. Anyone else you feel. I should warn you that you're going to have to talk to the dead woman's family. The Braccis. They're regular customers of ours. Petty crime. You name it. A bunch of a.s.sholes. My, are they going to be p.i.s.sed off right now."

"What about the morgue?" Costa asked.

"Go in and ask for what you want. We've got a good pathologist. Tosi's been here for years. I'm not asking you to cover up anything. I just want an efficient establishment of the facts, then a report I can wave everywhere and say this matter is dead and buried. Understood?"

Commissario Randazzo paused, a little fearful. Then, when he heard no objections, not even from Peroni anymore, he looked at his watch and raised half a smile.

"Don't rush. That would look bad. When it's done, disappear on vacation. You'll have earned it."

He waited, nervous.

Peroni leaned forward, paused, just to give the commissario a nasty turn. "We're going to need a boat," he insisted. "Our own boat. With a driver too."

"Of course," Randazzo said quietly. "Except you don't call it-"

The small puff of an explosion interrupted the commissario, loud enough to make them all jump. There was the sound of a man's excited shouts. Nic Costa turned to try to see what was happening.

A flame now emerged from the torch at the end of the iron angel's extended hand. The silver-haired individual who'd been working at the cables watched it.

"Michele Arcangelo," Randazzo said by way of explanation. "He's the capo capo around here." around here."

A smiling capo, capo, Costa noted. With a crooked face. A man who couldn't take his eyes off the beacon of fire he'd just been able to revive. Costa noted. With a crooked face. A man who couldn't take his eyes off the beacon of fire he'd just been able to revive.

NIC COSTA SURVEYED THE BLACKENED INTERIOR OF the foundry and wondered how much the flames and the smoke had managed to destroy. A blaze of this nature and magnitude was outside his realm of experience. What else might have disappeared in the blasts from the firefighters' hoses and the tramp of feet by the unseen cops and others who'd entered the building long before Randazzo had invited them onto the scene? the foundry and wondered how much the flames and the smoke had managed to destroy. A blaze of this nature and magnitude was outside his realm of experience. What else might have disappeared in the blasts from the firefighters' hoses and the tramp of feet by the unseen cops and others who'd entered the building long before Randazzo had invited them onto the scene?

All three had quietly acquiesced in the face of the commissario's demands. There was precious little point in arguing anyway. Besides, each of them was, Costa knew, tempted by what was on offer, in spite of the immediate loss of leave. Conduct a thorough investigation, produce a sound, predictable report on a crime which seemed a closed case from the outset, then enjoy some extra holiday at the end before returning to Rome. The circ.u.mstances were unusual but not, perhaps, unknown, particularly in Venice. Besides, Emily was free of college work for the next month. They could visit Sicily first, perhaps, or make a lazy progress back to Lazio through Tuscany and Umbria.

Provided they gave Gianfranco Randazzo and the Englishman to whom the commissario seemed somehow beholden exactly what they wanted.

He and Falcone had walked carefully around the foundry, first examining the furnace where the woman's remains had been recovered, then looking at the chalk outline around the stained and partially missing portion of planked flooring where Uriel Arcangelo had fallen. And examining the peripheral details too. The shattered windows were now being covered by wooden shutters hammered into place by a couple of carpenters-against all conventional police routine. The tall wooden doors, turned almost to charcoal by the heat, had been smashed from their hinges by the axes of the entry team. Falcone fussed over the hatchet marks, then took out a handkerchief and bent over the door, which now lay on the floor. The key was still in the lock, on a ring with a bunch of others. It was an old-fashioned mortised mechanism, which meant that, once a key was inserted from one side, it was impossible for anyone to open the door from the other. Falcone juggled at the key in the mechanism, then withdrew it and placed the item in a plastic evidence pouch, which he pocketed. Costa watched him, thinking.

"The door is locked, isn't it?" he asked.

"Definitely," Falcone replied. "They told us that already. You don't imagine they lied, do you?"

Costa tried to read Falcone's demeanour. Was he being sarcastic? It was difficult to tell exactly what the distant, expressionless inspector was thinking at the best of times. Just then, Costa really had no idea.

"In that case he must surely have shut himself in here."

The icy, judgmental eyes bore into him. Falcone looked disappointed.

"That's one possibility," he conceded.

"What else? His key's in the door . . ." Costa stuttered, trying to understand how many other possibilities there could be.

"Quite. Don't get ahead of yourself, Nic. It's a bad habit. Start from ignorance and let the facts inform you, not your own guesswork. Randazzo's doubtless right. This case is as simple as he says. But you can't expect me to throw away a lifetime's habits now, can you? Go take a look around on your own. I'm not quite finished here. I can't believe I'm working a location without scene-of-crime people. Please . . . Unless you have something else to add."

"Hugo Ma.s.siter has a history," Nic said curtly.

Falcone looked interested. "What kind of history?"

"I can't remember. But I know the name. He was in the papers. Something to do with music. And a death. Perhaps more than one. I can find out."

"I think someone like Ma.s.siter's best left to me," Falcone replied.

Feeling more than a little like an unwanted and chastised child, Costa walked back towards the shattered remains of the windows. He watched the men in overalls hammering in their cheap wooden shutters.

"Do you work here?" he asked the first, a squat, middle-aged individual in grimy clothes.

The two of them looked at each other and laughed.

"Nice joke," the man said. "You think they've got money to pay staff? News to me. News to the whole of Murano. Insurance, mister. The insurance people sent us, they pay us. They want these windows boarded because if they're not, the bill just gets bigger. Surprised me the Arcangeli still got insurance, mind. Probably the only bill they've paid this last year."

"Thanks," Costa muttered, and moved a little away from the beat of their hammers and the stink of their cigarettes.

Peroni was attempting to start a conversation with the two Arcangelo brothers, both of whom seemed more interested in attacking the furnace with hacksaws and blowlamps, working on the spider's web of gas pipes that led to it, removing the areas that had been mangled beyond repair by the heat. There was little point in joining his partner in the effort, Nic decided. Randazzo had obviously given them carte blanche to destroy any evidence remaining in the place.

Improvise. That was Falcone's guiding rule in circ.u.mstances like these, cases that seemed to be blank pages, looking for evidence to fill them. Costa knew his inspector well enough by now to understand what that meant. Poke around, get a feel for the crime scene. In this instance, try to imagine yourself in the shoes of Uriel Arcangelo, waiting for the flames to consume him, his dead wife turning to ash and smoke in the furnace that his two brothers were now treating with an everyday disdain, as if it were simply another piece of malfunctioning machinery. That was Falcone's guiding rule in circ.u.mstances like these, cases that seemed to be blank pages, looking for evidence to fill them. Costa knew his inspector well enough by now to understand what that meant. Poke around, get a feel for the crime scene. In this instance, try to imagine yourself in the shoes of Uriel Arcangelo, waiting for the flames to consume him, his dead wife turning to ash and smoke in the furnace that his two brothers were now treating with an everyday disdain, as if it were simply another piece of malfunctioning machinery.

He couldn't do what Falcone wanted, though. Something was wrong here and, from Falcone's diffident yet taut manner, Costa wondered if the inspector knew it as well. No two families reacted to tragedies in the same way. Sometimes there was anger and hatred. Sometimes simple disbelief and a mute refusal to accept plain fact. Michele and Gabriele Arcangelo, on the other hand, seemed almost indifferent to what had occurred here. Or, more accurately, they felt the resuscitation of the foundry-and the flame of the giant angel's beacon outside-came first, ranked higher on their inflexible set of priorities than the notion that their youngest brother had murdered his wife just a few hours before, in this very place.

Nic Costa felt lost for a moment, then was aware he wasn't alone. He turned and found himself looking at a woman who had come to stand by his side without making a sound. Her long dark hair was very clean and straight, with a touch of silver to it, as if the true colour were grey, now disguised by dye. She was wearing a red cotton shirt, good quality once, made shapeless over the years, and dark cheap slacks. The poor clothes didn't match her unlined face, which was aristocratic and striking, dominated by querulous brown eyes. This was the person he'd seen at the strange window jutting out over the lagoon, staring out at them, seeming lost.

That impression was immediately dispelled by her manner.

"I thought there might be more of you," she said in a warm, well-spoken, northern voice. "I'm Raffaella Arcangelo. I must apologise for my brothers. They're . . . single-minded sometimes."

"Nic Costa," he replied, aware that Falcone was bearing down on them, eagle-eyed, curious. "And this is Inspector Falcone."

"Signor Costa," she said, a little warily. "Inspector."

He waited for Falcone to take the lead. It wasn't happening. Some small, puzzled inner voice told him Falcone felt a little awed by this fetching woman who returned the inspector's open gaze with an equal frankness.

"It would be best if we spoke upstairs," Raffaella Arcangelo said. "I'll ask my brothers to join us once they're ready." She glanced at Falcone. "It's no use. We've been through this once already with the men who preceded you. My brothers will talk when they want to talk. Not before."

Falcone found his voice. "That's understandable, Signora Arcangelo," he said, giving her his personal card. "You have our condolences, naturally. And my apologies for the fact we must be here now. To lose two family members simultaneously. It must be terrible. I can understand why we're the last people you want to see."

The woman's eyes fell on the card he'd supplied, then swept over Falcone.

"Well. You're the first person who's had the good grace to say anything like that today." Raffaella Arcangelo sounded somewhat surprised. "Thank you. May we get out of this place? Please? It's not . . . somewhere I care to be right now."

"Of course," Falcone agreed. "This is quite the wrong time. These officers who spoke to you earlier. They took statements?"

She was bemused. "They did. I thought you might have known."

"The system is a little slow to catch up sometimes. It's inexcusable."

He couldn't take his eyes off the keys on her belt. Falcone extended a hand towards them. "May I see those, please?"

The request caught her off guard. Nevertheless, without any hesitation, Raffaella unhooked the bunch and handed them over. Falcone examined each in turn, spending most of his time on the long, old shaft of metal which was, Costa thought, a match for the one in the door. Then he quickly brought the bunch up to his nose, sniffed, and handed them back.

"I'm sorry," he told her. "That was stupid of me. Everything smells of smoke around here at the moment."

She wasn't put out by his actions. Or offended either.

"It does," she agreed. "Were you . . . looking for something, Inspector?"

He smiled, an expression Nic Costa rarely saw, one that, at that moment, seemed remarkably genuine. "Just a bad habit, I'm afraid. Who else would have keys to this building? I'm sorry. I imagine you've been asked all this before."

"No," she replied, thinking. "I haven't been asked that question at all. Only the family keep keys. Myself. Michele, Gabriele. And Uriel and Bella, of course."

"Hugo Ma.s.siter?" Costa asked.

A brief cloud of distaste crossed her face. "Why should he have keys?"

"I thought he was working on the hall next door."

"His men are working on the hall. Ma.s.siter visits from time to time. The men are allowed in only during the day. Michele opens the gates for them. There's no need for anything else. Not yet anyway. Signor Ma.s.siter . . ." There was an unmistakable note of bitterness in her voice. " . . . has not acquired us. Not yet."

Falcone considered this. "You and your brothers. You're not married."

"Michele is divorced. Gabriele and I never married."

"And no one else lives on the island?"

She gave him a cautious look. "It's been a while since we could afford servants, Inspector. I thought they might have told you that too."

"We're not local. But I'm sure you noticed. And this night watchman? He had no keys?"

"Piero? No. There was no need. He just brings material to the lower warehouse by boat. We don't even bother to lock that. There's nothing of great value and it doesn't allow access to any other part of the buildings."

"And," Falcone persisted, "Uriel and Bella? They would have a set each?"

"Yes," she answered. A small note of testiness started to appear in her voice. "Bella worked in here a little too. Is all this important?"