The Lizard's Bite (6 page)

“We
will
not fail, Raffaella. I will not allow that to happen.”

He brushed the crumbs off his lap with a brisk hand, then stood up. Gabriele, to her disgust, was rushing down his food and coffee in order to do the same.

“Where on earth are you going?” she asked.

“To test the fires,” Michele replied. “To connect the gas. To see how soon we can get the foundry up and running. I’ll bring in others from the outside if need be. The insurance money will surely pay for it.”

“Do you know that?” she demanded.

“Nothing’s insurmountable. We’ll hire some furnace space elsewhere if it’s necessary. What’s a fire in this business? It used to happen all the time.”

He was so single-minded. He really believed this was all there was to consider.

Gabriele finally found the strength to speak. “We’ll lose a day or two, Michele. That at least. Don’t fool yourself.”

“A day, a day,” sniffed the older man, waving an arm. “What’s a day?”

“It’s a day in which we fail to make something no one wishes to buy,” Raffaella said sourly, hating the bitter tone inside her voice the moment she heard it. This was a kind of heresy. The one taboo subject barred from discussion beneath the eye that gazed constantly out onto the lagoon.

Both men turned to regard her with undisguised aversion.

“It’s true,” she insisted, determined not to be bullied into silence. “The longer you two fools stay away from that place, the longer the money lasts. If you make nothing, Michele, we don’t have to pay anyone for raw materials, do we?”

“We don’t pay anyone as it is,” he retorted unpleasantly. “Leave business to men. It’s not for you.”

She felt the red heat of anger rise in her head, a foreign emotion, one that had been placed there by tragedy and refused to go away.

“So what’s a woman to do in this position? To bury our brother and his wife? Where? And with what?”

Michele nodded at the window. “You know where Uriel belongs. The island. For now anyway. The Braccis can deal with the other one. She’s their problem. She should have stayed that way all along.”

Her voice rose to a screech. She couldn’t help it. “We can’t afford San Michele!” she yelled at him, unable to control her emotions. “Undertakers want money. Not promises. We’re not good for credit anymore. Don’t you understand?”

He had the demeanour of the patriarch. At that moment he might have been his father. Michele Arcangelo walked over to one of the cabinets and took out the most precious item left. It was a sixteenth-century water bowl in the form of a galley, a beautiful piece, the hull of the vessel in clear glass, the rigging in blue. On its side was the seal of the Tre Mori furnace, a guarantee that it would fetch a good price anywhere. They’d owned it forever, or so it seemed to her. Angelo, in particular, had adored the work, which was why it had remained unsold thus far.

Michele turned the precious object in his hand, admiring it with one sharp, professional eye.

“Then bury him with this,” he said, with not a trace of emotion.

I
T ONLY TOOK A COUPLE OF MINUTES TO HEAR RANDAZZO’S story. After that, the three cops from Rome looked at each other and wondered what they’d done to deserve this one. Venice had police aplenty. Any of the locals could have taken on the case, done what the miserable commissario wanted, signed off the report, then returned to guiding tourists back to their cruise ships. There was, Costa knew, some reason why Randazzo had picked three temporary strangers in the little Questura in Castello for this job. He wondered whether they were going to hear it. And one more thing bothered him. Hugo Massiter’s name was familiar somehow. He just couldn’t put a finger on how he knew it.

Falcone nodded when the narrative was done, then asked, “So you’re sure this is what happened? There can’t be any other explanation?”

Randazzo waved a hand at the approaching jetty. Costa could smell the smoke from the island. The firefighters’ vessels clustered around the blackened quayside, near the still-smouldering outline of what looked like a large, once elegant industrial building. A narrow white tapering chimney emerged from its shattered and smoke-stained glass roof. To its left stood an extraordinary glass structure, like a gigantic hothouse designed by a madman, patched with scaffolding and ladders. On the other side was a stone palace, not unlike the Doge’s, but with an extraordinary eyelike bubble of glass protruding from an upper floor. These odd architect’s fantasies sat alone on a small island, next to a squat lighthouse by a vaporetto stop marked “Murano Faro.” Only a narrow metal bridge joined the property to Murano proper. It was surmounted by the iron figure of an angel, like an icon beckoning to visitors. A silver-haired man was working at its base, his face red with anger as he fought with a writhing serpent’s nest of cables.

“See for yourself,” the commissario told them. “The Arcangeli are the only people who live here. It’s locked at night.”

He gazed into their faces, trying to make sure they understood that what he said next was pivotal to his argument. “The room where they were found was locked from the inside. There’s no other access. Except through the windows, and the labourer said they were intact until the fire blew them out.”

“How do you know he’s telling the truth?” Peroni wondered.

Randazzo snorted, amused. “So what’s the alternative? This character somehow let himself in, killed both Uriel Arcangelo and his wife, then locked the door, went out through the fire, went back in and made out he was trying to rescue the man he’d just killed. Why?”

“And the one who’s dead? He’s supposed to have a motive for killing his wife?” Costa asked.

“It’s there somewhere. You’ll find it. We all know the statistics. Families kill one another first. That would be your instinct anyway, wouldn’t it?”

“You can’t convict someone on statistics,” Falcone said carefully. “Or instinct. I don’t mean any disrespect, sir, but I think we’ve more experience of murder inquiries than you. Rome’s that kind of place.”

“I don’t doubt it!” the commissario snapped. “But I didn’t bring you back from Verona for a tutorial in criminology. I want a piece of paperwork done and I’m cancelling your leave so you can do it. Uriel Arcangelo murdered his wife and placed her corpse in the furnace. Then, deliberately or by accident, he was burned to death himself. There’s no other possible explanation. We’ll know more later. They’re working on the postmortems now.”

Falcone was speechless for a moment. Then he asked, “You mean the victims are no longer in place?”

“No! Why should they be?”

“I’m not used to investigating crimes where the evidence has been removed before we arrive.”

“And I’m not used to having to explain myself when I give orders. You can see the bodies in the morgue if that’s what turns you on.”

“Why us?” Costa asked.

“Because I want it.”

“But you’ve had men here already,” Costa objected. “Local men. Why can’t they follow through on the case?”

“They’ve better things to do. Besides, you said it yourself: You’ve a track record.”

Peroni’s eyes widened. “Not for sweeping up we haven’t,” he objected. “You don’t want an investigation. You want clerical work. You—”

“I want you to do as you’re damn well told,” Randazzo burst in, furious. “I never asked for you people to be here in the first place. It’s time you earned your pay. You’ve just been a burden all the while. Something I had to watch every time my back was turned. Why do you think I packed
him
off to Verona?”

Falcone smiled, which further infuriated the commissario.

“That seems a little harsh, sir,” the inspector commented cheerfully. “By our standards we’ve been exceptionally well behaved.”

“By your standards.” Randazzo let loose the ghost of a smile then. “Which is why I’ll release you the moment you finish this inquiry. That could give you an extra three weeks’ paid vacation if you add it up. You can go back to Rome where you belong. You can do what the hell you like. Provided…”

He reached down to the walnut cigarette box that sat on the table between them. Randazzo knew this boat, Costa thought. He was familiar with the Englishman, who had sat in silence throughout this entire interlude, an amused expression on his striking features.

“… you deliver what I want. A report, a
thorough
report. From a team that’s experienced in murder. A report that says what we know to be true. That Uriel Arcangelo murdered his wife and then died, possibly by his own hand. You’ve got a week. That’s plenty of time. Don’t rush it either. I don’t want anyone saying this was slipshod. I don’t expect you to be working your balls off. You two might even get some extra time with your girlfriends.”

Peroni punched his partner lightly on the shoulder. “See! So that’s why it’s us. Get it? We’ve credibility.”

“We get it,” Falcone grumbled. He looked at Hugo Massiter. “And you?”

The Englishman opened his arms in a gesture of innocence. They were at the quay now. For all the damage and mess left by the firemen, it was an impressive sight. From the first floor of the house, which was more in keeping with the Grand Canal than the backwater of Murano, the feature Costa had noticed earlier was revealing itself to be something like the stern of a medieval galley, a great glass eye curving out over the lagoon.

“What the hell is this place?” Peroni asked, amazed.

“Fairyland gone wrong, I fear,” Massiter said quietly. “This is all a great tragedy, gentlemen. But do understand. I’m simply the concerned benefactor in these proceedings, as Commissario Randazzo will readily confirm. Without me, the island is lost. And if the island is lost, so are several million euros of city money that could have been better spent.”

“Meaning… ?” Falcone insisted.

Massiter sighed and glanced at the blackened warehouse. “The Isola degli Arcangeli is bankrupt, Inspector. It’s been bankrupt for some time and only two things have been keeping it afloat. Some considerable, and in my view unwise,
investment
, shall we say, on the part of the city and the regional authorities. They need the tourists, you see. In theory anyway, this is a prime leisure location. Plus there has been some weekly generosity from me in renting the palazzo, that glass exhibition hall. If all this works out, I plan to turn it into a gallery. If I can finally fix the thing. It was designed by a lunatic, but you can probably see that for yourselves.”

Costa thought about the man, with his old-fashioned film-star looks, his fancy boat and something lurking in his past too. Costa was sure of that. On the way from the station to Castello, Massiter had pointed out his “home,” partly to impress Emily, Costa thought. It was a large, palatial motor yacht moored conspicuously on the waterfront near the Arsenale.

“Why is the city involved?” he asked now. “You look like someone who can afford it.”

“Appearances can be deceptive,” Massiter replied. “Wealth and debt go hand in hand. None of this is without self-interest, naturally. Six months ago, certain people in the city and the regional authority approached me to help. There’d been potential buyers before, but none of them met the Arcangeli’s approval. There is a limit to how much good public money can be thrown after bad. The Arcangeli aren’t the easiest of people to deal with, but eventually I managed to strike a deal to buy the island lock, stock and barrel, provided I rent the foundry and part of the palazzo back to them on a peppercorn rent to get them back on their feet. After which, I open the gallery, perhaps, build a few apartments in the rest of the place to pay for it all, and add another tourist attraction to bring in more hordes for the Venetians to fleece. It’s not
just
money, though, not from my point of view. I hate seeing traditions founder simply because they’re badly run. The glass is exquisite, if a bit unfashionable. With a little help they could make a go of it, once they free themselves of debt. And we take over the running of the island. Which is where—”

“They don’t need the details,” Randazzo interrupted. “It’s none of their damn business.”

Massiter flashed the commissario a sharp look, one that silenced him. “What does it matter, Gianfranco? If they don’t do their job, all this goes public anyway. And God alone knows what happens then.”

The speedboat docked at the jetty. Massiter 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 glass 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 Massiter, “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 damned 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 Massiter 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 assured 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. Massiter,” 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
ridiculous — it kills Signor Massiter’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 Massiter 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…”