‘There’s a big Italian community in Scotland,’ I said, but it was clear that Capaldi had already lost interest.
‘Is that so?’
Mr Steiner got to his feet, all smiles. ‘Well, we should leave you good folk to it.’ And he shook Capaldi’s hand. ‘It was a pleasure to see you again, Tony, as always.’
We thanked him for the champagne and retreated with Mr Steiner to our table, where a waiter immediately delivered warm mozzarella on garlic toast, sprinkled with salt and drizzled with olive oil beneath a garnish of sun-dried tomato. Mr Steiner ordered red wine, and when the waiter had gone he leaned confidentially into the table, lowering his voice. ‘You know who that is?’ he said, tipping his head discreetly in the direction of the Capaldi table. That’s Antonio Capaldi. Otherwise known as Tony C. Just about the most notorious mafia crime boss in New York City.’ He pulled a little smile. ‘We make suits for all sorts at Gold’s.’
‘He seemed nice,’ I said.
‘Yeah.’ Mr Steiner raised one eyebrow. ‘Nice.’
We had only just finished our pasta dish when a rammy at the door drew our eyes from our plates. Two men who had just been told that the restaurant was full pushed the maître d’ aside and split up as they weaved among the tables towards Capaldi’s booth. I suddenly realized what it was about them that seemed so out of place. They were wearing coats. In this heat.
The men at Capaldi’s table started to get up as they arrived. But as if by magic, handguns, barrels extended by silencers, appeared from beneath the coats. A flurry of strangely muted shots left all four men at Capaldi’s table blood-spattered and dead. Their assassins turned and walked out of the door as if nothing had happened.
Chaos broke out as soon as the shots were fired, tables overturned, diners diving for cover on the floor. Screams filled the air, even as the killers disappeared out into the night.
Me and Ruairidh and Mr Steiner were left stunned in our booth, food half-eaten on the table. One glass of red wine overturned and dripping on to the floor like blood.
At first I could barely process what it was I had just witnessed. Like a scene from a movie. Lurid and unreal. As if I half expected the director to call, ‘Cut, let’s go again,’ with everyone dusting themselves down and retaking their places. But as the truth of it dawned on me, I began to understand that had these assassins arrived just ten minutes earlier, we would have been sitting at that table with Capaldi and his associates, and would almost certainly have been shot too, lying dead on the floor or spreadeagled across the table.
Screams still filled the restaurant, and somewhere far off in the night I could hear a police siren. I glanced at Mr Steiner. His face was pale but his eyes were shining. ‘You realize,’ he said in a small voice, ‘that the biggest mafia boss in New York has just been shot dead wearing Ranish Tweed.’ He pushed his eyebrows up to wrinkle his forehead. ‘That’s a rare distinction.’
Chapter Thirty
Niamh and Steiner lounged in soft chairs looking out at the Minch, sunlight playing in burned-out patches on the water, dazzling briefly before vanishing to appear somewhere else, like spotlights shining through breaks in the cloud. Successive headlands to the south faded in silhouette into the mist of rain and late afternoon sun.
Steiner was on to his second whisky soda, and Niamh was troubled. She said, ‘You don’t really think that the mafia would have killed Ruairidh in revenge for telling that story in a newspaper?’
Steiner shrugged and sipped thoughtfully on his whisky. ‘The truth of it is, the thing that happened with Capaldi and his guys... it was just one of life’s little brain-fuckers. Comes out of the blue, and you can’t quite believe what it is you’ve just witnessed. I mean, hell, it happened so fast I never even had time to shit myself.’ He grinned, then the smile slowly faded. ‘But damnit, Niamh, it’s the kind of story you tell in smoke-filled rooms with old friends or trusted customers when you’ve had a drink or three. It just ain’t something you brag about in the national media. Know what I mean? Even though it was a long time ago. Jees, someone out there might just have thought that Ruairidh was trying to profit from it. And you don’t tell tales about the mafia for commercial gain. These guys have got long memories and hold grudges for even longer.’
It was something that would never have occurred to Niamh. And it was disconcerting. ‘That would seem like a lot of trouble to go to for very little.’
‘What you and I think of as very little, Niamh, ain’t always seen that way by others. And it’s classic mob MO. Bombs and cars.’ He finished his drink and stood up. ‘But who the hell knows? If it was them ain’t nobody ever gonna tell.’
He crossed to lay his glass on the breakfast bar and collect his coat and hat.
‘I better go. Get myself checked in.’
Niamh crossed the room to help him on with his coat and give him a hug. ‘Take care on the road. I know you’re not used to driving on the left.’
He shook his head. ‘Gotta think it through at every junction. Crazy thing you Brits do, driving on the wrong side of the road.’ He kissed her cheek. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, at the funeral. I guess someone at the hotel can point me in the right direction.’
She nodded and stood by the open door to watch him turn the Shogun and lurch off up the track towards Bilascleiter. This brief moment of animation and unexpected laughter, memories shared with an old friend, had passed too quickly and left her feeling bereft and lonely again. In her heart she didn’t really believe that the mafia had anything to do with Ruairidh’s death. That was just Jacob Steiner being dramatic. After all, why would the mob have sent her and Ruairidh emails? What did they know of, or care about, Irina Vetrov?
She looked at her waterproof jacket hanging on the rack by the door, mud-caked wellies on the floor beneath it, and decided she would rather walk out along the cliffs in the hope of a good strong wind to blow away her mood, than sit festering in an empty house.
Chapter Thirty-One
Braque came down the carpeted staircase from her room and found Gunn sitting at the bar in the lounge where she had left him. He was nursing the same pint, and she thought that probably alcohol was another item on the banned list that the doctor had given to his wife.
‘Sorry about that,’ she said. Condensation from her glass of Chardonnay lay in a pool around the bottom of it, and the wine had lost its chill.
Gunn glanced at her and said, ‘What’s wrong?’
She darted a quick look in his direction. She was, it seemed, an open book to everyone but herself. ‘It’s that obvious?’
‘I’ve been interviewing folk for nearly thirty years, Ma’am. I think I know when something’s amiss.’
She shrugged helplessly. Confiding in others was a habit she had lost in these last years. But maybe it would be easier with a stranger, and certainly after a glass or two of wine. ‘Do you have children, Monsieur Gunn?’ And she immediately saw disappointment in the set of his mouth.
‘Afraid not, Ma’am. Something we were never blessed with.’
She shrugged, toying with her fingers on the bar in front of her. ‘They can be a blessing. And a curse.’ She glanced across at him. ‘No doubt your wife would have stayed at home and looked after them.’
‘Probably.’
‘But, you see, I couldn’t stay home. I had a job. And not the kind of nine-to-five job my husband had. It was a job that could call on me at any time, keep me out half the night, make me give up my days off. And Gilles was the one who ended up looking after the girls.’ She paused to clarify. ‘Twins.’
‘Gilles? That’s your husband?’