Italo complained to the investigator that he knew exactly who the boys were, their parents worked for the cooperative, and he’d spoken with the police a number of times about their thievery and the damage they caused. He knew their names, and he knew where they lived. He’d given them the names before.
The first officer called across to the magistrate and said that they should take a look in the tank and see what it was. Supposing the experts and specialists arrived and all they found inside was a dead dog, or rotten fruit, or any of a number of things that had nothing to do with their investigation? How stupid would they look?
The second officer disagreed, it was unlikely that anything vegetable could smell that bad. Had he smelled anything that bad before?
They all knew what it was.
Both men hesitated and agreed they had never seen so many flies in one place. It was a bad sign.
Italo asked if they were going to do anything now that everyone agreed on how bad the smell was. The magistrate stood with his hands on his hips. Turning slightly he agreed that they should pry back the plate and disturb as little as they could. He looked at Niccolò as he spoke, but Niccolò sat still, his hands cuffed together on his lap.
Is there anything we need to know? he asked.
Niccolò shook his head. The heat was making him sleepy.
The first officer returned to the room with a stick. He pushed the cushions away, then tapped the metal plate covering the tank. On the floor were marks indicating that the plate had been recently dragged into place. He grimaced at the stench and shoved the plate back with his foot. Flies swarmed up as the lid slowly shifted back. The officer leaned over the pit, hand to his mouth as he squinted into the hole. He turned his face away but kept his place. He needed a torch, he said, it was too dark to see or guess what might be inside.
The second policeman shrugged and gingerly approached and he seemed to stare for a long time, squatting over the hole, squinting. Cupping his hand over his mouth he walked briskly out of the building. Out in the sun, a good distance away, he breathed fresher air. Then standing upright he said that there was something in the tank. The white back of splayed legs. It looked like a body.
Turning to the squad car, the magistrate asked Niccolò if he had any idea who it was.
Niccolò held up both his hands to scratch his neck, in the heat it was impossible not to yawn. What, he asked, what was he asking?
* * *
The police set up a barrier along the road to redirect traffic through the town. The only vehicles that arrived were the ones attached to the investigation, squad cars, a forensics van, and almost as an afterthought, an ambulance.
The magistrate sat beside Niccolò and said that he should just tell him now what he knew. Hey? Why not? Identification would be attempted on site to see if the body in the tank matched the basic description of the missing student. So why didn’t he simply tell them what he knew?
* * *
Livia was allowed to speak to Niccolò on the evening of his second day in custody.
‘They came to the school and brought me home.’ She sat at the table with her head down. She tapped her head, indicating the bandages about Niccolò’s head. ‘They told me you didn’t want me to know.’ She spoke calmly, her voice fading into the room.
Niccolò sat upright, he remembered to set his shoulders back and raise his head. There was work in Rome.
Livia caught her breath. She listened to him silently and appeared startled by the news. Niccolò continued to talk. There would be opportunities in Rome. When they released him he would go immediately and look for work. Why should he stay and struggle here? His mind was made up.
‘You can’t go to Rome because you don’t have the money.’ Livia shook her head. ‘Niccolò. They have dismissed you from work.’ Livia steadied one hand on her belly, the other at her mouth as if to delicately tease out the words or finish them so that he would clearly understand her — and looking at her he tried to measure if this was anger or pity. ‘Do you understand what is happening? Do you understand what they are saying about you?’
Niccolò again reminded himself to sit upright. He said nothing. It was obvious that he was helping the police. She should understand this. Tomorrow they were to take him back to the warehouses in Ercolano again, and this would all be cleared away.
‘Niccolò?’ Livia shook her head, her hand now clapped to her mouth. ‘How have you become so lost when I have always been by your side? How did you manage these things?’
Niccolò folded his arms and closed his eyes.
Eyes swollen from crying, Livia slowly regained her composure.
YEAR 2: MR RABBIT & MR WOLF
MONDAY
The magistrate agreed to meet with Finn on the understanding that his name would not be mentioned and there would be no direct reproduction of any of the material he would present. Finn agreed without hesitation and arranged an earlier flight so he could make his way directly from the airport to via Crispi in Chiaia in good time to meet the magistrate at Prima! — a café he’d picked for such a purpose on his previous trip, the kind of venue that deserves a tracking shot, a slow reveal of the space and the few mindfully solitary characters in it; white tiles, a god-damned chandelier, smocked waiters, a canvas-covered patio (in a word: Europe). Prima! sat beside an intriguingly unnamed jewellery boutique just up from Ferragamo, Emilio Zegna, Armani, and further over — piazza del Martiri. Pleased about how his day would focus down from Paris to Naples, to Chiaia. He liked the economy of it — the first day of his second visit to Naples. He’d be working as soon as he set foot in the city. The very moment.
He wanted to use his time efficiently because he only had the summer. He needed to be effective. In less than eighty days he would be a student again, one of a number, pushing a student loan, a coffee habit and unsociable hours; but during the summer he was a writer with a project. A writer with a project and a publishing contract. A sophomore (soon to be final-year) student with an agent and a contract, about to hold a discussion about a notorious and unsolved murder with a respected anti-Mafia magistrate. Hard to believe how the year was working out. In travelling Finn had focused his luggage down to two items: a small backpack; a soft hold-all. Both could be slung over his shoulder, and he fostered this image of himself, as someone mobile, focused, unburdened but connected. The contents of his luggage reflected this ambition: in both bags he’d carefully wrapped a wealth of goods, a laptop (new), a portable hard-drive, two USB memory sticks, a DV camera (borrowed at the last minute from his sister), a phone, and less convenient, the assorted cables and plugs because they’ve yet to figure out the proper portability of these items. Along with this were his notebooks. These books were precious, seven already filled with his tiny writing, a compact concentration of notes from interviews, his own impressions, research from the sites, scraps of papers, tickets, receipts, things discovered while out and about, and he’d been smart enough to choose small books and marked each one with his mobile and home number, email addresses, and a note on the first page suggesting a reward might be paid if they were found and returned.
Finn wanted to test-drive a way of life — this is how he’d phrased it to his sister — see for himself if he was cut out for writing. While he loved college — what wasn’t there to like? — he was working it hard and didn’t see the point in waiting around, holding on for blind luck and good fortune while amounting debt. The whole point about ambition is making sure it happens (name one other sophomore to secure a publishing contract). Carolyn agreed, besides, he was older than the other students, and that five years made a difference. They talked this over, endlessly refining, because beyond choosing a smart college and a sensible course with professors whose references would really matter, nobody really considers the bigger picture, not really, and just because his family were loaded didn’t mean he could ignore these things. No one really figures this through. Most people just let things happen to them, like they’re lucky. Not that Finn wasn’t lucky. Moderately good-looking, modestly intelligent, white, and with parents who didn’t mind bankrolling the project while he waited for the advance, just so they could brag that their not-yet-graduated son had a publishing deal and was writing in Naples, Italy for the entire summer (and your kid has an internship, er, where exactly?). From Finn’s perspective everybody gains something this summer: the parents, the college, the publisher, and certainly (not least of all), Finn himself.