“It was Michele, then? In the first instance?”
She closed her eyes briefly. “That happened after his marriage collapsed,” she said. “Michele had had his eyes on Bella. All the men did. She was very pretty. Very . . . accommodating. I told you the Braccis had reputations. Sometimes that attracts men, in case you hadn’t noticed. Were there others? Yes. Half the men of Murano, married men sometimes, or so they say. For Michele it was just a stupid infatuation. Nothing more. It came and then, when he realised how ridiculous the idea was, it passed. A few years later Uriel proposed to her. Bella was in her thirties by then. I imagine her options were running out. It never struck me as love, not from the very beginning. It was merely a practical arrangement for both of them. Did we discuss it as a family? Of course. Uriel wanted to know Michele no longer had feelings, naturally. Not that any of us needed to ask. By then the business was in a bad way. Michele’s been wedded to the business. There’s no room for a real relationship.”
Those dark eyes flickered towards the lagoon again. “You could say the same for all of us,” Raffaella added softly. “And besides . . . to hear an accusation of that nature from a man like Aldo Bracci. I told you to look, Leo. Well? Did you?”
Falcone thought about those ancient criminal records and wondered how reliable they were. Michele Arcangelo’s infatuation seemed much more recent, more real.
“More whispers in the dark, perhaps. Aldo Bracci was simply cautioned, never charged. If there’d been real evidence—”
“There was evidence,” she interrupted. “It was the talk of Murano. A scandal. No one could believe it. They were brother and sister. The two of them scarcely tried to hide what they were up to, though Bella was just a child, of course. She couldn’t have known what she was doing. At least, I believe she didn’t.”
“Such a long time ago . . .”
“Here? It’s like yesterday. These people have long memories. For good and bad. They don’t bear a grudge. They nurture it. Bella and that creature had an argument. She went to the police out of spite. Aldo was lucky he didn’t go to jail for what he’d done to her!”
“And afterwards? They made up?” It was the question she wanted him to ask.
“They’re the Braccis. A family. Of course the argument didn’t last.”
“And you think the affair may have resumed? With her own brother? Even after she was married?”
“I don’t know.” She was suddenly circumspect. “He used to come here to see her from time to time. Ostensibly, of course, it was to speak with Michele. About business. Bracci was always looking for extra work, not that we had much. I heard . . . sounds from time to time. Whether it was Aldo . . .”
Falcone waited.
“Oh for God’s sake, Leo,” Raffaella objected. “I wasn’t going to get into the habit of eavesdropping on my sister-in-law making love. What kind of person do you take me for? I simply couldn’t avoid hearing things sometimes. It could have been her brother. It could have been someone else. Do you expect me to greet every single visitor at the door?”
“Did Aldo have . . . ?”
“A key?” She understood him in an instant. “Of course not. At least not that I’m aware. Michele would have been livid if that was the case. Though if Bella gave him one anyway . . . Who’s to know?”
Raffaella Arcangelo stared at her hands, clasped over her knees, and frowned. “I don’t think Aldo ever really accepted the marriage. Funnily enough, in spite of his own background, I think he felt Uriel wasn’t good enough for Bella. Perhaps if it had been Michele, things would have been different. He resented us, though. We had money once. That’s something he’s never known. And perhaps . . .”—she glanced into his face—“ . . . perhaps that resentment amounted to hatred. I wondered about that sometimes. When he was here. Full of drink. With Bella. I heard shouting sometimes. I wondered about intervening. He’s a bitter, angry man. I wouldn’t want to be on the end of that anger.”
Falcone stood and stared out the window, down towards the small iron bridge. It wouldn’t be difficult to get onto the island surreptitiously. A man could climb around the fence. Or take a boat up to the jetty, perhaps an hour or two before Piero Scacchi arrived. Yet the question of the keys remained. Someone had locked the door on Uriel Arcangelo. Someone had left him with a key that could never work, condemned him to die.
“Tell me something outside your limits, Leo,” she pleaded. “I’ve been as frank with you as I possibly can. Perhaps I can help more. I will, if you let me.”
Falcone mulled the possibilities. What was there to lose?
“Bella was pregnant,” he told her without emotion. “She’d known for more than a week. Uriel wasn’t the father. We’ve seen medical records. It’s impossible. Nor do we have any way of establishing who the father was. Not in the circumstances . . .”
Raffaella Arcangelo screwed her eyes tight shut, moaned gently, then buried her head in her hands. The mane of long dark hair fell forward, concealing her face.
Automatically, Leo Falcone reached down and placed a hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, and realised she was right: There was something too close—too personal—about this case. He needed to think about the way he broached his next question. “I thought perhaps . . .”
Raffaella raised her head. Her tear-stained eyes blazed at him.
“You thought I knew? This is insane, Leo! Three lives now! Gone. For what?”
Falcone blinked, feeling dizzy. The heat was different in Venice. Humid, and riddled with the stink of the lagoon. It leeched the energy out of him, made it difficult to think straight. He missed Verona, where there were colleagues of his own age, and of similar experience. A line led through this investigation. He knew that, and knew he had to keep the search for it in his sight. Someone killed both Bella and Uriel Arcangelo. Somehow Bella was implicated in her own death too, or so the evidence seemed to say.
“A child . . .” he murmured. “She would have told someone, surely?”
“She would have told the father,” Raffaella answered, her voice angry, determined. “And . . .”
Her eyes flickered towards the window and the men below. Michele was the head of the family. Falcone wondered what that really meant. Was Michele supposed to be a party to everything?
“I need to speak to my brothers.”
Falcone followed her through the old, fading mansion, down through the warren of dark corridors half lit by dusty chandeliers populated by dead bulbs, listening to the echoes of her hurried footsteps.
THE TOSIS WERE RIGHT ABOUT ONE THING: THERE WAS plenty of information on spontaneous combustion out there. Any number of lunatics, sceptics, and pseudoscientists were busy yelling at each other on the subject. Teresa Lupo had spent two hours sifting through the reams of material on the computer in Costa’s apartment, saving the little she found useful, and examining the documents sent from Anna Tosi’s miracle medium of e-mail. After that, her head spinning with possibilities, she’d popped out to buy some pizza and water from the shop around the corner, returning to the computer immediately, spilling crumbs, Peroni-like, across the keyboard as she worked. All the same she was, she decided, none the wiser. Wrong. She was a touch the wiser, just reluctant to admit it because there was something here that disturbed her greatly: a possibility that the Tosis had a point. This wasn’t spontaneous combustion in some fantasy comic book kind of way, flames licking out from underneath Uriel Arcangelo’s apron, sparked by some passing moonbeam. But people did die on occasion from an event that appeared, on the surface, inexplicable, a sudden, inner fire which seemed to consume them with a shocking rapidity.