“Oh . . . that night. Where were you for that matter?”
“I was working,” Randazzo snarled.
“Work. Play. For me the two tend to be much the same really.”
He knew something. He couldn’t wait to say it either.
Massiter reached out and flicked some dirt off the commissario’s tie. The Englishman stared at him, his ageing film-star face devoid of feeling, a man who felt nothing whatsoever, about himself, about anyone. Commissario Gianfranco Randazzo knew he was idiotic for thinking he could tackle this man head-on. It was uncharacteristically imprudent, a stupid mistake that would have to be rectified by some act of visible fealty.
“I was occupied until one in the morning. With company. After that, I slept alone.”
“Here?”
He scowled. “You’re being very inquisitive, Randazzo. Is that wise? Besides, you surely know that’s not possible. They don’t allow me access at night. I had to beg for dispensation from the Arcangeli for this little party, even though it’s in their interest as much as mine. No. I was in my apartment. First with a woman. Then alone.”
It wasn’t so far from Massiter’s vessel on the waterfront near the Arsenale. He could still have been on the island in time. Bella could have provided the key.
“Listen to me. You were busy until two, Hugo. No. Make that two-thirty. This woman must confirm that.”
Massiter shrugged as if it were a matter of no consequence.
“This is important,” Randazzo objected.
“Very well,” he conceded.
“Stick to that story. Leave the rest to me.”
“I left the rest to you from the start. Look where it’s got me.”
“I will sort this out,” the commissario insisted. “I assure you. This woman. We may need to know her name. She will vouch for you. You’re sure of that?”
Massiter beamed back at him, amused. “Given you’re nothing but a possession of mine, one whose value appears to be rather less than the price I originally paid, you are, I must say, distinctly uppity tonight, Randazzo. I trust my tolerance of this impertinence will be rewarded. And . . .” He hesitated before making this last point, a fierce, bright certainty burning in his eyes that chilled Gianfranco Randazzo’s blood. “ . . . Soon. Patience is not one of my virtues.”
“I cannot save you from yourself!” Randazzo answered, scared by his own impetuousness, all the more aware now that he had no idea how he could deliver what Massiter, and his own superiors, wanted. “Will this woman say what she’s told?”
Massiter was grinning again. The abrupt, scary chill was gone.
“I believe so. Perhaps you’d better ask her yourself. When you get home.”
IT WAS NOW ALMOST SEVEN. THE THREE OF THEM WOULD be late for Massiter’s party, but it was inevitable. Falcone wanted the men to write up everything in the Questura before leaving. It was important, the inspector insisted, to make sure all the facts, as much as they understood them, were set down for the record. He didn’t want any room for mistakes, holes through which problems might slip. Teresa had been occupied too, in a way that hadn’t proved entirely satisfactory, if he read correctly the troubled expression on her face.
It was a gorgeous evening. Even on the vaporetto there was scarcely a hint of breeze. The city stood breathless, trapped inside its own archaic splendour.
“Was Leo right?” Costa asked. “Did you get anything out of the morgue here?”
A disgruntled frown creased her face. “Sort of. They’re not exactly state-of-the-art. To be honest with you, it was a bit amateur-hour there. All the serious stuff gets sent over to the mainland.”
Peroni and Nic looked at each other. Costa knew they were thinking the same thing.
“And this isn’t serious?” he asked. “Two people dead? In very odd circumstances?”
Teresa was staring at the approaching island next to the vaporetto jetty, its trio of buildings misty in the heat haze. Costa followed the line of her gaze. Something about the Isola degli Arcangeli disturbed him. The place clung onto the side of Murano proper by that single metal bridge, with its iconic angel, unsteadily, as if it were unsure whether to belong, or whether to cast itself off into the shallow waters of the lagoon.
“You’d think . . .” she murmured. “I just don’t know. I’ve persuaded Silvio to do a little work on the case. We’ll see.”
“Oh wonderful,” Peroni groaned. “How does Leo manage that? Getting everyone else in the shit alongside him?”
Teresa gave him a sharp glance. “I rather thought we were invited because we’re good at our jobs.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah . . .” Peroni waved a big hand at her. “I keep hearing that. But this isn’t our place, remember. This belongs to the Venetians, and frankly they’re welcome to it. We’ve got our orders from the commissario. A nice neat investigation. Wrap it up. Then go home.” He put a huge arm around Teresa Lupo’s hefty shoulders. “Home,” Peroni emphasised. “Just by doing what we’re told for once. Is it that hard?”
Yes, Costa thought, but didn’t say it. Something stank about the Arcangelo case and they all knew that. Spontaneous combustion. Damaged keys. Aldo Bracci too, locked inside his own house on Murano, an angry mob outside willing him to go. Costa couldn’t get the picture of Bracci out of his head. There was more than just misery inside the man. There was knowledge too, something he was, perhaps, wondering whether to share.
Teresa got back to the point. “Silvio’s got some ideas. About this spontaneous combustion thing. He’s more the chemist than I am. I’ve sent him some material to work on. Perhaps tomorrow, the day after, we’ll know more.”
“What sort of material?” Costa asked.
“Fibres. From his clothes. People don’t just catch fire, Nic. Not in this world. It was very hot in there. Very strange conditions. Uriel was partly deaf and had lost his sense of smell too. Someone who knew that could have doctored the apron. There’s an explanation. Physical laws apply. It’s just a question of understanding them. Maybe . . .”
She stopped. The two men looked at her. It wasn’t like Teresa Lupo to be lost for words.
“Maybe what?” Peroni pressed.
“Maybe I was wrong. Maybe it’s a kind of witchcraft. Or more accurately, a kind of alchemy. I’ve been reading up on the way they make glass. That is alchemy of a sort. They use chemicals and processes going back hundreds of years. If you wanted to set up a furnace like that now, somewhere else, the health and safety authorities would probably kick you out of town as soon as they saw the stuff you wanted to use. Glass is beautiful, but what goes into it to make all those colours, all those features . . . I wouldn’t want it round me day in and day out. Perhaps the suit or the apron picked up some substance. Accidentally. Or . . .”
She gave them that sly look, the one that said, You should be thinking this, boys. “If anyone could come up with some way of faking spontaneous combustion, don’t you think it would be a man who knew the inside of a glass foundry?”
Costa thought about the shattered furnace. Teresa was, as usual, on the ball. They should have done so much more.
“And Bella was pregnant,” Peroni added. “You gave us that. Thanks. Though I don’t imagine her brother’s too grateful.”
“Oh yes,” she murmured. “The brother.”
Peroni must have told her about what had happened that afternoon. Something didn’t ring true.
“On the face of it,” Costa said, “the brother’s the best suspect we’ve got. The only suspect. We know he was messing around with Bella once. He admitted it himself. His only alibi comes from his sons, neither of whom I’d trust for a moment. If Bella had told him about the pregnancy, and the fact the child couldn’t be Uriel’s, he had a motive too. To keep her quiet.”