Ten minutes later they were in a tiny bar behind the Colosseum. Falcone sniffed approvingly at an expensive glass of Brunello and some prosciutto crudo. Nic Costa was testing a Tuscan chardonnay and some porcini on crostini. Gianni Peroni had one beer under his belt already, along with some translucent slices of expensive pork lardo on a slab of country bread.
“I can give everything I’ve got to the DIA,” Falcone said to no one in particular. “Let’s see what that does for her career.”
“You can, Leo,” Peroni said. “And by the way, thanks for putting in a word for me.”
The tall inspector rolled back on his seat as if affected by some slight. “I just did my job. They asked my opinion. I gave it to them.”
Peroni ordered another beer and said, “For which I’m grateful. Let me offer a thought in return. Do you really think the DIA will appreciate if it we keep this thing on life support? I mean, either they know already, in which case it’s their problem. Or they don’t and frankly I’m not sure they’ll be pleased to have it laid on their plate. I mean, she’s good at her job, isn’t she? She didn’t kill anyone. She didn’t do anything except ride a motorbike and hand out some information, not that we can prove any of that. Also, maybe they’re aware of some of the people who had their photos taken in that place. Maybe some of them are those very people.” He paused. “Have you thought of that?”
Falcone glowered back at him. “Are you ever going back to vice?”
Another beer landed on the table. Peroni took a deep swig. “Who knows? Who the hell knows anything these days? How’s your drink? How’s the food?”
Falcone sniffed at the wine. “The Brunello is as good as one might expect for the price. I don’t mean that as a criticism. The ham is… fine.” He took another sip then nodded with a measure of approval before grumbling, “And we still don’t know that damned woman’s name.”
Gianni Peroni sighed and stared at his beer glass.
“A good white,” Costa said, holding his glass up to the light. “Well-balanced. A little under-chilled.”
It was the colour of old straw under the yellowing candle bulbs of the bar. He took a gulp, larger than normal, and paused over the sudden and unexpected kick of the alcohol.
One pill makes you bigger, she sang, and he wondered, once more, why she’d dyed her hair that night.
He recalls a face now, frightened, furious and dying, under the same light, something glittering in its throat, choking as it tries to speak the same word, over and over again into the echoing darkness.
“We do know her name,” Nic Costa says, mind half recoiling from the memory, half flying towards it like a moth dancing for the candle.
“She told us time and time again.”
And no one else was fool enough to listen, says an old, cruel voice, still locked somewhere at the back of his imagination.
“Her name is Suzi.”
About the Author
DAVID HEWSON is a weekly columnist for the Sunday Times. The Villa of Mysteries is the second novel in a crime series which began with A Season for the Dead, set in Rome and featuring Detective Nic Costa. He is also the author of Lucifer’s Shadow. A former staff writer on The Times, he lives in Kent, where he is at work on the third Nic Costa crime novel, The Sacred Cut.