LITMIR.BIZ

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a few weeks before.

       N***er lover. Bitch. Whore. We know where you live.

      But she was tough, she had to be. But she was human too, and even her skin was only so thick. She also knew that the events of the previous winter – especially the body of the murdered African that she had tried so hard to get identified – still weighed on her conscience. She wondered again what might have become of Jibril, the young immigrant she was sure had some connection to the corpse he had viewed in her presence. But he had just disappeared then and the body had remained unclaimed.

      As she thought about it, it stung her conscience and the holiday suddenly seemed like another cowardly attempt to flee her responsibility, an extravagance she did not deserve.

      Driving in Rome in August was as close to a pleasure as it could ever get. Traffic was down to its annual minimum and a hint of space could finally be seen and felt. As Rossi looked out at the sky and its default-setting of blue, a little of his tension fell away. The air too felt cleaner, while colourful, carefree, smiling tourists seemed to mop up some more of his previous negativity with their languid sweep through the city. Tradition dictated that the lion’s share of the citizenry would be out of town for the whole month and the pervading feeling was usually one of mild and welcome liberation. In the suburbs away from the well-worn tourist trails every second shop had its shutter lowered. Closed for holidays. See you in September. But then there was also something final and obstinate about those shutters – like the sealed lips of a witness who will never speak, holding the secrets back, the unstated “Fuck You” if you want an answer. Try as he might to let the spirit of summers past dominate his thoughts, Rossi knew his work was just beginning.

      Carrara was waiting under a tree as Rossi approached. He held out his newspaper so Rossi could check the front page. They’d got their story but not all the facts. “A possible electrical fault” was one theory, and Rossi had made sure they kept a lid on the forensics, at least for now. As usual the man from Puglia was looking fit and focused in an apparently laid-back way. The years in undercover anti-mafia work had kept Carrara sharp and adaptable, and family life with kids had scarcely seemed to sap his energy.

      “Coffee?”

      Rossi glanced at his watch.

      “Why not?”

      The corner bar was the only one open within walking distance and catered mainly for the skeleton staffs of the nearby public offices and time-killing locals. Most offices had coffee machines on every floor and any employee worth their salt knew which was the best. Some had their own bars too, but there was nothing like leaving the office behind for the dark gunshot of an espresso to banish the morning lethargy. Some, however, lingered over a cappuccino or a caffè latte. There were even those that didn’t bother to go back to the office at all, having clocked in, and then went about their daily tasks with complete nonchalance until they saw fit to put in at least a token appearance before lunch.

      In the bar there was the usual hubbub and high-octane gossip; at peak times there would be the kind of crush more typical of a British pub on a Friday night than a café at ten o’clock in the morning. Fallen and discarded napkins and cornetti flakes littered the floor as Rossi and Carrara edged and nudged their way towards the counter to catch the bartender’s eye. Once they had been served their respective macchiato and espresso, they established themselves at a standing-only table in the corner.

      “So, do we have an appointment at the morgue or do we just walk in?” said Carrara stirring his espresso with energy. “Lallana will have been already, of course. Do you think they might consider it irregular?”

      Rossi stirred a half sachet of brown sugar into his macchiato.

      “We just say we have a wide brief to investigate all acts of arson and we’re cross-checking facts. Thoroughness never goes amiss and Lallana’s off it now anyway. Maroni’s busy with some internal audit business. I say we press ahead until we encounter an obstacle.”

      Carrara finished stirring his espresso.

      “But have you got a theory about this or are you going on instinct or what?”

      Rossi knocked back his coffee and waited for the rush.

      “The more we know the better. I don’t like taking the easy way out. All this open verdict stuff. That’s a gift to criminals and an affront to investigative police work. We have to eliminate any doubt about this being accidental, which it can’t have been, and then find out if there was more than blind racial hate behind it. So we need to get down to the hospital before they’ve forgotten all about this Ivan guy. He might have said something. Seen something. It has to be worth a try.”

      “And last night’s business? I’ve had some more info through on Okoli.”

      “Set up a chat with him. What does he do?”

      “Playwright, investigative journalist. Rubbed the government up the wrong way it seems.”

      “So a target or a coincidence?”

      “See what he has to say for himself,” Carrara replied. “I’ll give him a call.” He glanced at his watch. “Should be up and about by now.”

      He moved away from the babble and noise of the bar.

      A slim but strong woman, perhaps approaching forty but easily passing for five years younger, had seated herself at the bar to Rossi’s left. Her off-white summer dress was elegant without being provocative, thus going against the dominant Roman trend which saw the season’s clothing often resembling more négligées than daywear. The dress’s broad straps framed a rich, evenly tanned rectangle between her shoulder blades.

      “He’s going to swing by the Questura later,” said Carrara returning to the table. “Any news on Iannelli, by the way?” he said, recapturing Rossi’s attention.

      “Iannelli?” said Rossi with a pronounced exhalation. “It’s going to be a steep learning curve for Dario. Life under 24-hour police escort. I don’t know if he’s realized yet how tough it will be.”

      Dario Iannelli, investigative reporter, Rossi’s long-time friend and confidante, and now with a Mafia contract out on his life. He had made it big with his scoop on high-level corruption during The Carpenter case, but had fallen foul of Cosa Nostra and had been fortunate to escape a car bomb with his life.

      The woman had finished her coffee and, rising from her stool, appeared to make for the exit, but then stopped, as if struck by some sudden realization.

      “Excuse the intrusion,” she said, moving back and then coming alongside Rossi and Carrara’s table. “But I couldn’t help overhearing something. You mentioned Dario Iannelli. The journalist.”

      “Yes,” said Rossi. “Is there anything I can do for you?” he began and reached out to take her hand. “Inspector Michael Rossi. And this is Inspector Luigi Carrara.”

      As Carrara turned to take her hand, he too was struck by her unostentatious elegance.

      “Well, yes. Maybe there is.” She glanced around at the chattering clientele. “Could we talk somewhere, in private. But perhaps not in my office. I work at the hospital of legal medicine. The mortuary to be exact.”

       Four

      “If I don’t get the job this time then we go, right?” said Francesco. “We pack our bags and leave Italy for good.”

      Paola replied on the other end of the line with the usual consternation.

      “Where?” she said. “Where do we go? I mean do you have an idea, a plan?”

      Francesco let out a sigh.

      “To Spain, to Ireland, or Germany, or anywhere a researcher can make a decent living. Anywhere where

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