The Heretic Scroll Page 7

  DESIST NOW OR I PAINT YOUR FACE WITH HONEY, FOR THE BIRDS TO PLUCK YOUR EYES.

  DESIST NOW OR I LOCK YOU IN THE VERMIN CAGE, FOR RATS TO FEAST UPON YOUR GUTS.

  DESIST NOW OR I IMPALE YOU ON THE PIKE, FROM ANUS UNTO MOUTH.

  CURSED WILL BE THE SOIL BENEATH YOUR FEET. IN HUNGER SHALL YOU STARVE.

  DAMNED WILL YOU BE TO THE MOLTEN PIT, PREPARED FOR THE DEVIL AND HIS ANGELS.

  MAY ALL THESE FATES COME UPON YOU, AND OVERTAKE YOU, UNTIL YOU ARE DESTROYED.

  He read it again and then a third time. Much as he hated to admit it, Giovanni Bruno was right. The same content in the same order, yet lacking its energy and menace. But maybe that was deliberate. Who the hell could say?

  ‘You know that history programme?’ murmured Messana, still at his shoulder. ‘The one broadcast before the march.’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘I watched it, like you asked. All the punishments she mentioned were in it, as we thought, though in a different order. But I spotted something else too. That one about sewing murderers into a sack with all those animals, then tossing them in the river to drown. It’s called poena cullei, apparently. Penalty of the sack.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So,’ she said, with a slight smile. ‘One of the talking heads they had on to discuss it was our good professor Zeno D’Agostino.’

  Chapter Nine

  I

  A gruelling afternoon for Cesco, going through the studio’s contacts book to let clients, suppliers and the rest know of Raffaele’s death, cancelling or rearranging sessions and orders as required. Mostly, however, his task was to console. Raff had had such exuberant charm that everyone who met him even just once considered him a friend. And their grief only served to remind him of what he himself had lost.

  The phone was by the computer. He played idly with its mouse as he traded stories about Raff. Their security app was still open on the screen from checking the time they’d set the alarm last night. He noticed something odd. Someone had been in here last Sunday afternoon. Surely Raffaele, though he’d not mentioned it and they’d had no job on. He brought his conversation to an end and gave the computer his full attention. Raff’s dyslexia had meant leaving school almost without qualifications, so being hired by the museum had been a kind of vindication to him. It had infuriated him when they’d insisted he use their phone and laptop, because it meant they didn’t trust him. But he’d put up with it even so, because he valued the contract so highly.

  Besides, it had been easy enough to get around.

  Raff had been no IT buff, but he could wipe a browser history. Router logs, however, were another matter. He opened their one now, searched last Sunday afternoon, and was rewarded with a long list of URLs. He clicked a few at random. All were related in some way to an American art dealer called Miranda Harcourt, who’d apparently turned a slot on a popular antiques programme into a devoted following on social media by showcasing her lifestyle travelling the Mediterranean and the wider world buying expensive pieces with which she fitted out the homes of stars and billionaires.

  Beautiful, slim, upbeat and perfectly groomed, with gorgeous clothes showing artful hints of nipple and thigh as she was helped in and out of the backs of flash cars by a burly, stone-faced chauffeur whose humourless devotion was perhaps another part of the fantasy. Yet there was a darker side too. A Reddit thread accused her of smuggling stolen artefacts back to the States to sell through the string of high-end dealerships she part-owned and helped promote, as well as on dark web auctions. The manager of her Miami dealership had been jailed for selling stolen Inca treasures, and there were rumours that she herself was under investigation. He checked her dealership website. It was filled with striking artefacts from Europe, South America and Asia. Her bio had links to her social media accounts. He clicked on her Twitter feed – and sat back, stunned. For, according to her latest tweets, she was on a European tour at this very moment.

  And she’d been in Naples just last night.

  II

  Professor Zeno D’Agostino’s circle of academic friends all despised the Neapolitan district of Vomero for its shallow chic. By contrast, his new young wife Emanuela adored it. A testament to his devotion, then, that he’d given up his beloved Avvocata home on their marriage to buy a penthouse here instead, though it had cost far more than he could rightly afford, and had meant putting much of his private library into storage.

  But then he was hardly the first man to lose his head over a beautiful woman.

  Her white Mercedes cabriolet was in its spot. Of course it was. The one time he’d have been glad to find her out shopping, naturally she was at home. He pulled in alongside, then sat there a few moments, building himself up for the coming confrontation. He was a man of distinction, he told himself. The youngest ever history professor at Napoli’s Università di Federico II; a winner of multiple awards and honours, whose books and papers had been translated into over twenty languages. His courses were always full, and with sparkle-eyed young women too – young women just like Emanuela had been when they’d first met. And maybe he was starting to get on a little, but a few still came up to him after lectures to ask questions and flutter lashes. Who was she, then, that he had to answer to?

  What else had she expected?

  He opened his eyes and lifted his chin. He felt Vesuvian suddenly, the magma bubbling molten beneath his granite face. He took the elevator up, paused again outside his front door. The TV was on and tuned to local news. His spirit flagged. He went on in all the same. Emanuela was lying sideways on the couch, her shoes kicked off, hugging a velvet cushion to her belly like her longed-for pregnancy. She looked up with burning eyes, her mouth and nose so scrunched and ugly that it was hard to remember how stunning she could be.

  ‘What have you done?’ she demanded.

  ‘Done?’ he frowned.

  She pointed at the TV. ‘Don’t give me that bullshit.’

  He stared at her, perplexed. ‘You think I had something to do with that? Why ever would I do such a thing?’

  ‘Revenge.’

  ‘Revenge? I hardly knew the guy.’

  ‘Because he was my friend.’

  ‘Your friend!’ scoffed Zeno. The word somehow undid him. ‘The man fucking you, you mean?’

  ‘About time someone did.’

  ‘You whore,’ he spat. ‘You filthy fucking whore. What the hell did you expect?’ It felt good finally to say it, hot and purging and good. But then he saw her shock and realised she hadn’t truly believed it, not until now.

  ‘I’ll tell them,’ she said. ‘I’ll tell the police.’

  ‘Tell them what? I was here with you all last night, remember? And in the car with four others when it happened.’

  ‘So? I know it wasn’t you yourself. You don’t have the balls. It was your bastard cousin Claudio. Oh yes. I saw you whispering together.’

  ‘That’s bullshit!’ he exploded. He wagged a finger in her face. ‘I warn you, one word to anyone…’

  ‘And what?’

  ‘I expect a Mercedes soft top will burn just as well as a yellow Lamborghini.’

  She scrambled away from him, to her feet and to the door. The fear and loathing on her face gave him a rare sense of power. He took a pace towards her. She backed away. ‘Get out,’ he said. ‘Go stay with your mother until you’ve rid yourself of this absurd delusion. But I warn you: one word to anyone, even her…’ He left the threat unfinished, turned his back, picked up the remote, took it to his armchair. He felt oddly calm, though his chest was hot and his hands were trembling. He flicked through channels until he found golf. It was a game he despised yet found perversely soothing. All that sunshine and bright blue water. Those lush fairways and perfect greens.

  Several minutes passed. Footsteps clacked on the tiled hallway, somewhere between a fast walk and a run. The front door slammed. The elevator set off downwards. His sense of righteous vindication ebbed away, leaving him empty and alone. He went to the drinks tray for a lar
ge vermouth and a bag of cashew nuts, then sat back down.

  To sell one’s soul. And for such poisoned fruit!

  The phone was next to his elbow. He sat there, not looking at it, yet waiting for it to ring.

  Chapter Ten

  I

  A lecture hall, Pompeii

  The lecture had gone well. No doubt about it. But then it always added a frisson to an event like this when the volcano under discussion was liable to erupt at any moment in a massive Plinian event likely to bury not only this auditorium but the whole region beneath its discharge. Fatima Zirpoli, Chief Scientist at the Vesuvius Observatory, answered the last of the questions, then excused herself and went to the restrooms, where she sat in a cubicle with her head in her hands, for – even after all these years – it always took her a few minutes to decompress after a talk.

  She’d put her phone on silent for her lecture. Now she fished it from her bag. A number of missed calls from Carlo, her number two. Her heart did that peculiar little trick of sinking in dread even as it thrilled in excitement – for the days ahead, awful as they were liable to prove, were what she’d spent her life preparing for. She stood and flushed the loo, though it didn’t need it, then went out to wash her hands. Her phone rang again as she was drying them on a paper towel.

  ‘Hey Carlo,’ she said. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Another incident,’ he told her curtly.

  ‘I guessed that already. Tell me more.’

  ‘Pair of farmers up in Ottaviano. Used to be best friends. Then the wife of one decides she prefers the other. Bad blood ever since.’ He had an irritating way of talking, Carlo, in truncated sentences that somehow didn’t help him get to the point any quicker. ‘Anyway, farmer number one finds his dog dead early this morning. Blames his rival and the ex-wife, because they’d threatened the poor brute for messing with their chickens. So he grabs his shotgun, goes over, gives number two both barrels through the window. Then the ex-wife clunks him with a shovel before he can reload.’

  ‘Which all has what to do with us?’

  ‘Bear with me. Police turn up. Take statements. Signor Cuckold accuses farmer number two of poisoning his dog. The ex-wife says no. They’ve been in Turin for a funeral. The police call in a vet. Our friend Massimo, no less, who of course is on the lookout for volcanic gases. Sure enough, it presents like carbon dioxide.’

  ‘Oh Christ.’ It was impossible to predict eruptions with anything like precision. All one could do was watch for signs. Gases leaking from a previously unknown fumarole was another to add to a list that already included a massive increase in seismic activity, alarming rises in surface and subsurface temperatures, a noticeable bulging of the caldera and the deformation of the surrounding terrain. Every light on her dashboard was now flashing red. ‘Where was this, exactly?’

  ‘Ottaviano, like I say. Those farmhouses on Via Carcova. The one with that old green barn with the patched roof.’

  ‘I know it. Any other explanations?’

  ‘Always other explanations. Like maybe the wife and her new hubby got imaginative with their poison of choice. You know, arrange an alibi, gas the dog, blame it on the mountain. But Massimo says these two aren’t the imaginative sort. You know the kind. Solid citizens of the soil. Salt of the earth.’

  ‘Arseholes?’

  ‘Your word, not mine.’

  Fatima sighed heavily. Her hostess Johanna had been looking particularly fetching in her cream linen suit. And recently separated too. But their drink was going to have to wait. ‘Okay,’ she told Carlo. ‘I’m on my way.’

  II

  Cesco stared in shock at the computer screen. Was it possible that he’d found Raff’s killer as quickly and as simply as that? Except no. Miranda Harcourt had already tweeted several times that morning, including with selfies taken respectively outside her Naples waterfront hotel, at the city’s Capodichino Airport, at Paris Charles de Gaulle, in the back of a Turkish taxi and finally on a hotel balcony set against Istanbul’s unmistakeable skyline. It was just about possible that the photos were old, however, and only posted to give herself an alibi. He needed to make sure. She’d given the name of her Sultanahmet hotel in her last tweet, pimping it in the influencer manner as the city’s finest, doubtless trading her endorsement for a comped room. He found its number, called to confirm that she’d checked in, asked to be put through. She answered on the third ring, her voice strained and weary. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Hi,’ he said. ‘Is that Miranda Harcourt?’

  ‘Yes. Why? Who is this?’

  He ended the call without another word, checked out her possible flights. Only one fitted with her tweets. Depart Naples Capodichino at 6:05 a.m., switch at Paris Charles de Gaulle for Istanbul. As the Lamborghini hadn’t arrived at the Villa of the Papyri until 7:44, she clearly hadn’t been directly involved. Yet her presence in Naples was too great a coincidence to ignore.

  He reached for Valentina Messana’s card, then hesitated. Raff had been desperate for cash and had had access to countless valuable artefacts. The police knew that now. They were likely to put two and two together, and maybe leak it too, staining Raff’s reputation for ever – even if he was ultimately cleared. Cesco refused to be part of that, especially on such flimsy evidence.

  Yet he couldn’t ignore it either.

  His phone buzzed. A text from Carmen. Any chance he could pick her up outside Gran Caffè Gambrinus at six? Something she wanted to discuss. He checked his watch. It was a little past five. Leave now and he could swing by Miranda Harcourt’s hotel and then meet Carmen straight after. He texted back that he’d see her there, then grabbed his jacket and hurried for the door.

  III

  They came for Dieter when he was already ninety minutes in to his afternoon workout, lying on his back beneath the weights machine they’d brought down from Stuttgart in the van. They came as a group, of course. None of them had the balls to take him on alone.

  He sat up and grabbed a towel to wipe himself down. ‘Yes?’ he said.

  It was Knöchel who stepped forward. ‘A word,’ he said.

  The buzz was on him from his workout. He felt mellow and pleasantly weary. No doubt that was why they’d chosen this moment. He threw away the towel, grabbed a pair of twenty-kilo bells to pump away at while they talked. ‘About what?’ he asked.

  ‘This trip. Don’t get us wrong. We want Rossi too. But he isn’t here.’

  ‘He’ll be back. Eventually.’

  ‘Of course. And then we’ll come for him. But why stay here until then? We’ve got shit back home needs taking care of. Hans says our new suppliers are taking the piss. Then there’s the Azerbaijanis too.’

  ‘You think that’s coincidence, do you?’ asked Dieter, pumping rhythmically at the bells. Twenty kilos were for pussies, but they made for better weapons. ‘They’re taking liberties because they’ve lost respect for us. Rossi fucked with us and lived, so now they think they can too. The Romans knew how it was done. They hung their enemies from gibbets. They crucified them and put their heads on spikes.’

  ‘They had to find them first,’ muttered Gunther.

  Dieter turned to stare at him. ‘What was that?’

  ‘Nothing, boss.’

  Aged ten or so, Dieter had realised he wasn’t like other kids, even the troublesome ones. They used violence to get what they wanted. But violence was what he wanted. The fear in people’s eyes. Not just contemporaries but the older kids too, teachers and other adults. But at length he’d grown weary of the arrests, tribunals and the rest, so he’d learned to control himself, turning his rage into a Rottweiler that he mostly kept tightly leashed. But you had to let it snarl from time to time, or people would take liberties.

  He looked from face to face, wondering who to choose. Gunther himself was too useful. Knöchel too. His gaze settled on Ox. He’d christened him that himself, not just for his obscene size and strength, but for his docility too. His fists tightened round the dumbbells. ‘What about you?’ he asked.

&n
bsp; Ox took half a step back, puzzled rather than alarmed. Good-natured himself, he assumed good nature in others. ‘I’m with you, boss,’ he said. ‘Whatever you say.’

  On the floor beside the weights machine, his phone pinged with a notification. It was always doing that, but this one had an unfamiliar trill. Then he remembered setting it up some weeks before to alert him should the names ‘Cesco Rossi’ and ‘Carmen Nero’ ever appear together. His mouth went a little dry. He set down a dumbbell to pick up his phone and check the story out.

  ‘Well?’ asked Knöchel.

  Dieter looked up at him with a savage grin. ‘Fucking told you,’ he said.

  Chapter Eleven

  I

  When he’d left the studio last night, Raff had mumbled vaguely about going to see someone. At the time, Cesco had assumed it was his mystery girlfriend. But what if it had been Miranda Harcourt instead? Her boutique hotel occupied the top two floors of a block just off the strip of prime Naples waterfront known as the Lungomare. Parking was always hard here, but finally he found a slot for his Harley and took the lift up. The woman on reception shook her head when he showed her a photo of Raffaele on his phone. He asked if Miranda Harcourt had received any visitors yesterday evening. She told him indignantly that it was against hotel policy to give out such information. Ten euros changed her mind. But all he learned was that Harcourt had gone out sometime around six to six thirty and hadn’t returned before her own shift had finished at ten. He thanked her and went back down.

  There was a pavement cafe on the corner of the street. It seemed the obvious place for them to have met. He showed Raff’s photograph to a waiter. He shook his head. But one of his colleagues nodded. Yes, he’d been in here last night, she was sure of it. Shortly after six, because that was when she’d started work, and he’d been one of her first. Had he been with anyone? No. In fact she’d felt a little irritated with him for taking an outside table rather than a bar stool, even though they’d been crazy busy and he’d been on his own. But then a woman had come by and he’d left with her, having barely touched his Peroni. Cesco brought up one of Harcourt’s Twitter selfies. The waitress nodded at once. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘That’s her.’