Lone Wolf Read online

  Lucia Grossi was silent for a moment, taking it in.

  Lori watched him, drawing a question mark in the air with her finger.

  ‘Which means he hasn’t bothered getting in touch with you, either.’

  ‘That just about sums it up, Captain Grossi,’ Cangio said, naming her for Lori’s benefit.

  ‘They’re up to something … I wonder what it is.’

  Was this the paranoid side of her character coming out? Hey, babe, he felt like telling her, if you want to be paranoid, try doing it when I’m not in bed with my girlfriend, OK? Instead, he kept quiet, wondering where this was leading.

  ‘Cristo santo! They should have identified him by now. They’ve got the pic from Nora’s phone. They’ve got the airport videos. What else do they need?’

  Cangio looked at Lori again, rolled his hand helplessly in the air.

  ‘We’re pretty certain that he didn’t go back to England. Not from Assisi, that’s for sure. He may have left from some other airport, of course, but my men haven’t turned up a thing. Do you know what I think?’

  She left him hanging, waiting for a response.

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘He’s still here. He’s still in Italy.’

  OK, he thought, the guy’s still in Italy, but where do I come into it?

  ‘We need to find him.’

  You need to find him, Cangio thought.

  ‘They must have been sleeping somewhere. Probably in Valnerina, or why go to that particular restaurant? They were staying somewhere close by, that’s my take on it. We need to drop a brick in the pool, then work our way outwards, following the ripples. I want you to draw up a list of places where they may have stayed. You know the area better than anyone, Seb. I’m thinking of bed-and-breakfasts, holiday flats, caravan sites … Oh yes, the letting agencies, too. My men will be checking all the hotels, sending out faxes with photos and descriptions, but I think it would be a better strategy if you took care of the Valnerina scene. Do you think you can handle it?’

  ‘I’ve got so many things to do in the park.’

  ‘I’ve already cleared it with the park director, Alberto Bruni. You’ll be seconded to me for the moment, so put everything else on hold, OK?’

  I’m the boss, that’s what she was saying, you take orders from me.

  And then the final order came.

  ‘Meet me by the Sant’Anatolia tunnel at noon tomorrow. There’s a bar with a car park, according to the satellite. That should leave you plenty of time to come up with that list. All clear?’

  ‘All clear,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow at noon.’

  Captain Grossi put the phone down, and Cangio turned back to Lori.

  ‘What the hell does she want?’ Loredana asked.

  ‘She needs a hand,’ Cangio said, playing it down.

  Lori looked at him, reaching out to caress him.

  ‘So do I,’ she said.

  Arrival, 01.20

  A short, plump man in a white coat was waiting at the front door.

  ‘So glad that you’ve arrived,’ he said, offering his hand. ‘Just follow me, please.’

  The man turned away, walking straight into a wall of darkness.

  Smart lighting flashed on, illuminating a long, wide corridor as they went along it.

  He felt as though the past – his own professional life, his international reputation, his only daughter, Marisa, and all the other things that he held dear in life – were disappearing in the darkening void that he left behind him.

  He was confused already, had no idea where he was.

  He could have been anywhere in Italy.

  Everything had looked the same through the smoked-glass windows of the car.

  ‘Did you have a good journey? Not too much traffic? Not too long?’

  The man didn’t stop, turn around, or seem to expect any answer to his questions.

  Were they questions?

  Above their heads, the heavy stone vaulting was like the ceiling of a church, though the walls on either side of the corridor were plastered, recently painted, a smooth expanse of marble floor stretching away beneath their feet. A number of doors opened off to left and right, but all the doors were closed, and what lay behind them was a mystery.

  Framed posters hung at intervals on the walls, sepia photographs of vintage racing yachts in modern red frames. There were no names, no titles, no indication of where or when or why the pictures might have been taken. Everything was bright and new, the air lightly tinged with perfumed disinfectant, with red fire extinguishers dotted here and there along the corridor like Grenadier Guards on parade.

  It was more impressive than he had expected, a model of organisation and cleanliness.

  Suddenly, the man stopped in front of a door.

  ‘You’ll find everything you need in there. The item was delivered half an hour ago by helicopter. You may have seen it while you were driving up.’ The little man suppressed a titter, as if he might have just said something very funny. ‘The helicopter, I mean,’ he said by way of explanation. ‘Did you see it?’

  He had seen only trees and bushes in the night coming up the drive, and then only dimly from behind the darkened windows of the Mercedes.

  ‘I didn’t see a thing,’ he said.

  It seemed wiser to say nothing.

  And yet, there were things that needed to be said.

  ‘Will I be seeing … anyone else while I’m here, apart from yourself?’ he asked.

  ‘That won’t be necessary,’ the man said, as he opened the door and stepped aside like a valet. ‘The staff are ready and waiting for you. You’ll find all the documentation on your desk. Now, that’s everything, I think. If you should need anything, anything at all, just pick up the phone, and I’ll be along in no time.’

  He nodded towards the door and waved his hand, inviting him to enter.

  ‘Your room, sir,’ he announced.

  Your room …

  As if he were an honoured guest who had been there before. A guest who was likely to return. Well, he had already come to a decision on that score. This would be the one and only time he would ever come to this institution. If all went well, he would never see it again, nor even know the name of the place.

  If all went well …

  That thought frightened the life out of him.

  He knew what he had been promised if everything went according to plan.

  But what would happen if something went wrong?

  He dared not allow himself to even think of that possibility.

  As soon as it was done, he would phone Marisa, tell her that his speaking engagement had been cancelled, make some excuse. More than anything in the world, he wanted just to hear her voice, and know that she was safe.

  What a party they would make of it when she got what she was hoping for! How proud he would be of his only daughter who had climbed to the top of the dung-heap at the tender age of twenty-nine! And all thanks to him …

  He would have to be careful. He would need to clamp down on his joy, make sure he didn’t give anything away. One careless word said in anger – ‘Don’t be so ungrateful, my dear,’ or ‘You’ll never know how much it cost me, Marisa’ – was all it would take to bring the house of cards tumbling down.

  Ungrateful for what, Papà? How much did what cost you?

  Everything must go without a hitch. Marisa would be no wiser. And he would cancel all memory of this night, the telephone calls which had brought him to this place, and led him to do what he was about to do.

  ‘Is the room to your liking?’

  Spot-lamps let artfully into the ceiling threw a cone of light on a dark modern desk, which seemed to float like an island on a calm marble sea. An ultra-slim computer, a phone sitting next to it, a series of folders neatly arranged like a fan of cards. The room was large, the walls a delicate shade of pastel green. A back-lit monitor for viewing large transparencies hung on the wall immediately behind the desk and chair.

  ‘You’ll find e
verything you need in those folders.’

  There were four or five folders, each one a different colour.

  He had never worked this way before. Trusting other people’s data, using other experts’ documents and appraisals, without actually seeing and examining the subject and reaching his own conclusions.

  ‘How long do I have?’ he asked, slipping off his jacket.

  ‘Just lift up the telephone, as I said before, and I’ll take you into the arena, so to speak, the place of combat … Will half an hour be enough, do you think? In the meantime, we can start the preliminary procedures.’

  ‘Half an hour … that should be fine.’

  The place of combat, the arena …

  Those expressions rattled his nerves. He felt like a gladiator being oiled and greased before the fighting began. He would need to prepare himself, be on his guard, know exactly what to do, and what to avoid doing. One false move and a gladiator bit the dust. What was it they said when they entered the arena and bowed low before the Emperor and the Senate?

  Ave, Caesar, morituri te salutant.

  He would be the one who must die if anything went wrong.

  ‘I’ll leave you to it, then. Just call me as soon as you are ready.’

  The door closed.

  For an instant he was tempted to call the man back, demand to be taken to the nearest railway station. He would make his own way home, go on foot if necessary, find his way through the woods and over the mountains. Anything just to get out of there. To be as far away as possible from that place.

  Morituri te salutant …

  They would kill him, and he knew it.

  Would they kill Marisa, too?

  He sat down at the desk, switched on the computer, opened the first paper folder while the computer was booting up, then took out his Mont Blanc. He would take all the time that he needed, he thought defiantly. He would examine all the documents, make extensive notes, and fully assess the situation. Then, when he was ready, he would do the job with all the skill at his disposal, with a steady hand and without fear.

  For Marisa, he would have done it with his eyes closed.

  Forty minutes later, he was ready, more or less.

  He didn’t realise that his Mont Blanc fountain pen was nestling in the fluffy carpet beneath the desk.

  FIFTEEN

  Monte Coscerno

  The wolves came loping down the hill.

  There were only five of them.

  The second-generation cub had been left behind.

  The wound had started to stink.

  He couldn’t stand on his left hind leg any more, couldn’t run or chase or hunt.

  The young wolf was dying, and they all knew it.

  By the time they returned, he would probably be dead.

  It was the start of the warm season, but food was still scarce.

  The female was going to need meat, and plenty of it. She was heavy and slow now, her movements hampered by the weight of the cubs she was carrying in her womb. Within a week or two there would be more hungry mouths to feed.

  Three or four mouths, maybe even more.

  They were heading further into the valley in search of food, steering clear of farms and hen houses they had raided during the winter, spreading the net wider and wider with each hunting expedition. The male, the female, and the second-generation cub had been that way the year before. The dense wood that cloaked the lower slopes of Monte Galluro was alive with badgers, voles, rats, field mice, sometimes deer. There would be wild boar, too, but it was better to avoid them. Boars were formidable enemies, well-armed with short, sharp tusks and long, sharp claws.

  The light ground mist was perfect for hunting.

  They entered the wood with caution, taking a meandering path through the trees, staying upwind, closing in on any possible prey. There was a rabbit warren down near the empty farmhouse, and no smell of humans.

  Despite their hunger, they went forward slowly.

  There might be other prey to satisfy their needs.

  There could be other dangers – hunters, or the traps that hunters left behind them.

  They were spread out in a half-moon formation, ready to move in on anything which fell inside the trap, the order hierarchical, the male in the centre, the younger wolves on either side, the female on the left point. He would give the signal, he would attack, and the others would close in like a pincer, cutting off any avenue of escape. The only hope would be to turn and run, and there weren’t many animals that could outrun a pack of hungry, hunting wolves.

  As they moved through the wood, the male scented something.

  He slowed his pace, ears held back, eyes narrowed, tail stretched out behind him.

  The rest of the family followed him instinctively, all muzzles pointing directly ahead.

  There was something in the air, a stink which drew him on, though it held him back, as well. There was also an odour that he knew.

  Fresh blood …

  Suddenly, he stopped, his hackles raised, his ears erect, growling deep down in his throat.

  The others stopped, too, the young ones looking left and right, learning the meaning of fear.

  The growling went on and on, for minutes on end.

  The blood was fresh, the smell was strong.

  But there was that stink as well, something sour and sweaty …

  He turned and ran, his tail between his legs.

  The others scurried after him.

  If they found nothing going back, there’d be fresh meat waiting at the den.

  Wolf eat wolf …

  It was the only way to survive.

  Cangio was up at first light, working on his laptop, chasing addresses.

  He drank a pot of coffee and cursed Grossi frequently as he put together the list that she wanted. Who would have imagined that there were so many people in Valnerina offering overnight or short-term accommodation? The area was dotted with bed and breakfast places, hostels, farm-holidays, and country houses, to say nothing of caravan and camping sites.

  Plus the letting agencies, of course.

  When he had finished, he checked the Villa San Francesco website, as well.

  Not that there was very much to see. A single page, a slideshow of photographs. One side of the building slowly dissolving into a similar view of another wing. Four similar slides, then the first one came round again. There was nothing about the history of the building, nothing about the church and its restoration, and the Franciscan monks didn’t even merit a mention.

  The home-page overlay never changed, either. Villa San Francesco. Contacts. Little flags offered a choice of languages: English, French, Spanish, or Italian.

  He clicked on the Italian flag, then Contact.

  A new page appeared.

  It was spartan, monastic, the colour of aged whitewash.

  There were three rectangular boxes marked Nome, Email, Messaggio.

  He returned to the home page, chose English, then clicked Contact again.

  The same page appeared, the same three empty boxes: Name, Email, Message.

  There was no telephone number, no name, no way of contacting Villa San Francesco except by means of an email message.

  He went back to the Italian page, wrote Lori’s name and surname in the box, her Gmail address in the second box, then composed a message: Villa S.F. was recommended by a dear friend. My husband and I wish to book a double room for 2 nights (Fri & Sat, 24 & 25) at the end of this month? Can you send the current rates, please?

  He hit the Send button, wondering what would come back.

  The request for information sounded innocent enough.

  With a couple of hours to kill before meeting Lucia Grossi, he drove through the Sant’ Anatolia tunnel to Spoleto, and called in at the Land and Property registration office down by the station.

  ‘Innocent’ was not the word he would have used to describe the woman behind the desk.

  She was in her forties, going on twenty-one, wearing a low-cut flowery dr
ess with a push-up bra. Squashed together like two large plums, her breasts looked primed to attack any man who walked in through the door. A pageboy haircut and dyed red hair didn’t help. A diamond button gleamed in her nose. Matching diamond studs sparkled in her ears. She had a teasing smile, and a certain wanton look in her eyes.

  ‘Nice uniform,’ she said, and he felt uncomfortable.

  Was she imagining what he would look like without it?

  ‘Park ranger?’ she asked.

  ‘That’s right …’

  ‘Out in the woods all day, helping damsels in distress?’

  She goggled at him, as if expecting witty repartee in exchange for this gem.

  It brought back memories of flirtatious chatter on quiet afternoons in the estate agent’s office on Islington High Street when he’d been working in London.

  He took out his mobile phone, checked for messages, found none, as he had expected.

  ‘Well, then,’ she said, sounding a bit like Jessica Rabbit, ‘what can I do you for?’

  ‘I’m here about a property,’ he said, refusing to play. ‘A monastery in Valnerina. They call it Villa San Francesco.’

  ‘Thinking of buying it, are you?’

  He ignored the question. ‘It’s outside Borgo Cerreto on the road between Ponte and Rocchetta.’

  She pulled a form from a wall-rack. ‘You don’t belong to a professional association, do you? Surveyor, architect, that sort of thing? No, I didn’t think so,’ she said. ‘You’ve got that fresh air look about you. The dust gets stuck in their wrinkles, know what I mean?’

  She laid the form on the counter, pointed a painted fingernail at it.

  ‘You’ll need to fill this in.’

  As he pulled out a pen, rested his elbow on the counter, and started to answer the questions, he heard her breathing somewhere close above his head. He lifted his eyes, caught sight of those breasts, and tried to write faster. He could imagine an army of junior clerks fighting for the chance to go to the L&P registration office.

  ‘All done?’ She turned the paper around, propped her elbows on the counter, and read what he had written. ‘Sebastiano Cangio? That’s an unusual name …’

  ‘I’m from the south,’ he said. ‘We have a lot of unusual names down there. Provenzano, Riina, Denaro. You may have heard of them.’