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  ‘Why would he do that?’

  ‘He was hiding something.’

  ‘Like what, for example?’

  ‘Like this, for example.’

  She laid a sheet of paper on the desk and pushed it towards him, holding onto it with her fingertips while he read it, as if she didn’t want to let it get away. It was the forensic report Cristina di Marco had written about the human jaw among the bones of the massacred sheep. The pathologist confirmed what she had already told him: the jaw was Asiatic, male, most probably Chinese.

  ‘That jaw had been there quite some time,’ Lucia Grossi said. She placed her elbows on her desk, formed a platform with her hands, and rested her chin on it. ‘So let me ask you this, ranger Cangio. Can you tell me why a Chinese man was hacked to pieces in the national park two or three years ago?’

  Cangio shifted in his seat.

  Now was the time to tell her about the Chinese cigarette ends the Pastore brothers had shown him. But would he be making things any easier for himself? The evidence of his reticence was piling up. He hadn’t told them about Marzio’s hidden file. He couldn’t tell them he had spoken with their pathologist without damaging Cristina di Marco’s career. Nor had he told them about the Chinese ideogram pointing to a restaurant in Soho, London. There was probably more, but he was certainly facing a charge of compromising an official investigation into at least one murder.

  ‘Why ask me?’ he said. ‘I wasn’t here two or three years ago.’

  Lucia Grossi’s lips creased, but she wasn’t smiling. ‘Marzio Diamante was,’ she said. ‘Which raises another question. Was this Chinese man alone, or were there others? And how many other Chinese men might have crossed the national park at night more recently?’

  Grossi clasped her fists on the desk in front of her.

  The brightest lipstick in the world could not have softened the look on her face.

  ‘Illegal immigrants,’ she said forcefully. ‘Foreigners travelling under cover of night through forests, and over mountains. We know that Chinese immigrants often land on the Adriatic coast en route to places like Prato in Tuscany, where they’re sure to find work. They need an expert guide to show them the way. Someone who knows the area like the back of his hand. A park ranger, for instance.’

  ‘A ranger who warns people to avoid the forest at night,’ Esposito added. ‘Marzio Diamante.’

  ‘And whoever was helping him.’

  They both stared long and hard at him.

  ‘You can go,’ Lucia Grossi said at last, ‘but don’t leave Umbria. It’s up to the investigating magistrate to decide what happens next.’

  Esposito held out his hand.

  ‘Your identity card, please,’ he said. ‘Do you have a passport?’

  ‘Not here,’ Cangio lied, as he pulled his ID from his wallet.

  ‘Leave your passport with Sustrico in Spoleto,’ Lucia Grossi said. ‘I’ll tell him to expect you by tomorrow morning at the very latest.’

  Then they let him off the hook.

  For the moment.

  THIRTY-ONE

  How much time did he have left?

  If Grossi and Esposito had already requested a mandate, they would probably arrest him within twenty-four hours on suspicion of murdering Marzio, and maybe even Maria Gatti, too. But if they still had to convince the magistrate that they had sufficient evidence to justify arrest in either case, he might be free for a day or two at the most.

  It wasn’t a lot.

  The problem was what to do with the time at his disposal.

  He’d been mulling it over as he extricated himself from the maze of Perugia’s one-way system and headed for the ring road which would take him south towards Foligno, Spoleto and Valnerina. The traffic was heavy, cars and trucks whizzing by as if they were all being hounded by the RCS. He waited for a gap in the traffic, then managed to slot himself in behind an ancient rust-eaten Fiat Panda. No one was chasing this driver, that was for sure. He might have been the only innocent soul on the road that day, he was going so slowly, and there was just no way of overtaking him.

  What was the point of killing Marzio or Maria Gatti?

  It all seemed to revolve around Antonio Marra, starting with the ‘sightings’ that Marzio had begun to document two years before. The jaw of the dead Chinese man had been found more recently near Marra’s truffle reserve, but the unknown man had been hacked to death in the same time period, if the carbon-14 test on his teeth could be relied on. Then Marzio had been executed just a stone’s throw away from Marra’s land. And Maria Gatti was reading the cards for Marra.

  There had to be a link.

  And what about the two Calabrians? How did they fit into it? They hadn’t even been in Umbria two years earlier, so far as Cangio knew. The one with the lizard tattoo certainly hadn’t. If he was right, the man with the tattoo had been battering a rival Mafioso to death on Soverato beach in Calabria the summer before last.

  ‘What now, Sebastiano?’ he said out loud to himself.

  As he trailed the Panda into a kilometre-and-a-half-long tunnel, hemmed in by cars in the fast lane, he wondered what to do for the best. He could drive home to Valnerina, then wait and see what happened next. Or he could take to the woods and hide out until …

  Until what?

  Unless he took the initiative, nothing was going to change. He might appeal for help, but who could he appeal to? If he voiced his suspicions to the park authorities, they’d write him off as a madman. Like Grossi and Esposito, they’d think that he was seeking attention.

  Which left the carabinieri in Spoleto.

  He had put his trust in the carabinieri once before. General Corsini, the ambitious head of Carabinieri Special Ops. He had stuck his head in the lion’s mouth, and the lion had nearly bitten it off. Corsini would have left him to die, or shot him without a second’s thought.

  Sustrico might be a safer bet.

  But then he thought of the brigadier’s office, the religious icons on the walls and desk. Saying prayers together to Padre Pio or Our Lady of Lourdes wouldn’t get him far. And there was Sustrico himself to take into account. Would he welcome anyone bringing him trouble? Rather than take the risk, Sustrico would pick up the phone and call the RCS. He might even decide to arrest Cangio on the spot and show those two high-flyers in Perugia what a hot-shot cop he was.

  There was a gap in the fast lane.

  He hit the indicator and swung to the left.

  ‘Ciao, amore!’ he said, as the Panda disappeared from view.

  And that was when lightning struck. A publicity poster flashed into view for an instant. A bright yellow sign with angular black symbols, the town of Assisi and the basilica of Saint Francis providing a backdrop on the hill behind it. It was almost as if Saint Francis was telling him what to do, and where to go.

  When the sign to Foligno appeared ten minutes later, he took the exit.

  ‘Why would they be crossing the mountains?’

  Cangio was in the Chinese restaurant, the Szechuan, in the centre of Foligno, talking to Heng Lu, the restaurant owner, who looked at him through narrowed, perplexed eyes.

  It was late afternoon and the restaurant was empty. Cangio didn’t want to eat, in any case. He wanted to ask Heng Lu some questions, and the Chinese gave him a beer to humour him.

  Cangio was a customer, after all.

  ‘The police believe that illegal immigrants land on the east coast, then they cross the mountains on foot heading for Tuscany. Most Chinese people end up working as slaves in the clandestine sweatshops of Prato, apparently.’

  ‘That’s true, but it doesn’t make sense,’ Heng Lu protested. ‘These people …’ He rubbed his forefinger against his nose, and Cangio noticed that half the finger was missing. ‘The Triad doesn’t mess about. Walk across the mountains? Ha! They’d take them in a van with a padlock on the door!’

  ‘What if they were walking the other way, towards the Adriatic coast?’

  ‘What would they be going out there for? T
he coast is dead in winter. There’s no work, no Chinese community.’

  They were sitting next to the kitchen in the empty restaurant far away from the picture window looking out onto the street. A young Chinese man in a grubby T-shirt was laying the tables. Each time he pushed through the swing door, Cangio saw a battery of pans on the stove giving off lots of steam, which smelled of boiling fish. The young man didn’t look at Cangio or his boss; in fact, he made no acknowledgement that they were there as he put his shoulder to the swing door and went back into the kitchen again.

  ‘Where did he come from?’ Cangio asked, glancing towards the kitchen.

  Heng Lu stared at him, then glanced to the front door of the restaurant again, as if he really did fear that someone might be spying on him.

  Cangio wondered just how complicated Heng Lu’s life was. He had spoken of the Triad. Was someone keeping a watchful eye on him and his restaurant? One of those violent gangs the Chinese were renowned for, people who might actually be involved in the trafficking of human beings?

  ‘Xin’s my nephew. He’s been here five years now. Xin travelled by lorry to Albania, then he took a ride in a rubber boat one night.’

  ‘By lorry? From China to Albania?’

  ‘That’s one of the routes. One of the cheapest.’

  Xin came over, bowed to his uncle and said something in Chinese.

  Heng Lu nodded, watching the boy as he headed for the door. ‘He’s taking a five-minute break for a smoke before the evening rush begins. But now let us talk about your smokers. Those Chinese cigarettes … If you ask me, they came here by plane. Lots of tourists fly from Stansted to Perugia. I’ve been to London myself on holiday. They probably went back the same way.’

  ‘If they went back—’

  ‘Tourists always go back.’

  Cangio could have corrected him on that score, but he didn’t. ‘So what do you think they were doing in the Sibillines National Park?’

  Heng Lu stuck out his jaw, his mouth clamped tight. ‘What do people usually do there?’ His puzzlement seemed genuine. He was only twenty-five kilometres away, but he swore that he had never been to the national park, or gone to see the rivers and mountains.

  ‘They walk, climb, go rafting, watch birds and wild animals …’

  ‘Are Chinese tourists any different?’

  Cangio hesitated before replying.

  ‘Some human remains were found in the park last week,’ he said.

  ‘I read about it in Corriere dell’Umbria.’

  ‘What you didn’t read was the fact that the bones belonged to a Chinese man. This man was hacked to bits, and the remains of his body were buried in the park. The question is what was he doing there?’

  Heng Lu took a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his shirt. He put one in his mouth, but he didn’t light it. The cigarettes were MS Lite, a popular Italian brand, Cangio noted.

  ‘Have you heard of any Chinese person disappearing in the last few years?’ he asked. ‘A person who was living in Foligno, or in Umbria?’

  ‘If he’d belonged to my community, I would have heard about it.’

  Cangio pulled a face. ‘Would you have told the police?’

  Heng Lu laughed, and then lit his cigarette. ‘We keep our secrets to ourselves,’ he said. ‘Let’s stick to what we know. Those cigarettes came from London. Whoever smoked them came from there, or had been to London recently. I told you the name of the restaurant in Soho, remember?’

  ‘Butterfly,’ Cangio said, as if it were a test.

  ‘That’s where I’d start looking. London.’

  Heng Lu sniffed the air. ‘Do you want to try the steamed sea bass with ginger? It’s ready, if you ask me.’

  Cangio jumped to his feet. ‘Next time, maybe.’

  ‘Bring your girlfriend,’ Heng Lu said.

  ‘Maybe,’ Cangio said.

  If we’re still together, he thought.

  THIRTY-TWO

  Cangio drove out of Foligno.

  What would a wolf do with the hunters closing in?

  The wolf would find a way of distancing itself from the danger. There was only one escape path open, so far as he could see. If he went back home, he’d be heading for trouble.

  As he reached the super highway which would take him south, he spotted a road sign, a distinctive white symbol on a blue enamel background. As he joined the queue of lorries going onto the slip road, he saw the blue-and-white sign again, an arrow pointing north.

  On an impulse he flashed his indicator, then followed the sign.

  It took him twenty minutes to get there.

  The airport was new – relatively new, at any rate – and carefully laid out with a wide approach road and large billboards that proudly announced that the airport had been refurbished in 2011 with a mountain of money from a special fund set up to celebrate the one hundred and fiftieth anniversary of the Unity of Italy. Now, it was known officially as the Saint Francis of Assisi airport. In a brighter mood, he might have laughed. The saint had preached to the birds of the air, but he would have needed to shout loud if he wanted to preach to the jets.

  The car park was huge, far larger than necessary, given the few cars that were parked there. He pulled up in front of the Arrivals building, got out, then locked the door, though it was hard to imagine any airport thief choosing a humble Fiat 500 over one of the gleaming SUVS, BMWs, Mercedes and smaller utility vehicles that seemed to make up the sum of cars belonging to passengers who were overseas, blissfully uncertain of whether their wheels would still be there when they got back from their holidays or business trips.

  The Arrivals building was vast and empty, except for a couple of paunchy middle-aged men in uniform, who were standing by the check-in counter chatting to a couple of pretty girls in dark blue uniforms and caps. The information desk in the far corner was unmanned. The airport of St Francis of Assisi looked as dead as the proverbial duck.

  He checked the arrivals board: Bucharest, the Greek island of Rhodes, Timișoara in Rumania, Brindisi, London. All the flights had landed before five p.m., and it was now half-past six.

  As he walked in the direction of the hostesses, the men in uniform exchanged a ‘here-comes-a-balls-breaker’ glance.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he asked. ‘Are there any more flights coming in?’

  ‘Finished for the day,’ one of the girls said, though her gaze lingered. Cangio was twenty-nine years old, dark-haired, brown-eyed, tanned and fit – younger, slimmer and taller than either of the watching men. ‘Were you expecting someone?’ she said, pulling away from the group. ‘If we step across to the main information desk, I can check today’s passenger lists for you.’

  She beamed a warm smile at him, then turned and strode away, showing off a fine figure and a nice pair of legs, her medium-high heels clicking on the marble floor, echoing around the empty building.

  Cangio followed, of course.

  Not just the girl, but the impulse that had brought him to the airport.

  ‘Now,’ she said, tapping a keyboard and glancing at a computer screen. ‘Have you lost somebody? A passenger? You’d be surprised how often it happens.’

  ‘It was more of a general enquiry,’ he improvised. ‘I’m a ranger in the Sibillines National Park. We … that is, I …’

  She looked at him and cocked her head. ‘Really? I’ve never met a ranger before.’

  Cangio smiled back at her. ‘I was wondering whether we might be able to attract more visitors to the park by advertising here in the airport,’ he said.

  ‘That is a good idea,’ she said with emphasis. ‘We’re a fully fledged international airport these days. Well, sort of. We have passengers coming in from London every day. Ryanair keeps us pretty busy. There are flights to Germany, Spain and … oh, yes, Greece, a couple of times a week.’ She leant forward, and lowered her voice. ‘We have quite a lot of flights to Eastern Europe – Rumania, Bulgaria, Ukraine. Those are charter flights for the most part, migrant workers coming and going …’r />
  ‘What about Japan, the Far East?’ he asked. ‘Many of our park visitors seem to come from those places.’

  She shook her head and made a tutting noise. ‘That would be the cherry on the cake,’ she said. ‘The Japanese are the biggest spenders, but they fly in and out of Rome or Milan, not some small provincial watering hole like this one.’

  ‘So a Chinese passenger, let’s say, would be a rarity?’

  ‘Oh, no,’ she said. ‘Quite a few fly in with Ryanair from London.’

  ‘That’s just what I was hoping you would say.’

  She flashed him a bright smile. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Seb,’ he said. ‘Sebastiano.’

  ‘Like the saint who got himself shot full of arrows?’ she joked. ‘Listen, Seb, buy me a coffee, save me from those two slobs over there, and I’ll tell you everything you want to know about the passengers who fly in to Assisi.’

  THIRTY-THREE

  Ettore’s mobile phone rang.

  He was feeling good. They’d shared a couple of lines up in Simone’s room. Top-rate stuff, his head was buzzing, his nose itching for more. Now they were in the hotel bar drinking Aperol in front of the big picture window. Outside the arc lights were on, showing off the Roman bridge and the spectacular view.

  ‘Yeah?’ said Ettore, and listened carefully for a couple of minutes.

  When he ended the call he turned to Simone. ‘That ranger, Cangio.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘He was at the airport asking questions. Our customs man spotted him as he was going on duty, said he’d seen the ranger on the telly when he got shot.’

  ‘What was he doing there? Asking about us?’

  ‘Nah,’ Ettore said. ‘He was chatting up the hostesses, asking about foreign tourists, talking about the park, apparently.’

  ‘So, what’s the problem?’ Simone said. ‘He’s just doing his job. You’ve got a thing about him, you have.’

  ‘Thing?’ Ettore sat up fast.

  Drops of Aperol spattered his white shirt like fresh blood.

  ‘I should have blown him away in Soverato.’