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  ‘In Italy, we have truffles,’ Cangio said, ‘tubers, if you prefer, which look very similar to yours.’ He gave a shrug. ‘I was wondering about them. Your prices seem so very low … I mean to say, how do they compare in quality? Do the Chinese variety taste the same as our Italian truffles?’

  Li Liü Gong poured tea for them both, then raised his cup in a sort of toast.

  Cangio burnt his fingers on the cup, drinking off the contents in a single draught.

  ‘Do you trade in truffles, Mister Cangio?’

  Hearing his name on the Chinese man’s tongue, he wondered whether he should have given himself a false one. It hardly mattered, did it? He was deceiving the man, whichever name he used.

  ‘You are Italian, do I guess right?’

  Cangio nodded. ‘I’ve been thinking of expanding into import and export. Truffles would play a big part in the business, but … well …’ He was considering the impediments – limited finances, limited knowledge, fierce competition – when Li Liü Gong came up with the solution, as if he had heard the argument before.

  ‘But you don’t have enough land to produce a sufficient quantity.’ He waved his hand to crush the hypothesis, as if it were laughable. ‘Tubers are rare in Italy, I know, and they are very expensive. Unless you have the right land, and lots of it, it’s never going to turn into a profitable business. Do I guess right again?’

  Mister Butterfly seemed to enjoy the rhetorical question.

  Cangio held up his palms in surrender. ‘You guessed correctly,’ he said.

  ‘So you want me to send you Chinese tubers?’

  Cangio made a face at that suggestion. ‘Those European laws you mentioned before …’

  Mister Butterfly nodded. ‘I understand,’ he said. ‘What you really want is know-how. Help, let’s say, to make your land produce more tubers. Truffles, let’s call them now, because that’s what you’ll be exporting, isn’t it?’

  He poured more tea, then looked at Cangio over the rim of his teacup.

  Cangio stared back at him, then nodded twice.

  ‘You can help me, Mister Butterfly, do I guess right?’

  The Chinese drained his cup, then set it down on the table. ‘You will eat in my restaurant tonight, I hope? You’ll be my guest. I’ll have them prepare some special dishes for you with our tubers. Then you’ll know exactly how they taste. How does that sound?’

  ‘It sounds good.’

  ‘Are you from Alba, Mister Cangio? The finest white truffles come from the north.’

  ‘No,’ Cangio said, ‘I come from Umbria, in central Italy.’

  ‘Umbria?’ the Chinese man repeated with a frown. Apart from showing his teeth in a smile, it was the first expression Cangio had read upon his face. ‘I had some … dealings with a man from Umbria once. A most distressing experience.’ His expression reminded Cangio of someone recalling a serious illness, or a painful operation. ‘I would not wish to repeat it, I can tell you. We will talk some more over dinner, Mister Cangio. I want to know more about you and your affairs. But now, I have my own business to look after. If you will excuse me?’

  Which ‘distressing experience’ was Mister Butterfly talking of?

  Had the same ‘distressing experience’ led to cigarette ends from the Butterfly restaurant being found in Valnerina?

  Cangio went downstairs and bought himself a bottle of Szechuan truffles.

  They were as cheap as baked beans.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  ‘This’ll blow you away, Simò,’ Ettore said into the phone.

  ‘What will?’

  ‘He just walked out of a supermarket. All the way to London, and what’s he doing?’

  Candelora snorted. ‘Cut the quiz, and get it over with.’

  Simone was in a nasty mood, though you couldn’t blame him, could you? The ranger skipping Italy like that, offering them the chance to knock him off without creating trouble for Don Michele in Umbria. And then the mystery that put the block on everything: they needed to know what the fuck the ranger was doing in London before they made a move.

  ‘Find out!’ Simone had told him. ‘We have to know, Ettore.’

  Just like that. We have to know. As if it was easy. He was the one in London, a place he’d never been before. All he wanted to do was pick the right moment, kill the ranger, then get back on a plane to Italy without the British cops latching on to him.

  ‘You really want to know what this dickhead’s up to?’ Ettore knew he was losing his temper, but so what! ‘Chinese fucking truffles. That what he’s doing in London, Simò. That’s what he came here for. That’s what he was looking at.’

  ‘Truffles?’

  ‘You want me to spell it for you?’

  Simone let go a string of curses.

  Ettore held the phone away from his ear, only caught the last bit.

  ‘… Don’t lose sight of him, Ettò, you hear me? See what he does next.’

  Cangio had almost forgotten how crowded London could be.

  It was Friday night, beer night, club night, hen night. The streets were thronged with people out for a lark at the end of another deadly working week, plus armies of foreign tourists. Outside every pub, a horde of boozers crowded the pavement, glass in one hand, cigarette in the other, spilling out onto the street. Women in shorts and see-through blouses, high-heeled ankle-snappers. Men in suits, their silk ties dangling loose. There were long queues outside the cinemas in Leicester Square. Open-air restaurants with big, fancy sunshades had every table taken, though the night air was cold and the wind cut sharp.

  It seemed like more than a year since he’d left it all behind, and he hadn’t missed it once. In Umbria, he’d found what he was looking for. Everything he was looking for. And now those two, Grossi and Esposito, were threatening to take it all away, treating him and Marzio like a pair of slave-traders, more or less, suggesting they were ferrying illegal Chinese immigrants across the park at night. It made him ill just thinking about it. Unless he could prove that they were wrong, he’d probably end up going to jail for quite a few years. Which meant losing everything. His job, the park, the wolves, Loredana.

  But now he had something to show them.

  He had the proof in his pocket. A jar of cheap Chinese truffles.

  And Mister Butterfly could tell him more.

  Perplexity was growing on Ettore’s brow.

  Where was Cangio going? What was he up to?

  They seemed to be wandering around aimlessly in a big circle.

  It wasn’t easy keeping him in sight among the crowds.

  It meant moving closer, shortening the gap, increasing the risk of being spotted.

  He was so busy watching the ranger, before he knew it, he found himself back in Chinatown outside the Chinese supermarket again.

  This time, Cangio didn’t go into the shop, he went into the restaurant next door.

  THIRTY-NINE

  Simone Candelora ordered a bottle of Franciacorta.

  He was sitting in the bar of the hotel by the picture window, looking out at the Roman bridge and the limestone gorge, the scene lit up by glaring spotlights courtesy of some generous corporate sponsor.

  He needed to calm down, consider the situation, think it through.

  It was a beautiful view, the honey-coloured bridge silhouetted against the pitch dark woods.

  If everything went the way he hoped, he’d buy the place within six months. A private investment, without telling anyone. He wouldn’t run the gaff, of course. He’d leave that to the present owner, who was always on hand for a chat and a cigarette, and happy to sell the place at the first decent offer. That way, he’d have a place to stay when he was in town, a luxury five-star suite of his own with a fabulous view. He might even tell the don about it, invite him up for the weekend, show the boss what he was capable of doing on his own.

  Alea iacta est.

  Look, boss. I threw my dice, and this is how it landed.

  But Ettore would have to go, there was no doubt
about it.

  He was rough, uncouth, a killer, nothing more.

  No brains, no sense. A liability.

  The sooner he got shut of Ettore the better. All he had to do was tell the don the fucker had outlived his usefulness, that he was more of a danger than an asset. That lizard branded on his neck was an advert for trouble, a magnet for the cops.

  Ettore couldn’t shoot a pigeon without the pigeon shitting on his shoes.

  London would be his last outing, the end of the ride.

  He could only hope the ranger hadn’t recognised Ettore that day in the car coming back from Maria Gatti’s. Cangio wasn’t stupid. The ranger had a brain, all right. If he guessed Ettore was on his tail, anything could happen. If Ettore had known his way around London, it would have helped, of course. Then again, Ettore’s instinct might kick in. If he could lure the ranger down to the river, do the job and chuck the corpse in the Thames. The river was deep; the tides were fast. Bam, splash, and goodbye Cangio!

  Did Ettore know about the river?

  He sipped his Franciacorta, thought of Cangio’s corpse hanging by a noose beneath Blackfriars Bridge, like that crook they called ‘God’s banker’. The Brits seemed to think it had been a suicide. If they bought that, they’d swallow anything. Why shift out of the hotel bathroom if you wanted to snuff yourself? Why bother climbing walls and scaling the underside of a bridge at night to do it? That investigation always made him laugh. For months, the coppers had been fucking about, and now, years later, they still had trouble seeing how it was done. With a pointed gun and a helping hand, anything was possible. That had been a classic scenario, a mystery that lingered on, a warning to the world. Don’t mess with us – whoever us happened to be. Whoever needed to know, they knew.

  Simone helped himself to a truffle canapé from the plate. He preferred caviar, of course, but if he was really honest, he had to admit that this bit of oily, dirty-looking goo was very tasty, especially with a sparkling fresh, cold wine.

  A refined taste for an educated palate.

  Talking of which, he wondered why Cangio was so interested in Chinese truffles all of a sudden. They were shit by all accounts. Suddenly he wondered if Ettore had got it wrong. Maybe the ranger had caught on that he was being followed and was laying traps for Ettore.

  He drank more wine and sank back into the comfy old Chesterfield.

  Why bust an ulcer over it? Let Ettore work it out. The sooner Ettò did the job, the sooner he could tell the don it was time to get rid of him. They’d been talking on the phone again that afternoon. Don Michele liked the way he’d handled the Maria Gatti thing, saying what a great idea it had been. The don took the credit for it, obviously, though it was Ettore who had done the actual butchering.

  ‘Satan in Umbria,’ the don had read from a newspaper. ‘Great title, that.’

  He had almost let slip that Ettore was in London.

  Best to see how it worked out first. If it came out badly, he’d tell the don that Ettore had done it off his own bat without asking him. Everything that he had done in Umbria was working out nicely, thank you very much! The hub was up and running. Marra Truffles was the ideal refining plant. The airport was perfect. Once Ettore topped the ranger far away from the action in Umbria, there’d be no stopping them.

  No stopping him, he corrected himself.

  It all depended on Ettore.

  Ettore smiled to himself.

  Restaurants were ideal. People relaxing, taking it easy, having a drink and a meal with family or friends, glancing from one table to the next, seeing all the faces, forgetting them in an instant. No place was better than a packed Chinkie restaurant in the centre of London on a Friday night.

  How many targets had he wasted in restaurants or bars?

  The number five leapt instantly to mind, but he was certain there’d been a few more.

  No witness had ever managed to describe him to the coppers. No one had ever mentioned the lizard tattoo, not even when he walked into a shop or supermarket wearing one of those full-face crash helmets with a shotgun in his hand. People froze, that was the truth of it. They were so shocked, so frightened of getting blasted, they would dive under the table, look the other way or not look at all.

  Only Cangio had ever looked.

  But not for long.

  Ettore pulled the scarf from his neck and stuffed it into his pocket.

  He wanted the ranger to see him, wanted him to know that this was the end.

  He didn’t have the sawn-off shotgun this time, so he couldn’t blast the fucker the way he’d wasted that mate of his, that ranger as he came charging out of the bushes with a toy gun, saying Stick ’em up! OK, so no gun, but there’d be something he could use. This time, there’d be no running off to London.

  They were in fucking London.

  And this time, Cangio’s seat would be empty on the plane going home.

  Candelora washed down the last canapé with some wine.

  There was still a little left in the bottle in the chiller bucket, another glass maybe.

  There were other guests in the bar now, not many, but all classy.

  His sort of people, except for the fact that most of them would be pushing up the daisies very soon. The old dear sitting at the next table, for instance, reading the newspaper. She looked as if she was getting ready to leave, picking up a big crocodile handbag that must have cost a packet thirty years ago, putting away her reading glasses. The bag was probably crammed full of gold and jewels, he imagined, the old girl carrying her worldly goods around for fear of losing them, which made her easy meat for the next lucky bag-snatcher.

  He smiled as she struggled to push herself out of the low-slung chair.

  The owner of the hotel appeared as if by magic, a genuine Prince Charming, offering his arm like he was planning to carry her off to a ball at the palace. A real bit of elegance, that. A proper gentleman, if you valued that sort of thing.

  Simone was definitely going to keep him on as the manager.

  As the old woman stood up, the newspaper she’d been reading slid to the parquet floor.

  Anyone can play the gent, Simone decided, jumping up to retrieve the paper and return it to its rightful owner, show that hotel owner a thing or two.

  He bent over to pick up the paper, but he didn’t get up again.

  The headline froze him rigid: big black letters on the page given over to Perugia.

  He read the words, picked the paper up, then sat down again on the big old Chesterfield, all thoughts of comfort and gallantry flown away.

  He poured the last glass from the bottle that had cost him sixty euro, threw it back, and the fizzy wine exploded like bleach in the back of his throat. The burp he let out turned every head in the lounge-bar.

  It turned the head of the hotel owner, too.

  He was standing in the doorway with the old girl on his arm.

  Simone’s attempted smile of apology was met with an icy stare.

  Fuck you! Candelora thought. Your ulcer would give you gip as well, if you’d just read that your world was about to fall apart, and that your life was on the line.

  He swallowed air, let out the loudest belch he could manage, then made for the exit.

  FORTY

  Candelora had been raving on the phone.

  Ettore hadn’t understood the half of it. OK, he was angry, but so fucking what? Something Simò had read in the paper, saying something about needing to find Antonio Marra pronto. Marra wasn’t answering his mobile. Simone had to find the little twat and shut his mouth, he said, before it was too late.

  Too late for what?

  There was no stopping Simone.

  The only thing that Ettore had understood was this: he had to eliminate Cangio, while Simone would take care of Antonio Marra.

  ‘Take care of him?’ Ettore had asked. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  Candelora went wild, spitting out a torrent of curses. ‘I’m gonna wring that bastard’s friggin’ neck, the double dealer! You j
ust fix that ranger, if you’re fucking up to it, Ettore. ’Cause if you aren’t …’

  Simone had let out a burp, and the line went dead.

  He was nervous, Ettore realised.

  Simone always burped when he was nervous.

  As if he wasn’t spouting enough hot air already.

  Ettore stared at the phone for a moment, as though it might translate into clearer terms what he’d just heard from Simò, then he slipped the mobile in his pocket, crossed the street and walked into the Butterfly restaurant.

  He didn’t wait for a waitress to show him to a table, just sat down near the door.

  Cangio recognised him the instant he walked in.

  That tattoo on the side of his neck beneath his left ear.

  Didn’t he realise that Cangio was there?

  That man had been driving the Mercedes with Antonio Marra riding in the back seat. He had probably murdered Maria Gatti. Maybe he’d blown Marzio’s head off, too. An ’Ndrangheta hitman with a lizard tattoo exactly like that one had tried and failed to put a bullet through his brain the summer before last on Soverato beach.

  Was it the same man, or another member of the same clan?

  Did it make any difference?

  He’d been planning to speak with Mister Butterfly, sleep in the airport lounge that night, catch the first flight back to Assisi the following morning, then report what he had learnt about Chinese truffles to Grossi and Esposito, and let them work it out for themselves.

  Now, someone was blocking the way.

  If Lizard Man had trailed him to London, planning to kill him, there could only be one end to the story. His corpse would be found before the night was out – headless, maybe – in some dark alley, with a bullet in the back, or a knife in the heart.

  Think wolf, he told himself.

  ‘Truffled Chicken,’ Mister Butterfly announced proudly.

  The waitress came, a skinny bitch, black shirt and pants with a yellow Butterfly badge on her left tit.

  She mumbled something Ettore didn’t understand, then handed him a menu. Maybe she was moaning about the fact he’d grabbed the empty table next to the door without waiting to be asked.