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‘I particularly enjoy Western novels written by women in the nineteenth century. Did you know some of the best were written by them?’

Didn’t have a clue, Rhyme reflected. And don’t much care. But he nodded agreeably.

Ercole, perhaps relieved not to be inscribed in the prosecutor’s book of doom, said, ‘Fascinating, Procuratore.’

‘I believe so too. Mary Foote wrote a clever novel about mining in 1883. Helen Hunt Jackson wrote Ramona, quite famous, the next year. And one of the most interesting is by Marah Ellis Ryan, Told in the Hills. It is as much about race relations as it is an adventure story. I find that remarkable. Well more than one hundred years ago.’

Spiro nodded at the book, which Ercole continued to read and said, ‘I too try my hand at Westerns and have created that character, Belle Walker. A society woman from the East who becomes a hunter of outlaws. And, ultimately, in future books, a prosecutor. So, as you can see, Forestry Officer, you do not need to worry about ending up in the pages of my book. Though, this is not to say that the least failing on your part will not result in catastrophic consequences.’

‘Yes, yes.’ The young officer’s eyes then dropped once more to the pages.

Spiro lifted the book out of his hands.

‘But, please, who were the train attackers, Procuratore? Savages? Bandits?’

Spiro waved his hand with a grimace, and Ercole instantly fell silent.

‘Now, we have two cases to work on. And at the moment Captain Rhyme wants you to arrange for Beatrice to run a further analysis regarding the Garry Soames case … What would this be?’

Rhyme answered, ‘I was reading the charts and the accounts of the crime. And I would like a full analysis of the wine bottle found at the smoking station.’

‘The contents were checked for the date-rape drug and the outside for fingerprints and DNA.’

‘I understand but I would like an examination of trace on the surface of the bottle and the label.’

Spiro said to Ercole, ‘Do that now.’

‘Yes, I will see Beatrice about this. Where would the bottle be?’

‘The evidence facility is up the hall. She will know. Is there anything else, Captain Rhyme?’

‘Lincoln, please. No, I think that will be enough for now.’

Spiro looked him over. ‘You have a question about the wine served at the party. I myself find another question equally intriguing.’

‘And what is that?’

‘This third person, who broke into Garry Soames’s apartment, might have planted the evidence to shift guilt to an innocent man either to protect the actual rapist or to visit revenge on Soames.’

‘Yes. That’s one theory.’

‘There is another, you know: The intruder might also be a friend of Soames who committed the break-in in hopes that we would come to the very conclusion we just have: that he is being framed … when in fact he’s guilty as – what do you Americans say? – guilty as sin.’

VI

THE HOUSE OF RATS

SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 26

CHAPTER 44

The G6 jet settled low on the approach to Naples airport, smooth as a Cadillac in soft-suspension mode.

Amelia Sachs was the only passenger today and the flight attendant had doted.

‘More coffee? You really should try the croissants. The ones filled with prosciutto and mozzarella are the best.’

I could really get used to this …

Now, breakfasted and caffeinated, Sachs sat back and looked below the plane, on final. She got a clear view of the Capodichino Reception Center. From here it was a messy sprawl, much bigger than it appeared from the ground. Where, she wondered, would all those people end up? In ten years, would they have homes here? In other countries? Or would they have been sent back where they had come from – to meet a fate merely postponed by their voyage here.

Would they be alive or dead?

Her phone hummed – the crew didn’t require mobiles to be powered off – and she answered.

‘Yes?’

‘Detective Sachs … I am sorry, Amelia. It is Massimo Rossi. Are you in Milan still?’

‘No, just landing, Inspector.’

‘In Naples?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good, good. For we have received an email on the Questura website. The writer says that he – or she, there’s no name – saw a man on a hilltop near the camp the night of the murder of Dadi, just afterward. He was beside a dark car. The Italian is bad so we are certain he used a translation program. I would guess he is one of the vendors and Arabic is his first language.’

‘Does he say where?’

‘Yes.’ Rossi gave her the name of a road. He’d gone to Google Earth and found a footpath to a hilltop that overlooked the camp. He described it to her.

‘I probably just flew over it. I’ll stop on the way.’

‘I will have Ercole Benelli meet you there. In case translation is necessary.’ He chuckled. ‘Or a real badge must be shown to loosen tongues.’

She disconnected. Well, a concerned citizen had come forward.

A somewhat concerned citizen.

Would there be any evidence?

Maybe, maybe not. But you never missed any opportunities for the collection of even a microgram of trace.

Amelia Sachs sat in the back of Mike Hill’s limo, the cheerful driver flirting once more and regaling her with additional details of Naples. The eruption of Vesuvius was today’s topic, and she learned to her surprise that it was not ash or earthquake or lava that killed. It was poisonous fumes.

‘In only, it was, a few minutes. Poof. You would say poof?’

‘Yes.’

‘Poof and then: dead! Thousands dead. That certainly makes you think, does it not? Never waste a moment of life.’ He winked, and she wondered if he regularly used references to natural disasters to seduce women.

She’d given him the destination and the Audi limo wound through hills north of the camp. In a tree-line gully, she found Ercole Benelli, and asked the chauffeur to stop.

They greeted each other and she introduced him to the driver. The men shared a brief conversation in Italian.

‘Can you wait here? I won’t be long,’ Sachs said to the driver.

‘Yes, yes! Of course.’ The big man smiled, as if anything a beautiful lady asked would be granted.

‘That’s the path?’ she asked Ercole.

‘Yes.’

She looked around. It was impossible to see the camp from here, but she assumed that the walkway would take her to a good vantage point.

They slipped rubber bands over their shoes and started. The way was steep, mostly dirt and grass, but some stepping-stones were smooth and seemed intentionally planted. Was this an ancient Roman route?

Climbing, breathing hard. And sweating. The day was hot, even at this early hour.

A breath of wind surrounded them with a sweet smell.

‘Telinum,’ Ercole said. He’d apparently noted her head turn toward the scent.

‘A plant?’

‘A perfume. But made of some of what you’re smelling: cypress, calamus and sweet marjoram. Telinum was the most popular perfume in Caesar’s day.’

‘Julius?’

‘The only and one,’ Ercole said.

‘One and only.’

‘Ah.’

They crested the top of the hill. It was free of trees and, looking down, she saw that, yes, she did have a good view of the camp. She was discouraged to see no obvious signs that the Composer had been here. They walked farther, to the center of the clearing.

Ercole asked, ‘Milano? Captain Rhyme reported that you found nothing.’

‘No. But we eliminated a clue. That’s as important as finding one that pans out.’

‘As important?’ he asked wryly.

‘Okay. No. But you have to pursue it anyway. Besides, I just had croissants on a private jet. So, I’m hardly complaining. You know, I don’t see any footprints or … well, anything. Where would he have stood?’

They both looked about, and Ercole walked in a careful perimeter around the clearing. He returned to Sachs. ‘No, I see nothing.’

‘Why would the Composer come here? It was after the murder, the witness said.’

‘To see who was after him?’ The young officer shrugged. ‘Or to communicate with the gods or Satan or whoever might be directing him.’

‘That makes as much sense as anything.’

Ercole shook his head. ‘He would have some cover behind those trees. I will look.’

‘I’ll check out down there.’ Sachs stepped off the crest of the hill and walked to a small clearing closer to the camp.

Wondering again: What was his point in coming here?

It would have been out of his way – would have taken ten minutes of precious time needed for his escape – to climb the path.

Then she stopped. Fast.

The path!

The only way to see the camp – and to be seen from it – was here, on the crest, after climbing from the road. Yet the emailer had said the suspect had been spotted standing ‘beside’ a dark car as he looked over the camp.

Impossible.

There was no way to get a car up here; the vehicle would have had to remain in the valley, out of sight.

It’s a trap!

The Composer himself had sent the email – in bad Italian, a program translating it from English – to lure her or other officers here.

She turned and was just starting back to the crest, calling Ercole’s name, when she heard the shot. A powerful rifle shot, booming off the hills.

At the crest, Sachs dropped to a crouch in the brush that formed the perimeter of the clearing, drawing her Beretta. She glanced into the valley and saw Hill’s driver, panicked and crouching behind the fender of the Audi. He was on his mobile, apparently shouting as he summoned the police.

And then she looked over the fringe of dry, rustling weeds and saw Ercole Benelli sprawled face down in the dust beside a regal magnolia. She started to rise and run toward him when a second bullet slammed into the ground right in front of her and, a moment later, the boom of the powerful gun’s report filled the air.

‘One interview?’

The man on the other end of the line was speaking in his soft Southern (US not Italian) drawl. This always seemed to make a request more persuasive.

Still Rhyme told Daryl Mulbry, ‘No.’

The pale fellow was nothing if not persistent.

Rhyme and Thom sat in the breakfast room of their hotel. Rhyme rarely had much interest in an early meal but in Europe the room rate included a full breakfast and, perhaps because of the travel, or the intensity of the cases, his appetite was stronger than normal.

Oh, and there was the fact that the food here was damn good.

‘Garry was beat up. Anything we can say about the case might help get him moved from general population.’ Mulbry was on speakerphone in the office Charlotte McKenzie was using at the consulate. She was with him and now said, ‘The Penitentiary Police are decent folks and they’re looking out for him. But they can’t be there all the time. I just need one fact that suggests he’s innocent, to get him to a different facility.’

Mulbry came on the line. ‘At least could you give us,’ he asked, ‘an idea of what you’ve found?’

Rhyme sighed. He said, trying to be patient, ‘We have some indication he might be innocent, yes.’ He didn’t want to be more specific, for fear Mulbry would leak it.

‘Really?’ This was McKenzie. Enthusiasm in her voice.

‘But that’s only half the story. We need to be able to point to the real perp. We’re not there yet.’ Spiro had blessed their involvement but no way was Rhyme going to make a press statement without the prosecutor’s okay.

Mulbry asked, ‘Could you give us any clue?’

Rhyme looked up, across the breakfast table. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. I have an important meeting now. A man is here I have to see. I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.’

‘Well, if—’

Click.

Rhyme turned his attention to the man he’d referred to, who was approaching the breakfast table: their server, a slim fellow in a white jacket with a flamboyant mustache. He asked Rhyme, ‘Un altro caffè?’

Thom began, ‘It means—’

‘I can figure it out and yes.’

The man left and returned a moment later with the Americano.

Thom looked around the room. ‘Nobody’s fat in Italy. Have you noticed?’

‘What was that?’ Rhyme asked Thom. His tone suggested he was not fully present mentally. He was considering both the Garry Soames and the Composer case.

The aide continued, ‘Look at this food.’ He nodded to a large buffet of different kinds of ham, salami, cheese, fish, fruit, cereal, pastries, a half-dozen varieties of fresh bread, and mysterious delicacies wrapped in shiny paper. And there were eggs and other dishes cooked to order. Everyone was eating a full meal, and, yes, nobody was fat. Plump, maybe. Like Beatrice. But not fat.

‘No,’ Rhyme said in a snappy tone, summarily ending what would probably have been a conversation about American obesity – a topic that he had absolutely no interest in. ‘Where the hell is she? We need to get going.’

Mike Hill’s private jet had collected Amelia Sachs in Milan and had transported her back to Naples. She’d landed a half hour ago. She was going to meet Ercole to check out a possible clue in the hills above the refugee camp, but Rhyme hadn’t thought that would take long.

The waiter was hovering once again.

Thom said, ‘No, grazie.’

‘Prego.’ Then, after a dawdle: ‘It is possible for un autografo?’

‘Is he serious?’ Rhyme muttered.

‘Lincoln,’ Thom said in his most admonishing tone.

‘I’m a cop. A former cop. Who cares about my autograph? He doesn’t know me from Adam.’

Thom said, ‘But you’re on the trail of the Composer.’

‘Sì! Il Compositore!’ The waiter’s eyes were bright.

‘He’d be happy to.’ Thom took the waiter’s proffered order pad and set it in front of Rhyme, who gave a labored smile and took the offered pen. In a stilted maneuver, he signed his name.

‘Grazie mille!’

Thom admonished ‘Say—’

‘Don’t be a schoolmarm,’ Rhyme whispered to Thom and then said to the server: ‘Prego.’

‘The eggs are excellent,’ Thom said. ‘Le uova sono molto buone. Is that right?’

‘Sì, sì! Perfetto! Caffè?’

‘E una grappa.’ Rhyme gave it a shot.

‘Sì.’

‘No.’ From Thom.

The man noted the aide’s steely eyes and headed off, with a conspiratorial glance toward Rhyme. He took this to mean perhaps not now, but grappa would figure in the near future. Rhyme smiled.

He glanced through the large plate-glass window and noted Mike Hill’s limousine pulling to a stop in front of the hotel. Sachs climbed out and stretched.

Something was odd. Her clothes were dusty. And, what was this? She had a fleck of blood on her blouse. She wasn’t smiling.

He looked Thom’s way. The aide too was frowning.

The driver, a big, dark-complexioned, hirsute man – so very Italian – leapt out and grabbed her small bag from the trunk. She shook her head – at the unnecessary gallantry; the bag weighed ten pounds, tops. They exchanged a few words and he tipped his head, then joined a cluster of other drivers for a smoke and – as Rhyme had observed about the Italians – conversation.

She joined Rhyme and Thom.

‘Amelia!’ Thom said, rising, as she walked into the lobby.

‘What happened?’ Rhyme asked firmly. ‘You’re hurt?’