The Fallen Angel

SIX

Costa pulled up close to the Palazzetto Santacroce and saw the nose of Falcone’s sleek Lancia saloon poking out from a nearby alley. There was a bad-tempered crowd of photographers, TV crew and hacks outside the arched entrance to the building and a few uniformed cops to hold them back. He held the scooter tight as Peroni slowly got off the Vespa, grumbling all the time, then popped the machine onto its stand next to a line of bikes and other scooters.

Falcone wandered over, eyebrows raised, the faintest of smiles on his face as Peroni struggled to get the motorbike cop’s helmet off his head.

‘I decided to string along,’ he said. ‘What took you?’

‘Not easy getting in and out of the Questura,’ Costa said by way of explanation. ‘There’s some kind of demo outside. You heard?’

‘Oh yes.’ He flourished a large brown envelope in his hands and seemed strangely energized. ‘Not to worry. And the brother?’

Peroni stowed the helmet beneath his arm.

‘Narcotics are being less than helpful. He was an informer.’

Falcone thought about this for a moment, then led them through the crowd of hacks, refusing to answer a single question, or rise to their aggressive taunts, and went up to the caretaker’s window of the palace.

This was Costa’s first visit. The sunny open space beyond the confined entrance of the palace surprised him, as did the sight of the Casina delle Civette when they walked through into the garden beyond, with its geometric flower beds and the gaudy colours of late summer: red and yellow and blue.

He looked up at the windows of the castellated tower. A single face was there, pale and young and beautiful. Mina Gabriel awaiting their arrival.

She looked scared.