The Thing Itself

TWENTY-TWO

The countryside was lusher near Chiusi. Tingley saw the town perched on its tufa hill when he was still some way off. The land sloped gently away to a small lake. The road wound round the hill, threading between a series of steep, cultivated step terraces. He entered the town with the cathedral on his left and the Etruscan Museum on his right. He parked on a side street nearby.

The sun was bright. It was quiet. Siesta time in a backwater. He looked across the countryside. Then he turned towards the Villa di Bocci to get on with the job.

Crespo di Bocci’s cousin, Renaldo, was twenty years younger and as unlike him as it was possible to be. Plump, a cruel curl to his lips. A hint of the actor Peter Ustinov at his most lascivious.

He offered Tingley wine on a terrace looking out across the countryside. Renaldo waved his arm expansively.

‘All this is a vast necropolis. As Camars, this town was one of the twelve cities of the Etruscan Federation. The Etruscans lived among their dead. With every rainfall, new treasures rise to the surface. There is a thirst for such treasures around the world.’ He pointed to the west. ‘That tufa hill there. It is the Poggio Gaiella. It has three storeys of passages and galleries, a labyrinth of them. It is regarded by some as the likeliest site for the mausoleum of Porsena, the great Etruscan emperor. You have heard of him?’

‘Horatio defended the gate of Rome against him, didn’t he?’

Renaldo bowed his head in assent.

‘There is a labyrinth of catacombs beneath the town, of course. Beneath this very house. Porsena was buried in the middle of a labyrinth with all his wealth about him. Now that would be a treasure worth finding.’

‘You smuggle artefacts, do you not?’

Renaldo ignored him.

‘Our family owned these fields and hills for generations. Then my grandfather took the wrong side.’

‘In World War Two?’

‘Before then. He became a fascist in the thirties. After the war our fortunes declined.’

Tingley nodded, wondering why he was being told this but thinking: only connect.

‘Your cousin said you would help me.’

‘My cousin does not speak for me.’ Renaldo di Bocci touched his fleshy lips with a forefinger. ‘Which is not to say that I won’t help you.’

‘You know who I want?’

‘Of course. But you must wait. You are welcome to stay here. In fact, I insist. Are you a reader?’

‘Not particularly.’

‘Nor I, but it is a pity. We have a fine library here with many rare books. For a bookish man it would be a profitable place to pass a couple of days.’

‘As you say — a pity.’

‘A woman perhaps? A man?’

‘I’ll be fine as I am,’ Tingley said.

Tingley was not a religious man. He did enjoy the calm of churches, however. Their susurrating silence. He was sitting in the cathedral beside the palazzo watching a choir assemble when his solitude was disturbed by a hunched old woman in black who sat down beside him.

He stepped to the back of the church and phoned his friend, Bob Watts.

‘How’s it going?’ Watts said. ‘What’s that noise in the background?’

‘Evensong,’ Tingley said. ‘I figured the church might be the safest place from which to phone.’

‘How far along are you?’

‘Pretty far. These Mafiosi are being unusually helpful with Kadire. Suspiciously so.’

‘You think they’re setting you up?’

‘I’m not sure. Maybe just to do their dirty work for them. The old guy has a grudge against Kadire for some friend he offed. But his children seem strictly business. I don’t think they’d help if there weren’t a business advantage.’

‘And you are a business advantage,’ Watts said. ‘You’re not connected. Whatever you do can’t come back and hurt them.’

‘I know that will be how they see it. But they’re keeping me on ice at the moment.’

‘Watch out for yourself, Jimmy.’

A sudden spasm in his stomach made Tingley double over. He forced himself erect.

‘How are things your end?’ he said through gritted teeth,

‘My father has died.’

‘Bob, I’m really sorry.’

‘I have mixed feelings myself, as you know, Jimmy. I’m sorting out the funeral and so on. I’m staying at his place.’

‘I don’t think I’ll be back in time.’

‘Don’t worry. Where next? And when?’

‘I’m already here — place called Chiusi. Crespo’s cousin is putting me up — a dodgy piece of work called Renaldo. I think this is where it’s going to go down.’

‘Don’t know the place.’

‘Old Etruscan hill town, north of Rome.’

‘You OK?’ Watts said.

‘I’m fine. Locked and loaded. Gotta go, amigo. Raise a glass for your father from me.’

Tingley closed the connection. He looked up at the ceiling, letting the music wash over him.