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  * * *

  The Naples chief of police called Antonio a few days later, and asked if he was making any progress.

  ‘I can’t pretend I am, chief,’ admitted Antonio. ‘To date,’ he said, opening a thick file, ‘forty-four people have confessed to killing the mayor, and I’m fairly sure none of them are guilty. And worse, I think they all know who did murder Lombardi.’

  ‘Someone will crack,’ said the chief.

  ‘They always do.’

  ‘This isn’t Naples, chief,’ Antonio heard himself saying.

  ‘So who’s the latest one to confess?’ ‘Not one, but eleven. The local football team claim they pushed Lombardi over a cliff and he drowned in the sea.’

  ‘And what makes you so sure they didn’t?’

  ‘I interviewed all eleven of them. The nearest coastline is over forty miles away, and they couldn’t even agree on which cliff they pushed him over, where they pulled him out of the water, or how they managed to get him back to Cortoglia and tuck him up in bed. And in any case, I’m not convinced that lot could have murdered Lombardi between them.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘They haven’t won a football match in the past fifteen years and, don’t forget, this was an away game. Frankly, I think it’s more likely Lombardi would have pushed all eleven of them over a cliff before they laid a hand on him.’

  ‘All the more reason for you to come back,’ said the chief. ‘Lombardi’s clearly not going to be missed by anyone in Cortoglia, because I’ve just received a confidential report from the Guardia di Finanza to let me know even the Mafia expelled him. They felt he was too violent. So if you haven’t discovered who murdered him by the end of next week, I want you back in Naples where real criminals are still roaming the streets.’

  Antonio wasn’t given a chance to respond.

  * * *

  Everyone took the day off, Antonio included, to celebrate the installation of the new mayor. Lorenzo Farinelli had been elected unopposed, which didn’t come as a surprise to anyone, and the council of six remained in place. Dancing and drinking in the town square went on until the early hours, right outside Antonio’s bedroom window, and that wasn’t the only reason he couldn’t get to sleep.

  The next morning he called his mother to tell her he’d met the woman he was going to marry, and she would be captivated, and not just by her beauty.

  ‘I can’t wait to meet her,’ said his mother. ‘Why don’t you bring her to Naples for the weekend?’

  ‘Why don’t you and Papa come to Cortoglia?’

  * * *

  During the next few days, the number of citizens who confessed to killing Lombardi rose from forty-four to fifty-one, and when the chief called again from Naples to tell him to wrap up the case, Antonio had to admit that the locals had defeated him, and he accepted that perhaps the time had come to head back to the real world.

  Indeed, Antonio might have done so if the new mayor hadn’t phoned and asked to see him on a private matter.

  As the young detective walked across the square to the town hall, he assumed that the number of murderers in the town was about to rise from fifty-one to fifty-two, as Farinelli was now the only person on the council who hadn’t confessed to murdering Lombardi, and Antonio had recently discovered he hadn’t been at a conference in Florence on the day of the murder. But he did know who had been.

  * * *

  ‘Those in favour?’ said the mayor, looking around the council chamber that he and his fellow members of the Consiglio Comunale had recaptured.

  The five other members of the council – Pellegrino, De Rosa, Carrafini, Cattaneo and Altana – all raised their hands.

  ‘And are we also agreed on the sum of money we should offer him?’

  The five hands were raised once again, without a murmur of dissent.

  ‘But do you think it will be enough?’ asked Pellegrino, as there was a knock on the door.

  ‘I suspect we’re about to find out,’ said the mayor as Antonio entered the room, surprised to find the whole council awaiting him. Farinelli nodded towards the empty seat at the other end of the table.

  Once Antonio had poured himself a glass of water and sat back, the mayor said, ‘We’ve just finished our first meeting of the new council, and wondered if you would bring us up to date on how your investigation is progressing.’

  ‘Although I don’t have sufficient proof, Mr Mayor, I’m fairly sure I now know who killed Lombardi.’ His eyes remained fixed on the person seated at the other end of the table. ‘However, despite my suspicions, I’ve been instructed by my chief to close the case and return to Naples.’

  Antonio couldn’t have missed the collective sigh of relief from those seated around the table.

  ‘I am sure your chief has made a wise decision,’ said the mayor. ‘However, I confess,’ he paused as Antonio continued to stare at him, ‘that wasn’t the reason we wanted to see you. As you probably know, Lieutenant, Luca Gentile has recently been in touch to let us know that he will not be returning to Cortoglia for personal reasons, and the Consiglio voted unanimously to offer you the position of chief of police.’

  ‘But the town has only ever had one policeman.’

  ‘Yes,’ said De Rosa, ‘but we all also felt with so many murderers on the loose, you ought to have a deputy.’

  ‘But there’s barely enough space for one officer in the police station. There’s only one desk and there isn’t even a lock on the cell door.’

  ‘True, but then we’ve never needed one in the past,’ said Pellegrino. ‘However, the council have agreed we should build a new police station, worthy of your status.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘We’d also be happy for you to go on living in your present accommodation,’ Cattaneo interjected.

  ‘That’s incredibly generous, but I still feel—’

  ‘And we’d pay you the same amount as the chief of police in Naples,’ Farinelli said, hoping to close the deal.

  ‘That’s more than generous—’ began Antonio.

  ‘However,’ the mayor continued, ‘although we didn’t put it to a vote, there is one thing we all felt strongly about. If you were able to marry a local girl…’

  * * *

  Several guests, including Antonio’s parents and brother, arrived from Naples on the morning of Antonio Rossetti and Francesca Farinelli’s wedding. However, Antonio assured the mayor they would all be leaving the next day.

  The whole town turned out to witness the vows of eternal love sworn by the couple, including several locals who hadn’t been invited. When il Signor and la Signora Rossetti left the wedding celebrations to set off for Venice, Antonio suspected the festivities would still be going on when they returned home in a fortnight’s time.

  The newly-weds spent their honeymoon in Venice, eating too much spaghetti alle vongole, and drinking too much wine, while still finding a way of not putting on too much weight.

  On the final night Antonio sat up in bed and watched his wife undress. When she slipped under the covers to join him, he took her in his arms.

  ‘It’s been the most wonderful fortnight, my darling,’ Francesca said. ‘So many memories to share with everyone when we get back home.’

  ‘Including your feeble effort to climb St Mark’s, while pretending you weren’t out of breath when you finally reached the top.’

  ‘That hardly compares to your pathetic attempt to manoeuvre a gondola under the Bridge of Sighs, despite the gondolier pointing out that it was the widest stretch of water on the canal.’

  ‘Don’t tell anyone!’

  ‘I have photographs,’ Francesca teased.

  ‘But I confess the highlight was this evening’s candlelit dinner at Harry’s Bar overlooking the Rialto.’

  ‘Memorable,’ sighed Francesca as she kissed him, ‘but if Gian Lucio was to open a restaurant in Venice, they’d have a genuine rival.’

  ‘If you’d only come to Naples, Francesca, I would introduce you to one or
two restaurants you might enjoy just as much.’

  ‘Perhaps I’ll come for lunch one day. Although I confess I’m looking forward to getting back to Cortoglia.’

  ‘Me too,’ admitted Toni. ‘And I wouldn’t be surprised to find they’re all still in the market square celebrating.’

  ‘Let’s just hope no one’s murdered my father.’

  ‘Not least because I still haven’t solved the mystery of who killed the last mayor. Come to think of it, you’re about the only person who didn’t confess to murdering Lombardi.’

  ‘I was going to when you first visited the pharmacy. But you seemed more interested in trying to pick me up.’

  Toni laughed. ‘Then all I need to know, my darling, is how you killed Lombardi?’

  ‘A spoonful of cyanide dropped into his coffee after dinner, just before he went to bed. A slow and painful death, but no more than he deserved.’

  Antonio sat bolt upright and stared at his wife.

  ‘And I don’t have to remind you, my darling,’ continued Francesca, ‘that in Italy, a man cannot give evidence against his wife.’

  It Can’t Be October Already

  PATRICK O’FLYNN stood in front of H. Samuel, the jeweller’s, holding a brick in his right hand. He was staring intently at the window. He smiled, raised his arm and hurled the brick at the glass pane. The window shattered like a spider’s web, but remained firmly in place. An alarm was immediately set off, which in the still of a clear, cold October night could be heard half a mile away. More important to Pat, the alarm was directly connected to the local police station.

  Pat didn’t move as he continued to stare at his handiwork. He only had to wait ninety seconds before he heard the sound of a siren in the distance. He bent down and retrieved the brick from the pavement, as the whining noise grew louder and louder. When the police car came to a screeching halt by the kerbside, Pat raised the brick above his head and leant back, like an Olympic javelin thrower intent on a gold medal. Two policemen leapt out of the car. The older one ignored Pat, who remained poised, arm above his head with the brick in his hand, and walked across to the window to check the damage. Although the pane was shattered, it was still firmly in place. In any case, an iron security grille had descended behind the window, something Pat knew full well would happen. But when the sergeant returned to the station, he would still have to phone the manager, get him out of bed and ask him to come down to the shop and turn off the alarm.

  The sergeant turned round to find Pat still standing with the brick high above his head.

  ‘OK, Pat, hand it over and get in,’ said the sergeant, as he held open the back door of the police car.

  Pat smiled, passed the brick to the fresh-faced constable and said, ‘You’ll need this as evidence.’

  The young constable was speechless.

  ‘Thank you, Sergeant,’ said Pat as he climbed into the back of the car, and, smiling at the young constable, who took his place behind the wheel, asked, ‘Have I ever told you about the time I tried to get a job on a building site in Liverpool?’

  ‘Many times,’ interjected the sergeant, as he took his place next to Pat and pulled the back door closed.

  ‘No handcuffs?’ queried Pat.

  ‘I don’t want to be handcuffed to you,’ said the sergeant, ‘I want to be rid of you. Why don’t you just go back to Ireland?’

  ‘An altogether inferior class of prison,’ Pat explained, ‘and in any case, they don’t treat me with the same degree of respect as you do, Sergeant,’ he added, as the car moved away from the kerb and headed back towards the police station.

  ‘Can you tell me your name?’ Pat asked, leaning forward to address the young constable.

  ‘Constable Cooper.’

  ‘Are you by any chance related to Chief Inspector Cooper?’

  ‘He’s my father.’

  ‘A gentleman,’ said Pat. ‘We’ve had many a cup of tea and biscuits together. I hope he’s in fine fettle.’

  ‘He’s just retired,’ said Constable Cooper.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Pat. ‘Will you tell him that Pat O’Flynn asked after him? And please send him, and your dear mother, my best wishes.’

  ‘Stop taking the piss, Pat,’ said the sergeant. ‘The boy’s only been out of Peel House for a few weeks,’ he added, as the car came to a halt outside the police station. The sergeant climbed out of the back and held the door open for Pat.

  ‘Thank you, Sergeant,’ said Pat, as if he was addressing the doorman at the Ritz. The constable grinned as the sergeant accompanied Pat up the stairs and into the police station.

  ‘Ah, and a very good evening to you, Mr Baker,’ said Pat when he saw who it was standing behind the desk.

  ‘Oh, Christ,’ said the duty sergeant. ‘It can’t be October already.’

  ‘I’m afraid so, Sergeant,’ said Pat. ‘I was wondering if my usual cell is available. I’ll only be staying overnight, you understand.’

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ said the desk sergeant, ‘it’s already occupied by a real criminal. You’ll have to be satisfied with cell number two.’

  ‘But I’ve always had cell number one in the past,’ protested Pat.

  The desk sergeant looked up and raised an eyebrow.

  ‘No, I’m to blame,’ admitted Pat. ‘I should have asked my secretary to call and book in advance. Do you need to take an imprint of my credit card?’

  ‘No, I have all your details on file,’ the desk sergeant assured him.

  ‘How about fingerprints?’

  ‘Unless you’ve found a way of removing your old ones, Pat, I don’t think we need another set. But I suppose you’d better sign the charge sheet.’

  Pat took the proffered biro and signed on the bottom line with a flourish.

  ‘Take him down to cell number two, Constable.’

  ‘Thank you, Sergeant,’ said Pat as he was led away. He stopped, turned around and said, ‘I wonder, Sergeant, if you could give me a wake-up call around seven, a cup of tea, Earl Grey preferably, and a copy of the Irish Times.’

  ‘Piss off, Pat,’ said the desk sergeant, as the constable tried to stifle a laugh.

  ‘Which reminds me,’ said Pat, ‘have I told you about the time I tried to get a job on a building site in Liverpool, and the foreman—’

  ‘Get him out of my sight, Constable, if you don’t want to spend the rest of the month on traffic duty.’

  The constable grabbed Pat by the elbow and hurried him downstairs.

  ‘No need to come with me,’ said Pat. ‘I can find my own way.’ This time the constable did laugh as he placed a key in the lock of cell number two. The young policeman unlocked the cell and pulled open the heavy door, allowing Pat to stroll in.

  ‘Thank you, Constable Cooper,’ said Pat. ‘I look forward to seeing you in the morning.’

  ‘I’ll be off duty,’ said Constable Cooper.

  ‘Then I’ll see you this time next year,’ said Pat without explanation, ‘and don’t forget to pass on my best wishes to your father,’ he added as the four-inch-thick iron door was slammed shut.

  Pat studied the cell for a few moments: a steel washbasin, a bog and a bed, one sheet, one blanket and one pillow. Pat was reassured by the fact that nothing had changed since last year. He fell on the horsehair mattress, placed his head on the rock-hard pillow and slept all night – for the first time in weeks.

  Pat was woken from a deep sleep at seven the following morning, when the cell-door flap was flicked open and two black eyes stared in.

  ‘Good morning, Pat,’ said a friendly voice.

  ‘Good morning, Wesley,’ said Pat, not even opening his eyes. ‘And how are you?’

  ‘I’m well,’ replied Wesley, ‘but sorry to see you back.’ He paused. ‘I suppose it must be October.’

  ‘It certainly is,’ said Pat, climbing off the bed, ‘and it’s important that I look my best for this morning’s show trial.’

  ‘Anything you need in particular?’


  ‘A cup of tea would be most acceptable, but what I really require is a razor, a bar of soap, a toothbrush and some toothpaste. I don’t have to remind you, Wesley, that a defendant is entitled to this simple request before he makes an appearance in court.’

  ‘I’ll see you get them,’ said Wesley, ‘and would you like to read my copy of the Sun?‘

  ‘That’s kind of you, Wesley, but if the chief superintendent has finished with yesterday’s Times, I’d prefer that.’ A West Indian chuckle was followed by the closing of the shutter on the cell door.

  Pat didn’t have to wait long before he heard a key turn in the lock. The heavy door was pulled open to reveal the smiling face of Wesley Pickett, a tray in one hand, which he placed on the end of the bed.

  ‘Thank you, Wesley,’ said Pat as he stared down at the bowl of cornflakes, small carton of skimmed milk, two slices of burnt toast and a boiled egg. ‘I do hope Molly remembered,’ added Pat, ‘that I like my eggs lightly boiled, for two and a half minutes.’

  ‘Molly left last year,’ said Wesley. ‘I think you’ll find the egg was boiled last night by the desk sergeant.’

  ‘You can’t get the staff nowadays,’ said Pat. ‘I blame it on the Irish, myself. They’re no longer committed to domestic service,’ he added as he tapped the top of his egg with a plastic spoon. ‘Wesley, have I told you about the time I tried to get a labouring job on a building site in Liverpool, and the foreman, a bloody Englishman—’ Pat looked up and sighed as he heard the door slam and the key turn in the lock. ‘I suppose I must have told him the story before,’ he muttered to himself.

  After Pat had finished breakfast, he cleaned his teeth with a toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste that were even smaller than the ones they’d supplied on his only experience of an Aer Lingus flight to Dublin. Next, he turned on the hot tap in the tiny steel wash basin. The slow trickle of water took some time to turn from cold to lukewarm. He rubbed the mean piece of soap between his fingers until he’d whipped up enough cream to produce a lather, which he then smeared all over his stubbled face. Next he picked up the plastic Bic razor, and began the slow process of removing a four-day-old stubble. He finally dabbed his face with a rough green hand towel, not much larger than a flannel.