The Lizard's Bite by David Hewson Read Free Book Online Page B

finger on how he knew it.
    Falcone nodded when the narrative was done, then asked, “So you’re sure this is what happened? There can’t be any other explanation?”
    Randazzo waved a hand at the approaching jetty. Costa could smell the smoke from the island. The firefighters’ vessels clustered around the blackened quayside, near the still-smouldering outline of what looked like a large, once elegant industrial building. A narrow white tapering chimney emerged from its shattered and smoke-stained glass roof. To its left stood an extraordinary glass structure, like a gigantic hothouse designed by a madman, patched with scaffolding and ladders. On the other side was a stone palace, not unlike the Doge’s, but with an extraordinary eyelike bubble of glass protruding from an upper floor. These odd architect’s fantasies sat alone on a small island, next to a squat lighthouse by a vaporetto stop marked “Murano Faro.” Only a narrow metal bridge joined the property to Murano proper. It was surmounted by the iron figure of an angel, like an icon beckoning to visitors. A silver-haired man was working at its base, his face red with anger as he fought with a writhing serpent’s nest of cables.
    “See for yourself,” the commissario told them. “The Arcangeli are the only people who live here. It’s locked at night.”
    He gazed into their faces, trying to make sure they understood that what he said next was pivotal to his argument. “The room where they were found was locked from the inside. There’s no other access. Except through the windows, and the labourer said they were intact until the fire blew them out.”
    “How do you know he’s telling the truth?” Peroni wondered.
    Randazzo snorted, amused. “So what’s the alternative? This character somehow let himself in, killed both Uriel Arcangelo and his wife, then locked the door, went out through the fire, went back in and made out he was trying to rescue the man he’d just killed. Why?”
    “And the one who’s dead? He’s supposed to have a motive for killing his wife?” Costa asked.
    “It’s there somewhere. You’ll find it. We all know the statistics. Families kill one another first. That would be your instinct anyway, wouldn’t it?”
    “You can’t convict someone on statistics,” Falcone said carefully. “Or instinct. I don’t mean any disrespect, sir, but I think we’ve more experience of murder inquiries than you. Rome’s that kind of place.”
    “I don’t doubt it!” the commissario snapped. “But I didn’t bring you back from Verona for a tutorial in criminology. I want a piece of paperwork done and I’m cancelling your leave so you can do it. Uriel Arcangelo murdered his wife and placed her corpse in the furnace. Then, deliberately or by accident, he was burned to death himself. There’s no other possible explanation. We’ll know more later. They’re working on the postmortems now.”
    Falcone was speechless for a moment. Then he asked, “You mean the victims are no longer in place?”
    “No! Why should they be?”
    “I’m not used to investigating crimes where the evidence has been removed before we arrive.”
    “And I’m not used to having to explain myself when I give orders. You can see the bodies in the morgue if that’s what turns you on.”
    “Why us?” Costa asked.
    “Because I want it.”
    “But you’ve had men here already,” Costa objected. “Local men. Why can’t they follow through on the case?”
    “They’ve better things to do. Besides, you said it yourself: You’ve a track record.”
    Peroni’s eyes widened. “Not for sweeping up we haven’t,” he objected. “You don’t want an investigation. You want clerical work. You—”
    “I want you to do as you’re damn well told,” Randazzo burst in, furious. “I never asked for you people to be here in the first place. It’s time you earned your pay. You’ve just been a burden all the while. Something I had to watch every time my back was