below him. He couldn’t see any of the people who had been in the church when he arrived. There was no sign of anyone resembling the figure he had seen in the window.
‘Is Radislav here?’ he said.
Kadire touched his face.
‘That doesn’t really matter,’ he said.
‘It matters to me.’
‘I tried to kill you.’
‘You killed someone I cared about instead. You have to pay for that.’
Kadire looked him up and down.
‘I don’t think your situation is of the best.’
Tingley looked down into the nave. The grey-faced Radislav and two other men were walking along it.
‘You were expecting me?’ Tingley said.
‘The Di Bocci situation is. . difficult. A rock and a hard place.’
‘You know you killed the wrong people in Brighton, don’t you? Hathaway wasn’t involved in the shootings.’
‘Not my people. I am Albanian. Radislav’s people. The pregnant woman in Milldean shot in her bed during the massacre was his sister.’
Tingley had come here to kill Kadire but this was too cold-blooded, the man too defenceless. Kadire seemed to read his thoughts. He released his stick, spreading his arms wide in a gesture of surrender as it clattered to the floor.
Tingley could do it with one blow. He should do it, he knew. He could be out of the room before Kadire realized he was dead. He glanced at the stairs — he could hear Radislav coming up them — and back at Kadire.
Kadire watched him.
Tingley backed into the next room. He turned and ran for the door in the far wall. He thought at first it was locked but after a few moments hurried tugging it came open. He pelted down a flight of narrow stairs, almost colliding with a door at the bottom. It opened on to the gravel car park. A moment later he made a dash round the perimeter of the church to his car.
As he stabbed his key into the ignition, he looked around to see if Radislav and Kadire had any other men with them. No one visible. In a squeal of tyres and a flurry of dust, he sent the car hurtling two hundred yards down the dirt road alongside the church to the main road. Gunning the engine, he dashed towards the vantage point he’d spied earlier.
TWENTY-FIVE
Tingley lost track of time, lying in the hide, sighting down the sniper’s rifle at the church and the car parked beside it. He wasn’t a crack shot like Kadire, but with the magnification on this scope he didn’t need to be.
His mind wandered, but all the time he had half an ear on his immediate surroundings, alert to anyone creeping up on him. Cicadas rasped. There was an ants’ nest somewhere nearby and tiny red ants swirled over his hands, biting furiously.
Radislav, here in Italy. And an easy target. Tingley had expected to be blasting his way into some remote hilltop compound with some of the weaponry weighing down the boot of his car.
When the minute hand of his watch ticked on to the third hour, he put the rifle down and rubbed at the eye that had been glued to the scope. He realized he was drenched in sweat, though the day was cool.
Tingley pictured that staircase down into the crypt underneath the altar. Realized there must be a secret tunnel by which to leave the church. He wondered where Kadire and Radislav now were. Running from him? Or towards him?
Jimmy Tingley edged the car through the medieval gateway into the small, walled town of Gubbio. He parked and walked up the steep, cobbled streets to stop for a beer at a small bar on a terrace below the gnarled ninth- century church.
There was a service at 7.30, a celebration of a local saint’s day. The saint was actually an Etruscan god who had survived down the centuries by disguising himself as a Christian.
He joined a short line of people dipping their fingers in the water in the font at the back of the church to bless themselves. When it was his turn, he had barely touched the surface of the water before he withdrew his finger sharply. The water was scalding.
He moved on and glanced back. The woman behind him dipped and made the sign of the cross with her finger on her forehead. He looked down at his burning hand. It was an engorged purple-red.
He raised an eyebrow. Ant-bites from the hide, not God’s judgement.
As he was sitting in a pew, the snake bit, doubling him over. Bile rose in his throat but he held it down, his jaw clenched tight. Maybe this was God having his say.
The two musicians were elderly peasants dressed up in their Sunday suits. The church was lit entirely by candles. Shadows pressed down on him. The service lasted an hour. Tingley wept at the beauty of it. He bowed his head when Renaldo di Bocci stepped from the front pew and walked down the aisle past him.
Di Bocci was without bodyguards. Tingley fell in step behind him, and as the church exit filled with people and progress slowed to a shuffle, he put his hands on Di Bocci’s arms and guided him a few yards off to one side. Di Bocci didn’t resist at first, though he tried to turn his head to see who was pushing him.
A couple of yards away from the rest of the congregation, Tingley stepped beside him and thrust his pistol into his side. Di Bocci half-turned his head and his eyes widened.
‘I need to know where Kadire and Radislav are,’ Tingley hissed.
‘I told you,’ Di Bocci said quietly. ‘Kadire will be in Sant’Antimo tomorrow. Radislav — I do not know.’
‘You told me that when you were lying to me. Now you will tell me the truth.’
As Tingley said this, he gripped Di Bocci tightly by the elbow, pinching the nerves, and moved him to the door behind the font. He released his grip, opened the door and pushed Di Bocci through. Di Bocci stumbled on to the marble steps at the other side of the door and fell to his knees, gasping as his shins banged against the lip of the marble.
Tingley closed and bolted the door behind him.
‘My men are waiting for me outside,’ Di Bocci said.
Tingley shook his head.
‘No one is waiting for you. Except your mistress. And she was not expecting you for another half an hour. And now she is not expecting you at all.’
Di Bocci turned awkwardly, rubbing his shin.
‘How-?’
‘-do I know all this? In betraying me, you have betrayed your cousin in Orvieto. He is not pleased.’
When Tingley had left Sant’Antimo, he had found a quiet place to pull over and telephoned Crespo’s family in Orvieto. He had told them what had happened. He had also told them he guessed that Charlie Laker had given them permission to help him and, having done so, would not be pleased that things had gone awry.
‘How do you know he did not change his mind?’ Crespo had said quietly.
Tingley had thought for a moment.
‘Not likely. But had I realized you had no control over your cousin, I would have done things differently.’
Crespo had been silent for a moment.
‘Let me call you back.’
Tingley had stayed in the car, the windows wound down, feeling the snake shift, listening to the birdsong and the cicadas, until his phone had rung again.
‘Go to Gubbio.’ It was Maria’s voice. ‘Renaldo has a mistress there. He thinks nobody knows.’
She gave him the details.
‘You would betray family? In Italy?’
She paused before replying.
