Ben stood, and they shook hands. ‘I really did very little.’
‘As you say. Nonetheless, we are grateful to you.’ Lario pointed out of the office window at the gated forecourt down below. ‘You will find your car outside. My men found your passport and personal belongings inside and I took the liberty of having it brought here. Ask the duty sergeant for the keys.’
‘So I’m free to go?’
Lario nodded. ‘Though I regret you may be requested to return to testify at some stage during the investigation. Should that need arise, I presume you can be reached at your business address in France?’
‘That’s right,’ Ben said, and headed for the door.
‘Signor Hope?’
Ben turned. Lario was leaning against his desk, watching him with a curious expression. ‘I would not of course allow you to leave so freely if I thought for one moment there were any . . .
‘Irregularities such as . . . ?’
Lario waved his hand. ‘No matter. I am sure it is quite plausible these men shot one another in the foot. Just as I am sure there must also be an explanation for this poker incident, as well as the severed fingers.’
‘So it was a poker,’ Ben said.
‘My mistake.’
‘When thieves fall out . . .’ Ben said. ‘You know better than me how these things go.’
‘Quite,’ Lario replied graciously. ‘It is of little consequence. And I am sure I need not worry about any . . .
‘Not in the least.’ Ben smiled. ‘Why would you?’
‘You are right. Why would I?’
‘In any case, I’m leaving for London tomorrow.’ Ben glanced at his watch. It was after one. ‘Or should I say, later today. My flight’s at four in the afternoon.’
Lario was about to reply when the phone rang on his desk. ‘Excuse me.’ He picked up. ‘Lario.’
There was silence for a few seconds as he listened, a deep frown spreading across his face. He sank down against the desk, sighed and ruffled his hair.
Whatever it was, even on a night like this, it was bad news.
‘Is Strada going to be OK?’ Lario said in Italian.
Ben’s heart went cold at the mention of the name.
Lario’s brow creased into an even deeper frown. ‘Poor guy. To lose his family like that and then . . . OK. Yeah. Thanks for letting me know.’ He hung up the phone, sighed loudly and rubbed his face with his hands.
‘Strada,’ Ben said. ‘As in Fabio Strada?’
Lario looked surprised. ‘You know him?’
‘I met his wife Donatella and son Gianni at the gallery.’ It was hard to say their names. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Fabio Strada has been involved in a serious car accident. He was apparently driving home late from work when his sister called him with the news of the deaths of his wife and son.’ Lario made a face. ‘
The moment he climbed into the Shogun, Ben could tell that the cops had been through every inch of the vehicle. Just the subtle telltale signs that only a professional could discern, like the grubby prints all over the dashboard, the sweet wrapper in the rear footwell and the undone straps on his old green army bag. His leather jacket was still on the passenger seat where he’d left it, but with consummate skill, whoever had checked out the contents of his wallet had replaced it in the wrong pocket. At least they hadn’t managed to lose his air tickets, or dipped their fingers into the thick wad of banknotes he preferred to carry rather than use cards. The driver’s seat had been adjusted for someone with legs about the length of a mandrill’s. Ben made himself comfortable, then fired up the engine and drove out of the forecourt of the Carabinieri headquarters. The armed guards waved him laconically out of the gate.
The night was warm, and Ben rolled down his windows as he drove out into the street. He felt tired. It was late, but in Rome it was never too late to find a hotel. All he wanted right now was to get to bed and close his eyes and wipe the last few hours from his memory forever.
In the glow of a streetlight a few metres away, three people were hanging about a parked silver Renault Espace. Two guys, one unshaven with spiky hair and a loud shirt, the other chubby in a denim jacket, talking to a tall, attractive brunette. The men were both smoking and the three were sharing a joke about something. The woman’s laughter carried across the street.
As Ben drove out of the police HQ and the gates closed behind him, he noticed the chubby guy glance his way through the Shogun’s open window, narrow his eyes in recognition and then tap the woman on the arm and mutter something in Italian that might have been ‘here he comes’. The woman and the spiky-haired guy turned to stare at him; then the spiky-haired guy quickly threw down his cigarette and crushed the butt with his shoe, ducked into the back of the Espace and came out with a lightweight TV camera that he slung over his shoulder like a surface-to-air missile launcher, while the chubby one produced a set of earphones and a boom mike. They all came striding across the street towards the approaching Shogun, and Ben had to brake to avoid running them down.
The woman held up her hand. ‘Excuse me?’ she called out in English. ‘Signor Hope? Silvana Lucenzi, TeleGiornale 1 News.’
Ben swore under his breath. Lario’s grip on secrecy was about as refined as his men’s hostage rescue skills. He waved the crew out of the way, but they circled the car and wouldn’t let him pass. The spiky-haired guy aimed his camera through the Shogun’s open passenger window at Ben while the woman came up to the driver’s side, smiling in that rapacious way ambitious reporters had when they were hot on the trail of an exclusive.
‘Signor Ben Hope? You are the hero of the gallery robbery. Can I have an interview?’ She put her hand, with long pink nails, on the door sill and trotted along beside the Mitsubishi as he nosed between them, trying to get past without running over their feet. That was all he needed.
‘You have the wrong person,’ he said in an American accent. ‘Hugo Braunschweiger, US Embassy attache.’
‘How did it feel to be facing death, Signor Hope?’ she asked, evidently not fooled. Ben could see the camera’s auto-focus lens zeroing in on him for a response. He stabbed the window control and the woman jerked her hand away as the glass wound up. He put his foot on the gas, forced the three of them aside and roared off down the street. In his mirror, Silvana Lucenzi pulled a face and waved her arms in frustration at her colleagues.
The streets of Rome were never asleep. Ben was immune to the spectacular sights as he drove by the illuminated Colosseum and up Via Fori Imperiali. A few cafes were still open, people sitting drinking in the beautiful evening. Lovers walking arm in arm, sports cars zapping through the streets and impetuous young guys on noisy little motorcycles popping wheelies to impress girls. After a couple of misses, Ben found a hotel with vacancies near the Piazza Venezia and wearily carried his bag over to the reception desk and booked a single room. The woman behind the desk seemed uninterested in him at first; then she suddenly looked at him more closely, frowned and cocked her head.
But she did, wide-eyed with animation and waving her incredulous colleagues over. Within seconds a whole group of women had gathered to stare at him as though he’d landed from Jupiter. Was he really the same man
