care in the world. But Staffe knows that isn’t the case.
Six
Josie pauses the CCTV footage again, scrutinises the man on the screen and she saves him as a still image, dragging him to her folder marked ‘Carmelo’s House Day of Disappearance’.
The image is foreshortened and taken from above, but Josie can see that he wears an overcoat with the collar turned up and a hat. His face is obscured and he moves slowly. He doesn’t look around, simply goes straight to the entry pad at the side of the main gates and taps in a code, gains access immediately through the iron gate in the high wall. The time was four seventeen. Carmelo’s Daimler had left through the gates twice on the day of his abduction, and arrived once, but that was the only other traffic. Josie clicks another saved file and watches the Daimler leave for its second time, at six thirty-two.
Staffe comes across to her desk, says, ‘Is this the CCTV footage from Beauvoir Place?’
‘There’s just one man going in, all day.’
‘And the car?’
‘It’s Carmelo’s. It left at half six in the evening, but he wasn’t driving.’
‘How do you know?’
‘The man who went in didn’t come out again. Unless he’s still in the house—’
Josie clicks the icon for the still of the man.
‘It’s not much to go on,’ says Staffe, looking at the grainy enlargement of the elevated and rear view of the man in the hat. ‘Is that the best we’ve got?’
‘Afraid so, sir, except that he must have known Carmelo. He had the code for the gate.’ Josie’s phone beeps and she looks at the screen, walks to the window. ‘I can’t really talk now – work.’ She looks out of the window and wraps her free arm across her body, clasps her own shoulder. She laughs softly into the phone – a private joke. ‘Maybe later.’ She looks over the shoulder, towards Staffe, who is watching her. He looks away and she says, ‘I’ll call you. OK. Right.’ She laughs again, says, ‘Don’t!’ in a joking way and clicks off. Returning to her desk, she says, ‘Sorry about that.’
He makes a tight smile. ‘If you can spare a minute, Attilio Trapani is coming across to give his statement.’
‘You don’t want me there, do you? I was going to call on Carmelo’s accountant.’
‘I’ll do that when we’re done.’
‘So what’s in store for me?’
‘That depends.’
Staffe goes to the window. Outside, it is suddenly darker than dusk and a jag of lightning darts across the narrow strip of sky. ‘When Attilio leaves here, follow him. Everywhere he goes.’
‘For how long?’
‘As long as it takes.’ Staffe points down below, to Cloth Fair, where a motorcycle appears, gliding quietly along the street. It is unmarked and the rider has a spare helmet strapped to the rear seat. ‘Use him, if you need to. He’s one of ours.’
The rider lifts his visor, looks up and salutes.
‘I’m wearing a skirt. I—’
But Staffe is gone.
*
Attilio’s face is red and he chews his lip. Staffe notices that just to the right of his Adam’s apple, he has a small cut. He can’t remember if Attilio had it when they interviewed him down at Ockingham Manor. ‘What’s that?’
Attilio’s gaze is unfocused, his mind elsewhere.
‘The mark on your neck. Where did it come from?’
Attilio puts a finger to his throat, feels where the skin is broken. ‘Must have been shaving.’
Staffe leans forward, peering. ‘Funny-shaped razor you use.’
Like the tip of a knife
, he thinks. ‘Tell me about your father.’
‘My father and I were never close. And of course, I never knew my mother. He was all I had and, you know—’ He looks up at Staffe again. ‘That was never enough. Not for either of us.’
He looks at his statement, begins to read it and glazes over. ‘He never held me. Did I say that already?’ He signs the statement, says, ‘My wife and the servants will verify it.’
‘And your guests, of course.’
‘I’d rather you didn’t trouble
Michael Bar-Zohar, Nissim Mishal