He had seen Simon Harvey on their visits to Cinecittà to discuss arrangements for the exhibition. The American seemed professional, obsessed with the job as much as the rest of them, but, perhaps, with some rare degree of perspective. Peroni recalled that, on one occasion, the man had even given them a brief lecture on Dante and the origins of Inferno, as if somehow needing to justify the intellectual rationale behind the movie. He’d even declared, “This will be art, promise.” This had struck him as odd and unnecessary at the time. But then the movie industry was rarely predictable, for ordinary human beings anyway. That day in the film studios he’d watched hideously disfigured ghouls sipping Coke, smoking cigarettes, and filling in crosswords during their time off camera. After that, he’d been glad to get out into the dull suburb surrounding the studio and breathe the fume-filled air.
“Listen,” Harvey went on. “Forget about Roberto and Bonetti bawling you out. That’s how they work. The point is this. There’s big money at stake here. Italian money.”
Peroni stared at the man, wondering what to make of this strange comment. “Italian money?” he asked. “What does that mean?”
Harvey cast a backwards glance to make sure no one was listening. “Do I need to spell it out?”
“For me you do.”
The publicist placed a conspiratorial hand on Peroni’s arm. “You’re a cop,” he said with a sigh. “Please don’t act the innocent. And God knows it’s been in the papers anyway. Bonetti has all kind of friends. Government friends.” He winced. “Other … friends. There’s more than a hundred and fifty million dollars running on this horse. Money like that creates debts that need paying. This is your country … not mine, Officer. We both know there are people neither of us want to piss off, not for a three-hour private screening in front of a handful of self-important jerks in evening dress, anyway. All I ask is you give us a break. Then we’re done. It won’t get in the way. I’ll make sure. That’s a promise.”
Peroni couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Someone’s been shot. They heard it. We all did. There’s also the question of a death mask which, in case you’ve forgotten, is not only a national treasure. It also seems to resemble your missing movie star.”
He pointed at the head, which was now on a plastic mat on the podium table, being prodded and poked by Teresa and her deputy, Silvio Di Capua. She caught Peroni’s eye; he got the message instantly. It was time to get the evidence out of there as soon as possible, before the Carabinieri grabbed it. The dark blue uniforms seemed to be breeding around them, and some of them had fancy stripes and medals on their jackets that denoted the arrival of more-senior ranks.
“Ever heard the saying ‘The show must go on’?” Harvey retorted.
“Don’t tell me: it’s what this missing star of yours would have wanted.”
“Precisely. Imagine. All these people can go tell their friends tomorrow they still got to the premiere, even after all this mess. This is the world I live in, friend. It’s about status and money and one-upmanship. Inferno is the biggest release of this summer, worldwide. They get to say they saw it first. We get to keep our backers happy. You escape the phone calls from on high. Please.”
“This is a police investigation—”
“No, it’s not,” Harvey interrupted. “Let’s speak frankly. I oversaw those security arrangements. By rights, this belongs to the Carabinieri. Not you. All you guys had to look after was the stuff.”
“The stuff,” Peroni repeated.
“No fun doing the menial work while others get to stand in the spotlight, is it?” The American smiled. “I forget your name, Officer.”
“Gianni Peroni,” he answered. “Like the beer.”
Harvey stuck out his hand. Peroni took it.
“Simon Harvey. Like the sherry. Here’s the deal. You let this little show go on tonight. I’ll do what I can to ensure this investigation comes your way. The Carabinieri won’t argue. Not until they’ve phoned home, and by then you and your friends will be away with the goods.”
Peroni thought about this. Harvey had no idea how these matters worked. The probability was that the Carabinieri would get the investigation in any case, however hard Falcone tried to steal the job. The men from the military had been given cast and crew security from the beginning. Murder or no murder, this was their call.
“Why would you want to give me a deal like that?”
The American nodded in the direction of the dark blue uniforms. “Because I’ve had a bellyful of those stuck-up bastards for the past few months and they won’t cut me a deal on anything. Is that good enough?”
Peroni discreetly eyed the opposition. Some boss figure had emerged and was now bravely taking on the police forensic team, not even blinking at Teresa’s increasingly desperate attempts to shout him down. There was strength in numbers, particularly when it came backed up by medals and rank. It was definitely time to leave.
“You must have seen that film a million times,” Peroni observed.
“A million times is not enough,” Harvey replied. “Roberto Tonti’s a genius. I’d watch it a million times more if I could. Inferno is the finest piece of cinema I’ve ever worked on. I doubt I’ll ever have the privilege to get my name attached to anything better. What’s your point?”
“My point, Signor Harvey, is I’m willing to let you have your little show. Provided you can help us get out of here the moment my colleagues are ready.”
“It’s done,” Harvey said immediately. “You have my word.”
“And I want someone to come along with us. Someone from the studio. Bonetti, Tonti …”
The man waved his hand in front of Peroni’s face. “Don’t even think about it. They don’t do menial.”
“In that case, you. Seen inside many police stations?”
Harvey’s pleasant demeanour failed him for a moment. “Can’t say I have. Is this relevant?”
“Not at all.”
“Then what am I supposed to talk about? Dante? I’ve got a degree in classics.” Harvey caught Peroni’s eye and nodded at the fake severed head. “That … thing. It’s about Dante, you know. The line they wrote on the skull … ‘Abandon all hope, you who enter here.’ ”
Teresa had what she wanted. He could see the boxes and bags ready to go. The pathologist took a break from bawling out an entire line of Carabinieri officers to issue a sly nod in his direction.
Harvey wriggled, a little nervous. “You know something, Officer Peroni? We’ve been getting strange anonymous e-mails. For months. It happens a lot when you’re making a movie. I never thought too much about it.”
“Strange?”
“They quoted that line, always. And they said …” Harvey tugged at his long hair. “… they said we were living in limbo. I never took it literally.”
“What do you mean?”
The American grimaced. “I mean literally. The way it appears in Dante.” He sighed. “Limbo is the first circle of Hell. The place the story begins.”
Just the mention of the film revived some memories Gianni Peroni hoped had been lost. Things seemed to be happening from the very opening moment in Tonti’s version of the tale. Not good things either.
“And then?” Peroni asked. “After limbo?”
“Then you’re on the road to Hell.”
3
The door to Allan Prime’s apartment opened almost the moment Falcone pushed the bell. Nic Costa felt as if he’d stumbled back through time. The woman who stood there might have been an actress herself. Adele Neri still looked several years short of forty and was as slender and cat-like as he recalled. She wore designer jeans and a skimpy white T-shirt. Her arresting face bore the cold, disengaged scowl of the Roman rich. She had a tan that spoke of a second home in Sicily and a heavy gold necklace around a slender neck that carried a few wrinkles he didn’t recall from the case a few years before, when she had first come to the notice of the Questura. That had taken them to the Via Giulia, too, to a house not more than a dozen doors away, one that had been booby-trapped with a bomb by her mob boss husband, Emilio, as he tried to flee Rome. Adele Neri was an interesting woman who had led an interesting life.