“And Emily Deacon?” Costa asked. “What about her?”

“A part of me says she’d love to walk straight out of that job and sit in the corner of an old building somewhere, sketching away. Have you talked painting with her yet?”

“No,” he replied, a little offended.

“You will. A part of me says Emily is deeply, deeply pissed off about what happened to her father. So hung up over what happened, maybe, that she’d do anything to put it straight. Regardless of the consequences. Regardless of the pain it might cause her or anyone who gets in the way. Do you understand what I mean?”

Costa did. He’d known it all along. He just needed her to confirm it.

“What are you going to do?” she asked.

“Get a coffee. Wait for Falcone to call.”

She looked at her watch. “To hell with budgets. I hate numbers. Also I’m supposed to be off duty. Let’s make that two coffees.”

They walked out of the gloomy morgue building, then round the corner to the little cafe Teresa Lupo used. It wasn’t popular with cops. That was one reason why she liked the place. The ponytailed teenager behind the counter looked a little scared when she walked in. He usually did. That meant the coffee came quickly and was, as usual, wonderful.

As good as the Tazza d’Oro. Nic recalled Emily Deacon talking about her favourite cafe, then glanced at his cup and wondered whether he wouldn’t be better off going round there and checking it out.

Teresa Lupo’s hand fell on his arm. “Relax for a moment, Nic. You and Gianni aren’t the only cops in Rome.”

But it felt that way just then. Falcone had pulled them aside for some reason of his own, one he had yet to explain.

“Talk to me about Christmas,” Teresa said. “Tell me what it was like in a pagan household.”

Was that really what the house on the Appian Way was? Nic Costa knew he suffered from the same misapprehension as every kid. The childhood you got was the normal one. It was everyone else’s that was weird.

And a few memories did come back. Of food and laughter and singing. Of his father drinking too much wine and behaving, for once, as if there was no tomorrow, no great battle to be fought, nothing to do in the world except enjoy the company of the people around you, people who loved you and were loved in return.

“It was happy,” he answered.

She was already ordering her second macchiato. Teresa drank coffee as if it were water. “What more can anyone ask?” she wondered.

“Nothing,” he muttered.

His phone was ringing. Falcone had promised to call.

“Nic,” Emily Deacon said. She sounded distant, tired and scared.

“Emily. I’ve been looking-”

She interrupted him briskly. “Not now. I don’t have the time. You must listen really carefully. It’s important. You have to trust me. Please.”

“Of course.”

There was a pause on the line. He wondered how convinced she was.

“I’m with Kaspar,” she said finally. “I can bring him in, Nic. No more killings. No more bloodshed. But you’ve got to do what I say, however crazy it sounds. Otherwise-”

There was a noise at the other end of the line. Something physical, something like a scuffle.

“Otherwise, Nic,” barked a cold American voice, “you and Little Em don’t ever get to have fun.”

Costa listened. When the call was over, he found Teresa Lupo staring at him with that familiar look of tough, deliberate concern he’d come to recognize and appreciate.

She pushed back the empty coffee cup, looked around the empty cafe. “Like I said, Nic, I’m off duty. If there’s anything…”

PERONI LOOKED AT the men behind the desk, ran through the short yet precise brief Falcone had given him in the lift and wondered what a new career would be like. Maybe he could go back home and see if there was an opening for a pig farmer near Siena. Or ask the girl in Trastevere for a job doling out ice-cream cones. Anything would be better than facing more time with these three: Filippo Viale, smug as hell, with an expression on his face that said you could sit there forever and still not get the time of day; Joel Leapman, sullen and resentful; and Commissario Moretti, neat in his immaculate uniform, pen poised over a notepad, like a secretary hanging on someone else’s orders.

“You sure had a good argument there,” Leapman observed. “Don’t you think it’s time you worked on your personal skills?”

Peroni glanced at Falcone, thought what the hell, and said quite calmly, “I am tired. My head hurts. I’d rather be anywhere else in the world than this place right now. Can I just announce that if I hear one more smart-ass piece of bullshit the perpetrator goes straight”-he nodded at the grimy office window-“out there.”

Moretti sighed and glowered at Falcone.

“Sir?” the inspector asked cheerily.

“Keep your ape on a leash, Leo.” Moretti sighed again. “You asked for this meeting. Would you care to tell us why?”

“To clear the air.”

“And Emily Deacon,” Peroni said. “We’d like to know some more about her.”

The American grimaced. “I’ve already told you. I have no idea where she is.”

“Do you think Kaspar’s got her?” Peroni asked.

The three men opposite looked at each other.

“Who?” Leapman asked eventually.

“William F. Kaspar,” Falcone answered.

Peroni watched the expressions on their faces. Viale looked impassive. Moretti was baffled. Leapman looked as if that rare creature, someone he loved, had just died.

“Who?” the American asked again.

Falcone glanced at Peroni. The big man reached over the desk, grabbed Leapman by the throat, jerked him hard across the metal top, sending pens and a couple of phones scattering. Peroni held Leapman there, close enough to his face to give him a good view of his stitches and bruises. The FBI agent looked scared and shocked in equal measure. Viale still sat in his seat, smirking. Moretti was out of his chair, back against the wall, watching the scene playing out in front of him in horror, lost for what to do.

“Clearly that burger I shoved in your face didn’t make the point,” Peroni said quietly to Joel Leapman, who sweated and squirmed now in front of him. “We’ve had enough, my American friend. I’ve been beaten up because of your lies. I’ve watched a little child terrified for her life. We’ve got people putting themselves in harm’s way. Good people, Leapman. So it’s time now to cut the crap. Either we start to hear something resembling the truth from you or this little charade comes to an end this minute. We’re done playing dumb cops. Understand?”

Moretti finally found his voice. “You!” he yelled, pointing at Peroni. “Back off now! Falcone?”

“What?” the inspector snarled back. “Look at the state of the guy. Look at your own man, Moretti. It’s the least he’s owed.”

Then he patted Peroni on the shoulder and said quietly, “You can let him go, Gianni. Let’s listen to what he’s got to say.”

Peroni released his huge paw from Leapman’s throat and propelled the American back across the table.

“Viale?” Leapman’s snarl was full of threat. “Do something.”

The SISDE man opened his hands and smiled. “Tut, tut. This is my office, Leo. I don’t want anything untoward happening here. Let’s have a little calm. What’s the problem? This is just police work. Take orders. Do as you’re told.” He paused and glared at Peroni. “Get yourself some new minions too. That way you can keep your job.”

Falcone looked him up and down. “No, it isn’t.”

Viale looked puzzled. “Isn’t what?”

“Police work. And I’m not worried about my job, Filippo. Are you?”

“Don’t threaten me,” Viale murmured.

“I’m not. I’m just putting things straight. You see this…”

He pulled the orders from the Chigi Palace from his jacket pocket and dropped them on the table. “These have your name on them and Moretti’s too. That ought to worry both of you. A lot.”

Viale made a conciliatory gesture. “Leo…”