in the name Massimiliano Usberti. The computer did its thing, spat out its findings, and Ben found himself being taken back to La Repubblica and a report dated from just over six months earlier.
‘I’ll be damned,’ he muttered to himself.
The former archbishop Massimiliano Usberti, previously stripped of his title by the Vatican following allegations that he was the leader of a radical fundamentalist cult linked to suspected murders and racketeering, has died in a bizarre boating accident near his home on Lake Como. Usberti, who since his dismissal from the Church had filed for bankruptcy and been treated for depression and alcoholism, is believed to have fallen from the deck of a motor yacht and been caught up in the propellers, resulting in such extensive cranial and facial injuries that the coroner’s identification needed to be carried out using dental records …
The piece ended with a line or two about the private funeral ceremony that had taken place at Usberti’s family estate, where he had been laid to rest in the ancestral chapel.
If Ben felt any satisfaction from the news of Usberti’s death, it was swamped by his utter confusion about what was going on here. Sitting back in his chair he lit another cigarette and closed his eyes as he tried to puzzle it out logically. Le Val hadn’t existed when Ben and Usberti’s paths had crossed; so, for Severini to have traced him there and known where to address his letter, he must have been allowed some limited internet access by the relatively relaxed system at Bollati, and been able to Google Ben’s name just as Ben had done with Severini’s. The bookish, educated ex-clergyman was just the kind of inmate who would spend a lot of time in the prison library, enjoying the privilege of keeping up with what happened out there in the world.
Was it believable, then, that he wouldn’t have learned of his hated former employer’s death? Could such an important piece of news have gone unnoticed? Or had he been aware of the facts, but preferred to listen instead to the imaginary voices in his head telling him otherwise? Ben could well imagine that to be the case. If his suspicion was right, and if Severini was really nothing more than a poor raving lunatic racked with guilt and suffering from hallucinations and delusions, the letter was worthless junk and Ben was left with nothing.
It was rare for Ben to be lost for ideas, and even rarer for him to feel the need for another man’s counsel in a moment of crisis. But with his best friend in a coma and his mind jangling with confusion and fatigue, he badly needed to reach out to someone he could trust. He took out his battered old leather wallet, thumbed through the collection of business cards inside, and found the one that bore the blue-and-gold emblem of INTERPOL. He reached for the phone and dialled the direct line number on the card.
The evening was wearing on, but calling at this late hour didn’t matter. Luc Simon wasn’t the kind of guy to clock off when the factory whistle blew. He ate most of his meals at his desk, and probably slept there most nights: his wife would no doubt have confirmed that, before she’d got sick of being married to a ghost and left him for someone who could pay her a little more attention.
Luc’s phone answered on the second ring. ‘Bureau du Commissaire Simon.’
Ben said, ‘It’s me.’ He was about to say more, when he realised that the voice on the line was quite different from the smooth Gallic tone of Luc Simon’s. This man sounded older, coarser. And even more worn out with exhaustion than Ben felt.
‘Who’s calling?’ the voice asked.
Ben gave his name. ‘I was looking for the commissioner. This is his direct number, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, it is,’ the voice said, wearily, maybe slightly suspiciously.
‘Is he there? It’s okay. My name’s Ben Hope – he knows me. Check me on his database if you want.’
A silence. Then, ‘He’s not here. He’s gone.’
‘Gone?’ For Luc to have gone home before midnight would have been a record. For him to have left his job would have been unthinkable. ‘Gone where?’
The second silence on the line was heavier than the first, and it brought a chill that went down Ben’s spine and told him something was wrong.
‘If you know Commissioner Luc Simon,’ the voice said, laden with sadness, ‘then I regret to inform you that he is dead.’
Ben couldn’t reply for several seconds. He wouldn’t have called Luc Simon a close friend, but they’d known each other a long time and collaborated on more than one occasion. The news hit him deep and low in the stomach. Finally he was able to say, ‘When this did happen?’
‘The commissaire didn’t come into work today, and didn’t respond to phone calls. As you know, he lived alone. We thought perhaps he had been taken ill. When agents visited his home this afternoon, they found him in his bathroom. He was stabbed to death in the shower, either this morning or last night, we don’t yet know for sure. Nobody knows anything,’ he added. ‘It’s chaos here. We’re putting together a press release, but so far—’
‘You have no idea who did it,’ Ben finished for him.
‘That is all I can tell you,’ the voice said. ‘I’m sorry.’
Ben muttered a word or two of thanks, then put the phone down. He was wishing he’d brought the bottle from the house, to help chase away the visions of a slashed shower curtain and blood-spattered tiles that were crowding into his mind. But there was no time to dwell over his shock and sorrow. Because Severini’s warning letter had just come back into sharp focus. Ben no longer cared if the guy was crazy or not. This was happening.
‘Roberta,’ he said out loud. His arm shot across the desk to snatch up the phone again.
When Ben had first met her, she’d been a struggling independent research scientist living in Paris. In the wake of the Gladius Domini affair she’d relocated to Ottawa and Dr Roberta Ryder had become Dr Roberta Kaminski, to protect her identity, and had slipped out of Ben’s life until she’d needed his help once again. The last time he’d seen her had been an emotional farewell in Indonesia, and even though he still had her mobile number he’d always avoided calling it. He knew why that was. The chemistry between them had been one of the factors behind his relationship breakdown with Brooke.
Ontario was six hours behind, making it afternoon there. ‘Come on,’ he muttered as the dial tone burred in his ear. Then his heart jumped as he heard her voice. ‘Roberta?’
‘Who is this?’ She sounded as if she was walking somewhere briskly. Always in a hurry, that Roberta Ryder.
‘It’s me.’
‘Ben? What—?’
‘Where are you?’
‘Carleton. Where else?’ Carleton University in Ottawa was where she taught now. ‘Freezing my ass off in the snow outside the main science block, about to head across campus to the cafeteria for a badly needed coffee before my next class begins in exactly twenty-four minutes’ time. If you really needed to know, which frankly is a mystery to me. But then, you always were one of life’s great mysteries, weren’t you?’
‘Are you okay?’
‘You
