Doctor Laura Hobson inhaled deeply through her nose, savoring the warm, woodsmoke-tinged air rising from the valley spread before her. Here and there among the hills, she could see the terra-cotta tile roofs of stone farmhouses; most of the structures – like the one she was in — were better than 400 years old. Olive groves made neat, dotted rows on the undulating landscape, and tall Lombardy poplars pointed skyward along lanes of crushed white stone. Everything felt green and fresh after the storms that had passed through during the night and into the morning hours. Now, in the warmth of the afternoon sun, it was heavenly.
She gave little gasp of surprise as a pair of strong arms wrapped around her, but she relaxed and sighed with pleasure as a series of little kisses began at the nape of her neck and worked around under her earlobe and along her jawline.
"Isn't it beautiful, Robbie?"
Detective Inspector Robbie Lewis turned her and looked directly into her eyes.
"Mmm, yeah, beautiful." He smiled impishly.
She gave a little snort at his impertinence, but smiled. They had had a lovely day so far, having had a late lie-in, then a shower, then a bite to eat: bread, cheese, and local olives. Robbie had offered to do the washing up and she took him up on that, freeing her to sit and enjoy the sunshine and the spectacular view. She turned to him: "So, what would you like to do this evening? There's a beer-tasting festival in Bastia Umbra tonight, I thought we could look into that. There'll be pizza, too."
"Pizza and beer? Sounds perfect! Not like some of that awful stuff Morse made me eat that time I came to Italy with him."
She furrowed her brow playfully. "You really should try some of the other local specialties. Probably best if you try them first, and find out later what they're made of. Promise me you'll try at least two pizzas with toppings you don't recognize?"
He pulled a face. "You sound like our Lyn, always trying to get us to eat weird stuff." But her fleeting frown made him rethink his approach. "And if I do, what do I get?"
Laura appeared to think a moment and then come to a decision. "I'll make you steak and chips tomorrow night."
By this point in their relationship, Lewis had had more than one steak done Laura's special way. "Deal!"
They shook on it, laughing. Then he put his arm around her waist and they both looked out again over the Umbrian valley at their feet. This time, it was he that inhaled deeply of the clear air.
"This is so different from those cities I was in with Morse and Lyn. Of course, with Morse we were wrapped up in the case, and I couldn't wait to get back home to Val. And Lyn wanted to go to every museum and see all the famous art." He scowled at the memory of dragging his tired feet and aching knees through room after room of paintings and sculpture. "All that history, I don't have much use for that. But this—" He stretched his hand out, arcing across the wide vista—"I could get used to this. It's so relaxing." He looked down at her and grinned. "Or maybe it's the company that makes it lovely."
He had indeed hesitated when Laura suggested they take a two-week holiday in the countryside of central Italy, but when she described how they could rent a little villetta (with a pool) and spend their time taking walks, sipping beers at outdoor bars, and enjoying each other's uninterrupted attention, he had to agree it sounded nice. The last of these especially seemed impossible to achieve in Oxford, as whenever they tried to have some time to themselves, either his work or her work always seemed to intrude. But high on this hillside in southern Umbria, with the nearest neighbor not even within view, they found time to explore each other physically and emotionally, and Lewis knew their relationship had strengthened exponentially in the past week. As he gazed at the peaceful scenery, he felt a gratitude toward this country that had, before this trip, been more an object of his scorn and dismay. Instead of the crazy political maneuvers, the grim economy, the festering mafia, the sensationalist press, and the overblown emotional terrain, he now saw the warmth and openness of the people, the beauty of the countryside, and the strength of the bond between this land and her inhabitants. As a Geordie, he felt a kinship with the regular folk who managed to maintain day-to-day lives without complaint or significant financial reward. He sighed contentedly.
And then the telephone rang.
In the time zone one hour west of Laura and Robbie, Chief Superintendent Jean Innocent pursed her lips in frustration. The call had come through in English, but when she was connected to the police inspector on the other end, communications began to break down. The deputy-inspector she had been talking to had been replaced by his superior officer, a bit abruptly, as far as she could tell. This one spoke only Italian, she gathered that much, and she recognized with a grimace the name Jack Cornish. But beyond that, the Italian inspector's limited English failed and her nonexistent Italian was of equal nonservice.
"I'm sorry, Inspector, me no . . . capisha. No speak Italiano, signore. Can I talk to the other one there?" No response. "Don't you have someone to translate?" She huffed with impatience. Really, these days one would think the entire civilized world would be required to hire upper-echelon people who could manage in English.
Her office door cracked open just a little farther than it had been.
"I can translate from Italian, if that's what's needed." Detective Sergeant James Hathaway stood a bit awkwardly in the doorway, aware that he should not have been eavesdropping, but ready to be of service nonetheless.
Jean's mouth gaped in amazement (that he had been eavesdropping would occur to her only later, after he'd gone and it was too late to press the point). "Hathaway, Italian, really?" Then she remembered the apparent urgency of the situation. "Yes, please, the commissario here – erm, that's inspector, I gather—seems to think this is important to us. He mentioned Jack Cornish."
Hathaway's eyes met hers for an instant in mutual understanding. Jack Cornish was a cop gone bad, wanted for his involvement in more than one count of murder—among other crimes—but he'd scarpered before the Oxfordshire police could bring him in.
He clicked the telephone into speakerphone mode, took a breath, and recalled his best classroom Italian.
"Buongiorno, commissario! Sono Detective Sergeant Hathaway . . . Per favore, mi chiama 'James'."
There was a pause at the other end, then, "James, buongiorno! Montalbano Salvo sono." Even in Italian, the commissario's relief was palpable.
"Salvo, piacere. Erm . . . come . . . posso . . . aiutarla?" Hathaway repeated the name he'd been given and asked how he could help, speaking slowly, checking himself before each word so that he could minimize his errors.
Jean stood back, almost in the doorway of her own office. Hathaway labored on in Italian, sometimes struggling with finding words or understanding the inspector's speech, but it was clear he was making progress and getting the story. Jack Cornish's name came up more than once, and she was sure she'd understood a mention of "Sicily."
At last, with a final "Ciao!" from James and an energetic "Ti ringrazio!" from the commissario, Hathaway clicked off the phone. Innocent cocked her head at him.
"I thought you said you could translate Italian. You seemed to be struggling quite a bit there."
Hathaway blew out his cheeks, clearly winded from his efforts. "Italian, yes, Ma'am. But that wasn't exactly Italian. That was Sicilian."
She frowned, shaking her head. "There's a difference? I thought Sicily was part of Italy."
"Politically, yes. Historically, culturally, emotionally . . . and probably lots of other ways, no. I'd say there's possibly a greater divide between Sicilian and Italian than between Scottish English and . . . well, English English." He resisted the urge to indulge in a history lesson.
She deepened her frown for an instant. Then: "Well, what did he say?"
James took a breath, and explained.
"Officers from a local Sicilian police station this afternoon arrested Jack Cornish in connection with that ship packed with illegal immigrants that sank off the southern coast of Sicily last night." He checked her expression to ensure that she was aware of that news. She was.
"Nothing is clear at the moment, but it appears Cornish was involved in human trafficking, illegal immigration, and that ilk. The ship was bound for Croatia, but the storms they had that night were too much for it." He paused and swallowed hard. "As I'm sure you're aware, there are survivors, but . . ." he exhaled slowly. "It's expected that as many as two hundred are dead."
"Why was Cornish in Sicily?"
"They weren't clear on that, possibly he was paying off the right people to make the whole incident disappear, or at least to clear his name in the matter." Hathaway couldn't stop his lip from curling in distaste.
She took in this news somberly, reflecting for some time before speaking again. "But . . . they have Cornish? He's in custody?"
Hathaway nodded. "Yes, that's for sure. And they're aware of our claim on him. But they don't especially want to let him go, not if they can charge him there and get credit for the collar. So we need to send someone to Sicily to negotiate if we want to be able to have him sent here for his UK crimes." He cocked an eyebrow at her. "Capisce?"
She knew that he was, of course, teasing her for her earlier mispronunciation, and she scowled, as was expected. After deciding he was not in any real trouble, Hathaway continued.
"The whole business is rank with potential mafia involvement, payola or worse. The Italians, as I'm sure you're aware, are notorious for corruption. You'd think they'd be more than happy to extradite him and have the mess off their hands and into ours." He added, perhaps unnecessarily, "If we ever want to see justice done properly for the murders of Johnny Jay and Dr. Whitby, we need to bring him back here. The criminal justice system in Italy . . ." He thought it politically wise to leave that sentence unfinished.
She blew out her cheeks slowly, thoughtfully. "Bit expensive, sending a pair of coppers over to collect him. Sicily is even farther than most of Italy."
Hathaway clucked his tongue, knowing he'd be in for it if the source of his next statement ever became known to his boss. But he owed Lewis for a certain Croatian detour he'd been forced to make.
"We already have a man in Italy. So you'd only have to pay for one more to go join him, and bring Cornish back here for proper adjudication."
Innocent rolled her eyes and shook her head. "Lewis needs that holiday, Sergeant." But she knew he was right. She couldn't afford to send two officers to Sicily when she had one already nearly there. And Hathaway would need to go, seeing as how he could speak the language and had established a rapport with the local commissario. Which reminded her of something she meant to ask . . .
"Why were you so informal with the Italian inspector? You did tell him to call you James, didn't you?"
Hathaway snorted a little. "He probably prefers to be known as 'the Sicilian inspector', Ma'am. And I didn't intend to be overly informal. It's just 'Hathaway,' to a native Italian speaker . . . Well, they'd have trouble with the 'H' and the 'th' and I thought it would be a gesture of friendship to offer not only my first name but something pronounceable." He grinned. "All in the name of foreign diplomacy, Ma'am." He paused a moment and added, "He seems a decent enough bloke. Even sounded like he could be honest. I'm looking forward to meeting him."