Free Blood Rain - 7 by Michael Dibdin

sheepishly.
    ‘I’m meeting someone. A personal thing. But because of all this security nonsense, they won’t let me leave the building without an armed escort. And if I go with them, it won’t exactly be a relaxed encounter, to say the least, and of course word of the whole thing will be all over the department in five minutes. But if I could just put on your coat and scarf and slip out the side entrance, no one will be any the wiser.’
    Agatella smiled radiantly.
    ‘Of course, my dear, of course! No one ever takes any notice of comings and goings at that door. Let me just fetch my things. Some nice young man, is it? It’s about time you settled down and started a family, my dear. None of us is getting any younger.’
    Ten minutes later, a woman of uncertain age with a satin scarf on her head, carrying a bulging plastic bag with the logo of the Standa department chain, entered a newsagent’s shop on Via Etnea which advertised in the window that photocopies might be made there. Twenty or so minutes after that she reappeared, the plastic bag even more gravid than before, and started back the way she had come. But after going a short distance she stopped, then started to cross the street, as though at a loss. Traffic swirled and shrieked around her, while the other pedestrians went steadfastly about their business, ignoring this hapless female who had obviously lost her grip on the realities of life.
    The woman walked down the street to a pasticceria , where she ordered a coffee. No one paid any attention there either. Even the barman who served her and took her money managed to convey the impression that the transaction hadn’t really taken place. The woman removed a large, thick manilla envelope from her plastic bag, sealed the flap and wrote something on the front.
    ‘How much to wrap this?’ she snapped.
    The barman looked at her with a frown.
    ‘Like you do the cakes,’ the woman explained.
    The barman cast a defeated glance at the other two male patrons in the bar, shook his head and started washing coffee cups.
    ‘Would two thousand do it?’ the woman demanded.
    ‘It might, if you had it,’ the barman replied in dialect.
    A banknote appeared in the woman’s fingers as the envelope slid along the chrome counter to stop in front of the barman.
    ‘What is this?’ he asked irritatedly.
    ‘A practical joke I’m playing on a friend,’ the woman said. ‘I want it wrapped just like a cake, with a ribbon and all, and a little card. In return …’
    She pushed the two-thousand-lire note into an empty glass on the other side of the bar. Seemingly embarrassed, the barman glanced again at the two men, then shrugged and did as the woman asked.
    Five minutes later, she presented herself at the guard post at the main door of the police headquarters of Catania.
    ‘This is to be delivered to Vice-Questore Aurelio Zen,’ she told the officer on duty through the grille in the bullet-proof screen, placing an elegantly wrapped parcel on the shelf outside the access hatch, presently closed.
    ‘You know him?’ demanded the guard with a mocking air.
    ‘I’m a friend of his daughter, Carla Arduini. This is for her. A birthday present. All he has to do is give it to her on Saturday, understand?’
    The officer shook his head, picked up the phone and dialled.
    ‘Excuse the disturbance, dottore,’ he said into the mouthpiece. ‘There’s someone here with what she says is a birthday present for your daughter. To be delivered on Saturday. Does this make any sense to you? Oh, it does? All right, sir. I understand. Very good.’
    He hung up, and nodded vaguely at the woman.
    ‘Dottor Zen will pick it up on his way home.’
    ‘Mind he does, now!’ she replied. ‘And take good care of it meanwhile. It’s very precious, and you will be responsible if anything happens to it.’
    The officer nodded repeatedly in a way that said, ‘Let’s humour the bitch and get her out of here.’ After a further sharp exhortation,