A Venetian Moon (DCI Tom Caton Manchester Murder Mysteries Series Book 9) by Bill Rogers

Author:Bill Rogers [Rogers, Bill]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Caton Books Ltd
Published: 2014-01-07T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter 28

‘Where is Sovrintendente Caterina?’ said Caton as he pulled out onto Oldham Road behind the second of the lead cars.

Behind him was a van carrying a search dog and his handler. Behind that, a Transit van containing a Tactical Aid search team.

Umberto chuckled. ‘It is not fair to get her up so early. She needs her sonno di bellezza.’

‘Beauty sleep.’

‘Beauty sleep. And last night I asked her to spend today finding out what the Agenzia Delle Entrate has on Signor Salvatore Turi Borbone.’ He caught Caton glancing at him and added, with a knowing smile, ‘Lavoro importante. Important work.’

He held out both hands, like a magician showing that they were empty.

‘No reason for her to complain. Eh, Tom, you agree?’

Caton refused to be drawn. He had no intention of becoming part of whatever hidden agenda the commissario was pursuing. He concentrated on keeping up with the cars ahead of him.

It was pouring with rain. A major depression had come in from the south-west. Gusts approaching ninety miles an hour were battering the south coast, the Midlands and East Anglia. Even here, on the fringes of the storm, the wind was buffeting the car and bending trees in the fields on either side.

After half an hour the lead car signalled that it was leaving the motorway. Caton followed as it headed to the roundabout for the A6, and then turned north-west towards Chorley. In less than two minutes the convoy pulled into a lay-by nestling at the foot of the hill on which the town stood. Caton switched the engine off. He checked the time: 5.15. An hour and a half to go till dawn.

‘What is this place?’ said Bonifati.

‘Blackrod,’ Caton told him. ‘Named for the coal seam it sits on. It’s more of a big village than a town. Between five and six thousand people in all. Surrounded by farmland in the main. Yet close to the motorway. Not a bad place to lay low.’

Bonifati grunted. ‘With a name like Alfredo Giambotta? It’s like trying to hide in Mestre with a name like Tom Caton. You stick out like a Roman’s nose.’

‘That’s not the name he’s using.’

Caton consulted the notes Mal Haigh had sent to his tablet.

‘Here he’s known as Frederick Gladstone. Freddy to his friends. Not that he has many, apparently. He’s been married to an English wife for seven years. They have two children. A boy age seven, and a girl age four.’

‘Somebody had a sense of humour,’ said Bonifati as though he hadn’t been listening. ‘When they come up with the family name.’

‘Gladstone?’

‘Giambotta! Do you know what a Giambotta is?’

‘I have no idea.’

‘It’s what you call a stew. Not even a proper stew, with meat or fish. It’s a vegetable stew. Peasant food. Hah!’

‘He’s not the first Italian to settle here,’ Caton told him. ‘The Romans were here. This is a Roman road. They built a camp on the hill, which is why it’s called Castle Hill.’

‘Huh,’ Bonifati replied. ‘They send the Foreign Legions to places like this.

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