Humph swung his left leg into the spare space Dryden had recently vacated, stretching out the limb with an audible creak.
‘You stay there,’ said Dryden, knowing Humph was immune to sarcasm.
He found Pepe in the yard at the rear of Il Giardino, already in his white apron, drawing deeply on a cigarette. He looked older than he must be – his black slicked-back hair thinning to reveal a hint of the skull beneath.
‘Hi,’ said Dryden, making him jump. ‘Sorry. It’s a bad time.’
‘You’re early,’ said Pepe, grinding the cigarette butt into the leaf litter of the yard where hundreds of others were rotting. ‘Coffee?’
Inside a distant radio played and Dryden reminded himself that this was home for Pepe, and the elderly matriarch of the Valgimiglis. Somewhere he could hear heavy footsteps, and briefly something else – the sound of weeping?
‘Mum’s upset,’ said Pepe, twisting the chrome scoops full of ground coffee into the espresso machine. He opened the slatted door behind the counter and shouted something rapidly in Italian.
‘Do you always talk in Italian at home?’
He shrugged. ‘At home – mostly. That was how we were brought up. English at school – so why not two languages? And Mum never gave it up – a badge of honour. The schizophrenic family – we change our names to blend in better, and then jabber on in Italian at home.’
Dryden pulled up a chair by the counter. ‘Which is why I didn’t know Azeglio Valgimigli was your brother.’
Pepe’s back stiffened, and he didn’t say anything as he finished making the coffee. Eventually he sat and eyed Dryden coolly. ‘Every family has its black sheep,’ he said. ‘We had two.’
They laughed, and Dryden let him carry on. ‘My brother,’ he said, savouring the word. ‘He left in 1985, nearly two years after Dad died. The café was left to Mum so there was nothing else for him to hang around for – he’s clever. Sorry, was clever. Did you see… was it you who…?’
‘I found his body, yes. The details, you don’t want to know. The police…’
‘They talked to Mum… She was upset, of course, but she’s used to her sons providing the pain in her life. She always said he was too good for us. That was Dad’s fault – the private schools. Spoilt – a very English vice. In Italy all children are spoilt – so they don’t stand out. No chance of that in my case.’ He laughed, lighting up a fresh cigarette and letting the nicotine go the long way round his lungs.
‘Bitter?’ asked Dryden.
‘Not particularly. I’m just not very proud of my brothers – sorry, I know this is bad, un-English perhaps. Azeglio is dead. But he was no better than Jerome, who lives a life apart from his family and thinks a call at Christmas is good enough for Mamma.’
‘Jerome? How long has it been – since he left?’
‘Jerome? I couldn’t forget that. It was the day after Dad’s funeral. He and Azeglio had planned everything. There was some secret which they never told anyone, so it was all done in whispers. But we knew Jerome was going home – to Mestre – to try and raise some capital for the business. He flew that day – the day after we buried Dad. Didn’t say goodbye, not even to Mum. There was a letter, some cards. Then later the calls. It is all she has of him, and it destroyed her.’ He ground the cigarette down into the ashtray and lit a third.
Dryden hatched a suspicion as corrosive as a lie. The moon tunnel’s victim had disappeared between 1970 and 1990. Jerome Roma had left home in early 1984 and become a disembodied voice, living a life reported only by the brother he resembled so much.
‘And Azeglio?’
‘He went too, but he took his time. He had a university education to complete, an education Mum paid for despite the debts. It was a dreadful three years. Azeglio got his degree and went to Italy as well – to Padua, then Lucca. Jerome had moved to Milan, a business opportunity. There was a woman too, but no marriage. Azeglio said he was happy. Both sent money; Mum always sent it back.’ He tossed a matchbox on to the Formica tabletop. ‘My brothers,’ he said, raising his coffee cup.
‘Azeglio didn’t bother with us. A letter sometimes, bragging about their home in the mountains, the flat by the university, the holidays. There are no children, so they live their lives. Mamma says she doesn’t care. But we can all hear the tears, yes?’
They listened to the silence, suspiciously deep. ‘Still in debt?’ said Dryden, breaking the spell.
‘We’re going bust very, very slowly. With a bit of luck she’ll be dead before we have to sell up,’ he said, tipping his chin upwards towards the ceiling. ‘She’s looking forward to death. To be with Dad. Every week she goes to the grave, every market day at noon, and tells him it won’t be long. That’s what Azeglio and Jerome did for her, Dryden, they gave her a life that wasn’t worth living.’