Isvik by Hammond; Innes Page A

back from Mexico City, and certainly not from Punta Arenas. ‘Some questions –’
    â€˜Later. Ah told ye. After we take off.’
    â€˜No, now.’
    But he shook his head, and when I insisted he leaned suddenly forward, his face gone hard. ‘Ah said later. We’ll talk later, when we’re airborne.’
    He was so close I could smell the stale sweat of his body. He had clearly had an energetic night and as he turned back to his girlfriend, I seized hold of his arm, my mind suddenly made up. ‘I’m not boarding that plane unless you tell me where the money comes from, why you’re in such a hurry.’
    I’d got hold of the wrong arm and the hidden claw fastened on my fingers as he swung round on me. ‘Yer baggage is already on the plane.’
    â€˜I don’t care.’
    The obstinacy in my voice got through to him at last. ‘Very well. Ah’m in a hurry because Ah’m concerned for Iris Sunderby’s safety.’
    I stared at him. ‘What the hell are you talking about? She’s dead.’
    â€˜On the contrary, she rang me from Heathrow just before boardin’ her plane.’
    â€˜What plane? When?’
    â€˜Last Thursday evenin’.’
    Thursday evening, and her body pulled out of the dock on the Wednesday morning! ‘You say she was boarding a plane?’
    He nodded.
    â€˜Where was she going?’
    â€˜Lima.’
    Iris Sunderby. Alive! I couldn’t believe it.
    â€˜Come on,’ he said, glancing up at the departure board, where green lights were flashing against our flight. ‘Time we were boardin’ Ah’ll explain later.’ He turned back to Kirsty Fraser, gave her some hurried instructions about somebody called Ferdinando Berandi, then bent and kissed her. ‘Take care.’ And she went clack-clack-clacking away on her too-high heels.
    â€˜When she’s finished here,’ he said, ‘she goes on to Napoli.’
    â€˜Why?’ He was standing watching her, but she didn’t look back. ‘What’s Naples got to do with it?’
    He turned abruptly, peering down at me as though unsure how to answer that. ‘The Camorra,’ he said finally. ‘Ah need to know somethin’ and she has contacts there. Kirsty knows Napoli well.’
    â€˜But the Camorra is the Neapolitan version of the Mafia, isn’t it?’
    â€˜Aye.’ He was staring at me, not wanting to be questioned further.
    â€˜I don’t understand,’ I said. ‘You told me she’s your secretary, so presumably she’s going to Naples on your behalf.’
    â€˜Ah tell ye, Ah need the answers to one or tae questions.’
    â€˜And she can get them for you? How?’
    His lips twitched, a glint of sudden humour in his eyes. ‘Ye don’t check up on a girl like Kirsty too closely.’
    â€˜But why the Camorra?’ I insisted.
    â€˜Because a lot of them come from Napoli.’ And he added by way of explanation, ‘Just remember this when we get to Argentina: the country was swamped at the turn of the century by a mass influx of immigrants, some three million of them Italian, mostly from the south. Full of piss and wind.’ His voice was suddenly contemptuous. ‘They call it braggadocio. It was braggadocio that sent Mussolini trampin’ into Africa. It sent the Argentinians into the Malvinas. Galtieri was full of it.’
    Another boarding announcement, a last call and he turned abruptly on his heel. ‘Come on. Better board the bloody thing and get on with it.’ There was a note of resentment in his voice as though he was embarked on something he didn’t relish. He picked up his overnight bag, and with a nod to me, walked towards the boarding gate. I followed him. His mind was now so obviously locked in on itself that there was no point in trying to question him further.
    I don’t know how much was curiosity, how much the sense of