In the garden Ivan and Felix had grown bored waiting for Jake. They had seen him press his nose to the glass and had debated for a while what this unclassified signal might mean. Not long afterwards Felix tripped over a strange mound of freshly turned earth at the back of the garden. A graphic image of Isabella’s decomposing corpse, swarming with microbes and parasites, flashed into his field of vision. He shuddered and jumped back. He looked pointedly at Ivan.
“It was Hugh and he’s buried her here in the bloody garden,” he said.
They discussed this possibility for a while. Then they spotted an open upstairs window and, below, a trellis over which spumed an orgasm of wisteria.
When the back door opened and a blaze of light violated the composed shadow patterns of the garden, Felix was about six feet up the fragile wooden scaffolding while Ivan stood below, smoking. Felix, alarmed by the sudden uproarious glare of publicity, lost his footing and tumbled back down to earth.
“It’s only a game,” Ivan explained in Italian to the two watching carabinieri.