by Jon Tracy
The next page is more valuable. It references the use of triangles in the history of Rome and Greece.
‘Dive in a bit and let’s have a look,’ suggests Tom.
Alfie clicks open page after page. There are passages detailing the use of the symbol all the way back to the Bronze Age.
They get sidetracked by articles on Euclidean geometry, and then they chase the use of the symbol through palaces and sacred caves in Crete and mountain sanctuaries and tombs in archaic Greece.
‘Let’s narrow it down,’ suggests Alfie, his tone giving away the fact that he can’t take much more browsing. ‘I’ll just type in “Temples in Rome” and see what we get.’
Two million entries – that’s what they get.
Tom sits back in amazement.
‘Wuuu! Talk about needles and haystacks. I thought you were narrowing things down.’
‘Me too.’ Alfie clicks open a Wikipedia link. Up pops an alphabetical guide to temples, cult centres and pagan structures across the Eternal City. ‘So, what have we got here?’ The temple links are displayed according to area and also according to each person or deity they’re dedicated to.
‘There seem to be seven areas.’ Tom runs his finger across the iPad. ‘Campus Martius – the Field of Mars – the Capitoline Hill, the Palatine, Forum Boarium, Roman Forum, Imperial Fora and the Fora Venalia.’
‘Yikes,’ is the best Alfie can manage.
‘And then there are these five other categories.’ Tom glides his finger over the super-smooth screen. ‘The Temples of Cybele, Elagabalium, Marcus Aurelius, Minerva Medica and Virtus.’
‘Double yikes.’
Bright sun is now pouring through the window of the bar. The two friends can feel it on their faces. The warmth makes Tom yawn and reminds him of the sleep deficit he’s run up. Settlement time is coming up fast. ‘I’m wiped out. I’m going to get the bill.’ He eases himself off the chair and goes to pay Josep. ‘Will you write down the sites for me, Alfie, so I can give them to Valentina?’
‘Sure.’ Alfie jots them down on a white paper napkin, then follows Tom to the bar, iPad held carefully in both hands. He goes behind the counter and puts it back on charge. Josep’s hawk eyes watch his every move.
They say goodbye with much handshaking and back-slapping and slip into the bright, late morning sunlight.
Neither of them notices the man across the road.
The one who’s been watching them for the last two hours.
42
The local cops and mortuary staff call her Nonna.
Professoressa Filomena Schiavone is actually a grandmother, so she doesn’t at all mind the nickname.
But it hasn’t always been like that.
There was a time when the medical examiner worried almost obsessively about growing old.
Turning thirty was a trauma. The first grey hair had come and agonisingly signalled the end of her girlish world.
Forty was horrendous. A time when everyone was getting divorced or realising their marriages would end childless. It was the first time in her life she’d felt remotely uncertain about the future.
Fifty was catastrophic.
It was an age she lied about. A milestone she denied having reached for as long as believably possible. And looking back, that was quite a while.
Despite hitting the big half-century mark, she still had admirers. Even after the death of her husband four days before her fifty-fifth birthday.
But sixty changed everything.
At last, she learned to accept things.
Life was short, and getting shorter by the moment. It was there to be lived to the full.
Compared to the loss of Mario, white hair and the pull of gravity on flesh were nothing. She’d been rocked by his death. Shaken to her core. She’d been a recluse for five years, finding time only for her daughter, two grandsons and of course her work.
But not now.
Now she’s out dating again.
Yep, as ridiculous as it sounds, Filomena’s ‘playing the field’, as she calls it. And right now she’s walking out with a former lawyer who’s seventy next year.
Life is good.
Or at least it seems that way until she bends over the remains of the corpse that her staff have left on her slab.
The floor is splashed with brown river water and the sauce of death is spilling from his lifeless orifices.
All manner of molluscs and crustaceans have taken up lodgings in the gaping wounds she’s gazing down on.
The body is that of a reasonably well-nourished male in his early thirties. He is about five feet eight inches tall and would have weighed around eleven stone had his stomach not been opened up and half his organs washed away. She lifts his hands and sees that many of the finger bones have been broken. Perhaps a sign of torture. Possibly the result of rocks or stones being piled upon him post-mortem to conceal the corpse. A cracked rib cage, broken jaw and damaged eye socket are also consistent with the latter. A little later she’ll have x-rays done. Looking at the prints of bone fusion is still one of the best ways of ageing a corpse.
Filomena manoeuvres the cadaver on to its side and notes corresponding pressure injuries on his back. It’s not the worst case she’s ever seen, but it’s up there. The scalp shows a number of minor abrasions to the front and side, but in particular to the rear, where a huge piece of bone has been smashed in. Fragments are inside the jagged cavity of the skull, but for the moment it’s hard to be sure whether the wound was made by an attacker before death or was the result of rocks being piled on the corpse.
She lays the body flat and examines the stomach wound. It’s even more peculiar.
The man has not just been stabbed; he’s been opened in some kind of ritualistic way. It makes her think of hara-kiri, the Japanese suicide ritual, and a lecture she once attended on the samurai tradition of seppuku – stomach cutting. Noble practitioners were supposed to plunge the sword into the abdomen and then move the blade left to right in a slicing motion.
She continues with her examination and ignores the smell of the bloated body. It certainly looks like the cut was made from the victim’s left. Marks on the lower ribs show the blade was dragged horizontally, then, by the looks of it, pulled downwards at forty-five degrees for about seven inches. She makes notes on a pad and wonders whether a weapon was found alongside the victim. She’s not been told of one, and its absence would certainly indicate murder rather than suicide.
A picture forms of the victim being hit from behind and then stabbed in the stomach as he fell to the ground.
She looks again at the wound.
That theory doesn’t seem to fit.
The cut marks against the ribs are upwards, as though the victim was still vertical.
Something else isn’t right.
Filomena pulls up the flap of abdominal flesh and jumps back.
From inside the stomach cavity, two dark baby mice bolt for freedom.
She screams like a teenager.
Within seconds, an orderly is in the room.
The best the professoressa can do is point at the rodents, both of which are now trying to hide beneath the neck of the corpse.
Roberto, a man in his early thirties, traps them with a stainless-steel bowl, and with all the speed of a magician, palms the offending creatures and heads outside.
The other thing he hides professionally is his smile. Nonna’s phobia about mice is legendary, and unfortunately the morgue is not without its unwelcome intruders.
After a brief respite, Filomena shouts Roberto back in.
Only when the cadaver has been checked and declared mouse-free does she resume her work.
Setting a time of death is difficult.
The corpse has been exposed to the elements and has probably been covered by the tide of the Tiber. It’s also been masked by rocks, affording a little shelter.
She always tells the police: ‘time of death is precisely between when the victim was last seen alive and when the corpse wa
s discovered’.
The lower part of the torso is heavily damaged by rocks, and the knees and shins show extensive injuries.
She diligently marks them on a standard anatomical drawing.
Only now does she realise that the gaping wounds to the man’s head and stomach have drawn her attention away from something she would otherwise have instantly found fascinating.
The man has no scrotum and no testicles.
She looks closer. This isn’t a recent injury. In fact, it isn’t an injury at all.
It’s been done very deliberately.
Judging from the scars, there’s been a crude operation to castrate him.
The deceased is a modern-day eunuch.
43
The apartment seems strange without Valentina in it.
Empty. Silent. Soulless.
Tom uses the bathroom, strips and falls into bed.
Maybe his life would also be strange without Valentina in it.
Interesting thought.
He remembers what Alfie had said. You could interpret ‘interesting’ to mean he hoped one day to be with her for the rest of his life.
Maybe that’s true.
He puts his sentimentality down to exhaustion and pulls the quilt up tight around his neck. A long, deep sleep will give him perspective. It always does.
He squashes his pillow a few different ways until it seems right, and shuts his eyes.
It feels wonderful to rest. His tired muscles and joints are relieved to be laid out flat and still.
A couple of hours’ sleep will do him the world of good.
But he’s not going to sleep.
He knows it.
His eyes are shut, but there’s no way he’s going to sleep.
One of those awful moments is happening. One where the more you try to sleep the more you know it’s not going to happen.
Finally, he gets up.
He wanders to the lounge, grabs Valentina’s Vaio and brings it back to bed.
A distraction is all he needs.
His brain will stop buzzing and his eyes will grow weary and then he’ll nod off.
Fantastic.
He surfs the net for ten minutes. He checks out the LA Times sports pages and scrolls through the latest on the Lakers and Dodgers. He even finds out how the Clippers, Kings and Ducks are doing.
Sleep still seems a long way off.
He can’t even glimpse it hiding around the corner.
Tom reaches down the bed to recover his trousers. He pulls out the napkin that Alfie wrote on at La Rambla.
He might as well start a virtual search of the temples.
A is for Apollo Sosianus.
The site takes him to pictures of the Field of Mars – just walking distance from where he found the murdered man. The site shows that nothing remains of the temple except three tall columns. Accompanying text says there was once a cult of Apollo, established outside the pomerium, the sacred boundary of Rome ploughed by Romulus.
Tom Googles Apollo and sees nothing he doesn’t already know.
The guy was a superhero. As famous in Greece as he was in Rome. Son of Zeus and Leto, brother of Artemis, the god of everything from archery to medicine, music to poetry.
He gets a bad feeling as he looks at a second-century marble of Apollo holding a lyre and a python.
Snakes always give him bad feelings.
But there are no triangles. No rituals or stories of severed hands to link the deity with his modern-day case.
He goes back to the home page.
B is for Bellona.
This is a temple close to that of Apollo and was dedicated to a goddess of war who seemed to have Etruscan origins. Her followers were said to have syncretised their beliefs with those of another sect, that of the Magna Mater. The web page shows a painting of Bellona by Rembrandt, and Tom wonders if he’s ever seen a woman look so masculine. Below it is a bronze by Rodin that makes her look a little more feminine.
He flicks back to pictures of the temple.
It’s in ruins. Nothing except broken chunks of marble and busted pillars.
Only a single podium still stands as a reminder of the powerful building that was once there.
He closes his eyes for a second and thinks about what C might be for.
He doesn’t find out.
Sleep finally comes, right at the wrong moment.
44
A windy morning miraculously morphs into a mild and sunny lunchtime.
It’s a long way until spring but is still warm enough for Valentina to take her tray of food to a table on the patio outside the police canteen.
She’s more than ready for the break.
The morning has been brutal.
First the bad news from the forensic labs, then the strange report Federico has just phoned in from the mortuary.
A dead eunuch?
What sense does that make?
She takes a tomato salad, two slices of fresh rustic bread, an espresso and a glass of water off her tray.
While she eats with just a fork, she stifles a yawn and scribbles in her notebook.
The body by the Tiber is a major development, but it’s also a huge distraction. All the real clues to cracking the case surely lie in the multiple personalities of the woman they are calling Prisoner X, the thin slip of a thing confined to a hospital bed at the Policlinico.
Valentina downs her espresso and quickly sketches out names, ages and the briefest of details presented by the suspect’s several personalities.
The small chart makes fascinating reading.
Suzanna and Little Suzie seem to be the two contemporary personalities, while Claudia and Cassandra – both classic Roman names – are the ‘legendary’ alters.
Little Suzie alluded to the fact that there were many others.
Are there really more? Questions stick like bugs on a wind-screen.
Why do two of the personalities use the name Suzanna? Valentina thinks there’s a psychological reason – maybe a bridge to her real life. It could be that Suzanna is the name of someone who’s been kind to her, supported her through difficult times, or perhaps it’s someone she admired.
Valentina has already made sure the Carabinieri’s records team has checked out the surname Grecoraci.
They drew blanks.
So too did the hospital’s own enquiries.
No one with that name fitting Suzanna’s age and physical description has shown up on any official records anywhere across Italy. But to the best of Valentina’s knowledge, no one has run a check on Suzanna Fratelli. She makes a note to action the search – and also for Cassandra Fratelli and Claudia Fratelli.
The sky is starting to cloud over and the warmth is disappearing from the patio. She heads back inside and leaves her food tray on a lopsided rack by the canteen door. She takes the stairs rather than the lift and thinks about calling Tom before she enters what she knows will be a dreadful meeting with Caesario.
Predictably, Armando Caesario’s office is one of the grandest in the building. Occupying a south-facing corner position with enough floor space to double as a parade ground.
The wooden floor is dark and polished and creaks as she walks over it. To her left is a seating area, marked by a large Indian rug full of deep reds and two chestnut-coloured leather settees. The rest of the room is dominated by a giant mahogany desk straight in front of her. The small man sitting behind it is backlit by a large sash window with a view across the city. Old hardback chairs covered in faded brown leather stand to attention to the front and flanks of the major’s desk. This is not a room where anyone is meant to feel at ease.
‘Sit!’ Caesario mumbles through his chins while he finishes writing.
There’s a knock on the door behind Valentina.
‘Enter!’
Even before Valentina turns her head, she knows who it is.
Lieutenant Federico Assante walks noisily across the wood. Without speaking, he takes the chair at the end of the desk. The one neare
st Caesario.
The major downs his pen. He clasps his hands and looks up at them both. His face bears the expression of a disappointed father who’s gathered his wayward children for a scolding. ‘Captain Morassi – it’s been brought to my attention that you have without authorisation involved a civilian in a major criminal investigation and as a consequence probably compromised our enquiries.’
Valentina gazes blankly at her superior officer. ‘I don’t believe anything has been compromised, sir. With respect, the civilian’s involvement advanced our enquiries rather than compromised them.’
Caesario sighs and leans back in his big leather chair. ‘How so?’
Valentina shoots Federico a withering look. ‘The man you are referring to is Tom Shaman. He worked with me on the serial murder case in Venice that you know of and he proved invaluable to our units there. If you wish, I’m sure Major Vito Carvalho will vouch for his integrity. My-’
‘ Ex- Major Carvalho,’ interjects Caesario, ‘and to be honest, I don’t wish. Captain, I didn’t ask you for a character reference, I asked you to substantiate your claim that this man advanced our enquiries.’
‘Sir, Tom discovered the body. He happened to be with me when I visited the Ponte Fabricio with Louisa Verdetti, the clinical director of the Policlinico Umberto.’
‘Stop!’ Caesario raises his hand like a traffic cop. ‘Let me back up here. Lieutenant Assante, were you not the first officer I sent to the original crime scene in Cosmedin?’
‘Yes, sir. I was, sir.’
‘And as a local officer with local knowledge, did I not give you an express command to keep me fully briefed until this matter was cleared up?’
‘Yes, sir, you did, sir.’
‘Good. I’m glad we’re clear about that. So how is it, Lieutenant, that until this morning, you did not tell me anything about the expanded scale of the inquiry and the involvement of civilians and non-Carabinieri medics?’
‘I didn’t know, sir. Not until afterwards.’
Valentina tries to jump in. ‘With respect, Major-’
‘Be quiet, Captain. Keeping your mouth shut is the best way you can show me respect. I’ll come back to your explanation in a moment.’
