by Jon Tracy
Filomena Schiavone points to the body. ‘Whoever did this is extraordinarily dangerous, Captain. Be careful – really careful. The only way I ever want to see you back in here is standing up and asking questions.’
51
On her return to base, Valentina checks her missed phone message.
It’s from Tom. Made from a hospital pay phone.
There’s been an accident, a fire at her apartment, and he’s fine but the apartment is not. It’s gutted.
So is she. Apparently she’s homeless.
But he’s safe, that’s the main thing.
She’ll call the hospital and arrange to pick him up just as soon as she’s dealt with a more pressing matter.
Cafe Luigi is just around the corner from headquarters. Lots of cops go there for an espresso before work or a beer at the end of the day.
Some probably even go for a beer before the start of their shift.
It’s here that she’s told Lieutenant Federico Assante to meet her.
He’s sitting in the corner.
His hands are wrapped around a mug of black tea.
Valentina unbuttons her short dark wool coat, hangs it over the back of the cheap chair and sits down. Assante looks miserable and worried.
Good.
He’s every right to feel that way.
She peels off her black leather gloves. ‘Twenty minutes from now, I’m due to be with Human Resources, reviewing a list of lieutenants who can be freed up to help me.’ She stares sternly into his eyes. ‘I don’t want to make that appointment. I want to give you a second chance and have you help me solve this case. Is that something you want?’
He looks surprised. ‘In the office you said-’
‘I know what I said. I don’t have short-term memory problems. Now do you want to work this case or not?’
He doesn’t have to think for long. ‘I want to work it.’
‘ Bene. Then there are conditions.’
He thought there might be.
‘You work your sexist ass off. You put in more hours than you’ve ever done and you don’t grumble or complain about anything to anyone. Understand?’
He nods.
‘Perfetto. Now I’ll tell you what you get in return. If you put in a hundred per cent effort and a hundred per cent loyalty, I’ll be the first to sing your praises. Credit where credit is due. But if you screw with me – if you go behind my back and start playing politics – then I’ll wreck your career so badly you won’t be able to get a job shining Caesario’s shoes by the time I’m done. Understand?’
‘Understood.’
‘ Va bene. Then we’re a team again.’
‘ Grazie.’ There’s an awkward silence, then he adds, ‘Just so you know, the major insisted that I report directly to him. It was his idea, not mine.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’ She stares at him again, a steely gaze that shows he’s still on thin ice. ‘He won’t do it again, and neither will you. From now on we’re going to be judged by results, not by whether we’re male or female or friends with the major or not.’
‘ Si.’
‘Now in the interests of our new relationship, how about you get me an espresso?’
He’s up from the table and standing at the bar within seconds.
Valentina smiles. Her old boss, Vito Carvalho, was right. Rethinking what to do with Assante was a smart move.
52
Late afternoon, and a sombre Louisa Verdetti finds herself in Sylvio Valducci’s office.
He’s tired. His eyes are bloodshot and he needs to keep wiping them with a tissue. Louisa doesn’t care enough to ask if he’s all right. Besides, mentally she’s still at the graveside of her former school friend, a mother of three, who two hours ago was lowered into the earth less than six months after being diagnosed with breast cancer.
The big C. The most feared letter in the alphabet.
They caught it late – far too late – and the tumours had spread all over her body.
‘Have you seen it yet?’
Louisa looks up. ‘I’m sorry. Have I seen what?’
Valducci triumphantly slips the crayoned drawing across his desk. ‘Suzanna’s latest masterpiece. Or should I say Suzie’s.’ He looks like the cat that got the cream. ‘What do you make of it?’
Louisa frowns at it. ‘Where did this come from?’
‘I saw the patient when you were out. I just wanted to personally look in on her, and she was in the middle of drawing this.’
‘You saw her without consulting me?’
He shrugs. ‘It is my right to. I can see any patient I wish.’ He looks at her challengingly, then adds, ‘It may please you to know that she manifested many of the signs you mentioned, including violence.’
Louisa now understands the injuries to his face.
Valducci taps the paper and repeats his question. ‘What do you make of it?’
She looks at it again. ‘Anger?’ She runs a finger along the hard red and orange crayon ridges. ‘She’s pressed so hard here, you can see where the crayon’s snapped and left thick wax.’ She looks up at her boss and realises she strongly resents him interfering in what she regards as her own special case. But it’s more than that. Worse than that. She feels as though her privacy has been invaded, as though he’s violated her by intruding into the intimacy she was building with her patient. She looks down at the picture again. ‘So what did she tell you about this? What is it, a fire of some kind?’
‘Interesting, I didn’t see it as a fire.’ Valducci swivels the paper back. ‘No, she said it was Romans.’
‘Romans? It’s always Romans.’
Valducci can see that she’s distant. ‘Are you all right?’
It’s a strange question.
If a friend had asked her, she’d say no.
She’d most likely open up and discuss the hangover of grief she’s got from the funeral, but she’s not going to mention that to Valducci.
‘I’m fine. Just a little down because of the service this afternoon.’
Valducci jabs a finger in the corner of the drawing. ‘I just realised something. I thought this black mark here was some kind of star, but now you’ve suggested that this is a fire, I can more easily imagine it as a cross, a crucifix, perhaps in a Roman church or temple, with the fire all around it.’
Louisa finally shows interest.
It certainly is a fire.
There’s definitely a religious symbol in there and something else as well. A human shape. ‘Did she say who this figure is? It looks like a man lying down.’
The administrator is feeling inspired. ‘Maybe a statue on top of a tomb. Perhaps she was drawing a fire in a church where a famous saint is buried.’
Louisa remembers the prophetic nature of the story about the murder by the bridge over the Tiber. ‘Have you called the Carabinieri?’
‘No.’ He kicks himself. Had he not been bathing his stinging eyes, he probably would have done. He certainly should have done. It may even have enabled him to completely hijack her case. ‘I wanted to discuss it with you first,’ he lies.
‘I’ll call Morassi, the captain I was with last night.’ She reaches for her handbag and fishes inside for her cell phone.
‘I have an idea,’ announces Valducci, his face filled with childish enthusiasm.
Louisa hooks out her phone and plunges her hand back into the bag to find Valentina’s card. ‘What’s that?’
‘Forget the cops for now. This is strictly clinical. Doctor-patient confidentiality. If it works, it will help both Suzie and your Carabinieri friends.’
53
By pure coincidence, Tom Shaman ends up being treated at the Policlinico, the same hospital where Valentina spent much of the morning with the ME.
Valentina learns of his whereabouts on the phone and tells him she has a few things to take care of before coming to collect him.
Sitting in A amp;E reception nursing a brown plastic cup of poor coffee, Tom is pleased to have emerged from hi
s ordeal relatively unscathed.
Apart from a gashed shoulder, a cut foot, a little nausea and a raw cough, he’s in good shape. And he’s dressed again.
Albeit in dead men’s clothes.
One of the porters got them for him. They’d tried the charity store, but Tom’s height and width was too tall an order. Most Italian males are considerably smaller and narrower than he is. No matter. He is now modelling some grey cotton trousers that are okay in length but were clearly worn by someone who was clinically obese. He’s gathered six inches of spare cloth around the top and choked it off with an old plastic belt. The plain pink shirt with frayed collar and cuffs may well have come from the same guy. It’s fine across the neck and shoulders but then billows out into a parachute. Brown socks and black plastic boots with elasticated sides complete his less than fashionable ensemble.
Sometime around four p.m., he falls asleep in the dozy warmth of the reception area, and stirs almost an hour later to find Valentina staring down at him.
He’s been dreaming about the burning apartment.
Valentina sees the panic in his eyes. ‘Hey, are you all right?’
He breathes deeply.
Yes, he’s all right.
The place isn’t on fire.
He’s absolutely fine.
‘Sure,’ he answers sleepily, then stretches his long legs. ‘You like my new clothes?’
She sees the funny side.
She sits on the hard wooden chair beside him, puts her arms around his neck and kisses him. ‘They’re very you.’
He pulls her tight.
Her skin is cool and smells of the fresh air.
Her kiss is warm and soft and the touch of her hair against his face melts his stress away.
The very public kiss is shorter and more polite than either of them would have liked.
Valentina pulls slowly away and takes a long look at him. ‘Okay, who dressed you? I can get them a six stretch in maximum security for this. Or was it a blind guy? I could show mercy to a blind guy.’
‘A dead guy, I think.’
She screws up her face. ‘Oooh. I wish you hadn’t said that. I’ve spent too much of the day in the mortuary.’ She grabs his hand and tries to pull him to his feet. ‘Come on, let’s get out of here.’
Tom heaves himself up from the chair where he’s spent the last three hours. ‘Where are we going? Your place is really badly damaged.’
She folds her fingers between his and leads him to the exit. ‘I know. Federico has friends in the fire department; they’re scooping up whatever is salvageable before the looters move in.’
‘Looters?’
‘Sure. Romans burned and looted most of the world. You don’t think they’ll be all over a newly gutted apartment seeing if there’s something worth having?’
‘I suppose so.’
Tom walks groggily to Valentina’s car.
She zaps the door open.
He gets in, rolls down the window and clunks on his seat belt. ‘I’m really sorry about your place.’
‘You should be,’ she teases. ‘Do you have any idea what it will cost to replace my wardrobe?’
He shakes his head.
‘The shoes alone will be a year’s salary. Not to mention my dresses, skirts, tops, bags, jumpers, coats and lingerie.’
‘Oh God, I feel so bad. I really don’t know what happened.’ He rubs his forehead with his thumb and forefinger. ‘I’m sure I didn’t leave anything on the cooker. I didn’t use it after you’d gone. I just made coffee, that’s all.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’ She leans over and kisses him. ‘You’re safe, that’s all I care about. The rest is covered by insurance.’ She kisses him again. ‘But as punishment, you’re going to have to come shopping with me. Lots of shopping!’
54
Louisa can’t believe she’s going along with it.
All of her training tells her this is a bad idea, especially after Suzanna’s attack on Valducci.
Then again, it could be exactly the right moment.
She supposes she’s being compliant because the initiative has come from her boss and it’s not her neck on the line if it goes wrong, which it very well could. Then again, Valducci could really hit the bullseye, and she’d like to be in on that happening.
And so it is that she finds herself in the back of the hospital administrator’s Alfa, accompanying Suzanna on a trip to Cosmedin.
Cognitive therapy.
Returning to a scene of central psychological importance while the patient is in a high emotional state. Risky but potentially promising.
They park just off the square and Suzanna is already acting nervously.
Her face is pressed to the car window and her eyes are glued to the iconic bell tower of the Santa Maria.
Louisa touches her hand. ‘We thought it might be a good idea to bring you back here. See if anything surfaces in your memory that can help us to help you.’
The rear door has a child lock on it, which is a good job, otherwise Suzanna would already have been out of the car and probably killed by passing traffic.
‘Hang on! Wait a second!’ shouts Valducci from the front seat.
He turns off the engine and cranks up the parking brake.
He gets out of the car, walks around to the rear passenger side and opens the door for Suzanna.
He takes her arm to help her out.
Or at least it looks like he’s helping.
In fact he has a grip on her wrist that is tighter than a pair of army handcuffs, and he’s sure as hell not letting go. Suzanna feels him restraining her and looks into his bloodshot eyes.
‘You have to be careful around here. I’ll stay close to you and make sure you don’t get hurt.’
Suzanna looks pained. Her attention is fixed on the church and she’s backing away from it like she’s expecting a bomb to go off.
‘Is this the building in your drawing?’ asks Louisa, noticing the tension. ‘I saw the drawing that you did of the fire. Is this the place?’
Suzanna looks confused.
She peers at Louisa as though she’s a complete stranger. Someone who’s just stopped her in the street. ‘ Signora, I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.’ She wheels around to Valducci, who still has hold of her wrist. ‘Vaffanculo! Get your filthy hands off me, you pervert.’
The administrator is struck dumb.
Wham!
Suzanna punches him hard in the face.
He’s shocked and stinging but still holding on.
‘Suzanna!’ shouts Louisa.
Suzanna punches Valducci again. This time she adds a shuddering jerk of her left knee to his balls.
The administrator doubles up and loses his grip.
‘ Testa di cazzo! ’ Suzanna walks casually away, her back to the church.
Louisa freezes.
Should she help Valducci, or run after Suzanna?
No choice.
‘Suzanna, wait!’
It takes close to ten seconds for Louisa to get level – and a safe half a metre to one side. ‘Why did you do that?’
Suzanna shoots her a look of disbelief. ‘Why? The greasy pig was grabbing at me. You didn’t see him? He wanted to get me in his car and crawl all over me. No way, sister. That doesn’t happen to Anna Fratelli, no way.’
‘Anna?’
‘What?’
Louisa hadn’t got a question; she’d just repeated the name out loud because it was new.
Unfamiliar and yet distantly familiar.
Finally her memory gets off its ass and helps out.
Suzie Fratelli is the name of one of the alters.
This new personality is combining an old surname, that of little Suzie, with a whole new and profoundly aggressive personality, Anna. Anna itself being a root form of Suzanna.
‘Do I know you?’ She’s walking quickly, striding away from the square down a back street that she seems to recognise.
‘I’m a doctor from the hospital yo
u were at. I’m Louisa Verdetti.’
‘Naah. I ain’t been at a hospital. I been working my ass off. Two jobs a day, that’s what I been doin’. Louisa, you say? That’s a nice name.’
Verdetti goes with the flow. ‘ Grazie. Anna’s nice too. That a family name?’
‘You’re joking, right?’ Anna veers left down an adjacent alley.
‘Why would I be joking?’
‘Well, if you’re supposed to be my doctor, then you should know my family history – like I don’t have any.’ She takes another sharp turn into a road facing a large stretch of old parkland.
Louisa is almost breathless trying to keep up.
She turns the corner and feels something slam into her face.
The force of the blow drops her on her back and leaves her seeing stars and spitting blood.
Tears come streaming to her eyes.
By the time she’s moved her hands from her face, Anna is gone.
55
Tom and Valentina grab groceries and toiletries from a small supermercato near the hospital and prepare to spend the night in a Carabinieri-owned apartment in the north of the city. It’s a safe house. One used by the serious crime squad to guard witnesses about to testify in major trials.
The place is cold and smells of cigarettes and alcohol. Valentina pushes open the windows and searches for an air freshener. Tom finds a central heating switch and turns it all the way up. Neither of them yet feels brave enough to look into the bedroom.
The place is sparsely furnished – a well-worn brown velour settee and chair are staked out around an old black box of a TV, while at the other end of the room there’s a teak-effect fold-up dining table filled with squashed beer cans, a full ashtray and a set of dog-eared playing cards. ‘Strictly a men-only set-up,’ pronounces Valentina, as she surveys the evidence. ‘I was warned that the cleaners hadn’t yet been in, but I didn’t think it would be this bad.’
‘Beggars can’t be choosers,’ Tom replies from a small annex off the lounge that passes as a kitchen. ‘At least there’s a coffee machine.’ He holds up a small Gaggia that he’s found in a cupboard.
