by Sam Christer
‘Not quite. The prisoner had stuffed it …’ He puts his hand between his legs. ‘The nursing staff found it.’
‘How strange that she wanted to hide it. The thing doesn’t look worth much. Is it hollow?’
‘No.’
‘Nothing concealed inside it?’
‘Not that I could tell. I’ll send it to Forensics when we’re done here. Now do you understand why I called you?’
‘Si.’ She realises she’s been short with him. ‘I’m sorry. This case has sort of ruined my weekend, both last night and tonight.’
‘Big plans?’ He tilts his eyes up and down her dress.
Valentina shoots him a look that says it’s none of his business. She’s still holding his notebook. She taps it against her other hand. ‘What do you think of her writing? Is it some way of justifying that she’s chopped someone’s hand off? Groundwork for an insanity plea?’
‘Perhaps. Maybe it’s more than a hand she’s chopped off.’
Valentina takes his point. ‘There’s still no sign of a victim, so we could be looking at full dismemberment.’
‘Could be. It’s certainly not unreasonable to think we’re going to find other body parts spread across the city.’
‘You’re right.’ She hands back the notebook. ‘Can you get some copies of that made?’
‘Done already.’ He reaches over to a hard chair on his left and picks up a stack of stapled photocopies. ‘The nurses’ office has a printer. A young sister in there pressed all the buttons for me.’ He gives her a playful smile.
‘I bet she did.’ Valentina takes a copy. ‘Let’s go and ask our mystery girl about all this nonsense.’
‘I really don’t think so,’ says a woman approaching them. ‘I’m Louisa Verdetti, the unit director, and I’m afraid you’re not going to see this patient until I’ve finished my diagnosis.’ Verdetti is in her late thirties, with short dark hair, and looks as though she was born to wear a white doctor’s coat and dangle expensive black glasses from the tip of her nose. She nods contemptuously towards Federico. ‘Your colleague shouldn’t even have been in the room with her, let alone tried to ask questions. She’s clearly in a very disturbed state of mind and—’
Valentina can’t help but interrupt. ‘Doctor, whatever state of mind your patient is in, it’s nothing compared to that of the woman whose hand she chopped off.’
Verdetti glares at her. ‘I don’t want to be unhelpful.’
‘Then don’t be.’ Valentina waves the photocopies in her face. ‘Does this stuff she’s written mean anything to you?’
The doctor softens, ‘Come into my office.’ She motions to a corridor off to their left.
Valentina follows her and Federico tags behind.
The room is dark. There is a desk opposite the doorway stacked with papers and lit only by a silver Anglepoise lamp. The psychiatrist gestures towards a far corner, where two grey cotton sofas flank a cheap glass table marked with rings from old coffee cups.
They settle, and Louisa Verdetti pulls a quizzical face. She’s wondering how much to tell the Carabinieri and how much they’ll understand. ‘Let me start with the writings. They are highly unusual.’
Valentina feigns astonishment. ‘You need a doctor’s degree to have noticed that?’
‘Please!’ Verdetti’s face begs more patience.
‘I’m sorry. Go on.’
‘Unusual because they are indicative of a rare condition, one that not many psychiatrists in the world, let alone in Italy, have treated.’ She can see she now has their complete attention. ‘The patient has DID, dissociative identity disorder.’
‘What’s that?’ asks Federico.
‘It’s what used to be called multiple personality disorder.’
He’s still not sure he gets it. ‘You mean she thinks she’s two people? Whoever she really is and this woman Cassandra from Cosmedin.’
Verdetti thinks about disagreeing – about explaining the true depth and danger of the disorder – but decides the detail can wait for another time. ‘Sort of. It’s sufficient to say that at the time she wrote the text that you have, she truly believed that she was Cassandra of Cosmedin and was being taken to the Bocca della Verità to have her hand cut off. Incidentally, the Bocca would not have been in Cosmedin during the Roman period that she’s describing – as is common in most fantasies, timelines and other facts become distorted.’
‘Let’s focus on reality, then,’ suggests Valentina. ‘She concealed something vaginally. A necklace of some kind. Have you seen it?’
‘Si. I asked my staff to hand it to your colleague.’
‘I have it.’ Federico holds up the bag.
Valentina turns to Verdetti. ‘Do you know why it was so important to her? Why she felt she had to hide it?’
‘No. It’s probably personal and not of any real value or importance. DID sufferers sometimes attach enormous significance to certain objects, just like babies do to favourite teddy bears or blankets.’
‘But she wrote about it,’ says Valentina, ‘in some weird Roman story.’
The doctor gives them a comforting smile. ‘Again, I don’t see anything unusual. The young woman we’re treating is very disturbed. She needs close attention and understanding. Did you notice her wrists, her arms?’
Federico shakes his head.
‘Drug tracks?’ asks Valentina.
‘No,’ says Verdetti. ‘Something even harder to treat. Her arms are laced with scars from self-harming; her psychological state is very disturbed.’
Valentina has seen self-harming before. Way back when she was a recruit, she arrested a teenage girl for shoplifting whose forearms were slashed to ribbons. ‘She cuts herself when she’s stressed because it gives her some strange sense of relief?’
‘That’s right. It’s symptomatic of deep-lying trauma or abuse, and by the look of it she’s been doing this for years.’
‘I’m sorry; I hope you can help her.’
‘We can, given time. Come back tomorrow. Give us twenty-four hours to continue our assessments and diagnosis. Let us make her feel safe and comfortable, and then I’ll consider giving you access, under supervision, to interview her.’
Valentina nods. She knows she doesn’t really have a choice. It’s clear that no amount of pressure is going to change Verdetti’s mind. ‘We’ll be back in the morning. Grazie.’
‘Prego.’ The doctor rises to shake hands.
‘One thing before we go,’ adds Valentina. ‘Patients with … er …’ She struggles for the clinical name she’s just been told.
‘Dissociative identity disorder.’
‘Grazie. Patients with dissociative identity disorder, are they capable of murder?’
Verdetti’s face hardens again. ‘Undoubtedly. They’re capable of almost anything.’
14
On the drive back to Via Annia Faustina, Valentina sticks an earpiece into her iPhone and calls her boss.
He’s at home and answers as though he’s shouting out a swear word. ‘Caesario.’
‘Major, it’s Captain Morassi. I thought you might appreciate an update on the case you sent me out on.’
He lets out a tired sigh. ‘Capitano, you’ve arrested a woman in her late twenties who calls herself Cassandra, and she’s so crazy she’s already locked up in a psych ward. Lieutenant Assante says Forensics are working on some bloodstained clothes and a weapon, but there’s still no sign of a victim. Do you have anything to tell me that I don’t already know?’
Valentina is shocked that Federico has gone behind her back and spoken directly to the major. ‘We’re hoping to interview the suspect in the morning.’
‘So I understand. Anything else?’
Valentina now makes no effort to hide her annoyance. ‘Yes, sir, did you ask Assante to report directly to you? I certainly didn’t.’
There’s a brief pause. ‘For the sake of keeping this conversation short, let’s say I did. Now good evening to you, I have a far more important disagreeme
nt to finish with my wife.’
Valentina’s left listening to dial tone. She punches the steering wheel with the palm of her hand and drives off at a speed she knows she shouldn’t.
It’s eight p.m. by the time she re-enters her apartment.
It’s dark and lit by candles in the kitchen.
She smells fresh flowers long before she sees the spray of pink and cream roses in a water jug on the worktop.
‘My goodness, you’ve been busy.’
‘You’d better believe it.’ Tom is in the narrow kitchen, his back to her. ‘Give me a sec to uncork this wine, then I’ll tell you all about the spectacular piece of fish I’m cooking for you.’
She flinches. ‘I booked a table. I told you we were going out.’
He turns around and smiles. ‘Cancel it. Fish is my speciality. You won’t find better food or service anywhere in Rome.’
She can’t hide her disappointment. ‘It was tough to get a table. Very tough.’
He feels too awkward to say anything.
She scratches at the back of her neck. ‘Why is it men always believe they have the right to do whatever they want, regardless of whether it’s the opposite of what women want?’
Tom’s taken aback. ‘I’m sorry. I’d foolishly hoped the candles, flowers and wine might have rekindled some of that friendliness you expressed earlier.’
Valentina sits on the arm of the sofa, buries her head in her hand and swears softly. ‘Porca vacca!’
He moves towards her. ‘Those are bad words, aren’t they?’
She manages a muffled laugh. ‘Not the worst I know, but yes, they’re bad.’
He puts a hand on her shoulder. ‘I only just warmed things a little, because I didn’t know when you’d be in. I can easily turn it all off and we can go out.’
She looks at him. ‘No. I’m sorry. What a cow. I’ve had a difficult day with my boss and I just snapped.’ She glances around. ‘It’s really very nice that you went out, bought everything and did all this.’ She smiles. ‘Quite romantic.’
He smiles back. ‘I can be. Given the chance.’
‘Is that so?’
‘Certainly is.’
They trade looks, eyes sparkling with excitement. ‘Do I have time to change for dinner?’
‘Sure. Plenty.’
She heads to the bedroom.
Tom calls after her. ‘You want some help?’
She doesn’t answer.
He sits for a minute on the same sofa arm where Valentina has just perched and wonders if he’s doing the right thing. His body is tingling with the thrill of flirtation and the anticipation of what could be. At the same time a part of him wants to run.
Valentina reappears.
She’s wearing a cream silk robe.
Her dark hair falls lavishly against the porcelain whiteness of her neck. ‘Did you finally get that cork out? Or do you need a woman’s help?’
Tom gets up and heads to the abandoned bottle, his heart flipping like a pancake. He has to calm himself in order to safely use the corkscrew.
Valentina picks up a big-bowled wine glass by its stem and tilts it towards him. ‘Your lip still hurt?’
He pours a drizzle of golden Meursault into her glass. ‘No. Yours?’ Their eyes lock again.
‘Not at all.’ She moves the glass away, leans slowly forward and kisses him tenderly but fully on his bruised mouth.
Tom just about manages to put the bottle down safely.
Somehow Valentina finds a kitchen worktop to rest her glass on.
His hands undo her robe and slip inside the warm silk. Her skin is smooth and she smells of coconut.
He kisses her again and glides his fingers up to her shoulder blades, massaging them as she curls into him.
Valentina moves her hands from the back of his neck to the front of his shirt. Some buttons she manages to undo, others just snap off as she pulls the cloth open and tugs it down his thick arms.
They’re both almost breathless, mouths bleeding from the intense contact, bodies flushed with excitement.
Valentina smoothes her palms across his hard chest and feels his nipples stiffen. He’s much taller than she is. She pulls him down to her height, then all the way to the dirty kitchen floor.
Tom’s fingers find her legs and thighs. He plants rows of soft kisses across the silken pastures of her stomach and breasts.
She lets out a warm sigh of expectancy.
He slides his fingers around the arch of her back and slips off her small red La Perla briefs.
Valentina stretches like a cat as kisses trickle across her hips, then along her bikini line, and finally gather between her legs.
His hands cup her buttocks and his tongue snakes deep inside her.
She clings to him. Digs her nails into his vast back and holds on like she’s going to fall off a cliff.
And in a way she does. A vast tumble into oblivion, her head spinning and her heart pounding while a river of pent-up emotion breaks wonderfully free.
15
The guard outside the hospital room is the first to notice that the prisoner is out of bed and moving around.
He can see her through a slit of unfrosted glass, shuffling close to the wall.
The young man is about to call the nursing station when the night sister appears. ‘She’s out of bed,’ he announces in a worried tone.
‘I know.’ Sister Elizabetta Erio is a slightly overweight forty-year-old. ‘She pulled the emergency cord. Let’s see how she is.’
They enter the room together and find the prisoner-cum-patient sitting on the floor in the corner adjacent to the bed. Her hands are wrapped tightly around her drawn-up knees. She looks like a small, terrified child.
‘Come on, young lady,’ says Sister firmly. ‘You shouldn’t be down there. Let’s get you back into bed and make you comfortable.’
The guard bends down to help her, but this makes the woman cower even more. He guesses she’s afraid of the uniform and the white-holstered gun on his belt.
Elizabetta steps forward, takes her by the elbow and helps her to her feet in a no-nonsense way. ‘You’re going to freeze down there. Now let’s get you tucked up again.’
The prisoner allows herself to be moved back to the high metal bed. Her eyes never leave the guard.
Sister Erio quickly adjusts the patient’s faded hospital nightgown and covers her up. She’s read the woman’s case notes and knows she needs to stay alert. While the patient looks as meek as a mouse, and hasn’t spoken since admission, the huge bruise on her forehead is a reminder that there’s a constant chance of sudden and unexpected violence. ‘Does your head hurt, honey? That’s quite a bump you’ve got there.’
The woman scowls and tentatively puts her fingers to the patch of purple and black skin.
‘I’ll get you some painkillers. Would you like me to bring you a drink as well? Some nice cool water?’ She looks for a confirmatory nod.
‘Si. Grazie.’
Elizabetta’s shocked. She stares disbelieving at the prisoner’s lips. ‘Okay. It’s good that you’re talking. Give me a minute, I’ll go and get some for you.’
On the way out, she pulls the guard aside. ‘Watch her. Watch her closely. I’ll be back in no time.’
Elizabetta phones the night doctor and grabs 400 mg of ibuprofen. She takes a plastic cup from the cooler in the corridor, fills it with chilled water and is back in the room within a minute.
The patient pops the tablets and drains all the water. ‘Grazie.’
‘Prego.’ Elizabetta sits on the edge of the bed. ‘I’m going to take your pulse and your blood pressure. Is that all right?’
The woman nods nervously. ‘Where am I? Why am I here?’
‘You really don’t know?’
The fear in her eyes says she doesn’t. ‘I have no idea.’ She bites at an already well-chewed thumbnail and looks around. ‘Was I hurt? Was I in some kind of accident?’
Elizabetta glances towards the guard. ‘The Carabini
eri brought you here. They’ll probably want to talk to you, tell you about everything.’ She gives her a kindly smile. ‘Don’t worry about things; we’re going to look after you. Can you tell me what your name is?’
‘Suzanna.’
Elizabetta looks pleased.
‘Va bene.’ She reaches for the clipboard at the end of the bed and writes on some notes. ‘And your last name, Suzanna, what’s your last name?’
‘Grecoraci. Suzanna Grecoraci.’
‘Excellent. That’s a good start.’
The patient looks puzzled. ‘You didn’t know who I was?’
‘No. No, we didn’t.’
Suzanna dips her head; when she raises it again, she looks ashamed. ‘Was someone else here?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Sometimes the others come. They come and take my body without me knowing. Then they do things that I don’t know about. Bad things.’
16
It’s a long time before Valentina and Tom make it to her bedroom, and even longer before they return to the kitchen for a much-delayed dinner.
Valentina throws on a black jogging suit, not at all what she’d imagined she’d wear for their date, but it seems suitable when she clambers out of her wrecked bed.
They work side by side in the kitchen, cooking, chatting, sharing wine as though they’ve been a couple for years rather than minutes. She gets old white plates out of a top cupboard beside the cooker where he’s working. ‘You’ve changed a lot since we first met.’
The comment amuses him. ‘How so?’
‘More confident. More worldly.’ She puts down the plates and sits up on the work counter so she can see his face while he cooks. ‘Was that what living with Tina did for you?’
Tom feels uncomfortable for the first time. ‘I suppose.’
‘You don’t want to talk about her?’
‘Not really.’ He drops chopped onions into the heavy heated skillet to make a base for a sauce and begins to crush a garlic clove while musing on how much more he’s prepared to tell her. ‘It’s just over a year since we split up. I guess it was inevitable. You remember Tina, she was a professional woman determined to build a career and have a settled life. Me, I was an ex-priest determined to drift a bit and certainly not keen to have any responsibility after what happened in LA and Venice.’
