by Gill Paul
Stop! I can’t go on thinking like this or I’ll go mad! Focus, Diana, focus.
Nothing in her life experience to date had prepared her for this ten-foot by ten-foot cell, with its narrow bed and covered bucket. She walked to the door and held her ear against it, trying to listen to the sounds outside. There were clanking noises and she thought she could occasionally hear human voices but there was no reply when she shouted, ‘Hello! Is anybody there?’
She thought of newspaper stories she had read about people imprisoned abroad, and felt sure they were allowed a visit from the British Consul. Presumably they should inform the next of kin as well – in her case Trevor. But she had no idea what rights she had in Italy. Oh, if only she could talk to Trevor. He could call the Foreign Office and get them involved. He was such a clever man, he’d be sure to think of something to get her out of there.
As the afternoon wore on, she became very thirsty. There was no water in the cell, no refreshment of any kind, not even a tap at which she could wash her hands. Her mind leapt from subject to subject. Couldn’t the padrona at the lodging house in Torre Astura confirm that she had been tucked up in bed all night? No, because her patio led straight out towards the seashore. Anyone who knew Helen would testify that she was a gentle soul who would never have engaged in a physical fight, and surely they would say the same about her? And then she couldn’t think any more because her throat was parched and all she could picture was a long, cool drink of lemonade.
She watched the hands moving round on her watch and calculated how long it would take the Embassy to send someone. If they heard the news at, say, noon, it should have been possible to get someone there by two – but according to her watch it was already after four. Then she remembered that Italians don’t work during the heat of the afternoon in summer, so maybe someone would come around five.
Just after five, there was a rattle of keys and she stood up expectantly, but it was a female guard holding a tray of food. She glanced at it: a plate of stew, a small salad and an unidentifiable pink dessert.
‘Acqua, per favore.’ She held her throat to indicate her thirst and the guard nodded. She put the tray of food on her bed and left the cell door unlocked while she went to fetch a jug of water and a glass. For a split second, Diana considered making a run for it but she knew that was crazy thinking. The guard returned, gave her the water and began to shut the door again.
‘Chiami l’Ambasciata Americana, per favore,’ Diana begged – ‘Call the British Embassy.’
‘Domani, domani,’ the guard replied, and Diana’s spirits plummeted. That meant ‘tomorrow’. How could she be expected to stay overnight in this place?
Helen, where are you? If only you could come back and tell them the truth …
The door closed and she sat down and poured a glass of water. Bile rose in her throat at the smell of the food and she knew she wouldn’t be able to touch a morsel. Even the water made her retch, although it was fresh and cool.
At five-thirty, the guard returned and Diana assumed she’d come to collect the tray so she lifted it to hand over but she said, ‘No, hai un visitatore.’
Oh thank God! Someone had come to get her out.
She dropped the tray on the bed with a clatter and followed her out and along the corridor then up some stairs to a room with a table and several chairs. The door was open and inside sat a very suave-looking man with silver-grey slicked-back hair, wearing a pale grey suit.
‘Hello, Miss Bailey,’ he said, standing up and holding out his hand. ‘Bartolomeo Esposito. I am your lawyer.’
As she reached out her hand to shake his, a whiff of sweat reached her nostrils and she realised she had sweaty armpits. She was sure she had used her Arrid deodorant that morning. The words from the advertisement – ‘Dry as the desert’ – came into her head. It hadn’t worked, though. Perhaps her fear had caused an unusual amount of perspiration. She worried that Signor Esposito might be able to smell it and clasped her elbows firmly to her sides.
What a ridiculous thing to be worrying about! This was the man who could establish her innocence. That’s what mattered. She needed to convince him that she was honest, rational and reliable, and that she was being treated with great injustice.
‘Please take a seat,’ he said, in a business-like tone, sitting down and opening a folder of papers.
Diana sat.
Chapter Fifty-Four
Signor Esposito was probably in his early fifties, she thought, and he looked expensive. She watched his hands as he flicked through papers. They appeared to be manicured, with short nails and neat cuticles. Did Italian men have manicures?
‘Hilary Armitage hired me on behalf of Twentieth Century Fox.’
A lump formed in Diana’s throat. It was wonderful to know that Hilary was aware she was there and trying to help.
‘I’ve read through your statement and the police case against you and it seems we have two problems: the fact that you were both rivals in love for the same man, and the witness who says she saw you together at Torre Astura.’
‘What?’ Diana exclaimed. ‘That’s impossible! I didn’t see Helen at Torre Astura. And we weren’t love rivals – that’s all wrong.’
He nodded. ‘Good. They’re bringing the woman up for an identification parade so if she is not able to identify you that will be helpful.’
Diana was aghast. ‘Who on earth is she? When will they hold this parade? I hope it’s going to be soon, so I can get out of here.’
He frowned, creating a furrow above the bridge of his nose, and leaned forward on his elbows. ‘I hope it will be tomorrow. On Thursday there will be a hearing at which the public prosecutor will request validation from a judge for the preliminary investigation.’
Diana gasped and her stomach clenched into a knot. ‘I can’t stay here till Thursday. I simply can’t. I have a job to do.’
He continued in the same matter-of-fact tone. ‘There’s no possibility you will be released before Thursday. Murder is a very serious charge. But we’ll make it as comfortable as possible for you here while we build up your defence.’
‘And I’ll definitely get out on Thursday?’
‘No, not definitely. Only if we can convince the judge there are no grounds on which to hold you. We have to overturn all the circumstantial evidence against you and that could take time.’
The enormity of events began to sink in and Diana started to cry, quietly.
‘Compose yourself, Miss Bailey,’ he said, but not unkindly. ‘I’d like you to describe to me your relationship with Helen. What kind of friendship was it? How much time did you spend together? And then tell me in your own words about your relationship with this man’ – he glanced at his notes – ‘Ernesto Balboni, and about Helen’s interest in him.’
She sniffed back her tears to answer his questions. As she spoke, he made notes, and that calmed her. His English was completely fluent and she could tell he understood everything she was saying. She felt as if she was doing something productive. If she could be clear, precise and accurate in her statements, they would realise, surely, that she was a good person and would never have been capable of murder. She hadn’t even bought a mousetrap to kill the little mouse that sometimes darted across the room in her pensione at night.
‘Look at me!’ she said, holding up an arm. ‘I’m not strong. How am I supposed to have wrestled Helen over to the water and held her head under until she drowned?’
He looked at her closely, then made a note in his papers. ‘Interesting. So you didn’t realise she had a head injury?’ Diana shook her head, wide-eyed. He continued. ‘Yes, she appears to have been hit over the head and was unconscious when she entered the water. It’s why they have discounted suicide.’
‘You believe me, don’t you?’ Suddenly it was very important to her that he did.
He nodded. ‘Having listened to what you say, I do.’ He patted her hand. ‘But we need to find hard evidence. I don’t suppose you have any idea who might have killed
her?’
‘Yes, I think it was a drug dealer called Luigi – I don’t know his surname. But the police have already questioned and released him. He’s lying to them because I definitely saw him with Helen the day before she died even though he claims to have an alibi.’
Signor Esposito made some notes about that, and said he would see what he could find out. Perhaps the staff at the bar where he met Helen would remember him – but if he was a known drug dealer, it’s likely they wouldn’t want to get involved.
‘Now, let me explain your rights while you are in custody. You can have one visitor a day and you can ask them to bring clothes and toiletries for you. You are allowed to make one phone call a day and you should be given access to a bathroom to wash at least once a day. I understand they have put you in a cell on your own for now. Normally you have to pay extra for that but I expect they are waiting for the outcome of the hearing before putting you in a shared cell. We’ll deal with that on Thursday, if necessary.’
It was Tuesday. Thursday seemed a lifetime away. He noticed her terrified expression. ‘I assume you’ve never been in jail before.’
‘Of course not!’
‘The time will pass. Perhaps you could have some books brought in. Please try to stay calm and keep racking your brains for any tiny fact you might have overlooked that could help your case.’
She was still very tearful but his tone calmed her a little. Two days wasn’t so much out of an entire lifetime. She just had to get through it. ‘Would it be possible to have some belongings brought from my pensione today?’
‘Write a list of what you want and I’ll ask Hilary Armitage to arrange it.’
He passed her a pen and paper and she wrote her list: toothbrush and toothpaste, washcloth and soap, shampoo, day clothes and night clothes, books, pens and paper and lots of bottles of water.
‘Can I make a phone call? Do you think they will let me call my husband in London?’
The lawyer looked surprised. ‘You’re married?’
She supposed it hadn’t occurred to him because they’d been talking about her having a lover. She held out her ring finger to show him the plain gold wedding band she wore. ‘Yes.’
‘Of course they will let you call him. Do you want to do it now?’
She checked her watch. Taking into account the hour’s time difference, Trevor would just have left work and should be heading home. Did he have any society meetings on Tuesdays? She thought not. ‘Perhaps in about an hour.’
‘OK. I’ll tell the guard to fetch you in an hour and I’ll explain that you will be calling England.’
‘Thank you,’ she whispered.
He gathered his papers into a pile, tapping the edges on the desktop to align them, then slipped them inside a folder and scraped his chair back. Helen felt panicky that he was about to leave her and she’d be led back to that cell and left alone again.
‘Signor Esposito, one final question,’ she asked in a small voice. ‘Do you … do they have the death penalty here?’
‘Absolutely not! We think it’s barbaric that your country still executes people. The death penalty was banned in Italy in 1889. It was brought back briefly under Mussolini, but the last time people were executed here was in 1945. You will find our legal code very humanitarian, Mrs Bailey.’
That was something. And yet they had made such a huge mistake in her case that she found it hard to take comfort. ‘When will I see you again?’ she asked.
‘I will see you on Thursday morning before the hearing. In the meantime, you can call me if you think of anything else.’ He handed her a gold-embossed business card. ‘You’ll be fine, Diana. You’ll get through this.’
She pursed her lips and nodded.
He summoned a guard and spoke to her in rapid Italian, explaining about the phone call, then with one last wave he was gone. The only thing that kept her calm was thinking that in an hour she would be able to speak to Trevor. She would tell him everything and he would think of a plan. He’d know what to do.
But when the guard led her back upstairs and the call was put through, it rang and rang unanswered. After twenty rings, the Italian operator told her that there was no reply and she should call again later.
‘Please try for longer,’ she begged, but after a further twenty rings the operator terminated the call, and it was then that Diana fell apart. As the guard led her back down to her cell, she sobbed uncontrollably, and she continued to sob well into the night.
Chapter Fifty-Five
On Wednesday morning, some Italian newspapers ran stories saying that Diana Bailey, a twenty-six-year-old researcher on the Cleopatra movie, had been arrested in connection with the death of the makeup artist who’d been found in the water at Torre Astura. Under the lurid headline ‘Gelosia!’ one said that Diana was a married woman who had left her husband at home in England to embark on a torrid affair with an Italian man. When her younger, prettier colleague lured him away, she couldn’t contain her rage and attacked her rival, leaving her covered in cuts and bruises, before drowning her. The article went on to lambast the immoral atmosphere on the Cinecittà set, where everyone was sleeping with someone else’s husband or wife. It reported that Sybil Burton had left for England and already Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton had been seen together again, pawing each other like animals. No wonder other people on the film followed their example.
Scott read each of the stories in turn, trying to square the facts with what he knew of Helen’s life, but they didn’t add up. Drugs or no drugs, she was too gentle. She wouldn’t steal another woman’s boyfriend and engage in a cat-fight over him. Scott had never seen her with a boyfriend. The coverage had a hysterical tone that he instinctively distrusted. Helen had always described Diana in glowing terms. When he spoke to Gianni later, his photographer agreed.
‘I think I have a picture of Diana at home,’ he said. ‘I’ll bring it for you and you’ll see she doesn’t look the type. Still, sometimes the quiet ones have the most secrets.’
He zipped home and met Scott later at a café on the Via Veneto where they pored over his shots of a mousy-haired woman going into the Grand Hotel on the occasion of the Spartacus party the previous October. She looked startled by the flashbulbs and uncomfortable in a tight-fitting, above-the-knee frock and backcombed hair. Somehow they didn’t suit her. She appeared trussed up and unnatural.
‘I hadn’t seen her before and I took the photos in case she was important,’ Gianni explained, ‘but when I showed them to my contact on the set he said she was just the new researcher.’
‘It’s handy you kept them. I’ll send one to my editor tonight. Why don’t you sell the others? You might as well make some money from them.’
Gianni beamed. ‘I wasn’t sure if you would let me sell them to other papers.’
‘Sure you can. Take them to Jacopozzi at Associated Press and get the best price you can. They should be worth a bit if you release them before anyone else has one.’
‘Will do, boss.’ Gianni stood up eagerly.
‘Hang on! Are you expecting Liz and Dick to come out tonight? What’s the word on the street?’
‘She won’t come today, I don’t think. She got a letter threatening to kill her and her children, so they’ve trebled the security around her villa. I went past earlier and there are armed police patrolling and a police car parked outside.’ He sniffed in annoyance. ‘It’s going to be hard to get shots of her because they have thrown out all the photographers who used to sit in the trees overlooking her garden.’
‘Have you ever done that?’
‘Sure,’ Gianni grinned. ‘Why not?’ He slung his camera diagonally across his shoulders, then straddled his scooter and waved as he drove off.
Scott sat deep in thought as he stirred his espresso. He was convinced that Helen’s death must have had something to do with her drug habit. Maybe it had caused her to behave out of character and get into a fight. Perhaps she was distressed the night before she died because Diana had co
nfronted her. But what was she doing in Torre Astura, presumably not far from the Anzio villa she had told him about? Poor Helen. He just hoped that if the Ghianciaminas had killed her, it had been quick and she hadn’t suffered.
He decided the time had come to go to the police and tell them what he knew. He jumped onto his Vespa and drove out to the police station to the east of the city. At reception, he said he had information about the death of the makeup girl from Cleopatra, and asked if he might speak to someone involved in the case. He was led into an interview room, where he had to wait about half an hour before an officer came in.
Scott explained that Helen had been a drug addict and that he had been trying to help her quit the habit.
‘You were a boyfriend of hers?’ the officer asked.
‘No, just a friend.’
Scott told him about the vitamin doctor and wrote down his name and address on a piece of paper torn from his journalist’s notepad. The officer took it without looking at it.
‘I saw her the night before she died and she was very upset because the treatment wasn’t working. I think she might have started using heroin again.’
‘Where did you see her?’ He had the officer’s interest now.
‘I went to her apartment at about seven in the evening.’
‘Ah,’ the officer exclaimed, pleased with this information. ‘So you were the American man seen there. Our witness said she was crying, yes?’
‘She was very upset,’ Scott agreed.
‘And you talked to her. Did you go in?’
‘No. We talked for a while on the doorstep and I asked her to come out for dinner with me but she didn’t want company so I ended up leaving her. I wish I hadn’t now.’
‘Did she tell you about her new boyfriend?’
‘No. I never saw her with a boyfriend and she never mentioned one.’ Only guys she liked who didn’t call her, he remembered.
‘Uh-huh. Well, thank you for your help, Mr …’ He rose to his feet.
